CHAPTER TWO
Agnes Ames bent down to baste the roasting chicken. As with almost everyone else in Philadelphia—and Agnes did aspire to being like everyone else, only better—after coming home from Sunday service the first order of the day was to dress the chicken and stick it in the oven. It was one thing to invite a guest to Sunday dinner and quite another to plan a meal that was acceptable yet not expensive.
The chicken was a delectable golden brown, the bread stuffing savory with herbs. Her practiced eye took in the bowl of garden salad and the fresh string beans, which, being out of season, had cost more than she cared to spend. Mashed potatoes and gravy would be more than enough when she’d added her homemade biscuits. The butter, dearer than dear since rationing, was first allowed to soften, then whipped with ice water to increase its volume, and chilled again. It was one of her little tricks and it worked quite well. Agnes Ames could not abide white, unpalatable oleo. She had prepared a deep-dish apple pie the night before and it would be mouth-watering. If there was one culinary talent she possessed, it was making pies. The secret was using rendered suet instead of shortening, which cost a fortune, for the crust. She did not like to think about the dent in her sugar supply for the sweet dessert.
The music coming from the living room had a mournful sound. That wasn’t like Billie. Normally, she’d be playing light, popular tunes after her practicing was done. Once, Agnes had had dreams of her daughter becoming a concert pianist and she’d been told by experts that Billie had the talent. But after learning the prohibitive cost of schooling and lessons and recitals, Agnes had regretfully abandoned the idea and turned her ambitions for Billie along less flamboyant lines.
Agnes listened for a moment. Billie must have learned a new piece. Perhaps it wasn’t mournful, just sad. Her thoughts immediately went to the young lieutenant. Moss Coleman frightened her. Or was it the way Billie looked at Moss Coleman? A Texan! No doubt he was a ranch hand—or did they call them cowpokes? And that atrocious drawl! Not for Billie. Definitely not for Billie. She’d been worrying all morning what she would do if the cowboy did show up for dinner and managed, despite her, to ask Billie for a date. Up to now, Billie had always listened to her, always behaved and followed her advice. Agnes’s stomach fluttered.
If the lieutenant was still around through summer, what would that do to Billie’s chances with Neal Fox? Neal Fox, whose father owned the bank. Neal Fox, who was more than acceptable with his studious habits, family money, and 4F classification. Martha Fox, a member of Agnes’s garden club, had eagerly arranged a date for the two youngsters. Comparing the Fox boy with someone like Lieutenant Coleman . . . Agnes shuddered and almost cut her thumb as she peeled the potatoes. She hoped—no, prayed—that the lieutenant wouldn’t come for dinner. He had thanked them for the invitation but never actually accepted. No manners. Ignorant cowhand. Agnes supposed this was the way cowboys did things. Neal was the kind of boy who would arrive exactly fifteen minutes early for dinner, carrying a bouquet of flowers for her and a box of candy for Billie. That was the way it should be done. The lieutenant would arrive, maybe, with his hat in his hand, eat three helpings of everything, hold the chicken in his fingers and lick them afterward. She’d been to the movies; she knew cowboys cooked over open fires and ate out of cans. But was the handsome, young lieutenant actually one of those? There’d been something about him when he’d met her penetrating gaze. It was as though he’d been trying to figure her out. A Texan!
Today would be a good time to talk to Billie about Neal. After their guest left and they were doing the dishes. A nice mother-to-daughter talk. Billie seemed to like that Sunday bit of intimacy. Agnes personally found it especially boring. Her own life was uneventful and Billie’s was so placid and predictable that it didn’t leave much room for conversation. Usually they ended up discussing a book or the progress of the garden, or exchanging pieces of gossip.
Agnes glanced at the clock. It was one-forty-five. Fifteen minutes till their guest arrived. Billie stopped playing. She closed the piano. She was going into her room. Agnes knew her daughter was perched on the window seat, book in hand, staring out at the road. Waiting for a white uniform.
The telephone rang at three minutes of two. Billie almost broke her neck running out to the hall to pick up the receiver. “Hello,” she breathed.
“Billie?”
“Yes.” It was him. “Yes, yes, it’s me. Moss?”
A low chuckle came over the wire. “I’m sorry, Billie, but I won’t be able to come to dinner. The admiral wants to play golf this afternoon and can’t find a partner. I’m the best he can come up with. Perhaps you’ll invite me another time?”
