I trotted off towards Bar 45, which turned out to be two winding streets away. Fabrizio's mother ran in the opposite direction. I could hear her calling her boy's name until I rounded the corner.
Just before I reached the bar, I glanced through the front window of a small convenience store as I passed it. Fabrizio was there, flashing a wad of Euros. I stopped and watched. A nasty thought flickered in my head. Fabrizio's mother had been signor Falcone's housekeeper. Fabrizio was very well-dressed, and now here he was, a young boy with a lot of money. Did he have a new source of cash? Could his mother afford to indulge him this much? I asked myself whether someone might have slipped that boy a bundle to let them know when the late signor Falcone was about to cross the small street for his caffè corretto.
An ugly question. The answer was possibly even worse. Fabrizio jumped when my hand landed on his shoulder. He whirled and squirmed. I held tight until he slumped and hung his head. His plump lower lip quivered.
The proprietor rolled her eyes. I guess she'd seen a bit too much of Fabrizio and, anyway, she already had his money. She wagged her bony finger at him. “Cattivo ragazzo.”
Bad boy.
I gave him my most wolfish smile. I fished out my pocket dictionary and pieced together the phrase, “I will keep your secret.”
Tears filled Fabrizio's eyes.
I handed him a tissue to blow his nose.
I said in Italian, “Did someone pay you?”
“No,” he said, “no, no, no.”
“Si,” I said. “Si, si, si.”
“No, no, signora.”
I checked the dizionario again.
“Si. I know what you did. I have proof,” I said or hoped I said in Italian.
Fabrizio began to wail. I was able to piece through his blubbering that a man had called, the man had paid him, he loved signor Falcone, his mother loved signor Falcone, he thought the man was a friend who would surprise signor Falcone, he never thought it was so bad to do that. A little surprise, a nice thing, and so many Euros to buy treats.
I said, “It's not your fault, Fabrizio. The man tricked you.”
Before Fabrizio became too much more upset, I tried to get a description of the man. “You are sure you didn't see him?”
He shook his head, sending tears flying.
“And the car, was it a Mercedes-Benz?”
That triggered another bout of sobs. “Non l'ho visto,” he said.
Okay, as far as I could tell, he hadn't seen the man or the car. After listening to him blubbering for a bit, the best I could understand was that the money had been tucked behind a flower pot.
“You must tell the police, Fabrizio,” I said.
I couldn't really follow his distraught response. It contained lots of mammas and sobs.
I managed to more or less convey the following: “You must do it for signor Falcone and for your mother. You did something a little bit wrong, but someone else killed your old friend, and you have no choice. You have to be a man, Fabrizio. For your mother.”
Fabrizio sat straighter, dried his eyes. “Per la mamma.”
I said, “Anche per signor Falcone.”
Fabrizio swallowed hard.
I handed him another tissue to mop his dripping nose and moved on before it got too late. I could have called the police myself, but something told me that would just slow things down. Time was what I didn't have. I also didn't want to have to explain holding Fabrizio against his will, even for a minute.
* * *
I needed help. A sane voice. Advice. I checked my watch and made for the nearest public telephone before continuing on. The phone was picked up on the first ring for once.
“Is Ray there?” I said.
“Nah.” Ashley, the second daughter.
“Do you know when he'll be back?”
“Nah.”
“Do you know where he is?”
“No idea.”
“Okay. This is his friend, Camilla. We have met.”
“Yeah.”
“I'm calling from Italy. I really need to speak to him.”
“He's not here.”
“He's not back in the hospital, is he?”
“Why would he be in the hospital?”
“When he had his appendix out in the fall, he ended up in ICU. I wondered if that was it.”
“Oh, yeah that.”
“So he's not sick?”
“I don't think he's in the hospital. Brittaneeee!! Is Dad in the hospital again? Wha’? Okay. No, he's not in the hospital.”
I massaged my temple with my free hand. “Is it possible to talk to your aunt?”
“Look, Carmella, can you call back later or something? I'm on the other line and it's, like, real important.”
* * *
Fine. You win some, you lose some.
Alvin didn't answer when I tried calling again, and the machine did not pick up. I was in Florence without a clue how to find Mrs. Parnell among the million or so tourists who still thronged the city in November, despite the crappy drizzle. I had eighteen hours to kill.
