drifted from a car radio, some seventies ballad, and closer by the boy tossing the Frisbee sent it sailing skyward once more, a spinning blue circle that hung aloft for a long moment, seeming to defy gravity. In that brief moment Colin felt his spirits lift as well.
“All right then. I’ll take you up on it,” she said. “But first I have to find a job and a place to live, in that order.”
“What kind of job are you looking for?” he asked.
“You mean what am I good at besides making license plates?” She shook her head. “Not much, I’m afraid. I used to be a pretty good cook, but I’m a little out of practice.”
“There are lots of restaurants on the island,” he said.
“None that are interested in hiring a convicted felon. Believe me, I know. I’ve applied to all the ones advertising for help.”
“Something will turn up, I’m sure,” he said. “In the meantime, don’t give up hope. In AA, we have a saying: ‘Fake it’till you make it.’ I’ve been doing a lot of that myself lately.”
“Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.” This time her smile seemed forced. She stood up, tossing her empty cup into the trash. “Well, I should get going. It was nice talking to you. I’ll give you a call when I know what my plans are.”
“Good luck with the search,” he said, shaking hands with her as they parted.
“Thanks. See you soon, I hope.”
He felt a quickening inside at the thought. It wasn’t just that he wanted to get to know her better, it was the sense of connection he felt with her. They were kindred spirits, no matter the different circumstances which had landed them both in the same place. Like him, Alice Kessler knew that the world was full of dark corners and jagged edges.
CHAPTER FIVE
May 1942
Eleanor Styles awoke to the sound of the dogs barking in the kennel outside. Even in her groggy, half-aware state, she could tell from the high pitch of the barking that it wasn’t a deer or raccoon that had gotten them so worked up, more likely a visitor of the two-legged variety. Immediately she was out from under the covers and on her feet. A glance at the clock by the bed told it was half past eight. So late! Usually, she was up while it was still dark, but she’d had trouble sleeping the night before and hadn’t dropped off until well after midnight.
She reached for the chenille robe draped over one of the bed’s four squat posts. Normally it would have been hanging in the closet, but with her husband Joe off fighting in the Pacific, she’d allowed some things to slide. It was enough just keeping the rest of the house tidy and looking after her daughter—not to mention the dogs and chickens and victory garden to tend to. It was only in the bedroom she’d shared with her husband of over ten years that her presence
had gradually begun to assert itself, like the blackberry vines that had swallowed up the fence along the drive in Joe’s absence. Shoes were tucked willy-nilly under the bed and her work overalls, still damp from bathing the dogs yesterday, slung over the padded rocker. Various tubes of ointment and bottles of worming tablets littered the dressing table where powder and perfumes had once stood, and on the nightstand, in place of Joe’s Reader’s Digest , sat a war bond pledge booklet leftover from last week’s drive, a book on canine diseases, and an article clipped from the newspaper listing the new blackout rules.
She padded barefoot over to the window, peering out through the fog of her breath on the pane at a car pulling to a stop in the yard, a dark green Packard she didn’t recognize. She was unaccustomed to visitors, especially at this hour, and with the new war restrictions, fewer automobiles were out on the road these days. Was it some sort of official business? She grew cold at the thought. But, no, the man getting out of the car—youngish, dark haired, wearing khakis and a shirt rolled up at the sleeves—didn’t look like a messenger. And
“All right then. I’ll take you up on it,” she said. “But first I have to find a job and a place to live, in that order.”
“What kind of job are you looking for?” he asked.
“You mean what am I good at besides making license plates?” She shook her head. “Not much, I’m afraid. I used to be a pretty good cook, but I’m a little out of practice.”
“There are lots of restaurants on the island,” he said.
“None that are interested in hiring a convicted felon. Believe me, I know. I’ve applied to all the ones advertising for help.”
“Something will turn up, I’m sure,” he said. “In the meantime, don’t give up hope. In AA, we have a saying: ‘Fake it’till you make it.’ I’ve been doing a lot of that myself lately.”
“Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.” This time her smile seemed forced. She stood up, tossing her empty cup into the trash. “Well, I should get going. It was nice talking to you. I’ll give you a call when I know what my plans are.”
“Good luck with the search,” he said, shaking hands with her as they parted.
“Thanks. See you soon, I hope.”
He felt a quickening inside at the thought. It wasn’t just that he wanted to get to know her better, it was the sense of connection he felt with her. They were kindred spirits, no matter the different circumstances which had landed them both in the same place. Like him, Alice Kessler knew that the world was full of dark corners and jagged edges.
CHAPTER FIVE
May 1942
Eleanor Styles awoke to the sound of the dogs barking in the kennel outside. Even in her groggy, half-aware state, she could tell from the high pitch of the barking that it wasn’t a deer or raccoon that had gotten them so worked up, more likely a visitor of the two-legged variety. Immediately she was out from under the covers and on her feet. A glance at the clock by the bed told it was half past eight. So late! Usually, she was up while it was still dark, but she’d had trouble sleeping the night before and hadn’t dropped off until well after midnight.
She reached for the chenille robe draped over one of the bed’s four squat posts. Normally it would have been hanging in the closet, but with her husband Joe off fighting in the Pacific, she’d allowed some things to slide. It was enough just keeping the rest of the house tidy and looking after her daughter—not to mention the dogs and chickens and victory garden to tend to. It was only in the bedroom she’d shared with her husband of over ten years that her presence
had gradually begun to assert itself, like the blackberry vines that had swallowed up the fence along the drive in Joe’s absence. Shoes were tucked willy-nilly under the bed and her work overalls, still damp from bathing the dogs yesterday, slung over the padded rocker. Various tubes of ointment and bottles of worming tablets littered the dressing table where powder and perfumes had once stood, and on the nightstand, in place of Joe’s Reader’s Digest , sat a war bond pledge booklet leftover from last week’s drive, a book on canine diseases, and an article clipped from the newspaper listing the new blackout rules.
She padded barefoot over to the window, peering out through the fog of her breath on the pane at a car pulling to a stop in the yard, a dark green Packard she didn’t recognize. She was unaccustomed to visitors, especially at this hour, and with the new war restrictions, fewer automobiles were out on the road these days. Was it some sort of official business? She grew cold at the thought. But, no, the man getting out of the car—youngish, dark haired, wearing khakis and a shirt rolled up at the sleeves—didn’t look like a messenger. And
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