Hazel looked at herself in the full-length mirror and sighed. She tugged at her straight black skirt once more. When she’d married Harry in the early years of the war, he’d been a dashing American soldier and she a sassy British lass with a good job and better figure. Now, after three kids and a pound or more for every year that had passed, she looked more like her mother than she ever thought possible. But Harry still adored her and she him. And she loved living in the states, which was about the only reason she’d agreed to give this damned talk at the Women’s Club. Public speaking was not something she’d sought out, but she seemed to be doing it more and more during this 20th anniversary year of Victory in Europe. Truth be told, with the ugliness in Vietnam on the rise, Hazel found it easier and easier to speak about the horrors of war to people who had no clue what it was like to have bombed out buildings raining down all around them.
“Ugh, this girdle is killing me,” she muttered, as she grabbed her good purse to head out the door. “But anything for the cause.”