I needed to organize my thoughts for a few minutes before I talked to signor Falcone's friends. Just to clear my head and make sure I asked the right questions. If you need to amble around somewhere in order to think straight, I highly recommend this area to do it. At one time, Oltarno was the wrong side of the river. Then in the sixteenth century, give or take a hundred years, upstart rival bankers had constructed the Pitti Palace to thumb their noses at the Medici, and things began to look up in terms of local real estate.
I'd been to the palace and the gardens. I really liked the curving narrow streets of the surrounding community, the houses without an inch between them, the way they loomed over you, flush with the sidewalk, blocking the sky. Aside from the occasional glimpse of a stubborn potted plant, they gave no clue about the lives lived behind the massive wooden doors. I liked to imagine medieval lifestyles.
Churches crept right to the edge of the sidewalk. No long lawns or high wide stairs here. I stopped outside the English Church of St. John. I'm not big on churches. I tend to avoid them, except for weddings and funerals. I try to avoid weddings and funerals too. I was tired of walking, my head was buzzing. I needed to sit and think. I pulled out my travel guide and set it on the middle step. I pulled out my notebook and hunkered down. I added Fabrizio and Maria Martello's names to the others in the book. That reminded me to copy in the dashing Dario's cellphone number. I wasn't so sure that Dario might not be more distraction than help. Just in case, I wrote it down underneath Hazel's, Betty's, Orianna Preto's and Luciano Falcone's.
What a day. Signor Falcone was dead. Mrs. Parnell was dashing all over Italy, evading capture. The reports of her driving like a racer and talking to villagers had been a bit reassuring. It might have even been amusing if I'd known what was compelling her to take this trip despite her condition. Maybe the condition was causing the problem. How had I let her get away from the hospital? Dr. Hasheem's words echoed in my brain. What if I didn't find her in time? What if she had a cardiac disaster? What if I'd really screwed up?
A whippet-thin woman emerged from the church and, with a foxy smile, handed me a piece of paper promoting a concert inside the church that evening. It named a tenor and a pianist and included a list of the music to be played, mostly Vivaldi. I remembered this about Florence, you might find a string quartet playing Vivaldi's Four Seasons concerto on a street corner. A dizzying number of evening concerts took place in churches and other quasi-public spaces.
I stood up and thanked the woman profusely. I grinned like a fool. She took a couple of steps back.
I dusted off my black wool pants, tucked the guidebook into the backpack and went on my way with a spring in my step. No wonder I felt grateful. Who in the world liked concerts better than Mrs. Parnell? Shostakovich was her weakness. She'd only attend a performance of Vivaldi pieces as a last resort. There'd be plenty of other options in Florence. I turned back and asked the woman if she knew of any concerts featuring Russian composers that evening.
She glanced at the door and said in a crisp British accent, “I suggest you consult your hotel concierge, madam.”
“Good thinking,” I said.
It was nearly five thirty, getting dim. I still had time to check the Bar 45 before I found out about concerts. Signor Falcone had gone to the same bar every day, so there was a chance someone at the bar might know about his partisan comrades. Someone might even have heard about the appointment with the unknown man. With any luck, I could extract information from these elderly, grief-stricken and probably unilingual Italian friends of signor Falcone. I reminded myself to be calm and sympathetic and not to scare off the witnesses.
Bar 45 was jammed with people. I approached the server and asked her in fractured Italian where signor Falcone used to sit. She pointed to a corner where two old men were huddled together, leaning on the small wooden table, laughing uproariously. They had obviously moved past caffè corretto to straight grappa, and beyond grief to affectionate memory. There were few tables in this bar, typical for a fast food and drink spot, but I could see the regulars got special treatment.
I rehearsed my Italian as I approached. I stuck out my hand to the first old gentleman, introduced myself and said I had come to Florence to speak to signor Falcone to learn about his experience as a partisan. I said how shocked I was to hear of his tragic death. At least, I hoped I said something remotely like that.
They both regarded me with astonishment. Perhaps my words had been quite different from what I had intended. Maybe I'd said the world was flat or the plague was about to rip through the country. That can happen when you're limping along on a rusty vocabulary of about three hundred words, most of them food, drink or toilet related.
One of the old men stood up and gave me a courtly bow. He was a long-faced fellow, about my father's age, with a full head of thick wavy silver hair and a sharp dark mustache. He sported a red scarf even jauntier than my own and a crisp crease in his grey trousers.
“Sit down and have a little something, signora Camilla. I am Vittorio Ralli. Luciano Falcone was my oldest friend. We were just telling stories of his exploits during the war. Luciano had a superb knack for drama and a wonderful sense of humour. He will not be equalled.”
