He laughed. "Now, Laura, don’t worry about me. Next fall is a long way off. And as for my becoming a doctor, you’ll remember I’ve had only two years of medical school. It’s difficult attending school part-time and working." He shrugged. "But Dad needs me to help in the store. He and Mom work too hard, anyway. I’d like to see them quit and take life easy in their old age."

"And they will, Joe. You’ve been a wonderful son to them." Her eyes sparkled. "They dote on you." She shook her head. "I don’t know why," she teased, "but they’re so proud of you that they could shout it from the rooftops."

He didn’t respond to her banter but said soberly, "I’m plenty proud of them, too."

No wonder she loved him and, when he was near, felt such a warm glow. At a time when foreigners were suspect, and anyone with an accent was often made fun of, Joe wasn’t ashamed of his Italian parents. She’d heard of factory workers with an accent who had been forced to crawl across the floor and kiss the American flag. Things could have been much worse for the Menottis if Italy had honored the Triple Alliance they had signed with Germany. Instead, at the last minute, Italy had sided with the Allies.

Joe paid the check. "Finished?" he asked.

"Hmm," she answered as he held her cape and wrapped it around her shoulders. She longed to lean back into his arms, but instead she lifted her hair so it would fall outside her cape, and walked into the brisk night through the door he held open.

Walking along Wisconsin Avenue, not speaking much, they passed rows of shuttered houses. A snowflake or two elicited a brief comment from Joe, but on the whole, they walked in companionable silence. Laura felt a tingle in the air, sort of like electricity. Joe kept glancing her way, as if she had changed into a wonderful woman before his very eyes. His admiration made her step lighter and hold her head higher and her spine straighter. He made her feel beautiful and desirable. She knew her long hair, curling softly about her face, fell gently over her shoulders like a mantle. She was glad she had traced her lips with lip rouge and that the frosty air had brought color to her cheeks. She felt lovely every time Joe’s eyes swept over her.

When they crossed the street to Cherry Alley, he took her arm, and his touch lingered a little longer than necessary, but he didn’t take her hand. Not yet. That would come later, she was sure of it!

Later, in bed, she was buoyantly happy, sure of Joe’s blossoming love.

Chapter Five

The next morning, humming "Oh, How I Hate to Get Up in the Morning," the tune which was the hit of the army, Laura went into the kitchen in her robe and slippers. As she yawned and stretched she thought how lovely Saturdays were and that today she felt particularly vibrant.

Her mother, wearing a checked apron as long as her ankle-length skirt, was scraping carrots while the aroma of beef chunks and onions browning in the cast-iron skillet permeated the large room.

Impulsively Laura nuzzled her mother’s neck, where a thick bun at the nape smelled of antiseptic soap.

Pleased, Maude turned and smiled, peering above her small glasses at her daughter. "You’re in a good mood, young lady. Any reason?"

"Hmmm," Laura murmured noncommittally. "Just happy to be alive." Her mind flickered briefly over last night and the walk with Joe. There had been a closeness between them that she had never experienced before. Joe had really noticed her at last. Now it was only a matter of time before he took her in his arms and smothered her with kisses. The delicious thought caused her to wrap her arms around herself and sway back and forth. It was wonderful to see such a bright day; to be in love and to be loved.

"I like to see you this happy," her mother said, returning to her carrot scraping. "The more energy you have, the more work we’ll get done around here." She turned and lifted her brows teasingly.

"Okay, Mother. What’s on your mind? What do you want me to do?"

"Will you run to the Menottis' store and buy a bunch of celery after you’ve had your breakfast?"

"Sure, anything else?"

Slicing the carrot into a bowl, her mother frowned. "Seems like I’m forgetting something." She hesitated. "Oh, yes! I need a package of chocolate. I’m packing a box for Michael, so I’m baking cookies. I just hope it gets to him."

"How wonderful!" Laura took a deep breath. "I wish the war would end. I’m weary of heatless Mondays, wheatless Mondays and Wednesdays, meatless Tuesdays, and porkless Thursdays and Saturdays." She wrinkled her nose. "To ask us to substitute whale meat for beefsteak is downright heartless!"

"Laura, it’s the least we can do for our boys. Mr. Hoover, the food administrator, knows what he’s doing." Her mother moved to the stove, turned down the flame, and put a lid on the skillet. "As long as we follow his directions, it’s not that much of a sacrifice."