Billie sucked in her breath. He wasn’t coming. Somehow, she’d known he wouldn’t. She wanted so badly to see him walk up to her front door. She couldn’t remember ever wanting something so badly, unless it was the Christmas she’d wanted a two-wheeled bike. She hadn’t gotten that, either. “Anytime,” she said brightly, hiding her disappointment. “Our Sundays are open. You don’t need an invitation.” There. Short of begging, what else could she say?
“That’s very kind of you. Please thank your mother. Listen, Billie, if you’re ever at the Front Street USO on a Saturday night, I hope you’ll save me a dance.”
USO. Dance. Save him a dance. “I’ll do that, Lieutenant. Thank you for calling,” Billie said pleasantly. When she hung up the phone, she forced a smile to her lips. She knew Agnes was standing in the doorway and had probably heard every word. She had to turn and face her mother. Do it. Do it now before your face cracks with the strain.
“Oh, Mother—there you are. That was Lieutenant Coleman. He won’t be able to make dinner. He has to play golf with the admiral. I told him he had an open invitation. Was that all right, Mother?”
Relief coursed through Agnes. Neal was still in the running. “Of course, dear. We must do our part, small as it may seem. I’m certain that one day, when he has nothing better to do, he’ll drop by for a home-cooked meal.”
Billie wanted to run to her room and cry. Cry when things got too bad. But it wouldn’t be the same now. Now she was sleeping in the study because her room, a room that had been hers and hers alone, was to be rented! How she had loved it, the small windows under the eaves, the shelves holding all her books. Her music scores in neat stacks, the pictures she’d painted, and her bulging portfolio of designs that leaned against the wall. Now it was all a jumble in the study. A study wasn’t a bedroom. She was sick with disappointment.
“Well, since there are just the two of us, we might as well eat now.” Agnes turned and went back into the kitchen. “We’ll eat in here; no sense going to all the trouble of messing up the dining room, is there?”
Billie followed after her mother, knowing how difficult it was going to be to swallow even one bite. She adjusted her features into a pleasant mask of indifference. It was going to be just another Sunday.
As Moss replaced the phone, his eyes went to the golf bag in the corner of Admiral McCarter’s office. The admiral was entertaining a visiting three-star at the Officers Club. Moss’s conscience pricked slightly as he made his way down the long battleship-gray hallway. He joined three of his friends who waited impatiently at the curb in the parking lot.
“New York City, here we come!” one of the j.g.’s shouted hoarsely. Moss grinned and climbed into the backseat of the Ford.
He didn’t think about Billie Ames again until the next Sunday morning, when he awoke feeling achy and out of sorts. He brushed his teeth and swallowed three aspirin. When was he going to learn that Saturday-night hangovers hung on like leeches and were the ruination of a good Sunday? As long as he was going to be miserable, he might as well salve his conscience and go to dinner at Billie’s house.
For a long moment he looked at the pay phone on the wall outside his quarters. Who was he kidding? Last night at the USO, he’d hung about the doorway watching for her. It was only after eleven o’clock, when nice girls like Billie would already be home, that he’d gone out to the local bar to tie one on. Now, he quickly dropped his nickel into the slot before he could talk sense to himself.
Billie picked up the phone on the first ring. She tilted her hat slightly to the side so she could comfortably place the receiver against her ear. She expected to hear her girlfriend’s voice.
“Billie?”
When she heard his low, husky drawl, she felt her knees buckle. Her knuckles whitened on the prayer book in her hand. He’d called. Her eyes lifted upward, acknowledging the power of prayer.
Cool and calm. “Lieutenant, how are you? Did you have a nice golf game last Sunday with the admiral?” she asked for want of anything better and needing a moment to compose herself. Lordy, why couldn’t she be more sophisticated?
“Golf? Oh, that golf game. Par.” His conscience pricked again and he quickly squelched it. His head was killing him and he shouldn’t be doing this; he didn’t even know why he was doing it. She was a nice girl, a nice young girl, and there was nothing there for him. He remembered how he’d looked for her the night before. “How are you, Billie? Am I calling too early?” He massaged his temples, wondering what time it was.
The low, throaty laugh felt good in his ear. “No, of course not. I’ve been up for hours. As a matter of fact I was just on my way to church. Another five minutes and you’d have missed me.” She waited expectantly.
“Church?” Where people go to pray. Did she pray for him as she’d promised? “Are you Catholic?”
“Yes, I am.”
