AN: Thank you everyone for your thoughtful reviews and critiques for the first chapter. To everyone who's stuck with the story so far, I hope you're rewarded with far more back story in this chapter and that you'll see it through to the last two chapters I've almost completed. Thank you all again.

March 24, 1943

Mom and Dad's House, Bridgeport, Connecticut

Thanks to Mom's foresight in fetching some clothes, I didn't have to go back to the house to get my best pair of Luxed(1) stockings, my nicest dress—a white one with little roses on it— and a matching tilt hat Walter bought me for my 35th birthday. I paused while I adjusted it, feeling sick as I thought of how he beamed when he gave it to me. Don't think about that now.

I turned my attention to my lipstick as I checked my appearance in my vanity mirror.

Last time I wore this shade of red, I was on my wedding night. Poor Walter, he insisted on carrying me over the threshold of our honeymoon cottage, even though he had the flu. He spent the rest of the night with his head in a bucket.

Bodily misfortunes always befell Walter at the worst possible times. Come to think of it, I wouldn't have met him if he hadn't bumped into me while trying to pinch his bloody nostrils shut.

"Excuse me, but do you know where the school nurse's office is?" he asked, his normally deep voice now a nasally whine.

I gasped. "Oh, you poor boy! Here, let me show you."

By the time I brought him to Nurse Jensen, he'd bled all over my new dress, a project I was supposed to model for my sewing class that period, and I found myself falling in love with him. Not only did we like all the same things, such as Irving Berlin songs and romantic movies, he made me feel something I'd never experienced before; being useful. No one had ever done that before, not even my brothers. Sure, Frank treated me well enough, but he turned nasty whenever he thought I took too much of Robert's attention away from him. Robert was my constant companion when his friends weren't around, and the only person I ever told all my secrets to, but he never seemed to need or want me. As much as I loved him, I think a small part of me resented how he always went his own way, even when I wouldn't follow him. Walter, bless him, couldn't function without me. He needed me to do everything for him, from picking his ties to driving him to his first job, a soda jerk at a drug store downtown.

So, when he got down on one knee in my parent's living room and popped the question, what else could I do but say yes?

Now here I am, 16 years later, starting my life over again.

I picked up Robert's letter, which I'd only had the courage to open a few days before, and reread it. In some ways, I wish I hadn't. It was harder to take than the telegram.

Dear Margaret,

I just got Mom's letter about Walter. I can't begin to tell you how sorry I am. Even though he and I weren't exactly buddies, I know he meant the world to you.

I want you to know I'm also sorry about everything we've said and done to each other. You'll always be special to me, no matter what happens.

I wanted to cry as I remembered the day I told him about Walter and me. I never dreamed I'd have to lose a brother to gain a boyfriend.

oOo

"Walter asked me to be his girl," I gushed to Robert once I closed my bedroom door. "Isn't that wonderful? I've never been so excited." I frowned when he didn't reply. "Well, what do you think?"

I'd expected him to hug me, or at least congratulate me for reaching such an important milestone for a young woman. Instead, he laughed in my face. "Walter Allen? You're joking right?"

Each chuckle felt like a kick in the stomach. "No, I'm not!" I snapped. "We're in love! I think he's going to ask me to marry me."

His face hardened. "God, Margaret, open your eyes! He looks like a bean pole and he's about as much fun to be around as a wet paper bag. You could do so much better than that drip."

Rage boiled in me as tears stung my cheeks. "What chance do I have with any other guys? They ignore ugly girls like me because they're all like you, shallow and stupid!" I shook my head. "Well, I don't care what you think! Walter's got a beautiful soul, something you know nothing about!"

He stiffened. "That's a crummy thing to say! You know me better than that."

"Oh really?" I spat. "All you and your friends care about is who's pretty and easy!" I turned away. "You know what my first thought was after I saw Walter today? 'Gee, I can't wait to tell Robert.' Now I wish I hadn't said anything. Why can't you at least pretend to care or be happy for me?"

He folded his arms. "I am happy for you! I'm always happy for you."

"Then why don't you ever show it, you cold, self-centered son of a bitch?"

I'm not sure who was more surprised by my language, him or me. He was quiet for what seemed like ages and I sensed something had changed, like a wall had come down between us. "I guess I was wrong," he said, leaving the room. "You really think that little of me."

"Wait!" I called as he left. "Robert, I'm sorry. I didn't mean it."

