Letters From Home
Letters From Home
Kristina McMorris
Two people. An unforgettable moment. One extraordinary love story.In Chicago, Illinois, two people are about to lock eyes across a crowded dance floor. The following moment will spark the love story of a lifetime…The year is 1944 and America has just entered the war. Young men and women are being drafted in to fight with their allies on Europe’s distant shores. Throughout America, sweethearts are saying their last goodbyes.Liz Stephens is already betrothed to budding US politician Dalton Harris, but when she meets GI Morgan McClain, she feels an instant and intense connection. But then he dances with her flirtatious best friend Betty and Liz is left feeling like just another soldier’s fancy.Betty is mesmerized by Morgan and begs Liz to write letters for her to post to him overseas. Liz reluctantly agrees, in the end anxious to retain a connection to him. As the last searing days of World War II loom, a correspondence begins that will alter the course of their lives forever.
LETTERS
FROM HOME
KRISTINA McMORRIS
Copyright
This novel is entirely a work of fiction.
The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
AVON
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd. 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
Copyright © Kristina McMorris 2011
Kristina McMorris asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication
Source ISBN: 9781847562418
Ebook Edition © 2011 ISBN: 9781847562920
Version: 2018-07-25
RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED
to the veterans of World War II, a generation of heroes who, like my grandfather, fought valiantly and courageously to secure freedom for us all.
And to the unsung heroes with nary a medal nor ribbon to show for their sacrifices— for ’twas the women who waited for their loved ones to return who truly gave purpose to their soldiers’ victory.
Each separate page was like a fluttering flower-petal, loosed from your own soul, and wafted thus to mine.
—Edmond Rostand, Cyrano de Bergerac, act iv, scene viii
Contents
Cover (#u6ec0f425-2c06-51f0-bd5a-fd2d55cce3c3)
Title Page (#uacc7c658-1697-5aa4-a516-ec6532b924fa)
Copyright
Epigraph (#ua7238c0c-1c51-597a-b376-4b98c32d4d4e)
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Acknowledgments
Author’s Note
Book Club “Victory Recipes” (#litres_trial_promo)
A Reading Group Guide (#litres_trial_promo)
Discussion Questions (#litres_trial_promo)
Read on for an exclusive interview with Kristina McMorris (#litres_trial_promo)
Letters from Home Kristina McMorris (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Author
Credits
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 1
July 4, 1944 Chicago, Illinois
Silence in the idling Cadillac grew as suffocating as the city’s humidity. Hands clenched on her lap, Liz Stephens averted her narrowed eyes toward the open passenger window. Chattering ladies and servicemen flocked by in the shadows; up and down they traveled over the concrete accordion of entrance steps. The sting of laughter and music drifted through the swinging glass doors, bounced off the colorless sky. Another holiday without gunpowder for celebration. No boom of metallic streamers, no sunbursts awakening the night. Only the fading memory of a simpler time.
A time when Liz knew whom she could trust.
“You know the Rotary doesn’t invite just anyone to speak,” Dalton Harris said finally. The same argument, same lack of apology in his voice. “What was I supposed to do? Tell my father I couldn’t be there because of some dance?”
At his condescension, her gaze snapped to his slate gray eyes. “That,” she said, “is exactly what you should’ve done.”
“Honey. You’re being unreasonable.”
“So it’s unreasonable, wanting us to spend time together?”
“That’s not what I meant.” A scratch to the back of his neck punctuated his frustration, a habit that had lost the amusing charm it held when they were kids. Long before the expensive suits, the perfect ties, the tonic-slickening of his dark brown hair.
“Listen.” His square jaw slackened as he angled toward her, a debater shifting his approach. “When I was asked to run my dad’s campaign, we talked about this. I warned you my schedule would be crazy until the election. And you were the one who said I should do it, that between classes and work, you’d be—”
“As busy as ever,” she finished sharply. “Yes. I know what I said.” With Dalton in law school and her a sophomore at Northwestern, leading independent but complementary lives was nothing new; in fact, that had always been among the strengths of their relationship. Which was why he should know their separate activities weren’t the issue tonight.
“Then what’s the problem?”
“The problem is, anything else pops up, campaign or otherwise, and you don’t think twice about canceling on me.”
“I am not canceling. I’m asking you to come with me.”
Liz had attended enough political fund-raisers with him to know that whispers behind plastered smiles and greedy glad-handing would be highlights of the night. A night she could do without, even if not for her prior commitment.
“I already told you,” she said, “I promised the girls weeks ago I’d be here.” The main reason she’d agreed, given her condensed workload from summer school, was to repay Betty for accompanying her to that droning version of Henry V last week—just so Dalton’s ticket hadn’t gone to waste. “Why can’t you make an exception? Just this once?”
He dropped back in his seat, drew out a sigh. “Lizzy, it’s just a dance.”
No, it’s not. It’s more than that. I have to know I can depend on you! Her throat fastened around her retort. Explosions of words, she knew all too well, could bring irreversible consequences.
She grabbed the door handle. “I have to go.” Before he could exit and circle around to open her side, she let herself out.
“Wait,” he called as she shut the door. “Sweetheart, hold on.”
The sudden plea in his voice tugged at her like strings, halting her. Could it be that he had changed his mind? That he was still the same guy she could count on?
She slid her hand into the pocket of her ivory wraparound dress, a shred of hope cupped in her palm, before pivoting to face him.
Dalton leaned across the seat toward her. “We’ll talk about this later, all right?”
Disappointment throbbed inside, a recurrent bruise. Bridling her reaction, she replied with a nod, fully aware her agreement would translate into a truce.
“Have a good time,” he said, then gripped the steering wheel and drove away.
As she turned for the stairs, she pulled her hand from her pocket, and discovered she’d been holding but a stray thread. The first sign of a seam unraveling.
In the entry of the dance hall, Liz stretched up on the balls of her feet to see over hats and heads. Her gaze penetrated the light haze of smoke to reach the stage. There, uniformed musicians played from behind star-patterned barricades of red, white, and blue. Flags and an oversized United Service Organization banner created a vibrant backdrop, Americana at its finest. In front of the band, her roommate Betty Cordell and two other women shared a standing microphone, harmonizing the final notes of “Don’t Sit Under the Apple Tree.”
The audience broke into applause.
“Swell,” Liz groaned. She’d missed Betty’s entire debut.
Correcting her presumption, the trio jumped into another jingle.
“Thank God.” Though not a particularly religious person, Liz figured it never hurt to offer a small token of appreciation to the Almighty.
Now to find her other roommate, Julia Renard. Despite the teeming room, it took only a moment to spy the girl’s fiery, collar-length curls, her ever-chic attire.
Liz wove through the sea of military uniforms and thick wafts of Aqua Velva. Ignoring a duet of catcalls, she slid into the empty chair next to her friend. “I’m so sorry I’m late.”
“Let me guess,” Julia ventured in her honey-sweet voice. “Mr. Donovan lost his dentures, or Thelma refused to take her pills, convinced you’re trying to poison her.”
Liz edged out a smile.
“You know, it wouldn’t kill you to get off work at a decent hour. You’re making the rest of us look bad.” She used her thumb to wipe something off Liz’s cheek. “So, is Dalton parking the car?”
Liz tried for a casual shrug. “A political thing came up at the last minute.” Again trailed her statement as the unspoken word.
“Oh,” Julia replied. Not even her glowing smile could hide the sympathy invading her copper eyes.
“It’s fine,” Liz insisted. “I can’t stay long anyway. I’ve got an essay on Hawthorne due Friday.”
Julia nodded, then detoured from the awkward pause. “Hey, I think I still have notes on Hawthorne from last semester. Want to borrow them?”
“Sure, thanks,” Liz said, before considering the source. “Unless you’ve got doodle designs covering the actual notes.”
Julia scrunched her mouth, pondering. “Well, there might be a few. . . .”
Liz couldn’t help but giggle. If past lives existed, Julia had to have been an elite fashion designer with a permanently attached sketchpad. A keen knack for sewing served as further proof, as showcased by their roommate’s new dress.
“Speaking of which.” Liz motioned toward Betty. “You’ve really outdone yourself, Jules.” In the center of the crooning trio, the blonde sparkled in the form-fitted garment matching her ocean blue eyes. The fabric and buttons were so dazzling, Julia had obviously purchased the materials herself. No doubt the dress was already Betty’s favorite. From the exquisite sweetheart neckline to the elegant flow around her hips, every stitch perfectly flattered her hourglass curves. “Rita Hayworth?” Liz guessed at the inspiration.
“Yep,” Julia said proudly. “From the gown in Blood and Sand. Except I shortened it to the knee, and improved on the sleeves.”
“You’re amazing.” Too amazing to waste your talent solely as a homemaker, she wanted to say. But there was no need traversing that well-covered territory.
“It was nothing.” Julia blushed, waved her off. “You want something to drink?”
Liz only intended to stay for three songs, four tops. But some coffee to ripen her brain for a long night of reading wasn’t a bad idea. “A cup of joe would be great.”
“Coming right up.”
As Julia headed toward the snack table by the stage, Liz settled in her seat. She massaged the tension out of her palms and returned her attention to Betty. In a seasoned motion, the girl tossed her finger-waved mane off her shoulders. The bounce of her hips succeeded as a diversion from her moderate singing ability, evidenced by the front line of awestruck troops, her ideal audience.
Leave it to Betty. Up there, living carefree, without regrets. No academic pressures, no parents’ expectations looming overhead—
Jealous souls will not be answered. The passage interrupted Liz’s thoughts, one of many Shakespearean quotes she had memorized from her father’s personal tutorials.
“One quote for every sun kiss,” he would say during the lessons that ended far too soon.
Now, glancing down at the constellation of freckles on her arms, Liz recalled those long-gone days. She considered the morals her father had passed along, and wondered how different their lives would be if only she’d abided by them.
“What the hell are you up to now?” Morgan McClain demanded as his brother ducked behind his back.
“Don’t move. Need you to cover me.” Charlie raised his shoulders to his sandy blond crew cut.
When Morgan glimpsed the silver flask in his brother’s hand, he shook his head. Charlie wasn’t the only enlisted man at the dance calling for “liquid reinforcement,” just the only one daring enough to dip into his supply ten feet from the volunteers’ snack station. Luckily, the herd of GIs standing around them at the foot of the stage offered plenty of khaki camouflage. Or at least Morgan clung to that hope as his brother choked on the drink. Whiskey, from the smell of it.
“Hurry up, will ya?” Morgan told him. Typically, he would have voiced his disproval, but with Charlie’s tension over tomorrow’s departure vibrating the air, he decided to let it go. So long as the kid didn’t get carried away.
“Ahh, much better,” Charlie rasped, emerging from the protective shadow. He stepped up behind a couple of GIs from another outfit, both of them wolf whistling at the platinum blond singer on stage. “Sorry, fellas”—Charlie clapped them on the back—“but she’s already agreed to mother my fourteen children.”
“Don’t fool yourself, shorty,” the tall guy spat out. “You wouldn’t know how to use it even if you could find it.”
Charlie straightened, adding a few inches to his compact stature. “Hey, at least I have one, spaghetti bender.”
“What’d you say?” The Italian GI angled his head over his wide shoulder.
“You heard me.” Charlie took a step back. He rocked from side to side, dukes raised like Jack Dempsey.
As usual, Morgan would have to shut him up before a bigger guy’s right hook beat him to it. “Zip it, Charlie,” he ordered, then regarded the Italian. “Don’t pay him any mind. It’s his first day out of the loony bin.” Not a stretch to believe, considering the mismatched challenge.
The GI’s mouth twitched, from either amusement or agitation. To be safe, Morgan gestured to the stage and said, “Don’t look now, but I think that red-hot tomato’s got her eye on you, pal.” The sentence launched the soldier’s attention back to the bombshell, where it stuck like glue.
Problem handled.
Except for the instigator.
“So help me, Charlie,” Morgan muttered, “if you weren’t . . . my . . . if . . .” The lecture dissolved at a vision beyond his brother’s shoulder. Across the room a petite beauty sat alone, swaying to the music. Strands of chestnut brown hair slipped from the knot at the nape of her neck, a frame for her heart-shaped face. Creamy skin, feminine curves, full, rounded lips. Each feature was no less than eye catching, but it was the way she moved—like wheat in a summer breeze—that mesmerized him.
“Hey, you okay?”
Morgan heard the question but didn’t realize it was directed at him until a fluttering object broke the trance: a wave of Charlie’s fingers.
“Huh? Uh, yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.”
Charlie swept a glance over the room, tracing the distraction. Soon a gleam appeared in his hazel eyes. “Aha, I see . . .” He twisted around and declared, “Gentlemen, we’ve located our primary target. We’re goin’ in.”
Before Morgan could object, his brother began pressing him through the crowd like a restive racehorse into the starting gate. GIs whooped, whistled, and hollered “attaboys” in his direction. If he retreated now, the razzing would only worsen.
He pulled a deep breath. Adjusting his tucked necktie, he imagined introducing himself; he got as far as his name when a red-haired woman joined the brunette’s table. A growing audience. His shoes turned to cinder blocks. He raised an arm to stop his brother, who swooped under and pounced into place, blocking the women’s view of the stage.
“Pardon me, ladies,” Charlie said. “We’re in dire need of your assistance.”
“Why? You lost, soldier?” the redhead teased.
“Not anymore.” He grinned, sporting his dimples. “Now that I’ve found my way to your heart.”
When the gals exchanged incredulous looks, Morgan considered sneaking away, preserving his dignity while the possibility remained. But the mere sight of the brunette’s profile locked his knees. Unbelievably, she was even prettier up close.
“Wait a minute,” Charlie went on. “I think we’ve met you girls before. You’re Gor and Geous, ain’t ya?” Their lack of response didn’t faze him. “All right, what are your lovely names, then?”
Nothing. Just blank stares.
“Afraid I’m not going anywhere till I know.” Charlie crossed his arms and waited, a rare showing of following through.
The brunette released a sharp sigh. “Fine. I’m Liz, this is Julia, and you’re leaving.”
Morgan pressed down a grin.
“Leaving?” Charlie repeated. “How could I, after finding the two prettiest gals in the city?”
Julia shook her head. “Has any of this actually worked on a girl before?”
“She means a human girl,” Liz added.
“Ouch!” Charlie stumbled backward as though her insult had struck more than his ego. “You sure know how to hurt a guy.” For the pathetic come-on alone, Morgan could think of a worse punishment.
“Goodness me,” Liz exclaimed, hand on her chest. “Where are my manners?”
“Not to worry, apology accepted.” Charlie’s assurance drove straight through her sarcasm, arching her brow. “Besides. I owe you an apology as well, for not introducing myself properly.”
The situation was deteriorating. But it wasn’t too late. If Morgan moved now, blended into the crowd, he just might escape the quicksand of humiliation. His brother could find his way back on his own.
“My name’s Charlie,” he said as Morgan edged away, “but good friends and peachy gals like you call me Chap. And this dashing gentleman over here is my brother, Staff Sergeant Morgan McClain.”
Staff sergeant? Morgan bristled at the lie, and found himself trapped by their gazes. He held his breath, arms at his sides, as if preparing for Saturday inspection.
Liz stretched her neck over her shoulder, curiosity forcing a peek. With Morgan’s charcoal black hair and olive complexion, she questioned if he and the fair-skinned knucklehead were actually brothers.
“Evening,” Morgan said, the word barely audible. A fitted service shirt outlined his broad build. His facial features were of the average sort, but he had an allure about him, an unnamable quality Liz couldn’t dismiss.
“Hi,” she replied as Charlie continued.
“Honestly, ladies, here’s our situation.” His serious tone implied a change in strategy. “You see, me and Morgan, we’re leaving for war soon. As two of the U.S. Army’s finest, we’ll be fighting on the front lines. So without much time left to live, I’ve got just one thing I’m wishin’ for.” He knelt, presenting Julia his palm. “To dance with this red-haired knockout before I go.”
“Sorry, Casanova, but I’m already spoken for.” She held up her left hand to display her engagement ring. Daily polishing, since her fiancé’s fleet shipped out a month ago, kept the gold shiny as new.
“Well, then . . .” The gears clearly cranked away in Charlie’s mind. “How ’bout a dance to celebrate your engagement?”
Liz replied for her. “How ’bout we celebrate when your squad tosses you overboard?” She heard Morgan quietly laugh, a second before his brother directed his plea to Liz.
“C’mon,” he said. “Is this how you thank a man who’ll be risking his life for your freedom?”
She felt a smile threatening to surface. “If you got these lines out of a book from the drugstore, you should really get your nickel back.”
“Hey, I’m just trying to save your friend Julie, here, from years of guilt. Imagine the headlines: ‘Soldier denied a final dance . . . dies for his country . . .’”
Julia giggled, hand covering her mouth. “Okay, okay.” She rolled her eyes. “One song.” Together they headed toward the dance floor, where skirts flared and couples dipped to the band’s emboldening tune.
After a moment, Morgan stepped closer and pointed to Julia’s chair. “May I?”
“Why not,” Liz said, a verbal shrug. Her night was tumbling downhill at avalanche speed. Rather than curling up at home, losing herself in classical literary works, she was stuck in a dance hall packed with slick soldiers on the prowl.
Morgan sat beside her, their shoulders only inches apart. If this guy was hunting for a khaki-whacky girl, he was barking up the wrong table. She leaned away, just as Charlie began spinning Julia round and round like a top. Liz grew hopeful that her friend would rush back, ready to head out. But then both dancers broke into a fit of laughter, confirming Liz was on her own.
“So—” Morgan cleared his throat. “You’re Liz?”
“You’re not going to use your brother’s goofy lines, are you?”
“No, miss. I was—just asking about your name.”
The sincerity in his voice underscored her own brusqueness. He hadn’t done anything to deserve such treatment. At least not yet. “I’m sorry,” she said, softening. “Yes, it’s Liz.” As she extended her hand, his mouth curved into a smile.
“It’s real nice to meet you,” he said.
Something about his touch caused her pulse to sprint. She released her grasp and sipped her coffee, despite it being a few degrees too hot. “So tell me, why do they call your brother Chap?”
“It’s short for Charlie Chaplin. Got the name ’cause he loves making people laugh.”
As if on cue, Charlie hopped around Julia like an island native performing a tribal mating ritual. His partner appeared as entertained as spectators on the sideline.
Liz tightened her lips, but a giggle snuck through. “And you really claim that guy as your brother?”
Morgan hesitated before nodding slowly. “Yep. But only by blood.” A caring glimmer shone in his eyes, emerald gems speckled with gold. A miner’s prized find.
Her leg started to quiver. Surely a side effect of the coffee and a tiring day of work. She tamed her knee. “I assume you’ve got a nickname too?”
“Just Mac, short for McClain. Nothing fancy.”
“Well,” she said, “at least it’s nothing to blush over. My roommate’s told me about plenty I wouldn’t dare repeat.”
“I can imagine.” He grinned. “Suppose I should be grateful Farm Boy didn’t stick.”
The mention of a life so different from her own intrigued her. “Then you’re a farmer?”
He half shrugged, a movement suggesting embarrassment. “My uncle owns a good chunk of land in southern Illinois. I’ve been managing it the past few years.”
“What kind of farm is it?”
“You mean the crops?”
She nodded.
“Feed corn mostly. And we alternate with soybeans. Rotated the lower half last season and—” He bit off the ending, rubbed the faint cleft in his chin. “Probably more than you wanted to know.”
“Not at all. Really. I’m interested.” More than she should have been.
“Guess you can tell, us plow jockeys don’t get out a whole lot.”
“Except for USO dances and taking out your girlfriends, right?” It was a forward question, but if only he’d confess he had a sweetheart, Liz could stop her nerves from jittering.
“Charlie does do more wooing than working,” he admitted. “But me, afraid I don’t do much else but tend the fields.”
She caught herself in a smile, a betrayal in its fervor.
“And what do you do,” he asked, “when you’re not at USO dances?”
Propriety prompted her to enlighten him about her courtship with Dalton and their path to matrimony, an eventual yet inevitable step in her practical plan—a checklist to a respectable future. In-stead, she replied, “Guess I spend most of my time studying. That and taking care of elderly folks, a job I love for some reason.” She wrinkled her nose. “Sounds odd, I know.”
The polite, humoring head shake she expected didn’t come. Rather, he seemed to examine the words, taking them in. “Not a thing wrong with helping out people who need it.” He peered at her with those polished green gems, their deep shade nearly hypnotic. “So what are you studying, Liz?”
“Well—I’m . . .” She had to sift her mind for the answer. When had this become a hard question? “English,” she remembered. “I want to be a literature professor.”
“Wow, that’s wonderful.” He sounded genuinely impressed. A nice contrast to those who viewed her desire to work as an assault on the family structure. “What made you decide on that?”
“It’s what my father does.”
Morgan nodded, then asked, “But, what made you want to be a teacher?”
She stumbled over the inquiry—direct, thoughtful, unexpected. Her father’s legacy had always sufficed as a natural explanation; no one had ever bothered to probe further.
“Sorry.” He shifted in his chair. “Didn’t mean to put you on the spot.”
At a loss for an answer, she merely gave a nod, then opted for deflection. Or perhaps she yearned to know more about him. “And what about you? Any plans after the service?”
“Oh, we’ll likely buy up some acreage. Charlie’s pushing for cattle ranching, but we’ll see.”
“Ahh,” she said, head tilted. “But what is it that you want?”
He grinned broadly, a nonverbal touché, and replied, “To put down roots, I suppose. Raise a family. Can’t imagine anything more important.”
The warmth in his words reached for her heart like invisible hands. Fortunately, she spied the single-striped chevron at the top of his sleeve—private first class—grounds for challenging his integrity. “By the way,” she said, “when did you get promoted to staff sergeant?”
He half glanced at his shoulder and his expression dropped. “Um, well, you see. I’m not exactly . . . a staff sergeant. Yet.”
With Betty as a roommate, Liz had learned a great deal about military insignias. The fact that his rank was three grades lower than the one boasted by his brother didn’t mean a thing to Liz. What did matter was his evident penchant for honesty. Which only made him more likable.
“My brother,” he apologized, “he’s a bit of an Irish storyteller.”
“Mmm.” She feigned contemplation. “You are in the service, though, right?”
A slight smile returned. “After all our training, I sure as heck hope so.”
“It’s a good thing you went Army, then. I hear basic’s a lot harder in the Navy and Marines.”
At that, his mouth retracted, leaving him speechless. Liz tried to keep a straight face but failed.
Tentative, he shook his head before easing out a laugh. “Are you always this nice to fellas you just met?”
“Just the special ones.” The admission rolled out before she could stop it. Oddly, however, she felt no need to backpedal; they seemed anything but strangers.
“In that case,” he said, “I’ll take it as a compliment.”
Behind Morgan, an attractive woman in a WAVES uniform rose at the neighboring table. She linked arms with an airman, who bid farewell to his buddies, and the couple set off through the crowd.
It suddenly occurred to Liz that she had landed herself in the worst kind of room, one full of impending good-byes. Distant memories seeped about her. As she refocused on Morgan, words never far from the clutches of her mind spilled out. “So when are you leaving?”
He paused. The question ironed the crinkles from the corners of his eyes. “We’re heading for our post tomorrow.”
It was a reply she should have anticipated. Still, her heart sank.
“Wanna know the truth?” He leaned toward her as if passing along a secret, his forearm on the table approaching hers. “I’m still hoping they’ll have second thoughts about trusting my brother with a loaded weapon.”
She nodded as he sat back, and found herself equally disappointed and grateful he’d increased the space between them. “Well, that may not be an issue. Rumor has it, the war could be over any day now.”
“Yeah, well. Whatever you do, don’t tell Charlie. If he doesn’t see at least one battle, he’ll never speak to me again.”
“Oh? Why’s that?”
“I made him wait till he turned eighteen.” Morgan traced the edge of the table with his thumb. “Even took a deferment to give him time to grow up.”
“And you think that worked?” she mused.
“Based on what we’ve seen tonight, I’d say definitely not.” With a wink, he turned to watch the dancers. Aside from the premature gray sprinkled above his ears, he appeared just a few years older than Liz. Only from careful observation of his eyes did she sense a forced maturity, a cheated youth. An accumulation of endured hardships intended for a man far surpassing Morgan’s age.
“I swear,” he said, “that kid has added ten years to me.” He gave the side of his head a gentle scratch as if he’d read her thoughts.
“Sounds like he’s kept your life exciting, at least.”
“That he has.” When Morgan faced her, their gazes did more than meet; they locked in place, forming an open passageway. Her natural reflexes should have intervened, broken the connection, but those reflexes were no match for the invitation in his eyes. Without reason or reservation, she felt her soul accepting.
“I’m done,” Julia said breathlessly, materializing out of no where. Her presence tugged Liz back to reality, reminded her of the performance that had brought her here. She glanced at the stage. A tuxedoed soloist had replaced the trio. Betty must have been primping for fans in her dressing room.
“What happened to your partner?” Liz asked, not seeing Charlie.
“Oh, don’t worry about him.” Julia flicked her hand behind her. “He’s already found a new victim. Thank goodness.”
Morgan stood and offered the chair to Julia.
“That’s okay, I’m not staying,” she said, grabbing her beaded purse.
Liz’s shoulders tensed. “You’re ready to leave?”
“Suzie and Dot are here. We’re going to Tasty’s to grab a bite. Want to come?”
Morgan retook his seat, appearing watchful of Liz’s response.
“You go on ahead,” she replied. “I’ll be home after the show.” Even in her own ears, the words seemed to have come from someone other than herself.
Julia rumpled her brow, then extended a curious smile. “You two have a good night.” Once out of Morgan’s eyeshot, she gave Liz a look that said she expected a full explanation in the morning.
Liz urged her legs to follow—after all, what was she doing?— but then a series of notes overpowered the thought. A slow version of “Stormy Weather.” A melody of her past, towed through every dramatic measure.
“This tune”—Morgan gestured toward the band—“reminds me of my mom. Sang it around the house all the time.”
“Really?” Liz remarked at the coincidence. She tried to think of how many times she’d heard the original playing behind her mother’s locked bedroom door. Must have been a thousand. Liz had every reason to hate the song, yet somehow it persisted as one of her favorites. “Mine liked it too,” was all she added.
Eyes toward the singer, Morgan shook his head. A tender smile played on his lips. “Funny. She always made it sound so upbeat, I never noticed how sad the words are till now.”
Liz listened to the lyrics, about gloom and misery, and realized she hadn’t either. She verged on volunteering as much, but the glow in his expression stole her focus. Before she knew it, her gaze sloped down his arms, leaving her to imagine how they would feel wrapped around her.
When the tune ended, she jerked her eyes away, hoping he couldn’t actually read her mind. Then another ballad began, “At Last,” based on the opening bars. A horn sang soft and sultry and filled the silence between them. A silence that suddenly gaped for miles as he fidgeted in his chair. Staring in the other direction, he tapped his heel at quickstep tempo, as though antsy to reach the exit. She wanted to say something, yet nothing came to her. Their wordlessness dragged every second into a torturous crawl. Unsure of what to do, she peeked at her watch to verify time hadn’t stopped.
“So, Liz,” he said finally, “would you mind if I, um, asked you to dance?”
She was so relieved he had spoken it took her a moment to weigh his invitation.
It was a slow number.
She should decline.
Then again, he was leaving tomorrow.
“Sure—I mean, no, I wouldn’t mind.”
They rose and walked to the edge of the dance floor. As she slipped her hand into his, unfamiliar nerves rippled up her sides. His other hand cupped the small of her back and drew her close. She fought the trickle of a chill on her neck, willed moisture into her mouth gone dry.
This was a mistake, she warned herself. Still, she rested a palm on his broad shoulder, the starched fabric separating her from the skin beneath. At the shift of his muscles, the feel of his gaze, her heart pounded twice as fast as the beat. She didn’t take in a single lyric, yet everything about the song was perfect. It seemed the spiraling combination of notes was commanding her emotions to lead; her body to follow.
She turned her head and closed her eyes. Vanilla, lemon, and cedar—the scent of his talc or aftershave was soft but masculine. The slight rasp of his chin brushed against her temple; a rush of warm breath passed by her cheek. She tightened her grip on his shoulder as subtly as she could. Cracking her eyelids, she noted goose bumps prickling her arms. She desperately hoped he didn’t notice the effect he had on her. Unless he felt the same.
What was she thinking? They’d only just met. Sensible. She needed to be sensible.
