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Dickey grabs a red hand towel from the stack, scrubs her smile clean, and pinches color into her cheeks. She longs for the tanned skin she had when she'd been onboard the hospital ship, the USS Samaritan, in the South Pacific during the Second World War. Her photographs of a marine dying, and resurrected the next day because of a blood transfusion, have been used by the Red Cross ever since and have inspired countless thousands to give blood. It's why she does what she does: to bring about good in the world so desperately lacking it.

In spite of the dangerous circumstances in the Pacific theater, Dickey had never felt more alive, more useful, and more purpose-filled. Charmed by her fearlessness under fire, the U.S. Marines, especially, had taken to her. It was the first time she had felt as if she were part of a group—that she belonged. The men called the feeling the esprit de corps—a camaraderie born from union of mission and heart, especially in battle. She has craved that feeling ever since.

Looking back at her reflection, Dickey sees the happy memories of her beloved marines have brought forth a smile. She looks better already. She has to find a way to get back to them. She gives her hair one more smoothing, tightens her pearl earrings, and takes a deep breath, full of fresh hope. When she arrives back at the bar, however, she stops, and her smile disappears.

The silhouettes of her companions have rearranged themselves. Edna and Ernst are the bookends, with Helga and Tony in the center, Tony's arm resting low around Helga's waist. Dickey's photographic and PR work with the American Friends Service Committee led to the couples' connection. As Tony and Dickey have helped Helga and Ernst acclimate to their new country these past few months, Tony and Helga have become overly familiar.

Ernst either has not seen or ignores them, staring moodily at his drink. Dickey's mother, on the other hand, gawks at Tony's arm. It takes an act of will for Dickey to rejoin them. When Edna sees Dickey approach, she frowns.

This wouldn't happen if you'd just stay home and be a wife, Edna's look says.

Dickey feels a roiling in her stomach. Edna has told Dickey many times that her career as a photojournalist is hurting her marriage. The worst thing is, Dickey knows it's true. No, the worst thing is what Dickey has been lying to herself about these past months and which is harder to deny under the scrutinizing spotlight of her mother's gaze. It was a mistake inviting Helga and Ernst, but Tony had insisted.

Immobilized, Dickey feels panic rise. She longs to go back to the time, just an hour ago, when the merry company had set out from their apartment on West End Avenue. Dickey's mother had traveled from Milwaukee to spend the holidays with them. Tony had been in good spirits, playing tour guide around Manhattan for Edna and for the immigrants they had "rescued" from behind Berlin's Iron Curtain. They couldn't wait to reunite Edna with her sisters: Louise—also recently widowed—and Georgette, who'd moved from her artist's flat in Greenwich Village into Louise's luxurious apartment at Sutton Place. In the covered, horse-drawn carriage ride across Central Park, as a gentle snow fell, they'd passed ice skaters, loving families, and couples walking arm in arm.

"What an idyllic scene," Dickey had said.

"Idyllic," Helga had agreed in German-accented English, beaming at Tony.

Shameless, Dickey now thinks, her skin heating with embarrassment at what she's refused to see. The irony of a photojournalist pointing her lens away from the truth is not lost on her.

Today is Tony's fifty-sixth birthday. Dickey is thirty-six. Tony seduced Dickey when she was his nineteen-year-old photography student, desperate to get out from under her mother's suffocating wings. Dickey saw Tony as her savior, and he had certainly billed himself that way. Helga is twenty-four. She also sees Tony as her savior. Tony likes young, impressionable, naive women who see him as a savior.

"Dickey."

At the mere sound of the voice of her beloved Aunt Georgette, her namesake, Dickey bursts into tears.

"Aunt George!"

In her old aunt's embrace, Dickey inhales the familiar patchouliand-jasmine-scented Maja Eau de Cologne like it's oxygen. After she hugs Aunt George, Dickey launches herself at Aunt Lutie.

"Goodness," says Aunt Lutie. "You act as if you're just back from Iwo Jima. You've got the same shell-shocked look. We just saw you last week."

"I'm sorry," Dickey says. "I'm so glad you're both here."

She dabs the tears away with her ring fingers, behind her glasses. Aunt George looks over Dickey's shoulder, narrowing her eyes and nodding grimly. Aunt Lutie, less observant, hurries over to hug her fellow sister widow. The company at the bar stands, welcoming her.

"I see Edna's holding court," says Aunt George.

You've no idea, thinks Dickey.