“I have no idea,” Sir Meacham replied firmly.
“You could make some inquiries in London and try to find out,” Grace challenged.
“Actually, I couldn’t,” the consul replied coldly. “When SOE was shut down, its records were shipped to your War Department in Washington. Where,” he added, “I’m quite certain they’re sealed.” He stood up. “I’m afraid I really must be going.”
Grace rose. “What was she doing in New York?” she persisted.
“I have absolutely no idea,” Sir Meacham replied. “As I said, Miss Trigg was no longer affiliated with the British government. Her whereabouts were her own business. This is a private matter. I’m not sure that it is any of your concern.”
“What if they can’t find anyone?” Grace asked. “To claim Eleanor, I mean.”
“I suppose the city will put her in a pauper’s grave. The consulate has no funds for such things.” A woman who served your country—even as a secretary—deserved better, Grace wanted to say. She gathered up the photos and put them in the envelope. The consul held out his hands. “Now, if you would like to give me her photos, I’m sure we can reunite them with her personal effects,” the consul said.
Grace started to give them over, compliance almost a reflex. Then she pulled back. “How?”
Sir Meacham’s eyebrows raised, white above his glasses. “Pardon me?”
“If there is no next of kin, how can you reunite them?”
The consul huffed, unaccustomed to being challenged. “We’ll hold on to them, make inquiries.” Grace knew from his tone that nothing of the sort would happen. “They aren’t your concern.” He reached for the photos.
Grace hesitated. Part of her wanted to be done with the photos, hand them over and walk away. But she couldn’t abandon them. She had to do more. “On second thought,” she said evenly. “I’ll just hang on to them.” She stood to leave.
“But I really don’t think...” the consul fumbled. “You were so eager to return them. That is why you came to the consulate, wasn’t it? I wouldn’t want them to be a burden.”
“Really, it’s no trouble.” Grace managed a smile through gritted teeth. “I found them. They’re mine.”
“Actually,” the consul replied, his voice steely. “They’re Eleanor’s.” They stared at one another for several seconds, neither wavering. Then Grace turned and walked from the consulate.
Outside, Grace paused to consider the photos once more. She hadn’t left them after all, and she still had no idea what to do with them. But she could figure that out later; right now, it was time to get to work.
Still clutching the photos in her hand, she stepped onto the sidewalk, merging with the current of commuters that surged along Third Avenue. “Grace,” a male voice called. She stopped, certain she was mistaken. No one knew her here. For a second, she wondered if it was Sir Meacham coming after her to insist she leave the photos. But the accent was American, not English. It came again, following and more insistent. “Grace, wait!”
She turned toward the voice and as she did, a passing businessman bumped into her, sending the photos scattering. She knelt to retrieve them.
“I didn’t mean to startle you.” The male voice was familiar. “Here, let me help.”
Grace looked up, stunned by the sight of the man she’d been sure she would never see again. “Mark.”
Memories cascaded through her: a crush of crisp white hotel sheets tangled between her limbs, the sensation of floating in midair above the bed. A man’s hands on her that were not Tom’s.
Yet here he was. Mark helped her to her feet, the sleeve of his gray wool overcoat scratchy against her arm. Grace stared at him. He seemed to smile with the whole of his face, hazel eyes dancing. A single lock of his dark curly hair peeked out from beneath the wide brim of his fedora. He kissed her on the cheek like they were old friends, and the scent of his cologne hurled her back to the night before last and all the places she never should have been.
Remembering the photographs, Grace scurried to collect them from the pavement. “Let me help you,” Mark offered again. Did he feel awkward, too, she wondered, about having slept with his dead best friend’s wife?
She waved him off. “I can manage.” She didn’t want him to see the girls and start asking questions. But he raced toward the curb, deftly plucking up one of the photographs before it slipped into the gutter.
When Grace had collected all of the pictures, she straightened. “What are you doing here?” she blurted, feeling her cheeks flush. The other night he had said that it was his last in town. Yet here he was.
“I was delayed on business.” He did not elaborate.
They stood awkwardly for several seconds and her eyes seemed to catch where the collar of his tweed overcoat brushed against the freshly shaved skin of his neck. There wasn’t any more to say. “I have to go.” She took a step away from him, the movement more difficult than she might have imagined.
“Wait.” He reached for her arm, the light touch reminding her all too much of the night they had shared. “I was hoping we could make plans to meet up again. Only when I woke up...”
“Shush!” she scolded, looking over her shoulder. That it had happened was bad enough; she certainly didn’t want anyone else to hear about it.
“Sorry. Anyway, now that we’ve run into one another, I was hoping that I could see you again?” His voice ended on an upward note, making it into a question.
For what, Grace wondered, another night? There could hardly be anything more between them. “I couldn’t possibly...”
“At least let me buy you breakfast,” he pressed.
“I need to get to work.” She tucked the envelope back in her bag.
“You work?” Hearing the surprise in his voice, her irritation rose. Why wouldn’t she have a job? It wasn’t that uncommon, although with men returning from Europe, many women had stopped working, either by choice or because they had been forced from their jobs. But it wasn’t that he underestimated her, she realized. Rather, it was just that they had spoken so little about themselves the night they spent together. That was the comfort of it; they had talked about the war, about Tom. But her actual self and the realities of her world had remained safely out of sight. Mark really didn’t know her at all.
And she would like to keep it that way. “I do work,” she said. “And I’m late. But thank you for your offer.”
“Coffee then?” he persisted.
“I really can’t.” She tried to leave again.