Then his hand adjusted on her back. His fingers moved up slightly, pulling her closer. Never before had she been so aware of being touched. The air enveloping them thickened, a dense cloud, smothering sensibility.
She relaxed her neck, her shoulders, her rules. Unable, unwilling to stop herself, she angled toward his gaze. Her mind reached for his lips, and—
“Watch it!” a stranger’s voice shrilled.
Liz startled back to the room, and to the sailor falling straight into them. Morgan tried to slant her out of the way, but wasn’t fast enough to dodge the man’s red drink. It splattered an S down the side of her dress.
“Hey, I’m soor-ry,” the stocky guy slurred. He floundered off, rubbing his hairless head.
“You okay?” Morgan touched her bare arm.
Chills again. She pulled the damp portion of her dress from her legs. “I just need to clean up in the powder room.”
“Take your time,” he told her, and smiled.
She turned to hurry away, not from anxiousness to leave, but rather to return.
With the fog Morgan found himself in, he almost wondered if fumes from his brother’s whiskey were to blame. Liz had disappeared into the crowd, yet here he was, grinning like a possum. He couldn’t stop. He’d never met anyone so captivating. From her amber eyes that glowed and dimmed with her mood to the fragrance of a lavender field on her soft skin. More attractive still was the blend of her gentleness and outward strength.
But there was something else. A feeling of understanding, a comfort that defied reason. It was as though kissing her, a near stranger, would have made all the sense in the world.
He’d certainly had the impulse. Maybe he should have acted on it. Most guys at the dance would have done so without a second thought. At this very moment, his brother was likely coercing a smooch out of some girl in the room, a last favor before heading off to war.
The war.
How could he have forgotten?
Tomorrow they’d be at Union Station, one step closer to deploying to some country thousands of miles from home—and a world away from Liz.
Would a girl like that be willing to wait for a soldier she’d only known a single night? Or was he screwy to even consider the idea?
He drained a sigh heavy with doubt.
“Don’t tell me you lost that dame already.” Charlie’s voice turned Morgan around.
“She’s in the ladies’ room.” Promptly diverting, he said, “So what happened with the redhead? Not as irresistible as you thought you were, huh?”
“She was engaged. Doesn’t count. Besides, Jack says there’s a juice joint nearby, lots of gals there dying to show their patriotism.”
“Hope they don’t charge much.”
“Hey, I didn’t crack open my piggy bank for nothin’.” Charlie beamed. “I’m guessing you’re not going anywhere?”
“Think I’ll stick around awhile.” The answer formed so effortlessly Morgan almost missed the pricking of his conscience. When the town sheriff caught little Charlie drilling peepholes at Mrs. Herman’s Lingerie Boutique, their father had made it abundantly clear Morgan was responsible for keeping tabs on his brother. A passage of years hadn’t relinquished the duty; if anything, need for the role had risen.
But tonight, with the promise of Liz’s return, how could Morgan leave?
“Now, if the skirt comes to her senses,” Charlie said, “and decides to hide in the john all night, be sure to come looking for us.”
“Yeah, all right. Stay out of trouble, though, you hear?”
“Absolutely.” Charlie grinned and snaked off toward his buddies by the door.
“I mean it, Charlie!”
The kid raised his hand as if to affirm he was going to heed the order. Morgan knew better, of course. And he certainly knew better than to turn his brother loose with a flask of booze and their buddy Jack Callan on their last night in the city.
The thought ignited a flicker of regret, doused the instant Morgan’s nose caught a residual whiff of Liz’s perfume. Proof of her existence on his shirt. A reminder that he really had no choice.
Preparing for her reappearance, he spiffed up his necktie, then swiped his hands over his hair, due for another buzz cut. In the midst of sliding his watch down over his wrist bone, he halted at the color of red: a cluster of punch spots, spiked punch at that, tainting the cuff of his sleeve. “Ah, damn.”
Liz had only been gone a minute or two. He still had time before she finished cleaning up. Although finding a miraculous stain remover was a long shot, he had to try. The last thing he needed was a commander’s reprimand, followed by hours of scrubbing latrines. And more important, looking like a slob wasn’t how he hoped to come across to the woman he wanted to impress.
At the snack table, a matronly volunteer extended her sympathy and set off to retrieve a bottle of seltzer. While he waited, a couple nearby Lindy Hopping caught his eye. The Marine tossed the girl around his back, then flipped her like a hotcake. His feet swiveled and scooted and shuffled. He may not have been the smoothest swinger in the room, but the fellow could pass as Gene Kelly next to Morgan’s own less-than-snappy footwork.
Inwardly, Morgan kicked himself. He should have taken notes instead of heckling his brother when their mother used to lead Charlie in the box step around the kitchen. Then he wouldn’t have wasted two songs mustering the courage to ask Liz to dance. Too bad he wasn’t as skilled with a dance partner as he was with a plow.
“Hey, toots! How about a twirl?” The husky voice boomed from a few yards behind. No surprise, it was the same chief petty officer who had separated him from Liz, only now he was falling all over someone deliberately: the curvy blond singer appearing from a door by the stage. She swatted at the guy’s hands, but his groping continued until she gave him a shove. Turning to break away, she lost her footing and stumbled forward. Morgan’s arms swung outward, barely catching her.
“Gimme a chance, doll face!” The Navy man staggered closer.
She gazed at Morgan with big blue eyes. “Save me,” she pleaded in a whisper.
His first instinct called for a harsh warning toward her inebriated fan, and, if that didn’t work, an invitation to step outside. However, based on stories he’d heard while at basic, Morgan knew better than to tangle with a superior of any branch. He’d have to get creative.
“Excuse me, Chief.” He positioned his body to guard the singer. “But I promised my fiancée, here, a dance.”
The man pulled his chin back over his neck. He scrunched his face like a bulldog being challenged. “Fiancée, huh?”
Morgan straightened, inched a step forward. “Yes, sir. High school sweethearts.”
The Navy man scrutinized the couple with his bloodshot eyes. His pulse visibly throbbed on the side of his head, bald as a billiard ball. Suddenly, he flared a grin and stuck out a swaying hand. “Well, congrad-julations!”
Relieved, Morgan accepted the guy’s ironclad grip while leaning away from the smell of sweat and bourbon seeping from his pores.
“Let’s go, honey bear.” The blonde latched onto Morgan’s arm. “They’re playing our song.” She pulled him free and towed him to the dance floor. The horn section, rocking in unison, blasted lively notes toward the high ceiling.
With no sight of Liz yet, he took the singer’s hands. He did his best to spare her toes through the basic steps of a jitterbug. Thankfully, the tune ended within a few bars and the petty officer, though still in view, had about-faced. Seizing the opportunity to exit, Morgan released the woman’s hands.
“Can’t leave me yet, Private.” She drew him back for the crooner’s ballad. “We didn’t finish our wedding dance.” Her arms wrapped around his neck, guiding him into a close sway.
He swallowed a gulp of air. Obviously, city girls were bolder than the small-town gals he’d grown up with.
“Miss, I’d love to keep dancin’, but—”
She peered at him with a seductive glint. “Oh, come now. I have to thank you for your help somehow. And you did promise me a dance.” A smile slid across her lips before she rested her chin on his shoulder. Just then, the petty officer shifted his stance to face them. Upon catching Morgan’s eye, the guy tapped an arm of the sailor standing beside him. “Hey!” they yelled raggedly, and raised their cups in a distant toast.
Morgan lifted his chin in acknowledgment. For the singer’s sake, he’d wait for the song to end before leaving the floor discreetly—unless, that is, he glimpsed Liz’s chestnut hair, her heavenly face.
“I’m Betty, by the way,” the blonde said.
“I’m Morgan . . . McClain,” he said in pieces. His gaze hopped back and forth between the drunken bookends and the far corner of the dance floor, the exact spot where Liz had woven into the crowd and would presumably emerge.
“Well, thank you for rescuing me, Morgan.” Betty’s fingertips grazed the small scar on the side of his neck, a permanent reminder of the day he’d saved Charlie from a fatal dive down a grain chute. Man, he wished his brother were here to repay the favor by cutting in.
Charlie would think he was nuts, of course. Betty had to be the most sought-after girl in the place. Regardless, there was only one woman Morgan wanted to be with.
Alone in the ladies’ room, Liz felt a new chapter in her life unfolding. She was a six-year-old waking to her first snowfall, a kid in a general store given free rein over the candy barrels.
Calming herself, she set aside the hand towel she’d used to blot her dress. Looking in the mirror, she tucked in her loose hair. The makeup she’d applied that morning had almost completely faded. She pinched her cheeks and licked her lips. She felt like a starlet standing by for a knock on her dressing room door.
Five minutes, Miss Stephens, before we shoot the kissing scene with the soldier.
Suddenly Liz could see the world as Julia did, through a soft cinema lens where boy met girl and all lived happily ever after. Where obstacles fell away like mist, temporary and translucent. Where you were held accountable only for actions wedged between the opening and closing credits.
She could have that, couldn’t she? A clean slate, a happily ever after?
Don’t be silly, the skeptic in her sneered. Such a reality only existed in the movies. Her parents had taught her that. And what was she going to do? Jeopardize her relationship with Dalton for a GI she barely knew, one who’d soon be on his way?
Thank heavens for the sailor’s interference. She could have ruined far more than her favorite summer garb had he not reawakened her sanity.
Embarrassed by her behavior, and even more by her ridiculous thoughts, she jetted from the lavatory and off to the exit. The doors were in sight when a twinge of guilt slowed her steps.
The least she could do was wish the soldier well, freeing him to mingle with other girls—available girls—who’d be worth his efforts.
She grumbled at the call to decency, an ironic notion at this point, and trudged back to their table. Yet there, she found strangers in their seats. She rotated slowly, her gaze circling the room. Another turn, and still no sign of Morgan.
Perhaps he had sensed she wouldn’t be coming back. Some buddies could have whisked him away, moved on to another dance hall, a late-night diner.
Perfect, she told herself. An easy way out.
She ordered relief to take hold, though the feeling refused— until she glimpsed his profile. He had waited for her, after all.
Or so she thought, before a curtain of strangers divided, and the full scene came into view. Across the dance floor indeed stood Morgan, but with a girl in his arms. And not just any girl. It was Betty—eyes closed, cheek nestled against his neck, the slope of her hair pillowing his chin. Both certainly looked at ease, a natural pair.
This was a good thing. The best, actually, for them all.
So why did Liz feel a cinching around her heart? Why was a streak of anger sweeping through her, a sensation bordering on betrayal? The reaction was absurd. Morgan owed her nothing, and even if Betty had seen them dancing, there was no reason for her to question Liz’s intentions, what with her already having a beau. Not that anyone here would have guessed.
“Elizabeth Stephens, is that you?”
She swung toward the voice. A tall man approached wearing Coke-bottle glasses, his suit a size too small for his gangly stature.
“Is Dalt here?” His lenses magnified the enthusiasm in his eyes. His name escaped her, but he was unmistakably a schoolmate of Dalton’s.
“Um . . . no. He couldn’t make it.” Shame rushed through her, flooding every limb.
“Well, tell him I said hi.”
“Of course.” She smiled feebly. Whirling around, she bumped her way through the faceless mass. She needed to flee before any further harm was done, before her logical foundation could crumble beneath her feet.
She dashed out the doors and down the steps, not slowing until she’d boarded the “L” train destined for the seclusion of her suburban home. Stooped in her seat, she rested her head against the window. Summer clouds reclaimed territory above, draping a cluster of stars. No twinkling, no trace of existence.
If only mistakes were as easily erased.
At long last, the USO band played the final notes of the song. Until then, Morgan didn’t think anything could seem lengthier than the Sunday masses he attended as a kid. The audience thundered in applause and a slew of dancers dispersed, concealing his brisk parting from Betty. Concerned that Liz still hadn’t returned, he immediately strode off on a search.
For close to an hour, he scoured the place. He described the brunette’s features and what he recalled of her outfit to more than a dozen random people. He’d gone so far as to ask ladies exiting the washroom if she was still inside, in the event she wasn’t feeling well.
But his hunt was futile. It was clear she’d left.
Had he said or done something wrong? Or was it something he’d failed to say or do? He reviewed as many details as he could, and still no explanation.
Maybe it wasn’t him at all; maybe she was too upset over her dress to stay. Could have been an emergency that sent her rushing off. Whatever the reason, he hadn’t given up all hope. He wasn’t about to. There was too much to lose.
God, how could he find her again? He hadn’t even asked for her last name.
He scorned his thoughtlessness before taking another approach. Like a detective from a radio drama, he mulled over the clues. She mentioned studying, but where? And caring for the elderly. A hospital? A rest home? What about the redhead—which joint did she say she was hitting with her friends? He should have asked for specifics. Then again, if Liz had decided to follow them, she would have said so.
Wouldn’t she?
A swell of doubt washed over him. All these questions with no answers. What a chump he was, pining after a gal he didn’t know the first thing about. The assumption that her attraction equaled his now seemed laughable. Stupidity settled in his gut, heavy as a ton of coal. He blew out a breath.
Enough already. Time to focus on things that mattered: his brother, the war, his patriotic duty. A few days and he wouldn’t even remember what she looked like. That’s what he told himself. But then the feel of holding Liz swept over his arms, and already he knew she would haunt his memory long after she’d vanished.
Chapter 2
July 5, 1944 Chicago, Illinois
Two knocks, yet no one answered. No sign of life through the door’s smoky glass pane.
In the vacant corridor outside the instructor’s office, Julia scraped at the side seam of her overcoat, desperate to get this over with. She must have arrived too early; Madame Simone was nothing if not punctual.
With no clocks permitted in the small fashion academy, usually a rule Julia favored, she moved to the hall window for a narrow view of the world outside. Her eyes strained through the sun’s morning glare to reach the bank at the corner. The clock pinned to its brick forehead indicated 10:06. More than twenty minutes until their meeting. Twenty-four long minutes, to be exact.
“Splendid,” she muttered.
Had nerves not rushed her, she could have relaxed at home longer, interrogated Liz more thoroughly. Sifting her friend’s recount of the previous evening might have actually produced a juicy morsel. Perhaps, true to her claim, Liz had stayed at the USO merely to watch one last performance. But Julia would have at least enjoyed the chance to dig a little deeper, playing the role of a savvy investigator, before the clues turned cold.
Oh, why did minutes pass swiftly only when you wanted them to last?
A coffee. And an apricot fritter. Good time killers, she decided, recalling the bakery around the corner. Should her teacher be inquiring about Julia’s delay in fall registration—why else would she have asked her here?—a place to hone a response would be helpful: Thank you again for all you’ve done, for everything you’ve taught me. But I’m sorry, I simply can’t.
Julia pushed away an onset of guilt and hastened toward the exit downstairs. She felt pleading stares from the sketches of faceless models on the walls as she passed. In their bold hats and curly-strapped shoes, woven waterfalls of shimmery gowns, they silently called her back.
She averted her eyes, focused on her goal, just as a lineup of fragrances snuck into her senses: hemmed cotton, trimmed wool, raw imagination. They emanated from a slightly open doorway and blended in the valley of her lungs. As though on tracks, she found herself guided toward the scents, into her old classroom. Enticing and intoxicating as champagne.
A few more steps and apprehension dropped away. Light through a cluster of windows pronounced vibrancy in the bolts of fabric, poised at attention within the worn shelves. She trailed her hand over the spectrum of textures. As always, the French caretaker kept the materials organized by hues. They flowed like a rainbow, their divisions softened by the gradual transitions: from Persian blue to cornflower to cerulean to teal.
In this very space, like nowhere else, Julia had luxuriated in her impulses against the grain. For within these four boundless walls, the art of a woman’s freethinking was demanded, rather than discouraged.
And still, she had spent the past two months telling herself that her parents were right, that funds from clerking part-time at the nursing home should be spent on holiday gifts, not a hobby taking bites out of her regular studies. The commute itself, to the downtown academy, had contributed greatly to the slip in her respectable grades. Only a slight slip, but enough to raise concern from parents whose eldest daughter, Claire, had yet to stray from a trail spun of tradition, trimmed with approval.
Sometimes Julia wished her sister weren’t so dang likable. Had the girl been wretchedly competitive, or haughty in her seniority, like a typical sibling, Julia might have scuffed at Claire’s exemplary footsteps. Instead, so flawlessly formed, they gave her little cause not to smile, curtsy, and follow.
With a sigh, Julia pulled her fingertips from the propped fabric. She hadn’t expected a return to this familiar playground to cause such a tug on her heart. The thorny pulse of missing an old friend.
Loosening her grip on her handbag, she gazed at the pair of dress forms in the corner. Dashes of chalk acted as blueprints for the developing ensembles. She was trying to recall how many times she had used those very mannequins when a sight trapped her: Eggshell trim dangled awkwardly from the breast pocket of the maroon suit jacket. She scanned the tiled floor for the delinquent straight pin. Its metallic point sparkled, a beacon to her slender fingers.
Another’s design was considered a personal expression. Soulful. Sacred. But surely a student would appreciate the unobtrusive remedy.
Julia quickly retrieved the pin and tacked the trim back onto the pocket. As she confirmed its levelness, however, she had a vision of the extreme opposite: the entire pocket at a slant. To test the idea, just for a second, she angled and secured the accessory. The hem of the skirt needed to be raised as a complement. She shimmied the fabric upward around the wire cage below the limbless torso. Then she stepped back, evaluating.
What a statement the garb would make with a sharp, lightning-bolt collar rather than a conservative rounded appeasement. And if the belt were an inch wider with, say, a square copper buckle—
A sound from the doorway whirled Julia around. Her teacher entered, a small box in her arms. Mismatched pattern pieces hung over its edges like a deflated circus tent. Julia’s anxiety, instantly revived, sprang to attention.
“Ah! I see already you are here, Zhoolia.” The same tough elegance permeating Simone’s French accent encompassed her trademark appearance: dark hair slicked into an impossibly tight bun, no bangs to soften her angled features, slender arms pale against her all-black attire. Only wrinkles huddling around her eyes confessed her age exceeding fifty. And aside from her raspberry lipstick, the jeweled chain on the half-glass spectacles dangling from her neck provided her sole splash of color. “Have you been here long?” she asked.
Julia grappled for her thoughts. “I—arrived a little earlier than I planned.” Even more consuming than the rudeness of her untimely arrival was her tampering with the suit behind her. She could think of no discreet way of returning the outfit to its original state. Inching to her right, she settled for barricading the view. “Did you end up visiting New York last month, to see your niece?” She flung the question across the room, a verbal sleight of hand.
“Mmm,” Simone affirmed, moving toward a worktable beneath the windows, her posture and movement like a swan’s. “Have you ever been?” She set down the box.
“Oh yes,” Julia replied. “About once a year since I was little. My mom liked to take my sister and me there to holiday shop, see Broadway shows, and such.”
“And you are fond of it? That big city?”
A memory floated toward Julia: the first time she rode an open carriage through Central Park, the glow of lanterns painting the drifting snowflakes gold before her eyes. She swore heaven couldn’t be any more beautiful. “I think it’s the most magical place on earth.”
The teacher nodded, then nodded again. “Good.” The right answer. Simone disdained wrong answers. And, as Julia had learned, a student never had to question into which category their response had fallen.
“May I help you with that?” Julia hurried toward her, pulling the woman’s eye line to a safe periphery.
“Scraps,” the teacher complained, her fist full of thin strips from the box. “Silk pieces, they promised. But no. Only scraps.” She dropped them into a rejected heap on the long rectangular table, a fixture Julia knew well. On occasion, she had literally lived on the nicked and scarred slab—eating, sleeping, dreaming among the spools and yardsticks when a gust of creativity caught hold.
“Well,” Julia offered, touching the coveted material, “hopefully the war will be over soon, and everything will go back to normal.”
“Mmm . . . normal.” The word entered the air, soft as a wish. A brief pause and Simone’s wistfulness disappeared, shut down on command. “Alors.” She straightened. “You are wondering why I called you here, non?”
Fresh tension snapped through Julia as she waited.
“Let me first say,” she began, “the opportunity, at your level of experience, is an exception. However, I would prefer not to see a talent like yours wasted. Not to mention the effort and time I have contributed to your education.”
This was even worse than Julia expected. The woman was obviously inviting her into the advanced design program. A wondrous offer for a one-year student, almost unheard of.
Regardless. Julia’s answer would be the same: Thank you for everything—but—but . . . The words resisted, dug in their heels, as Simone said, “You see, you’ve been offered an internship.”
“I’m sorry, I can’t.” Julia’s decline toppled out before the last statement soaked in. “What was that?”
Simone’s expression held at stoic. “An internship, chérie. At Vogue. Naturally, they’ll want to interview you first, but I assured them you’d be perfect.”
“I had no—that you—” All of the thoughts in Julia’s head crashed into each other, landing in a pile of confusion. A single word crawled from the wreckage: “How?”
Simone shrugged one shoulder, as if both took too much effort. “During my trip to New York. I brought a file of your sketches, and two of the gowns you designed for the fashion show.”
Though the showcase last spring was only class-wide, the rave reviews Julia had received sent her spirit gliding cloud-high for an entire week.
Simone went on, “A dear friend I studied with decades ago is now working in designs for Vogue. And she believes you have something special. A gift. As do I.” That last sentence, above all others, lit Julia inside. Compliments from the woman were like collectible coins. Rare and priceless. “But,” she pointed out, “you will have a lot to learn before then.”
“When would it start?”
“They had hoped for this winter, but I told them of your studies. She would be willing to wait until late spring for you. And you would be expected to prove, at all times, why you were worth the wait.” She paused a beat for emphasis. “The pay would be minimal, and you would be responsible for all your expenses. Although there would be other interns you could share a flat with, if you prefer.”
Julia’s mind was spinning. “And this is . . . for how long?”
“That is up to them,” she replied. “Or you. At the end of the summer, you could decide to return to school, or remain. The choice would be yours.”
Julia breathed against the enclosure of her excitement. She felt herself drifting once more toward the clouds. Grounding herself as best she could, she shook her head and said, “I don’t know what to say, how to thank you.”
Simone’s reply came strong. “Don’t prove me wrong.” The teacher’s reputation had obviously served as an ante in the gambling match. The shared pressure didn’t go unnoticed. “Of course,” she added, “you will need to do some preparation work, around your studies at the university.”
“The university?” Julia barely grasped the familiar word.
A suggestion of a smile played on Simone’s lips. “Eh bien. I have given you much to consider. They will need your answer by end of summer.”
Carried by the irrational current of the moment, Julia embraced her. As could be expected, there was no reciprocal effort—the teacher treated hugs like a contagious illness—but Julia didn’t care. She had been handed a throne, and she wasn’t about to complain about the detailing of its cushion. Rather, she simply stepped back and said, “Thank you.”
Simone nodded before returning her attention to her box of scraps. A cue that their meeting had ended.
“Have a good day,” Julia bid, and headed for the hall.
“Mmm,” she said. “And Zhoolia.”
“Yes?” She turned to find Simone’s head still down.
“No playing with other people’s designs while at Vogue. D’accord?”
Julia’s gaze darted to the mannequin. She felt a poke at her side, the finger of guilt. “Yes, ma’am,” she replied, and without another word, she ducked out the door.
Once outside, Julia strode down the sidewalk, bridling an urge to skip. She could hardly feel her shoes making contact with the ridges of city cement.
A streetcar of strangers clanged across the street. A hefty construction worker passed lugging two buckets of tools. Julia wanted to shout to them all, spreading the news. She wanted to pick up a phone, tell her parents. Race home and write Christian all about it—
Christian.
Her fiancé.
“I’m engaged,” she reminded herself. And again, a near reprimand, “I’m engaged.”
What was she thinking? They would be getting married as soon as the war ended. Which, after three years of America swinging punches in the ring, couldn’t be far away. Next spring wasn’t the time to go tromping off to New York, laying the foundation for a career she had no intention of pursuing.
Sure, the offer was amazing. Marvelous. Incredible. But for someone who wouldn’t waste the opportunity. There was no sense robbing another girl of the internship, a girl whose dreams rested in the balance of such a springboard. Julia was, after all, going to be a wife, wedded to her beloved Christian Downing.
Her parents were right. She adored fashion, creating garments from pictures in her head. But it was a hobby, just for fun. Like moviegoing and shopping. Nothing that should interfere with the gay future that awaited. Marriage, motherhood, a charming home to fill with love and laughter. There was no comparison.
Slowly she wheeled toward the academy. Through the trees, she could see movement in the second-story classroom. A figure in black.
Julia already felt dread pluming from her ankles. Simone had gone out of her way to recommend her, even saw to it that exceptions were made. The least Julia could do was give the impression she had heavily pondered the offer. The delivery of a snap judgment, no matter how obvious, seemed outright ungrateful.
Indeed. She would give it a reasonable amount of time before letting the woman down.
At a decisive clip, Julia resumed her departure. Blocks away, the streetcar rattled into the distance, crammed with passengers who would never hear her news; nor would anyone else. At least not until she presented the inevitable answer. She had no desire to allow Liz, Betty, or even Christian to sway her choice. Of all the paths, she knew which was right—despite the unforeseen temptation.
Chapter 3
July 5, 1944 Chicago Union Station
The minutes until departure were evaporating as briskly as steam from the locomotive’s smokestack. Morgan gripped the vertical handlebar of the coach’s entry step and shot another glance at his wristwatch, an heirloom willed to him from his father. Now more than ever, he wished it were running fast. The leather band was weathered and the crystal scratched, but the movement could always be counted on for timekeeping. Unlike his dim-witted brother.
“Come on, come on,” Morgan said, imploring the kid to show. Missing the last overnighter to Trenton would mean a guaranteed late arrival at Fort Dix, and likely even a seat in the cargo hold of their transport ship. Or in the latrine, depending on their commander’s mood.
Charlie was a marvel. Who else would pull a stunt like this after waiting nearly three years? And Morgan wasn’t the only one he’d be answering to if he fouled this up. Even their uncle with rarely a word to spare had gone out on a limb, ensuring the two served together by calling in a favor from a war vet buddy with military pull. A few “adjustments” to Charlie’s birth certificate and everyone was happy. Supposedly, the desk-planted appeasers in Washington carried a lighter conscience when cousins rather than brothers shared a unit.
Not that it mattered now. Morgan appeared to be going solo.
“All aboard!” The conductor’s voice echoed off the darkened ceiling of the underground station.
With a determined eye, Morgan studied the bustling platform. Dolled-up gals waved to windows, shedding tears, blowing kisses. Mothers held hankies to their mouths as their husbands consoled them with an arm around their shoulders. But still no sighting of the dimwit.
“Dammit all,” Morgan growled. What had he been thinking last night, letting his brother leave the dance without him? That’d teach him to steer clear of dames and to stick with stuff he understood. Livestock auctions and auto engines. Things that came with instruction manuals.
The locomotive lurched into a sluggish chug.
Decision time. Of course, he had only one option: grab his belongings and leap off before landing required a body roll over gravel.
“Hey, Morgan!” A voice cut through the commotion. “I’m here!” Sure enough, there was Charlie’s capped head bobbing through the crowd. In and out he wove, dividing paired travelers, his Army-issue duffel bag slung over his shoulder. He hurdled a trunk and the toe of his shoe caught an edge. His pace slowed for a moment while he regained his footing. Half turned, in motion, he yelled something to the shapely dame standing beside the luggage.
“Move it!” Morgan shouted, leaning out from the step. Charlie resumed his sprint alongside the train. His free arm pumped, his face flushed red. Once close enough, Morgan stretched out his hand and yanked him inside. A small stumble and Charlie planted his feet. Tailbone against the wall, he hunched over to catch his breath.
“Un-believable.” Morgan smacked the back of his brother’s head, a punishment so often delivered since childhood the kid scarcely flinched.
“Not my fault,” he gasped. “Army time still confuses the hell out of me.” He wiped his sleeve across his forehead and flipped a grin. When he straightened, his service shirt showcased its unevenly fastened buttons, a perfect complement to the dark circles under his eyes.
Morgan was about to ask where he had slept last night—assuming he’d slept at all—then decided he’d rather not know. “I swear,” he muttered, “I may shoot you before the Nazis get a chance.” With a sharp turn, he led Charlie through the coach packed with noisy servicemen and an undercurrent of nerves. A craps game ensued in the corner. As the train increased speed, a cross breeze through the open windows lessened the lingering smell of sweat.
