“It’s to drum up publicity for war bonds,” he replied. “Shall we stay and watch?”
They didn’t have much choice. Getting across Broadway would be impossible until the parade was over. The bleachers lining both sides of Broadway were filled, but they found a spot near a lamppost that wasn’t too crowded.
Next to her, an old man wore a faded Civil War uniform. He had a young boy around five or six balanced on his shoulders. “That’s the Statue of Liberty,” the man said to the boy, pointing to a float featuring a reproduction of the statue.
Women dressed as pilgrims tossed candy to the crowd while men dressed in Revolutionary War costumes walked alongside the float and handed out flyers for Liberty Bonds.
A line of snare drummers came next, thrumming out a steady cadence as they led a formation of soldiers at least a thousand men strong, all marching in grim precision. Now the crowd really cheered. The women dressed as pilgrims and men in tricorn hats were playacting. The soldiers, however, were quite real.
The troops, having just arrived from the hinterlands of America, marched in lockstep behind the drummers. They all had the same shorn haircut, same uniform, same proud expression gazing forward. Yet theyweren’tthe same. They were farmers, teachers, accountants, fathers, and brothers. Soon they’d be cannon fodder.
“Is my daddy in there?” the boy next to them asked.
“He’s right there,” the vet said, pointing vaguely to the regiment of marching soldiers.
“Where? I can’t see him.” The boy started crying, bemoaning that he couldn’t see his daddy to tell him goodbye.
“Don’t cry,” the old man said. “Your dad will be back before you know it. I promise!”
Delia shifted her attention back to the next group of soldiers marching past, her heart growing frosty.
Not all fathers returned home from war. Or if they did, sometimes they were only a pale shadow of the person they used to be. Sometimes a strong man, like a pipe fitter who could haul an eighty-pound hydraulic pump as though it were a loaf of bread, could become so weak that lifting a hand in greeting would sap his energy. And sometimes that same man could be in so much pain that even smiling at his daughter hurt. Sometimes that same, formerly strong man would try to comfort his frightened daughter on the morning that he died, only three months after coming home from Cuba, and never once in all that time was he able to get out of bed.
Not all fathers survived a war. Delia still put flowers on herfather’s grave every Fourth of July, along with a small American flag because he had carried a fierce love of his country until the end. Delia loved her country too. It was the stupidity of the Spanish-American War that had made her a pacifist.
She folded her arms and glared as the troops moved past. Those men couldn’t help what was happening to them. Some of them had volunteered, but most had been drafted and had no choice as to their fate. That sweet young boy might be an orphan before the year was out.
Following the soldiers was a mixed group of men and women, each wearing a sash across their chest denoting their volunteer organizations. They were civilians working for the Red Cross, the YMCA, even librarians who were heading overseas to set up libraries for the troops.
Then came an open carriage with a lone man sitting on a raised platform as he waved to the crowd. Even from a hundred yards away, it was easy to see his appeal. He was blond and tanned, with a knee-weakening grin. He wasn’t in uniform, but his battered leather jacket had a military rank embroidered on the arm. The white silk scarf casually looped around his neck made him look like a movie star.
“Who’s that?” she asked Wesley.
“I’ve no idea, but the leather jacket comes from the Lafayette Escadrille,” Wesley replied, and then he went on the explain how a few dozen American pilots, frustrated by their nation’s refusal to join the war, had gone overseas to fly for the French Army.
“Then he’s an idiot,” she muttered under her breath. Anyone who signed up to fight before America had even entered the conflict was a mindless warmonger.
Young women ran after the carriage, flinging rose petals in its path, and the man seemed to relish every second of it. He waved at the crowd with a cocky air, seeming to soak up their adulation, his grin as bright as the midday sun.
He looked familiar. She stood on tiptoe to get a better view.There was something familiar in the way he held himself, in the easy confidence of his wave. Her heart hammered against her ribs at the sight of him, stirring a whirlwind of old memories.
No,it couldn’t be. It couldn’t possibly be...
But it was, and her stomach gave a faint lurch. The friendly, wry grin that melted her teenaged heart was the same. The sandy-blond hair with the stubborn lock that fell over his forehead was the same. The cleft in his chin, the glint in his eyes...
It was Finn Delaney, the daredevil adventurer who had broken her heart and stolen her life savings!
4
Seeing Finn for the first time in ten years left Delia shaken and raw. As teenagers they fell in love over their mutual love of staring into the sky and dreaming of what it would be like to fly. Of all the fates she had imagined for Finn, learning that he had twisted his love of flight to become a war hawk was quite possibly the worst.
Instead of heading back to her desk at the law office, she trudged up six flights of stairs to the roof of the office building. The Chandler Law Firm occupied the first floor of the mid-rise building, and she often came up here for a clear view of the sky. The weather-beaten, tarred gravel was the only ugly part of the otherwise elegant building. She took a seat on the edge of a wooden cable spool and gazed at the sky, the breeze tugging at her hair.
Maybe seeing Finn again was a blessing in disguise. The only thing stopping her from falling headlong in love with Wesley was her lingering affection for Finn, a man who was Wesley’s opposite in every way.
Delia was only thirteen when she landed at St. Michael’s Home for Orphans, where she met Finn. He was two years older and popular, while she was new, shy, andbald. During her father’s illness,she’d contracted a terrible case of head lice. Shaving off her long, silky black hair was the only solution. Her baldness made her a target for a pack of mean-spirited girls at the orphanage.
Avoiding these girls was all but impossible. There were only eight in her age group, so Delia was lumped in with them, both in the classroom and in the dormitory. They would snatch the scarf off her head, call her “Baldilocks,” and giggle behind their hands.
