The tanned smell of the leather was so familiar that Margaret no longer noticed it. It was the scent of her childhood as a cobbler’s daughter. Even Dottie was unaffected, having spent much time here while John fashioned the grommets for shoelace holes. This was not Gladys’s everyday scene, however, and Margaret watched as her nose wrinkled.

“Let’s get this business done and maybe we can catch a few hours with the rest of the young New Yorkers who are out having a good time.”

“Is anyone having a good time during the blackout?” Margaret asked. Of late, she’d spent the hours after dinner reading by candlelight, as if it was the era of pioneers in caravans heading west.

“There are places that are still lively after the sun goes down. Windowless basements where music and cigarettes and homemade alcohol flow in abundance. You know, the Stage Door Canteen is hopping all night. Admission costs a bag of sugar or something else they can use to fill their pantry. And you can dance the night away with a handsome soldier or two. It’s downright patriotic, if you ask me. Almost un-American if you don’t go.”

“Is this really so bad, Gladys?” Dottie’s voice, always sweet and considerate, sounded ruffled.

“Not if you want to live your life in a humdrum. I worked next to a girl at the canteen couple of weeks ago who is going places. She was on the cover of Harper’s Bazaar back in March. The one featuring the American Red Cross. You remember that one.”

Dottie nodded. “I do. I donated some blood after they ran that article.”

“Yeah, that was her. The girl in the white hat smack on the front of it. And there she was next to me, elbow to elbow, making five hundred ham sandwiches together on a Monday night. You know what? She’s not sticking around here. She’s going to Hollywood. Just got cast in a Bogart flick and is heading out next month. Her name is Lauren Bacall. I’ll bet you now—we’re going to see her name in lights.”

“So you want to be like this Lauren girl?” asked Margaret. “You’ve never had the acting bug.”

Dottie giggled. “Though you do have a knack for theatrics.”

Gladys ignored her. “Nah. Not the acting bug per se. It’s just that she set her sights on bigger things. And me, I want to do something bigger too. Not”—she shrugged—“knit socks like an old granny on a weekend.”

Margaret gave her a light punch on the arm. “Well, when my brother’s feet freeze in the cold English winter, it will bring me great comfort to know that you were hobnobbing with movie stars.”

Gladys slumped into her chair. “See? You’re an old granny. Already adept at guilt as thick as molasses.”