Frank Dugan, facing their two vacant seats, glanced up from his magazine, his leg stretched in the aisle. “Good of you to join us, Chap.”
“Thanks, Rev. Always nice traveling with a man of the cloth.”
At basic, word had spread quickly that Frank was a ministry dropout whose call to arms had come into conflict with his call to religion. And lucky for their platoon. Built like an ancient redwood, he brought practical fighting know-how from the tough streets of Brooklyn.
“Shit, you’re coming after all?” Jack Callan smirked at Charlie while fanning a deck of cards. “Thought maybe you’d chickened out and gone home to play with your barn animals.”
Charlie tossed his bag up onto the luggage rack. He pushed and shoved the bulky contents into place as if the clothes inside were putting up a fight. “Just had to make a quick stop on the way, Jack-ass.”
“Why, you forget to pack your underwear?”
“Actually, I left them in your sister’s room last night.”
Jack glared. He slid the toothpick in his mouth from side to side. “One pull of the trigger, Chap. That’s all it takes.” And that was the truth. The lean, red-haired kid from Wisconsin was a crack shot with a rifle.
“Ah, c’mon, Jack,” Charlie said. “You wouldn’t do that. You need me around.”
“Yeah, what for?”
“How else you gonna get any broads to notice you? Other than your mother, that is.”
Frank looked to Morgan, who had just settled into his window seat. “Mac, your brother ever shut up?”
“Not without a big piece of tape.” Morgan smiled, remembering the day he’d taped Charlie’s mouth closed and tied the rambunctious grade-schooler to a pole of their mother’s clothesline. It was the most effective way to stop him from telling a girl in class that Morgan wanted to “milk her udders.” Their father cut a whimpering Charlie loose an hour later, in full agreement with the punishment.
Morgan almost wished he’d packed some tape for this particular trip.
“Forgive me, Reverend Frank, for I have sinned. Again.” Charlie genuflected like the devout Catholic his mother had hoped he’d become.
Frank scratched the crook in his nose and continued browsing the latest issue of Yank magazine. He didn’t bother to fake interest. When it came to Charlie’s racy tales, Jack always showed enough for them both.
“Okay, Chap, let’s hear it,” Jack said, a smile in his eyes. “Which one of the twins did ya end up with? The one with the knockers or the long stems?”
“Are you kiddin’? I was too much man for them dames. Scared ’em off with these enormous cannons.” He flexed his biceps as if he had the physique of Captain America. When Frank tossed the magazine at his head, Charlie sank back into his seat and grinned. “Did some neckin’ with the broad from the coffee shop, though.”
Jack crumpled his face. “The one with bad teeth?”
“No, you dumbbell. The tasty dish with glasses.”
Frank turned to Jack. “Well, that explains it. She needs a new prescription.”
“Ha, ha. You’re hysterical.” Charlie removed his soft garrison cap and rubbed his hair with both hands.
If only their mom could see him now. She used to say that someday girls would go wild over his golden waves. That they’d even be willing to pay to run their fingers through them.
It’s funny the things you remember. Morgan regretted not paying more attention, regretted not seeing the truth behind his father’s lie. Charlie had only been eight, but Morgan, at eleven, should have known better. Farm families avoided doctors like the plague. When he watched his parents climb into their old pickup truck that cold January night headed for the hospital, he should have realized their mother was never coming back.
“Hey, speaking of hysterical,” Jack said, pulling Morgan from his thoughts. “Went to a tattoo joint last night. Rev ended up knocking the owner’s lights out. You gotta see it—the stupid sap put ‘Joan’ instead of ‘June’ in the big ol’ heart on Rev’s arm.”
Frank’s lips flattened into steel rails, his dark eyes trained on Jack. “And you think that’s funny, do ya?”
“Look at the bright side,” Charlie interjected. “Instead of Joan, it could’ve said John.” He punctuated his wisecrack with a grin.
Frank picked up his magazine from the carpeted floor, still eying Jack. “At least mine don’t make me look like Mussolini’s branded cattle, ya dope.” A jab at the unfortunate birthmark on Jack’s collarbone, shaped like a sideways stamp of Italy, was one of the few ways to ensure the last word with the guy.
“So, uh, Mac, what about you?” Jack shifted the spotlight. “Get chummy with the brunette you went after?”
Morgan coughed into his fist, the question taking him off guard. “Nah. Not really.” Considering how Liz had given him the brush-off, their encounter was the last thing he wanted to discuss. “How about you fellas? What else you wind up doing?”
Frank crossed his arms. His expression lightened. “Chap, I believe your brother’s trying to change the subject.”
“It’s all right, Mac,” Jack assured him. “You shouldn’t be ashamed. First time getting lucky can be a scary experience for any young man.” He grinned, impressed by his own sarcasm.
“What a coincidence,” Charlie said to Jack, “I’ve heard that dames think every time is scary with you.”
“Can it, both of ya.” Frank angled to Morgan and jerked a nod. “Go ahead, Mac. You were sayin’?”
Morgan suddenly wished he’d jumped off the train after all. “Really, there’s nothing to tell. She just had to skip out early.”
“You’re saying she ditched a McClain?” Jack asked in mock disbelief.
“Not his fault,” Frank said. “If I was her and knew he was related to Chap, I’d double-time it outta there too.”
“Oh yeah?” Charlie said. “Well, it just so happens that last night—on account of yours truly—my brother reeled in a broad any fella would give his left nut for a chance at.”
Morgan tightened his eyes at him. “What are you yappin’ about?”
“You have an admirer,” Charlie sang out in a taunting voice he never outgrew.
“Sure it was a girl?” Jack smirked.
“Not just any girl,” Charlie said. “That looker from the USO.”
In an instant, Liz’s face flashed in Morgan’s mind, clear as rain. Wary, though, of being a sucker in one of his brother’s juvenile pranks, he played it cool. “You’re full of it,” he muttered.
“I’m serious. Said she was searching all over for you.”
“Yeah? Where’d you run into her?”
“At the dance. Where else?” Charlie’s tone indicated he wasn’t horsing around. “I went back to find ya. She heard me asking about you. Told me you two had twirled some, but then you flew the coop.”
Morgan straightened, his thoughts racing: How could he have missed her? Did she come back after he left?
“Well, spit it out. What’d she say?” Morgan demanded. “Said she wanted to keep in touch. So,” he said, “being the dutiful brother I am, I gave her the Army address for forwarding.” He reached into the chest pocket of his shirt and produced a small rectangular note. “Here, this is for you.”
A broad grin latched onto Morgan’s face as he retrieved the gift. A scribbled message spanned three lines. His heart pumped like an oil rig as he imagined her voice delivering the words.
To Morgan,
Take care of yourself.
Betty Cordell
Morgan’s mind pinched in confusion. “Betty Cordell?” He flipped over the paper and discovered it was a photograph, a black-and-white close-up of the girl from the dance. Just not the girl he was hoping for. He managed a closed-lipped smile as angst revisited his gut.
“Damn, Chap,” Jack said, “you didn’t say it was the foxy blond singer.” He snatched the wallet-sized keepsake from Morgan’s fingers. “I can’t believe you got a dance with her, you lucky bastard. Where the hell was I?”
“Doesn’t matter,” Charlie said. “She only wanted Fred Astaire, here. Must have a thing for his fancy promenades and do-si-dos.”
Morgan flicked his brother’s temple. “Dry up, why don’t ya.”
“Man, that’s so unfair,” Jack grumbled, ogling the image until Frank swiped the photo.
“No need to get jealous,” Charlie told him. “I’m sure she’s got a few friends who would gladly talk to you outta pity.”
“All this from a kid who hasn’t hit puberty.” Jack launched his toothpick with a puff. “Enough of this shit. Are we playing cards, or what?” Not waiting for an answer, he began dealing them out, each card featuring pinup models in garters and brassieres.
Morgan gazed out the window at the passing urban scenery. It was his first trip to the East Coast, his first journey out of the Mid-west. Across the ocean, a battle-raging continent awaited their platoon, but all he could think about was Liz.
Chapter 4
July 15, 1944 Evanston, Illinois
All day, Liz had avoided opening the envelope. She sat on the rumbling bus, staring at her name and address penned in Professor Emmett Stephens’s meticulous longhand. Like the best of carnival fortunetellers, she could report what was inside before even breaking the seal.
Dear Elizabeth,
I trust life is keeping you well. I was extremely pleased with your academic marks from last term. Your decision to take extra classes this summer is commendable.
I leave tomorrow for New York to guest lecture at several universities. I shall return to Washington D.C. in approximately three weeks. Should you need to reach me in the interim, my secretary at Georgetown will have my itinerary and contact information.
Please congratulate Dalton on my behalf. From what I have heard, he is running a powerful senatorial campaign for his father. I wish them continued success. Respectfully, Your father
Respectfully. Such distance conveyed in a single word. A sad reflection of the fissure between them that had widened into a canyon.
Liz turned to the half-open window and closed her eyes. A gentle breeze swept over her sun-drenched face. Once again, she was eight years old, poking her head out the window of his shiny black Ford Victoria. Zooming past the California palm trees, she and her daddy would talk, laugh, and improvise silly songs, their excursions drastically warmer than those spent with her mother.
Isabelle.
In Liz’s memory, she embodied a caricature in a household appliance ad, her cool disposition offset by her grace and beauty. How close their family could have been had Isabelle exuded the warmth and affection of a mother like Julia’s.
Then again, ruminating on the impossible was as useless as deferring the blame.
A jolt from the bus’s brakes brought Liz back to the present. Familiar landmarks and rising passengers reminded her of her stop. She stuffed her father’s form letter into a skirt pocket and dashed down the aisle, her grocery bag slipping in her arms.
Around the bend of Kiernan Lane she pushed against the humidity. Sweat rolled down the slide of her spine as she passed the string of contemporary bungalow homes. The sharpness of newly cut grass clung to the air, blocking pollutants from the bordering city of Chicago. Service flags paraded in window after window; their proud stars of blue outnumbered the dreaded gold symbols of loss.
Willing herself to smile, she returned waves from neighbors relaxing beneath their shaded porches. Sun lovers basked in the late afternoon rays and giggly children played tag through the rainbow sprays of sprinklers.
Liz adjusted the bag, ripping the bottom corner. She cupped the protruding soup can to keep it inside while crossing the street to reach her house. Her favorite accents on the modest, brick-red structure remained the same since her childhood visits: a small garden of irises, a large picture window in the kitchen, facing the street, and a two-person swing her grandfather, “Papa,” had built for the covered porch. Best of all, a towering cherry tree shaded the east side of the house, a finishing touch as sweet as the turnovers her grandma used to bake from its abundant fruit. Papa had purchased the home more than twenty years ago for his wife, his “sole reason for living.” It was a claim he literally proved after she lost her battle with cancer.
“Your grandfather’s had a stroke,” Liz’s father had announced. “We’re moving to Illinois.” The triangular plane of his face had concealed all emotion, a defensive mask not unlike her own. It was one he’d acquired six months before, the day her mother left their lives forever.
Correction: the day Liz sent her away.
And so, with Isabelle gone, there was no discussion, no call for a vote. By the eve of Liz’s fourteenth birthday, they had packed up their boxes, along with their unspoken feelings, their devastation and sorrow too potent for words.
The paving of Liz’s regret had stretched clear across the country, permanent as concrete. And there it took up residence, beneath Papa’s roof, where she and her father coexisted for the next four years. The cordial but mechanical nature of their exchanges, maddening as a blackboard screech, gripped even his farewell words after her graduation: “I’ll send your tuition payments directly to the university and quarterly allowances to the house. We’ll touch base once I’m settled at Georgetown.” With a nod, he’d grabbed his suitcases and left her on the front porch. It was at that moment she had realized: Abandonment struck in degrees.
Standing now on that same rickety platform, Liz squeezed the grocery bag to her chest. She closed her eyes and gave her head a brisk shake, as if emotional wounds were cold droplets she could simply cast off.
When she lifted her lids, the memory prevailed.
Liz placed the food items on their designated kitchen shelves. Cans of Scotch broth soup and corned beef hash, Mello-Wheat cereal, bread, oleo, and a splurge of Cocomalt. With the sleeve of her blouse, she dabbed her temple while washing her hands with a bar of lavender soap. The thick, purple lather failed to soften her calloused mood, and the dry texture in her mouth—like flavorless cotton candy—only irritated her more.
She tossed some ice cubes into an empty glass, a ricochet of clinks.
“Liz?”
She cringed at the distant voice, not in the mood for company.
“Liz, is that you?” Betty called again from her bedroom, a room Liz would have to pass to reach her own.
Reluctantly she answered. “Yeah, it’s me.” She poured herself the last of Betty’s freshly squeezed limeade and downed half the glass. Sourness puckered her cheeks, stung the corners of her eyes. Of all the items rationed for the war effort, she missed sugar the most.
“Hurry up and get in here!” Betty’s trademark impatience.
“Hold your horses, I’m coming!” She dragged herself down the narrow hallway lined with framed photos of deceased and twice-removed relatives.
“Come on, slowpoke.” Betty reached through the doorway and tugged her inside. Liz nearly tripped over the girl’s old teddy bear doubling as a doorstop. His lone button eye hung by a thread, his cream fur matted and stained. Clearly he had seen better days.
Yep, buddy, she wanted to tell him, you’re not the only one.
Julia sat at the vanity. “Hey, hon,” she mumbled around two bobby pins between her pursed lips.
Liz returned the greeting before daring to ask, “So what’s the crisis?”
Betty tsked. “Now, why does it always have to be something bad?” She spun around so fast the white polka dots on her violet sundress streaked into lines. Grabbing an envelope from atop her pillow, she belly flopped on her bed to face the vanity. “Fact is, it couldn’t be keener. Just wait till you hear Christian’s latest.”
Thanks but no thanks. Liz had read all the letters she could handle for one day. “I’d love to hear it, gals, but I really have to get some work done.”
“Oh, don’t be such a fuddy-duddy.” Betty reached across the path created by the nightstand to pat Julia’s mattress. “Sit, sit, sit.”
Liz groaned, then stopped short; she did not want to hurt Julia’s feelings. Christian’s posts were, after all, among the redhead’s prized possessions.
“Believe me,” Betty told Liz, “it’s even better than those Emily Dickens letters you like.”
A smile crouched behind Liz’s lips. “Dickinson,” she corrected, speaking the author’s name with reverence.
“Yeah. Well, this is better.”
A sacrilegious comparison, no doubt. Though who was Liz to deny any writer a fair swing at the title?
“Fine,” Liz conceded. “But only for a minute.” She strode over to the wrought-iron bed she had given up when she moved into her father’s former bedroom, and started clearing space to sit among Julia’s fabric swatches. Vogue pattern pieces and celebrity shots torn from Silver Screen magazine added to the fashion hodgepodge.
“Did you happen to pick up some bread at the market?” Julia asked.
“Yeah,” Liz said, settling in. “I noticed we were out when I tried to make toast this morning.” She should have known then what kind of day she had ahead of her. “Speaking of which, when did Hillman’s start charging eleven cents a loaf? It’s outrageous.”
While Betty sorted pages from the envelope, Liz glimpsed Julia’s pearly face in the vanity’s oval mirror. The crimson-haired girl contorted her expression at an uncooperative spit curl. Limited reflection space further challenged her efforts, with a mural of photo graphs covering half the mirror: a graduation picture of the three of them amidst her family snapshots, a sepia-toned portrait of her and Christian, and a new photo of her sailor leaning on a signal lamp of his ship, with Love you Red penned across the bottom.
“‘My dearest Julia,’” Betty began, letter propped before her. “‘Only another week has passed, but it seems an eternity since last seeing you. You’ll have to send a new picture soon. I’ve looked at the one I have so many times, my eyes are wearing your image right off the paper. Unfortunately, thinking of you for hours on end only makes me miss you more. The weather has been sweltering, so I’ve taken to sleeping out on deck. To cool off, some shipmates and I had liberty yesterday and headed for . . .’ Yeah, yeah, yeah, boring, boring.”
The letter was a typical one from Christian Downing, sweet and smooth as butterscotch. Enough to give you a toothache, Dalton would say; and though from the start, he and Liz had agreed mushy offerings of the like weren’t necessary between them, Liz suddenly found herself wondering: Had the ban been her idea or his?
“Ooh-ooh, here we go.” Betty resumed reading. “‘Although I am proud of the job we are doing for our country, already I am eager for the day we will hear that we’ve won the war and that it’s time to sail back home to you, my darling, the beautiful woman whom I will soon make my bride. Well, I best drop anchor for tonight. Sending oceans of kisses from your loving husband-to-be. Eternally yours, Christian USN.’” Betty rolled onto her back. She pressed the papers to her chest, tight enough to embed the prose into her heart. “This is sooo romantic,” she said dreamily.
Liz turned and caught Julia running her fingers over her fiancé’s latest photo, losing herself in the gray tones of their separation. That same look of hers, a pensiveness in her eyes, had made appearances more than usual lately.
“It really is lovely, Jules,” Liz agreed, feeling the coarse edges within her smoothing.
A quick nod and Julia abruptly rose. She headed for the wardrobe closet, as if sadness were a garment she could shed at will. Since the three girls had become fast friends in high school, lab partners in freshman science, Liz had only once seen Julia cling to an unpleasant emotion for a notable stretch: It began the morning Christian announced he’d up and joined the Navy. Julia had been beside herself. He’d already planned to enroll in the Naval officers’ program at Northwestern so they could be together, but decided he couldn’t wait to enlist, not even for an officer commission. Then a week before his fleet’s departure, Christian earned her forgiveness; specifically, the moment he knelt and slid the engagement band on her finger.
“Why don’t I get letters like this?” Betty sighed.
Julia tipped a smile. “Liz is the poetry pro here,” she reminded her. “Why not ask her to write you a love note? She could even sign it from Clark Gable—oh, wait, that’s my fantasy.” She giggled.
“That’s it!” Betty perked.
In the midst of a swallow, Liz sputtered drops of limeade. She wiped her chin. “Betty Cordell. I am not writing you a love letter.”
“No, no, that’s not what I meant.” The blonde shifted onto her knees with a slight bounce. “Seriously, I do need your help. Please say you’ll agree.”
Liz blew out a stream of air. She was all too familiar with the plea; Betty had used it for myriad requests over the years—everything from French kissing instructions to leg-makeup applications due to the silk and nylon shortage, an act Betty considered as her contribution to the war effort. In other words, Liz had learned to ask for details up front.
“What exactly do you want me to do?”
“Well, you see,” she said, “there’s this soldier I met.” Her opening hardly launched a shock wave through the room. “He’s not the usual kind I date. I mean, he’s handsome enough. But he’s sorta shy. The mysterious type.”
“And you need my help with . . . ?”
“Oh, right,” Betty said. “The point is, we met at the USO, where we danced and had a grand time of it. Sadly, the next day he shipped out with his brother.”
The USO?
His brother?
Oh God. With Liz’s luck, she was certain to be talking about Morgan. But why now? Ten whole days had passed since the dance, and not once had Betty spoken of him. Liz had hoped to forget all about that night, all about where foolishness might have led her had she not witnessed Betty and Morgan dancing. Which, incidentally, was the best thing that could have happened to Liz.
So why did she find herself hoping, with everything in her, that Betty was referring to another guy?
Liz interjected, “Who is he, this soldier of yours?” She managed a casual tone.
“I just told you,” Betty said, as if she hadn’t been listening. “He’s handsome and mysterious and—”
“I mean his name. What’s the fellow’s name?”
“Oh. Sorry. It’s McKall—no. McLew—wait . . .”
Liz restrained herself from volunteering what was undoubtedly the final syllable.
“McClain,” Betty remembered. “It’s Morgan McClain.”
“Morgan McClain?” Julia paused in the midst of changing into her mauve blouse. “Liz, isn’t that the same guy you—”
“Yeah, he’s the one we met,” Liz cut in. “You know him?” Betty exclaimed. “Oh, that’s perfect. Then you have to help me write to him.”
Write to him? This couldn’t be happening. Fate couldn’t be that spiteful.
Liz arrived easily at her answer. “I’m sorry, Betty, but I don’t have time.”
“It’ll only take a few minutes,” she insisted. “Pleeease, I promised. And it’d be rude to keep him waiting any longer.”
As if he didn’t deserve it. The guy was plainly out for one thing: one night of fun, one roll in the hay before deployment. An obvious deduction in hindsight.
Then again . . .
If a one-night companion was all Morgan had wanted, he wouldn’t have bothered asking Betty to write. Maybe he wasn’t as insincere as he’d appeared. Perhaps his initial attraction to Liz was genuine, but a single glance at the stunning blonde had cured his interest.
Another reason to decline.
Liz was about to do just that, more firmly this time, when Betty continued her plea.
“I already started his letter. I just need your help with the ending, and to make sure the rest is okay.” She pouted her lips. “You know what an awful writer I am.”
Liz couldn’t argue. Had she not rewritten all of Betty’s essays in high school, the girl would still be there.
“And since you’ve met him,” Betty went on, “you’ll know exactly what to say.”
“Wrong,” Liz countered. Clearly she had no clue what he wanted to hear.
Betty held up her right hand, taking an oath. “If you help me with this, I’ll never ask you to write anything for me again. Scout’s honor.”
Julia chimed in, “Don’t you have to be a Scout to make that pledge?” She smiled, straightening the seams of her stockings.
“Come on, Liz.” Desperation spilled from Betty’s eyes. “You and Julia already have beaus. Don’t I deserve to be happy too?”
Liz groaned helplessly. How could she dispute that kind of logic?
“Besides,” Betty elongated the word, “need I remind you about an incredibly boring play I attended for a certain friend?”
Liz narrowed her eyes. “You mean the one you slept through?”
“One measly act,” Betty snipped. “Even so, I went, didn’t I? And without a solitary complaint.”
Truth be told, Liz herself had come close to drifting off during the student-directed play; verses from the overdramatic actors had dripped like sap off their tongues. More relevant to Betty’s request, however, was Liz’s unwillingness to explain the real cause of her hesitation. Which left her little choice.
“All right, I’ll do it,” she gave in. “But just this once. No exceptions.”
“Thank you, thank you!” Betty dropped Christian’s letter while clapping with glee. Julia swooped up the pages from the floor and carefully added them to the drawer of her nightstand.
“I’m not fooling, Betty.” Liz mustered the sternest voice she could. “No V-mail, no notes, nothing.”
“Okaaay. I’ll even write my own obituary.”
Julia giggled as she slipped into her black pumps and fastened the ankle straps. From her lace collar to her tailored mid-length skirt, she was as stylish as Ava Gardner. “I’m heading out, girls. Either one of you want to join me and Dot for a triple feature? The Tivoli’s playing Cover Girl again.”
Ah, yes. Hollywood’s cure-all for the perpetually glum. A perfect example of why talkies weren’t always better than the silent pictures. At least in Casablanca the tragic ending was scripted out of realism, and the stars didn’t belt out lines in melodramatic show tunes.
“I wish I could,” Betty moaned. “I swear, if I have to take Vera’s shift again this week, I’m quitting once and for all.”
“What about you, Liz?”
Any activity sounded better than ghostwriting a letter to Morgan, even suffering through a silly musical. But completing the task, purging the soldier from her system, also had its appeal.
“I’ll take a rain check,” Liz replied with eyes that told her, Thanks for getting me into this.
Julia grabbed her pillbox purse, missing the glance. “See you tomorrow, then,” she said, and turned for the hallway.
By the time the front door slammed, Betty had sidled up to Liz, cross-legged, pillow on her lap, armed with a pile of stationery. “Here’s what I have so far.” She held out the page for Liz to read along, and cleared her throat as if preparing to give the State of the Union address.
Dear Morgan,
It was nice talking to you, you seem like a terrific guy. I definately wish we could’ve spent more time together. Where did the Army ship you to?
The glaring grammatical and spelling errors seized hold of Liz’s eyes. She fought every urge within her not to seek out the nearest colored fountain pen to circle what her father would call “blasphemous mistakes.”
Betty looked up. “What do you think?”
Liz aimed for diplomacy, a specialty of Dalton’s. “It’s, um . . . not bad.”
“I knew it,” Betty whimpered. “It’s dreadful.” She buried her face in the pillow.
“No. It’s not dreadful. It’s just that—” Liz chose to limit her critiques to the misguided content. “I don’t think the Army will let him say where they’re going.”
“So what can I write?” Betty rumpled the letter into a ball and pitched it at the woven wastebasket, falling a foot short.
Liz set her glass on the nightstand. She reminded herself this wasn’t a hundred-page dissertation. With just a few intelligible sentences, life could return to normal. “How about something like . . .” She threw out the simplest opening that came to her. “Dear Morgan. Although our time together was brief, it was a pleasure meeting you at the dance—”
“Oh, that’s perfect. I love it!” Enthusiasm shot through Betty like an electrical current, straightening her posture, widening her eyes. “Now, what was that again?” She held up her pen, a stenog-rapher ready for dictation—with no knowledge of shorthand.
Already Liz felt exhausted. She opened her mouth to repeat the phrase when the tinkering notes of her grandfather’s cuckoo clock rang out from the living room.
“Cripes. What time is it?” Betty rotated the alarm clock on the nightstand. “Shoot, I’m gonna be late.” With the speed of a fireman preparing for a five-alarm blaze, she jumped into her carnation-pink diner dress and pinned on her name tag. At the vanity, she smoothed Julia’s styling lotion over her pageboy hair.
Relief and aggravation rivaled within Liz at the postponement. Now that they had started, she wanted nothing more than to rid her thoughts of Morgan McClain; him and all the “what-ifs” that had tangled her mind like ivy.
“I really gotta go,” Betty addressed Liz’s reflection in the mirror, “but could you please finish the letter while I’m gone?”
“Finish?” A laugh of disbelief snagged in Liz’s throat. “We haven’t even started it.”
Betty applied her Victory Red lipstick in one circular motion. “I wouldn’t ask, but I won’t be home till late. And then I’ll be with Suzie all weekend visiting her family.”
Liz was about to refuse, needing to draw a line somewhere— wavering and faint though the line may be—when Betty produced a scrawled address on a napkin.
“Pretty please?” She knelt by the bed with clasped hands. “A couple more lines is all it needs.”
This was ludicrous. “Don’t you think he’ll know it’s not from you?”
“He’s a guy. He won’t have any idea,” Betty said, as if reporting the sky was blue. “Besides, what’s the difference? I’d just be writing down everything you say anyway.”
If gender and academics weren’t a factor, the gal would have made a great trial attorney. After all, it was her indisputable case that had convinced Liz’s father to allow his daughter not one but two roommates in his absence, an arrangement for which Liz was grateful. At least on most days.
Betty glanced back at the clock. “Piddle, I gotta fly.” Scurrying toward the doorway, she motioned to the bed. “Stamps and envelopes are in the drawer. Just toss it in the mail when you’re done.”
Liz’s mouth dropped open. “You don’t want to read it first?”
“I trust you,” Betty called as she rounded the corner. “The sooner it goes out, the sooner I’ll get a letter back, right?” Her footfalls sounded down the hall and out the front door, leaving Liz alone. With a pile of stationery. Shackled.
She should have escaped with Julia when she had the chance.
“I must be going mad.” Liz snatched the pen and paper and tramped across the room. Seated at the vanity, she scowled at the page and debated reneging on the deal. This wasn’t what she’d agreed to.
The heck with it.
She tossed the pen down. Grasping the edge of the table, she began to rise, but a memory stilled her—the memory of Morgan’s face. She’d tried so desperately to erase him from her mind. Yet there he was, as vivid as if they had shared a dance yesterday. She could almost feel the tenderness of his breath gracing her cheek, the heat of his hand pressed to hers.
Why couldn’t she forget him? And why did the mere idea of him cause her pulse to quicken even now?
Her grip loosened. Her body lowered. She settled her gaze on the empty page, its fibers beckoning the beautiful stains of the written word. And she sighed.
“All right, I’ll do it,” she repeated her verbal assent.
Really, it was just a short note. A small favor for a friend. What was the big fuss?
At that, she placed the tip of the pen on the stationery, and surrendered her thoughts to flow through the ink.
Chapter 5
July 15, 1944 Chicago, Illinois
“It’s about time!” As usual, the greeting flew out of the kitchen, over the diner chatter, and into Betty’s ears before she could even clock in.
“Yeah, yeah, so fire me,” she meant to mutter to herself, yet a look from the grizzled chef indicated her retort had made it through the pass-through window.
