Boxes and tissue lay scattered about the room. Claire dashed to-and-fro, searching. Her aunt stood nearby, aghast at the mess but smiling with amusement.

"Honey," Aunt said. "For a girl who wanted nothing to do with him, you certainly are taking an awful lot of care."

"Have you seen my new shoes?" Claire asked, not listening.

Claire tossed box tops and tissues this way and that. In the middle of the pile on the floor, she found one mate of a new pair of heels she'd purchased for that night. She hopped about, putting the silver-blue pump on her foot.

"All I see's a tornado hit Boston!" Aunt said, gesturing to the room.

Claire grumbled with frustration. She limped to her bed where she left her hat to wait while she tore about unproductively.

"Sarry says it makes little sense to go out if you don't go out with style," Claire said. "You never know who you'll meet."

Claire gimped through the muddle of boxes to her mirror and carefully placed the hat on her head. The powder blue cap made her eyes glow. She grabbed some pins and started to place them to keep it still.

"It makes little sense to go out with a young man and make this much of a fuss if you don't have an inkling of liking him," Aunt said, going to her. She wrestled the pins from Claire and helped her affix the hat neatly. She looked at her niece's reflection in the mirror. Claire pouted. "It's no matter to me," Aunt said, to put her at ease.

Claire's shoulders relaxed. She considered her new dress in the mirror. The silvery garment, the same shade as lustrous aquamarines, was one of the most beautiful she'd seen since the start of the war. It cost too. She sighed, thinking on what her aunt said.

"Did you check the box the shoes came in?"

"Half a hundred times," Claire answered.

Aunt went to the mess and retrieved the box. Claire continued to eye herself in the mirror. She wondered if the dress implied too much. After all, this was a mercy date. Locking gazes with her reflection, she warned herself not to be so harsh. She grasped a pair of earrings from the edge of her dressing table and put them on.

"Here," Aunt said, presenting the shoe's mate from its box.

"What d'ya know?" Claire said.

Claire whisked the slipper out of the box and onto her foot. She smoothed her skirt back down and stood tall and straight as she smiled at her aunt. Aunt smiled back, but the expression faded.

"You look so much like your mother," Aunt said, touching Claire's hair.

Claire frowned at the bittersweet comparison.

"Well, you don't have her straw hair. You got your grandaddy's hair." Aunt tried to brush away the melancholy. She smiled big, but tears flooded her eyes.

Claire smiled back and threw her arms around her aunt, quite thankful for her every effort since the tragedy of her childhood.

"Thank you," Claire said against Aunt's shoulder. She squeezed her, not wanting to let go.

Aunt hugged her back. She licked her lips and choked back tears. Though she never admitted to it, Aunt was quite sentimental. Claire had always felt treasured by her.

"For what?" Aunt scoffed.

Claire drew back and knowingly smiled at her. "For finding my shoe."

Aunt cocked her head to the side and chuckled. "The least I could do." She tossed the box into the mess. "Hurry up! You're gonna be late."

Claire swallowed hard. The image of Carsten waiting downstairs made her heart race with apprehension while she continued to get ready. All too soon she would see him firsthand.

When at last she was finished, she scooped up her new silver purse and made her way to the parlor with Aunt close behind. Her father and Carsten conversed in the parlor and the sound of his voice, that accent, gave her hesitation. Not wishing to draw the torment out any further, she floated into the room. Both men looked to her, ending their chat. She stopped before the couches, clutching her purse tightly in front of her. Aunt's hand swept over her back as she passed the bar. Claire waited for the men to speak while Aunt poured out a drink. If the older woman intended to spend the night alone with Father, she would probably need it.

"Ah, Claire," her father said. His eyes switched over her outfit disapprovingly. "Just in time. I was putting Carsten to sleep with my conversation."

"Niet zo, Mr. Healey," Carsten said, rising to his feet. "It is always enjoyable." He glanced at Claire, noticing her dress. "You look very lovely."

Claire smiled coyly at the compliment. "Thank you, Mr. Reiniger. I hope I did not keep you long."

"It is my honor to wait on you." Carsten flashed his grin.

"Where are you going to dinner?" Aunt asked, moving to the couch with her drink.

"Mr. Healey suggested The Parker House," Carsten replied, tucking his hands behind his back and facing the room with Claire at his side. "Is that goed?"

Claire nodded. "Oh, yes. That'll be just fine."

Aunt grinned. "That's where they make one of Claire's favorite desserts."

"Good," Carsten said, quite pleased. He looked to Claire and held his hand out. "Shall we?"

"Sure."

The pair walked out of the room.

"So Carroll," Aunt's voice carried after them. "What've you been up to all day?"

"I doubt you're seriously interested, Noreen," Father replied dryly.

Wilson stood at the door holding Claire's coat. He let Carsten take it and put it on her shoulders while he opened the door. Carsten's motions posed a stark contrast to those of Eddie's from the previous night. The golden boy moved fluidly and gently, taking care in his efforts like a practiced cellist. She smiled to herself at the comparison.

