I turn to look up at Mary. She’s beaming down at me, sneaking little glimpses at Lucas.
“I might stop by later, but I need to check on some supplies at the base first.” He stands up without looking at me and starts walking backward toward a green army truck in the driveway. “Bye, y’all.”
“Bye, Lucas! I’ll see you soon,” Mary calls out, waving her hand. As he pulls out of the dirt driveway, she slumps down next to me on the step and clutches my arm. “Isn’t he so dreamy?”
“He’s fine,” I say.
“Oh Lydia, admit it!”
For some reason I think of Wes again, his eyes so dark they’re almost black, his lips soft over the strong line of his jaw. I shake my head, pushing the image away.
“Lucas isn’t really my type.” I stand up, running a hand over my hair, smoothing out the scattered strands. “C’mon, let’s go help your mom.”
The fundraiser is at one of the local churches, a few miles from the Bentleys’ house. I want to walk so I can see more of the town, and Mary grudgingly agrees to go with me.
It’s a hot, muggy day for early June. Once we leave the circle of trees surrounding the house, we’re on a dirt road with only a few single-level homes scattered along it.
I wipe at the sweat on my forehead, wishing I wasn’t wearing a heavy girdle under my dress. “It’s hot.”
“You’re the one who wanted to walk.” Mary pouts. Her dress is already sticking to her skin. She turns her head at the low rumbling sound of an approaching car. “Wait, I’ll fix it.”
An army truck passes and Mary sticks out her thumb. The truck honks but keeps moving, obviously in a hurry.
“Rats,” Mary says, trudging along beside me. She lifts her hair away from her neck. “We’ll melt out here if we have to walk all the way.”
“Did you just … try to hitchhike?”
“What?” Mary gives me a look. “Doesn’t everyone?”
“It’s dangerous,” I hiss. “You could be murdered.”
She laughs. “Are you kidding? No one has ever been murdered because of hitchhiking.”
I gape at her but don’t say anything else.
We walk around Fort Pond on a dirt road that leads into the center of town. Mary chatters about the USO dance that’s coming up, but my thoughts drift to Camp Hero, to Wes, to Dean’s approaching disappearance. I glance over at Mary, suddenly aware that her family will change forever in just a few short days.
Mary’s cheeks are flushed as she waves her arms around. “It’s this Saturday, June third, at the old tennis auditorium. All the soldiers will be there. Oh! We’ll have to get something for you to wear. Maybe my blue dress.”
Will Mary still be so carefree after Dean disappears? Will she think so much about clothes and boys and dances?
My grandfather told me so little about Mary and what her life was like after she eloped. I know she leaves Montauk, but I don’t know if she was ever happy again. I don’t even know who she’s going to marry.
I force myself to smile at her. “That sounds like fun.”
“Then why do you look like you’re about to cry, silly?” She giggles. “I hope Suze comes today. I cannot wait for you two to meet!”
She starts to skip down the road, her black-and-white saddle shoes kicking up the dirt. Dust hovers around her in a heavy cloud.
When we arrive downtown, Mary pulls me in the direction of the general store. “Let’s get some root beer before we go to the fundraiser,” she says. The store is in a small, shabby wooden building. Two old men sit on the sagging front porch. There’s a large radio resting on a table between them, the cord disappearing into the open window of the store. “The frontlines are expanding as British soldiers in the three hundred fifty-sixth Infantry Division march on Italy …”
Mary waves as she pushes open the screen door. The old men nod but don’t take their eyes off the empty highway in front of them. “Tommy Sullivan’s family owns the store,” she says as we step inside.
It smells of dry wood, spices, and raw meat. A counter stretches along the left side of the shop, displaying sodas, beers, meats, and cheeses. The rest of the room is filled with wooden shelves.
Mary drops her voice, though we’re the only people in the store. “Tommy was my old beau. He was drafted last year before he even finished school. Now he’s in the Marines. I write him whenever I get the chance.”
Cans and tins of brands I’ve never seen before line the simple, mostly empty shelves—Brer Rabbit Gold Label Molasses, Van Camp’s Chili Con Carne, Armour Treet, Dromedary Gingerbread Mix. The walls are cluttered with brightly colored ads and local notices. Handwritten signs ask citizens to turn in any scrap metal or steel to the Montauk war effort. In an ad for Nestlé’s, a soldier bites into a bar of chocolate under the slogan CHOCOLATE IS FIGHTING FOOD! There are even propaganda posters. The words DELIVER US FROM EVIL: BUY WAR BONDS loom over a sad-looking little girl in front of a swastika. Another shows the lighthouse on Montauk Point: THIS IS AMERICA—FOR THIS WE FIGHT: MAY ITS RADIANCE LIGHT SAFELY THE WAY TO PORTS OF FREEDOM.
Mary heads toward the side of the counter and stops at a white, rectangular metal box with ICE printed on the side. She reaches inside and takes out two glass bottles, handing me one. I open my bottle and sniff at the brown contents. “Mr. Sullivan makes the root beer himself in their bathtub,” she says.
I sip at the liquid, surprised by the tangy, bittersweet taste. It’s nothing like the root beer I’ve had before, but it’s good.
I take a step toward the door, still holding the bottle, but Mary stops me. “Wait.
