“Yanks got plenty to smile about,” one of the other reporters said, a British man who was grinning broadly. “They think this isn’t their war.”
“Hey. I’m here, aren’t I?” the American said.
“You and your little radio aren’t going to help us win the war from underground, mate.”
“That’s where you’re wrong,mate. Every time we broadcast from here, your American friends across the pond are listening with bated breath. My little radio is already helping you win the war. You just don’t know it yet.”
The British reporter laughed and stood, as did the others around the table.
“You may as well take him up on the offer, Miss Crofton,” the British reporter said, offering Emmy his chair. “The Americans still have good coffee to put into their cups.”
“Yes, please, join me,” the ginger-haired man said, feigning a serious expression.
Emmy stared at him as the other men walked away, talking to one another. “You are making fun of me,” she said when they were gone.
He shook his head as he motioned for a waiter to bring another cup. “Not at all. Want to have a seat?” Her face was expressionless.
“What I want is to be taken seriously.”
A waiter brought a cup of coffee to the table, unsure whom to give it to.
“It’s for Miss Crofton,” the American said, nodding toward the empty chair where the British reporter had been sitting.
The waiter smiled and set the cup down.
“Please?” the American said, cracking a tiny grin.
Emmy sat down in the chair. The coffee smelled dark and rich, and a half-eaten apple tart in front of the American was practically calling her name. He pushed the plate toward her.
“Would you like the rest? Not as good as my mother’s but passable,” he said, his smile growing.
Emmy hesitated only a second before picking up the fork that was already on the plate and plunging it into the sweet confection. The first bite was nothing short of heaven. “I can’t believe I’m doing this,” she murmured as she chewed a second bite and then realized that any respectable adult probably wouldn’t. She put down the fork.
“You may as well finish it, Miss Crofton. I’ve had all I can eat. Be a shame to waste it.”
Emmy retrieved the fork after a moment’s pause. “It would be criminal. I can’t believe the cooks at this hotel can get their hands on sugar and cream when the rest of the country is trying to pretend that carrots are candy.”
The American laughed, and the sound of it caused Emmy to raise her head and stare at him. It had been a long time, or at least it had seemed so, since she had heard laughter.
“Sorry,” he said. “I like to smile and I like to laugh. I mean no disrespect. Honestly. I know the rationing hasn’t been easy.”
Emmy slid another bite into her mouth. “The rationing isn’t the worst of it.”
When she swallowed, he put his hand out toward her.
“Mac MacFarland. My real name’s Jonah. But everyone calls me Mac.”
Emmy slowly reached her right hand toward his and shook it.
“Aren’t you going to tell me your first name?” he said, smiling broadly.
“Em... It’s Isabel.”
“Isabel. Nice to meet you. May I call you Isabel?”
She brought the coffee cup to her lips and shrugged as she sipped, feeling warmed to her core. “You can call me whatever you like if you promise to let me know if you see any homeless children when you’re out and about gathering news.”
Emmy set the cup down, pulled a WVS card out of her skirt pocket, and handed it to him.