I sat down and pulled out the notebook and wrote Vittorio Ralli promptly. For one thing, I had too many Italian names dancing in my head to keep them straight without a written record.
The second old man had a strangely tilted orangy-brown toupee, unlined skin and twinkling bright blue eyes. He howled with laughter as Vittorio Ralli spoke.
Ralli scowled at him and turned back to me. “This is my friend Giuseppe.”
“Does Giuseppe speak English too?” I asked, as the man continued to chortle merrily, his blue eyes swimming with tears of merriment.
“Unfortunately not. Forgive him. He is not himself today.”
“You speak very well.”
“I should, signora Camilla. I was a prisoner of war in England.”
“Ah.” I was at a loss for the proper comment to make about that situation. What would Miss Manners recommend?
“Revolting food. At least I didn't have to be slaughtered in the service of that madman Mussolini, and I learned another language and met some lovely English ladies.” He winked flirtatiously. Something told me this wasn't the first time Vittorio Ralli had ever flirted.
Again, he had me at a conversational impasse.
“How can we help you, signora Camilla?” he asked, waving the server over and ordering a glass of red wine for me, since I was apparently looking pale. He must have had special status in the Bar 45, since in most Italian bars the customer orders from the bar. I accepted, not wanting to seem ungracious. I told him what I wanted, mentioning everything I knew about the plane crash, the pilot and Orianna Preto in Berli, who had suggested the first connection with the partisans. I filled him in on the background: Mrs. Parnell's absence, the black Mercedes-Benzes and the late and obviously lamented signor Falcone and his fatal appointment.
“Any information that you might have about any of those might help,” I said, as my generous glass of Bardolino arrived.
“You are in luck, signora.”
“I am?”
“Yes. We don't know anything about this appointment, so it must have just been made. Luciano mentioned yesterday that a Canadian lady was coming to see him to talk about the war. He was very pleased. Apparently he likes Canadian ladies. Now I can see why. Was that you, signora Camilla?”
“Yesterday, you said. No, it must have been my friend. She is the one who is missing now.”
“Ah, yes, and that is very serious. For her heart, you mentioned.”
“Yes, it is. And I believe her visit, and the other appointment, have something to do with signor Falcone's death.”
“You must go to the police, signora, even though they are incredibly stupid and quite useless.”
“Hmm.” I hadn't wanted to get the police involved, mainly because I didn't want them to pick up Mrs. Parnell and possibly trigger a heart attack, the very thing I needed to prevent.
He gave a wicked and perceptive grin. “There are channels, of course. They take time. There is politics. Perhaps you'd better steer clear of those fellows, after all. I should know. I was a policeman myself until I retired. Of course, that was nearly thirty years ago.”
“Maybe I will try again,” I lied. “First, you said I was in luck?”
“Si. Yesterday, when Luciano was talking about his visitor, he said they discussed an old friend who had been a partisan with him. Someone they both knew.”
I had too many Italian names whirling around in my head, mixing themselves up at that point. I reminded myself that Vittorio was silver hair and flirtatious, while Giuseppe was toupee and twinkle. And unfortunately, Luciano, the Falcon, was dead.
I said, “Was Giuseppe a partisan too?”
Giuseppe nodded, giving the toupee a workout. He seemed to have understood that question.
Vittorio said sadly, “No, he wasn't. He spent the war in the hospital with tuberculosis.”
“Oh, but…”
“He has good days and bad days. This is a bad day. He might think he was a partisan. He was not.”
“Okay. Does he remember the name of the other partisan that he and Luciano Falcone knew?”
Vittorio shrugged. On him it seemed flirtatious. “Today he wouldn't remember his own mother's name.”
“Mamma!” Giuseppe shouted.
I took a swig of wine.
Vittorio smiled approvingly.
“Giusep’,” he shouted and asked the same question three times in Italian. I caught the words Lucian’ and partigian’.
Tears formed in Giuseppe's empty azure eyes.
Vittorio said, “We don't want to upset him. If we talk of other matters, he might remember. I'll get him a bit more grappa. Would you like another glass of wine?”
Somehow I didn't think grappa would be the answer to Giuseppe's memory lapse, but I was new to the culture. I still had plenty of wine, so I turned down the offer of a second glass, before I had lapses of my own.
“By any chance, would he remember the town signor Falcone's friend lives in? Or maybe you overheard them talking?”
