It was no small task, and one that was beholden to the old trial-and-error method. Dottie’s baby let its aversions be known, which included nearly everything that was supposed to be good for it. Dottie couldn’t hold down the beans, no matter how Margaret cooked them. And the mere smell of red meat had Dottie rushing for the toilet. They hit the jackpot, though, at the discovery that she could, in fact, withstand the two things they thought would have been the worst offenders: spinach and fish.

Fresh spinach was nearly impossible to come by at this time of year, or so they thought, until, near the end of the week, a paper bag with two ribbon-wrapped bunches of it appeared at Gladys’s front door with a note attached.

Gladys—You deserve roses, but I think you might appreciate this instead. A friend of mine has a victory garden growing in his rooftop greenhouse. I talked him out of a few bunches for now and will use my very persuasive powers to finagle more. Similarly, I’m hoping to use them to talk you into going to dinner again with me on Friday night. I’ll come by at seven o’clock with high hopes.

—Oliver

Dottie was glad for the gift. Gladys feigned nonchalance, though her friends knew better. And Margaret was happy to look up a word that had not yet appeared in the New York Times—finagle.

*  *  *

“Come on. Hand it over. There are no secrets in the Sock ’Em Club.”

“The Sock ’Em Club?” Margaret slid William’s letter deeper into her coat pocket as she asked the question of Gladys. Instead, she picked up her latest project, blue socks in a new pattern that Dottie had shown her. With the red border, of course.

“Yeah. If we’re going to be spending our time here knitting socks like old ladies, I figured we needed to call it something. It has two meanings. By sending socks to the boys, we’re sockin’ it to Hitler.”

“Are we ten years old again?”

“Humor me, doll. You and Dots have known each other since you were kids. Let me in on some of the fun.”

Margaret smiled. “I like it. But you’re the last person I would have thought would want to revert to childhood things. I thought you sprung out of the womb all grown up, heels, cigarettes, and all.”

Gladys plumped her curls and spiraled one around her finger until it bounced back into place. Despite work and knitting nights and taking care of Dottie, Gladys made no revision to her nighttime routines.

“Don’t be deceived by appearances,” she scolded. “If we’re honest, we all wish we lived back in a time when we had no worries and other people took care of things for us.”

“Ah, yes. But then you wouldn’t have this den of iniquity all to yourself.”