1. August 1946: Torduvalle, Saskatchewan

AUGUST 1946 Torduvalle, Saskatchewan

THE AIR SIZZLES in from the hopper window. The heat’s been excruciating this past week. Florence nudges the bathroom door closed so the air doesn’t warm the house and reaches for the peroxide under the bathroom counter. She pours some into the spray bottle and dilutes it with water from the tap, measuring by eye only. A faded towel wrapped around her shoulders, she works at her hair in sections, using a brush to guide the mixture as close to her scalp as possible, covering the brown roots that are just beginning to show. A Saturday-night ritual every other week for nearly thirty years.

No one has ever asked her about her hair. Most don’t even know, though there have been a few women in town in recent years who’ve commented, either praising her particular shade or deriding her not quite out of earshot for trying to emulate those Hollywood starlets. She’s flattered they would think that of her, that she would be the type of person to aspire to looking like a star.

Florence sits on the toilet lid and waits for the peroxide to tingle, never using a timer now, knowing by instinct the moment when the roots will be lightened to the perfect hue but before the skin on her scalp blisters. She plans her day tomorrow. Church at ten; return home to prepare the pork roast, gravy, and potatoes. She’ll also make a pot of tomato and macaroni soup to eat with some cold roast pork buns for the workday evenings when she’d rather read or listen to the radio than prepare a meal.

A wave of heat rolls in and she looks up at the slit of sky. A branch from the Manitoba maple in her front yard stretches into view. It’s not quite September but its leaves are already turning at the edges, bright and golden yellow. The colour is startling. Searing. She holds her breath.

Colours used to consume her. She spent so many of her waking hours, and sometimes her dreaming ones too, thinking about colours and how to work them into her floral designs. How to craft a story with her beadwork. She was careful when selecting a particular hue, deliberate in her choices, because colours held meaning and feeling. Meaning and feeling that was different for everyone. A shade could ignite joy in one person, pain or regret in another. Colours could spark memories, sometimes ones you’d tried to forget.

Florence pushes back her thoughts as she forces the window shut. It’s all just history, all in the past now. She waves the towel shawl around herself to create a breeze. She is Florence Banks, a secretary at Pratt’s Insurance and Real Estate in the town of Torduvalle and a respected member of the community for the past eleven years. She blends in with everyone else. The tingle on her head turns to a sting, almost a burn, while her dark hair fades to a perfect shade of blonde.

FLORENCE STEPS OUT OF the tub and pulls out the plug. The drain glugs and spurts, choking down the water. A cool bath before bed for a better sleep. She slips on her cotton nightdress and inspects her drying hair in the mirror. A soft sand or even hay colour. Not radiant or luminous, but she wouldn’t want that anyway. She can hardly wait until it’s all silvery grey and sparkly and she won’t have to dye it anymore, but even at fifty-one she still has a ways to go. At least she has the curls that everyone wants, no curlers or bobby pins needed.

Down the hall to the kitchen she goes to fill the kettle, set it on the stove, and place a cup and saucer beside the canister of tea bags on the counter for the morning. The last thing she does every night before bed. As she lifts a cup and saucer from the cupboard, the doorbell rings, and Florence freezes, arms midair. It’s well after nine at night. Who’s at her door at this hour? Another peal of the bell, followed by a loud knock. Her legs fill with lead.

“Florence? Are you there?”

Jennie Broughton. Her neighbour. An emergency, maybe? The kids? But why come here, why not a house with more people, with a husband? Someone who could do something to help.

Florence forces herself to the door.

“Oh, goodness, I startled you,” Jennie says, “I’m sorry.” She stands there, cool in her culottes and summer blouse, nothing awry about her or her disposition. No emergency, then.

Florence is suddenly aware of her bare feet, sweaty soles on the linoleum. Nails unpainted. Her thin summer nightdress fluttering loosely in the night breeze, and no brassiere. She might as well be naked.

“I… was in the bath.” Florence stumbles over her words.

“Are you okay?”

She left out the bottle of peroxide. Left it on the edge of the sink in the bathroom, on display. Fumes perhaps still in the air. But it’s a common household cleaner. That’s all. Still.

“I’ll be right back,” Florence says and heads to the bathroom. Tucks the peroxide bottle under the sink, finger-combs her hair, and grabs the housecoat hooked on the back of the door. It’s far too warm for it but she puts it on and ties it around her waist anyway.

“I saw the lights were on!” Jennie shouts from the door.

“Is everything all right?” Florence asks, heading back.