“I’m Catholic also. So’s my mother. There aren’t very many of us in Texas. Not a very good one, I’m afraid. I don’t attend mass regularly.” Hell, what was he, really? More agnostic than anything else, he supposed. The day his mother had told him he was old enough to attend services on his own he’d stopped going. Instead of attending the ten o’clock service as his sister Amelia did, he’d hung around the airfield. Seth never went to church.
Billie was unsure of what comment she could make to another of his confessions. Out of the corner of her eye she could see Agnes standing by the front door, waiting impatiently. Did Agnes know who was on the other end of the phone?
Moss saved her from making a reply. “I’d like to come to dinner today, if the invitation is still open.”
Moss heard the slight gasp over the wire. “Of course. Dinner is at two. I’ll look forward to seeing you again, Lieutenant.”
“Do you think you could call me Moss, instead of lieutenant?”
“Of course . . . Moss. I’ll see you this afternoon.”
“Don’t forget you promised to pray for me,” he joked.
“I won’t.”
She dropped the receiver and turned to face Agnes. “Mother, do you know who that was? Lieutenant Coleman is coming to dinner. Isn’t that nice?” She adjusted her hat in the front hall mirror, afraid to face her mother’s scowl.
“We’ll have to hurry dinner through if you’re going to visit your girlfriend this afternoon.” Agnes made a supreme effort to keep her tone light and conversational. Inside, she was having difficulty resigning herself to the threat of the handsome lieutenant. She’d thought that matter closed.
Billie turned. “There. How do I look?”
Agnes detected a change in her daughter. In the passing of an instant she seemed to have bloomed. She was so pretty, this daughter of hers. In a few years she’d be a raving beauty. Billie had her bones, her carriage. Good, clear skin with soft melting eyes that changed from green to brown to gray. Hazel eyes. Much too good for a Texas cowpoke. Another week or so and Neal Fox would be home from college.
As they walked the four blocks to St. Elias they were regaled with the chiming of the carillon. Agnes was worried. Perhaps a prayer would help. It seemed like such a long time since she’d believed in prayer. She only attended church because it was expected of her; it was the right thing to do and most of the right people were there. Agnes was a convert to Catholicism. That jackass she’d married to spite her parents had insisted she convert and raise the children in his religion. She’d done her duty, but as far as she was concerned religion was just a lot of hokus-pokus. She never held with going to confession and abstaining from meat on Fridays, but, good mother that she was, she’d seen to it that Billie had made her first communion and been confirmed when she was eleven. Once a month she sent her off to confession. How bored that priest must have been listening to Billie’s little sins! Communion on every Sunday was a must. For Billie. Billie was a good girl and would stay a good girl. And it wasn’t the power of prayer that would do it. That was Agnes’s job!
Billie dreamed her way through mass and her mother had to nudge her gently when it was time to go to the altar rail for communion. Her prom was just weeks away. Was it possible to invite someone like Moss Coleman to be her escort? Would he think a senior dance silly and young? She was counting on too much, looking too far ahead. Coming to dinner was one thing; what she wanted and hoped for was another. She had to be patient. She would pray for that, for patience. Still, she’d be the envy of every girl there if she showed up with a tall handsome navy man. A lieutenant, a fly-boy. The girls would drop dead.
In just a few hours she’d see him again. Prickly fingers of excitement ran up and down her arms. She bowed her head and prayed Moss Coleman would get what he wanted, everything he wanted.
Billie sat on the window seat pretending to read, watching for Moss. She’d brushed her teeth twice and kept glancing in the mirror to be sure the breeze hadn’t disturbed her hair. It was smooth and sleek, a shining cap of ash blond, curved under in a pageboy. She wished it would fall over one eye like Veronica Lake’s, but its own natural tendency to curl forced her to tame it back with a barrette. When the car slid to a stop at the curb, Billie felt positively light-headed. She forced herself to take two or three deep breaths as she did before playing in a piano recital. She allowed the bell to ring before she opened the door and found herself held in the gaze of those smiling summer-blue eyes. She smiled the dazzling smile Moss remembered and his head felt better already.
Agnes walked into the front room and was stunned to see Moss extending a huge bouquet of flowers toward her. “For your table, Mrs. Ames. Billie, the chocolates are for you.” This was all wrong. It was Neal Fox who was supposed to bring the candy and flowers. For a moment, Agnes was unnerved. But only for a moment. She smiled her smile that never reached her eyes.
He grinned. He knew she didn’t want him here and it didn’t make any difference to him. He turned to Billie. “If dinner isn’t ready, why don’t you show me your garden? I could see from the front that your property goes pretty far back.”
