Editor's note: I've decided to let Kate tell this part of her story so the narrative's point of view bounces around a little bit.

Chapter 25: Waiting

Jan. 18, 1944, Philadelphia, Pa.

To say returning to civilian life was awkward was an understatement. After six months on the fighter base, Philadelphia felt like another planet. Having round-the-clock electricity that didn't rely on generators was a luxury. Pressurized hot water was an insanely guilty pleasure, not to mention the privacy of having a bathroom to myself. A bed with a mattress in a house with walls was the height of decadence.

I would have traded it all in a heartbeat to be back on La Cava with Greg.

Harold and Caroline French insisted I move into one of the guest rooms at their house. Even though it was huge, their home was warm and welcoming and I appreciated it more than I could tell them. It was a refuge where I could hide while the baby grew and while I figured out how to hold myself together until I could find out what had happened to Greg.

While I was figuring it out, I worked. I joined the staff of the Philadelphia Enquirer as a photographer, changed my byline to Katherine Cameron and didn't talk about my past. Some of the veteran photographers there took one look at my work and knew, but they didn't say anything. I don't know what Harold told them about me but they were friendly and didn't pry.

It wasn't that I didn't want to talk about it. Any of it. All of it. The South Pacific. The Black Sheep. Greg. I just didn't know what to say. Silence was easier and it didn't hurt as much.

I told the Frenches I couldn't impose on them and would find a place of my own as soon as I could. They wouldn't hear of it. I could see where Don got the bullheaded stubborness that seemed to be a prerequisite for joining the Black Sheep. Harold put down his size 12 feet and said I would stay with them until the baby arrived and we'd talk about it after that.

"Your stories did so much for Don and the boys," he said. "This is the least we can do. We don't expect you to stay with us forever but let us help you until the baby comes."

And until I found out if Greg was alive or dead.

Those words went unspoken. While I expect they talked about it plenty when I wasn't around, no one talked about it in front of me. There was nothing to talk about, either way. Missing, presumed dead, meant exactly that and the War Department wasn't going to spend resources looking for dead men.

If Harold and Caroline were scandalized by the fact I was pregnant and not married, they kept it to themselves. They were supportive beyond anything I could have anticipated when Harold offered me a job at the Enquirer.

Don's mother and his 18-year-old sister, Helen, took one look at my clothes and suddenly, shopping trips became my new reluctant pastime.

"You need a professional wardrobe, dear," Caroline said firmly and off we went to have me kitted out with everything from skirts and dresses to foundation garments and stockings. Caroline and Helen were on a first name basis with every boutique owner and department store floor manager on Philly's north side and it was kind of impressive, watching them work. If they'd been around on La Cava, the boys' black market trading could have stepped up to a whole new level.

The whole clothing ordeal was no small undertaking and both Caroline and Helen probably deserved a medal because I had practically no decent clothes beyond the suit I'd borrowed from Laura to wear home. And clothing shopping really wasn't my cup of tea but we got through it without anyone getting hurt.

Helen assured me I looked wonderful in the stylish new skirts and jackets, but I missed the days of working in trousers and boots, with the sun and sweat and men's irreverent humor. Sometimes I'd hear an editor yelling at a junior reporter in the newsroom and it sounded so much like Micklin bellowing at "them damn college boys" that I was back on La Cava in an instant. I put the trunk with everything from my assignment there in a corner of my bedroom and left the lid closed.

There is nothing subtle about being pregnant. It was clear my body had gone into business for itself and I woke each morning wondering what new development was going to announce itself today. Once again, Caroline took things into her ever-efficient hands and made an appointment for me with an obstetrician.

The man had friendly eyes and gentle hands and reminded me of an older version of Doc Reese. If he noticed I wasn't wearing a wedding ring, he kept his mouth shut. I sat there in his office, with its elegant wood paneling and lush carpet, listening to him talk about what I should expect in the coming months and wondered what he'd say if I told him this baby had been conceived in a tent on a US Marine Corps fighter base in the Solomons. I was half tempted to do it but he seemed like a genuinely nice man and I didn't want him to have a heart attack. I was going to need him in the future.