“You straighten up, or that’s precisely what I’m gonna do. You got me?” A cigarette bounced against his bottom lip as he spoke.
“Hey,” she said coyly, “I can’t control the bus schedule. But give me a raise and I’ll happily race down here in a cab.” She blew him a kiss, a standby tactic to alleviate his mood.
Today, however, he wasn’t having any of it. He shook a fistful of his mottled dish towel in her direction, an especially deep scowl carved into his face. “Don’t push me, Betty. You’re this close—this close—to gettin’ the ax. Now, get to work!” With a grumble, he returned to his grill, which crackled like the invisible eggshells he’d erected beneath her feet.
So much for a warm welcome, she wanted to say. Instead, she buttoned her lip and snagged an order pad. She wasn’t up for yet another career hunt, specifically when she’d just spent money intended for her shared living expenses. But then, who could blame her? That keen aqua dress from Goldblatt’s was to die for.
Tucking a pencil behind her ear, Betty assessed the status of business. Her jitters kicked in as she played her customary game of catch-up. Holding a job all the way down by the Loop wasn’t the most convenient, but there was nothing like being in the thick of things. And the Loop was certainly that.
Betty threw on a wide smile, cocked her hip. Accentuate your assets, she had learned, and no one noticed your troubles. “How about a warm-up, gentlemen?” She raised a coffeepot, interrupting the three guys parked at the counter sparring over the same old topic—the war, what else?
“Thanks,” they said, voices overlapping. Hands calloused, fingernails smudged, they were as blue-collared as the pedigree she strove to hide.
She filled their mugs, committing small splatters she deftly hid from the chef’s view. She swiped the mess away with a rag. “Let me know if you need anything else,” she told them. As she sauntered away, she could feel their gazes latched to her backside, coupled by murmuring about a nice ass. Her first instinct was to admonish them, given that their ages approached her father’s—how old she presumed he’d be, anyway. But she needed their tips. For the time being.
And so she continued on, relieving the frazzled busboy from serving her tables. Mostly regulars dotted the room, plus a few additions. She topped off their mugs, took some orders—only two of them wrong—and delivered dishes back and forth, wearing a trail into the chessboard floor. Hours from closing and already her feet begged for a soak.
By the time she hit a break in the dinner rush, the sun had excused itself for the evening. Scribbled bill in hand, she ventured back toward Irma, rooted in the back booth, same as every Friday. A subtle indentation in the black cushion permanently reserved her spot. Aside from rather wide hips, her frame was of medium size. Her silver flapper hat and gaudy brooch, a firefly with tarnished wings, dated her peak years to be more than a decade past.
“Enjoy your dumplings, Irma?”
The woman, gazing distantly at the empty seat across from her, replied with a nod. Rarely saying a word—not even for her order; it was always the same—she carried the perpetual grief of a widow. The familiar reserve of a lonely child.
Betty forced a smile. “Can I interest you in a slice of pie? We got banana cream tonight.”
Irma declined with a slight shake of her head, already unsnapping her worn velvety clutch.
“Well. Next time, then.” Betty presented her tallied check.
The woman’s hand trembled, more noticeably than ever, as she emptied all her coins onto the table. She seemed to be struggling with counting them. Given that Irma’s bill never fluctuated, Betty swiftly noticed there wasn’t enough money. And something told her the lady’s purse didn’t have a reserve compartment.
Betty glanced back at the kitchen, where the chef’s mood remained stuck in a ditch of aggravation. He didn’t believe in running tabs, and was far from the charitable sort.
“Here,” she told Irma, “let me get those.” She scooted the change off the edge and into her hand, whispering a pretend calculation. “Forty-five, fifty-five, seventy . . .” Then, “Perfect!” She dropped them into her uniform pocket. Her tip from the last table would provide just enough to compensate for the shortage. “Be sure and try our dessert sometime. A girl’s gotta treat herself once in a while.”
A smile brushed past Irma’s dry, wrinkled lips, but only a shadow. A memory. An echo of her withered beauty.
Betty didn’t know why she was helping her out exactly. Maybe it was an offering to the universe, a bribe to prevent her from ending up the same. Or worse, like her own mother, an old maid whose scandalous life had been the infection of Betty’s childhood.
“Order up!” The chef’s voice jerked Betty back to greasy paradise and her mouth into a frown. She deposited Irma’s bare dinner plate in a bussing tub. As she headed for the kitchen, someone called out, “Excuse me? Miss? Over here.”
“Be there in a minute,” she shot back; she couldn’t be in two places at once. But then she registered the new customer’s appearance. An Army sergeant, all alone, dark and suave. Fit in his sharp uniform, he boasted looks as dreamy as they came.
Her shoes did an automatic U-turn, straight to his table. Cosmetics undoubtedly needing to be refreshed, she tilted her face to its most flattering angle and asked, “See anything you like?” She inserted a deliberate pause before gesturing to his menu.
His mouth slid into a grin. His eyes glinted.
And she knew she had him. “Hey, I know you,” he said. She would have taken the phrase for a tired old pickup line, but his tone sounded of genuine discovery. “The USO,” he explained. “A few weeks back.”
Had she danced with him and forgotten? Surely she would have remembered a guy like this. Crud, she hated when a fella had the upper hand.
“You were one of the singers,” he added. The connection seemed to end there.
“You’ve got quite a memory . . .” She drew out the last word, a prompt for him to volunteer his name.
“J.T.,” he said. “And you’re Betty.”
“How did you—” she began, then glanced down at her name tag. “Oh. Right.”
“Pleased to finally meet you.”
“Likewise.” The feel of something sticky between her fingers prevented her from extending her hand. As a cover, she yanked the pencil from her ear and notepad out of her pocket, posed them in order-taking position.
“Well, Betty, I think you got a fan club started by some of the guys in our office.”
“The office?” she asked, milking the compliment.
“Army recruitment, down off Jackson.” He reclined in his seat, one arm draped across the top of the neighboring chair, as if accustomed to claiming ownership and space at will. His posture launched a wave of arrogance stronger than his spicy cologne. “You should come by sometime. We could use a smart, beautiful woman like you in the Women’s Army Corps.”
A giggle bubbled through her. “You see me in the WAC? Marching around all day in khaki?”
J.T. gave her figure a brief scan, no doubt picturing her out of a uniform rather than in one. “Just think about it, sweetheart. You could help out our soldiers by doing more than singing to ’em.” The implication might have been offensive had he not continued so smoothly. “Besides, you seem like the kinda girl who’d like to travel, see the world. Sydney, London, Rome. Maybe Hawaii? White sandy beaches, luscious palm trees. Water so blue and clear you could spot a dime at the bottom.”
His pitch sounded as rehearsed as that of a Fuller Brush salesman, but the vision towed Betty’s mind into a drift regardless. Life could certainly be worse than living in a tropical haven. Too bad military enlistment was a requirement. She’d sooner become a lumber jack than run around playing soldier. Why, for the love of Mike, some women tried so hard to swap roles with men, she had no idea.
“I said order up!” the chef bellowed.
She pushed out a sweetly appeasing voice. “Coming,” she answered, abruptly reminded of her unglamorous servitude. The chef’s call should have taken priority, given his grumpiness tonight, but she couldn’t bow to another command before enlightening someone, anyone, of her overflowing potential.
Posture lifted, she peered down at the sergeant. “Thanks for the offer, but I already got plans,” she stated, as though he should have expected as much. “I’ll be traveling with the USO, soon as a spot in a touring group opens up. So I’m sure I’ll be stopping in all those places you mentioned.” She added with a wink, “Even drop you a postcard if I have time.” In reality, all the Hedy Lamarrs and Marlene Dietrichs took overseas priority. But the possibility of joining the tour was the main reason Betty had auditioned for the USO, and she wasn’t about to give up the chance at a better job—a better life—no matter how slim.
“Well, if things don’t work out,” he said, “come on by and see me. Or, even if you wanted to chat about other things, besides the military . . .” He trailed off, inviting her to fill in the blanks.
“Wessel, there you are!” A GI appeared at the front door beside two rather refined-looking girls. To top it off, they were knockouts, which J.T. seemed to note in less than a blink. “We’re hittin’ O’Toole’s. Ya comin’, or what?”
The girls whispered to each other, then giggled, a sound that drew the sergeant from his seat like a snake to a flute. Not until reaching the exit did he rotate back, as though suddenly recalling Betty was there. “Like I said, you oughta come by.”
She layered on a smile. “Yeah, sure.” In your dreams, her mind added. Jerks like this reminded her why she’d be better off with a real gentleman—like Morgan, that soldier from the dance. Because mysterious and chivalrous deserved to beat out suave and dreamy every time.
Not that they always did, of course.
As J.T. and his gang strolled gaily past the diner windows, Betty tried to imagine a hundred ways to put the nitwit in his place if given the chance. But before she could come up with a solitary one, a gruff warning from the chef took another stomp at her pride.
Chapter 6
Late August 1944 France
“Charlie! Where are you?” Morgan screamed, pain grinding his throat. He rubbed his eyelids with the back of his hand and strained to focus. The gray smoke of mortar explosions burned his nostrils.
“Charlie!” His voice melted into the bursting of artillery shells and hammering of machine guns. He fought off a cough. The taste of tar coated his tongue. He spat and missed the water, hitting the sleeve of his fatigues. Black, grainy liquid.
Waves were riding him mid-thigh. Ocean waves. But he couldn’t feel the chill. Too numb, too filled with terror. Too confused by how he and Charlie had ended up separated.
He clutched his M1 rifle to his chest and plodded through the bloody sea, the water like a flood of molasses. Leaning every pound of his body forward, he pushed toward the hazy beachhead. German bullets zipped past his ears. He ducked his face away, grasping his net-covered helmet. Behind him, miles of Allied ships, now tattered floating tombs, dappled the ocean. Infantry hung like soiled rags off bow ramps. Uniformed corpses plugged jagged holes in landing craft.
Morgan refocused and resumed his march, until something bumped his knee. He gasped at the sight. A swarm of dead bodies hovered beneath the surface of the water. Their unseeing stares reached for him, pleading for help too late. Boys, all of them, too young to be soldiers. Still, here they were, cut down by machinegun fire. Drowned by the weight of their own field packs.
Staggering from dizziness, he trudged onward. He searched for pillboxes camouflaged in the trees overlooking the shore. Not a bunker in view, but he knew they were there, preserving the merciless rage of Wehrmacht troops awaiting his approach.
Once at water of knee-high depth, he hurdled the waves with his weighted boots. The suction of wet sand suddenly yielded. He stumbled out of the ocean and onto a quilt of fatigues covering every inch of the beach. Was he the only GI left standing?
The question retreated as he plowed through the patchwork of helmets and weapons, of crumpled bodies lying facedown in the gritty sand. A mortician’s waiting room for fallen heroes.
He dropped to his knees in a bucket-sized gap, tossing his rifle aside. He yanked back on jacket collars for a glimpse of their faces. Blood trickled from their gaped mouths. Gashes, bullet holes, missing pieces. The stench of death seared his senses, folded his stomach in quarters. And their eyes, their glassy eyes, shining hollow, like tinted doors entrapping their souls.
“Morgan. . . .” A hoarse whisper seemed to cry out from the heavens.
He flew back on his knees. “Charlie?”
“Morgan. . . .” The voice drew nearer, echoing as if spoken from the base of a well.
“Charlie!” he shrieked, searching, searching. “Where are you?”
A fatigue-clad arm shot up from the pile of bodies. The sandy hand grabbed hold of his shoulder and shook him.
“Morgan, wake up.”
The unexpected words jolted him back to their French campsite. From the milky light of the moon, he could see his brother, wrapped in a blanket an arm’s length away.
“You okay?” Charlie asked groggily.
Yeah, Morgan mouthed without sound. The terror of his dream tapering, he forced a dry swallow and nodded.
Charlie yawned as he rolled onto his other side, adjusted his head on his elbow.
The duty had always been Morgan’s, waking his brother from nightmares. All those months after their mother’s death, he would climb up the bunk-bed ladder to interrupt the kid’s tossing and turning.
When had things become so backward?
Morgan blew out a quiet, shaky exhale, his muscles as taut as tucked Army bedding. He swept a glance over the mounds bivouacked around him: his slumbering squad, spread throughout the pasture like grazing cattle.
He rested the back of his hand on his forehead and inhaled the familiar smell of dewy meadow. He’d find it soothing if not for the distant barrage of artillery fire, or the vengeful explosions of Hitler’s “Buzz Bombs.” Not quite the sounds of summer nights on the farm.
From star to star he drew imaginary lines, struggling to erase the haunting pictures flipping through his mind. Considering how many images there were, it was hard to believe only two months had passed since their troop transport ship left New York. For twelve days they’d sailed in the dank, creaking chamber, zigzagging to avoid wolf packs of German subs. Poor Charlie had rarely been sick a day in his life, but the Atlantic’s unforgiving pitch and roll made up for lost time; his waistline shrank two belt loops before the ship had anchored.
“Good thing we didn’t join the Navy,” Morgan had joked. Charlie hadn’t laughed.
Looking back, Morgan almost laughed himself, remembering how eager they’d all been to reach the living nightmare that waited across the English Channel. His squad had arrived on the Norman shore well after the D-Day invasion, but the gruesome crime scene still invaded his dreams. Even now, the memory of bodies washing ashore sent a chill zipping up his spine.
Then again, the thought of death sometimes offered a strange sense of peace. A morbid notion, perhaps, until you’re at the tail end of another twenty-mile march beneath the hot French sun, with sixty pounds of gear bound to your chafed, raw back, your feet swollen and bleeding, your stomach knotted from K-rations. All elements of an Army conspiracy, Morgan decided, to make battle an appealing prospect.
An effective strategy, as it turned out. At one point, he’d been suckered along with the rest of them. Like a kid awaiting a parade, he too had lined the road to welcome the tarpaulin-covered convoy. No one seemed to mind that the front line was the next scheduled stop.
Over winding roads, their truck had bumped and groaned. They’d snuck through the black of night with taped-over head-lights, getaway cars preparing for a heist. By the time they unloaded in Brezolles, Morgan was certain the torturous hours of marching or waiting for action would surely rival those spent in combat.
The theory didn’t last.
In three-foot-deep foxholes, he and Charlie had dueled trapped members of the German Panzer army, closing the Falaise Pocket like a tube of toothpaste. Though tens of thousands of Kraut soldiers had been captured, a hefty number escaped through the gap. Both a success and a failure. The essence of war.
The battles were far from over, but the amount of bloodshed Morgan had already witnessed could soak the earth to its core. He’d learned there was no limit to how violently men and their machines could deconstruct the human anatomy. How desensitized people could become. How barbaric it all was.
Now, studying the dirt road cutting through the meadow, the road they’d be tackling at daylight, he feared what other lessons war had in store for them.
“Charlie,” Morgan said in a loud whisper. Unable to sleep, he wanted someone to talk to. He tapped his brother’s shoulder. The kid didn’t move. Not even a break in the rhythm of his heavy breaths.
How was it that he rested so peacefully?
Maybe in Charlie’s dreams they were somewhere far away. A safer time, safer place, where the air brimmed with warmth and the lullabies of crickets. They were kids back in their dad’s Iowa fields, dozing out in the open, naming shapes made of stars in the sky. A sky that offered them promises, futures as limitless as the universe.
A sky that lied.
Chapter 7
Late August 1944 Chicago, Illinois
The gilding of the room amplified the stiff formality at Liz’s table. In the corner, a string quartet played Rachmaninoff over silverware clinking on fine china. A tuxedoed host at the entrance relieved a woman of her fur stole while waiters slipped in and out of the kitchen that smelled of grilled steak and spices. Diners nodded and murmured and lobbed laughter back and forth like a tennis ball in a never-ending match.
“All done here, miss?” The waiter gestured with his upturned hand, the movement as groomed as his mustache.
Liz opened her mouth to decline, but Dalton replied for her. “We both are, thank you.”
Why on earth did he choose a place as fancy as this if he wanted to eat at drive-in restaurant speed? Had she known he was in a hurry, she would have bypassed the vegetables and savored the marmalade chicken first.
Liz pressed up a smile as the waiter retrieved their plates. The distraction of eating gone, she bounced her leg under the tablecloth, keeping time with the drumming awkwardness.
Dalton took a long drink of red wine. Tabletop candlelight traveled through his crystal glass and cast severe shadows across his face. With the chiseling of his features, it wasn’t a stretch to imagine him draped in a toga, orating before the Roman Senate in another lifetime.
“Was your steak all right?” she asked, attempting conversation.
“Come again?”
“You only ate half your dinner. Was something wrong with it?”
“It was fine. I just had a late lunch.” He offered a lean smile, then popped his second Rolaids of the evening into his mouth. If it weren’t for knowing heartburn ran in his family, she might suspect she was the cause of his indigestion.
Sipping her lemon-wedged ice water, she glanced to her side. A middle-aged couple, necks adorned in a bow tie and pearls, sat silently at the next table. Engrossed in their meals, they sliced, chewed, and dabbed their mouths with white linen napkins. They had to have been married fifteen, twenty years. No children, Liz guessed. Just a small, yippy lapdog waiting at home. The woman would knit next to the radio while her husband read the paper before they retired to opposite sides of the bed.
Liz tried not to stare, but she had exchanged so few words with Dalton over dinner she began to feel as though they had more in common with the neighboring couple than each other.
Dalton drained his glass and contributed to their small talk, finally. “Did you end up with all the classes you wanted?”
“For the most part. I was hoping to take the one on Yeats, but it was still full.”
“That’s great.” He glanced over his shoulder.
Had he heard a word she’d said?
“Dalton, I said I didn’t get into the class.”
“Oh, right. Sorry. I’m just looking for our waiter.”
She hoped he was planning to ask for the bill rather than the dessert menu.
“Dalton Harris, how the heck ahh you?” A deep male voice encroached on their table.
Dalton shot to his feet, accepted a handshake. “Mr. Bernstein, it’s a pleasure to see you.”
A swath of the man’s slicked gray hair fell over his temple as he slapped a palm on Dalton’s shoulder. He reeked of cigar smoke and old Boston money, and the button closing his pin-striped suit jacket appeared ready to launch should he laugh too hard.
“Did you just arrive?” Dalton asked.
“Just finished up. Dinner meeting, you know. All hobnobbing and politics. Not a romantic evening like yours.” He motioned his double chin in Liz’s direction.
“Please,” Dalton said, “allow me to introduce my girlfriend, Elizabeth Stephens.”
Mr. Bernstein gave her hand a cordial peck. “Nice to meet you, missy.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Her father is Professor Emmett Stephens,” Dalton pointed out, “a recent transfer from Northwestern to Georgetown.”
“Ah, yes. I believe my son, Warren, took one of his classes way back when. History, was it?”
“Classical literature,” Liz replied, then risked a peek into Dalton’s eyes to make sure correcting the gentleman was acceptable, an act she immediately regretted. When had seeking his permission become a reflex?
“Literature. Of course,” Mr. Bernstein said. “Well, no time for amusing folk tales anymore. Right, Dalton? Not with law school keeping you as busy as it does my own boy these days.”
Amusing folk tales? Liz’s jaw coiled closed, and thankfully so. She was feeling less and less inclined to refrain from slinging retorts labeled “brash” by the charm school Julia had attended.
Dalton folded his arms, wholly absorbed. “Warren is in his second year at Harvard now, isn’t he, sir? And already published in the Law Review, I believe.”
“That’s right,” the man said, surprised. He looked down at Liz. “Sharp as a tack, this one is. You hang on to him, and you just might end up our nation’s first lady. Right after Warren’s presidential term, of course.” When he chuckled, Liz dipped her gaze to the taut thread securing his coat button, hoping for a fracture in the monotony.
“I believe you mean his terms,” Dalton said. “Re-election would be a given.”
Mr. Bernstein slanted a grin toward Liz. “What’d I tell you? Sharp as a tack.”
Dalton delivered a low, hollow laugh that grated on her ears, one he had developed when the campaign began. It was an imitation, she now realized, akin to a man of Bernstein’s build. Even Dalton’s chest appeared slightly puffed to enlarge his medium frame.
“You two enjoy the rest of your evening.” The fellow shook Dalton’s hand. “And you stay on top of those studies. We’re going to need men like you to lead when those boys get shipped back after the war.”
“I will, sir. Thank you.”
While other girls might, Liz never felt a bit embarrassed over her boyfriend’s lack of uniform. She preferred his safety to the unknown. Apparently so did his father, who’d made it clear that the primary obligation of his only son was to carry on the family name. That the nation would best benefit from his political prowess, not the sacrifice of his blood. With Mr. Harris’s connections, a deferment, or stateside defense job at most, was a surety should Dalton ever be drafted. A relief to Liz, on one hand; on the other, frustration that the decision wasn’t viewed as his own.
“Good night, Elaine,” Mr. Bernstein said to Liz while leaving. “Oh, and son”—he turned back, bumping a busboy in passing— “tell your father to give me a call. We’ll see what we can do to get that man the seat in Washington he deserves.”
Face alight, Dalton nodded. “Any support would certainly be appreciated.”
Another shark reeled in.
Dalton was in the midst of sitting down when their waiter returned and set a dome-covered plate before Liz. She peered up at the man. “I’m afraid there’s been a mistake. I didn’t order any dessert.” Her desire to get home squashed any craving for a decadent torte.
Without a word, the server removed the lid in a grand arc, the dome pinging above his head.
Obviously, no one was listening to her tonight. She would be better off skywriting a message. “Sir, I said I didn’t order—” The objection died on a gasp, strangled by the sight of the small box on her plate.
A sterling box.
For a ring.
Dalton reached across the table and clasped her hand. “Elizabeth.” He spoke slow, articulate. “We’ve known each other for as long as I can remember.”
Her hands tingled with fear of where this was leading, of sentences resembling a life-altering speech. She focused to hear him over the quick thumps of her heart. Every word carried a pulse. She strained for each vital syllable, to confirm that merely an early birthday present lay before her. Or a Christmas gift—in August.
“Thanks to our grandfathers, you were the little pest I was stuck playing with every summer.” Nostalgia seeped into his voice. “For years I thought of you as a kid sister. But eventually, it became clear our friendship was destined to grow into something more.”
A proposal. It was a proposal. Too soon, it was too soon!
“Dalton,” she stage-whispered, “I thought we were going—”
“To wait, I know. But there’s no reason we can’t make our plans official now. In less than two years, I’ll have my degree and you’ll have enough credits to graduate early. Still top of your class, knowing you. Then we can finally start our lives together. With my practicing law, and your professorship, we’ll be . . . unstoppable.” He smiled, eyes twinkling like sapphires.
“But my father—”
“He’s already given his permission.”
The statement clattered in her head. “He what?”
“He said so long as you had a degree in your hand first, we could sign the marriage license whenever we wanted.”
Her life, in an instant, became a runaway train. The velocity left her breathless. “You spoke with him?”
“On the phone last week. Told me he was absolutely delighted.”
Absolutely delighted. Did he use those very words? Ones that conveyed an actual emotion? The image of her father wearing an expression in the realm of happiness slowed her thoughts, lessened her alarm. His acceptance of Dalton, though established long ago, had never implied such zeal. Perhaps with the inclining prominence of the Harris family, their marriage could resuscitate her father’s approval.
Certainly, she favored that possibility over the alternative: his delight but a form of relief, her wedding vows marking the end of his parental obligations.
Dalton slid from his chair and knelt before her. He picked up the box and creaked open the lid. “This ring has been in my family for four generations.” He pulled the heirloom out of the turquoise velvet tuck. A beveled emerald shone at the center of the star etched into the gold band. Five small diamonds winked between each point. “If you’ll have me, Lizzy, it would be my honor to pass it along to you.”
Either the restaurant had fallen silent or shock was hindering her hearing. No tinking of silverware, no lobbing of laughter.
He peered into her eyes. “Elizabeth Stephens, will you marry me?”
The question burned in her ears, its heat stretched down her neck. Her tongue was cold, absent a reply. She glanced over Dalton’s shoulder, stalling to produce her answer. Against a swagged velvet curtain, their waiter stood at attention. She wanted to ask him to open a window before the pressure bowed the fabric-lined walls. But the bottle of champagne in his hand, surely intended for her table, indicated his task card was full.
“Elizabeth?” Dalton said.
She returned to the ring, then to Dalton’s face. When he leaned forward a fraction, candlelight brushed a caramel glow over his skin, erasing the hard lines on his forehead. Before her eyes, he reverted to the boy she’d grown up with. Dalton Harris, her child-hood friend. The one who spent a week by her side when she had chicken pox, playing jacks while stuffing themselves with Baby Ruth bars. The same one who taught her how to ice fish and took her to her first dance. The guy who’d held her hand at her grandfather’s funeral.
And now, here he was, matured into a man, offering his devotion and security. What girl in her right mind would say no?
Liz drew a breath. Under the gaze of the entire room, she smiled. Then nodded.
Applause erupted as Dalton guided the ring onto her finger. It was halfway on when her knuckle resisted the band. She winced from a second push. A feeling of self-consciousness stirred inside, an itch she couldn’t reach. Was the coliseum of spectators interpreting the mismatched size as a bad omen?
“I think it might be a little small,” she said quietly.
“It’s okay, it’ll fit.” Determined as always, he twisted the band one way, then the other, as if the solution were a matter of angle.
“No, Dalton, really.” He shoved harder, pinching her skin. “Ow!” she cried, halting him.
He raised his eyes, and his whole body sighed. “I’m sorry,” he told her. “This isn’t going the way I’d planned.” His crestfallen tone released a rush of compassion in Liz, and, in its wake, regret for misjudging his behavior throughout dinner.
“It’s no problem.” She shrugged. “I’ll just have it resized.” Smiling, she shifted the ring onto her pinkie. “Until then, this should work.”
Soon a beam returned to his face. He pulled her hand toward him and stood to embrace her. The audience caught a second wind and clapped louder.
“I love you, Lizzy,” he said into her ear.
She closed her eyes, relished the familiarity of his arms, his musky scent. “Me too,” she replied, holding him tighter.
This was right. This made sense. You didn’t need chills or flutters or illusionary magic from a fleeting dance. Just the loyalty and devotion of someone who cared. Any other notions were better left as daydreams.
Of this she was certain.
Chapter 8
Late August 1944 Chicago, Illinois
Two Fridays in a row, and still no sign of her. That was the thought still scratching at Betty’s mind as she waited at the bus stop on Michigan Avenue. Nobody at work could recall how many years Irma had been frequenting the diner, eating in that far booth—Irma’s booth—but it was long enough to leave an arresting hole when she didn’t show two weeks ago.
A cross-country trip. A visiting relative or a seasonal cold. These were the theories tossed among the staff like hamburger patties, kneaded and molded as reasons for her absence, shaped into the most tantalizing form. Yet as much as Betty strained to visualize the woman pleasuring in a lengthy train ride, or painting the town red with a long-lost cousin, she simply couldn’t. The possibility of a severe cold, on the other hand, the flu maybe, was the only explanation upholding Betty’s hopes after the first missed Friday.
Then a second one passed without the arrival of Irma. Dear, quiet Irma, who wore her aged solitude as elegantly as her silver flapper hat, her tarnished brooch.
Why did her absence bother Betty so much? She barely knew the woman.
Betty tried her darndest to flick the pointless concerns aside. It was Monday afternoon, the heat rising. Her feet were moaning from a morning shift that ran an hour over. Due to meet Julia soon for a matinee, she aimed her focus on getting home, peeling out of her diner uniform, lemon-washing the smell of grease from her hair.
But then an image of the young couple from that morning returned, another set of customers with the audacity to invade Irma’s booth. The recollection stung like a slap.
Could it be that life was no more precious than a streetcar, trudging round and round on a loop? A schedule to keep, no time to grieve over a single lost passenger.
“Nice, eh?” A man’s reedy voice came from beside her. A suited stiff, he grinned with teeth befitting a horse. “This weather we’re having. Rather nice, eh?”
She glanced at the sky, surprised to find it endless in blue. Somehow an overcast gray seemed more appropriate. “Yeah. It’s swell.”
He pushed his glasses up the bony bridge of his nose. “So, do you live around here?”
Not a chance, buster. Especially not today. “Ah, look!” She threw a glance over his shoulder. “I see a friend, but it was great talking to you.” Her feet were already in motion before she’d concluded the fib. Thankfully, only his reply chased after her as she zipped away to hide within the farthest cluster of strangers.