“Yes, I didn’t mean to give you a scare.” Jennie shifts on her feet in the doorway. “It’s just…” She pauses, waves to her own house next to Florence’s and to the empty driveway. “Garth and the kids are away and the house is so quiet tonight.” She shifts again.

“I’m sorry, come in,” Florence says, compelled to find her manners and stepping back to make room for her.

Jennie glances around the living room as she crosses the threshold. She’s never come over like this before. Unannounced, uninvited. Florence doesn’t invite guests over. Private, everyone calls her. Keeps to herself. Is respected for it.

“This is the first time I’ve been inside your house. Isn’t that crazy, after all these years?” She wanders through the living room as if through a gallery or museum.

“Nonsense.” Florence feigns shock.

“It’s true. I’ve popped my head in once or twice before but I don’t remember you having so many lovely things.”

Florence feels a small ripple of pleasure. Grandmother wall clock, walnut, with a Westminster chime. Delft-blue vase on the antique French side table. Two painted atmospheric seascapes from another country, framed in gold. The Cogswell, reupholstered with soft green velvet, hand-embroidered doilies resting on its arms.

Jennie scans the room, seeming to appreciate what she sees.

“I purchase them as I find them,” Florence says. But she doesn’t just find them; she hunts for them. Tracks them down. Pores over catalogues, mines the papers for news of estate sales, garage sales, and yard sales. Never knowing what she’s looking for but always finding something she desires, each item calling to her as if it will safeguard her or offer her some kind of protection. Her precious purchases are insulation against the poverty she never wants to know again.

“That’s beautiful,” Jennie says, looking at the candy dish in the china cabinet.

Milk glass with diamonds cut in relief and a finial lid. Funny that Jennie notices that piece. Florence bought that dish specifically for the Chicken Bones candy that Jennie gave her as a housewarming gift when she first moved in. Florence starts to tell her this but stops herself, worried it would make her sound strange.

“It’s one of my favourites,” Florence says instead.

“I can see why,” Jennie says, eyeing it a moment longer before stepping away from the cabinet. “Were you just about to make tea?” Jennie says when she passes by the doorway to the kitchen and sees the teakettle on the stove.

“I was getting it ready for breakfast… but I—”

“I suppose it is too late for tea. Perhaps a nightcap, though?” Jennie looks away, embarrassed by her own brazenness.

Florence has noticed in recent weeks that Jennie awkwardly prolongs conversations between them in the driveway and finds excuses to be outside in the yard at the same time as Florence. There’s a neediness in her of late. Florence feels her own twinge beneath her ribs. “Of course, please sit. I’m going to change first.”

“There’s no need, Florence. We’re friends and we’ll both be off to bed soon. Please.”

But Florence throws her a smile and goes to the bedroom anyway, shuts the door behind her. A loose gingham skirt and a short-sleeved button-up blouse. Open-toed slippers to cover her feet. Friends. They are, aren’t they? Neighbours for over six years and always pleasant. Chatted across their lawns. Helped each other carry groceries, push the mower, shovel walkways. They’ve even walked to church together a few times and sat at the same table during fundraising teas. But they’ve never visited each other. It’s never been just the two of them.

Florence heads to the kitchen for the Harveys Bristol Cream. Maybe it’s silly to be so distressed about a guest. Six years in this house, eleven total in town. It’s fine. No reason to feel like her skin has come right off just because her neighbour wants company and a drink. Deep breath. She finds the bottle in the fridge and closes the door. Carries it back to the living room.

“I can’t have nice things at my house with those two little terrors. It’s always a mess and I can never keep up,” Jennie says, taking a seat on the settee when Florence returns.

“You said everyone’s away?”

“Yes, the kids are with Garth’s parents at the farm this weekend,” she says. “They’ve been missing their grandparents.” A wistful afterthought.

Florence grabs two ruby red sherry funnels from the china cabinet. “It’s only natural.” When Garth went overseas and Jennie took a job at the post office, Garth’s parents stepped in to help. The kids even lived at the farm for a while.

“I suppose,” Jennie says, watching Florence pour the sherry.

“Is Garth at the farm too, then?” Strange Jennie wouldn’t also be there, but she won’t ask that. Garth—Mr. Broughton when they’re at the office—works at Pratt’s Insurance and Real Estate too but she hardly knows him. He was hired as a junior agent just before the war and was there only a few weeks before he signed up and left. When Garth returned, Pratt’s was in the midst of its ever-growing expansion and immediately promoted him to a senior agent. Moved him upstairs to his own private office where Florence goes only to pick up and drop off paperwork. The Second-Floors keep to themselves.