The baby was due in the middle of August, which seemed years away and terrifyingly soon at the same time. After about a month in Philly, I quit vomiting at the smell of food in the morning and I felt better than I had since coming back to the States. Caroline told me I was beautiful and pregnancy agreed with me. Maybe it did, in its own way. Knowing I carried Greg's child was an endless wellspring of joy that tempered the overwhelming pain of his loss. Tempered. Not relieved. There would be no relief until I saw those blue eyes and heard him saying my name.

Helen's friendship was a lifesaver. Don's little sister was a freshman at a local private college, studying journalism. It didn't escape me that she hadn't declared a major until I'd lived with the family for a month. Then she decided to pursue a career in reporting. She was kind of shy around me until one day we were talking, just the two of us, and I accidentally let slip some of the racier things her brother had done.

"He didn't!" Helen breathed, eyes gone wide. "With a nurse on the beach? Outdoors?"

She sounded properly scandalized and I smiled, trying to remember what it felt like to be that innocent.

"Oh, yeah, he did, and more than once," I said. "We all did."

Helen's eyes grew even wider.

"The beach was the most private spot on that island. We went there to escape from everything." I couldn't help grinning at her shocked delight. "But don't ever tell your parents I told you that, they'll kick me out for sure."

They wouldn't and we both knew it, but from that day on, Helen and I shared an unspoken agreement that I would tell her things I would not say in front of her parents.

All three of the Frenches were eager to hear stories about life on the base and I shared them, although not without careful editing. If Harold and Caroline heard about some of Don's wilder antics with the Black Sheep, it wasn't going to be on my watch. Meatball made friends with Petra, the family Pomeranian, and the two of them made an unlikely duo, cavorting around the house and grounds.

My new life settled into a routine. When I wasn't working and she wasn't in school, Helen introduced me to the city. She was four years my junior and although she was nothing like Sarah, she was funny and optimistic and I valued her friendship dearly.

We went to museums, art galleries, parks and concerts. I accompanied the family to dinner parties, cocktail parties, awards parties – the newspaper was always getting some kind of award – civic galas and almost every other get-together hosted by the social elite of Philadelphia. I knew they were trying to help me start a new life and distract me so my mind didn't dwell on Greg.

Sometimes it worked. Almost. Then, in the middle of a glittering throng in some elegant home, surrounded by evening dress and champagne, I'd catch a whiff of tobacco or aftershave and my heart would leap, only to come crashing back to earth with another tiny piece broken off. I wondered if one day so many pieces would have broken off there would be nothing left and when that day came, if I would simply cease to exist.

In spite of the nonstop bustle of living and working in the city, it was harder to let go of the Black Sheep than I expected. I didn't really try. In quiet moments I could hear the roar of the Corsairs lifting off on a dawn mission or feel the heat of a tropical evening wrapping around me like a caress.

And the thought haunted me constantly.

Where was Greg?

I desperately missed the quiet intensity of his presence, the joy of sharing the day with him, the way he could make me feel like we were alone even when we were in the middle of a rowdy group in the Sheep Pen. I woke, reaching for him in the darkness, the ache in my heart a thing with jagged edges and my pillow damp with tears. I saw his smile when I closed my eyes, heard his voice as if I were encased in a bubble of memory while the world swirled around me.

I read the reports from other news services – they were kind of hard to avoid when you worked for a newspaper - but after living it firsthand, I found their coverage of the South Pacific vague and frustrating. Jim, Casey, Dee, Sarah and all of the Black Sheep were still there, scattered across bases on the islands and on carriers, and I prayed desperately for their safety. The war was grinding on but I was no longer a part of it.

The grief caught me at unexpected times, leaving me dizzy and gulping for breath. Helen, with a gentle intuitiveness, became adept at pulling me back from the brink of the abyss where nothing mattered. The Frenches and the job at the Enquirer were a safety net that held me suspended in time, safe and warm and surrounded by people who cared deeply for me, while I drifted in a fog of uncertainty. The baby, this tiny unknown being, was already a force in my life. I had never imagined myself as a mother but the little creature had taken over my body and given my heart a focus beyond Greg, while at the same time serving as a constant reminder of the love we'd shared. I thought of the baby as "he" for no other reason than the connection to his father.

Of which there still wasn't any news. No one knew any thing. Or if they did, they weren't telling.

