Jolie Fontaine
September 1941

Convinced the war would catch up with her wherever she might be—like some malign pursuer—Abby raged at the disruption and the sheer cruelty of it all. “How many men will go missing or die before this war is over?” she wrote to Amelia. Only after she’d mailed the letter did she regret writing this. Hardly what her sister wanted to hear, considering that her husband and their own brother were in the thick of the fight and facing death daily.
    When Abby returned to college in September as a senior, the mood on campus was tense. A voluntary military program was in place where men drilled with a professor who was an Army reserve officer. Two seniors had left to enter the University of the Air to receive their degree from one of the Navy’s advanced colleges and become flying officers. Other classmates had enlisted in anticipation of being drafted.
    She signed up for noncredit defense courses. Saturday mornings, Abby tutored elementary pupils as a volunteer in the campus defense council’s Education for Democracy Program.
    Through late autumn, Indian summer weather prevailed. On a day when the heat was palpable, Abby sat studying on the porch. She looked up to find Jim standing in front of her, hands thrust into the back pockets of his jeans.
    He plonked down beside her. “You were so engrossed in that book.” He snatched it from her and glanced at the title. “You’re on the same one, slowpoke.”
    Abby reached out her hand, wiggling her fingers. “The other one was called Principles of Secondary Education. Give it back.”
    He looked at the book’s spine again. “I don’t suppose you could tear yourself away from Principles of Curriculum Construction to go over to the conservatory?” Jim handed it over. “You’ve not been there for two weeks. The mums are out, and”—he opened and closed his mouth and goggled his eyes—“I’ve added more goldfish.”
    She sprang to her feet and slapped him on the shoulder, laughing. “All right. Lead on.”
    Jim set off down the steps, Abby falling in beside him. She pointed to the harmonica that poked from his shirt pocket. “Can you play that thing?”
    “I’m a real Larry Adler.” Jim chuckled. “What would you like to hear?”
    “The White Cliffs of Dover. Do you know it?” she said, surprised by her own enthusiasm.
    He ran up and down the scales of the instrument to set the key, then launched into the tune. Unable to resist, she picked up on the lyrics. When she got to “the valley,” her voice snagged, and she went quiet. Jim stopped, smiled, then continued playing.
    He eased open the tall glass door of the conservatory and stepped back. The swoosh of mingled scents caught her by surprise, transporting her to scenes of Kensington and leisurely walks on a Sunday afternoon.
    Jim’s hand folded over hers, as if it belonged there. Now and then she’d pass a plant of interest and pull Jim back to admire it with her. A thousand butterflies flitted in her stomach. Her affections for this man went far deeper than she had expected. With her feelings past the point of no return, she harbored no intention of questioning the magic of this hour here with him. But did he feel the same way?
    Their circuit along the paths seemed to be endless. He was retracing their steps to draw out the visit, but she was glad. She wanted this thrill to last forever. He stopped before a large, elaborate copper fountain looking ancient and weathered from the patina of years. Water bubbled up from the mouth of a fish poised at the top of a waterfall and trickled over happy nymphs cavorting among the intricate hammered-out foliage. The cascade foamed and sparkled in the sunlight shafting down from the skylights high above.
    Quarters, nickels, and dimes blanketed the floor of the shallow bowl. From his pocket Jim produced a coin and pressed it into her palm, closing her fingers over it. “Make a wish,” he whispered.
    When his shoulder pressed against hers, a sweet electric sensation ran through her body.
    “Go on.”
    She closed her eyes, then opened them before flicking the coin toward the basin. The quarter hit the rim, spun, and bounced in with a satisfactory plop.
    Jim raised her hand to his lips and kissed it. “Tell me your wish.”
    “Some other time.”