Safe out of his eyeshot, she checked her watch. Her standard impatience revved louder than the passing cars. A little boy halfway down the block, tap-dancing for change, wasn’t helping; the quick ticking of his shoes contrasted the creeping speed of every second.
She should have taken the “L” train. No way would she have time to bathe before the matinee. If only she had the means to roam the city with speed and style—like the two older ladies there, emerging from the revolving door of a hotel. All pearls and white gloves, they radiated with an air of high-society Brits. From the side, the taller one looked so much like . . . could it really be . . .
Irma?
Betty’s eyes froze wide as she studied her. It seemed an eternity before the gal turned toward an approaching taxi. A full view of her face clarified the lunacy of the notion. Still, just to be sure, Betty watched while their doorman helped exchange passengers. Out of the cab, he guided the hand of an Army nurse, roughly Betty’s age. The sun threw a spotlight onto her crisp white hat, her blue and red cape. The older women—neither of them Irma— smiled at the girl and nodded in approval.
No. More than that: admiration, respect.
Acceptance.
They looked at the nurse as though she were important, her purpose meaningful. As if people might actually care that she missed her Friday supper at a diner.
“Are you gettin’ on or not?” a man behind Betty grumbled.
Her gaze swayed toward the bus that had instantly appeared, cloaking her in its shade. Exhaust fumes were like smelling salts to her senses. She awakened to discover the passenger before her climbing the stairs.
Betty rushed forward and closed the gap. Stepping onboard, she glanced down to grab coins from her pocket, its pastel fabric streaked with mustard and syrup and who knew what else. Same went for her pitifully roughened fingernails. Tough scrubs could wash away the grime, but not her station in life. Her mother, by example, had taught her that; had ingrained early on that Betty’s ticket to prosperity lay in her beauty. All she needed was to groom herself like a rose and prepare for her prince to arrive, regal in his shiny gold buttons and polished shoes. After all, she was never going to be one of those college girls, like Liz and Julia, with the smarts and the dough. Girls who had so effortlessly attracted their Mr. Rights.
Thus she’d waited, in her mother’s tiny rented room, ready to be plucked away, displayed in a crystal vase for all to admire.
But the prince had yet to show. Undependable, as all men were. Even that soldier from the dance, the supposed gentleman, hadn’t bothered to write her back. It was high time she took control of the matter.
“Move your feet, will ya?” the man snapped behind her.
Her legs, she realized, had concreted on the middle step. As she paused to deposit her fare, the bus driver, too, appeared annoyed. No question, she received better treatment when donning a snap-pier outfit. If the USO had provided a uniform—demanding respect, admiration—she’d wear it every day of the week.
From the thought, an idea chipped free. A brilliant idea. Utterly brilliant. “That’s it,” she murmured to herself. Floating, revolving, the solution came solidly formed, as if waiting all along to make it-self known. Why oh why hadn’t this occurred to her before?
“Hey.” The creep behind her huffed. “I’ve got better things to do than stand here waiting all day.”
A solid grin overtook her lips from the surety of her plan. She pivoted around. “So do I,” she announced, then pushed past him and marched down the block.
Chapter 9
Late August 1944 Chicago, Illinois
“Get down!” the man shouted into the darkness.
Julia ducked a few inches in her chair. It took her a moment to realize the stranger was merely yelling at latecomers, silhouettes obstructing the movie screen.
She quietly laughed at herself. Apparently, she hadn’t fully shed habits gained from those first jittery blackouts in the city, back when the war was a ubiquitous intruder crouched just outside the door. When, at any hour, another wave of General Tojo’s planes was expected to hail greetings across America, a nation vulnerable in its paranoia.
On the home front, a gradual semblance of safety had returned. The battles were a million miles away. Or at least that’s how far the distance seemed separating her from Christian.
She’d been used to his absence, before the war. With his living in Michigan, weekly letters and stretches of longing between visits became the standard after they met three years ago. He had been working in Chicago for the summer, a soda jerk in his uncle’s drugstore, and she thanked every day since for a cherry Coke craving that had led her through those doors and into his life.
The very thought of him now made the seat beside her feel even emptier.
Oh, bother, where was Betty? The newsreel had already begun: Allied infantry streaming into a village, a drumbeat added to in-crease the drama. As if local casualty lists in the newspapers weren’t dramatic enough.
Twisting around, Julia scanned the aisle in search of the blonde, then craned her neck to see the balcony above. Beneath the projector’s tunnel of light, only a scattering of couples came into view, each in the midst of a thorough tonsil check. Couldn’t they wait for the feature to begin? And why did all the guys appear to be sailors?
Julia flopped back against her chair. She should have met Betty at the house instead. It wouldn’t be the first time the girl had gone to the wrong movie palace.
Usually, Julia had no issue seeing a picture alone. Only when Christian was the one beside her—bringing her undivided attention to his soft lips on hers, the shawl of his arm—could her focus be swayed from the featured films. All those glamorous characters, exhibiting the latest fashions, entangled in heart-melting romances. They wouldn’t so much as jump off the screen as suck Julia in to enjoy them firsthand.
Today, though, even the riveting newsreel had to vie for her interest. She felt her irritation spreading like a rash. A mounting impatience, a clock ticking in her ear. The war should have been over by now, she thought for the hundredth time. She wanted the complications to end, the life she was building with Christian to resume and soar.
A reflection of the same thought played out in the images before her. Freed European villagers flickered in black and white. Stories poured from their eyes. They’d held on to but a thread of hope, and now they could finally grasp the tapestry of their future. With outstretched arms and gifts, they welcomed the liberating GIs. Young girls waved American flags. They were pretty girls, exotic in their features. Girls no older than Julia. Elation brightened their faces; their gazes swam with gratitude.
But just how far did their tokens of appreciation go?
A terrible thought.
Simply terrible.
But it was one Julia couldn’t help dwelling upon now, surrounded by sailors whose groping hands and searching mouths bobbed like buoys in the shadows. If this was how they conducted themselves back at home, imagine how they acted after months at sea, after being welcomed by those young, exotic girls willing to twirl around far more fabric than a flag.
The room suddenly turned sweltering. Dots of sweat met the inside collar of her blouse, the lining of her skirt. The clasp on her garter itched. She needed to stand, to move. In an instant, she was striding up the aisle and out the theater. Sunlight choked her vision as she breathed deep of the city air.
She was being silly, letting her imagination scuttle away like this. She couldn’t have asked for a more devoted beau than Christian. Regardless, with his handsome face and athletic shape, not to mention his dapper uniform, there was no question he would be tested at some point.
That’s what this was: a test. Just like their long-distance relationship had always been. Just like the internship offer she had yet to decline.
Only days away from autumn, her deadline imminent, and still she had provided no answer. She’d savored the mere possibility weeks longer than she should have. This, she now realized, was the rash, the ticking clock. This was the test of their love. And the response she would give—today, she’d go there today—would deter-mine if she passed or failed.
The brick academy loomed like a haunted mansion. At the base of the entrance steps, Julia’s momentum hit a wall. On her way from the theater, her mind had flipped through article after article, recollections from Woman’s Day and Good Housekeeping. Her husband would come first, above all. His needs, not hers. Christian, of course, wasn’t ever one to limit her choices, which was exactly the reason she needed to do this. Because he wouldn’t ask her to. Be-cause love required sacrifice. And, if nothing else in this world, she knew she wanted to be a good wife.
“Are you going in?”
Julia tracked the voice to the gal behind her, lustrous with her sleek ponytail and crisscross dress. Tangerine fabric with snaking copper buttons billowed like foam at the upper edge of her hand-held bag. A daring new design.
Are you going in? the girl had asked.
Was Julia going in?
“I don’t know,” she heard herself reply.
Understandably, the stranger appeared confused.
Julia glanced at the doors, and a sudden fear came over her. Certainly, the idea of disappointing her instructor had prolonged the answer; Simone had put her faith and reputation on the line. But now it was the challenge—perhaps impossibility—of saying no, should Julia dare to step foot into her beloved classroom again.
Maybe that had always been her true cause of hesitation.
Julia turned to the girl. “Could you pass something along for me, to Madame Simone?”
She shrugged. “Sure. I’d be happy to.”
Not permitting herself another thought, Julia pulled from her purse a small notepad. She scribbled the same words that had been waiting from the start.
Dear Madame Simone,
Thank you again for all you’ve done, for everything you’ve taught me. But I’m sorry. I simply can’t.
Yours sincerely,
Julia Renard
Immediately, Julia handed off the note and walked away. A pound of angst dissolved with every step, and to her relief, she felt no urge to look back.
Chapter 10
Late August 1944 Chicago, Illinois
Although vacant for lunch hour, the room felt full around Betty, gapless with her teeming eagerness. The fan oscillating on the file cabinet spread equal attention across the office. A futile attempt to loosen the knotted heat. From its ticking blades, a gentle gust ruffled a browning fern in the corner, stacked documents on the neighboring desks.
This was meant to be, she told herself while waiting in her seat. Having barely caught the sergeant on his way out was a sign: Her life would soon be turning around.
Giddiness, which had sprouted during her rush from the bus stop, flourished now as she studied the posters, an array of Army recruitment plastering the wall. She’d seen them a million times— the vibrant drawings of gorgeous gals in uniform, posed before waving flags, proclaiming a need for women with Star-Spangled hearts. Then there was the portrait of old Uncle Sam, in dire need of a visit to the barber, scaring boys into the service with his menacing eyes and accusatory finger.
Until today, though, it hadn’t dawned on her that those messages were also meant for her. Not the way they were intended maybe, but in the same realm.
“Afraid we don’t have anything stronger than water round here.” The uniformed sergeant approached with a pair of paper cups and handed one over. Easing into his desk chair, he reclined with the same cloying arrogance he wore when they’d met at the diner. He didn’t deserve to be as good-looking as he was.
“Water’s perfect, thanks,” she said, and drew a polite sip.
“So tell me, Betty. What brings you down to my neck of the woods?” Smugness lingered in his smile. It was clear he believed she’d hunted him up in hopes of a rendezvous; no doubt plenty of other girls had done the same. Awaiting her answer, he took a drink, eying her as if examining a rack of lamb at the butcher shop.
That’s when Betty realized why she had actually remembered his name: J.T. Wessel sounded remarkably similar to Just a Weasel. Fitting. She could have opted for another recruiter, but seeing J.T.’s reaction would be worth every second.
She straightened in her chair, and with her chin determinedly set, she reported, “I’m here to enlist.”
His cup crinkled slightly in his grip. He pulled his water away and cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, did you say you—”
“Wanted to enlist.” Evidently, his enticing pitches about overseas service had filled his little black book more than his enlistment quota. She grinned with satisfaction. “Why, yes, I did.”
To his credit, he gathered himself quickly. “I see,” he said. Then he scrounged a pencil from his torrent of papers. “Did you have a particular area in mind?”
“As a matter of fact, yes.” Time to unleash her idea on the world: essentially, a civilian’s role with all the perks. “I’d like to sing,” she replied.
He went still for a moment before raising his head. “You . . . wanna sing. For the Army.” Confusion stretched his words, his eyes. She was rather enjoying this.
“The Army has bands, doesn’t it?”
“Well . . . yes . . .”
“Then it should have vocalists as well. Obviously, the USO sees the importance of singers in raising soldiers’ morale. I think the Army would agree, don’t you?”
He opened his mouth, but no argument formed, which only fed her confidence to continue.
“The military believes in promoting entertainment. Otherwise, it wouldn’t have the likes of Joe DiMaggio playing baseball for the Armed Forces. And I for one don’t see how this is any different.”
J.T. nodded slowly, as if receiving the information through Morse code. Then a broad grin returned. “Betty, I’d be happy to look into that. For now, though, let’s just get some basic paperwork going.” He poised his pencil. “How about we start with your full name and age.”
Right away, she rattled off her information, enunciated all but her middle name—“Betty Jo” sounded like such a hillbilly.
“So you just turned twenty?” he confirmed.
“That’s right.”
“In that case, as you probably know, you’ll need parental permission.”
“Say again?”
“Since you’re under twenty-one.” He scribbled and looked up. “Is that a problem?”
A problem? He could say that.
But how could she tactfully phrase that her father had been some married guy who’d split before she was born, and that her mother, the fool who fell for him, was the last person Betty wanted help from? Besides, her communication with her mom had slimmed to mere holiday cards years ago, after Betty was dumped on relatives in Evanston—supposedly a means to curb the high schooler’s rebellious nature.
At least in the end, with all her aunt’s plastic-covered furniture and earmarked Bibles, Betty had realized that living with a mother who was home every minute of the day, versus always out working like her own, could be just as miserable.
“My mother,” Betty explained, “actually lives in Kansas.” She couldn’t say the state name without it sounding raspy and rushed. Like a sneeze from a cold she couldn’t kick. “Do you need to see her, or is there any other way?”
“We do need her signature in person, but I could send a local recruiter to get it.”
“Great,” she said, before catching the disappointment ground into the word. She was about to divert with a peppier sentence when the clicking of footsteps interrupted, saving her.
“Afternoon, Sergeant,” a uniformed female called from the doorway. She was hardly as attractive as the Women’s Army Corps on the poster, but was just as magnetic. Everything from the shiny captain’s bars on her shoulder loops to her authoritative chin commanded attention.
J.T.’s posture stiffened like a pole. “Ma’am.”
“Busy recruiting, I see?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Nice to see you’ve been paying attention.” After a brief pause, the captain produced a chiding smile. “Back at it, then. We need every fine lady we can get.” She tipped her billed hat at Betty and strode into her office, shutting the door behind her.
How fascinating to see a woman in power for a change, specifically over a man.
A down-to-business look tightened J.T.’s face, only an ounce of resentment leaking through. He glanced back at his document. “So tell me, is there any other area you might be interested in?”
“Other area?”
“Outside of singing, that is. An alternative you might consider.”
She was about to say no—why would she need one?—when he added in a whisper, “Just have to put something on paper. A formality for the file.”
“Oh. Oh, right.”
He resumed his spiel. “You know, there’s lots of exciting things you can do in the WAC, and with skills you already have. For instance, do you know how to drive?”
She shrugged. “Never been a need, with me living around Chi cago.”
“Sure, sure,” he said, understanding. “How about cooking? You like to cook, don’t ya?”
“Once in a while. Unless it requires heat.”
He started to laugh, then stopped when he saw she wasn’t kidding. Betty was tempted to explain. But there was no sense relating the hazardous brownie episode that could have burned Liz’s house to the ground. She swiftly pointed out, “Cold things, though, are a breeze.”
“Uh-huh.” He dragged in a breath. “What about typing?”
“Mmm, not really.”
“Shorthand?”
“Nope.”
“You don’t . . . speak another language?” The doubt in his voice made the question rhetorical.
She shook her head anyway.
“Didn’t think so,” he murmured, before shifting to a lighter tone. “Well, like I told you, there’s loads of exciting duties out there. Everything from weather forecasting and glass blowing to working as a control tower operator. Even issuing weapons. Sounds pretty good, doesn’t it?”
Not really, she wanted to say, but held back. The reply could come off as unpatriotic, which she undoubtedly was not. On the contrary, she was no less patriotic than, say, that nurse near the bus stop. What with her fancy cape, her white exclamation of a hat, both serving as badges from years of schooling.
Oh, there had to be another option. Something similar yet more appropriate for her personality. Granted, it was just an unlikely backup she was choosing, but Betty preferred not to have anything remotely ordinary in her file.
She then thought of her roommates. For extra spending money, Liz and Julia held jobs in a nursing home—a semi-medical field— and they’d never indicated it being strenuous.
“What about hospital work?” she asked him.
“If you mean the Army Nurse Corps, the Red Cross handles all—”
“No,” she broke in. “Just something like it. But without the blood and mess. And not all that long, tedious training. After all, I do want to help out before the war’s actually over.” She smiled.
The fan in the corner ticked away the seconds. A useless breeze passed by.
J.T. gave his head a weary rub. Lacing his hands on the desk, he sat forward as though it took great effort. As though being back in action would be a relief in comparison. “Look, Betty. You’re a nice, pretty girl . . .”
She cringed at the familiar phrase. It had been a favorite from her guidance counselor, a guy who smelled like pickles and always ended their conversations with a verbal pat on the head, a why don’t you run off and play with your dolls conclusion.
Though tempering herself now, she interjected, “Are you trying to say that pretty girls can’t be WACs?”
“Of course they can,” J.T. countered. Then he threw a conspiratory glance around the empty room and continued in a hushed tone. “You already got a gig as a singer, right? Why not just focus on that, sweetheart, and forget about all this Army stuff. Didn’t you say something about touring with the USO, trotting the globe?”
The USO tour. The aspiration she had so often boasted about. Suddenly, tossed back at her in the presence of her filthy diner dress, the possibility seemed stripped down, naked in its unlikelihood.
“But I wanna help,” she managed to assert.
“And I’m sure you’d be great at . . . something. I’m just not confident the Army is the best place to utilize your talents.”
Like serving malts and meat loaves was?
“Thanks for coming by, though. It was swell seeing you.” That cocky recline again. “Hey, maybe we can go out to dinner some night, after one of your shows.”
Disgusted by his nerve, she couldn’t bring herself to reply. She stood up, head pressed against the ceiling of her crushed hopes, and started for the door. When she reached for the handle, however, a harsh truth slammed into her, one she never saw coming:
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/kristina-mcmorris/letters-from-home-39785489/) на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.
Kristina McMorris
Two people. An unforgettable moment. One extraordinary love story.In Chicago, Illinois, two people are about to lock eyes across a crowded dance floor. The following moment will spark the love story of a lifetime…The year is 1944 and America has just entered the war. Young men and women are being drafted in to fight with their allies on Europe’s distant shores. Throughout America, sweethearts are saying their last goodbyes.Liz Stephens is already betrothed to budding US politician Dalton Harris, but when she meets GI Morgan McClain, she feels an instant and intense connection. But then he dances with her flirtatious best friend Betty and Liz is left feeling like just another soldier’s fancy.Betty is mesmerized by Morgan and begs Liz to write letters for her to post to him overseas. Liz reluctantly agrees, in the end anxious to retain a connection to him. As the last searing days of World War II loom, a correspondence begins that will alter the course of their lives forever.
LETTERS
FROM HOME
KRISTINA McMORRIS
Copyright
This novel is entirely a work of fiction.
The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
AVON
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd. 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
Copyright © Kristina McMorris 2011
Kristina McMorris asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication
Source ISBN: 9781847562418
Ebook Edition © 2011 ISBN: 9781847562920
Version: 2018-07-25
RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED
to the veterans of World War II, a generation of heroes who, like my grandfather, fought valiantly and courageously to secure freedom for us all.
And to the unsung heroes with nary a medal nor ribbon to show for their sacrifices— for ’twas the women who waited for their loved ones to return who truly gave purpose to their soldiers’ victory.
Each separate page was like a fluttering flower-petal, loosed from your own soul, and wafted thus to mine.
—Edmond Rostand, Cyrano de Bergerac, act iv, scene viii
Contents
Cover (#u6ec0f425-2c06-51f0-bd5a-fd2d55cce3c3)
Title Page (#uacc7c658-1697-5aa4-a516-ec6532b924fa)
Copyright
Epigraph (#ua7238c0c-1c51-597a-b376-4b98c32d4d4e)
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Acknowledgments
Author’s Note
Book Club “Victory Recipes” (#litres_trial_promo)
A Reading Group Guide (#litres_trial_promo)
Discussion Questions (#litres_trial_promo)
Read on for an exclusive interview with Kristina McMorris (#litres_trial_promo)
Letters from Home Kristina McMorris (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Author
Credits
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 1
July 4, 1944 Chicago, Illinois
Silence in the idling Cadillac grew as suffocating as the city’s humidity. Hands clenched on her lap, Liz Stephens averted her narrowed eyes toward the open passenger window. Chattering ladies and servicemen flocked by in the shadows; up and down they traveled over the concrete accordion of entrance steps. The sting of laughter and music drifted through the swinging glass doors, bounced off the colorless sky. Another holiday without gunpowder for celebration. No boom of metallic streamers, no sunbursts awakening the night. Only the fading memory of a simpler time.
A time when Liz knew whom she could trust.
“You know the Rotary doesn’t invite just anyone to speak,” Dalton Harris said finally. The same argument, same lack of apology in his voice. “What was I supposed to do? Tell my father I couldn’t be there because of some dance?”
At his condescension, her gaze snapped to his slate gray eyes. “That,” she said, “is exactly what you should’ve done.”
“Honey. You’re being unreasonable.”
“So it’s unreasonable, wanting us to spend time together?”
“That’s not what I meant.” A scratch to the back of his neck punctuated his frustration, a habit that had lost the amusing charm it held when they were kids. Long before the expensive suits, the perfect ties, the tonic-slickening of his dark brown hair.
“Listen.” His square jaw slackened as he angled toward her, a debater shifting his approach. “When I was asked to run my dad’s campaign, we talked about this. I warned you my schedule would be crazy until the election. And you were the one who said I should do it, that between classes and work, you’d be—”
“As busy as ever,” she finished sharply. “Yes. I know what I said.” With Dalton in law school and her a sophomore at Northwestern, leading independent but complementary lives was nothing new; in fact, that had always been among the strengths of their relationship. Which was why he should know their separate activities weren’t the issue tonight.
“Then what’s the problem?”
“The problem is, anything else pops up, campaign or otherwise, and you don’t think twice about canceling on me.”
“I am not canceling. I’m asking you to come with me.”
Liz had attended enough political fund-raisers with him to know that whispers behind plastered smiles and greedy glad-handing would be highlights of the night. A night she could do without, even if not for her prior commitment.
“I already told you,” she said, “I promised the girls weeks ago I’d be here.” The main reason she’d agreed, given her condensed workload from summer school, was to repay Betty for accompanying her to that droning version of Henry V last week—just so Dalton’s ticket hadn’t gone to waste. “Why can’t you make an exception? Just this once?”
He dropped back in his seat, drew out a sigh. “Lizzy, it’s just a dance.”
No, it’s not. It’s more than that. I have to know I can depend on you! Her throat fastened around her retort. Explosions of words, she knew all too well, could bring irreversible consequences.
She grabbed the door handle. “I have to go.” Before he could exit and circle around to open her side, she let herself out.
“Wait,” he called as she shut the door. “Sweetheart, hold on.”
The sudden plea in his voice tugged at her like strings, halting her. Could it be that he had changed his mind? That he was still the same guy she could count on?
She slid her hand into the pocket of her ivory wraparound dress, a shred of hope cupped in her palm, before pivoting to face him.
Dalton leaned across the seat toward her. “We’ll talk about this later, all right?”
Disappointment throbbed inside, a recurrent bruise. Bridling her reaction, she replied with a nod, fully aware her agreement would translate into a truce.
“Have a good time,” he said, then gripped the steering wheel and drove away.
As she turned for the stairs, she pulled her hand from her pocket, and discovered she’d been holding but a stray thread. The first sign of a seam unraveling.
In the entry of the dance hall, Liz stretched up on the balls of her feet to see over hats and heads. Her gaze penetrated the light haze of smoke to reach the stage. There, uniformed musicians played from behind star-patterned barricades of red, white, and blue. Flags and an oversized United Service Organization banner created a vibrant backdrop, Americana at its finest. In front of the band, her roommate Betty Cordell and two other women shared a standing microphone, harmonizing the final notes of “Don’t Sit Under the Apple Tree.”
The audience broke into applause.
“Swell,” Liz groaned. She’d missed Betty’s entire debut.
Correcting her presumption, the trio jumped into another jingle.
“Thank God.” Though not a particularly religious person, Liz figured it never hurt to offer a small token of appreciation to the Almighty.
Now to find her other roommate, Julia Renard. Despite the teeming room, it took only a moment to spy the girl’s fiery, collar-length curls, her ever-chic attire.
Liz wove through the sea of military uniforms and thick wafts of Aqua Velva. Ignoring a duet of catcalls, she slid into the empty chair next to her friend. “I’m so sorry I’m late.”
“Let me guess,” Julia ventured in her honey-sweet voice. “Mr. Donovan lost his dentures, or Thelma refused to take her pills, convinced you’re trying to poison her.”
Liz edged out a smile.
“You know, it wouldn’t kill you to get off work at a decent hour. You’re making the rest of us look bad.” She used her thumb to wipe something off Liz’s cheek. “So, is Dalton parking the car?”
Liz tried for a casual shrug. “A political thing came up at the last minute.” Again trailed her statement as the unspoken word.
“Oh,” Julia replied. Not even her glowing smile could hide the sympathy invading her copper eyes.
“It’s fine,” Liz insisted. “I can’t stay long anyway. I’ve got an essay on Hawthorne due Friday.”
Julia nodded, then detoured from the awkward pause. “Hey, I think I still have notes on Hawthorne from last semester. Want to borrow them?”
“Sure, thanks,” Liz said, before considering the source. “Unless you’ve got doodle designs covering the actual notes.”
Julia scrunched her mouth, pondering. “Well, there might be a few. . . .”
Liz couldn’t help but giggle. If past lives existed, Julia had to have been an elite fashion designer with a permanently attached sketchpad. A keen knack for sewing served as further proof, as showcased by their roommate’s new dress.
“Speaking of which.” Liz motioned toward Betty. “You’ve really outdone yourself, Jules.” In the center of the crooning trio, the blonde sparkled in the form-fitted garment matching her ocean blue eyes. The fabric and buttons were so dazzling, Julia had obviously purchased the materials herself. No doubt the dress was already Betty’s favorite. From the exquisite sweetheart neckline to the elegant flow around her hips, every stitch perfectly flattered her hourglass curves. “Rita Hayworth?” Liz guessed at the inspiration.
“Yep,” Julia said proudly. “From the gown in Blood and Sand. Except I shortened it to the knee, and improved on the sleeves.”
“You’re amazing.” Too amazing to waste your talent solely as a homemaker, she wanted to say. But there was no need traversing that well-covered territory.
“It was nothing.” Julia blushed, waved her off. “You want something to drink?”
Liz only intended to stay for three songs, four tops. But some coffee to ripen her brain for a long night of reading wasn’t a bad idea. “A cup of joe would be great.”
“Coming right up.”
As Julia headed toward the snack table by the stage, Liz settled in her seat. She massaged the tension out of her palms and returned her attention to Betty. In a seasoned motion, the girl tossed her finger-waved mane off her shoulders. The bounce of her hips succeeded as a diversion from her moderate singing ability, evidenced by the front line of awestruck troops, her ideal audience.
Leave it to Betty. Up there, living carefree, without regrets. No academic pressures, no parents’ expectations looming overhead—
Jealous souls will not be answered. The passage interrupted Liz’s thoughts, one of many Shakespearean quotes she had memorized from her father’s personal tutorials.
“One quote for every sun kiss,” he would say during the lessons that ended far too soon.
Now, glancing down at the constellation of freckles on her arms, Liz recalled those long-gone days. She considered the morals her father had passed along, and wondered how different their lives would be if only she’d abided by them.
“What the hell are you up to now?” Morgan McClain demanded as his brother ducked behind his back.
“Don’t move. Need you to cover me.” Charlie raised his shoulders to his sandy blond crew cut.
When Morgan glimpsed the silver flask in his brother’s hand, he shook his head. Charlie wasn’t the only enlisted man at the dance calling for “liquid reinforcement,” just the only one daring enough to dip into his supply ten feet from the volunteers’ snack station. Luckily, the herd of GIs standing around them at the foot of the stage offered plenty of khaki camouflage. Or at least Morgan clung to that hope as his brother choked on the drink. Whiskey, from the smell of it.
“Hurry up, will ya?” Morgan told him. Typically, he would have voiced his disproval, but with Charlie’s tension over tomorrow’s departure vibrating the air, he decided to let it go. So long as the kid didn’t get carried away.
“Ahh, much better,” Charlie rasped, emerging from the protective shadow. He stepped up behind a couple of GIs from another outfit, both of them wolf whistling at the platinum blond singer on stage. “Sorry, fellas”—Charlie clapped them on the back—“but she’s already agreed to mother my fourteen children.”
“Don’t fool yourself, shorty,” the tall guy spat out. “You wouldn’t know how to use it even if you could find it.”
Charlie straightened, adding a few inches to his compact stature. “Hey, at least I have one, spaghetti bender.”
“What’d you say?” The Italian GI angled his head over his wide shoulder.
“You heard me.” Charlie took a step back. He rocked from side to side, dukes raised like Jack Dempsey.