We didn't speak for days. When I finally tried to talk to him again, he shrugged and said he'd already forgotten what I said. Looking back now, I realize I must've hurt him deeply, but since things went back to normal between us for awhile, I didn't think about it much, or notice that the more I saw of Walter, the less I saw of my brother. Before I knew it, he'd run off to join the army and our old relationship was just a memory. The last time I saw him was at my wedding, and he didn't show me any affection beyond giving me a small peck on the forehead after the ceremony.

"Thanks for the piece of wedding cake," he said, shunning Walter's attempt to shake his hand. "I've gotta go. Good luck."

Even now, I wish I'd slapped him for that. As it is, we haven't spoken verbally or written each other since.

oOo

I shook the ghosts of the past from my head and read on.

I really wish I could be there for you now, but I know you'll get through this just fine without me. You know how you always said I was the smart, courageous one between the two of us? Well, you've always had something even more special in you—an inner light so bright it makes you a force to be reckoned with and the people around you better for having known you. Smarts and courage can fail to you in your darkest hours, but that light never will. Hang in there, Margaret. It'll get better soon.

I looked at the clock and sighed as I put the letter away. "I love you so much, Robert. I hope you know that."

With that, I slipped on my best high heels and marched out my bedroom and down the stairs before it got any later.

I'd secured an interview for a job at the Remington factory on Barnum Avenue and I was determined to see it through, despite Mom and Dad's concerns I'd die the second I walked in the building.(2)

"Relax," I told them. "That explosion happened almost a year ago. I'm sure they won't let something like that happen again."

Dad frowned. "You never know, Margaret. They say that explosion wasn't an accident, that fascists sabotaged the factory. You never know; they could try again."

I laughed and made a silly remark at the time, but as I approached the red brick building towering over me, I had to stop myself from turning around as an icy chill ran the 100 yard dash down my spine.

Keep going, I thought. Just get through this and everything'll be fine.

I reported to the security guard and, with his directions, found the manager's office.

"Whaddya want?" A gruff voice rumbled on the other side of the door when I knocked. "I'm busy."

I cleared my throat. "Are you Mr. Scott?"

"That depends on who's asking. If you're a loan shark or my ex-wife, you can go suck an egg."

"I'm Mrs. Allen," I said, fighting another icy chill running through me. "I called yesterday. You said you wanted me to come down for a job interview today."

A pause. "C'mon in, doll."

I opened the door and tried not to flinch at the stench of cheap cigarettes and even cheaper bourbon assaulting my nose.

Mr. Scott, a man of medium height and build, rose from a sagging office chair and offered his hand. I flinched at the unnerving gleam in his eyes. This wasn't like the wolfish looks I'd seen on my brothers' faces. This was pure lust.

He raised my hand to his lips when I tried to shake his hand. He looked ready to devour my fingers. "The pleasure's all mine. Why don't you sit down and we'll talk." He leaned against his worn desk and crossed his arms as I sat in a stained chair next to him. "Tell me, Mrs. Allen. Why are you looking for work?"

I shifted in my seat. "My husband was killed overseas. I'm my family's sole support now."

He nodded. "What special skills do you have?"

My eyebrows rose. "Special skills?"

"Can you type or take short hand? Do you have any experience with operating machinery? Have you ever worked in a factory before?"

I shook my head. "I'm just a wife and mother. I cook, clean, do the wash, sew…."

He fixed me with another lecherous stare. "Close enough. You're hired if you can start tomorrow. You'll work eight hour day shifts for the rest of the week. We pay 97 cents an hour and $1.07 for the night shift. Get a turban or hair net for your head, some coveralls and a short sleeve shirt. You'll get your shoes from us. And whatever you do, don't wear any jewelry, including your wedding rings, and trim your fingernails. We don't want you to take a chance on losing one of your pretty little fingers while you're working now do we?"(3)

"Oh," I mumbled as he showed me out. "All right. I just have one question."

He grinned. "If it's about having dinner with me tonight, the answer is yes."

I suppressed a shudder. "No. I was just wondering what exactly I'll be doing tomorrow."

"Don't worry, you'll do fine. Just remember this is a war, not a church bake sale or romantic rendezvous." He sighed. "If only it were. I'd sure be having more fun."

I wriggled out of his grip. "Goodbye Mr. Scott," I said without turning around. "And thank you."

oOo

"I'm supposed to do what?" I cried when my supervisor showed me my work station, a table covered in finger length bullets, the next day.

