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slipped a nickel token into the fare box and reached for one of the handrails that ran the length of the car. He sat by an open window and leaned back. Sparks crackled from the trolley’s pantograph as it sucked power from the overhead wire. He closed his eyes to focus on the wind in his face. It meant he was moving on.
    Donald left the Heights trolley at 11 th Street and pulled a gold watch from his vest pocket. As always, he ran his thumb over the engraving before opening the lid. Cletus Stokes bought the watch from the Sears catalog, then had his name engraved before leaving for France last fall.
    “Keep this until I get back, little brother,” Cletus told Donald the day he boarded the troop train for New York. “I hear it’s muddy over there.”
    Donald pressed the release and the lid snapped open. A quarter to noon. He decided to go one block east to Harvard Street where the taller trees offered more shade. Walk tall. Shoulders back. The all-knowing Mrs. Carhart had taught him that, but she didn’t say to tighten his chest and arms to build muscle, or stretch to keep his body loose. Those things he’d learned on his own.             
    Nina Carhart’s home was not the largest mansion along Heights Boulevard, but it had the most land. By taking Harvard north instead of Heights, Donald came to the rear of the estate first. A low hedge lined each side of a path to the back gate. From there he saw the older of two Italian gardeners who lived on the property.
    The men no longer spoke to each other , even though they were from the same village. Mrs. Carhart said the dispute had begun two years before over a bottle of olive oil.
    “Che bella, Albino!” Donald called in less-than-perfect Italian. He pointed left. “Those are fine roses!”
    He l eaned close enough for the bill of his cap to brush the wrought iron. To one side, a curved path led around the fountain past the gazebo to the back of the main house. To the other, Donald could just see a corner of the carriage house, and above it, the one-bedroom apartment that Albino and Paolo shared.
    “Grazie, grazie,” Albino called back, rising stiffly to his feet. He produced a bandana from his coveralls and used it to pat sweat from the back of his neck as he shuffled toward the gate. “Signore Brown, how are you today?"
    “Bené, grazie,” Donald answered as Albino selected a heavy key from the ring on his belt and unlocked the gate. “And you? How have you been, Albino?”
    “Accusì, accusì,” the gardener said, fingers wide as he tilted his head and one hand in unison side to side. “Come. I show you something new.”
    Donald spent a minute admiring the lemon tree Albino had planted that morning, then leaned in to whisper mischievously, “Where’s Paolo?”
    “UFFÀ!” Albino said, stiffening his body and loudly puffing his cheeks. He spit into the bushes to show the matter was closed.
    Donald heard the library’s French doors open and turned in time to see Nina Carhart emerge under the portico. He snatched off his cap as she approached.

Chapter 4
    It always surprised Donald how graceful a woman could be.
    “My dear boy,” Nina Carhart said as she reached for his hand, “it is perfectly acceptable for you to enter my home through the front door .” She said that, but he felt more comfortable coming through the garden.
    “It’s good to see you, Mrs. Carhart.”
    Her dress caught the light as she moved. Donald had never seen such a color. It reminded him most of a perfectly ripened peach, except that it was shiny. As they walked up the path toward the house, sunlight reflecting from her skirt made the bricks in front of her glow.
    “My cousin in London sent two issues of the journal. I read them yesterday, so they’re yours. As usual, the writing is a bit stuffy for my taste, but there are some articles you might enjoy.”
    “Thanks! You’re sure you don’t want them?”
    She laughed. “It wouldn’t do to leave copies of the