As usual, Morgan would have to shut him up before a bigger guy’s right hook beat him to it. “Zip it, Charlie,” he ordered, then regarded the Italian. “Don’t pay him any mind. It’s his first day out of the loony bin.” Not a stretch to believe, considering the mismatched challenge.
The GI’s mouth twitched, from either amusement or agitation. To be safe, Morgan gestured to the stage and said, “Don’t look now, but I think that red-hot tomato’s got her eye on you, pal.” The sentence launched the soldier’s attention back to the bombshell, where it stuck like glue.
Problem handled.
Except for the instigator.
“So help me, Charlie,” Morgan muttered, “if you weren’t . . . my . . . if . . .” The lecture dissolved at a vision beyond his brother’s shoulder. Across the room a petite beauty sat alone, swaying to the music. Strands of chestnut brown hair slipped from the knot at the nape of her neck, a frame for her heart-shaped face. Creamy skin, feminine curves, full, rounded lips. Each feature was no less than eye catching, but it was the way she moved—like wheat in a summer breeze—that mesmerized him.
“Hey, you okay?”
Morgan heard the question but didn’t realize it was directed at him until a fluttering object broke the trance: a wave of Charlie’s fingers.
“Huh? Uh, yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.”
Charlie swept a glance over the room, tracing the distraction. Soon a gleam appeared in his hazel eyes. “Aha, I see . . .” He twisted around and declared, “Gentlemen, we’ve located our primary target. We’re goin’ in.”
Before Morgan could object, his brother began pressing him through the crowd like a restive racehorse into the starting gate. GIs whooped, whistled, and hollered “attaboys” in his direction. If he retreated now, the razzing would only worsen.
He pulled a deep breath. Adjusting his tucked necktie, he imagined introducing himself; he got as far as his name when a red-haired woman joined the brunette’s table. A growing audience. His shoes turned to cinder blocks. He raised an arm to stop his brother, who swooped under and pounced into place, blocking the women’s view of the stage.
“Pardon me, ladies,” Charlie said. “We’re in dire need of your assistance.”
“Why? You lost, soldier?” the redhead teased.
“Not anymore.” He grinned, sporting his dimples. “Now that I’ve found my way to your heart.”
When the gals exchanged incredulous looks, Morgan considered sneaking away, preserving his dignity while the possibility remained. But the mere sight of the brunette’s profile locked his knees. Unbelievably, she was even prettier up close.
“Wait a minute,” Charlie went on. “I think we’ve met you girls before. You’re Gor and Geous, ain’t ya?” Their lack of response didn’t faze him. “All right, what are your lovely names, then?”
Nothing. Just blank stares.
“Afraid I’m not going anywhere till I know.” Charlie crossed his arms and waited, a rare showing of following through.
The brunette released a sharp sigh. “Fine. I’m Liz, this is Julia, and you’re leaving.”
Morgan pressed down a grin.
“Leaving?” Charlie repeated. “How could I, after finding the two prettiest gals in the city?”
Julia shook her head. “Has any of this actually worked on a girl before?”
“She means a human girl,” Liz added.
“Ouch!” Charlie stumbled backward as though her insult had struck more than his ego. “You sure know how to hurt a guy.” For the pathetic come-on alone, Morgan could think of a worse punishment.
“Goodness me,” Liz exclaimed, hand on her chest. “Where are my manners?”
“Not to worry, apology accepted.” Charlie’s assurance drove straight through her sarcasm, arching her brow. “Besides. I owe you an apology as well, for not introducing myself properly.”
The situation was deteriorating. But it wasn’t too late. If Morgan moved now, blended into the crowd, he just might escape the quicksand of humiliation. His brother could find his way back on his own.
“My name’s Charlie,” he said as Morgan edged away, “but good friends and peachy gals like you call me Chap. And this dashing gentleman over here is my brother, Staff Sergeant Morgan McClain.”
Staff sergeant? Morgan bristled at the lie, and found himself trapped by their gazes. He held his breath, arms at his sides, as if preparing for Saturday inspection.
Liz stretched her neck over her shoulder, curiosity forcing a peek. With Morgan’s charcoal black hair and olive complexion, she questioned if he and the fair-skinned knucklehead were actually brothers.
“Evening,” Morgan said, the word barely audible. A fitted service shirt outlined his broad build. His facial features were of the average sort, but he had an allure about him, an unnamable quality Liz couldn’t dismiss.
“Hi,” she replied as Charlie continued.
“Honestly, ladies, here’s our situation.” His serious tone implied a change in strategy. “You see, me and Morgan, we’re leaving for war soon. As two of the U.S. Army’s finest, we’ll be fighting on the front lines. So without much time left to live, I’ve got just one thing I’m wishin’ for.” He knelt, presenting Julia his palm. “To dance with this red-haired knockout before I go.”
“Sorry, Casanova, but I’m already spoken for.” She held up her left hand to display her engagement ring. Daily polishing, since her fiancé’s fleet shipped out a month ago, kept the gold shiny as new.
“Well, then . . .” The gears clearly cranked away in Charlie’s mind. “How ’bout a dance to celebrate your engagement?”
Liz replied for her. “How ’bout we celebrate when your squad tosses you overboard?” She heard Morgan quietly laugh, a second before his brother directed his plea to Liz.
“C’mon,” he said. “Is this how you thank a man who’ll be risking his life for your freedom?”
She felt a smile threatening to surface. “If you got these lines out of a book from the drugstore, you should really get your nickel back.”
“Hey, I’m just trying to save your friend Julie, here, from years of guilt. Imagine the headlines: ‘Soldier denied a final dance . . . dies for his country . . .’”
Julia giggled, hand covering her mouth. “Okay, okay.” She rolled her eyes. “One song.” Together they headed toward the dance floor, where skirts flared and couples dipped to the band’s emboldening tune.
After a moment, Morgan stepped closer and pointed to Julia’s chair. “May I?”
“Why not,” Liz said, a verbal shrug. Her night was tumbling downhill at avalanche speed. Rather than curling up at home, losing herself in classical literary works, she was stuck in a dance hall packed with slick soldiers on the prowl.
Morgan sat beside her, their shoulders only inches apart. If this guy was hunting for a khaki-whacky girl, he was barking up the wrong table. She leaned away, just as Charlie began spinning Julia round and round like a top. Liz grew hopeful that her friend would rush back, ready to head out. But then both dancers broke into a fit of laughter, confirming Liz was on her own.
“So—” Morgan cleared his throat. “You’re Liz?”
“You’re not going to use your brother’s goofy lines, are you?”
“No, miss. I was—just asking about your name.”
The sincerity in his voice underscored her own brusqueness. He hadn’t done anything to deserve such treatment. At least not yet. “I’m sorry,” she said, softening. “Yes, it’s Liz.” As she extended her hand, his mouth curved into a smile.
“It’s real nice to meet you,” he said.
Something about his touch caused her pulse to sprint. She released her grasp and sipped her coffee, despite it being a few degrees too hot. “So tell me, why do they call your brother Chap?”
“It’s short for Charlie Chaplin. Got the name ’cause he loves making people laugh.”
As if on cue, Charlie hopped around Julia like an island native performing a tribal mating ritual. His partner appeared as entertained as spectators on the sideline.
Liz tightened her lips, but a giggle snuck through. “And you really claim that guy as your brother?”
Morgan hesitated before nodding slowly. “Yep. But only by blood.” A caring glimmer shone in his eyes, emerald gems speckled with gold. A miner’s prized find.
Her leg started to quiver. Surely a side effect of the coffee and a tiring day of work. She tamed her knee. “I assume you’ve got a nickname too?”
“Just Mac, short for McClain. Nothing fancy.”
“Well,” she said, “at least it’s nothing to blush over. My roommate’s told me about plenty I wouldn’t dare repeat.”
“I can imagine.” He grinned. “Suppose I should be grateful Farm Boy didn’t stick.”
The mention of a life so different from her own intrigued her. “Then you’re a farmer?”
He half shrugged, a movement suggesting embarrassment. “My uncle owns a good chunk of land in southern Illinois. I’ve been managing it the past few years.”
“What kind of farm is it?”
“You mean the crops?”
She nodded.
“Feed corn mostly. And we alternate with soybeans. Rotated the lower half last season and—” He bit off the ending, rubbed the faint cleft in his chin. “Probably more than you wanted to know.”
“Not at all. Really. I’m interested.” More than she should have been.
“Guess you can tell, us plow jockeys don’t get out a whole lot.”
“Except for USO dances and taking out your girlfriends, right?” It was a forward question, but if only he’d confess he had a sweetheart, Liz could stop her nerves from jittering.
“Charlie does do more wooing than working,” he admitted. “But me, afraid I don’t do much else but tend the fields.”
She caught herself in a smile, a betrayal in its fervor.
“And what do you do,” he asked, “when you’re not at USO dances?”
Propriety prompted her to enlighten him about her courtship with Dalton and their path to matrimony, an eventual yet inevitable step in her practical plan—a checklist to a respectable future. In-stead, she replied, “Guess I spend most of my time studying. That and taking care of elderly folks, a job I love for some reason.” She wrinkled her nose. “Sounds odd, I know.”
The polite, humoring head shake she expected didn’t come. Rather, he seemed to examine the words, taking them in. “Not a thing wrong with helping out people who need it.” He peered at her with those polished green gems, their deep shade nearly hypnotic. “So what are you studying, Liz?”
“Well—I’m . . .” She had to sift her mind for the answer. When had this become a hard question? “English,” she remembered. “I want to be a literature professor.”
“Wow, that’s wonderful.” He sounded genuinely impressed. A nice contrast to those who viewed her desire to work as an assault on the family structure. “What made you decide on that?”
“It’s what my father does.”
Morgan nodded, then asked, “But, what made you want to be a teacher?”
She stumbled over the inquiry—direct, thoughtful, unexpected. Her father’s legacy had always sufficed as a natural explanation; no one had ever bothered to probe further.
“Sorry.” He shifted in his chair. “Didn’t mean to put you on the spot.”
At a loss for an answer, she merely gave a nod, then opted for deflection. Or perhaps she yearned to know more about him. “And what about you? Any plans after the service?”
“Oh, we’ll likely buy up some acreage. Charlie’s pushing for cattle ranching, but we’ll see.”
“Ahh,” she said, head tilted. “But what is it that you want?”
He grinned broadly, a nonverbal touché, and replied, “To put down roots, I suppose. Raise a family. Can’t imagine anything more important.”
The warmth in his words reached for her heart like invisible hands. Fortunately, she spied the single-striped chevron at the top of his sleeve—private first class—grounds for challenging his integrity. “By the way,” she said, “when did you get promoted to staff sergeant?”
He half glanced at his shoulder and his expression dropped. “Um, well, you see. I’m not exactly . . . a staff sergeant. Yet.”
With Betty as a roommate, Liz had learned a great deal about military insignias. The fact that his rank was three grades lower than the one boasted by his brother didn’t mean a thing to Liz. What did matter was his evident penchant for honesty. Which only made him more likable.
“My brother,” he apologized, “he’s a bit of an Irish storyteller.”
“Mmm.” She feigned contemplation. “You are in the service, though, right?”
A slight smile returned. “After all our training, I sure as heck hope so.”
“It’s a good thing you went Army, then. I hear basic’s a lot harder in the Navy and Marines.”
At that, his mouth retracted, leaving him speechless. Liz tried to keep a straight face but failed.
Tentative, he shook his head before easing out a laugh. “Are you always this nice to fellas you just met?”
“Just the special ones.” The admission rolled out before she could stop it. Oddly, however, she felt no need to backpedal; they seemed anything but strangers.
“In that case,” he said, “I’ll take it as a compliment.”
Behind Morgan, an attractive woman in a WAVES uniform rose at the neighboring table. She linked arms with an airman, who bid farewell to his buddies, and the couple set off through the crowd.
It suddenly occurred to Liz that she had landed herself in the worst kind of room, one full of impending good-byes. Distant memories seeped about her. As she refocused on Morgan, words never far from the clutches of her mind spilled out. “So when are you leaving?”
He paused. The question ironed the crinkles from the corners of his eyes. “We’re heading for our post tomorrow.”
It was a reply she should have anticipated. Still, her heart sank.
“Wanna know the truth?” He leaned toward her as if passing along a secret, his forearm on the table approaching hers. “I’m still hoping they’ll have second thoughts about trusting my brother with a loaded weapon.”
She nodded as he sat back, and found herself equally disappointed and grateful he’d increased the space between them. “Well, that may not be an issue. Rumor has it, the war could be over any day now.”
“Yeah, well. Whatever you do, don’t tell Charlie. If he doesn’t see at least one battle, he’ll never speak to me again.”
“Oh? Why’s that?”
“I made him wait till he turned eighteen.” Morgan traced the edge of the table with his thumb. “Even took a deferment to give him time to grow up.”
“And you think that worked?” she mused.
“Based on what we’ve seen tonight, I’d say definitely not.” With a wink, he turned to watch the dancers. Aside from the premature gray sprinkled above his ears, he appeared just a few years older than Liz. Only from careful observation of his eyes did she sense a forced maturity, a cheated youth. An accumulation of endured hardships intended for a man far surpassing Morgan’s age.
“I swear,” he said, “that kid has added ten years to me.” He gave the side of his head a gentle scratch as if he’d read her thoughts.
“Sounds like he’s kept your life exciting, at least.”
“That he has.” When Morgan faced her, their gazes did more than meet; they locked in place, forming an open passageway. Her natural reflexes should have intervened, broken the connection, but those reflexes were no match for the invitation in his eyes. Without reason or reservation, she felt her soul accepting.
“I’m done,” Julia said breathlessly, materializing out of no where. Her presence tugged Liz back to reality, reminded her of the performance that had brought her here. She glanced at the stage. A tuxedoed soloist had replaced the trio. Betty must have been primping for fans in her dressing room.
“What happened to your partner?” Liz asked, not seeing Charlie.
“Oh, don’t worry about him.” Julia flicked her hand behind her. “He’s already found a new victim. Thank goodness.”
Morgan stood and offered the chair to Julia.
“That’s okay, I’m not staying,” she said, grabbing her beaded purse.
Liz’s shoulders tensed. “You’re ready to leave?”
“Suzie and Dot are here. We’re going to Tasty’s to grab a bite. Want to come?”
Morgan retook his seat, appearing watchful of Liz’s response.
“You go on ahead,” she replied. “I’ll be home after the show.” Even in her own ears, the words seemed to have come from someone other than herself.
Julia rumpled her brow, then extended a curious smile. “You two have a good night.” Once out of Morgan’s eyeshot, she gave Liz a look that said she expected a full explanation in the morning.
Liz urged her legs to follow—after all, what was she doing?— but then a series of notes overpowered the thought. A slow version of “Stormy Weather.” A melody of her past, towed through every dramatic measure.
“This tune”—Morgan gestured toward the band—“reminds me of my mom. Sang it around the house all the time.”
“Really?” Liz remarked at the coincidence. She tried to think of how many times she’d heard the original playing behind her mother’s locked bedroom door. Must have been a thousand. Liz had every reason to hate the song, yet somehow it persisted as one of her favorites. “Mine liked it too,” was all she added.
Eyes toward the singer, Morgan shook his head. A tender smile played on his lips. “Funny. She always made it sound so upbeat, I never noticed how sad the words are till now.”
Liz listened to the lyrics, about gloom and misery, and realized she hadn’t either. She verged on volunteering as much, but the glow in his expression stole her focus. Before she knew it, her gaze sloped down his arms, leaving her to imagine how they would feel wrapped around her.
When the tune ended, she jerked her eyes away, hoping he couldn’t actually read her mind. Then another ballad began, “At Last,” based on the opening bars. A horn sang soft and sultry and filled the silence between them. A silence that suddenly gaped for miles as he fidgeted in his chair. Staring in the other direction, he tapped his heel at quickstep tempo, as though antsy to reach the exit. She wanted to say something, yet nothing came to her. Their wordlessness dragged every second into a torturous crawl. Unsure of what to do, she peeked at her watch to verify time hadn’t stopped.
“So, Liz,” he said finally, “would you mind if I, um, asked you to dance?”
She was so relieved he had spoken it took her a moment to weigh his invitation.
It was a slow number.
She should decline.
Then again, he was leaving tomorrow.
“Sure—I mean, no, I wouldn’t mind.”
They rose and walked to the edge of the dance floor. As she slipped her hand into his, unfamiliar nerves rippled up her sides. His other hand cupped the small of her back and drew her close. She fought the trickle of a chill on her neck, willed moisture into her mouth gone dry.
This was a mistake, she warned herself. Still, she rested a palm on his broad shoulder, the starched fabric separating her from the skin beneath. At the shift of his muscles, the feel of his gaze, her heart pounded twice as fast as the beat. She didn’t take in a single lyric, yet everything about the song was perfect. It seemed the spiraling combination of notes was commanding her emotions to lead; her body to follow.
She turned her head and closed her eyes. Vanilla, lemon, and cedar—the scent of his talc or aftershave was soft but masculine. The slight rasp of his chin brushed against her temple; a rush of warm breath passed by her cheek. She tightened her grip on his shoulder as subtly as she could. Cracking her eyelids, she noted goose bumps prickling her arms. She desperately hoped he didn’t notice the effect he had on her. Unless he felt the same.
What was she thinking? They’d only just met. Sensible. She needed to be sensible.
Then his hand adjusted on her back. His fingers moved up slightly, pulling her closer. Never before had she been so aware of being touched. The air enveloping them thickened, a dense cloud, smothering sensibility.
She relaxed her neck, her shoulders, her rules. Unable, unwilling to stop herself, she angled toward his gaze. Her mind reached for his lips, and—
“Watch it!” a stranger’s voice shrilled.
Liz startled back to the room, and to the sailor falling straight into them. Morgan tried to slant her out of the way, but wasn’t fast enough to dodge the man’s red drink. It splattered an S down the side of her dress.
“Hey, I’m soor-ry,” the stocky guy slurred. He floundered off, rubbing his hairless head.
“You okay?” Morgan touched her bare arm.
Chills again. She pulled the damp portion of her dress from her legs. “I just need to clean up in the powder room.”
“Take your time,” he told her, and smiled.
She turned to hurry away, not from anxiousness to leave, but rather to return.
With the fog Morgan found himself in, he almost wondered if fumes from his brother’s whiskey were to blame. Liz had disappeared into the crowd, yet here he was, grinning like a possum. He couldn’t stop. He’d never met anyone so captivating. From her amber eyes that glowed and dimmed with her mood to the fragrance of a lavender field on her soft skin. More attractive still was the blend of her gentleness and outward strength.
But there was something else. A feeling of understanding, a comfort that defied reason. It was as though kissing her, a near stranger, would have made all the sense in the world.
He’d certainly had the impulse. Maybe he should have acted on it. Most guys at the dance would have done so without a second thought. At this very moment, his brother was likely coercing a smooch out of some girl in the room, a last favor before heading off to war.
The war.
How could he have forgotten?
Tomorrow they’d be at Union Station, one step closer to deploying to some country thousands of miles from home—and a world away from Liz.
Would a girl like that be willing to wait for a soldier she’d only known a single night? Or was he screwy to even consider the idea?
He drained a sigh heavy with doubt.
“Don’t tell me you lost that dame already.” Charlie’s voice turned Morgan around.
“She’s in the ladies’ room.” Promptly diverting, he said, “So what happened with the redhead? Not as irresistible as you thought you were, huh?”
“She was engaged. Doesn’t count. Besides, Jack says there’s a juice joint nearby, lots of gals there dying to show their patriotism.”
“Hope they don’t charge much.”
“Hey, I didn’t crack open my piggy bank for nothin’.” Charlie beamed. “I’m guessing you’re not going anywhere?”
“Think I’ll stick around awhile.” The answer formed so effortlessly Morgan almost missed the pricking of his conscience. When the town sheriff caught little Charlie drilling peepholes at Mrs. Herman’s Lingerie Boutique, their father had made it abundantly clear Morgan was responsible for keeping tabs on his brother. A passage of years hadn’t relinquished the duty; if anything, need for the role had risen.
But tonight, with the promise of Liz’s return, how could Morgan leave?
“Now, if the skirt comes to her senses,” Charlie said, “and decides to hide in the john all night, be sure to come looking for us.”
“Yeah, all right. Stay out of trouble, though, you hear?”
“Absolutely.” Charlie grinned and snaked off toward his buddies by the door.
“I mean it, Charlie!”
The kid raised his hand as if to affirm he was going to heed the order. Morgan knew better, of course. And he certainly knew better than to turn his brother loose with a flask of booze and their buddy Jack Callan on their last night in the city.
The thought ignited a flicker of regret, doused the instant Morgan’s nose caught a residual whiff of Liz’s perfume. Proof of her existence on his shirt. A reminder that he really had no choice.
Preparing for her reappearance, he spiffed up his necktie, then swiped his hands over his hair, due for another buzz cut. In the midst of sliding his watch down over his wrist bone, he halted at the color of red: a cluster of punch spots, spiked punch at that, tainting the cuff of his sleeve. “Ah, damn.”
Liz had only been gone a minute or two. He still had time before she finished cleaning up. Although finding a miraculous stain remover was a long shot, he had to try. The last thing he needed was a commander’s reprimand, followed by hours of scrubbing latrines. And more important, looking like a slob wasn’t how he hoped to come across to the woman he wanted to impress.
At the snack table, a matronly volunteer extended her sympathy and set off to retrieve a bottle of seltzer. While he waited, a couple nearby Lindy Hopping caught his eye. The Marine tossed the girl around his back, then flipped her like a hotcake. His feet swiveled and scooted and shuffled. He may not have been the smoothest swinger in the room, but the fellow could pass as Gene Kelly next to Morgan’s own less-than-snappy footwork.
Inwardly, Morgan kicked himself. He should have taken notes instead of heckling his brother when their mother used to lead Charlie in the box step around the kitchen. Then he wouldn’t have wasted two songs mustering the courage to ask Liz to dance. Too bad he wasn’t as skilled with a dance partner as he was with a plow.
“Hey, toots! How about a twirl?” The husky voice boomed from a few yards behind. No surprise, it was the same chief petty officer who had separated him from Liz, only now he was falling all over someone deliberately: the curvy blond singer appearing from a door by the stage. She swatted at the guy’s hands, but his groping continued until she gave him a shove. Turning to break away, she lost her footing and stumbled forward. Morgan’s arms swung outward, barely catching her.
“Gimme a chance, doll face!” The Navy man staggered closer.
She gazed at Morgan with big blue eyes. “Save me,” she pleaded in a whisper.
His first instinct called for a harsh warning toward her inebriated fan, and, if that didn’t work, an invitation to step outside. However, based on stories he’d heard while at basic, Morgan knew better than to tangle with a superior of any branch. He’d have to get creative.
“Excuse me, Chief.” He positioned his body to guard the singer. “But I promised my fiancée, here, a dance.”
The man pulled his chin back over his neck. He scrunched his face like a bulldog being challenged. “Fiancée, huh?”
Morgan straightened, inched a step forward. “Yes, sir. High school sweethearts.”
The Navy man scrutinized the couple with his bloodshot eyes. His pulse visibly throbbed on the side of his head, bald as a billiard ball. Suddenly, he flared a grin and stuck out a swaying hand. “Well, congrad-julations!”
Relieved, Morgan accepted the guy’s ironclad grip while leaning away from the smell of sweat and bourbon seeping from his pores.
“Let’s go, honey bear.” The blonde latched onto Morgan’s arm. “They’re playing our song.” She pulled him free and towed him to the dance floor. The horn section, rocking in unison, blasted lively notes toward the high ceiling.
With no sight of Liz yet, he took the singer’s hands. He did his best to spare her toes through the basic steps of a jitterbug. Thankfully, the tune ended within a few bars and the petty officer, though still in view, had about-faced. Seizing the opportunity to exit, Morgan released the woman’s hands.
“Can’t leave me yet, Private.” She drew him back for the crooner’s ballad. “We didn’t finish our wedding dance.” Her arms wrapped around his neck, guiding him into a close sway.
He swallowed a gulp of air. Obviously, city girls were bolder than the small-town gals he’d grown up with.
“Miss, I’d love to keep dancin’, but—”
She peered at him with a seductive glint. “Oh, come now. I have to thank you for your help somehow. And you did promise me a dance.” A smile slid across her lips before she rested her chin on his shoulder. Just then, the petty officer shifted his stance to face them. Upon catching Morgan’s eye, the guy tapped an arm of the sailor standing beside him. “Hey!” they yelled raggedly, and raised their cups in a distant toast.
Morgan lifted his chin in acknowledgment. For the singer’s sake, he’d wait for the song to end before leaving the floor discreetly—unless, that is, he glimpsed Liz’s chestnut hair, her heavenly face.
“I’m Betty, by the way,” the blonde said.
“I’m Morgan . . . McClain,” he said in pieces. His gaze hopped back and forth between the drunken bookends and the far corner of the dance floor, the exact spot where Liz had woven into the crowd and would presumably emerge.
“Well, thank you for rescuing me, Morgan.” Betty’s fingertips grazed the small scar on the side of his neck, a permanent reminder of the day he’d saved Charlie from a fatal dive down a grain chute. Man, he wished his brother were here to repay the favor by cutting in.
Charlie would think he was nuts, of course. Betty had to be the most sought-after girl in the place. Regardless, there was only one woman Morgan wanted to be with.
Alone in the ladies’ room, Liz felt a new chapter in her life unfolding. She was a six-year-old waking to her first snowfall, a kid in a general store given free rein over the candy barrels.
Calming herself, she set aside the hand towel she’d used to blot her dress. Looking in the mirror, she tucked in her loose hair. The makeup she’d applied that morning had almost completely faded. She pinched her cheeks and licked her lips. She felt like a starlet standing by for a knock on her dressing room door.
Five minutes, Miss Stephens, before we shoot the kissing scene with the soldier.
Suddenly Liz could see the world as Julia did, through a soft cinema lens where boy met girl and all lived happily ever after. Where obstacles fell away like mist, temporary and translucent. Where you were held accountable only for actions wedged between the opening and closing credits.
She could have that, couldn’t she? A clean slate, a happily ever after?
Don’t be silly, the skeptic in her sneered. Such a reality only existed in the movies. Her parents had taught her that. And what was she going to do? Jeopardize her relationship with Dalton for a GI she barely knew, one who’d soon be on his way?
Thank heavens for the sailor’s interference. She could have ruined far more than her favorite summer garb had he not reawakened her sanity.
Embarrassed by her behavior, and even more by her ridiculous thoughts, she jetted from the lavatory and off to the exit. The doors were in sight when a twinge of guilt slowed her steps.
The least she could do was wish the soldier well, freeing him to mingle with other girls—available girls—who’d be worth his efforts.
She grumbled at the call to decency, an ironic notion at this point, and trudged back to their table. Yet there, she found strangers in their seats. She rotated slowly, her gaze circling the room. Another turn, and still no sign of Morgan.
Perhaps he had sensed she wouldn’t be coming back. Some buddies could have whisked him away, moved on to another dance hall, a late-night diner.
Perfect, she told herself. An easy way out.
She ordered relief to take hold, though the feeling refused— until she glimpsed his profile. He had waited for her, after all.
Or so she thought, before a curtain of strangers divided, and the full scene came into view. Across the dance floor indeed stood Morgan, but with a girl in his arms. And not just any girl. It was Betty—eyes closed, cheek nestled against his neck, the slope of her hair pillowing his chin. Both certainly looked at ease, a natural pair.
This was a good thing. The best, actually, for them all.
So why did Liz feel a cinching around her heart? Why was a streak of anger sweeping through her, a sensation bordering on betrayal? The reaction was absurd. Morgan owed her nothing, and even if Betty had seen them dancing, there was no reason for her to question Liz’s intentions, what with her already having a beau. Not that anyone here would have guessed.
“Elizabeth Stephens, is that you?”
She swung toward the voice. A tall man approached wearing Coke-bottle glasses, his suit a size too small for his gangly stature.
“Is Dalt here?” His lenses magnified the enthusiasm in his eyes. His name escaped her, but he was unmistakably a schoolmate of Dalton’s.
“Um . . . no. He couldn’t make it.” Shame rushed through her, flooding every limb.
“Well, tell him I said hi.”
“Of course.” She smiled feebly. Whirling around, she bumped her way through the faceless mass. She needed to flee before any further harm was done, before her logical foundation could crumble beneath her feet.