“He’s in the city for the night.”

“Senior management had meetings there yesterday, didn’t they?” Florence hands Jennie a glass.

“They did.”

The Second-Floors have been commuting somewhat regularly to the city, but no one tells the Bottom-Floors what it’s all about, and Florence doesn’t poke her nose in. It’s not her job. That’s one reason why she’s so respected at her workplace—her discretion.

“Apparently, the meetings went very well, so they stayed to celebrate.” Jennie stops, then smiles as if deciding whether to share. “He said they met Tommy Douglas.” She sips her drink.

“He met the premier?”

Jennie lowers her voice and says, “He was at one of the meetings,” then adds quickly, “But Garth’s a man of few details and even fewer when you ask.”

Hard to imagine why Pratt’s would meet with the premier of the province, especially when so many of the Second-Floors thought his socialist government was as bad as Hitler’s National Socialists. Such silly nonsense, but again, it’s none of her business. She sips her own drink. “Are you no longer working at the post office?”

“Mr. Klein is back full-time so I’m superfluous.” She shrugs it off playfully, but it’s clear it bothers her. “He caught some shrapnel in his left leg and has a limp now, but he says he’s ready to return. It’s quite a physical job, though. You wouldn’t think sorting mail would be, but it is. I was so exhausted at the end of the day.” She smiles, proud.

“Will you look for other employment, then?”

“No.” Jennie takes a large sip, mood changing. “Garth thinks things have been too topsy-turvy for the kids and we should get back to normal.” A tautness surfaces.

Florence understands the need to work. Her own job at the insurance office sustains her, and not just in the monetary way. Yes, she can buy her precious things, but the work itself keeps her going. She can’t imagine her life without it. She’d never be in Jennie’s position, though. She’d never want anyone who told her what she could and couldn’t do. She’s lucky in that way, not to have anyone to constrain her—no husband, no children; no one, period. Her whole life has been about getting to this point. This town, with this house and her job—a life without constraints. She’s worked hard for it.

“Hmm,” Jennie says, something coming to her as she swallows, “did you hear about the Sanderson twins?”

“Graham and Isla’s boys down the street?” Seventeen but already like grown men, their frames topping six feet and their faces with perpetual five-o’clock shadows.

Jennie nods. “They got into a bit of trouble,” she says, a mischievous lilt in her voice.

“What kind of trouble?”

“I can’t believe it, really.” She shakes her head, then leans forward to divulge. “Bootlegging. Illegal home brew.”

“Those boys?” Florence says. They’ve always been so helpful, offering to shovel her sidewalk or rake her leaves. You never know the other sides to people. She sips, and the raisin-y metallic syrup slides down her throat.

“They purchased it—didn’t make it,” Jennie clarifies. “But still. They bought it in town, apparently.”

“From whom?”

“That’s what I’d like to know, but they haven’t said.” She downs the rest of her glass with one swallow. “But… bootlegging. In our town.”

It is shocking. “How’s their mother taking it?”

“I haven’t spoken with her.” Jennie looks away. “I only heard her telling Mrs. Larsen when I tried calling Garth’s parents yesterday,” she says.

Hazards of the party line—you never know who’s listening in. Florence tightens her grip on her glass. “The twins are all right, though?”

“Yes. They were stopped just after their purchase, so they hadn’t gotten into any of it. Thankfully. You never know what’s in moonshine, if it’s safe or not. Remember when all alcohol was illegal? There were all kinds of stories about people making their own and then falling seriously ill. Dying, even. I can’t believe people are still doing it when you can just buy it off the shelf now.” Jennie shakes her head.

Florence nods in agreement. Prohibition doesn’t seem that long ago, but when she thinks about it, the Sanderson boys wouldn’t have even been born then.

“This town,” Jennie says, “it’s changing.” She worries the empty funnel in her hands.

Florence tops up her glass.

“Don’t you feel that, Florence? That this town is changing? And fast?”

“I do.” The town has grown busier since the men returned from the war. It’s busier than before the war, and she liked it when it was quieter. It’s why she came here.

“Hard to believe those boys would get up to something like that. Just goes to show you that people are always full of surprises.”

They are, indeed. Florence downs her glass, then reaches for the Eaton’s catalogue she received a few weeks ago. Best to get back to safer ground. “Have you seen the latest issue?”

Jennie peruses it, commenting on the latest styles and fashions. They make fun of the hats that are too ostentatious, the undergarments that are too impractical.

