Suddenly, the seed of an idea began to form, a way to thank Soline for her many kindnesses. But she was going to need some help.
At nine the next morning, Rory sat sipping her coffee, waiting for Doug Glennon to pick up. He was a sportswriter for the Globe and had married a friend of hers from Tufts a few years ago. He was a great guy, a jock with a heart of gold, and absolutely crazy about Kelly. She didn’t know him well, but they’d hung out a handful of times, and Kelly had assured her he’d be willing to help and had promised to mention it when he came in last night.
“This is Doug.”
“Doug,” Rory blurted, startled after being on hold so long. “It’s Aurora Grant—Rory. I don’t know if you remember me, but I was one of Kelly’s bridesmaids. I spoke to her yesterday, and she said I should give you a call.”
“Rory. The swimmer, right? Kelly said you called. What can I do for you?”
“I was hoping you could do me a favor. I have a friend who lost someone in the war—an ambulance driver she was engaged to marry—and I found out she doesn’t have a picture of him. I was hoping I could find one and frame it for her as a gift.”
“We’re talking Vietnam?”
“World War II.”
Doug whistled softly. “Forty years. How old is this friend of yours?”
“I know. It’s been a long time, but I thought there might be one in some archive somewhere. I know it’s not your usual thing, but I know reporters have access to lots of old records. He was from a prominent family in Newport. They made boats, I think. Racing boats. So I’m hoping there’s a shot of him in an old newspaper or something.”
“Why not just contact the family and ask for one?”
Rory bit her lip. “Let’s just say they’re not inclined to be helpful.”
“Right. Got it.”
“I don’t want you to do anything that would get you in trouble at work, but I’d love to be able to do this for her. Do you think you can help me?”
“What’s the name?”
“Purcell,” Rory blurted before he could change his mind. “Anson Purcell. Middle initial W. He was a driver with the AFS, if that helps.”
“It might. Anything else that could help me narrow it down? Date of birth? Relatives?”
“No to the date of birth, but his father’s name was Owen, and he had a sister named Cynthia.”
“Owen and Cynthia Purcell of Newport, Rhode Island. Okay. I’ll see what I can do. There might be an old yearbook photo somewhere or a graduation photo. Give me a few days to do some digging. I’ll be in touch when I know something.”
Rory left her number, thanking him profusely before hanging up. She would do what Daniel said. She would give Soline space while she concentrated on the opening, and then in a few weeks, she’d write a letter and send it with the photo of Anson. As a token of friendship—or a parting gift if she preferred.
THIRTY-SIX
RORY
September 23, 1985—Boston
Rory walked through the door of her apartment, exhausted but happy. She’d taken the early ferry to P-town to meet with Helen Blum, a modernist bronze artist recommended by Kendra Paterson. It was one of the things she loved most about budding artists, their unfailing generosity toward other members of their community. Without it, she’d still be trying to scrape together enough artists to open her doors next month.
She kicked off her shoes and made a beeline for the phone. It had been three days since her conversation with Doug, and she was beginning to worry that no news might be bad news—as in no photo. The message light was flashing. She pushed “Play.” The first message was from her mother, another invitation to dinner, and still no mention of the lunch. Apparently, she was still trying to pretend it never happened.
The second message was from Doug. Call me. I think I’ve got what you’re looking for.
She dialed his number at the paper, then punched in his extension, hoping he hadn’t already left for the day. She hated the idea of bothering him at home, but she wasn’t sure she could wait until tomorrow.
“Doug Glennon.”
“Hey, it’s Rory. I got your message.”
“It took a little doing, but I finally hit the jackpot. I’ve got two headshots. One’s a college yearbook photo; the other is him in uniform, taken by the local paper right before he shipped out. Clean-cut, all-American type. You want the current stuff too?”
“Current stuff?” Rory repeated with a sinking feeling. He’d found the wrong guy. “The Anson Purcell I’m talking about died in World War II, probably somewhere near Paris. He was an ambulance driver for the AFS.”