Vittorio shrugged. Giuseppe joined him in the shrug, even though he didn't understand the question.
I looked straight at Giuseppe and asked loudly, “Montechiaro? Pieve San Simone? Alcielo?”
A look of unbearable sadness passed over his face.
Vittorio said, “We mustn't push him, signora. He is having problems. The slightest stress only freezes his memory, and he feels very bad, very inadequate. We must talk about other things. How much we liked our old friend. I will tell him you said something nice about Luciano. What will it be?”
I thought for a minute. “Although I never met him, from what I have heard, signor Falcone was a fine and generous man.”
I could tell from his face the comment was well received. A fast conversation ensued. I listened and didn't understand a word.
In the middle of it, Giuseppe shouted, “Stagno Toscano.”
“What's that?” I whispered. “A wine?”
“Benissimo!” Vittorio said. “He remembers the town.”
The good news: he remembered. The bad news: I had another town to add to the list. Never mind, I told myself. It's better than nothing.
“And the name of the person?” I said.
Vittorio gave me a reproachful glance.
A half-hour later, Giuseppe still hadn't remembered the name. I was beginning to feel desperate. I wouldn't be able to put off another glass of local red forever.
“Signor Ralli,” I said.
“Vittorio,” he said flirtatiously.
Fine. “Can you ask him if he has told anyone else about this other friend who was with signor Falcone?”
I gathered from the resulting injured looks and what sounded like recriminations that no one else knew about the friend. No one. No one whatsoever. Absolutely no one! A lot of denials. Was Giuseppe lying like a rug? Had he already told the mysterious visitor? Or did he really not remember? I made no more headway. In fact, when I persisted, both men developed pouts. I put Stagno Toscano, wherever that was, on the list just ahead of Montechiaro, Pieve San Simone and Alcielo.
Vittorio leaned forward and whispered, “Tell me where you are staying, signora Camilla. I will contact you when Giuseppe has a memory breakthrough. I will get you the name. Trust me.”
I did. In fact, I was sufficiently grateful for their efforts that I bought a round of grappa for the two of them. What the hell, I decided to have one myself. Paul and I had had a memorable evening consuming the potent beverage. I'd forgotten how much like floor cleaner it tasted, and how it raised the top off your skull and made your eyes water. Never mind, I was on foot, and if no one lit a match near me, I would probably survive the two-mile walk back to the Paris Hotel.
* * *
As the old saying goes, too soon old and too late smart. I was whistling my way along the ancient curved streets, heading back to the bridge over the Arno, when I caught sight of Fabrizio and his mother.
“Hello, signora!” I shouted, in the manner of one who has had a snootful.
Maria Martello's striking face contorted. “Strega!” she screamed.
Strega?
I was pretty sure strega meant witch. That didn't make any sense. I'd never been called a witch. Other things, yes, witch, no.
“Pardon me?” I said.
“Ladra!”
Thief?
Now just hold on.
“What are you talking about?” I said.
“I am kind to you, I let you in to my home, when I am in terrible grief, and what do you do! Ladra! Ladrona!”
“Stop screaming,” I said. “I am not a thief, and I am definitely not a big fat thief. What on earth do you think I did?”
“You know what you did.”
“I have done nothing. I have been at the bar with the signore s friends.”
“You have been in our home to steal signor Falcone's photographs and papers!”
I have to admit, the grappa on top of the red wine and my enduring jetlag made it hard to deal with this bizarre accusation. I told myself to keep calm and not to make things any worse. Didn't matter, they got worse on their own.
“You mean someone broke into your house?” My head whirled dangerously.
“You did!”
“Not true. I didn't break into your house.”
“Pfff. I have called the police already. I hope you die in jail, you witch.”
“What did they take?”
“Ha! You already know. Thief!”
“Why would you even think I had anything to do with it?”
“Because you wanted the photos and the information about the other partisans.”
“You said you'd give them to me. Why would I steal them?”
“Maybe you couldn't wait.”
“Why do you think it was me?”
“You were seen. That is proof.”
“Seen? Who could have seen me?”
From behind his mother, Fabrizio smirked.
I gasped. Of course. The little creep. First, I sympathize with him for inadvertently causing the death of his benefactor, then he tries to frame me.
The gloves came off.
“And did I get the photos and information?” I asked, expecting the answer to be no.