She dashed out the doors and down the steps, not slowing until she’d boarded the “L” train destined for the seclusion of her suburban home. Stooped in her seat, she rested her head against the window. Summer clouds reclaimed territory above, draping a cluster of stars. No twinkling, no trace of existence.
If only mistakes were as easily erased.
At long last, the USO band played the final notes of the song. Until then, Morgan didn’t think anything could seem lengthier than the Sunday masses he attended as a kid. The audience thundered in applause and a slew of dancers dispersed, concealing his brisk parting from Betty. Concerned that Liz still hadn’t returned, he immediately strode off on a search.
For close to an hour, he scoured the place. He described the brunette’s features and what he recalled of her outfit to more than a dozen random people. He’d gone so far as to ask ladies exiting the washroom if she was still inside, in the event she wasn’t feeling well.
But his hunt was futile. It was clear she’d left.
Had he said or done something wrong? Or was it something he’d failed to say or do? He reviewed as many details as he could, and still no explanation.
Maybe it wasn’t him at all; maybe she was too upset over her dress to stay. Could have been an emergency that sent her rushing off. Whatever the reason, he hadn’t given up all hope. He wasn’t about to. There was too much to lose.
God, how could he find her again? He hadn’t even asked for her last name.
He scorned his thoughtlessness before taking another approach. Like a detective from a radio drama, he mulled over the clues. She mentioned studying, but where? And caring for the elderly. A hospital? A rest home? What about the redhead—which joint did she say she was hitting with her friends? He should have asked for specifics. Then again, if Liz had decided to follow them, she would have said so.
Wouldn’t she?
A swell of doubt washed over him. All these questions with no answers. What a chump he was, pining after a gal he didn’t know the first thing about. The assumption that her attraction equaled his now seemed laughable. Stupidity settled in his gut, heavy as a ton of coal. He blew out a breath.
Enough already. Time to focus on things that mattered: his brother, the war, his patriotic duty. A few days and he wouldn’t even remember what she looked like. That’s what he told himself. But then the feel of holding Liz swept over his arms, and already he knew she would haunt his memory long after she’d vanished.
Chapter 2
July 5, 1944 Chicago, Illinois
Two knocks, yet no one answered. No sign of life through the door’s smoky glass pane.
In the vacant corridor outside the instructor’s office, Julia scraped at the side seam of her overcoat, desperate to get this over with. She must have arrived too early; Madame Simone was nothing if not punctual.
With no clocks permitted in the small fashion academy, usually a rule Julia favored, she moved to the hall window for a narrow view of the world outside. Her eyes strained through the sun’s morning glare to reach the bank at the corner. The clock pinned to its brick forehead indicated 10:06. More than twenty minutes until their meeting. Twenty-four long minutes, to be exact.
“Splendid,” she muttered.
Had nerves not rushed her, she could have relaxed at home longer, interrogated Liz more thoroughly. Sifting her friend’s recount of the previous evening might have actually produced a juicy morsel. Perhaps, true to her claim, Liz had stayed at the USO merely to watch one last performance. But Julia would have at least enjoyed the chance to dig a little deeper, playing the role of a savvy investigator, before the clues turned cold.
Oh, why did minutes pass swiftly only when you wanted them to last?
A coffee. And an apricot fritter. Good time killers, she decided, recalling the bakery around the corner. Should her teacher be inquiring about Julia’s delay in fall registration—why else would she have asked her here?—a place to hone a response would be helpful: Thank you again for all you’ve done, for everything you’ve taught me. But I’m sorry, I simply can’t.
Julia pushed away an onset of guilt and hastened toward the exit downstairs. She felt pleading stares from the sketches of faceless models on the walls as she passed. In their bold hats and curly-strapped shoes, woven waterfalls of shimmery gowns, they silently called her back.
She averted her eyes, focused on her goal, just as a lineup of fragrances snuck into her senses: hemmed cotton, trimmed wool, raw imagination. They emanated from a slightly open doorway and blended in the valley of her lungs. As though on tracks, she found herself guided toward the scents, into her old classroom. Enticing and intoxicating as champagne.
A few more steps and apprehension dropped away. Light through a cluster of windows pronounced vibrancy in the bolts of fabric, poised at attention within the worn shelves. She trailed her hand over the spectrum of textures. As always, the French caretaker kept the materials organized by hues. They flowed like a rainbow, their divisions softened by the gradual transitions: from Persian blue to cornflower to cerulean to teal.
In this very space, like nowhere else, Julia had luxuriated in her impulses against the grain. For within these four boundless walls, the art of a woman’s freethinking was demanded, rather than discouraged.
And still, she had spent the past two months telling herself that her parents were right, that funds from clerking part-time at the nursing home should be spent on holiday gifts, not a hobby taking bites out of her regular studies. The commute itself, to the downtown academy, had contributed greatly to the slip in her respectable grades. Only a slight slip, but enough to raise concern from parents whose eldest daughter, Claire, had yet to stray from a trail spun of tradition, trimmed with approval.
Sometimes Julia wished her sister weren’t so dang likable. Had the girl been wretchedly competitive, or haughty in her seniority, like a typical sibling, Julia might have scuffed at Claire’s exemplary footsteps. Instead, so flawlessly formed, they gave her little cause not to smile, curtsy, and follow.
With a sigh, Julia pulled her fingertips from the propped fabric. She hadn’t expected a return to this familiar playground to cause such a tug on her heart. The thorny pulse of missing an old friend.
Loosening her grip on her handbag, she gazed at the pair of dress forms in the corner. Dashes of chalk acted as blueprints for the developing ensembles. She was trying to recall how many times she had used those very mannequins when a sight trapped her: Eggshell trim dangled awkwardly from the breast pocket of the maroon suit jacket. She scanned the tiled floor for the delinquent straight pin. Its metallic point sparkled, a beacon to her slender fingers.
Another’s design was considered a personal expression. Soulful. Sacred. But surely a student would appreciate the unobtrusive remedy.
Julia quickly retrieved the pin and tacked the trim back onto the pocket. As she confirmed its levelness, however, she had a vision of the extreme opposite: the entire pocket at a slant. To test the idea, just for a second, she angled and secured the accessory. The hem of the skirt needed to be raised as a complement. She shimmied the fabric upward around the wire cage below the limbless torso. Then she stepped back, evaluating.
What a statement the garb would make with a sharp, lightning-bolt collar rather than a conservative rounded appeasement. And if the belt were an inch wider with, say, a square copper buckle—
A sound from the doorway whirled Julia around. Her teacher entered, a small box in her arms. Mismatched pattern pieces hung over its edges like a deflated circus tent. Julia’s anxiety, instantly revived, sprang to attention.
“Ah! I see already you are here, Zhoolia.” The same tough elegance permeating Simone’s French accent encompassed her trademark appearance: dark hair slicked into an impossibly tight bun, no bangs to soften her angled features, slender arms pale against her all-black attire. Only wrinkles huddling around her eyes confessed her age exceeding fifty. And aside from her raspberry lipstick, the jeweled chain on the half-glass spectacles dangling from her neck provided her sole splash of color. “Have you been here long?” she asked.
Julia grappled for her thoughts. “I—arrived a little earlier than I planned.” Even more consuming than the rudeness of her untimely arrival was her tampering with the suit behind her. She could think of no discreet way of returning the outfit to its original state. Inching to her right, she settled for barricading the view. “Did you end up visiting New York last month, to see your niece?” She flung the question across the room, a verbal sleight of hand.
“Mmm,” Simone affirmed, moving toward a worktable beneath the windows, her posture and movement like a swan’s. “Have you ever been?” She set down the box.
“Oh yes,” Julia replied. “About once a year since I was little. My mom liked to take my sister and me there to holiday shop, see Broadway shows, and such.”
“And you are fond of it? That big city?”
A memory floated toward Julia: the first time she rode an open carriage through Central Park, the glow of lanterns painting the drifting snowflakes gold before her eyes. She swore heaven couldn’t be any more beautiful. “I think it’s the most magical place on earth.”
The teacher nodded, then nodded again. “Good.” The right answer. Simone disdained wrong answers. And, as Julia had learned, a student never had to question into which category their response had fallen.
“May I help you with that?” Julia hurried toward her, pulling the woman’s eye line to a safe periphery.
“Scraps,” the teacher complained, her fist full of thin strips from the box. “Silk pieces, they promised. But no. Only scraps.” She dropped them into a rejected heap on the long rectangular table, a fixture Julia knew well. On occasion, she had literally lived on the nicked and scarred slab—eating, sleeping, dreaming among the spools and yardsticks when a gust of creativity caught hold.
“Well,” Julia offered, touching the coveted material, “hopefully the war will be over soon, and everything will go back to normal.”
“Mmm . . . normal.” The word entered the air, soft as a wish. A brief pause and Simone’s wistfulness disappeared, shut down on command. “Alors.” She straightened. “You are wondering why I called you here, non?”
Fresh tension snapped through Julia as she waited.
“Let me first say,” she began, “the opportunity, at your level of experience, is an exception. However, I would prefer not to see a talent like yours wasted. Not to mention the effort and time I have contributed to your education.”
This was even worse than Julia expected. The woman was obviously inviting her into the advanced design program. A wondrous offer for a one-year student, almost unheard of.
Regardless. Julia’s answer would be the same: Thank you for everything—but—but . . . The words resisted, dug in their heels, as Simone said, “You see, you’ve been offered an internship.”
“I’m sorry, I can’t.” Julia’s decline toppled out before the last statement soaked in. “What was that?”
Simone’s expression held at stoic. “An internship, chérie. At Vogue. Naturally, they’ll want to interview you first, but I assured them you’d be perfect.”
“I had no—that you—” All of the thoughts in Julia’s head crashed into each other, landing in a pile of confusion. A single word crawled from the wreckage: “How?”
Simone shrugged one shoulder, as if both took too much effort. “During my trip to New York. I brought a file of your sketches, and two of the gowns you designed for the fashion show.”
Though the showcase last spring was only class-wide, the rave reviews Julia had received sent her spirit gliding cloud-high for an entire week.
Simone went on, “A dear friend I studied with decades ago is now working in designs for Vogue. And she believes you have something special. A gift. As do I.” That last sentence, above all others, lit Julia inside. Compliments from the woman were like collectible coins. Rare and priceless. “But,” she pointed out, “you will have a lot to learn before then.”
“When would it start?”
“They had hoped for this winter, but I told them of your studies. She would be willing to wait until late spring for you. And you would be expected to prove, at all times, why you were worth the wait.” She paused a beat for emphasis. “The pay would be minimal, and you would be responsible for all your expenses. Although there would be other interns you could share a flat with, if you prefer.”
Julia’s mind was spinning. “And this is . . . for how long?”
“That is up to them,” she replied. “Or you. At the end of the summer, you could decide to return to school, or remain. The choice would be yours.”
Julia breathed against the enclosure of her excitement. She felt herself drifting once more toward the clouds. Grounding herself as best she could, she shook her head and said, “I don’t know what to say, how to thank you.”
Simone’s reply came strong. “Don’t prove me wrong.” The teacher’s reputation had obviously served as an ante in the gambling match. The shared pressure didn’t go unnoticed. “Of course,” she added, “you will need to do some preparation work, around your studies at the university.”
“The university?” Julia barely grasped the familiar word.
A suggestion of a smile played on Simone’s lips. “Eh bien. I have given you much to consider. They will need your answer by end of summer.”
Carried by the irrational current of the moment, Julia embraced her. As could be expected, there was no reciprocal effort—the teacher treated hugs like a contagious illness—but Julia didn’t care. She had been handed a throne, and she wasn’t about to complain about the detailing of its cushion. Rather, she simply stepped back and said, “Thank you.”
Simone nodded before returning her attention to her box of scraps. A cue that their meeting had ended.
“Have a good day,” Julia bid, and headed for the hall.
“Mmm,” she said. “And Zhoolia.”
“Yes?” She turned to find Simone’s head still down.
“No playing with other people’s designs while at Vogue. D’accord?”
Julia’s gaze darted to the mannequin. She felt a poke at her side, the finger of guilt. “Yes, ma’am,” she replied, and without another word, she ducked out the door.
Once outside, Julia strode down the sidewalk, bridling an urge to skip. She could hardly feel her shoes making contact with the ridges of city cement.
A streetcar of strangers clanged across the street. A hefty construction worker passed lugging two buckets of tools. Julia wanted to shout to them all, spreading the news. She wanted to pick up a phone, tell her parents. Race home and write Christian all about it—
Christian.
Her fiancé.
“I’m engaged,” she reminded herself. And again, a near reprimand, “I’m engaged.”
What was she thinking? They would be getting married as soon as the war ended. Which, after three years of America swinging punches in the ring, couldn’t be far away. Next spring wasn’t the time to go tromping off to New York, laying the foundation for a career she had no intention of pursuing.
Sure, the offer was amazing. Marvelous. Incredible. But for someone who wouldn’t waste the opportunity. There was no sense robbing another girl of the internship, a girl whose dreams rested in the balance of such a springboard. Julia was, after all, going to be a wife, wedded to her beloved Christian Downing.
Her parents were right. She adored fashion, creating garments from pictures in her head. But it was a hobby, just for fun. Like moviegoing and shopping. Nothing that should interfere with the gay future that awaited. Marriage, motherhood, a charming home to fill with love and laughter. There was no comparison.
Slowly she wheeled toward the academy. Through the trees, she could see movement in the second-story classroom. A figure in black.
Julia already felt dread pluming from her ankles. Simone had gone out of her way to recommend her, even saw to it that exceptions were made. The least Julia could do was give the impression she had heavily pondered the offer. The delivery of a snap judgment, no matter how obvious, seemed outright ungrateful.
Indeed. She would give it a reasonable amount of time before letting the woman down.
At a decisive clip, Julia resumed her departure. Blocks away, the streetcar rattled into the distance, crammed with passengers who would never hear her news; nor would anyone else. At least not until she presented the inevitable answer. She had no desire to allow Liz, Betty, or even Christian to sway her choice. Of all the paths, she knew which was right—despite the unforeseen temptation.
Chapter 3
July 5, 1944 Chicago Union Station
The minutes until departure were evaporating as briskly as steam from the locomotive’s smokestack. Morgan gripped the vertical handlebar of the coach’s entry step and shot another glance at his wristwatch, an heirloom willed to him from his father. Now more than ever, he wished it were running fast. The leather band was weathered and the crystal scratched, but the movement could always be counted on for timekeeping. Unlike his dim-witted brother.
“Come on, come on,” Morgan said, imploring the kid to show. Missing the last overnighter to Trenton would mean a guaranteed late arrival at Fort Dix, and likely even a seat in the cargo hold of their transport ship. Or in the latrine, depending on their commander’s mood.
Charlie was a marvel. Who else would pull a stunt like this after waiting nearly three years? And Morgan wasn’t the only one he’d be answering to if he fouled this up. Even their uncle with rarely a word to spare had gone out on a limb, ensuring the two served together by calling in a favor from a war vet buddy with military pull. A few “adjustments” to Charlie’s birth certificate and everyone was happy. Supposedly, the desk-planted appeasers in Washington carried a lighter conscience when cousins rather than brothers shared a unit.
Not that it mattered now. Morgan appeared to be going solo.
“All aboard!” The conductor’s voice echoed off the darkened ceiling of the underground station.
With a determined eye, Morgan studied the bustling platform. Dolled-up gals waved to windows, shedding tears, blowing kisses. Mothers held hankies to their mouths as their husbands consoled them with an arm around their shoulders. But still no sighting of the dimwit.
“Dammit all,” Morgan growled. What had he been thinking last night, letting his brother leave the dance without him? That’d teach him to steer clear of dames and to stick with stuff he understood. Livestock auctions and auto engines. Things that came with instruction manuals.
The locomotive lurched into a sluggish chug.
Decision time. Of course, he had only one option: grab his belongings and leap off before landing required a body roll over gravel.
“Hey, Morgan!” A voice cut through the commotion. “I’m here!” Sure enough, there was Charlie’s capped head bobbing through the crowd. In and out he wove, dividing paired travelers, his Army-issue duffel bag slung over his shoulder. He hurdled a trunk and the toe of his shoe caught an edge. His pace slowed for a moment while he regained his footing. Half turned, in motion, he yelled something to the shapely dame standing beside the luggage.
“Move it!” Morgan shouted, leaning out from the step. Charlie resumed his sprint alongside the train. His free arm pumped, his face flushed red. Once close enough, Morgan stretched out his hand and yanked him inside. A small stumble and Charlie planted his feet. Tailbone against the wall, he hunched over to catch his breath.
“Un-believable.” Morgan smacked the back of his brother’s head, a punishment so often delivered since childhood the kid scarcely flinched.
“Not my fault,” he gasped. “Army time still confuses the hell out of me.” He wiped his sleeve across his forehead and flipped a grin. When he straightened, his service shirt showcased its unevenly fastened buttons, a perfect complement to the dark circles under his eyes.
Morgan was about to ask where he had slept last night—assuming he’d slept at all—then decided he’d rather not know. “I swear,” he muttered, “I may shoot you before the Nazis get a chance.” With a sharp turn, he led Charlie through the coach packed with noisy servicemen and an undercurrent of nerves. A craps game ensued in the corner. As the train increased speed, a cross breeze through the open windows lessened the lingering smell of sweat.
Frank Dugan, facing their two vacant seats, glanced up from his magazine, his leg stretched in the aisle. “Good of you to join us, Chap.”
“Thanks, Rev. Always nice traveling with a man of the cloth.”
At basic, word had spread quickly that Frank was a ministry dropout whose call to arms had come into conflict with his call to religion. And lucky for their platoon. Built like an ancient redwood, he brought practical fighting know-how from the tough streets of Brooklyn.
“Shit, you’re coming after all?” Jack Callan smirked at Charlie while fanning a deck of cards. “Thought maybe you’d chickened out and gone home to play with your barn animals.”
Charlie tossed his bag up onto the luggage rack. He pushed and shoved the bulky contents into place as if the clothes inside were putting up a fight. “Just had to make a quick stop on the way, Jack-ass.”
“Why, you forget to pack your underwear?”
“Actually, I left them in your sister’s room last night.”
Jack glared. He slid the toothpick in his mouth from side to side. “One pull of the trigger, Chap. That’s all it takes.” And that was the truth. The lean, red-haired kid from Wisconsin was a crack shot with a rifle.
“Ah, c’mon, Jack,” Charlie said. “You wouldn’t do that. You need me around.”
“Yeah, what for?”
“How else you gonna get any broads to notice you? Other than your mother, that is.”
Frank looked to Morgan, who had just settled into his window seat. “Mac, your brother ever shut up?”
“Not without a big piece of tape.” Morgan smiled, remembering the day he’d taped Charlie’s mouth closed and tied the rambunctious grade-schooler to a pole of their mother’s clothesline. It was the most effective way to stop him from telling a girl in class that Morgan wanted to “milk her udders.” Their father cut a whimpering Charlie loose an hour later, in full agreement with the punishment.
Morgan almost wished he’d packed some tape for this particular trip.
“Forgive me, Reverend Frank, for I have sinned. Again.” Charlie genuflected like the devout Catholic his mother had hoped he’d become.
Frank scratched the crook in his nose and continued browsing the latest issue of Yank magazine. He didn’t bother to fake interest. When it came to Charlie’s racy tales, Jack always showed enough for them both.
“Okay, Chap, let’s hear it,” Jack said, a smile in his eyes. “Which one of the twins did ya end up with? The one with the knockers or the long stems?”
“Are you kiddin’? I was too much man for them dames. Scared ’em off with these enormous cannons.” He flexed his biceps as if he had the physique of Captain America. When Frank tossed the magazine at his head, Charlie sank back into his seat and grinned. “Did some neckin’ with the broad from the coffee shop, though.”
Jack crumpled his face. “The one with bad teeth?”
“No, you dumbbell. The tasty dish with glasses.”
Frank turned to Jack. “Well, that explains it. She needs a new prescription.”
“Ha, ha. You’re hysterical.” Charlie removed his soft garrison cap and rubbed his hair with both hands.
If only their mom could see him now. She used to say that someday girls would go wild over his golden waves. That they’d even be willing to pay to run their fingers through them.
It’s funny the things you remember. Morgan regretted not paying more attention, regretted not seeing the truth behind his father’s lie. Charlie had only been eight, but Morgan, at eleven, should have known better. Farm families avoided doctors like the plague. When he watched his parents climb into their old pickup truck that cold January night headed for the hospital, he should have realized their mother was never coming back.
“Hey, speaking of hysterical,” Jack said, pulling Morgan from his thoughts. “Went to a tattoo joint last night. Rev ended up knocking the owner’s lights out. You gotta see it—the stupid sap put ‘Joan’ instead of ‘June’ in the big ol’ heart on Rev’s arm.”
Frank’s lips flattened into steel rails, his dark eyes trained on Jack. “And you think that’s funny, do ya?”
“Look at the bright side,” Charlie interjected. “Instead of Joan, it could’ve said John.” He punctuated his wisecrack with a grin.
Frank picked up his magazine from the carpeted floor, still eying Jack. “At least mine don’t make me look like Mussolini’s branded cattle, ya dope.” A jab at the unfortunate birthmark on Jack’s collarbone, shaped like a sideways stamp of Italy, was one of the few ways to ensure the last word with the guy.
“So, uh, Mac, what about you?” Jack shifted the spotlight. “Get chummy with the brunette you went after?”
Morgan coughed into his fist, the question taking him off guard. “Nah. Not really.” Considering how Liz had given him the brush-off, their encounter was the last thing he wanted to discuss. “How about you fellas? What else you wind up doing?”
Frank crossed his arms. His expression lightened. “Chap, I believe your brother’s trying to change the subject.”
“It’s all right, Mac,” Jack assured him. “You shouldn’t be ashamed. First time getting lucky can be a scary experience for any young man.” He grinned, impressed by his own sarcasm.
“What a coincidence,” Charlie said to Jack, “I’ve heard that dames think every time is scary with you.”
“Can it, both of ya.” Frank angled to Morgan and jerked a nod. “Go ahead, Mac. You were sayin’?”
Morgan suddenly wished he’d jumped off the train after all. “Really, there’s nothing to tell. She just had to skip out early.”
“You’re saying she ditched a McClain?” Jack asked in mock disbelief.
“Not his fault,” Frank said. “If I was her and knew he was related to Chap, I’d double-time it outta there too.”
“Oh yeah?” Charlie said. “Well, it just so happens that last night—on account of yours truly—my brother reeled in a broad any fella would give his left nut for a chance at.”
Morgan tightened his eyes at him. “What are you yappin’ about?”
“You have an admirer,” Charlie sang out in a taunting voice he never outgrew.
“Sure it was a girl?” Jack smirked.
“Not just any girl,” Charlie said. “That looker from the USO.”
In an instant, Liz’s face flashed in Morgan’s mind, clear as rain. Wary, though, of being a sucker in one of his brother’s juvenile pranks, he played it cool. “You’re full of it,” he muttered.
“I’m serious. Said she was searching all over for you.”
“Yeah? Where’d you run into her?”
“At the dance. Where else?” Charlie’s tone indicated he wasn’t horsing around. “I went back to find ya. She heard me asking about you. Told me you two had twirled some, but then you flew the coop.”
Morgan straightened, his thoughts racing: How could he have missed her? Did she come back after he left?
“Well, spit it out. What’d she say?” Morgan demanded. “Said she wanted to keep in touch. So,” he said, “being the dutiful brother I am, I gave her the Army address for forwarding.” He reached into the chest pocket of his shirt and produced a small rectangular note. “Here, this is for you.”
A broad grin latched onto Morgan’s face as he retrieved the gift. A scribbled message spanned three lines. His heart pumped like an oil rig as he imagined her voice delivering the words.
To Morgan,
Take care of yourself.
Betty Cordell
Morgan’s mind pinched in confusion. “Betty Cordell?” He flipped over the paper and discovered it was a photograph, a black-and-white close-up of the girl from the dance. Just not the girl he was hoping for. He managed a closed-lipped smile as angst revisited his gut.
“Damn, Chap,” Jack said, “you didn’t say it was the foxy blond singer.” He snatched the wallet-sized keepsake from Morgan’s fingers. “I can’t believe you got a dance with her, you lucky bastard. Where the hell was I?”
“Doesn’t matter,” Charlie said. “She only wanted Fred Astaire, here. Must have a thing for his fancy promenades and do-si-dos.”
Morgan flicked his brother’s temple. “Dry up, why don’t ya.”
“Man, that’s so unfair,” Jack grumbled, ogling the image until Frank swiped the photo.
“No need to get jealous,” Charlie told him. “I’m sure she’s got a few friends who would gladly talk to you outta pity.”
“All this from a kid who hasn’t hit puberty.” Jack launched his toothpick with a puff. “Enough of this shit. Are we playing cards, or what?” Not waiting for an answer, he began dealing them out, each card featuring pinup models in garters and brassieres.
Morgan gazed out the window at the passing urban scenery. It was his first trip to the East Coast, his first journey out of the Mid-west. Across the ocean, a battle-raging continent awaited their platoon, but all he could think about was Liz.
Chapter 4
July 15, 1944 Evanston, Illinois
All day, Liz had avoided opening the envelope. She sat on the rumbling bus, staring at her name and address penned in Professor Emmett Stephens’s meticulous longhand. Like the best of carnival fortunetellers, she could report what was inside before even breaking the seal.
Dear Elizabeth,
I trust life is keeping you well. I was extremely pleased with your academic marks from last term. Your decision to take extra classes this summer is commendable.
I leave tomorrow for New York to guest lecture at several universities. I shall return to Washington D.C. in approximately three weeks. Should you need to reach me in the interim, my secretary at Georgetown will have my itinerary and contact information.
Please congratulate Dalton on my behalf. From what I have heard, he is running a powerful senatorial campaign for his father. I wish them continued success. Respectfully, Your father
Respectfully. Such distance conveyed in a single word. A sad reflection of the fissure between them that had widened into a canyon.
Liz turned to the half-open window and closed her eyes. A gentle breeze swept over her sun-drenched face. Once again, she was eight years old, poking her head out the window of his shiny black Ford Victoria. Zooming past the California palm trees, she and her daddy would talk, laugh, and improvise silly songs, their excursions drastically warmer than those spent with her mother.
Isabelle.
In Liz’s memory, she embodied a caricature in a household appliance ad, her cool disposition offset by her grace and beauty. How close their family could have been had Isabelle exuded the warmth and affection of a mother like Julia’s.
Then again, ruminating on the impossible was as useless as deferring the blame.
A jolt from the bus’s brakes brought Liz back to the present. Familiar landmarks and rising passengers reminded her of her stop. She stuffed her father’s form letter into a skirt pocket and dashed down the aisle, her grocery bag slipping in her arms.
Around the bend of Kiernan Lane she pushed against the humidity. Sweat rolled down the slide of her spine as she passed the string of contemporary bungalow homes. The sharpness of newly cut grass clung to the air, blocking pollutants from the bordering city of Chicago. Service flags paraded in window after window; their proud stars of blue outnumbered the dreaded gold symbols of loss.
Willing herself to smile, she returned waves from neighbors relaxing beneath their shaded porches. Sun lovers basked in the late afternoon rays and giggly children played tag through the rainbow sprays of sprinklers.
Liz adjusted the bag, ripping the bottom corner. She cupped the protruding soup can to keep it inside while crossing the street to reach her house. Her favorite accents on the modest, brick-red structure remained the same since her childhood visits: a small garden of irises, a large picture window in the kitchen, facing the street, and a two-person swing her grandfather, “Papa,” had built for the covered porch. Best of all, a towering cherry tree shaded the east side of the house, a finishing touch as sweet as the turnovers her grandma used to bake from its abundant fruit. Papa had purchased the home more than twenty years ago for his wife, his “sole reason for living.” It was a claim he literally proved after she lost her battle with cancer.
“Your grandfather’s had a stroke,” Liz’s father had announced. “We’re moving to Illinois.” The triangular plane of his face had concealed all emotion, a defensive mask not unlike her own. It was one he’d acquired six months before, the day her mother left their lives forever.
Correction: the day Liz sent her away.
And so, with Isabelle gone, there was no discussion, no call for a vote. By the eve of Liz’s fourteenth birthday, they had packed up their boxes, along with their unspoken feelings, their devastation and sorrow too potent for words.