It was May when the baby kicked for the first time. I was helping Helen edit a story she'd written for a reporting class. I jolted upright in the chair, the unexpected sensation rippling through my body.

"Are you all right?" Helen asked anxiously.

The baby kicked again. I reached out and took her hand. I put it over my ever-expanding midsection and we waited, breathless, until the tiny being unleashed another punch.

"I'm fine," I said, dazed. "He's real. And he's already got a good right hook."

XXX

May 1944: Somewhere in Japan

Greg awoke to the sound of chuckling. Rolling painfully to a sit, he rubbed a hand over his face, surprised even after all this time at the rough growth of beard. Under him, the ragged blanket provided little cushion and he groaned as battered muscles protested. At least the floor was wood this time, not dirt, and there was a roof to keep out the rain. Nothing kept out the rats.

The chuckling continued.

"I don't know what you're drinking that makes this so funny," he grumbled, "but maybe you'd like to share."

"Sorry, mate, can't help you there." Robin McGregor's accent was pure Aussie. "But you're nothing if not predictable. It's good for a bit of a laugh."

Greg stretched, regretting the action immediately as pain rippled across his shoulders and down his back.

"Glad to provide the entertainment but next time, call the USO." He rubbed his temple and wasn't surprised when his fingers brushed over clotted blood.

"Are you all right, then?" The voice held a note of concern along with residual amusement.

"As all right as I'm likely to get." Greg decided nothing was permanently damaged. The wounds would heal. They always did. "When did they bring me back?"

"Dunno. It was pitch dark when they threw you in here. You must have given them some good sport this time."

"Would have been more sporting if there hadn't been six of them and one of me," he muttered, flexing the fingers of his right hand.

"Ah, well, these boys don't like a fair fight, do they?" Getting no answer, he continued, "Looks a bit wet out there. No work for us today. The guards don't like standing in the rain."

Greg gave an appreciative snort. Watery dawn light shone through a wire-covered window near the eaves. The hut was a mish-mash of bamboo canes, timber framing and corrugated tin, all tightly lashed together with wire. The fact it had a solid floor and ceiling was due less to his captors' concern for his comfort and more for their desire that he not be able to dig or climb his way out. He'd tried both in other camps with various levels of success. He'd known it was a futile gesture. Even if he got out, trying to be inconspicuous as a Caucasian in an Asian country practically guaranteed failure from the start.

Escaping an enemy camp would probably end one of two ways: being shot on sight by the enemy or dying slowly of exposure and starvation. He was pretty sure at some point, his captors had considered giving him the option of choosing between the two, just to be rid of him. If they expected him to be a troublesome prisoner, he'd been sure to live up to their expectations.

They seemed to know who he was and from the start, he'd gotten the odd feeling they were under orders not to beat him past the point of recovery. He'd been half dead already when they drug him into the sub that day but they'd given him decent medical attention. They'd even treated his recurring bouts of malaria. Not with the gentle skill of Navy nurses but enough to ensure he survived. They didn't want him dying on their watch but they were willing to go within a few steps of it, he thought.

He studied the figure sitting against the opposite wall.

Robin McGregor looked like TJ and acted like Jim. A captain in the Royal Australian Air Force, McGregor had been captured during the Japanese invasion of Darwin a few years earlier. His cheerfully irreverent attitude and determination to survive made the incarceration bearable. This was the third camp Greg been held in and he'd been here two weeks. They hadn't even bothered with secrecy when they moved him this time, just bound his wrists and legs and shuffled him and a dozen other prisoners onto a truck at bayonet point. After an interminable amount of time being thrown around like rocks in a box, they'd been unloaded by different bayonet-wielding guards.

The new camp looked so much like the old camp for a minute Greg wondered if they'd just put the men in a truck and driven them around in circles all day. He'd been quick to test the guards' commitment to their jobs. They were committed. He had a few new scars to prove it.

McGregor was chuckling again.

"What the hell is so funny?"

"You, mate. You barely speak 10 words of Japanese but you have the balls to tell the guards what their sisters are doing with the village goat."

Greg closed his eyes. In hindsight, that probably hadn't been the smartest thing but the unrelenting tedium of the forced labor gangs made him push the envelope of caution. This place wasn't a five star hotel but the guards generally didn't beat him as long as he kept his mouth shut. Prisoners weren't any good if they were too broken to put in a day's work.

