“Yeah. That’s the guy. But he didn’t die in France. Or anyplace else, for that matter. He’s alive and well, and quite the philanthropist, apparently.”
“No. That’s impossible.”
“Impossible or not, I’m looking at an article that says he made a sizable donation to the ADL in March. Sounds like he’s loaded, and a hero to boot. Captured, it says. Badly wounded. The dates fit; I can fax it over if you want, but I’m telling you, it’s the guy.”
Rory sagged onto the bed, her head suddenly full of white noise. There’d been some kind of mix-up. Perhaps Thia had a son and had named him after her brother. But the dates . . . “I don’t have a fax machine,” she replied finally. “How long will you be there?”
“I should already be gone. We’re having dinner with Kelly’s folks, and I can’t be late again. I could put it all in an envelope, though, and leave it at the front desk on my way out. Would that work?”
“I’ll be by within the hour to pick it up.”
Rory sat staring at the phone after she hung up. It couldn’t be true. But what if it was? How would Soline take the news? Not well, if her current seclusion was any indication. The only thing more agonizing than a lost love was one that had been purposely thrown away.
Forty-five minutes later, she was sitting in the parking lot of the Globe building in Dorchester, staring at a manila envelope with her name penned in heavy black marker across the front. It had taken every ounce of willpower she possessed not to open it right there in the lobby, but she’d managed to make it back in the car.
She clicked on the dome light, then fumbled with the string clasp and slid the contents out into her lap. There were several Xeroxed newspaper articles. The first was the piece Doug had mentioned, praising the Purcell Foundation for its history of philanthropic endeavors, including a recent seven-figure donation to the Anti-Defamation League. The next article had to do with being given a Lifetime Service Award by the New England Leadership Council, and offered a bit more background:
Since ending his tenure as the director of financial resources for the International Federation of the Red Cross （IFRC）， Mr. Purcell continues to serve the organization as a policy consultant and negotiation specialist, is associated with numerous humanitarian organizations, and sits on the boards of several NGOs and charitable trusts. He is also currently a member of the board of directors for Purcell Industries Ltd., where he serves along with his sister in an advisory capacity. In 1941, prior to the United States joining the war, Mr. Purcell left Yale for France, where he volunteered with the American Field Service （AFS）， driving an ambulance and working at the American Hospital in Paris, until he was gravely wounded during the successful extraction of a downed RAF pilot. He was captured and held in a German prison camp for nearly five months, where he struggled to recover from his injuries. When the war ended, Purcell spent two years with specialists in Switzerland, learning to walk again. As an only son and heir to a sizable fortune, he could hardly have been blamed had he opted to step into his father’s shoes as CEO of the family business, along with all the perks the position entailed. Instead, he chose a life of service and philanthropy, earning the gratitude of the Leadership Council of New England and of this publication.
Rory laid the article aside, staring at the grainy photos beneath. She had never laid eyes on Anson Purcell, and yet the young man looking back at her seemed eerily familiar. She couldn’t remember Soline ever describing him in any detail, but somehow his face felt . . . right. Pale eyes and a wave of fair hair, a mouth that was at once sensuous and serious. He was wearing a dark suit with a narrow tie. Below the photograph, she could make out part of a blurry caption—ANSON WILLIAM PURCELL, CLASS OF 1941.
He was dressed in khakis in the second photo, a leather jacket slung rakishly over one shoulder, like Van Johnson or Tab Hunter, the handsome, wholesome American hero. This was what he had looked like the first time Soline laid eyes on him. And the last time.
There was one more photograph, a five-by-seven color shot taken fairly recently. Rory stared at it, a hand to her mouth. For a man in his sixties, he was still strikingly handsome, with an athletic build and a head of silver-gold waves men half his age would envy. But he wasn’t the young Anson of the yearbook photo or the dashing Anson in uniform. Deep lines fanned out from his eyes, and the once-square jawline had softened with time.
And there was something different about the mouth. The earlier sensuousness was gone, leaving a firm, almost grim line in its place. Not a mouth used to smiling, Rory concluded. There was pain there, old pain that had hardened over the years. But then, after what he’d endured at the hands of the Nazis, he was probably entitled. And yet, he’d dedicated his life to good works.