Harry sat on a ladder-back chair in the clinic intake office. Across a desk from him sat an officious woman with luxurious dark hair, done with a 1940s curl—Anne Thurber—who was filling out a form on her computer.
“Social Security Number?” Thurber asked.
Harry recited the numbers.
“Insurance carrier?”
Harry didn’t answer. Thurber glanced up from her monitor to find Harry scrutinizing her.
“Mr. Dickinson?” she said.
Still, Harry didn’t answer. He studied her.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
“I’ve been trying to figure out who you remind me of,” Harry said.
“Mr. Dickinson,” Thurber said. She cleared her throat meaningfully.
“It’s the hairstyle,” Harry said.
Thurber returned to the form.
“Insurance carrier?” she asked.
Harry snapped his fingers.
“Laraine Day,” Harry said. “In Mr. Lucky.”
“Laraine Who?” Thurber said. “Mr. What?”
“In the beginning of the movie,” Harry said. “When she’s keeping watch on the docks. Waiting for Cary Grant. Everyone else thinks he’s gone for good. But she believes in him. Believes he’ll come back.” Harry cocked his head to the side. “I’ll bet you have something … In your past. An intrigue. Some secret love…”
“No,” Thurber said.
But she blushed.
“Someone everyone else has given up on—” Harry said.
“No,” Thurber said.
“—but not you,” Harry said.
Thurber dropped her eyes. She folded her hands on her lap.
“My fiancé,” she said. “Five years ago, he disappeared in Afganistan. MIA. Everyone says he’s dead.”
“I knew it,” Harry said. “You are a mystery woman.”
When Thurber looked up at Harry, her eyes glistened.