"How many times does this make?" McGregor mused. "Twice? No, three, at least."

"Are you just counting this camp or do you want to start from the beginning?" Greg muttered.

"No matter. I reckon it's all the same. You piss them off, they beat the hell out of you, then you lay there, groaning and talking in your sleep. Very entertaining, really. Dunno what I did for fun before you showed up."

"I don't talk in my sleep." Did he?

"Yeah, you do."

Greg wished he could say the same for McGregor but the man was a silent sleeper. He didn't even snore, which was a bonus if you had to be locked up with someone. He'd been held with larger groups of prisoners initially, plenty of snoring there. Since then, they tended to keep him segregated, often isolated. He welcomed McGregor's companionship even if the man had a twisted sense of humor.

They sat, listening to the rain falling on the tin roof.

"What's she like?" McGregor broke the silence.

"What's who like?"

"Kate."

"How - ?"

"You say her name a lot, chum. Your wife?"

"No." His voice didn't invite further questions. Imagines of what could have been and what might never be ran roughshod through his mind, more painful than the beating.

McGregor took a different tack.

"And what's all the blather about a meatball? Who talks about one meatball? I know you American aces like to brag about your kills but you never talk about more than one."

That brought a reluctant snort from Greg.

"Meatball was my dog on La Cava. The base mascot."

Silence again, broken only by the steady drip, drip, drip of rain.

"What's she look like?"

"Meatball?"

"No! Did they hit you on the head too many times or were you daft to start? I've been sitting in this bloody jungle for more than a year but I'm not so far gone I want to know what a dog looks like! Tell me about your girl. I hear her name so often I feel like I should know her."

Greg stretched out on his back again, felt the bruises throbbing in his muscles. He folded his arms behind his head and looked at the hut's ceiling. Through the interrogations, the deprivation, the mind-numbing uncertainty of not knowing what his captors planned to do with him, thinking about Kate kept him from going out of his mind. Her flame burned with a bright, clear warmth, and he clung to it like a drowning man to a life preserver. He rarely talked about her, even when the other men reminisced about their sweethearts.

It was too painful to think about her being alone. That was the real cruelty of being held prisoner – not the slop they fed him or the forced labor or the primitive conditions where the men were held. It was knowing she must think he was gone from her life forever. But it gave him something live for. To survive, that someday, he could see her again. Her and the baby.

"She has the most incredible legs you've ever seen but at first they were the only thing I liked about her," he began.

Across the hut, McGregor sighed contentedly.

"I'm guessing you found a few more things you liked?" he said.

"You could say that." The images came fast through Greg's mind, sparkling like a meteor shower against a black velvet sky.

"Don't make me drag this out of you, mate. Tell it from the start. It's not like we're going anywhere."

"She wasn't having any of me, either, at least not in the beginning." He found comfort in the words now. Sharing the story with McGregor kept her alive – real and vivid in his mind – as if it was only yesterday he'd seen her. "She had trouble written all over her and there she was, right in the middle of my squadron . . . with those damned gorgeous legs and attitude to burn."

"Sounds like a lovely girl."

"You don't know the half of it."

XXX

August 14, 1944, Philadelphia

"Son of a bitch, here comes another one."

I clenched my teeth.

"I remember exactly how this started and let me tell you, that part was a lot more fun. Promise me you and Jim are using -" I broke off and clamped down on Sarah's hand as the contraction seized me. They were coming closer together now and meant business.

Sarah blushed furiously. I let out my breath as the pain eased and fell back against the pillows of the hospital bed. I stared pointedly at my sister. Sarah had been granted a brief hardship leave and traveled back to the States to be with me when I delivered. It was the first time I'd seen her since I left the Solomons and we had a lot of catching up to do.

"If you are sleeping with him, I hope at least one of you is being responsible and I'd guess it needs to be you." I picked up where I'd left off. Labor was turning into a tedious process and as far as I was concerned, any topic was fair game to pass the time.

The attending nurse shot us a horrified glance. At this point, I was past caring what anyone thought.

"You're a fine one to talk," Sarah hissed. "Maybe you should have taken a page out of your own book. Condoms aren't exactly hard to find on a fighter base."