"You’re right, as usual, I guess. I just get tired of hearing about our belt-tightening Hooverizing programs." She poured a cup of coffee, buttered a slice of brown bread, and sat down at the kitchen table. "Maybe we’ll hear from Michael today. It’s been over a month."

"I know," Mrs. Mitchell said softly, stopping to gaze out the window. "I worry about him in the trenches, always waiting to fight."

"Michael can take care of himself," Laura answered confidently. "Besides, he’s in the Fighting Sixty-Ninth, one of the crack regiments in the army."

"No matter how good the soldiers are, it’s hard to fight against machine-gun fire or mustard gas." Her voice quivered as she dumped the carrots into the frying pan. Laura knew she voiced the concern that was on all their minds. Mustard gas was one of the worst weapons of war. When the insidious vapor filled the trenches, the men didn’t stand a chance unless they had a gas mask.

"Speaking of mustard gas," Laura said, jumping to her feet, trying to forget the soldiers in the trenches. "How many peach pits have we saved?"

Her mother shrugged. "Check the jar."

Laura pulled back the curtain and lifted from the shelf a jar half-filled with dried peach pits. "About a quarter of a pound, I’d guess." She shook her head. "And it takes seven pounds to make a filter for one gas mask! We’ve got a long way to go."

Maude Mitchell wiped her hands on her apron. "I’m going to the Red Cross office this afternoon."

"Red Cross office! Mother, can’t you relax, even on Saturday?"

Her mother smiled, and her well-scrubbed face shone. "I’ll only go for an hour or so to finish a sweater I’m knitting. Besides, I enjoy the women at the office." She studied her daughter and said stiffly, "Almost as much as you enjoy your motorcade friends."

Laura’s mother had always disapproved of her lying about her age to get into the corps, even if it meant that she was helping on the home front. A small smile emerged, and her mother said dryly, "Better the motorcade, I suppose, than these suffragists you’ve been admiring."

Laura swallowed her last bite of bread and said quickly, "I’d better start on my errands." No arguments, she thought, on such a glorious day. The pleasant sun’s brightness warmed her back as she drained her cup.

"That would be nice, dear," her mother murmured. It seemed she, too, was not interested in an argument as she dragged out a sack of flour and emptied part of the contents into the tin canister.

For a moment Laura watched her energetic mother, then rose. "I’ll run to the store and be right back to make my bed and dust."

Pulling on her galoshes, she wondered why her mother and Sarah were so far from her way of thinking. Well, that’s supposed to be what makes the world interesting. If it weren’t for differences of opinion, there would be a sameness in the country, and that would be boring, she thought as she flung her cloak around her.

At the Menottis' grocery, Joe greeted her warmly. "How are you, Laura?" His eyes and smile were admiring, and the look on his face was new and oh, so marvelous. Her heart leaped when she knew that he hadn’t forgotten last night.

Joe dipped into the pickle vat, offering her a large dill. His hand brushed hers, and she was sure it was deliberate.

"Thanks," she said shyly, taking the pickle. What was the matter with her? Every time she was around Joe now she became flustered. "Mother needs a bunch of celery and some chocolate." When Joe left to fill the order, she perched on top of a cracker barrel and nibbled on the sour pickle.

Upon his return Joe handed her a brown bag and began arranging a display of apples and oranges.

His movements were so graceful, she thought. Whatever action he performed, she observed it in a new light. Every once in a while he would glance in her direction and she would blush and think, Here I am with a silly pickle in my hand, instead of looking mature.

"Did you enjoy the movie last night?" he asked. There was a hint of tenderness behind his words, or did she imagine that?

She nodded. "It was fun, but I enjoyed our talk afterward even more." There! She had been courageous and said what was on her mind to get his reaction.

Before she could find out, however, Aldo Menotti, Joe’s burly father, entered from the back room with a slab of beef slung over his massive shoulder. He was whistling, but when he spied Laura, he stopped and his eyes opened wider. He knowingly looked first at her, then at his son. "Laura Mitchell! What you do? Eat up my profits, eh?" He laughed good-naturedly, and his wide mouth curved up to touch the edges of his bushy mustache. He flung the side of beef down onto the wooden block table and, with hefty strokes, began to chop it into pieces. "My profits fly out the window!" His huge hands reached to the roof in supplication.