A gentle knock sounded on the door.
“Come in,” Margaret called.
It was Dottie, holding a cooing Joanna in her arms, wrapped in the yellow blanket that Margaret had knit for her. The baby was oblivious to the devastation surrounding the house. Oh, to be a child again.
“Have you looked outside?” Dottie asked.
“Yes. There are no words.”
“We have a couple of broken windows and the power is still out, but Brooklyn didn’t even get the worst of it. I’m hearing that Long Island is devastated.”
Gladys rubbed her arms. “That explains the draft I’m feeling.”
“The cook lit the stove with a match, so at least we can eat. She’s making eggs and pancakes.”
Gladys smiled. “And that explains the delicious scent I’m smelling.”
“What can we help you with in the meantime?” asked Margaret.
“The three broken windows are on the other side of the house where a tree fell against it. We can get some blankets and pin them up until they can be replaced. And then we can walk around outside and see what other damage there is.”
They’d only been in the house for a few weeks, so Dottie and George were not fully stocked with the domestic necessities befitting a house like this. The women scrounged for towels and sheets and blankets, finding just enough to do the trick. Locating a hammer, nails, and a ladder was another feat. The fresh air, cleaned by the storm, was refreshing and as they worked together, they nearly forgot about all that had happened in the middle of the night.
As they finished, the cook called them down to breakfast. Dottie laid Joanna in a bassinet next to the table and flew a stuffed rabbit toy above her head, delighting the baby and giving them a chance to enjoy the meal.
Margaret had never aspired to be wealthy but having someone make you breakfast was a luxury that she could easily settle into. Especially having someone who knew how to portion rations and turn them into something so delectable. The cook’s scrambled eggs were light on the tongue, as were the pancakes so that when she’d finished them, Margaret felt satisfied but not bloated.
The telephone rang in the hallway and Dottie went to answer it. “Gladys,” she said, popping her head back in the room. “It’s for you. It’s Oliver.”
Gladys left and Dottie returned to the table.
“Have you received any more letters from William?”
It had been a sensitive subject since the day on the beach when Dottie and Gladys cautioned Margaret about developing feelings for a man she’d never met.
Margaret hung her head. “Not since the postcard from Paris.”
They used to write to each other weekly, but the last two letters had extended the amount of time between them by a great deal.
“The fighting has ramped up, though,” she reassured herself. “If he could write, he would.”
“I’m sure all is well. They’re sending our boys all over Europe. It’s probably difficult for letters to keep up.”
“I’m sure that’s it.” But Margaret didn’t point out the error in what Dottie said—it might be difficult for letters to find their units, but surely mail was going out regularly from the front. They were usually sent on cargo planes as equipment was transported and it was difficult to believe that if William was writing as diligently as he always did that the letters wouldn’t be making their way to her.
She feared that he wasn’t writing as much because something was wrong. But saying it out loud would make it too real, so she smiled and agreed with her friend.
Gladys returned, her face looking wan from the wear of the night, and perhaps from what she’d just heard.
“Oliver was checking in on us. I told him we’re fine. He’s heading to Long Island to look at the damage, but he’s hearing that over twenty-five hundred homes were affected. And about a thousand businesses.”
Margaret’s stomach tightened and she put her elbows on the table as she shook her head in disbelief.
“That could have been us. That could have been Brooklyn. I mean, look at Dottie’s—and we were just on the edge of it.”
She thought of their cobbler shop. The Navy Yard. Their home. How close danger had come.
“And,” Gladys added, “he confirmed that it was a hurricane. The gusts clocked in at a hundred miles an hour.”
“A hundred miles an hour!” Dottie exclaimed. “That’s faster than any train or car or airplane.”
“Indeed. Mother Nature is a mighty woman.”
“I guess our nickname for you is well-placed.” Margaret smiled. “You’re the mightiest woman I know.”
“Yes. But I use my force for good.”
“Speaking of which,” said Dottie. “I told you that I want to put our house to some use. That’s something George and I had already talked about. But now I know where to start.” She set her napkin down and pushed her chair back. “So, Gladys. Put that force of yours to work and let’s figure out a way we can help.”
Margaret could see Gladys’s mind racing through a catalog of possibilities.
“First, let’s see what we have to work with. Let’s take a look outside and get this house in order.”
The nanny breezed in as if on cue and the women walked outside to see the damage up close. Debris and driftwood were floating in the bay, and much had been washed up on Shore Drive. They walked to the left, and Gladys stopped and held her arm out.
“Oh, Dottie. Your car!”
Dottie’s beautiful new blue car was split down the middle by the weight of an enormous fallen tree. Margaret held her hand over her mouth to keep from shouting out as Gladys ran toward it. Dottie, however, sauntered over, and when she approached it, she held out her hand and stroked its shiny paint with delicacy.
“Well, it was nice while it lasted.”
“Nice while it lasted?” Gladys retorted. “Dottie, you had it for a few days. It’s totaled. There’s no Easter Morning resurrection in its future.”
Dottie maintained the serene look on her face. “It’s a shame. I’m not disagreeing with you. But it’s difficult to be ruffled by the loss of something I never expected to have in the first place when our Long Island neighbors have lost their homes. Their homes. And our boys have lost their lives.”
A chill went through Margaret, one that carried humility in its wake. This is why they called her Saint Dorothy. Of course she would have the perspective of seeing a thing as a thing, even if it was a beautiful car. She had lost the love of her life. Margaret had lost her brother. It was nothing in comparison. But Dottie was the one who always brought them back to this better place.
Hurricane Gladys. Saint Dorothy. What nickname would they give her?
Chapter Twenty-One
October 1944
Supplies! Word had gone out among the troops the day before that a shipment full of cigarettes and near beer and toothpaste and all the goods they’d missed had arrived.
Tom was most excited about the air mail paper.
He reread the letter he’d written to Margaret, cranking a flashlight every few minutes in order to see better. He’d woken thinking about her and couldn’t go back to sleep.