"Don't be a smart ass. I thought you were here for comfort and support. It's a little late to be lecturing me now. And how do you know how hard it is to find condoms?" I studied her closely. Her face was still warm with color. "You are sleeping with him, aren't you? When did that start?" I could feel the next contraction building and shifted, trying to ease the inevitable. It didn't help. "Oh bloody hell! This needs to get over. Damnit, Greg, where are you! You're responsible for this!"

Sarah gripped my hand and looked like she was about to say something to the effect that I shared an equal responsibility for my current condition but then wised up and stayed quiet. That was a good idea on her part. There was no telling what I was going to say before this was over.

XXX

Labor changed to delivery. When the doctor attempted to evict Sarah from the room, I had a right and proper fit.

"She didn't fly 5,000 miles to sit in a waiting room and read month-old magazines while I have all the fun," I snapped.

"Really, it's better if you don't argue with her," Sarah told the doctor. "Trust me. She's trying to make an example out of herself. I'm the little sister who's supposed to learn a lesson from this."

The doctor looked at us like we were both mental but didn't say anything.

Later that evening, after a great deal of swearing on my part, 7 pound, 12 ounce Elizabeth Joyce Boyington made her entrance into the world, squalling furiously at the indignity of it all. I was in complete sympathy with her. Sarah told me later I'd sworn at least a dozen times that I was never going to let Greg touch me again.

You'd think after having nine months to get ready for her arrival, I would have had a name picked out but I'd been so convinced she was a boy, I was caught flat-footed. Sarah and I sat in the quiet of the private room the Frenches insisted on paying for, letting names roll off our lips and discarding them almost immediately as too long, too short, too fancy, too plain or just not right.

"If you'd been a boy, this would have been a lot easier," I said to the baby. "You would have been Gregory James and that would have been that." Elizabeth Joyce did not appear at all repentant. Honestly, I didn't care one way or the other. I was delighted she was here, finally, with 10 fingers and 10 toes and a healthy set of lungs.

I finally settled on Elizabeth because it was Sarah's middle name and Joyce because it was our mother's name. It seemed like a very big name for a very small baby and I called her Joy, in memory of everything Greg and I had shared.

"She looks just like you, Kate," Sarah breathed. She touched the baby's tiny hand with her index finger. "She's perfect."

"She doesn't look anything like me." I studied the pink-wrapped bundle in my arms. "She has dark hair and blue eyes." I smiled in spite of the bone weary exhaustion of the last 10 hours. "She's got Greg stamped all over her."

"Her hair is dark but I think it's going to be auburn, like yours when you were little." Sarah smiled as Joy's fingers reflexively closed around hers. "She got the Cameron hair and the Boyington eyes. God help us."

We sat in silence, studying the baby.

"Sair," I said quietly, "I mean it. Be careful, you and Jim. Greg and I were usually . . . but not every time . . . and well . . . I wouldn't change anything now but so help me, if I get a letter from you telling me you're pregnant I will get back on a damned airplane and come down there and –"

Sarah cut me off. I could tell she was half-embarrassed to have me lecturing her about sex but hey, what are big sisters for?

"Don't worry about me and Jim. You've got your hands full here now."

"I'm your big sister. I will always worry about you." I smiled and squeezed her hand. "Especially if you're sleeping with Jim. I think you've been leaving a lot out of your letters."

Sarah just grinned at her.

"How much time have you got?"

XXX

"They're still looking for him," Sarah said on the morning she left to make the return trek to Rendova. "Jim and Casey never stop asking questions."

With the focus on Joy's arrival, I hadn't asked and Sarah hadn't brought up the topic earlier. We both knew the War Department had written Greg off as just one more downed pilot. Missing, presumed dead. Another name on the casualty rolls as the war marched on.

The boys' black market network, honed to a razor's edge during the Black Sheep's heyday, provided a constant source of information. Some was verifiable, some nothing but gossip. Casey wasn't getting much out of General Moore in spite of his best efforts. He and Jim followed leads, made calls, checked out rumors and still came up empty-handed. Sarah had nothing to tell me that I didn't already know. The Japanese would neither confirm nor deny they were holding Greg prisoner.

