I remember the story               
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 Holly 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 p.m. 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 p.m. 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 Holly 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 by 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 tell you that she is waiting for you in the big restaurant across the street. She said it was some kind of test!"