"We’re not doing too bad, Papa," Joe said, winking at Laura. "The account books are in the black."

"Not bad? I say, not good!" Whack! Another slice of meat was cut from the bone. "The army wants fifty pounds of beef a week! Salting and wrapping for export is big job!" He wiped his hands on his leather apron, which was so long that it almost touched the sawdust on the floor, and so snug that it stretched tightly across his ample stomach.

"The army pays well," Joe countered.

"Santa Maria! Ten cents a pound? For all my work?"

"Doesn’t Joe help you?" Laura asked innocently, knowing well that Joe often stayed at the store until after midnight, getting the army shipments ready.

"Ah, Joe!" Aldo threw out his hands, but the sharp jibe died on his lips, and his brown eyes softened as he glanced in his son’s direction. "Joe is a good boy," he said gently. "Good boy."

"Hey, Papa! I’m no saint," Joe said, scooping up an orange that had rolled across the floor.

Aldo let out a bellow. "I agree. Saint you are not!"

Bertina, Aldo’s wife, bustled in with a tray of freshly baked cookies. Her face lit up when she noticed Laura. "Good morning, Laura. How fresh and pretty you look. By all the saints, Joe, what you give Laura? A pickle?" The plump, short woman chuckled. "I can do better than that!" She reached over and encircled Laura’s upper arm with pudgy fingers. "We need to fatten you up. Here’s a warm biscotti."

Laura bit into the Italian sweet. "Delicious," she said. It tasted doubly sweet after the dill pickle. It was such fun coming to the Menottis' store. She needed to go home, however, as her mother was waiting. "I must go," she said reluctantly, slipping down from the barrel.

Joe, hands on hips, surveyed her and then spoke hesitantly. "You liked the Charlie Chaplin movie so well, would you like to go again tonight?"

She opened her eyes in astonishment. "Joe Menotti!" she exclaimed. "Two movies in two nights? Whatever has come over you?"

He grinned, tossing the orange in the air and catching it. "Sure, why not?"

"Sorry, Joe." She felt wretched, hating to refuse him. "I promised Sarah I’d go with her to the Liberty Bond Rally." She glanced at Joe wistfully. "I have to go. Sarah’s been talking about it for weeks. Douglas Fairbanks and Mary Pickford are going to be there. Sarah wouldn’t miss dashing Douglas or America’s Sweetheart for anything!"

"Oh," Joe said, his smile disappearing. "It’s just as well you can’t go tonight, anyway. I should stay home and dive into the books. I’d better know all about the digestive system for an exam on Monday."

Bertina arranged the cookies on the counter, muttering the whole time. "You two work all day… study… bond meetings… If they had their way they’d turn the world around, wouldn’t they, Aldo?" A wisp of her raven-black hair, pulled back from her face, spiraled down over a gold loop earring.

With a loud snort Aldo sharpened his butcher knife on a whetstone, then began to trim away the fat on a large roast. "The two of them run here and there like a chicken before my hatchet. Too much activity!"

Pretending not to notice Aldo’s reaction, Laura turned to Joe. His disappointment was evident. Was he that upset that she couldn’t go to the movies again? "Why don’t you come along, Joe? The bond rally will be fun!"

Joe’s grin reappeared. "I just might do that. Are you certain Sarah wouldn’t mind?"

"She’d love it." Laura reached out and touched his arm. "Do come with us, please."

"When you put it that way, how can I refuse?"

"Seven, then?"

"I’ll be there!" His pleasure was as evident as his disappointment had been a minute ago.

As Laura crossed Cherry Alley she was pleased that Joe had wanted to go with her to the movies again. This was the first time he’d asked her for both Friday and Saturday nights. Now that Joe would be along, tonight would be twice as much fun.

As she walked along the sycamore-lined street with the charming rows of brick-red homes, she met Clara Jurowski, a large-boned woman in an ill-fitting postal uniform who had taken over Mr. McKay’s route.

"Any mail?" Laura called.

Clara’s long face lengthened. "Sorry," she said, knowing how much the Mitchells were all waiting for a letter from Michael. "The only thing is the Sears Roebuck catalogue."

She handed the heavy book to Laura, who took it reluctantly. Usually she was overjoyed to see it, but now the only mail she wanted was from Michael. What was wrong? Why didn’t he write?

Dejectedly she walked into the house and was surprised to hear voices in the parlor. She took off her galoshes, threw her cape on the clothes tree, and hurried in to see who was there. When she entered the room, one of the handsomest young soldiers she had ever seen leaped to his feet.

