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she bumped her way through the faceless mass. She needed to flee before any further harm was done, before her logical foundation could crumble beneath her feet.
    She dashed out the doors and down the steps, not slowing until she’d boarded the “L” destined for the seclusion of her suburban home. Stooped in her seat, she rested her head against the window. Summer clouds reclaimed territory above, draping a cluster of stars. No twinkling, no trace of existence.
    If only mistakes were as easily erased.
    At long last, the USO band played the final notes of the song. Until then, Morgan didn’t think anything could seem lengthier than the Sunday masses he attended as a kid. The audience thundered in applause and a slew of dancers dispersed, concealing his brisk parting from Betty. Concerned that Liz still hadn’t returned, he immediately strode off on a search.
    For close to an hour, he scoured the place. He described the brunette’s features and what he recalled of her outfit to more than a dozen random people. He’d gone so far as to ask ladies exiting the washroom if she was still inside, in the event she wasn’t feeling well.
    But his hunt was futile. It was clear she’d left.
    Had he said or done something wrong? Or was it something he’d failed to say or do? He reviewed as many details as he could, and still no explanation.
    Maybe it wasn’t him at all; maybe she was too upset over her dress to stay. Could have been an emergency that sent her rushing off. Whatever the reason, he hadn’t given up all hope. He wasn’t about to. There was too much to lose.
    God, how could he find her again? He hadn’t even asked for her last name.
    He scorned his thoughtlessness before taking another approach. Like a detective from a radio drama, he mulled over the clues. She mentioned studying, but where? And caring for the elderly. A hospital? A rest home? What about the redhead—which joint did she say she was hitting with her friends? He should have asked for specifics. Then again, if Liz had decided to follow them, she would have said so.
    Wouldn’t she?
    A swell of doubt washed over him. All these questions with no answers. What a chump he was, pining after a gal he didn’t know the first thing about. The assumption that her attraction equaled his now seemed laughable. Stupidity settled in his gut, heavy as a ton of coal. He blew out a breath.
    Enough already. Time to focus on things that mattered: his brother, the war, his patriotic duty. A few days and he wouldn’t even remember what she looked like. That’s what he told himself. But then the feel of holding Liz swept over his arms, and already he knew she would haunt his memory long after she’d vanished.

2
    July 5, 1944
Chicago, Illinois
    T wo knocks, yet no one answered. No sign of life through the door’s smoky glass pane.
    In the vacant corridor outside the instructor’s office, Julia scraped at the side seam of her overcoat, desperate to get this over with. She must have arrived too early; Madame Simone was nothing if not punctual.
    With no clocks permitted in the small fashion academy, usually a rule Julia favored, she moved to the hall window for a narrow view of the world outside. Her eyes strained through the sun’s morning glare to reach the bank at the corner. The clock pinned to its brick forehead indicated 10:06. More than twenty minutes until their meeting. Twenty -four long minutes, to be exact.
    “Splendid,” she muttered.
    Had nerves not rushed her, she could have relaxed at home longer, interrogated Liz more thoroughly. Sifting her friend’s recount of the previous evening might have actually produced a juicy morsel. Perhaps, true to her claim, Liz had stayed at the USO merely to watch one last performance. But Julia would have at least enjoyed the chance to dig a little deeper, playing the role of a savvy investigator, before the clues turned cold.
    Oh, why did minutes pass swiftly only when you wanted them to last?
    A coffee. And an