Young Macgowan was cleaning up his affairs preparatory to enlisting in the Army. “I’ve got ten days left,” he told Ellery, “and a thousand things to do, one of which is to get married. I said it was a hell of a preliminary to a trip to Korea, but Laurel’s stuck her chin out, so what can I do?”
Laurel looked as if she were recuperating from a serious illness. She was pale and thin but at peace. She held on to Macgowan’s massive arm with authority. “I won’t lose you, Mac.”
“What are you afraid of, the Korean women?” jeered Crowe. “I’m told their favorite perfume is garlic.”
“I’m joining the WACs,” said Laurel, “if they’ll ship me overseas. I suppose it’s not very patriotic to put a condition to it, but if my husband is in Asia I want to be in the same part of the world.”
“You’ll probably wind up in West Germany,” growled the large young man. “Why don’t you just stay home and write me long and loving letters?”
Laurel patted his arm.
“Why don’t you just stay home,” Ellery asked Crowe, “and stick to your tree?”
“Oh, that.” Crowe reddened. “My tree is sold.”
“Find another.”
“Listen, Queen,” snarled Delia’s son, “you tend to your crocheting and I’ll tend to mine. I’m no hero, but there’s a war on ― beg pardon, a United Nations police action. Besides, they’ll get me anyway.”