"What?" the red-bearded man shouted over the din of machinery threatening to deafen us.

"I said, what am I supposed to do?"

He raised his hands and walked away. "I don't care about your problems, sister. Just shut up and get to work!"

I turned to the thin young woman at the table beside me, who spread some bullets out in her palm. "Excuse me."

She ignored me, scrutinizing the ammunition.

I looked down at my table, fighting back an image of Walter as he waved to me from the train that took him away for his basic training. Did he ever use bullets like these?

I spoke again. "Excuse me!"

The girl scowled. "Do you want something, hon, or are you looking for a job as a coat hanger? If you are, then go stick yourself in the coatroom."

I sat down beside her, grateful to get off my feet, which were already throbbing in my new low-heeled shoes. "What are you doing?"

She didn't look up. "Checking them to make sure they don't blow up in the boys' faces when they use them."

"How do you do it?"

She shrugged. "It's not complicated. Look them over and make sure they're okay."

I grabbed a handful of bullets and started sorting them into a pile.

The girl glanced up. "Please tell me that's your dud pile."

I frowned. "No. Why?"

She grabbed a dented bullet. "See this? It's no good. You can't let any dented, pitted or cracked bullets through." She picked another bullet and put it in my hand. "You also have to check their weight. See how it feels? Make sure the other bullets feel like that too. The boys can't use anything that feels lighter or heavier. Got it?"(4)

I nodded. "I think so. Thanks."

She went back to her work with a grunt.

"I'm sorry to be such trouble," I added. "I thought I'd at least be told what I was doing before I started. Every newsreel I've ever seen of women working in factories said they received intensive training. All I got was a safety film before they brought me here."

She smiled. "That's why they show newsreels at the movies. Here, we can't be bothered to tell you much more than to not bump your head or drink at your desk. There's too many quotas to fill for the bosses to waste time on something as silly as giving directions."

I laughed. "My name's Margaret Allen. What's yours?"

"Nancy Wainwright. Pleased to meet you." She studied some fresh bullets. "It's funny, though, you look awfully familiar. Are you sure we haven't met before?"

I nodded. "I think I'd remember if we had."

She rubbed her chin. "I can't help thinking I've seen your face somewhere." Her eyes brightened. "Say, are you any relation to Bobby Hogan?"

My eyebrows rose. "I have a twin brother named Robert. Why?"

She snapped her fingers. "I knew it as soon as I saw you. You and Bobby look a lot alike. You've got those same beautiful brown eyes."

I looked away as my cheeks burned. "How do you know him?"

She snorted. "You've got to be kidding me. Bobby Hogan's a legend in this town. If he hasn't gone with you, you're either dead or his sis…" The rest of the sentence died in her throat.

I sighed. "Don't worry, you're not telling me anything new. I'm always running into girls he's swept off their feet. When did you meet?"

"July 4, 1926. We were at a picnic. I've never experienced so many fireworks in the sky and on the ground before or since. His kisses set the standard all men in my life have to live up to. The only one who even comes close is my husband Joe. He's in the Navy." She set the ammunition in her hand aside. "So, Margaret Allan, how did you end up in this dump?"

I fought a lump in my throat that formed when she said 'husband.' "My husband died in the war. Now it's up to me to make sure my three kids don't starve."

She put on a sympathetic face. "I'm sorry to hear that. It certainly explains why Mr. Scott hired you, though."

I narrowed my eyes. "What do you mean?"

"He's got a thing for chasing war widows and married women." She shivered. "If that guy were any more of a creep, he'd crawl. He grabbed my tooshie in the lunchroom once."

I gasped. "What did you do?"

Nancy grinned wickedly. "I 'accidentally' spilt coffee down the front of his pants. He hasn't bothered me since."

My stomach turned. "Does he do that to every woman here?"

"Yeah. Most of the girls put up with him as long as he paws them in front of witnesses. They only run for the hills if he calls them down to his office when he's hitting the bottle."

I picked more bullets. "He was drunk when I met him yesterday. I could smell it all over him."

She shook her head. "You were lucky. You caught him before he got stoned(5). That's when he really plays dirty. He told one girl he'd fire her if she wouldn't spend a weekend in bed with him. The poor kid ended up leaving town knocked up." She wiped her hands on her coveralls. "He might not be as bad as some bosses who don't pay women equal wages, but sometimes he makes me so mad."