“I’d like that. Mother, you don’t need me in the kitchen, do you?”
Moss’s eyes went to Agnes again. He waited, almost daring her.
“No, you two young people go along. I can manage. I’ll serve in twenty minutes.” Agnes hadn’t failed to notice the time. Moss had arrived fifteen minutes early. Neal Fox was the one who was supposed to have such impeccable manners. She felt confused and irritable as she went back to the kitchen. Stooping to reach under the sink, she rummaged for a suitable vase. The flowers stopped just short of being ostentatious. They must have cost him a fortune. The candy, too. The most expensive there was. And it wasn’t a measly little one-pound box. No, it was a full five pounds and tied with a big red bow. How much did junior lieutenants make a month? Not enough to pay for such costly gifts, she was certain. Agnes sniffed. She thought she smelled money. Was it possible that this drawling, brash young man with the perceptive eyes could be something other than a cowhand? She’d quiz him during dinner. Agnes was good at quizzing. Most of the time people weren’t aware of just how much they were telling her. She’d somehow underestimated this handsome flyer and she wouldn’t make that mistake again.
As she stirred the gravy she watched Billie and Moss through the kitchen window. They did make a handsome couple. What were they talking about? The weather? Hardly. Him? More than likely. Billie was a good listener.
She grimaced. The gravy was lumpy; now she was going to have to strain it.
Dinner was a puzzling affair to Billie. Conversation was rapid and nonstop between her mother and Moss. She’d been worried that Agnes would be frigidly aloof and make the strain of conversation unbearable. Instead, her mother appeared animated and interested. Moss answered Agnes’s questions with an exaggerated drawl, all the while wearing a most disconcertingly amused expression. He never spoke that way, Billie thought, when he was talking to her.
“I understand Austin is quite large,” Agnes was saying. “Billie and I have never been further south than Virginia. Have you lived there long?”
“All my life,” Moss drawled. “So have my folks. This is sure mighty good chicken, ma’am.”
So much for his hearty cowhand appetite, Agnes thought. He’d done little more than pick at his food. But she had noticed that he had no difficulty selecting the proper fork and, to her relief, he hadn’t tucked his napkin under his chin. Agnes tried again. “I assume your parents still live there?”
“Yes, ma’am. My mother always served her green beans this way, with bits of bacon and onion.” His gaze went to Agnes’s narrowing eyes. He smiled, enjoying his success at baiting her. He knew she was fishing for information and he was being polite but evasive.
“Billie, dear, don’t you like the stuffing? You aren’t eating. Is anything wrong, don’t you feel well?”
“I’m fine, Mother.” Quickly, before Agnes could dominate the conversation, Billie asked a question of her own. “Tell us about Admiral McCarter. What’s it like to work for him?”
Moss laughed. “Boring. All admirals are boring. They sit and shuffle papers when they aren’t out on the golf course or having dinner at the Officers’ Club. They moan and groan and complain about how lonely it is at the top.”
“What is it you’d rather be doing, Lieutenant?” Agnes interjected.
The drawl was more pronounced when he spoke to Agnes. “Well, ma’am, I joined up to fly. And that’s what I intend to do, if there’s such a thing as having prayers answered.” His eyes flicked to Billie and she felt warmed by his smile and by the confidence between them.
“How do your parents feel about your flying? I’d think your mother in particular would be concerned. Of course, I’ve never had a son, but I’d think your father would be very proud of you. Is he a flyer, too?”
“No, ma’am. Pap’s retired, I suppose you could say.” He loved the look of frustration on Agnes’s face. “My mother was concerned at the beginning, but she said whatever makes me happy makes her happy. She has my sister, Amelia, to fuss over.”
He was being too respectful to be considered a smart aleck. Yet he was evading her questions. “I’ve heard Texans live on ranches. Do you?”
“Live on a ranch?” Moss repeated. “We have a spread. We call it a spread in Texas.” He turned to Billie and asked her if she’d like to go to the movies after dinner.
“Yes, I would.”. Mother, you don’t mind, do you?” Billie’s tone and the look in her eyes told Agnes she didn’t care if her mother minded or not. She was going. It was shocking. Things were going on here. Things she couldn’t put a name to and wasn’t sure she liked. She’d had such grand plans for Neal Fox and Billie, and she knew now that the girl would never look at the banker’s son without comparing him with this exceedingly handsome, if somewhat dull, young lieutenant. She seethed inwardly.