Jennie stops at a dog-eared page. “You’re buying a new skirt?”

“Bought. It came in the mail yesterday but needs alterations.”

“Which one? No, no, let me guess.” There are four on the page. Four slim, blonde models wearing four different skirts. “The tattersall wool.”

“How’d you know?” It’s the most expensive. Not by much, but still. She should save more, though. She’s been saying that for years.

“It’s elegant but understated. It’s you.” Jennie continues browsing. “Have you ever thought of something like this?” She points to a dress, a gold silk gown with off-the-shoulder sleeves.

“Where would I wear that?”

“A dinner party.”

“I don’t go to dinner parties.”

“Why not? You’d turn heads in something like this.”

“Those days are done for me.” She never turned heads when she was younger—or maybe not never, but never the heads she wanted to turn.

“Your dinner-party days don’t need to be done, Florence. Any man would be lucky to win you.”

“There was only one for me.” Florence looks at the fourteen-karat yellow-gold band on her finger. Bought at a Goodwill in the city just before moving to Torduvalle.

“Gerald. Was that his name?” Jennie’s voice is gentle.

Florence nods. Sips.

“How long were you married?”

“Almost twenty years.” Florence smiles as if remembering happy memories. She tells everyone that she was married when she lived in Regina, and when her husband passed, that’s when she decided to move to a small town. For a quieter life. It’s easier—widows draw less suspicion from people than women who have never married.

“I wish I’d met him.”

A small silence in the room.

“You are lucky, though. You can just order a skirt when you want. You can have all this nice furniture and not have it ruined. No husband, no kids to look after—” Jennie stops herself. “Oh, I’m sorry. That was inconsiderate. I didn’t mean it to be.”

“It wasn’t, and I’m fine.” Florence had tried for children. Tried and tried, and it just never happened. At least, that’s what she tells people when they ask. In a way it’s true. “I’m very happy with the life I had then and with my life now.” Most of that is true as well.

“I often think about where I want to be in the future,” Jennie says, then pauses. “And when I do, I sometimes think of you.” Jennie’s crossed leg gives a little bouncy kick.

For the first time, Florence realizes she’s almost old enough to be Jennie’s mother. The thought is shocking but funny too. It makes her want to giggle. Or maybe it’s the sherry.

Florence pours them both some more. Her whole body tingles; she’s enjoying the surprising turn of the evening. She’s sitting in her living room with her neighbour on a Saturday night. She’s sitting in her living room with her friend on a Saturday night.

THE PHONE RINGS AS Florence pulls the pan from the oven to check on the pork loin. It’ll be Mrs. Clarkson’s mother again—she always calls the Clarksons on Sunday around this time and she always dials the wrong number. The Clarksons live across town but their number is only one digit away from Florence’s and the elderly woman seldom gets it right. Florence takes her time, poking and basting the roast, before she answers on the seventh ring.

“Florence,” Jennie says on the other end, surprised. “I was just about to hang up. If you’re busy I can call later.”

“No, it’s fine,” Florence says, any annoyance she felt immediately dispelled. “I was just busy at the stove. Is everything all right?” Jennie wasn’t at church this morning.

“Everything’s fine. Lovely, actually.” Then Jennie’s voice drops as if she’s confessing: “I’m still in my pyjamas.”

“It’s the middle of the afternoon,” Florence blurts out before she can stop herself.

“I know! I’m having a wonderfully lazy day,” she says, and Florence can practically hear her smiling through the line. “Though I should get dressed soon because Garth said he’d be home with the kids before supper. But,” Jennie continues, “I was calling because…” She trails off. “Well, last night was such fun—it’s rare I get to spend time with adults.” A breezy laugh. “And I was wondering if you’d like to come to the city with me next Saturday. With school just around the corner, I need to go to the department store for new clothes and supplies, and I thought you and I could do a little shopping together.”

“A trip… to the city,” Florence stammers as she processes this.

“Only if you want,” Jennie says. “I just thought we could both do with a girls’ day out, and there’s a new restaurant on Scarth Street Garth’s been raving about that I thought we could check out.” Jennie pauses. “But please don’t feel obligated to say yes.”

“I’d love to,” Florence says, hoping she doesn’t sound too eager. She hasn’t been back to Regina since she moved to town, and in all those years it’s surely changed as much as she has. It’d be nice to see it again. And with company too.

“Perfect. Let’s chat later this week,” Jennie says.

When Florence hangs up, she heads to the closet in her bedroom to plan her outfits for the week, with special focus on Saturday’s attire.