Claire whispered a shy thanks as they exited the house. The limo waited for them under the car park with a worried driver at the passenger door. Claire hesitated, surprised her father had provided his car for their time out. He must be quite invested in their getting acquainted. Her eyes trailed to Carsten shyly as they descended the stairs.

***

The Parker House's atmosphere provided little light save for the warm candlelight and small electric bulbs in fancy shades. Thankful for the dimness, Claire used it to take the opportunity to study her new friend and their surroundings. Carsten read and reread the menu, paying more attention to the calligraphy on the pages than to his companion. In fact, he remained amazingly quiet throughout the start of the evening. At least his good looks made up for his blandness. She hoped he might be more forthcoming like the other night in the kitchen. Claire worried she would need to find a more interesting distraction-she searched the room, having a good view of it from her seat.

Other couples chatted and laughed together. The waiters danced between the white clothed tables, neatly dressed in black slacks and vests with crisp white shirts. Her eyes scanned the decorative walls. One of the couples made their exit. She noticed that Malcolm, the busboy, still worked there, clearing dishes and picking up after the thoughtless patrons. He nodded to Claire with a smile. She recalled Malcolm as a serious young man from their brief meetings in the past. Despite this, she wagered he would make better company than the mummy she sat across from.

"What do you think?" Carsten finally spoke.

Claire gave him her attention, surprised he had spoken. She took his penetrating observations with ease, strengthened by the irritation he caused her. The pale blue of his eyes was the only thing that made his expressions so intense. He wasn't trying to tear out her soul or sell it to the Nazis. She needn't be so concerned. After tomorrow it little mattered, so indifference was the best way to deal with him.

"I haven't looked at the menu yet," Claire said matter-of-factly. This made Carsten chuckle. He relaxed in his chair. "What do you see that looks good?"

Claire's eyes slid back to her menu and she crossed her legs.

"I must say," Carsten spoke, still smiling at her admission. "You are a very entertaining jounge vrouw."

"Maybe I should give up the ship and join a vaudeville show. I've been at a loss for what to do now that school is over anyhow," Claire said dryly. She flipped the pages of her menu and studied the offerings. Perhaps he would unwind and start up a better conversation. If he relaxed, it might be a relatively all right evening. Her foot bobbed up and down.

"And unpredictable," Carsten added. His smile died.

Claire squinted at him. "What do you mean?"

"I am never sure how you will respond to what I have to say." Carsten eyed her.

"That's good," Claire said. She bit her lip and read the menu. "I think I'll have the cod."

Claire felt the smile he gave her. Their waiter reappeared just in time.

Carsten placed their order with the smoothness of Gable. He switched tracks like a train with a savvy operator. Yet his manner served more to anger than impress her. Claire could not determine what the drag was on her end, but something about Apollo just put her mood on edge.

They finished dinner with light conversation and an order of Claire's beloved Boston cream pie. She barely spoke, relishing every bite of the dessert, despite his smoking. Her companion rather enjoyed her delight over the cake, and was content to watch and puff. He certainly was an enigma.

Finished with dinner, the pair left the restaurant for the Paramount Theater. Claire gazed up at the brilliant sign and façade, then wandered about the displays while Carsten purchased their tickets. He joined her at a brilliantly lit poster for the film they planned to see. Claire watched his approach reflected in the glass. His gaze lay intent upon her. She turned before a blush crept to her cheeks and allowed him to lead the way. Carsten did not offer his arm. She thought it was strange how carefully he kept his hands well away from her the entire evening. The driver who had brought her from the train station a night ago came to mind. She wondered if Carsten feared her father like the driver did. That would go a long way to explain his icy company.

Carsten led the way through the lobby, passing the concession without a peek and entering straight into the theater. The vast art deco space had always captivated Claire, so she didn't notice how hurried her date acted. Her thoughts travelled back in time, forgetting him as his attention also drifted elsewhere. Long ago, the theater had become a favorite Saturday outing for their family, and she hadn't been to the place in ages. It was an easy call for her father to assume she would go along with little coaxing. Her father was most definitely invested.

Carsten walked ahead of her down the aisle to a seat toward the middle rows along the right side of the theater, his hands stuffed in his jacket pockets. The rest of the house was thinly occupied. She heard teenagers jabbering in the balcony like a mob of penguins. Carsten stepped a couple seats into the row and she followed. They sat as a concession cartoon played on the enormous screen. He kept wrapped into his mummified state.

When the lights lowered, the news reel rolled first. Claire observed the images of war as they passed over the screen in choppy black and white, barely a reflection of reality and so easily dismissed as no more than an amateur film. The smiles of the soldiers darkened her mood. The Nazis scared her cold. She pushed back in her seat, horrified by what exploded across the screen. Carsten did not speak. He regarded everything with rigid purpose. Claire was increasingly uncomfortable, remembering his reason for being in America. She fiddled with her purse, crossed, uncrossed and recrossed her legs. She clasped her hands on her knee. Carsten placed his hand over hers to settle her down. Her eyes snapped to his face, shocked by the sudden attention. He stared at the screen, a finger on his lips, closely attending the first preview. Claire smiled and bit her lip. She sat back and made herself relax-the news hadn't altered him in the least.