I knew every day that passed, every rumor that couldn't be verified, every piece of intelligence that ran into a dead end pushed hope further and further away. I brushed the tears off my cheeks and hugged Sarah good-bye. Harold was waiting in front of the house to drive her to the airport.

"He's still alive, Sair," I whispered fiercely. "I know it."

Maybe Sarah didn't agree with me but she knew better than to argue.

XXX

Joy's arrival turned my life upside down in ways I'd never imagined. Seven months earlier, I'd told Dee I didn't know anything about babies but on Aug. 15, 1944, that changed in a hurry. The learning curve was steep and incredible. I wished desperately Greg could have been there to share it with me. Every time I looked into Joy's face, I saw him in her eyes and knew he'd come home to us. I just didn't know when.

XXX

August 1944: Somewhere in Japan

"What month is this?"

Sweat trickled down Greg's his face and into his beard. Outside the hut, a guard rattled the lock on the door as he passed by, double checking that the occupants were secure and at the same time, reminding them of their status as guests of the Empire of Japan.

"Dunno. August, I think. Maybe September?" Robin rolled onto his side. "Let me consult my calendar." He rose to his knees and studied a series of hash marks scratched into the wall. "Yep. Still August. Does it matter?"

Did it matter? If his calculations were even close, the baby had come by now. He leaned against the bamboo wall and closed his eyes. In his mind's eye, he could see Kate that last morning, alight with that soft inner glow.

He tried to picture the strong-willed, fiercely independent girl he'd fallen in love with as a mother. He remembered her pounding Alan McNeil into the dirt of the airstrip on La Cava, remembered her going face-to-face with Jim about her sister's honor. She'd badgered a reluctant supply sergeant into completing a black market deal and pulled the wool over Colonel Lard's eyes with almost frightening mastery. Once, when Meatball came out on the wrong end of a fight with some jungle varmint, she'd taken over cleaning and dressing the dog's oozing wounds when it became more than he could stomach. God knows she'd cleaned him up after a couple of his more spectacular fights. She was resourceful, creative, clever, gentle and fierce in turn and she'd put up with the Black Sheep for six months without killing any of them. Yeah. She'd make an incredible mother. He just never imagined she'd be doing it alone.

He was aware McGregor was watching him keenly.

"Kate was pregnant when I got splashed."

The younger man's eyebrows nearly shot off his forehead, then he chuckled slowly.

"Figured a chap your age would know how to prevent that. You Yanks don't believe in frangers? Or you couldn't be bothered to stop for one?"

Greg pulled a face.

"So that's what you call them? " He laughed wryly. "You stop every time?"

McGregor gave this some thought.

"Been so long, I reckon I forgot."

They sat, listening to jungle creatures scuffling nearby.

"She wasn't very far along. She hadn't told me."

The Aussie pilot scratched his head.

"Your girl was in the family way but she didn't tell you?"

"She hadn't told me yet. There's a difference."

"But you knew?"

"Yeah." Greg thought back to the last time they'd made love, the night before everything had gone to hell. Her body had somehow been softer, fuller, more responsive to his touch. He'd known without her having to say a word.

"How? How could you tell?" McGregor looked genuinely curious and Greg was reminded how much younger the other man was. Not that he himself had any experience with pregnant women either. He'd kind of made it a point to avoid that situation.

"Were you gone the day they taught that in biology? I'm not explaining it." He ran a hand over his face. God, what he'd give to get rid of this beard. "I think she was a couple of months along. The way I figure it, the baby should have come some time this month."

"Christ, mate! Break out the cigars!" McGregor seemed genuinely happy for him and he felt an unexpected surge of pride. Even if he never got out of here, never saw Kate again, he knew she had their child.

As if in response, a small slot near the floor rattled and two wooden bowls were shoved through. The door slammed shut and the bolt slid home. Greg handed a bowl to McGregor and took the other for himself. He looked down. Rice and fish. Again.

Break out the cigars indeed. What a welcome to fatherhood.

Autumn 1944: Philadelphia

I took time off from the newspaper after Joy's arrival. I learned to change diapers and heat bottles and about a million other things I never imagined myself doing. Caroline stepped in if I asked for help but caring for this new little life was unexpectedly rewarding and I embraced it with unanticipated delight.

