Washington D.C.
March, 1983

Inter Agency Defense Command Director Steven Leonard Trevor Jr. was sitting at his desk, staring out the bank of windows on the clear spring Washington D.C. morning, when he got the call. The cherry trees in the Capital hadn't begun to bloom yet, but the cold gray slush that dominated the last legs of winter was finally melting, and green buds had begun to appear on the trees that lined the river. He could see men and women in business suits and overcoats walking to and from the office buildings and through the patches of green grass that had only just begun to spring up.

"Steve?" his assistant Corrine's voice came over the intercom, "There's a Mrs. Jacqueline Colby for you on line two."

"Colby?" he asked, trying to place the name.

"She said she and her husband live out in Arlington, something about their house? Should I tell her you're out and take a message?"

"I'm not busy. Go ahead and put her through."

"Mr. Trevor?" came a woman's voice over the tinny speaker and he picked up the handset, leaning back in his leather chair.

"This is Steve Trevor."

"I'm so sorry to bother you, and this might sound terribly odd, but by any chance, was your father also named Steve Trevor?"

"Yes, he was," Steve leaned forward, closer to the phone. "I'm sorry— he passed away several years ago. Did you know my father?"

"Oh, no. No, last fall my husband and I moved to Maywood, to 4210 Lorcom Lane."

"My God, I haven't through of that place in years! I grew up there. We sold after Dad passed away."

"I think we found a journal that I think might belong to your father."

"A journal?" he asked, surprised.

"We found it in the baby's room—I'm sorry, the west bedroom, over the living room?"

"That was my dad's office," he said, closing his eyes and picturing the room. The walls had been painted dark green and the big old mahogany desk that had taken up one whole wall was scarred and battered and beloved. When he was a child, he'd kept his favorite toys hidden in the rolltop desk. His father had spent hours in that office, writing letters, reading reports, and sometimes just reading or staring out the round window to the trees at the edge of the garden. He'd loved to come and sit in his dad's lap when he was small and stare at the medals and citations framed on the walls. "I packed it up myself—"

"It was in a biscuit tin, under the floorboards. We were getting a new floor put in and the workmen found it. There are some photos and letters stuck in it. One of the letters was addressed to Major Trevor at the Pentagon. Nathan—my husband, Nathan had his secretary run the name through the computer, that's how we found you. I hope you don't mind—"

"Mind? Mrs. Colby, it would mean a great deal to me if I could stop by this afternoon and pick it up?"

"I've got to pick up my son from school, but I should be home by four, four thirty. Would that be all right?"

"That would be fantastic. Thank you so much for calling."

"My pleasure. I'll see you this afternoon," she said and then hung up. He replaced the phone in its cradle, his mind racing. Turning in his chair, he opened the top drawer of the credenza and pulled out the leather scrapbook that sat at the bottom. He opened the first page to a newspaper clipping that showed a grainy photo of Wonder Woman and President Roosevelt. The musty smell of the old paper took him right back. He could remember all those afternoons pouring over his father's scrapbooks, listening to his dad tell him stories of working for the G2 during the War and how he and Wonder Woman had foiled the Nazis time and time again.

He tried to keep his mind on his job for the rest of the afternoon, but all he could think about was this unexpected link with his father. He finally gave up, asked Corrine to cancel his afternoon appointments, and went down to the garage to get in his car to try and beat the traffic out to Virginia.

The house in Maywood had changed since he had sold it in 1976. He paused for a moment, to catalog all the differences before ringing the bell. Pale yellow aluminum siding had replaced the old cracked wooden siding he remembered growing up and an addition had been added on the side where the old kitchen had been. But the cherry trees in the garden were still there, threatening to burst into white and pink blossoms any day. A boy's red and white bicycle with a banana seat and baseball cards stuck between the spokes leaned up against the porch railing and there were white lace curtains handing in the front window instead of the old wooden blinds he remembered. The wooden swing suspended over the porch that swung in the slight breeze was familiar, though. Smiling, he remembered many a summer's evening spent on the swing. With a sigh, he pressed the doorbell and heard a dog bark from the kitchen and footsteps on the stairs.