I swallowed my nervousness and changed the subject. "You said you're married?"

She reached into her pocket. "I've got his picture and one of my little boy here somewhere. He's named Joey too. He looks just like his daddy. Do you have any kids?"

"Yeah, two boys and a girl. Tom, my oldest, looks and acts just like Robert. He should be done with school next year. Lorraine's a couple years younger and very popular with the boys." Come to think of it, she hasn't been on a date since Walter died. "Then there's Eddie. My husband always said he took after me while Lorraine took after him. Thank goodness. It gets discouraging having children who don't seem anything like you. Eddie's a lot smarter than me, though. I've never seen a kid his age with grades that high."

Nancy nodded. "They sound wonderful. I'd love to see some pictures of them some time." She looked at the clock. "God, it's not even nine yet and I need an Old Gold break." She looked back at me. "What's your brand? Personally, I like Lucky Strikes better, but since Uncle Sam's got the monopoly on them, I'll settle for smoking anything rolled up in tissue paper."

My ears burned. "I gave up smoking when I got married. Walter couldn't stand the smell."

She frowned. "Do you drink at least? I know a great place not too far from here. Let's go right after work and unwind for a couple hours, my treat."

The burning sensation spread to my face. "Thanks just the same, Nancy, but I really can't. I have to help my mom make supper when I get home."

She whistled. "You sure you were married hon? Because you sound more like a nun. Don't you have any fun at all?"

I pursed my lips. "I do. I take the kids to movies and to the park…." I paused when I dropped a bullet. "Oh shit!"

"Sit up straight. You're hunched over so far you look like Father Time."

Realizing she was right, I leaned back and rubbed my shoulders as a middle-aged man stopped in front of me. "Did I hear the call of a damsel in distress?"

I turned, stunned at the face staring back at me. My God, it can't be.

He offered his hand. "Harry Delaney's the name and safety inspection's my game. Now, what seems to be the trouble, new girl?" His smile changed to a puzzled expression. "Say, you look awfully familiar. You wouldn't be Margaret Hogan, would you?"

I nodded. Not only did he have a good memory, he hadn't changed a bit. Like Fred Astaire, he'd always looked 30 as a teenager, but he didn't look a day older now. "It's been a long time Harry. How've you been?"

He grinned again. "Pretty well, thanks. You?"

I shrugged. "All right. I just dropped a bullet."

He clicked his tongue and reached it. "You ought to be more careful." He stood and tipped his hard hat. "Here you are."

"Thanks. It was great to see you again, Harry," I called as he sauntered off, whistling. I frowned. He's limping. I wonder how it happened.

Nancy covered her ears. "Where did he learn that awful tune? He's always whistling it."

"It's our old high school song."

"Huh." She lowered her voice. "Did you ever, you know."

I put my hands on my hips. "Don't be ridiculous!"

"I'd bet my next paycheck you had a crush on him." She winked. "Knock off the tomato complexion, will you? There's no shame in admitting it. I'd go for a guy like Harry if I was single. He's really sweet to all the girls."

I made a face. "Especially if they're pretty. He always talks to the pretty ones most. He never notices girls like me."

Nancy's forehead wrinkled. "What would you call that last bit of dialogue, him practicing for the school play? Give him a chance. People change."

"People don't change that much in 20 years," I snarled. "He was just being polite because he thought he had to be."

"Sheesh," she mumbled. "You don't give people much of a chance, do you? Trust me, honey, 20 years is a long time. Anything could happen."

(1) Lux Toilet Soap, a Lever Brother's product, was the first mass market toilet soap in the world. Not only was it used skin care and as dish soap, the company advertised it prevented runs in nylons. Lux is still produced today.

(2) According to my research, an explosion occurred on the factory's production floor in March 28, 1942, killing seven workers and wounding 80 others. Some believe the factory was haunted as a result. As of September 10, 2010, the factory building's last owner planned to level it when a fire damaged it August 28 of the same year.

(3) I'm basing this information on A Real Rosie by Mae Graybill with Judy Sopronyi, featured in an August 2007 issue of America in WWII and the videos A Safety Training Film for Women Workers WWII USA and Female factory workers kept army supplied during WWII posted on youtube.

(4) Based on information and photos at historydotcom and researchpressdotcodotuk/shooting/lrml/ammunition/ammunition02dothtm

(5) At the time, stoned would've referred to being very drunk, not under the influence of drugs.