Joy endured my novice blunders with good-natured patience and we learned together. Little offended her and she yowled only when she felt something was seriously amiss in her world. She was easily appeased by cuddling and restoration of creature comforts. Meatball glued himself to her from the day she came home from the hospital. He slept by the crib and ran to find me, agitated, any time the baby fussed.

"Silly dog," I told him, sitting on the floor with Joy in my lap. "You sure love your girls." The terrier nuzzled her on the cheek and she smiled toothlessly and waved her hands. I thought she was the most absolutely darling baby I'd ever encountered although my experience with babies was admittedly limited. I figured her first word would probably be "dog."

Sarah wrote constantly and kept me updated on as many of the Black Sheep as she could. Don was still a flight instructor at Henderson. Casey had apparently found his calling as General Moore's aide and to hear her tell it, he was single-handedly running the base on Espritos as well as a thriving black market trade in everything from silk stockings to Scotch. General Moore found these skills extremely beneficial and pretended not to notice what was happening under his very nose.

Jim was a squadron leader on Rendova, where he and TJ flew with the Fighting Gryphons. TJ had four enemy kills now and hadn't shot down any American planes since leaving the Black Sheep. Jim expected him to make ace unless the war ended suddenly and none of us figured that was going to happen.

Shortly before Christmas, Casey wrote to say General Moore had heard rumors that a Japanese sub picked up a downed pilot that day near Rabaul. I knew verifying rumors was like trying to grasp smoke, but it was the first news I'd heard in months. It settled in my heart, a small, hot ember that I cradled and nurtured as I watched Joy grow.

January 3, 1945: Philadelphia

If anyone realized it was the one-year anniversary of Greg's disappearance, they didn't bring it up. That was the thing about Harold and Caroline. It wasn't like they were pushing me to get on with my life – i.e., find a nice boy and settle down – but they tended not to talk about Greg, probably because when they did, they inevitably lapsed into the past tense and then I had to find a reason to leave the room.

That evening, after the house settled for the night and Joy was asleep in her crib, I opened my trunk for the first time since I'd left the South Pacific. I swear, the air inside still smelled like La Cava – that unique blend of aviation fuel and tenebee palms. I closed my eyes and breathed deeply. I could smell the beach, the exhaust of the planes coming back hot after a mission, the canvas of the tents.

I sifted aimlessly through the miscellaneous clothing and the odds and ends of my field office before pulling out the bottle of Lawson's that had been wrapped in a pair of trousers, untouched for more than a year. I broke the seal, toasted Greg and drank straight from the bottle. Finally, I lifted out the thick album of photos from my time with the Black Sheep. The tears came almost before I opened the cover.

I clamped a hand over my mouth to muffle the sobs but apparently I wasn't as quiet as I thought. There was a gentle knock on the door and I hastily wiped my face.

"Come in."

Helen didn't say a word, just sat down next to me and balanced half the album on her lap. I offered her a drink. She accepted but wrinkled up her nose in a pretty little squint.

"It's an acquired taste," I said, "like falling in love with a fighter pilot."

She took a tentative sip, coughed and handed the bottle back.

"Tell me about them," she said, placing her hand over mine on the album. "Tell me about him."

This time, I didn't censor the stories. I told Helen about the night the boys put a rat in my bed, the time Greg took me up in his plane, about Don making ace and his party and how I woke up in Greg's bed the next morning. Figuring the younger girl understood where babies came from by now, I told her about the first night we made love on the beach. And the night that resulted in Joy. Helen's pretty brown eyes went wide.

"That's so romantic," she said, then added, "Do Mummy and Daddy know about that?"

"No!" I pretended to be horrified and although I was sure the elder Frenches knew I wasn't choir girl material, they did a fabulous job of acting like everything was right and proper. After all, Joy's birth certificate said Boyington on it. She had a father, even if we weren't married and I didn't even know where he was. "And don't you even think about telling them!"

"Only if you promise to tell me more about all the boys," Helen said. Her smile reminded me so much of Don I couldn't refuse. As memories of the past rose up out of the album, they felt less like ghosts, haunting me, and more like the promise of things to come. I just didn't know when.