“No, I don’t mind.” She’d had enough. “Why don’t you two leave just after dessert. I’ll do the dishes. You can do them next Sunday, Billie.”
This Sunday dessert was cherry pie and it was delicious. Both Billie and Moss gulped it down. Agnes served Moss coffee and gave her daughter a glass of milk. Billie was well aware this was her mother’s silent reminder that she was a child and Moss was a man; she left the milk untouched.
“The next feature is at four o’clock, Moss. We’d better hurry. I don’t like to walk in during the picture, do you?” Not waiting for a reply, Billie walked ahead to the parlor for her purse.
“Mrs. Ames, it was a delicious dinner. It was nice to eat home-cooked for a change. Thank you for having me, and I’ll be sure to tell my mother that you use the same string bean recipe.”
There was nothing to do except be agreeable. She’d been had. This brash young man had outmaneuvered her. “Thank you for the flowers, Lieutenant. That was very kind of you. We’ll have to wait for summer, I suppose, to have flowers from our own garden. Spring flowers are so fragile, wilting and dying almost immediately after they’re picked.” She was talking too much and he was letting her. When he joined Billie in the front hall, Agnes stared at them for a long moment. He reminded her of a hawk circling its prey and she almost objected when he reached for Billie’s hand. She wanted to stop Billie before it was too late. Too late for what? Too late for Neal Fox, for God’s sake!
Moss turned, his face half in shadow. “Good-bye, Mrs. Ames. I’ll have Billie home before dark.” Agnes didn’t need to see his eyes; she knew what would be there. Satisfaction. A battle well won.
He escorted Billie down the aisle, careful not to spill the two containers of popcorn. He didn’t like two people fishing out of the same box. What was his was his.
Billie sat beside Moss: their shoulders touched. He liked this sweet young girl. She reminded him of his sister in so many ways. Even Seth would approve of Billie. There was something gentle about her, almost old-world. He was beginning to suspect that she was deeper and more complex than she appeared on the surface. She was so young and innocent, without the pseudosophistication that he’d become accustomed to in girls. How had that buzzard back in the house on Elm Street come by a daughter like this? By God, Agnes Ames had to have been cut from the same bolt of cloth as Pap. Traits that he admired in his father were almost unpalatable in a woman. Still, Moss realized the deep vein of loyalty that ran through people like Seth Coleman and Agnes Ames. Loyalty and strength and intelligence. He wouldn’t fault her for that.
They sat quietly together watching the newsreel and the cartoon before the main feature. Betty Grable was showing her legs and it wasn’t even ten minutes into the movie. Moss reached out and took Billie’s hand. For some reason, couples always held hands in the movies. Is that how he was thinking of himself and Billie? As a couple? Billie’s hands were soft, just like the rest of her. He knew she was smiling in the darkness. He smiled, too. She was a nice kid. A very nice kid. He wondered when she would be eighteen. Pretty, too. Billie had the kind of beauty that came from within, arresting the beholder. He supposed she was what they called “the girl next door,” and he’d heard some guys say that was what the war was about. Moss knew it wasn’t. Power, that was the reason for the war. Something people like himself and Pap and Agnes Ames understood.
Another ten minutes into the movie and he leaned over to whisper, “Billie, this is a terrible movie and we both know how it’s going to turn out. Why don’t we leave and go some place we can talk. I’d like to get to know you better.”
“All right,” Billie agreed, frowning slightly. She’d told Agnes they’d be at the movies. It seemed whenever she was with Moss she broke another rule.
“Are you always so agreeable?” There was an edge to his voice, as though he were annoyed.
“Only when it’s something I want to agree to.”
“I’ve got a blanket in the car. What say we go to the park and sit by the lake?”
Billie’s pulses sped. If Agnes ever got wind of this, she’d be very disapproving. Before she could reconsider, she stood up and waited for Moss to lead her up the aisle and out into the sunshine.
It was a beautiful day. If Billie had ordered it from Sears Roebuck, she couldn’t have done better. Marshmallow clouds drifted across an incredibly blue sky. The grass never seemed greener, the sun never warmer. The park lake rippled and glistened. It was perfect.
The minutes and hours passed with hardly a notice. Together they sat or reclined on the blanket, talking and talking and talking. She found herself telling Moss things she’d never told anyone. Her desire to go to design and textile school instead of becoming an English or history teacher. How she felt being without a father and how she’d learned to cope with Agnes’s protectiveness. When she told him of her aptitude as a pianist, it was a revelation and not a boast.
