“We have a couple of broken windows and the power is still out, but Brooklyn didn’t even get the worst of it. I’m hearing that Long Island is devastated.”

Gladys rubbed her arms. “That explains the draft I’m feeling.”

“The cook lit the stove with a match, so at least we can eat. She’s making eggs and pancakes.”

Gladys smiled. “And that explains the delicious scent I’m smelling.”

“What can we help you with in the meantime?” asked Margaret.

“The three broken windows are on the other side of the house where a tree fell against it. We can get some blankets and pin them up until they can be replaced. And then we can walk around outside and see what other damage there is.”

They’d only been in the house for a few weeks, so Dottie and George were not fully stocked with the domestic necessities befitting a house like this. The women scrounged for towels and sheets and blankets, finding just enough to do the trick. Locating a hammer, nails, and a ladder was another feat. The fresh air, cleaned by the storm, was refreshing and as they worked together, they nearly forgot about all that had happened in the middle of the night.

As they finished, the cook called them down to breakfast. Dottie laid Joanna in a bassinet next to the table and flew a stuffed rabbit toy above her head, delighting the baby and giving them a chance to enjoy the meal.

Margaret had never aspired to be wealthy but having someone make you breakfast was a luxury that she could easily settle into. Especially having someone who knew how to portion rations and turn them into something so delectable. The cook’s scrambled eggs were light on the tongue, as were the pancakes so that when she’d finished them, Margaret felt satisfied but not bloated.

The telephone rang in the hallway and Dottie went to answer it. “Gladys,” she said, popping her head back in the room. “It’s for you. It’s Oliver.”

Gladys left and Dottie returned to the table.

“Have you received any more letters from William?”

It had been a sensitive subject since the day on the beach when Dottie and Gladys cautioned Margaret about developing feelings for a man she’d never met.

Margaret hung her head. “Not since the postcard from Paris.”

They used to write to each other weekly, but the last two letters had extended the amount of time between them by a great deal.

“The fighting has ramped up, though,” she reassured herself. “If he could write, he would.”

“I’m sure all is well. They’re sending our boys all over Europe. It’s probably difficult for letters to keep up.”