UP AT SIX. TEA and toast with butter and marmalade. Cooler this time of day already, so it’s her blue brushed-wool cardigan, which will be far too hot by the afternoon but that’s just how it is. Headscarf knotted snugly under her chin. Purse and package under her arm and she’s out the door. When the weather’s poor, she drives, but she prefers the clip-clip of her shoes on the way to work when everyone else is just getting dressed or still lounging in bed. Clip-clip-clip, like the chirp of a bird.

Torduvalle. A small, square town with rows of straight, square streets. A game board with houses and cars for pieces and easy-to-understand rules. She’d taken the bus from the city for an interview with Mr. Hicks for the secretarial position at Pratt’s eleven years ago. Caught the earliest one so she could walk around the town first and see what it had to offer. Within an hour she had covered all the streets that bordered Pratt’s and still had three more to go until her interview, so she crisscrossed the remaining residential streets, then looped back to Main for a late lunch. She knew before her cream of mushroom soup arrived she wanted the job. More than that—she wanted to live here forever. It wasn’t the smallness of the town that attracted her—she’d interviewed for jobs in tinier places—it was something else. There were no statues of its first residents, no historical buildings with plaques to describe their past importance. It was a town with no history. It was perfect.

She breezed through the interview and demonstrated her skills: seventy-five words per minute with one hundred percent accuracy. At forty years old, she was middle-aged, but her life was really just beginning.

Key in the lock, ka-thunk of the bolt, flick of the lights. Always the first one to arrive. It’s a nine-to-five job and she’s been told she doesn’t need to come in before nine, but the time between seven thirty and nine—between her arrival and everyone else’s—is her favourite part of the day. She gets so much accomplished when no one else is around. Today, there’s dictation for the Schneider file to type, two correspondence letters to draft for review and type once approved, the accounts receivables and payables for the previous business day, and the contracts to prepare for the new clients’ signatures. And all the other daily tasks and emergent jobs.

Some might say it’s easy work—it’s just pressing keys, moving paper—but she doesn’t see it that way. It takes concentration, real concerted effort, because you can’t make mistakes. The stakes are too high. A decimal point in the wrong spot or an extra l in MacDougal means documents do not get filed by the deadline, which means dates get pushed back, which means lives are thrown into turmoil. Not everyone can be so precise. It’s why she has the reputation she does in town. Other employers have tried to lure her away from Pratt’s, and honestly, she considered a couple of those offers, but when it came down to it, why rock the boat? She’s perfectly happy where she is. She’s a small cog in a giant wheel, a cog that’s easily overlooked, and she likes it that way. Invisibility doesn’t diminish her importance.

She slides a fresh sheet of paper in her typewriter and the carriage catches it, curls it around the roller. Her Remington Rand. The clack of its hammers is musical. Reminds her of that one time she saw the Regina Symphony Orchestra at Darke Hall. When she reaches peak speed, when her fingers have found their rhythm, her chest even lifts. No, this work is not easy but when it’s done right, there’s something about it that makes life easier. Manageable. She knows what is expected of her and she meets those expectations. Plus, she’s always at her best when her hands are busy. It’s when her mind finally calms, unwinds itself. She discovered this as a child with thread and a needle. Those small beads in every colour. Typing has replaced beading. Florence hits the carriage return and pushes the thought away.

Refocuses.

At twelve minutes after nine, Florence has finished the dictation, processed the receivables from Friday’s clients, and prepared the cheques for the Second-Floors’ signatures for the bills that are due. And at twelve minutes after nine, Shirley arrives for the day. Shirley seems to subtract two minutes from her start time every year she’s there. But Florence doesn’t mind. It makes her own performance stand out.

“Good morning,” Shirley singsongs, removing her homburg-style hat. Always the latest fashion for Shirley—blazing and bright, like her personality. Her bubbly presence fills up a room, and that’s why Mr. Hicks hired her six years ago. They needed someone to welcome clients to the office. Greet them, serve them, converse with them to make them feel comfortable and at ease. Florence needed to focus on the actual work required and not the pleasantries. Chin-wagging only increases her stress levels. It’s upsetting to listen to someone go on about how their Scottie dog chased a coyote from their yard when a claim has to be filed that very day. She was relieved when the Second-Floors suggested another hire. It eliminated a significant amount of pressure for her.

“How was your weekend?” Shirley asks.

“Jennie Broughton came over for a visit on Saturday night,” she says, pleased that she actually has something to share.

“Really? No theatre program on the radio?” Shirley’s shocked.

