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"So early?"
"What time do you think waitresses have lunch--one o'clock?"
He grinned. "You're as sassy as ever."
She hung up.
Greg finished his press release and took the typed sheets into his boss's office. Dropping the draft into the in-tray, he said: "Would it be convenient for me to take an early lunch, Mike? Around eleven thirty?"
Mike was reading The New York Times. "Yeah, no problem," he said without looking up.
Greg walked past the White House in the sunshine and reached the diner at eleven twenty. It was empty but for a handful of people taking a midmorning break. He sat in a booth and ordered coffee.
He wondered what Jacky would have to say. He looked forward to the solution of a puzzle that had mystified him for six years.
She arrived at eleven thirty-five, wearing a black dress and flat shoes--her waitress uniform without the apron, he presumed. Black suited her, and he remembered vividly the sheer pleasure of looking at her, with her bow-shaped mouth and her big brown eyes. She sat opposite him and ordered a salad and a Coke. Greg had more coffee; he was too tense to eat.
Her face had lost the childish plumpness he remembered. She had been sixteen when they met, so she was twenty-two now. They had been kids playing at being grown up; now they really were adults. In her face he read a story that had not been there six years ago: disappointment and suffering and hardship.
"I work the day shift," she told him. "Come in at nine, set the tables, dress the room. Wait at lunch, clear away, leave at five."
; "Most waitresses work in the evening."
"I like to have evenings and weekends free."
"Still a party girl!"
"No, mostly I stay home and listen to the radio."
"I guess you have lots of boyfriends."
"All I want."
It took him a moment to realize that could mean anything.
Her lunch came. She drank her Coke and picked at the salad.
Greg said: "So why did you run out, back in 1935?"
She sighed. "I don't want to tell you this, because you're not going to like it."
"I have to know."
"I got a visit from your father."
Greg nodded. "I figured he must have something to do with it."
"He had a goon with him--Joe something."
"Joe Brekhunov. He's a thug." Greg began to feel angry. "Did he hurt you?"
"He didn't need to, Greg. I was scared to death just looking at him. I was ready to do anything your father wanted."
Greg suppressed his fury. "What did he want?"
"He said I had to leave, right then. I could write you a note but he would read it. I had to come back here to Washington. I was so sad to leave you."