Laura’s mother motioned her forward to meet him. "Laura, come in and meet a friend of Michael’s. They were in training camp together at Fort Sheridan. Shawn, this is my daughter, Laura. Laura, Shawn O’Brien." Laura held out her hand, and immediately he dismissed a handshake, lifting her fingers to his lips. "Hello, Laura. I can see quite a resemblance between you and Michael." His blue-gray eyes glittered, and the rakish smile on his face was warm and appealing. He had broad shoulders and a lean waist, which was emphasized by his neatly pressed uniform. His look was cool and appraising as his eyes swept over her from the top of her hair to the shoes on her feet.

Flustered, all she could utter was, "Oh, please, sit down." Then she smiled and said graciously, "Any friend of Michael’s is welcome in our home." Her hand inadvertently strayed to her shining hair, poking back a few unruly curls.

"I understand you haven’t heard from Michael yet." Shawn sat on the horsehair sofa, leaning back nonchalantly. "You should receive a letter any day, because I heard from him about two weeks ago." His jacket had a number of ribbons. "Michael and I were best friends," he said.

"We’re so pleased to have you here," Sarah said. "You don’t know how we’ve longed to hear from Michael. It’s been over a month since we received his last letter."

"Oh, yes," Laura said excitedly. "Tell us all about Michael."

Shawn beamed, his eyes once again boldly sweeping over her. Laura almost expected a low whistle. Embarrassed, she could only stare, fascinated by this beautiful stranger.

"I’ll be happy to tell you about Michael, but I haven’t seen him in a long time," he said, enjoying the fact that he had flustered her. It was as if he’d seen this reaction many times before.

"Please," Mrs. Mitchell said, rising, "let me bring you a cup of coffee."

Shawn held up his hand. "Thank you, but I can only stay a few minutes. I need to report at noon for my first briefing." He casually threw his arms across the sofa’s back. "Michael has told me so much about the Mitchell family that I feel I know you. The only thing he didn’t mention was how pretty each of you is!"

Sarah flushed. Even Maude Mitchell’s pink cheeks turned a deeper red as she sank back down in her chair. Laura smiled, relishing the compliment. If only Joe could hear Shawn. Maybe it would take something like a Shawn O’Brien for Joe to become more aware of her new maturity. She couldn’t keep her eyes off this good-looking boy with his Irish charm and easy manner. His smile never left his face, and his confident air bordered on cockiness, but not quite.

"Shawn," Maude Mitchell asked, "how long has it been since you last saw Michael?"

"Hmmm"—he squinted up at the crystal light fixture—"about six months. He was shipped overseas in August, and I was kept at Fort Sheridan for more training."

"Have you been in Washington long?" Laura asked.

"Three days." He picked up his hat, which was next to him, twirling it around in his hands. "I’ll be an aide-de-camp to General Long at the White House." He winked. "That’s a fancy name for messenger boy."

"Oh, but what a fantastic opportunity," Laura burst out. "You’ll be able to see the president, his wife, and all the important people of the world that come calling on the Wilsons."

Shawn cocked a brow in her direction. "It could be an interesting assignment."

"It’s certainly better than being sent overseas," Sarah said softly. Her delicate pink blouse made her look like a rose with her lovely gold hair, pink cheeks, and porcelain complexion.

Shawn turned his head, observing her. "I know, and believe me, I’m not complaining. Poor Michael."

"Oh"—Sarah’s hand flew to her mouth— "I didn’t mean…"

"I know you didn’t, Sarah." There was an awkward pause in the room as Shawn looked at each of them with a smile. "Yes, siree," he said, glancing about the cozy room. "It’s good to be in a home again. A barracks doesn’t have many comforts."

"Michael told us you’re a New Yorker," Mrs. Mitchell said. "What part?"

"Manhattan, Seventieth and Madison. My folks live in a brownstone there." He tilted his head and grinned. "I’m an only child."

"Are you spoiled and willful?" Laura teased.

"Oh, no," he assured her. "Dad put me to work when I was only ten in his photography studio. In fact, I still take pictures as a hobby." He reached in his back pocket and pulled out his billfold. "In fact, I’ve a picture right here that you’d be interested in." He extracted a snapshot and passed it around.

The picture was of Michael and Shawn standing in front of an army truck. They were in their khaki uniforms, hatless, arms draped carelessly around one another’s shoulders, with grins that threatened to split their faces.