When we finish, she drops the empty bottles on the counter, then reaches into her pocket and places a nickel and a penny next to the register. “Have a nice day!” Mary smiles at the two old men sitting outside.
A car with a square black top drives past. It honks, a high, cartoonish sound. The old men wave in response as the tinny voice on the radio speaks of soldiers on the move.
CHAPTER 9
We enter the Montauk Associated Church through the back door. Women and girls crowd around tables piled with clothing and towels and blankets. Mrs. Bentley stands in the middle of the room, directing the other volunteers.
Her face lights up when she sees us. “Oh, girls, thank the good lord you’re here. There’s so much to do. Go over to a table and start folding. Clothes in one pile, sheets, towels, and blankets in another. When you’re done you can put them into a box. We’re trying to have everything ready by the end of the day.”
Mary and I find a table in the corner that’s piled high with fabric. I’m grateful to have something to do, and I like organizing the clothes into neat piles. Mary is less charmed by the project and gets bored after a few minutes. “I’m gonna find Suze,” she says, tossing a child’s shirt onto the table. “You’ll be okay alone?”
“Sure.” I pick up a towel and fold it into a neat square. “This is fun.”
“For cripes’ sake, Lydia, who wants to fold stuff? I’ll be right back once I find Suze—you stay right here.” She takes off into the crowd of women.
I watch the large group as I work. There are maybe twenty women and girls scattered around the room, and a few children are running back and forth. I’m surprised to see a couple of soldiers among the women. Most are in navy uniforms, blue with a white neckerchief knotted at their chests, while a few others wear army uniforms.
The women are in dresses or skirts. Their hair is short and curled, or long and softly waved, but no one is sporting an easy ponytail. No one is wearing sweatpants.
The castoff dress I’m wearing is nicer than most of the others in the room. Montauk, Amagansett, and even East Hampton are still poor fishing communities. No one has money to spare. The Hamptons that I grew up in, where the tourists pour in by the thousands, and where it takes hours to drive anywhere in the summer, clearly doesn’t exist yet.
I set a folded towel down in front of me. My hand stills on the fabric, and goose bumps rise on my arm. I can feel someone’s gaze. It’s a heavy feeling, and it reminds me of the night of the bonfire when I knew someone was out there.
I look up. In the far corner, a dark-haired soldier is staring right at me. I meet his eyes, and for a second I forget to breathe.
Wes.
I grip the table. I need to talk to him. I need to step forward. Only I can’t seem to move my feet. I can’t break his gaze. I’m anxious and a little scared, but there’s something else happening too. Something dark. Something powerful.
His face is blank, impassive, like a mask has been pulled over his features. But I recognize the look in his eyes. Intensity, surprise, and anticipation, all at once—it’s the same confusing mix of emotions he had written on his face when he forced himself to let go of my shoulders in the labs.
There’s a loud noise behind me and I jump. I tear my eyes from Wes. A chair has fallen over; a laughing, embarrassed woman bends to pick it up. When I turn back around, Wes has disappeared. I scan the room, searching for him in the crowd, but it’s useless—he’s gone.
My heart is racing, and I press my hand against my chest to stop it. Wes is the only one who can give me some answers about the Montauk Project. I can’t let him disappear again.
I start to walk around the table, but a small boy steps in front of me. I barely glance at him as I scan the crowd above his head.
“Hiya,” he says.
“Hi.” I keep searching. Women stand in tight groups, a soldier walks past carrying a large cardboard box, but there’s no sign of Wes. “I’m sorry, but I’m trying to find someone.”
“I could help you. What’s your name? Who are you looking for?”
“Lydia,” I say quickly. “Have you seen a soldier with dark hair around here?”
“There are lots of soldiers with dark hair here.” He sticks a finger into the side of his mouth.
He’s right. I look down at him.
He stares up at me through a fringe of dark brown hair that falls across his forehead. He’s six or seven, wearing brown short pants, high socks, shiny black shoes, and a patterned short-sleeved shirt that matches his deep green eyes. “I’m Peter.”
Peter … I crouch down so that I’m level with him. “What’s your last name?”
“Bentley.”
I stand up slowly and put one hand on the table to steady myself.
This little boy is my grandfather.
“My dad is a soldier,” he tells me proudly, unaware of my distress. “When I grow up I’m gonna be in the war too. I’m gonna fly planes and shoot Nazis.”
When you grow up there won’t be a war anymore. “That’s awesome,” I say, distracted. This tiny person is my grandfather. My tall, gray-haired grandfather. Now he barely comes up to my waist.
“Huh?”
“Awesome? Cool. Great. Neato.”
“Oh. I never heard that before. Awesome. Awwwesome. So is your daddy in the war too?”
I am saved from answering him by a slim blond lady who approaches, placing a hand on Peter’s shoulder. I recognize her from one of the photos in the Bentleys’ living room. This is Elizabeth Bentley, Dean’s wife, and my great-grandmother.
“Is Peter bothering you?” She pulls him into her side. He