The film at last rolled and was a welcome distraction. She loved seeing Veronica Lake waltz across the screen. The girls at school had often compared her to the actress in attitude and looks. It amused her to try and see the similarities, feeling there were so few. To start, Lake was far too fair.

Nearly a third of the film ran before two broad-shouldered men in fedoras entered the theater like shadows in a Superman strip. The men took seats in front of her. Claire scowled at them when they didn't take off their hats. From the corner of her eye, she saw Carsten notice the men and adjust in his seat. Claire bit her lip. It probably wasn't worth the fight it might provoke to point out their disrespect. This type often sought out confrontation, and she didn't want to make the night any worse than it already had been.

Claire looked to Carsten, concerned he might say something. He calmly watched the film, paying no more attention to the men than her. She thanked her stars Eddie wasn't the man seated beside her instead. He would pick a fight instantly just to prove his prowess.

The screen now blocked with two large heads, belonging to two very inconsiderate and husky men, Claire leaned closer to Carsten's shoulder. To Claire's relief, he took no notice. Claire believed he never would. Perhaps Sarry was right after all. She released a quiet breath. At least the view cleared. She once again lost herself in the film as the plot wove into an unlikely tale of a woman calmly aiding and abetting a wanted criminal at gunpoint. Though unbelievable, Claire wondered what she would do in a similar situation.

The fedoras topped shadows in front of them stirred-a nearly indiscernible motion in the glow of the screen. Claire's eyes struggled to focus on them. One of the men reached over his shoulder, scratching his hairy neck. Carsten leaned forward and reached for his shoe. Claire adjusted nervously in her seat as his breath touched her leg. She quickly planted her eyes on the screen, wide and alert to what was happening next to her, while fighting to ignore the subtle contact.

Carsten sat back. He rolled something between his fingers. Claire tried not to notice what he was doing. Her face heated with a rush of blood as the sensation still tingled on her knee. Her eyes wouldn't stay on the screen. They slipped to his hand. What could he have possibly found on the floor that had interested him enough to pick up?

Immediately, Claire wished she'd minded her own business. Carsten carelessly revealed the small black bead he rolled between his fingers. He rotated the object with a slight twist and the light of the flickering film illuminated a tiny swastika. As soon as the garish mark materialized, it faded from view.

Claire gasped. Her eyes darted to Carsten's. He stared at her grimly. Panic raced through her heart. Her mouth became dry. She shook herself free from fear and found a little courage. In tense, broken motions, she stood, pushing her body backward. Carsten continued to watch her closely. She backed out of the aisle.

"Miss Healey," he hissed. "Sit down."

Claire shook her head and moved to run up the aisle. She no longer cared if he paid her any attention. No matter how handsome he was, she wanted to be done with him. He was just a monster dressed up in a pretty disguise. But her fear of that monster pursuing her had made her legs like lead. Her heart thrummed and she begged herself to run. His cold eyes pinned her where she stood.

"Claire," he called more loudly. His voice drew the attention of the two shadows.

The men got to their feet, and Claire finally ran. She hurried up the aisle to the exits. She heard Carsten jump to his feet and it propelled her faster to the doors. She burst through just as Carsten clapped his hand on her wrist. He pulled her around.

"Where do you think you are going, Miss Healey?" he asked, not even trying to lull her back into his confidence. His eyes held a menacing flame.

"You," Claire stammered frightened and angry. "Let me go. I saw it. I know everything."

"Miss Healey?" Carsten released her. He acted puzzled, laughing through his nose.

"Don't you look at me like that." Claire pointed at him, putting distance between them. "How dare you come into my home and gain my father's trust. I saw it." She breathed hard.

"What are you talking about?"

"Those men," Claire pointed to the theater doors. "They gave you something-that bead with the-the-the-" Claire raised her fists. "Nazi," she hissed at him.

The doors behind him opened. The fedoras came into the hall. Their dark eyes switched between her and Carsten.

Carsten's features hardened. He stepped toward her and Claire bolted for the lobby. Carsten moved faster. He loped beside her and took her arm into a tight grip, propelling her forward.

"Keep walking and keep quiet," he instructed. "If you know what is good for you."

"I could scream."

"But you will not." Carsten smiled deviously. "You hate to make a scene." Carsten flashed his winning smile and the steel he hid in his jacket. "Is that not so, Fräulein?"

Claire's breath stopped with panic. She drew up tight and compressed her lips, at a loss for any other response. Carsten dragged her outside with no further challenge. He waved his hand to call the limo. Then he forced Claire to face him. His expression was hard as he took in her stricken face.

"Not a peep," he warned, holding her arms tightly. "I do not wish to return you home in a box."

Claire held her silence, crushed, afraid and outraged.

"You still surprise me, Miss Healey." Carsten smiled, opening the limo door and helping her inside with feigned gentleness.

Carsten scanned the theater front before climbing in behind her. He lit a cigarette. The fedoras had followed but now paced hesitantly in different directions. Claire considered him with tear-filled eyes. He met her scrutiny as the car pulled away until she herself broke the gaze. He blew the smoke in her direction, goading her. Claire carefully sat back against the seat, trying to think of what to do next. Her suspicions about her father had just been confirmed.