Margaret nodded, holding back tears. Even during the nighttime hours in her bedroom, she tried to be strong, convinced that the best way to be a home-front soldier was to resist anything that resembled weakness. If John could do it, so could she. It was the only way she knew how to be there for her parents and for Dottie. But with so few words, this woman understood.

Catherine stepped forward and rubbed her hand along Margaret’s arm, her quiet reassurance softening the hard edges that Margaret’s worries had sharpened. She let out a breath, one that seemed to come from the farthest recesses of her lungs, and was surprised that such a small gesture could be so invigorating.

For all that seemed nice about having a boyfriend, Margaret didn’t think it was a substitute for the friendship of women.

Margaret thought about Catherine’s words as they walked down the steps and into the windy afternoon. In the brevity of the moment, Catherine had showed her that gentleness was its own kind of strength.

It was something she wanted to put into practice as well. To resurrect the Margaret she’d been before she had let herself become shrouded with worry. To rediscover who she was instead of who she’d let outside forces shape her into.

When they arrived at Gladys’s apartment, Catherine sent them all outside so that she could examine Dottie in privacy.

Gladys leaned against the railing of her building and pulled out a cigarette. She offered one to the man who’d helped them, knowing that Margaret would decline.

“Mags, this is Oliver. Our hero of the hour. He hails from Eeeengland,” she said, drawing out the name.

Margaret noted Gladys’s casual way of introducing him. Just his first name. A quick familiarity that refrained from all formalities.

“We owe you quite a debt, Oliver. One we can never repay.”

“It’s my honor. Please think nothing of it.”

Oh, that accent! It’s what she imagined the heroes of the books she loved to read sound like. Mr. Rochester. Mr. Darcy. Heathcliff. And what she’d heard in the movies. But she couldn’t recall ever having encountered it in person.

Despite the delight of that, Oliver was not the sort that she ever imagined herself falling for. His nails were too clean. His coat too tailored. His manners too perfect.

If pressed, Margaret would have said she preferred a man with a more rugged nature. Maybe it was a consequence of growing up in working-class Brooklyn, where sweat and toil and labor were the currency of respectability. There was a distinction to her between a man and a gentleman. Which was not to say that Oliver was delicate in any way. He’d carried Dottie all the way over here. But there was a genteelness to him that was just a little too polished for Margaret’s taste.