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hand in marriage—without so much as a preliminary discussion or even a hint to Grace herself—Lily had not been enthused about that prospect either. “They say he comes from a good family,” Lily said, “and he’s very ambitious, but there’s something common about him.”
    Abe Russell was one of Mr. Coaker’s protégées. He had come from Bonavista North to manage the newly built factory that would manufacture and bottle temperance beverages in Port Union. He had political ambitions too. People said he meant to run for a seat in the House one day. While Mr. Coaker hadn’t moved Abe into hisBungalow the way he had with the Bailey boys—like the sons he never had—he was known to warmly approve of Abe Russell. Grace had spoken to him only a handful of times, and certainly had no interest in his marriage proposal: she was relieved that neither of her parents thought she ought to take it seriously.
    She had not even told them of Harry Gullage’s proposal, which he made directly to her on her visit home last summer. Harry was a nice-looking boy, good for a laugh; she had known him for years. He was a fisherman, son of a fisherman, and no matter how her father supported Mr. Coaker’s desire to dignify the lot of the fishermen, Grace knew her parents would be shocked at the idea of her marrying one. She tried to be gentle in refusing Harry, and he was philosophical: it was as if he’d known he was aiming too high even by asking. He had married Lyddie Carter a few months after Grace turned him down.
    Grandfather drove Grace to the Water Street train station to meet Jack two days later. Grace couldn’t leave town right away; she told Jack she needed time to inform the hospital and the poorhouse that she would be away for a couple of days, and Jack had delayed his return home. Together they sat in an almost empty carriage. The only other passengers in their car sat at the far end so it was almost like having a private car.
    The train began to roll—late getting out of the station, as usual. The route was familiar to Grace by now, but travelling with Jack, their knees almost touching as they sat across from each other, made it seem different, like a journey to someplace foreign. Grace imagined boarding a train at night in a foreign country, surrounded by people who spoke another language. The picture came accompanied by a stab of longing so intense it was almost like hunger.
    “It’s different from riding troop trains in France, I imagine,” she said.
    “It’s a fair bit more comfortable.”
    “I’d like to see it, though. France, that is. I always imagined I’d go there someday. That was before the war, of course. Is it all ruins now?”
    “Not all. There are still beautiful places. Cathedrals, a few churches that didn’t get shelled. The villages where the fighting was are in shambles. I spent a few weeks in Paris after the Armistice. It’s still lovely.” He was looking out the window at the Waterford River valley rolling by. “Maybe I’ll take you there someday.”
    Grace looked out the window and hoped he wouldn’t apologize for being presumptuous. For two years now she had been building a picture of Jack Perry, piecing together fragments from his letters to imagine what kind of man he was becoming. Laying those fragments on top of the boy she remembered, her brother’s friend.
    At Donovan’s Station the train stopped to take on passengers, then again at Kelligrews. At Avondale there was a longer stop; Grace and Jack walked to the end of the platform and looked down the tracks, watching the line ’til it curved and disappeared in the woods.
    “I don’t suppose you’ll be able to do a Grand Tour of Europe for a few years yet,” Jack said, picking up the thread of the earlier conversation. “It’ll be a long time before it’s business as usual over there. Although already there’s talks of them making the battlefields into parks, so people can go visit the soldiers’ graves.”
    Grace