“We even had a little sherry.” Silly to disclose such a detail.

“Look at you, Flossie, I always knew you had a wild streak,” she teases.

“It was just a visit,” Florence says, waving it off as if it were nothing. But she had such a pleasant time. And plans for a trip to the city for some shopping on Saturday to top it off. But Florence doesn’t tell Shirley this, afraid that saying it out loud might jinx it somehow.

“How was yours?” Florence asks instead.

“We’ve switched places, it seems,” Shirley says. “It was my turn to stay in and read a book all weekend.”

Florence nods, recognizing a lie when she hears one. They’re harmless, though. Little white lies just so that no one feels uncomfortable. It was clear to Florence that when Shirley was hired, she was having an affair with Mr. Hicks, the longest-serving Second-Floor at Pratt’s and now the president. Mr. Hicks had hired Florence all those years ago when he was just a senior underwriter, but the way he’s always treated her compared to how he treats Shirley is quite different. He’s been fatherly with Florence since day one, but with Shirley, who’s nearly a decade younger than Florence, Mr. Hicks is stricter, more critical. Perhaps to make up for their dynamic when not at work. But it’s none of Florence’s business and she respects people who keep things to themselves.

“By the way,” Florence says when Shirley returns from spending an inordinate amount of time tidying the kitchenette and putting the kettle on, “there’s nothing in the calendar for this morning—no meetings or appointments—and no one’s called in to say they’re running late, but none of the Second-Floors are here yet.” She scans the entries in the days ahead to see if there are any mistakes. The Second-Floors generally start arriving at nine thirty and most are through the door before ten, but it’s nearly ten o’clock now, and aside from the new juniors, no one’s here.

“A meeting for this morning was scheduled at the end of the day last Friday. They’re all over in Forsyth and should be back after lunch.”

“All of them?”

Florence is always the one to lock up, the last out the door, so the meeting must have been scheduled after hours. Florence doesn’t ask any more questions—she and Shirley have built their trust up through discretion. She picks up her favourite fountain pen and updates the calendar, her cursive as neat and proficient as typeface, while Shirley ambles around the office, watering and dusting the plants. Her bum is never in her seat until after ten.

By quarter after ten, her break time, Florence has drafted the two letters by hand for the Second-Floors’ review. She places them in the review file, carries the file upstairs, and leaves it on the inbox tray in the hallway. Then, purse and package under her arm, she heads out for her break. The day has warmed and it’s already too hot for her sweater, but she keeps it on because the wind has picked up as well, blowing dust and dirt every which way. Once she rounds the hardware store onto Main, the buildings block most of the current, and the air comes at her in short clips instead. She straightens, lifts her head to the day.

Up the street and near the Wells Brothers Grocery, three Native men are gathered on the sidewalk chatting, one holding his hat to his head so it doesn’t blow away. Florence avoids them and jaywalks to the other side, passing by Mr. Schmidt and Mr. Ivanenko, who both tip their hats to her.

“Been more of them in town lately,” one man says to the other.

Florence catches this comment on the wind. She picks up her pace, eyes on the pavement all the way to Third Avenue, where she turns. The wind, now at her back, pushes her towards Nelson’s Tailoring and catches the door as she pulls on the handle. The door flies from her grasp and strains against the hinge. She steps inside and tugs it closed with both hands.

“That wind is vicious today,” Hilde Nelson says, rising from her sewing cabinet in the corner. A white pillowcase with delicately embroidered edges is caught in the Singer’s tooth. Hilde’s husband, Clifford Nelson, opened the shop long before Florence moved to town, but he returned from war with battle fatigue and it’s only Hilde who runs the place now.

Florence unties the knot beneath her chin, slides her scarf off. “Almost blew me away.”

“What do you have there?” Hilde asks, reaching for Florence’s package. She unwraps the tattersall wool skirt that came in the mail last week. “I was eyeing this one myself in the catalogue.”

“It could be yours if it can’t be let out.”

“Too small?”

“About an inch. Too many baked goods lately.”

“Quality items such as these always have some extra fabric to work with. If not, I’m sure I can match this fabric very closely,” she says, looking through her bookings, “but I do have a bit of a backlog.” She reaches for her ticket pad.

“I’m in no rush.”

“It’s actually an easy job if you have a needle and thread at home.”

“Oh, goodness, n-no,” Florence sputters. “I can’t be trusted. Whenever you get to it is fine.”

“You couldn’t do it even with a little instruction?”

“I’m sure I’d muck it up. It’s best left to the professionals.”

