“Afraid I’d be achipoff the old Cookie Monster block? That I’d like Dad’s world more than yours? That I’d turn into who—what—I am now?”
“Harlow, that’s enough,” Mom said. “Neither one of us deserves your attitude.”
“Don’t you? I’ve felt unwanted and empty before, but I really feel it now. I didn’t think anything could top Xander locking me out of the penthouse and not speaking to me for months. Or Matt blabbing my private life on Letterman. But this?” She held up the yearbook. “Tops the two worst days of my life.”
“I find that harsh.” Mom squared up, chin raised, eyes narrowed. “I never imagined you’d be so ungrateful. I steer you toward untold opportunities and fame, and what do I get in return? Lip. Sour grapes. I’m hurt, Harlow. I’ll not deny it.” She sniffed and wiped under her eyes.
For the first time in her life, Mom’s tears did not move Harlow. “That makes two of us. You weren’t helping me find opportunities and fame—you were helping yourself. I finished your dream because I was the one who interrupted it.”
“That’s nonsense. Your gain does not return my loss.”
“Do you hear yourself? You count me as a loss. Not that you gained a child, or built on the Hayes family legacy, but an interruption to your ambitions. Do you two even love each other?”
“Of course we do.” Mom paced the office, one hand on her back, one on her forehead. “Is this Dr. Tagg’s wisdom? Some psychobabble? Blame all your woes on your parents?”
“No, Mom, this is my wisdom. Believe it or not, I can think for myself. I have ideas about who Harlow Hayes wants—no, no more referring to myself in third person. WhoIwant to be.”
Mom huffed and faced the window, arms folded tight. “So sue me, I made a few calls. Isn’t it enough that I could see you were something special?”
“I wish it was but, Mom, I felt more like your project than your daughter.”
Mom turned from the window as Harlow picked up the yearbook and headed out of the office. “Where are you going?” Mom followed her. “Bring that back.”
“I’m going home, and this is coming with me.” Tasting freedom trumped all the junk food she’d ever consumed. Including Tony’s pizza and a potato-chip spoon dipped in ice cream.
“Home? You are home. Harlow?”
TUESDAY
OCTOBER 1940
Fall, such as it was in the Florida Panhandle, descended on Sea Blue Beach. The humidity thinned, making an eighty-degree day almost cool.
Hauling a small load of laundry from her new Maytag wringer washer, Tuesday made her way through the morning sun to the clothesline, pausing to look up at the sound of an airplane engine.
Some of the boys at Eglin had taken to waving a wing as they flew over the Starlight and the house on their way to maneuvers. She’d lift her hand and wave, hoping some British mother did the same for her son, if perhaps he flew over her yard while she hung the family laundry.
She clipped the towels and sheets to the line, humming to herself. Imagine, men flying like birds. When she was born in 1900, no one had ever flown anything motorized. She’d seen an air balloon at a fair when she was ten, but those pilots had little control. They could never outrun a hail of enemy bullets.
She tried to enjoy the beautiful morning, but she worried. The last letter she’d received from LJ was the day she went to the movies with Leroy. They sat throughColoradotwice, hoping for a glance of their son in the newsreel, but no such luck.
She also had a list of chores on her mind. The staff was giving the Starlight a good cleaning, and Walt Marrs was mending the wood floor damaged by a skater who strapped on a pair of metal street skates. The accounts needed to be updated and the staff scheduled for the Halloween All Night Skate.
While President Roosevelt’s fireside chats continued to assure Americans he “hoped the United States will keep out of this war,” more and more flyboys showed up at the Starlight on the weekends, which was where LJ should be. But why dredge it all up again? Just be proud of him.
Leroy was away at boot camp. In his last letter, he said he’d be home in mid to late October.
We’ve a lot of work to do if we want to be ready to fight. The president is being political, Tooz, but we’re going in one way or another. I know this means I’m away from you again, but it feels right to be here and take a stand forsomething good and decent. Believe it or not, I’m doing it for you.
This time, she believed him.
Dupree remained at his job and excelled. In the evening, he was glued to the radio for war news, bragging what he’d do when called up and shipped “over there.”
Tuesday prayed every night the call would never come.
She’d hung the last of the washing on the line when she saw Doc’s car turning down the drive. A splinter of dread stuck in her craw. While she counted him a trusted friend, he was so often the bearer of bad news.
He parked his Deuce under a shade tree trying to turn green into gold.
