NEW YORK CITY, 1918
Ned Duffy thought he was a hard man. As a reporter, he’d seen it all, or so he told himself. He was an old hand at murder, mutilation, even road accidents when crime got slow. Through it all, blood and torn bodies that had turned many a cop’s stomach, he’d taken his notes and kept his objectivity, never so much as batting an eye or losing a lunch. But Mary was a different matter. He’d loved her at first sight, from the moment he pulled her from the wreckage. Mary Lovett, whose husband was standing in front of him and who was smiling at him the way no one had done since Duffy’s father had been alive.
“Come this way, please,” the nurse said.
Duffy started toward the door at the same time Lovett did.
The nurse raised an eyebrow. “The hospital is packed, no room for visitors. Sorry, sir, family only.”
Duffy forced a smile to hide his envy.
“We’ve set her arm and taped her broken ribs,” the nurse continued. “She’s comfortable for the moment, but don’t stay long. She should rest. The wards are full so we’ve had to curtain off a portion of the hallway. God knows what we’re going to do if more casualties come in, poor things.”
Both Duffy and Lovett eyed the corridor that led to Mary’s bed.
“You’re welcome to come and see her later,” Lovett said. “I’m sure she’ll want to thank you.”
“I’ll look forward to it,” Duffy replied, surprised that his voice sounded so calm. Why couldn’t Lovett have been under that wreckage? If he had been, Mary would be alone and in need of someone like Duffy.
“Wait for me, then, will you?” Lovett said, not moving until Duffy agreed.
As they walked down the corridor together, Duffy tapped the side of his head to show he’d just remembered something. “Dammit! I’ve got to call in.”
“Young man,” the nurse said, “we can’t have that kind of language here.”
“Yes, sister.”
“There’s a telephone downstairs,” she relented. “You can use that if you’re quiet about it.”
Lovett drew the curtain far enough for Duffy to get a glimpse of Mary’s face as she lay on the bed, her red hair splayed over the crisp pillow like a halo. “I’ll join you downstairs in a few minutes,” Lovett said.
Duffy nodded to mask the scream of protest welling inside him. Mary, why couldn’t you have been mine?
The curtain was drawn. With it went the sight of her. Darkness seemed to close around him. His sigh of whiskey breath drew a look of disapproval from the sister, who folded her arms over her bosom and glared at him, refusing to leave Mary’s door unguarded until she saw the back of him.
“Downstairs, you say? I thought there was one outside the director’s office.”
“He doesn’t like people using that one.” She looked at him sharply.
“My editor’s waiting,” he told her.
“These people have suffered enough without having to read about it,” she called after him.
He fled her withering gaze only to encounter a barrage from his city editor when he called.
“For Christ’s sake, Duffy, it’s been so long I figured you were dead. Hell, I hoped you were dead. That way, I could have turned you into a hero. ‘One of the New York World’s own falls in combat.’”
I am a hero, Duffy thought. Mary said so. “I’m at the hospital,” he said.
“That’s more like it. ‘World’s own wounded in combat.’”
“I rescued someone,” Duffy said.
“You got to the actual wreck?”
“Yes.”
“That’s what I need, an eyewitness account. Why the hell didn’t you call in sooner?”
“I rode in the ambulance with the woman I dug out.”
“I take back everything I said about you. You’re good. An exclusive interview with one of the victims. That’ll sell papers.”
Duffy wasn’t about to use Mary to sell newspapers. “She’s too badly hurt to give an interview,” he said.
“Hovering near death, eh? We can use that. Start dictating.” Succinctly, giving Mary a fictitious name, Duffy reported what he’d seen and heard. Details Green could fill in for himself or make them up as he saw fit, a city editor’s right, he so often proclaimed. When Duffy finished, the editor grumbled for a moment, then said grudgingly, “I’ve heard worse. Hold on while I feed this to Newmark.”
Duffy slumped against the wall and reached for his flask. For once he limited himself to a single sip, which he swished around like mouthwash before swallowing.
Green came back on the line. “I want you back in that tunnel.”
“There’s something funny going on.”
“What do you mean funny?’
“It’s not just us that’s shorthanded. Everybody is, the police, the BRT, even the hospital.”
“So, it’s a fine summer day. People are shirking. You’re looking for an excuse to take the rest of the day off. The tunnel, Duffy.”
“Now?”
“Unless you prefer unemployment,” Green said and hung up. Duffy grimaced. He was fooling himself about Mary. Her husband was with her now, so what would she want with the likes of a whiskey-soaked reporter?
“Mary wants to thank you,” Lovett said, so close behind him that Duffy jumped.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. Come on. Maybe I can sneak you into her room.”
Duffy forced a smile. His face burned with guilt. A man like him had no right even thinking about a woman like Mary.
“She’s safe,” he managed. “That’s what counts.”
Lovett held out his hand again. Duffy accepted it sheepishly. “I owe you a debt I can never repay,” Lovett said.
For the first time, Duffy noticed the scar on Lovett’s face. It ran from his right ear all the way to his chin. Some reporter you are, he told himself, but he’d had eyes only for Mary.
Lovett caught him staring. “I got it in the war.” He tapped his right knee. “The face and a bad leg.” He took a step to show his limp. “Crashed my plane.”
“Where?” Duffy asked, though part of him, that part that envied Lovett, didn’t give a damn.
“France. I was shot down. I was one of the lucky ones. I didn’t burn.”
Duffy cringed inwardly. He hadn’t been fit to serve in the army. “I can’t stay. I have to go back to work.”
“Mary told me you were a reporter.” He nodded. “For the World.”
Lovett’s lips pinched together in disapproval.
“I’ve left Mary’s name out,” Duffy hurried to say.
“That’s another debt I owe you.”
With a shrug, Duffy turned to go.
“Dinner,” Lovett called after him. “Mary asked me to invite you to dinner. Here’s our address.”
He handed Duffy a slip of paper.
“Why don’t we make it one month from today. Mary ought to be up and around by then. Say seven o’clock.”
Duffy started to say no. Seeing Mary again would only make him miserable. And she was married to a war hero, for God’s sake, a wounded one at that.
“I’ll be there,” Duffy said, the words coming out of his mouth almost on their own.
“Good. We’ll look forward to it.” Lovett said.
Before leaving the hospital, Duffy carefully tucked the note containing Mary’s address into his billfold for safekeeping.