John Blanchard stood up from the bench, straightened his Army
uniform, and studied the crowd of people making their way through
Grand Central Station. He looked for the girl whose heart he knew,
but whose face he didn’t, the girl with the rose. His interest in
her had begun thirteen months before in a Florida library. Taking
a book off the shelf he found himself intrigued, not with the words
of the book, but with the notes penciled in the margin.

The soft handwriting reflected a thoughtful soul and insightful
mind. In the front of the book, he discovered the previous owner’s
name, Miss Hollis Maynell. With time and effort he located her
address. She lived in New York City. He wrote her a letter
introducing himself and inviting her to correspond. The next day
he was shipped overseas for service in World War II.

During the next year and one-month the two grew to know each other
through the mail. Each letter was a seed falling on a fertile heart.
A romance was budding. Blanchard requested a photograph, but she
refused. She felt that if he really cared, it wouldn’t matter what
she looked like.

When the day finally came for him to return from Europe, they
scheduled their first meeting - 7:00 PM at the Grand Central Station
in New York. “You’ll recognize me,” she wrote, “by the red rose I’ll
be wearing on my lapel.” So at 7:00 he was in the station looking for
a girl whose heart he loved, but whose face he’d never seen.

I’ll let Mr. Blanchard tell you what happened: “A young woman was
coming toward me, her figure long and slim. Her blonde hair lay back
in curls from her delicate ears; her eyes were blue as flowers. Her
lips and chin had a gentle firmness, and in her pale green suit she
was like springtime come alive. I started toward her, entirely
forgetting to notice that she was not wearing a rose. As I moved,
a small, provocative smile curved her lips. “Going my way, sailor?”
she murmured. Almost uncontrollably I made one step closer to her,
and then I saw Hollis Maynell. She was standing almost directly
behind the girl.

“A woman well past 40, she had graying hair tucked under a worn hat.
She was more than plump, her thick-ankled feet thrust into low-heeled
shoes. The girl in the green suit was walking quickly away. I felt as
though I was split in two, so keen was my desire to follow her, and
yet so deep was my longing for the woman whose spirit had truly
companioned me and upheld my own. And there she stood. Her pale,
plump face was gentle and sensible, her gray eyes had a warm and
kindly twinkle. I did not hesitate.

“My fingers gripped the small worn blue leather copy of the book
that was to identify me to her. This would not be love, but it would
be something precious, something perhaps even better than love, a
friendship for which I had been and must ever be grateful.

“I squared my shoulders and saluted and held out the book to the
woman, even though while I spoke I felt choked by the bitterness
of my disappointment. ‘”I’m Lieutenant John Blanchard, and you must
be Miss Maynell. I am so glad you could meet me; may I take you to
dinner?”‘

“The woman’s face broadened into a tolerant smile. ‘”I don’t know
what this is about, son,’” she answered, “‘but the young lady in the
green suit who just went by, she begged me to wear this rose on my
coat. And she said if you were to ask me out to dinner, I should go
and tell you that she is waiting for you in the big restaurant across
the street. She said it was some kind of test!”