“Of course you did. That is why I am so angry.” The signora's nostrils flared. She stood with her hands on her hips, very voluptuous, very Italian, and, I realized, very dangerous.
“Well, I did not,” I said. “And I will be happy to tell the police that.”
“Of course you deny it.”
“I will tell the police they should talk to your son about where he got the money to buy that expensive soccer shirt.”
“Signor Falcone gave him the money.”
“I don't think so. I think a man gave him the money to say when the signore would be going to the bar. I think that same person asked Fabrizio to get the photos and letters. I also think that same man will kill the signore s friend next. That's a lot for one cattivo raggazzo to be guilty of.”
Fabrizio was struggling to understand our conversation in English. He picked up on the cattivo raggazo all right.
“That is not true! Fabrizio is not a bad boy. He would never do such things.” The signora glanced fondly at her darling and hesitated just a blink.
“I don't expect you to believe me. I think the police would think that Fabrizio could have been an innocent child used by a killer in signor Falcone's death. Of course, if something happens to the second man, Fabrizio's in deep, deep trouble. Do they put children in jail in Italy?”
She clasped her hands on her capacious bosom and howled. The woman clearly had missed a career on the stage. She had the body for it and all the right dramatic impulses. Plus a voice that could really project.
I continued, “Go ahead. Talk to the police. I sure intend to.”
I pivoted and strode off. The stress of the situation coupled with the grappa caused my head to spin, but I think I made a dignified exit. One thing I knew, I had to get to Stagno Toscano quickly, before someone else did.
First, I raced back to the café and spoke to Vittorio and Giuseppe. I grabbed Vittorio by the arm and blurted out about the break-in and the theft of the letters and photos.
“We need to find Giuseppe's friend and warn him. And warn his family.”
Vittorio stared at me with his mouth open, grappa glass suspended. “Signora Camilla! Please slow down. Sit, sit. Here,” he gestured to the waitress, “have a glass of wine to calm yourself.”
Oh, sure. I'd had more than enough wine. I opted for aqua frizzante. I did sit and repeat the story a little less breathlessly, as I sipped my mineral water. It had the desired effect.
I said, “Where is this place, Stagno Toscano? Show me on the map. If he can't remember, I'll go to the town and ask them who knows about partisans. Is it a small place? Couldn't I just ask around?”
“It is only about an hour from Florence, southwest of the city. It is too big for everyone to know who was a partisan and anyway, young people today don't want to hear about the war.”
“He has to watch out for a man in a black Mercedes.”
“Giuseppe still doesn't remember. Soon though, any minute, I am confident, it will come back to him. I will do my best to find out for you. I give you my word.”
I took a good look at Giuseppe, whose toupee appeared to be turned backwards by this time. I figured he was as high as any transmission tower, and the required remembering just might not be happening. I'd really helped that along with my gift of grappa. What a dope.
Vittorio insisted he would call me when Giuseppe recalled his friend's name. Giuseppe had begun to sing a happy peasant song. Something about birds.
* * *
I bustled through the door of the Hotel Paris, hoping Maria Martello hadn't swallowed her fears for Fabrizio and phoned the police, and in turn, that the cops hadn't located my hotel. I was grateful that I hadn't written my name down for Fabrizio's mother. I checked for messages. Vittorio still hadn't called with the name of the friend in Stagno Whatzit. Oh well, it wasn't like I had nothing to do. With luck, I'd find Mrs. P. surrounded by emotional Russians.
I asked the concierge about concerts in churches and was loaded up with flyers. I freshened up in the room and took a couple of Tylenol to overcome the grappa headache. I swiped on some Graffiti Red, re-swirled the silk scarf around my neck and headed out for the nearest phone booth. I tried Alvin one more time. He was gasping for breath when he finally answered.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Nothing.”
“Nothing is not a good answer. Have you heard anything from Mrs. P.?”
“Have I? You mean you spent the whole day in Florence, and you still haven't found her?”
“And what have you found out during your day?”
“First of all, it's just getting started.”
“I need to know about the security cameras, Alvin.”
“Oh, yeah, I almost forgot. Last time, I found another image of that guy who passed us just as we were coming into the building. You can see his face better this time, and it's obviously the same person.”
“You did? That's great. You can ask the Super who it is.”
“Like I never would have thought of that. Since we looked at him together on the screen.”
“Right. Sorry. What did he say?”
“He'd seen the guy around, only once or twice. He doesn't know who it is. And if the Super doesn't know him, he couldn't live in the building, or even be a regular visitor. We still have some more stuff to view. It's so boring, you have no idea.”