XXX

Casey, Sarah, Dee and Jim stayed true to their promises to write. Their letters came randomly, tossed by the winds of war. They were all still in the Solomons. Casey asked Dee to marry him and she said yes. They agreed to wait until the war ended. Dee was offered a promotion to Lieutenant Commander and a transfer to the Naval hospital at Pearl. Casey encouraged her to accept. Even though they would be separated, they both knew she would be safer there.

Sarah's letters said Raider's reputation as a scout dog was growing and if he kept it up, he'd probably be invited to the White House for a medal ceremony after the war. She also mentioned she'd won the Marines versus Army poker tournament on Rendova, besting Jim in the final round. Afterward, Jim had suggested several ways she could help his ego recover. She didn't elaborate and I wasn't about to ask for details.

Jim said there was no further word about Greg but he had done a fly-by over Lard's office the last time he was on Espritos just so the colonel didn't forget about him. He said he missed playing poker with me because I was the only Cameron he could beat.

Don even wrote and jokingly threatened retribution if I told his little sister even half of what the Black Sheep had done. I added a post script to one of Helen's letters to her brother. "Too late. Helen knows all and will blackmail you for the rest of your life. KC"

The Frenches found a local girl to work as a nanny when I decided to return to the Enquirer. It was a comfortable arrangement. I enjoyed my work and spent every spare moment with little Joy, but I knew I could not live on Harold and Caroline's charity much longer. Whatever our future held, Joy and I needed to find it on our own.

One snowy evening in late January, Harold handed me a thick magazine before dinner. He had a conspiratorial smile on his face.

"The Blood Horse?" I was familiar with the publication. It followed the Thoroughbred racing industry across North America and Europe.

"The editor and I go way back. He saw the piece you did on the city's mounted police and asked if I thought you'd consider coming to work for him in Kentucky. He says it's apparent you know one end of a horse from the other. We'd hate to see you go, Katie, but it might be a good move for you."

I shifted Joy to my other shoulder. Five months old now, the baby was a warm, sleepy lump. A very heavy, warm, sleepy lump. No one had told me how fast babies grew. Some days it seemed the child was changing before my eyes.

"What part of Kentucky?" It would be nice to leave the city behind, even though it would be my fifth major move in three years. Starting when I was 20, I'd moved from my hometown in North Dakota to be near Sarah in California, then to Europe and the United Kingdom where I served with the Associated Press, which had led me to the South Pacific and then back to Pennsylvania. Relatively speaking, moving to Kentucky would be like walking across the street. Moving didn't bother me. I didn't seem to be happy unless I was living like a gypsy.

"Edward Mills, that's the editor, has an elderly aunt, Coretha Harris, whose family owns a horse farm south of Lexington. Some breeding, some racing, but they specialize in taking Thoroughbreds off the track and turning them into –" Harold, who was a genuinely sweet man but barely knew one end of a horse from the other, waved a hand dismissively, "whattaya call 'ems, riding horses, to re-sell. Old Miss Harris says you can live in the groundskeeper's cottage on the estate at no charge if you'll do some riding for them, evenings and weekends when you're not working at the magazine. Nothing too demanding, just helping with the horses they're re-training. Don said you'd done some riding at a track at California?"

I wondered how Harold managed to classify controlling 1,000 pounds of bone and muscle that was used to approaching life at a tearing gallop as "nothing too demanding." I hadn't ridden since leaving England. It would be wonderful to be around horses again. It would be wonderful to raise Joy in the country.

"Old Miss Harris lives in the main house," Harold went on. "Her son and his wife, William and Audrey Harris, live there, too. They have a son, Daniel, who's your age and serving somewhere in the South Pacific."

Somewhere in the South Pacific. I winced inwardly. I looked at Joy.

"Whattaya think, little lamb? Shall we go to Kentucky?"

The baby regarded me with sleepy blue eyes and broke into a smile. A dimple creased her right cheek and my heart turned over. She reminded me so much of him.

I looked at Howard.

"Tell me more about the job," I said.

XXX

And just like that, my life changed again. Joy was six months old when we traded the noise and hustle of Philadelphia for mist hanging over bluegrass pastures at Cedar Creek, Kentucky. I fell in love with White Oak Farm immediately, the people, the horses, the work . . . but it didn't matter where we lived or where I worked, that restless ache in my heart was always there. I could see his eyes and hear his voice and I knew he would come back to us. I just had no idea how long we had to wait.