But one glance at Gladys told her that her friend held a distinctly different opinion. There was something surprising about the way she was looking at him.

Besotted. A recent Word of the Day. That was it. It was a revelation of sorts. Gladys—the most self-sufficient, grounded woman she’d ever known—seemed to be floating. At least to one who knew her so well.

“What brings you here to the States?” Margaret asked him.

“He’s a correspondent for the London Times,” Gladys answered on his behalf. “Sending news about the Yankees back home.”

“The baseball team?” She wasn’t surprised. The World Series had just begun, and already the Yankees were tied one to one with the St. Louis Cardinals. The third game would be played tonight just half an hour away at Yankee Stadium, and all of New York—even Brooklyn Dodgers fans like herself—were wild with excitement. It was the best kind of diversion from a world steeped in tragedy.

Gladys laughed. “No, doll. Not the Yankees. I just mean us. Americans.”

Margaret wanted to roll her eyes. She was sure no one living south of the Mason-Dixon Line would take kindly to being lumped in with Northerners like herself. But that might be too nuanced for a foreigner.

All this time, Oliver was silent, folding his arms and watching Gladys with a look of bemusement on his face.

Margaret nodded and turned toward Oliver. “You’ll have to excuse my gaffe. The World Series is big news around here right now.”

He smiled. “I practically grew up on a polo field. But I have to admit, I’ve been quite swept up in the enthusiasm for the American pastime. In fact, I’ve acquired tickets for the game tonight. Something a little different to send to the office back at home. If either of you…” But he was looking at Gladys.

Gladys’s eyes widened, and though Margaret was delighted by the unexpected dynamic between the two of them, she desperately hoped that her friend wouldn’t accept. She was nervous about taking care of Dottie by herself. At least not until they knew what was wrong.

But Gladys came through, and Margaret should have had more faith in her. “Thank you, but I’m sorry. Sick friend beats lonely Brit. Another time, though?”

Margaret breathed a sigh of relief.

“Of course,” he answered. “I believe the following games are in St. Louis, but perhaps you would accept dinner as a substitute.”

Before Gladys could answer, a stout, gray-haired figure walked toward them, carrying a larger black bag than the one Catherine had brought over. He was a good head shorter than both women, and Oliver’s significant height over him would have been comical in any other circumstance.

“I’m Dr. Feingold. Is this where I can find the pregnant woman?”

No euphemisms for this man. Why add flowery language when he saw the grit of human illness every day?