Page 27

“You’re going to be fine. I’m not saying this is going to be easy, but you’ll figure it out. And Rachel will help you.” She lowered her voice, but there was no censure in her voice when she asked, “Does the baby’s father know?”

“Not yet. He’s overseas.”

“Are you going to tell him?”

“Like it or not, yes. The kid deserves to at least know the biological father’s identity.”

“Sounds like experience talking. Do you know your birth parents?”

“No, Terry, my birth mother, never got any details from my bio dad. It was a one-time kind of thing.”

She clicked her pen closed and tucked it into her pocket. “Okay. Not the end of the world.”

I extended my hand. “Thanks. And I’ll see you in a month.”

Her handshake was firm and comforting. “I look forward to it.” She left, and for a moment I sat in the quiet room, listening to the ticktock of a clock on the wall. My phone buzzed in my pants. I dug it out of my pocket and read the text.

Margaret said you were looking for info on Jenna, circa 1943-1944. found three articles. will e-mail to your computer. Gigi.

I’d never met Gigi, but at this point in my life it was the least of my problems. I texted back, Thanks.

Happy to have another project to think about, I dressed and headed back to the shop. The sound of a hammer pounding greeted me, and I glanced in the kitchen to find Jean Paul closing in the exposed wiring. An unlit cigarette dangled from his mouth.

“I haven’t submitted the application for the second inspection yet. I’m doing it tonight. What if Mr. Fraser wants to see those exposed wires again?”

“My work was good. He’ll now need to see the fuse boxes.”

“Don’t you think that’s a little risky? I mean, what if they hadn’t said yes?”

He shrugged. “I suppose I’d have to rip out the wall.”

A fist of tension pounded behind my right eye. “And you don’t worry you’ve made a mistake?”

He grinned. “Mistakes or no, the wall must be built, and we must install the freezer. You’re the one in such a rush.”

“Yeah, but . . .”

He held up his hand, silencing me. “No buts. You’re arguing about a problem that is not a problem.”

Potential pitfalls danced around my brain singing doom and gloom. I was pregnant and ready to quibble over a wall. Time to prioritize the disasters. “Fine. Whatever.”

Upstairs in my bedroom, I dropped my purse on my bed and went to the computer.

I opened email. No message from Terry. But there was a message from Historydude6.

I stared at the name and wondered what had happened to Historydudes 1–5.

Margaret and her pals. I clicked open the email, which contained three links to three different articles.

The first, dated May 2, 1944, featured a photograph of the Union Street Bakery.

I leaned forward and studied the picture of my grandfather and grandmother holding hands with my dad, who was ten years old.

My grandparents looked stoic, while my dad grinned broadly.

To the right of my grandparents stood three young ladies dressed in white dresses and aprons and very sensible dark shoes.

I spotted Jenna instantly. She was on the end, the farthest from my grandparents.

Her smile was tentative. Like the other girls, she wore her hair back in a fishnet.

She looked young, not more than twenty. The caption below the picture read Union Street Bakery Joins War Effort .

The next link was a small article, no picture, dated June 1, 1944.

“Union Street Bakery baker wins contest. Union Street Bakery counter girl won the prize in the Arlington County fair for the best cookies. Jenna Davis, formerly of Frederick County, Virginia, entered her Maple Brown Sugar cookies and took the top spot. Second place ...”

I didn’t care about second place. I cared about Jenna, who now had a last name and a place of birth. I had more clues.

The last link connected me to an obituary dated December 31, 1944. “Jenna Susan Davis, 21, formerly of Frederick County, Virginia, and an employee of the Union Street Bakery, died Monday at Alexandria Hospital due to complications from delivery. An infant son, reported to be ailing, survives her.”

I sat back and stared at the article. An infant son.

I’d been right when I’d looked at the other picture and imagined she was pregnant.

This picture, taken in May 1944, didn’t show signs of pregnancy, but her solemn expression suggested to me more than a heavy mood.

It was the face I now saw in the mirror.

It was the face of morning sickness. If the baby were term, she’d have been newly pregnant in the May image.

She’d also have been pregnant in the picture taken of her and the two servicemen.

The obituary gave no mention of a husband. Surely if she’d been married, there’d have been mention of her husband. So, had she been alone with a baby on the way, like me?

I dug out the picture of Jenna and the two marines. All three were grinning. “Which dude is the daddy?”

Soldiers and out-of-wedlock babies weren’t a novelty, but in 1944 the stigma would have been huge.

My hands slid to my stomach. A tremendous sense of loss and sadness washed over me, and I found myself mourning for a girl who had died almost seventy years ago.