The first was a newspaper clipping of the Japanese surrendering on the Missouri. She’d had it framed, and it symbolized more than Margaret could put into words. Years of hard work on the part of Brooklynites. Her own personal participation in it. And, most important, the end of the war that had taken too many lives.

She remembered standing in the crowds at its launching. The pride that burst within all of them as they saw the magnificent vessel head into the water. Who could have known what an important role it would go on to play?

The Brooklyn Navy Yard would continue building ships—they had three aircraft carriers in various stages of construction and she hoped to see an airplane land on one of them someday. However, there was talk that the navy would start using private shipyards as well and that layoffs were inevitable, starting with the women.

To add to that, the federal government was planning to rename this place with its 144-year history the New York Naval Shipyard. It would take effect in November and already, letterhead and signs were being ordered to reflect the change. It was an unfortunate thing in the eyes of those native to Brooklyn. Yes, they were a part of New York City, but it was like saying “yellow” when “chartreuse” was more specific.

Then again, few shared her flair for the distinction of language. Except for William. And Tom. They would surely appreciate how this represented so much more than a name change.

And now she was being asked, without any preparation, to interview one of the men coming home. One by one replacing the strides the women had made. Though she could hardly deny them the solidity of a job when they had been overseas fighting for two years and more.

She hoped for a day when there might be a more equitable arrangement between the sexes, but for now, she would rise to the hand dealt to her.

A knock sounded on the door.

“Come in,” she answered.

She pulled out the standard application that they gave to the women and hoped it would suffice.

A tall young man came in. He was wearing pants that were too short and a shirt that was too tight and a fisherman’s cap on top of his head, pulled down low enough to cast his eyes in a shadow. A gentleman would remove his cap, but perhaps Oliver and his precise mannerisms had rubbed off on her too much. She had to cut this guy some slack. He was likely one of the ones who’d come over on the Cunard vessel today.

“Ma’am,” he said with a deep voice. A shiver traveled from her head to her toes, and she tightened her sweater around herself.

“Hello, soldier.” She hoped he’d see that as an invitation to give her his name, but he did not comply. “Have a seat.”