“I can try to squeeze this in sometime late next week.” She hands Florence a ticket.

Voices on the street outside break through the wind.

“Of course. Best of luck with the backlog.” Florence tucks the ticket into her purse and steps to the door, but movement outside the window stops her. The three Native men she saw near the grocery store are now walking up Third towards the shop. She turns back around to face Hilde. “Actually, what day next week do you think you might be free to tackle my skirt?”

“Oh,” Hilde says, and looks through her calendar. “Is Thursday fine? I might get it done earlier, and I can call you if I do.”

“Thursday’s great.” Florence turns back to the window and sees the three men are just walking by. She will wait until they’ve passed before reaching for the door handle.

“Are you all right?” Hilde asks as Florence lingers by the door.

“Yes, thank you. Just bracing myself for the weather.” Florence pulls open the door and steps out into the wild wind.

CUTLERY PINGS IN THE grease-filled air. Friday. End-of-the-week lunch at Nick’s, a tradition for as long as Florence has worked at Pratt’s. The days flew by this week, but they always do when it’s busy. Florence wrapped up the paperwork on four claims and archived all the files from the 1940–41 and 1941–42 fiscal years that her and Shirley hadn’t been able to get around to. Took them all down to the basement filing cabinets on her own. It feels good to have that sorted, especially before the long weekend and the start of another month. So good, she might even order dessert today.

When she first started working for Pratt’s, it was only her, Mr. Hicks, and Mr. Pratt, who founded the business and is now retired, and they all fit into a single booth. Even when Mr. Henry was hired on as junior underwriter in 1938, and then Shirley in 1940, they continued to squish into one booth despite the lack of elbow room. But now, with Mr. Broughton—Jennie’s husband—and the two junior agents, Peter and Jeremy, who share the first floor with Florence and Shirley, they’re spread over two booths. Florence and Shirley often sit with the junior agents, but today they’re in the booth with the Second-Floors, which happens when the Second-Floors don’t want to be bothered by clients who are also dining at Nick’s—clients feel less inclined to approach and talk business when the secretaries are present.

When the waitress brings their orders to the table, the bell on the restaurant door jangles. All their heads turn towards the sound. As they take in the arrivals—the three Native men Florence saw earlier in the week—a quiet settles in the room. Conversations don’t stop, but tones change. The men amble to a booth by the front window. The Formica tabletop glows red from the sun streaming through the painted sign on the glass, Nick’s Diner in sloppy script. Patrons exchange furtive glances while food is lifted to mouths. Some shift in their chairs so sidelong looks are less noticeable.

“Obviously not from around here,” Mr. Broughton says to Mr. Hicks and Mr. Henry, who both shrug as if it’s none of their business. Shirley continues to gawk, watching to see how things will unfold.

The three Native men flip the coffee cups in front of them so they’re right-side up in their saucers. As the waitress approaches their booth, one of them leans back in his seat to give her room to pour, but she walks right past them, the full coffeepot in her hand.

Florence looks away. She stirs her beef barley soup and stares at the club sandwich she hasn’t yet touched.

“Eat up, Florence,” Mr. Hicks says to her. “Don’t want your food to get cold.”

She picks up one triangle of her sandwich and takes a small bite, tries to put the men at the other table out of her mind, but seconds later the cook comes out from the kitchen and approaches the men’s booth.

Florence pretends to eat, pretends she isn’t watching the table by the window, but she is. And so is everyone else.

There are never any outright rules banning them from the place, only endless excuses.

“That table is reserved,” the cook says to one of the men, the one with the blue plaid work shirt.

The man scans the room, trying to make eye contact with every single person in the place, even Florence. She’s the only one who meets his gaze. It’s brief, and she immediately turns back to her soup, eyes cast down. On the other side of the booth, Shirley bumps the underside of the table as she uncrosses and crosses her legs.

“If you want to order food to go, or sit outside, we can do that and bring the food out to you,” the cook says to the men.

The men sit there awkwardly for a moment, then place their orders, stand, and walk to the front door. They leave the diner and head to a picnic table on the scrappy patch of lawn in the empty lot beside the building. There’s no umbrella or overhang to protect them from the blistering summer sun.

Mr. Hicks salts his fried ham steak and eggs, then taps his lips together, a sign that he’s thinking but prefers to keep his thoughts to himself.

“Shame,” Shirley says under her breath.

Florence isn’t sure what she means. Is it a shame the men weren’t served inside or a shame they wanted to be? Florence forces herself to eat even though her stomach protests.