Moss sprawled out on the blanket, his dark shining head resting in Billie’s lap. He reached up and touched a finger to her lips. “No lipstick today,” he said, looking up at her. The fringe of dark lashes hemming his eyes cast shadows into the blue.
“Not on Sunday.” Billie laughed. “Do you mind?”
“Not on Sunday.” He grinned. “I should be taking you home now. I told your mother I’d have you home by dark. By the time we get there it’ll be past dark.”
“I don’t want to go home,” Billie told him.
“I don’t either.”
“Why haven’t you kissed me?” she blurted.
Moss laughed. “Did you want me to? Would you like it if I kissed you, Billie Ames?” He tried to keep his voice light and teasing. He’d wanted to kiss her for hours. He could almost taste her, could almost feel her lips soft and yielding beneath his. There was something about this sweet innocent he wanted to leave untouched, undisturbed. He didn’t realize he was holding his breath for Billie’s answer until she replied.
“I wanted it to be your idea, Lieutenant. Now that I’ve embarrassed myself by asking, I don’t want to kiss you. Come on, we’ll be late.” Wordlessly, she stood up and yanked the blanket out from under him, folding it meticulously before starting back to the car.
“Billie! Wait!” Suddenly, it was important to make her understand. What exactly she should understand he didn’t know. “Look at me when I talk to you. I’ve wanted to kiss you all afternoon, especially when you had cherry pie right there on the corner of your mouth.” He touched her lips with his finger. “I’ll know when you’re ready to be kissed, Billie. Trust me?” Billie smiled, his gesture lighting her face. That meant he wanted to see her again. She decided she would invite him not to her prom but to her graduation dance. Perhaps she wouldn’t even go to her prom. It held no allure for her now.
They rode home in silence, Moss holding her hand. He liked the way it felt in his. He liked Billie Ames. He should have kissed her. “I want to see you again. Will you let me?”
“I told you I’d pray for you to get what you wanted.”
“How about the USO on Saturday? Does your mother allow you to go there?”
“I’ve only been there once for a welcoming tea in the afternoon; my mother is a volunteer for the Red Cross. I’ll ask her: I think she’ll say yes.” Even if Agnes said absolutely no, Billie would find a way to get there. She was going to see as much of Moss as she could.
“Okay, I’ll see you there, then. Hold on, I’ll walk you to the door. We don’t want your mother thinking I’m the kind of guy who pulls up and blows the horn and dumps you out on the street.”
“Mother would never think that,” Billie said loyally, but she knew it was a lie and so did Moss. “I had a wonderful time. Thank you. And thank you for the chocolates.”
“Hey, I enjoyed it, too.” He realized it was true. He did enjoy Billie’s company, was enchanted with it. She made him feel good. She listened and cared and didn’t talk too much.
She knew Moss was going to kiss her. It wasn’t a soul-searing experience, and rockets didn’t shoot off into the night. Instead, the kiss was soft, gentle, with the promise of so much more. More than Moss was ready to give or ask of her. She didn’t feel dizzy or weak-kneed. A slow-spreading warmth enveloped her and she wanted him to hold her, just for a moment, just until she could remember that the world consisted of more than Moss Coleman. Her eyes were shining in the porch light. Someday there would be more—she was sure of it—because she would make it happen.
“Good night, Billie. I’ll see you on Saturday.”
“G’night, Moss. Drive carefully.”
His mother was the only one who told him to drive carefully, and then, as if to spite authority, he would drive like a bat out of hell. Tonight he drove carefully, all the way back to the Navy Yard.
Agnes stood in the darkened parlor watching through the lace curtains. Her back stiffened. She’d heard the low, throaty laughter that was Billie’s. She’d never heard her daughter laugh that way; it was a woman’s laugh. Quickly, she moved to the kitchen, waiting for the front door to open. “How was the movie?” she asked.
“It was awful. Just awful. Neither of us liked it.” There, that was the truth. She simply felt no need or desire to tell Agnes when, where, why, or what. “How was your afternoon, Mother?”
“Oh, I played canasta with the neighbors and I’ve only just come home. I was going to listen to Amos ‘n’ Andy. Join me?”
“No thanks, Mother, I have to read a couple of chapters for a history quiz tomorrow. I think I’ll have a sandwich and get started.”
There was no quiz; neither was she hungry. She just wanted to be alone and think about today. She wanted to remember every look, every word, everything about Moss. Saturday was only six days away.