table in the space that had magically appeared for her.
Calling on all her acting ability, Vi took the seat next to the soldier who had been staring at her, and smiled shyly. Tiny sparks of unease prickled her skin as she tucked her hair behind her ear. Lord above, she hoped she could pull off the innocent act this time and not let it slip like she had at the induction office. “I hope this seat wasn’t taken?”
“It’s n-not,” he stammered, his brown eyes as round as dinner plates. About her age, with thick chestnut hair and an adorable chin dimple, he didn’t look like someone who would deliberately want to ruin her life, but she had been wrong about such things before.
“Where are you from?” she asked, giving him her full attention. Might as well get this over with.
If she was going to be exposed for a fraud, it would happen in the next few seconds. And perhaps it would be better for it to happen here than overseas, since the army had just told them that disgraced USO performers would be responsible for their own tickets home.
She was painfully short on dough at the moment.
The soldier’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “Canton, Ohio, miss.”
“Canton? I’ve never been there,” she answered honestly, as a small spark of hope took hold. Maybe he hadn’t recognized her. “Is it nice?”
“Nice? It’s only the birthplace of the National Football League!” Marcie leaned over Vi and shot the soldier a mischievous smile. “Never mind my friend, here. I love football. It runs in the family. In fact my father nearly named me Cantonia to celebrate the Bulldogs winning the championship in ’23.”
The soldier laughed. “You’re kidding.”
“I wish.” Marcie rolled her eyes. “I was born the day after the game, and he was still in a good mood, having won a ton of money on the point spread.”
Vi stopped cutting her chicken and raised an eyebrow at her travel buddy in surprise. “Your father is a gambler?”
Most of the gamblers she knew were perpetually broke, and Marcie’s wardrobe was anything but cheap. Not that Vi begrudged the girl her expensive duds. Once upon a time she had worn nice clothes, too, not just secondhand outfits from better-off friends or ones she had sewn by hand.
A startled expression flashed over Marcie’s face, as if she had said something she hadn’t meant to. Then the smile was back in full shine, the moment gone. “He’s a businessman, actually. A kind of manager. If he places a bet, it’s only when he’s pretty sure he’ll win.”
“Nothing like a sure bet.” The soldier grinned and stuck out his hand to Marcie, practically knocking over Vi in the process. “Harvey Wilson.”
“Marcie May.”
The two shook hands, and Vi felt, for the first time in what had been a long while, invisible. It was a rather queer sensation, even though invisibility was the whole point of becoming Miss Heart. Still, it was going to take some getting used to.
While Marcie and Harvey continued their conversation, Vi stirred the canned peas on her plate into the mashed potatoes so they would stop rolling off her fork. Even though her attention kept drifting with fatigue, she learned that Marcie had grown up in New York City, which Vi had already guessed from her accent. That the girl adored football as much as she detested baseball, which was “a real snooze.” That she would love to ride on a motorcycle and, like Harvey, thought it would be fun to fly airplanes. But her father would never allow such dangerous activities.
When Marcie mentioned she had gone to an all-girl Catholic school, Vi wasn’t at all surprised. Even though she herself had been raised Lutheran, she’d had Catholic friends growing up, and their families were even stricter about rules and morals than hers had been.
“If I’d had longer legs, I would have been a Radio City Music Hall Rockette,” Marcie confided with a dramatic sigh to the soldier, who was all ears. “But Rockettes have to be at least five feet five inches, and I’m only five two.”
Vi stifled a snort. She doubted Marcie had been any closer to a Rockette audition than the sidewalk, given all the edicts of her father. But she kept the thought to herself as she pulled the breading off the chicken leg, looking for any sign of actual meat.
“It’s Radio City’s loss,” Soldier Wilson declared, looking outraged on Marcie’s behalf. “You’re prettier than all of them.”
Marcie blushed. “Why, thank you, Harvey.”
“Marcie, eat.”