Jacqueline Colby was a pretty woman in her thirties, her dark hair pulled back in a barrette, and she had a toddler balanced on her hip as she answered the door. The baby had red hair, was chewing on a soft toy, and stared up at him with bright blue eyes.

"Wow. You look just like—I mean, there was a photo in the journal," she said as she opened the screen door and stepped aside so he could enter. "You favor you father really strongly."

"Thank you, I'll take that as a compliment," he grinned, and she showed him to the couch. It was against the same wall their couch had been, but the room was painted a cheery pale blue, no trace of the flowered wallpaper he remembered. A fireplace had been put in and there were comic books and action figures scattered on the floor in front of the hearth. Two GI Joe figures, one missing an arm, were holding a shoebox fort from a Darth Vader that had long since lost his cape and lightsaber and some stormtroopers. Sitting on the coffee table was a rusting biscuit tin adorned with paintings of kids on sleds. As they sat, a boy of about eight dashed through the living room, a cookie in his mouth and two more clutched in each fist.

"Corey, you'll spoil your supper!" she called after him, exasperated, but the kid-sized footsteps thundered up the stairs and . "You'll have to forgive my son—ever since he figured out he could get into the cupboards by pulling out the lower drawers and scaling the shelves, we've been hard pressed to hide the Oreos from him."

"Smart kid," Steve grinned.

"Too smart," she smiled and leaned forward to pick up the tin and hand it to him. "I'm afraid this was all we found—your dad was smart, putting it in the tin. We had some water damage last spring; that's why we were putting in the new floor. I can't imagine what shape it would be in otherwise."

"I can't thank you enough for contacting me," Steve said as he pried the lid free. Wrapped in wax paper in the tin was a journal, the brown leather spotted here and there, one corner slightly frayed. Tucked inside were several letters in yellowing envelopes and two black and white photos. The first was a snapshot of his father and mother he'd never seen before. They sat smiling on a bench, the beach behind them, and wind was blowing his mother's hair in her eyes. He lightly ran a finger over his mother's smile, his eyes suddenly smarting. He set the photo on top the tin and then peered at the photo beneath it. It was more worn than the first one, the corners cracked creased. It had been taken in a restaurant and the word "Capital" could be read on the window behind them, backwards so that it could be read from the street. His father was in full uniform and he recognized his Aunt Etta, but sandwiched between them was a dark-haired girl wearing glasses. His father's arm was around her and all three of them were smiling.

Steve couldn't breathe. Flipping the photo over, he saw "May 4, 1945" written in his father's hand on the back. No names. But then, he didn't need names, did he? He knew who she was.

"Mr. Trevor?" Mrs. Colby asked, concerned.

"It's nothing—I just . . . I've never seen this picture before," he said, trying to cover his shock. He tucked the photos back inside the journal and replaced it in the tin. "Mrs. Colby, thank you. I should be going." He stood and she shifted the baby to her other hip as she walked him to the door.

"It was a pleasure, and I hope you enjoy the journal!"

"I'm sure I will," he said absently over his shoulder as he headed down the steps.

It was getting dark when he pulled into the driveway and at first he was worried that she wasn't home. But lights blazed in the windows, and he could see a figure move across them as he got out of the car. The tin was sitting on the seat beside him and he opened it and took out the journal. He ran his fingers over the binding and took out the photo again to stare at it.

The porch light came on automatically as he got out of his car. There was a motion sensor on the edge of the garage. He rang the bell and waited.

The door swung inwards. "Steve!" she said, surprised to see him, her smile warm and inviting as she held open the door. "This is such a surprise. What brings you all the way out here?" she asked as he stepped inside.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Steve asked as he held out the picture. "Why didn't anyone ever tell me?"

"Oh my God," Etta Niles said as she raised her glasses to her eyes so she could peer at it.

"Have you read it yet?" she asked as she set the teapot down on a placemat on the kitchen table and reached for two mugs.

"Not yet. I came straight from the old house to here," Steve said as he took the mugs from her and poured two cups of tea. "I couldn't think—I mean, I didn't know what to think. God, I thought I introduced you two at the Christmas party back in '77."