“You're the one up on technology, Alvin. Is there a way to get the image to me? Spend whatever you have to on it. I'll reimburse you.”
“I'm on it,” he said.
“Keep up the good work. I'm off to church. Find a solution. I'll call you in the morning.”
“You're going to church? Wait a minute,” he said, but it was too late.
* * *
Armed with the list of church concerts, I turboed along the streets of Florence, pushing my way through Florentines dressed elegantly in well-cut black wool coats and classy leather boots. I was jostled by flocks of tourists wearing candy-coloured scarves from market vendors. I ruled out concerts with Mozart or Chopin, too tame for Mrs. P. The concierge had suggested a couple of possibilities and written down directions. I pushed against the tourists thronging the piazza in search of the most likely concert, needless to say featuring works by Shostakovich.
An hour later, having been lost and turned around at least three times, I had peeked into three churches and come up empty. For once, I wasn't running into people who'd worked in England or the USA. No one could help. Where were all the people with cousins in Canada when you needed them? My Italian was getting a workout, although my brain seemed to be on strike. Finally, I approached a young woman playing her flute on a street corner. To my relief she answered in English with a distinct Scots burr. I asked if she knew of a concert that might appeal to someone with a love of Shostakovich. She suggested I try a nearby church.
I dropped a couple of Euros into her open flute case and hustled my butt. It was nearly nine o'clock on what had been a long, tiring, confusing day which had also included too much wine and grappa, and no dinner. I had no time to eat. As it was, any concert would be nearly over.
The church she suggested was like dozens of also-rans in Florence, not old enough to be historically significant, attractive, not beautiful. Who cared? Inside it sounded like a string quartet was doing right by Shostakovich. I paid my two-Euro ticket, nodded to the woman at the ticket desk, and slipped through the door. The dark woodwork and pews gave it a certain gloomy gravitas, although the frescos and gilded statues lifted the atmosphere. I had no idea who all those saints were. Of course, I had other things on my mind.
The concert was in full swing, the pews jammed with intent listeners. I stood at the back, leaning against a pillar, sniffing the churchy air: holy water, decades of burnt incense and beeswax candles. I craned my neck to see if I could spot Mrs. P. anywhere among the audience. I saw several dozen grey heads. No one was smoking or drinking, so the usual indicators didn't apply.
After five minutes, I decided to move around to get a better view. I sidled as far as the front on the extreme right side of the church. I peered down each row. Most of the people were listening raptly, although several glanced sideways at me with reproach.
I returned to the back of the church and made my way over to the far left. I began to edge toward the front, attracting dirty looks from people as I went. So what? I would never see any of them again and, more importantly, I was on a mission.
I was pussyfooting to the end of the aisle when I spotted a familiar hawklike profile at the far end of the third pew. Mrs. Parnell, shoulders forward, head tilted to hear better, eyes front, transported by the music.
I gave a quiet whoop of joy that earned me many glares and shushes.
21 Frank Street
Chesterton, Ontario
July 1, 1946
Dear Vi,
Guess what? I'm getting married. Imagine that! I believe I have mentioned Judge Stiles. He is quite the gentleman, awfully handsome, and also very kind and good to me. It is time for him to have some companionship, now that his wife has been dead for five years. I am sure his children will get used to the idea in time. They are older than I am, so I can't see why they shouldn't mind their own business, get on with their lives, and allow their father a bit of happiness. Regardless of what they say, for our wedding I plan to wear a smart little cream silk suit with pearl buttons and, of course, a matching hat with perhaps just a puff of cream veil. This has been the happiest Dominion Day ever for me! I even have a diamond ring.
Speaking of happiness, it would make me very happy if you would respond to this letter. I know that someday you will find it in your heart to forgive me and that I will find a way to make it up to you. I hope you will be home in Chesterton soon! We could find lots to do here. I still love the movies. “The Best Years of Our Lives” is playing the Vogue. It makes you think about men coming home from war and what they face. I don't know if it is the same adjustment for gals. It made me sad because so many boys we cared about have never come back. I'd like to hear what you thought of it.
With love from Hazel (the person who misses you and who will always be your friend!)
P.S. Betty (Pardon me for living, I mean Elizabeth!) has moved to Toronto and has a job teaching at some snooty private school. There's nothing for her in Chesterton now with her mother and Perce gone. And I have snagged the last eligible man!
H.