“Let’s make it a good weekend, at least.” Ravenel’s rolling Southern accent felt like a balm after Philip Schuyler’s clipped, boarding school cadence. It conjured up memories of the weekend before, of sunshine and ice cream and innocent pleasures. “I have a surprise for you on Saturday.”
“I don’t know . . .” Lucy ran her finger along the blunt edge of the embossed blotter. She’d thought those drinks with Philip Schuyler were innocent, until they weren’t. “I shouldn’t.”
She could hear the amusement in his voice, all the way through the wires. “Be surprised?”
“See you.” She was amazed by the effort it cost her. “It isn’t really appropriate.”
“Isn’t there an old adage about horses and barn doors?” When Lucy didn’t say anything, John Ravenel added, “I promise, there’s nothing that your mother wouldn’t approve of.”
That was what she was afraid of. “I don’t . . .”
“One forty-seven West Fourth Street. Meet me there at noon. I promise you”—John Ravenel’s voice was warm and persuasive—“you won’t regret it.”
Nineteen
JULY 1944
Kate
Margie wiped her mouth with a napkin before folding it neatly and tucking it into her lunch pail. We sat on the same Central Park bench where our mothers had met all those years ago, a habit we’d fallen into after I’d begun working at Stornaway Hospital. It was a nod to a past we both remembered fondly while dealing with a present that seemed uncertain at best.
The day was saved from the murderously hot summer heat by a layer of thin, wispy clouds, as if even the sun agreed that the world below in all its turmoil didn’t deserve all of its light. The city was merely a shadow of its former glory, with even Lady Liberty and Times Square darkened at night. On my walk to the park I was assaulted with advertisements to buy war bonds on the sides of trolleys and buildings. Metal signage and ornamentation had been vanishing from the city since the first call for scrap metal, and I’d begun to wonder if New York would ever be the same again.
Margie shook out her cigarette case and took one, then offered it to me. I hesitated for a moment and then shook my head. “No, thank you. If I have one, I’ll only want another.”
“What?” she asked over the sound of a crowded bus jerking its way down Fifth Avenue.
“Never mind,” I said, latching my pail.
“So,” Margie said, blowing out a puff of smoke. “How’s your captain?”
“He’s not my captain. His fiancée is here. From Charleston. I doubt I’ll be seeing much of him until he leaves.” Are you going to let me finish? I kept hearing his words, asking me to let him finish his sketch of me. And each time I heard them I had to remind myself to say no.
“Um-hmm,” she said, a knowing smile tilting her lips.
I looked at her cigarette and she handed it to me. I took a long, calming drag, then handed it back to her. “He has a fiancée. Why would you think I’m interested in him?”
She looked at me fully. “Because when you talk about him there’s something about your eyes.”
There’s something about your eyes. I startled. “He said the same thing. When he told me he wanted to finish the sketch of me.”
She raised a plucked eyebrow as she took another drag from her cigarette and didn’t say anything. She didn’t need to.
Eager to change the conversation, I checked my watch. “I need to get going. But first I need to ask a favor.”
She leaned back, narrowing her eyes. “This won’t involve me going on a blind date in your place, will it? The last time that happened I got stranded on Coney Island with a short, bald man who only spoke Russian and called me Martzie.”
“I know. And I still owe you. This favor doesn’t involve blind dates or Russians—promise. I need you to look up a name for me in the newspaper archives. Harry Pratt. He might be an artist. I found a few of his sketches in the attic, and I believe his family might have once owned the hospital building. He might be related to Prunella J. Pratt—I found a ball gown in an armoire with her name embroidered on the inside.”
“Prunella?”
“I know. It’s not the sort of name that rolls easily off the tongue, is it? I had an aunt named Prunella. Must have been popular way back when.”
Margie took one last puff of her cigarette, then crushed it under the toe of her shoe. “Thank goodness its popularity had waned by the time we came along.” She gave an exaggerated shudder. “Why are you so interested in the Pratts?”
“I’m not really sure. Curiosity, maybe. The sketches are so good that I’m wondering if he might have become a renowned artist.”
“And?” she prompted. Margie was the one person in the world who knew me enough to know when I was holding something back.
“And I think I’ve heard the name Pratt before. I didn’t think so at first, but then I had a memory of my mother and me standing in front of the building when I was small. I think she called it the Pratt mansion.”
“Interesting,” she said, raising both eyebrows. “I rather like searching through the archives. If I turn up something interesting, I might even forgive you for the Russian.”
“You’re a peach. I owe you dinner.”