Mr. Broughton attempts to change the topic entirely and asks Florence if she’s looking forward to her trip to the city with Jennie tomorrow. She politely answers, then someone else mentions the new Gregory Peck Western playing in the theatre there. And somehow that spins into a discussion about the almanac’s precipitation forecast for the coming winter. While the others converse, Florence occasionally steals glances out the window at the three men. Clearly manual labourers, likely hired on at a farm nearby from the looks of them. Steel-toed boots, jeans, and work shirts from Simpson’s. Dusty, sweat-stained collars like all the other farmers from town. The only differences are the shades of their skin, ranging from a dried foxtail to the deep brown of an old penny.

When the waitress clears their plates, it’s already a few minutes to one, but the Second-Floors order dessert, another round of coffees. It’s usual for them to take a lazy approach to Friday afternoon; some even nip out the door before five, but Florence often stays late. And though she’d thought she might partake in dessert today, she no longer wants to and would rather get back to the office. They tease her about this, her inability to relax, call her a robot that’s always wound up. But she prefers to work than loll about.

Florence reaches into her handbag for her coin purse.

“Put that away, Florence,” Mr. Hicks says.

They always pay the bill, but she never likes to assume.

“I’ll be right there.” Shirley sips her Coke through a straw.

“Take your time,” Florence says. They both know Shirley will return when the last of the Second-Floors straggle in.

The bells on the door chime as Florence exits the diner and steps out into the heat of the day. As she turns up the sidewalk, she bumps into one of the men from the picnic table, the one she made eye contact with. He’s carrying the greasy newspapers that held their burgers and fries.

“Excuse me,” he says, stepping to the side and dumping garbage into the bin near the door. Florence smiles politely and continues along the sidewalk, heading towards Bay Avenue where the trees, nearly touching at the top, will provide some welcoming shade.

“Florence!”

She’s almost at the corner when she hears her name.

“Florence!” the man calls again when she doesn’t respond.

She turns. The man from the picnic table jogs towards her, skin shiny with sweat and wrinkled at the tops of his cheeks from the smile stretching across his face. A hot breeze blows over her, so damp and heavy it’s hard to breathe.

“Florence, it’s me,” he says with that accent, that mix of French and Cree in a staccato cadence she remembers so well.

“I… I’m…” Florence stammers, sweat forming on her brow.

“Clancy,” he says, hands spread wide and eyes full of happiness.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “You must be confusing me with someone else.” A cold washes through her despite the heat.

He lets his hands drop and watches her a moment. “I know my own sister when I see her. It’s been—what? Over thirty years?” He waits for a reaction.

Florence looks away and tucks her purse tight under her arm.

“The hair is different, for sure, and you’re all done up in fancy clothes.” He smiles.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says, her voice clipped and measured.

She glances back at Nick’s. Sees heads turning to look through the window at the hubbub down the street. They’re watching every move, seeing what’s going on here on the sidewalk between her and… this man. Even Shirley, who’s seated near the aisle, is leaning far over to look out the window, her curious face peering through the glass.

“Florence?” Clancy asks, his tone changing. “No one knew what happened to you.”

“I’m not Florence.” It comes out harsh. “I mean… I’m Florence—Florence Banks. My last name is Banks.” She folds a stray lock behind her ear.

“Did you marry?” he asks, noticing the ring on her finger.

She tucks her hand out of view, then hears the diner door open. Mr. Hicks exits with Mr. Broughton hovering behind him.

“Florence, everything all right?” Mr. Hicks calls out.

“Yes, it’s fine. I’m fine,” Florence replies. She turns to Clancy. “I’m not who you think I am.”

Clancy watches her a moment, confused anger on his face, then he takes a step back from her, pulls a kerchief from the pocket of his jeans, wipes his brow. When he’s done, the anger is gone and his face is blank. “I understand. Sorry to have bothered you.” He turns his back on her and walks to the picnic table where his friends are waiting for him. After a minute, Mr. Hicks and Mr. Broughton go back inside Nick’s.

Florence’s body won’t move; she’s stuck there on the street. Should she go back to the diner, explain she was mistaken for someone else? Or maybe that would bring more attention? She wills her feet to move, one foot in front of the other, back towards the office. Type the covering letters for the information packages requested. Log this week’s expenditures. File all the papers on Mr. Hicks’s desk that he never puts away himself. Everything will be tidied before the end of the day.

Florence’s heels clip-clip on the sidewalk as she heads back to Pratt’s. Her blouse is wet under her arms, the band of her bra damp and constricting.