"You did," she said, completely guileless.

"You never told me you'd already met," he countered, and she sighed.

"It wasn't my secret to tell," she said simply.

"The hell it wasn't!"

"Don't you raised your voice to me, young man." She hadn't had occasion to use that tone since her children had grown up and moved out on their own, but she still could use Mother Voice when she had to, and the effects on her godson were much the same as they had been on her own daughters. He was cowed, but there was still fire in his eyes as he took a sip of his tea and set it back down on the table, staring at the photo once again.

"Aunt Etta, come on. I'm not a kid anyone more. I'm not a little boy."

"I changed your diapers, mister. You'll always be a little boy to me," she reminded him. She took the photo from him and peered at it once more, her features softening. "We were so young," she said softly, and for a moment he could see the years fall away like a shroud. "It seems impossible that we were ever that young."

"Did you know?" he asked, and she didn't need to ask him what she'd known.

"No," she said, shaking her head. "Not until . . . not until she'd gone."

"He never talked about her."

"He talked about her all the time!" she laughed as she took sip of her tea.

Steve shook his head. "He talked about Wonder Woman all the time. There's a difference."

She sobered then, staring into the depths of her mug. "Yes. Yes, there was."

"What . . . what was she like?"

"The same as she is now. Except . . . " her brows drew together in a slight frown as she looked for the right words, "there was something about her. She was innocent. I think that was it. A real babe in the woods, really. Everything was new to her, everything. And she believed in other people so strongly. You couldn't help but try and live up to her expectations of you, as crazy as that sounds. She never said a bad word about anybody; she truly believed anyone could change. Could be a better person. No matter what they'd done."

"How did you know each other?"

"We worked together for three years. She was like my kid sister—or maybe my older sister. It's funny. I never had any sisters. She said she had too many. This," she said as she took the photo from him, "was taken at her going away party, actually."

"What happened?"

"The War in Europe ended, and she left. We—me and your Dad—we had no idea she'd ever come back. I think . . . Well, who knows. You can't change the past. God, I wish he could have seen her." She blinked rapidly, letting her glasses drop to hang around her neck on a gold chain, and dabbed at her eyes with the edge of a paper napkin. "Read it, Stevie."

"I'm almost afraid to."

"Don't be. Just . . . read it. It'll probably answer all the questions I can't."

Steve tossed his keys onto the kitchen counter as he came through the door of his condo, the journal and the Wonder Woman scrapbook tucked beneath his arm. He'd stopped by the office to pick it up. He wasn't sure why. Context, he supposed. This was his only context, and suddenly he had a whole new context. It added an edge of unreality to all of it—like he was sleepwalking.

He set them down on the coffee table and went to the liquor cabinet and poured himself a neat Scotch into a cut crystal glass. The message light was flashing on his answering machine, but he ignored it. Sitting down on the sofa, he stared at the journal like it was a snake and would bite him. He leaned forward and took the photos that stuck out between the pages and laid the photo of his parents on the glass table top and brought the snapshot of the three of them closer to the lamp so he could see it in the light.

He ran a fingernail over her smile. He'd seen that smile every morning for two years, and then she was gone. She'd picked up and left, and he'd never really understood why. He wondered if his father had. He wondered so many things . . .

Taking a swallow of the amber liquid, he opened to the first entry. His father's handwriting sprawled across the pages, the ink smudged here and there. His mother had always joked about his dad's handwriting—she called Sherry Williams a saint for putting up with it for so long. Mrs. Williams had worked for his dad right up until he retired in '72. He'd always assumed she'd been his assistant all through the War.

May 4, 1945, the back of the photo read. The first clipping in his dad's scrapbook was dated April '42.

He began reading.

Author's Note: Please, if there's anything that doesn't work for you, or is factually or grammatically incorrect, don't hesitate to tell me! Constructive criticism is the greatest gift you can give an author. I'm not a delicate flower who will curl up and die at the first sign of criticism. I want to make this story the very best I can, so please let me know what works for you, and more importantly, what doesn't.