Janice asked dubiously.Carlucci’s Bar & Grill did not look like the sort of place one took young ladies for a romantic cocktail and supper.“I have to go in here for a minute,” Weston said. “Would you like to wait in the car?”Just over two hours previously, when Captain James B. Weston, USMCR, had taken possession of it, the interior of the 1941 dark green Buick Roadmaster convertible had reeked of tanned leather. It now smelled of whatever perfume Lieutenant (j.g.) Janice Hardison, NNC, had dabbed behind her ears—or in more intimate places—just before meeting him outside the gate of the Philadelphia U.S. Navy Hospital.It was a significant improvement, although, pre-Janice, Weston had always had a soft place in his heart for the smell of leather in a convertible.“You’re going in there?” Janice asked. “Why?”“It affects our future life together,” he said. “Beyond that, I’d rather not say. And I don’t think you would want to know.”“Jim, what are you up to?”
