William had insisted that they bring her into the light on that point. He thought Margaret should know that Tom was the artist. And so, in the letter they were about to send out, Tom included a postscript, the third-person nature of it being something he grew ever more used to.

P.S. Our buddy Tom has a knack for art, so I told him it was time to come clean and tell you that the flowers are from him.

He hoped she enjoyed those little additions.

John continued with the kissing noises.

Sometime in the night, one of them had taken Margaret’s picture and pinned it to Tom’s pillow. Just like John had Dottie’s.

Tom woke up to the little image of the pretty girl from Brooklyn and wondered what it might be like to wake up next to her for real.

And so, the teasing ensued. John did not seem very protective of his little sister where William and Tom were concerned. Perhaps it was a testament to the trust they had for each other. There was no better way to bond than jumping out of airplanes together. Each time a risk.

Each time, a readiness to die for a brother and for a cause.

Or perhaps distance made the whole thing a dream—and therefore John had nothing to worry about from his buddies where Margaret was concerned.

“Tom Powell is sweet on William’s girl,” John sang in an off-key melody of his own creation.

“She’s not my girl,” William piped up. “She my friend. And your sister could do a lot worse than Tom here.”

“She could do a lot better.”

“Thanks, meathead,” Tom said. “Just for that, you have to take my next latrine duty.”

“Fair enough. But are you thinking about writing her too?” John asked with sincerity as he sat on Tom’s bed. The springs groaned under the added weight.

“Nah. I’ll leave that to William. Though it’s kind of her to remember me in the packages. William told her that my favorite color is blue, and the next package had a pair of socks in a bag with my name. Blue with a red border.”

“I’ve known her for all of her twenty-two years, Tom. I’ve heard the chatter between her and Dottie back when they were schoolgirls. And taken them to the movies. Margaret’s eyes get a special glisten to them when Cary Grant and his ilk are on the screen.”

Tom shrugged. “What’s your point?”

He stood up and started unbuttoning his pajama top. Sobel wanted them on the runway at seven o’clock sharp.

“I’m saying that I think you’d be my sister’s type. Tall. Dark. And, William—is our boy handsome? You’re the better judge of that.”