The paving of Liz’s regret had stretched clear across the country, permanent as concrete. And there it took up residence, beneath Papa’s roof, where she and her father coexisted for the next four years. The cordial but mechanical nature of their exchanges, maddening as a blackboard screech, gripped even his farewell words after her graduation: “I’ll send your tuition payments directly to the university and quarterly allowances to the house. We’ll touch base once I’m settled at Georgetown.” With a nod, he’d grabbed his suitcases and left her on the front porch. It was at that moment she had realized: Abandonment struck in degrees.
Standing now on that same rickety platform, Liz squeezed the grocery bag to her chest. She closed her eyes and gave her head a brisk shake, as if emotional wounds were cold droplets she could simply cast off.
When she lifted her lids, the memory prevailed.
Liz placed the food items on their designated kitchen shelves. Cans of Scotch broth soup and corned beef hash, Mello-Wheat cereal, bread, oleo, and a splurge of Cocomalt. With the sleeve of her blouse, she dabbed her temple while washing her hands with a bar of lavender soap. The thick, purple lather failed to soften her calloused mood, and the dry texture in her mouth—like flavorless cotton candy—only irritated her more.
She tossed some ice cubes into an empty glass, a ricochet of clinks.
“Liz?”
She cringed at the distant voice, not in the mood for company.
“Liz, is that you?” Betty called again from her bedroom, a room Liz would have to pass to reach her own.
Reluctantly she answered. “Yeah, it’s me.” She poured herself the last of Betty’s freshly squeezed limeade and downed half the glass. Sourness puckered her cheeks, stung the corners of her eyes. Of all the items rationed for the war effort, she missed sugar the most.
“Hurry up and get in here!” Betty’s trademark impatience.
“Hold your horses, I’m coming!” She dragged herself down the narrow hallway lined with framed photos of deceased and twice-removed relatives.
“Come on, slowpoke.” Betty reached through the doorway and tugged her inside. Liz nearly tripped over the girl’s old teddy bear doubling as a doorstop. His lone button eye hung by a thread, his cream fur matted and stained. Clearly he had seen better days.
Yep, buddy, she wanted to tell him, you’re not the only one.
Julia sat at the vanity. “Hey, hon,” she mumbled around two bobby pins between her pursed lips.
Liz returned the greeting before daring to ask, “So what’s the crisis?”
Betty tsked. “Now, why does it always have to be something bad?” She spun around so fast the white polka dots on her violet sundress streaked into lines. Grabbing an envelope from atop her pillow, she belly flopped on her bed to face the vanity. “Fact is, it couldn’t be keener. Just wait till you hear Christian’s latest.”
Thanks but no thanks. Liz had read all the letters she could handle for one day. “I’d love to hear it, gals, but I really have to get some work done.”
“Oh, don’t be such a fuddy-duddy.” Betty reached across the path created by the nightstand to pat Julia’s mattress. “Sit, sit, sit.”
Liz groaned, then stopped short; she did not want to hurt Julia’s feelings. Christian’s posts were, after all, among the redhead’s prized possessions.
“Believe me,” Betty told Liz, “it’s even better than those Emily Dickens letters you like.”
A smile crouched behind Liz’s lips. “Dickinson,” she corrected, speaking the author’s name with reverence.
“Yeah. Well, this is better.”
A sacrilegious comparison, no doubt. Though who was Liz to deny any writer a fair swing at the title?
“Fine,” Liz conceded. “But only for a minute.” She strode over to the wrought-iron bed she had given up when she moved into her father’s former bedroom, and started clearing space to sit among Julia’s fabric swatches. Vogue pattern pieces and celebrity shots torn from Silver Screen magazine added to the fashion hodgepodge.
“Did you happen to pick up some bread at the market?” Julia asked.
“Yeah,” Liz said, settling in. “I noticed we were out when I tried to make toast this morning.” She should have known then what kind of day she had ahead of her. “Speaking of which, when did Hillman’s start charging eleven cents a loaf? It’s outrageous.”
While Betty sorted pages from the envelope, Liz glimpsed Julia’s pearly face in the vanity’s oval mirror. The crimson-haired girl contorted her expression at an uncooperative spit curl. Limited reflection space further challenged her efforts, with a mural of photo graphs covering half the mirror: a graduation picture of the three of them amidst her family snapshots, a sepia-toned portrait of her and Christian, and a new photo of her sailor leaning on a signal lamp of his ship, with Love you Red penned across the bottom.
“‘My dearest Julia,’” Betty began, letter propped before her. “‘Only another week has passed, but it seems an eternity since last seeing you. You’ll have to send a new picture soon. I’ve looked at the one I have so many times, my eyes are wearing your image right off the paper. Unfortunately, thinking of you for hours on end only makes me miss you more. The weather has been sweltering, so I’ve taken to sleeping out on deck. To cool off, some shipmates and I had liberty yesterday and headed for . . .’ Yeah, yeah, yeah, boring, boring.”
The letter was a typical one from Christian Downing, sweet and smooth as butterscotch. Enough to give you a toothache, Dalton would say; and though from the start, he and Liz had agreed mushy offerings of the like weren’t necessary between them, Liz suddenly found herself wondering: Had the ban been her idea or his?
“Ooh-ooh, here we go.” Betty resumed reading. “‘Although I am proud of the job we are doing for our country, already I am eager for the day we will hear that we’ve won the war and that it’s time to sail back home to you, my darling, the beautiful woman whom I will soon make my bride. Well, I best drop anchor for tonight. Sending oceans of kisses from your loving husband-to-be. Eternally yours, Christian USN.’” Betty rolled onto her back. She pressed the papers to her chest, tight enough to embed the prose into her heart. “This is sooo romantic,” she said dreamily.
Liz turned and caught Julia running her fingers over her fiancé’s latest photo, losing herself in the gray tones of their separation. That same look of hers, a pensiveness in her eyes, had made appearances more than usual lately.
“It really is lovely, Jules,” Liz agreed, feeling the coarse edges within her smoothing.
A quick nod and Julia abruptly rose. She headed for the wardrobe closet, as if sadness were a garment she could shed at will. Since the three girls had become fast friends in high school, lab partners in freshman science, Liz had only once seen Julia cling to an unpleasant emotion for a notable stretch: It began the morning Christian announced he’d up and joined the Navy. Julia had been beside herself. He’d already planned to enroll in the Naval officers’ program at Northwestern so they could be together, but decided he couldn’t wait to enlist, not even for an officer commission. Then a week before his fleet’s departure, Christian earned her forgiveness; specifically, the moment he knelt and slid the engagement band on her finger.
“Why don’t I get letters like this?” Betty sighed.
Julia tipped a smile. “Liz is the poetry pro here,” she reminded her. “Why not ask her to write you a love note? She could even sign it from Clark Gable—oh, wait, that’s my fantasy.” She giggled.
“That’s it!” Betty perked.
In the midst of a swallow, Liz sputtered drops of limeade. She wiped her chin. “Betty Cordell. I am not writing you a love letter.”
“No, no, that’s not what I meant.” The blonde shifted onto her knees with a slight bounce. “Seriously, I do need your help. Please say you’ll agree.”
Liz blew out a stream of air. She was all too familiar with the plea; Betty had used it for myriad requests over the years—everything from French kissing instructions to leg-makeup applications due to the silk and nylon shortage, an act Betty considered as her contribution to the war effort. In other words, Liz had learned to ask for details up front.
“What exactly do you want me to do?”
“Well, you see,” she said, “there’s this soldier I met.” Her opening hardly launched a shock wave through the room. “He’s not the usual kind I date. I mean, he’s handsome enough. But he’s sorta shy. The mysterious type.”
“And you need my help with . . . ?”
“Oh, right,” Betty said. “The point is, we met at the USO, where we danced and had a grand time of it. Sadly, the next day he shipped out with his brother.”
The USO?
His brother?
Oh God. With Liz’s luck, she was certain to be talking about Morgan. But why now? Ten whole days had passed since the dance, and not once had Betty spoken of him. Liz had hoped to forget all about that night, all about where foolishness might have led her had she not witnessed Betty and Morgan dancing. Which, incidentally, was the best thing that could have happened to Liz.
So why did she find herself hoping, with everything in her, that Betty was referring to another guy?
Liz interjected, “Who is he, this soldier of yours?” She managed a casual tone.
“I just told you,” Betty said, as if she hadn’t been listening. “He’s handsome and mysterious and—”
“I mean his name. What’s the fellow’s name?”
“Oh. Sorry. It’s McKall—no. McLew—wait . . .”
Liz restrained herself from volunteering what was undoubtedly the final syllable.
“McClain,” Betty remembered. “It’s Morgan McClain.”
“Morgan McClain?” Julia paused in the midst of changing into her mauve blouse. “Liz, isn’t that the same guy you—”
“Yeah, he’s the one we met,” Liz cut in. “You know him?” Betty exclaimed. “Oh, that’s perfect. Then you have to help me write to him.”
Write to him? This couldn’t be happening. Fate couldn’t be that spiteful.
Liz arrived easily at her answer. “I’m sorry, Betty, but I don’t have time.”
“It’ll only take a few minutes,” she insisted. “Pleeease, I promised. And it’d be rude to keep him waiting any longer.”
As if he didn’t deserve it. The guy was plainly out for one thing: one night of fun, one roll in the hay before deployment. An obvious deduction in hindsight.
Then again . . .
If a one-night companion was all Morgan had wanted, he wouldn’t have bothered asking Betty to write. Maybe he wasn’t as insincere as he’d appeared. Perhaps his initial attraction to Liz was genuine, but a single glance at the stunning blonde had cured his interest.
Another reason to decline.
Liz was about to do just that, more firmly this time, when Betty continued her plea.
“I already started his letter. I just need your help with the ending, and to make sure the rest is okay.” She pouted her lips. “You know what an awful writer I am.”
Liz couldn’t argue. Had she not rewritten all of Betty’s essays in high school, the girl would still be there.
“And since you’ve met him,” Betty went on, “you’ll know exactly what to say.”
“Wrong,” Liz countered. Clearly she had no clue what he wanted to hear.
Betty held up her right hand, taking an oath. “If you help me with this, I’ll never ask you to write anything for me again. Scout’s honor.”
Julia chimed in, “Don’t you have to be a Scout to make that pledge?” She smiled, straightening the seams of her stockings.
“Come on, Liz.” Desperation spilled from Betty’s eyes. “You and Julia already have beaus. Don’t I deserve to be happy too?”
Liz groaned helplessly. How could she dispute that kind of logic?
“Besides,” Betty elongated the word, “need I remind you about an incredibly boring play I attended for a certain friend?”
Liz narrowed her eyes. “You mean the one you slept through?”
“One measly act,” Betty snipped. “Even so, I went, didn’t I? And without a solitary complaint.”
Truth be told, Liz herself had come close to drifting off during the student-directed play; verses from the overdramatic actors had dripped like sap off their tongues. More relevant to Betty’s request, however, was Liz’s unwillingness to explain the real cause of her hesitation. Which left her little choice.
“All right, I’ll do it,” she gave in. “But just this once. No exceptions.”
“Thank you, thank you!” Betty dropped Christian’s letter while clapping with glee. Julia swooped up the pages from the floor and carefully added them to the drawer of her nightstand.
“I’m not fooling, Betty.” Liz mustered the sternest voice she could. “No V-mail, no notes, nothing.”
“Okaaay. I’ll even write my own obituary.”
Julia giggled as she slipped into her black pumps and fastened the ankle straps. From her lace collar to her tailored mid-length skirt, she was as stylish as Ava Gardner. “I’m heading out, girls. Either one of you want to join me and Dot for a triple feature? The Tivoli’s playing Cover Girl again.”
Ah, yes. Hollywood’s cure-all for the perpetually glum. A perfect example of why talkies weren’t always better than the silent pictures. At least in Casablanca the tragic ending was scripted out of realism, and the stars didn’t belt out lines in melodramatic show tunes.
“I wish I could,” Betty moaned. “I swear, if I have to take Vera’s shift again this week, I’m quitting once and for all.”
“What about you, Liz?”
Any activity sounded better than ghostwriting a letter to Morgan, even suffering through a silly musical. But completing the task, purging the soldier from her system, also had its appeal.
“I’ll take a rain check,” Liz replied with eyes that told her, Thanks for getting me into this.
Julia grabbed her pillbox purse, missing the glance. “See you tomorrow, then,” she said, and turned for the hallway.
By the time the front door slammed, Betty had sidled up to Liz, cross-legged, pillow on her lap, armed with a pile of stationery. “Here’s what I have so far.” She held out the page for Liz to read along, and cleared her throat as if preparing to give the State of the Union address.
Dear Morgan,
It was nice talking to you, you seem like a terrific guy. I definately wish we could’ve spent more time together. Where did the Army ship you to?
The glaring grammatical and spelling errors seized hold of Liz’s eyes. She fought every urge within her not to seek out the nearest colored fountain pen to circle what her father would call “blasphemous mistakes.”
Betty looked up. “What do you think?”
Liz aimed for diplomacy, a specialty of Dalton’s. “It’s, um . . . not bad.”
“I knew it,” Betty whimpered. “It’s dreadful.” She buried her face in the pillow.
“No. It’s not dreadful. It’s just that—” Liz chose to limit her critiques to the misguided content. “I don’t think the Army will let him say where they’re going.”
“So what can I write?” Betty rumpled the letter into a ball and pitched it at the woven wastebasket, falling a foot short.
Liz set her glass on the nightstand. She reminded herself this wasn’t a hundred-page dissertation. With just a few intelligible sentences, life could return to normal. “How about something like . . .” She threw out the simplest opening that came to her. “Dear Morgan. Although our time together was brief, it was a pleasure meeting you at the dance—”
“Oh, that’s perfect. I love it!” Enthusiasm shot through Betty like an electrical current, straightening her posture, widening her eyes. “Now, what was that again?” She held up her pen, a stenog-rapher ready for dictation—with no knowledge of shorthand.
Already Liz felt exhausted. She opened her mouth to repeat the phrase when the tinkering notes of her grandfather’s cuckoo clock rang out from the living room.
“Cripes. What time is it?” Betty rotated the alarm clock on the nightstand. “Shoot, I’m gonna be late.” With the speed of a fireman preparing for a five-alarm blaze, she jumped into her carnation-pink diner dress and pinned on her name tag. At the vanity, she smoothed Julia’s styling lotion over her pageboy hair.
Relief and aggravation rivaled within Liz at the postponement. Now that they had started, she wanted nothing more than to rid her thoughts of Morgan McClain; him and all the “what-ifs” that had tangled her mind like ivy.
“I really gotta go,” Betty addressed Liz’s reflection in the mirror, “but could you please finish the letter while I’m gone?”
“Finish?” A laugh of disbelief snagged in Liz’s throat. “We haven’t even started it.”
Betty applied her Victory Red lipstick in one circular motion. “I wouldn’t ask, but I won’t be home till late. And then I’ll be with Suzie all weekend visiting her family.”
Liz was about to refuse, needing to draw a line somewhere— wavering and faint though the line may be—when Betty produced a scrawled address on a napkin.
“Pretty please?” She knelt by the bed with clasped hands. “A couple more lines is all it needs.”
This was ludicrous. “Don’t you think he’ll know it’s not from you?”
“He’s a guy. He won’t have any idea,” Betty said, as if reporting the sky was blue. “Besides, what’s the difference? I’d just be writing down everything you say anyway.”
If gender and academics weren’t a factor, the gal would have made a great trial attorney. After all, it was her indisputable case that had convinced Liz’s father to allow his daughter not one but two roommates in his absence, an arrangement for which Liz was grateful. At least on most days.
Betty glanced back at the clock. “Piddle, I gotta fly.” Scurrying toward the doorway, she motioned to the bed. “Stamps and envelopes are in the drawer. Just toss it in the mail when you’re done.”
Liz’s mouth dropped open. “You don’t want to read it first?”
“I trust you,” Betty called as she rounded the corner. “The sooner it goes out, the sooner I’ll get a letter back, right?” Her footfalls sounded down the hall and out the front door, leaving Liz alone. With a pile of stationery. Shackled.
She should have escaped with Julia when she had the chance.
“I must be going mad.” Liz snatched the pen and paper and tramped across the room. Seated at the vanity, she scowled at the page and debated reneging on the deal. This wasn’t what she’d agreed to.
The heck with it.
She tossed the pen down. Grasping the edge of the table, she began to rise, but a memory stilled her—the memory of Morgan’s face. She’d tried so desperately to erase him from her mind. Yet there he was, as vivid as if they had shared a dance yesterday. She could almost feel the tenderness of his breath gracing her cheek, the heat of his hand pressed to hers.
Why couldn’t she forget him? And why did the mere idea of him cause her pulse to quicken even now?
Her grip loosened. Her body lowered. She settled her gaze on the empty page, its fibers beckoning the beautiful stains of the written word. And she sighed.
“All right, I’ll do it,” she repeated her verbal assent.
Really, it was just a short note. A small favor for a friend. What was the big fuss?
At that, she placed the tip of the pen on the stationery, and surrendered her thoughts to flow through the ink.
Chapter 5
July 15, 1944 Chicago, Illinois
“It’s about time!” As usual, the greeting flew out of the kitchen, over the diner chatter, and into Betty’s ears before she could even clock in.
“Yeah, yeah, so fire me,” she meant to mutter to herself, yet a look from the grizzled chef indicated her retort had made it through the pass-through window.
“You straighten up, or that’s precisely what I’m gonna do. You got me?” A cigarette bounced against his bottom lip as he spoke.
“Hey,” she said coyly, “I can’t control the bus schedule. But give me a raise and I’ll happily race down here in a cab.” She blew him a kiss, a standby tactic to alleviate his mood.
Today, however, he wasn’t having any of it. He shook a fistful of his mottled dish towel in her direction, an especially deep scowl carved into his face. “Don’t push me, Betty. You’re this close—this close—to gettin’ the ax. Now, get to work!” With a grumble, he returned to his grill, which crackled like the invisible eggshells he’d erected beneath her feet.
So much for a warm welcome, she wanted to say. Instead, she buttoned her lip and snagged an order pad. She wasn’t up for yet another career hunt, specifically when she’d just spent money intended for her shared living expenses. But then, who could blame her? That keen aqua dress from Goldblatt’s was to die for.
Tucking a pencil behind her ear, Betty assessed the status of business. Her jitters kicked in as she played her customary game of catch-up. Holding a job all the way down by the Loop wasn’t the most convenient, but there was nothing like being in the thick of things. And the Loop was certainly that.
Betty threw on a wide smile, cocked her hip. Accentuate your assets, she had learned, and no one noticed your troubles. “How about a warm-up, gentlemen?” She raised a coffeepot, interrupting the three guys parked at the counter sparring over the same old topic—the war, what else?
“Thanks,” they said, voices overlapping. Hands calloused, fingernails smudged, they were as blue-collared as the pedigree she strove to hide.
She filled their mugs, committing small splatters she deftly hid from the chef’s view. She swiped the mess away with a rag. “Let me know if you need anything else,” she told them. As she sauntered away, she could feel their gazes latched to her backside, coupled by murmuring about a nice ass. Her first instinct was to admonish them, given that their ages approached her father’s—how old she presumed he’d be, anyway. But she needed their tips. For the time being.
And so she continued on, relieving the frazzled busboy from serving her tables. Mostly regulars dotted the room, plus a few additions. She topped off their mugs, took some orders—only two of them wrong—and delivered dishes back and forth, wearing a trail into the chessboard floor. Hours from closing and already her feet begged for a soak.
By the time she hit a break in the dinner rush, the sun had excused itself for the evening. Scribbled bill in hand, she ventured back toward Irma, rooted in the back booth, same as every Friday. A subtle indentation in the black cushion permanently reserved her spot. Aside from rather wide hips, her frame was of medium size. Her silver flapper hat and gaudy brooch, a firefly with tarnished wings, dated her peak years to be more than a decade past.
“Enjoy your dumplings, Irma?”
The woman, gazing distantly at the empty seat across from her, replied with a nod. Rarely saying a word—not even for her order; it was always the same—she carried the perpetual grief of a widow. The familiar reserve of a lonely child.
Betty forced a smile. “Can I interest you in a slice of pie? We got banana cream tonight.”
Irma declined with a slight shake of her head, already unsnapping her worn velvety clutch.
“Well. Next time, then.” Betty presented her tallied check.
The woman’s hand trembled, more noticeably than ever, as she emptied all her coins onto the table. She seemed to be struggling with counting them. Given that Irma’s bill never fluctuated, Betty swiftly noticed there wasn’t enough money. And something told her the lady’s purse didn’t have a reserve compartment.
Betty glanced back at the kitchen, where the chef’s mood remained stuck in a ditch of aggravation. He didn’t believe in running tabs, and was far from the charitable sort.
“Here,” she told Irma, “let me get those.” She scooted the change off the edge and into her hand, whispering a pretend calculation. “Forty-five, fifty-five, seventy . . .” Then, “Perfect!” She dropped them into her uniform pocket. Her tip from the last table would provide just enough to compensate for the shortage. “Be sure and try our dessert sometime. A girl’s gotta treat herself once in a while.”
A smile brushed past Irma’s dry, wrinkled lips, but only a shadow. A memory. An echo of her withered beauty.
Betty didn’t know why she was helping her out exactly. Maybe it was an offering to the universe, a bribe to prevent her from ending up the same. Or worse, like her own mother, an old maid whose scandalous life had been the infection of Betty’s childhood.
“Order up!” The chef’s voice jerked Betty back to greasy paradise and her mouth into a frown. She deposited Irma’s bare dinner plate in a bussing tub. As she headed for the kitchen, someone called out, “Excuse me? Miss? Over here.”
“Be there in a minute,” she shot back; she couldn’t be in two places at once. But then she registered the new customer’s appearance. An Army sergeant, all alone, dark and suave. Fit in his sharp uniform, he boasted looks as dreamy as they came.
Her shoes did an automatic U-turn, straight to his table. Cosmetics undoubtedly needing to be refreshed, she tilted her face to its most flattering angle and asked, “See anything you like?” She inserted a deliberate pause before gesturing to his menu.
His mouth slid into a grin. His eyes glinted.
And she knew she had him. “Hey, I know you,” he said. She would have taken the phrase for a tired old pickup line, but his tone sounded of genuine discovery. “The USO,” he explained. “A few weeks back.”
Had she danced with him and forgotten? Surely she would have remembered a guy like this. Crud, she hated when a fella had the upper hand.
“You were one of the singers,” he added. The connection seemed to end there.
“You’ve got quite a memory . . .” She drew out the last word, a prompt for him to volunteer his name.
“J.T.,” he said. “And you’re Betty.”
“How did you—” she began, then glanced down at her name tag. “Oh. Right.”
“Pleased to finally meet you.”
“Likewise.” The feel of something sticky between her fingers prevented her from extending her hand. As a cover, she yanked the pencil from her ear and notepad out of her pocket, posed them in order-taking position.
“Well, Betty, I think you got a fan club started by some of the guys in our office.”
“The office?” she asked, milking the compliment.
“Army recruitment, down off Jackson.” He reclined in his seat, one arm draped across the top of the neighboring chair, as if accustomed to claiming ownership and space at will. His posture launched a wave of arrogance stronger than his spicy cologne. “You should come by sometime. We could use a smart, beautiful woman like you in the Women’s Army Corps.”
A giggle bubbled through her. “You see me in the WAC? Marching around all day in khaki?”
J.T. gave her figure a brief scan, no doubt picturing her out of a uniform rather than in one. “Just think about it, sweetheart. You could help out our soldiers by doing more than singing to ’em.” The implication might have been offensive had he not continued so smoothly. “Besides, you seem like the kinda girl who’d like to travel, see the world. Sydney, London, Rome. Maybe Hawaii? White sandy beaches, luscious palm trees. Water so blue and clear you could spot a dime at the bottom.”
His pitch sounded as rehearsed as that of a Fuller Brush salesman, but the vision towed Betty’s mind into a drift regardless. Life could certainly be worse than living in a tropical haven. Too bad military enlistment was a requirement. She’d sooner become a lumber jack than run around playing soldier. Why, for the love of Mike, some women tried so hard to swap roles with men, she had no idea.
“I said order up!” the chef bellowed.
She pushed out a sweetly appeasing voice. “Coming,” she answered, abruptly reminded of her unglamorous servitude. The chef’s call should have taken priority, given his grumpiness tonight, but she couldn’t bow to another command before enlightening someone, anyone, of her overflowing potential.
Posture lifted, she peered down at the sergeant. “Thanks for the offer, but I already got plans,” she stated, as though he should have expected as much. “I’ll be traveling with the USO, soon as a spot in a touring group opens up. So I’m sure I’ll be stopping in all those places you mentioned.” She added with a wink, “Even drop you a postcard if I have time.” In reality, all the Hedy Lamarrs and Marlene Dietrichs took overseas priority. But the possibility of joining the tour was the main reason Betty had auditioned for the USO, and she wasn’t about to give up the chance at a better job—a better life—no matter how slim.
“Well, if things don’t work out,” he said, “come on by and see me. Or, even if you wanted to chat about other things, besides the military . . .” He trailed off, inviting her to fill in the blanks.
“Wessel, there you are!” A GI appeared at the front door beside two rather refined-looking girls. To top it off, they were knockouts, which J.T. seemed to note in less than a blink. “We’re hittin’ O’Toole’s. Ya comin’, or what?”
The girls whispered to each other, then giggled, a sound that drew the sergeant from his seat like a snake to a flute. Not until reaching the exit did he rotate back, as though suddenly recalling Betty was there. “Like I said, you oughta come by.”
She layered on a smile. “Yeah, sure.” In your dreams, her mind added. Jerks like this reminded her why she’d be better off with a real gentleman—like Morgan, that soldier from the dance. Because mysterious and chivalrous deserved to beat out suave and dreamy every time.
Not that they always did, of course.
As J.T. and his gang strolled gaily past the diner windows, Betty tried to imagine a hundred ways to put the nitwit in his place if given the chance. But before she could come up with a solitary one, a gruff warning from the chef took another stomp at her pride.
Chapter 6
Late August 1944 France
“Charlie! Where are you?” Morgan screamed, pain grinding his throat. He rubbed his eyelids with the back of his hand and strained to focus. The gray smoke of mortar explosions burned his nostrils.
“Charlie!” His voice melted into the bursting of artillery shells and hammering of machine guns. He fought off a cough. The taste of tar coated his tongue. He spat and missed the water, hitting the sleeve of his fatigues. Black, grainy liquid.
Waves were riding him mid-thigh. Ocean waves. But he couldn’t feel the chill. Too numb, too filled with terror. Too confused by how he and Charlie had ended up separated.
He clutched his M1 rifle to his chest and plodded through the bloody sea, the water like a flood of molasses. Leaning every pound of his body forward, he pushed toward the hazy beachhead. German bullets zipped past his ears. He ducked his face away, grasping his net-covered helmet. Behind him, miles of Allied ships, now tattered floating tombs, dappled the ocean. Infantry hung like soiled rags off bow ramps. Uniformed corpses plugged jagged holes in landing craft.
Morgan refocused and resumed his march, until something bumped his knee. He gasped at the sight. A swarm of dead bodies hovered beneath the surface of the water. Their unseeing stares reached for him, pleading for help too late. Boys, all of them, too young to be soldiers. Still, here they were, cut down by machinegun fire. Drowned by the weight of their own field packs.
Staggering from dizziness, he trudged onward. He searched for pillboxes camouflaged in the trees overlooking the shore. Not a bunker in view, but he knew they were there, preserving the merciless rage of Wehrmacht troops awaiting his approach.
Once at water of knee-high depth, he hurdled the waves with his weighted boots. The suction of wet sand suddenly yielded. He stumbled out of the ocean and onto a quilt of fatigues covering every inch of the beach. Was he the only GI left standing?
The question retreated as he plowed through the patchwork of helmets and weapons, of crumpled bodies lying facedown in the gritty sand. A mortician’s waiting room for fallen heroes.
He dropped to his knees in a bucket-sized gap, tossing his rifle aside. He yanked back on jacket collars for a glimpse of their faces. Blood trickled from their gaped mouths. Gashes, bullet holes, missing pieces. The stench of death seared his senses, folded his stomach in quarters. And their eyes, their glassy eyes, shining hollow, like tinted doors entrapping their souls.
“Morgan. . . .” A hoarse whisper seemed to cry out from the heavens.
He flew back on his knees. “Charlie?”
“Morgan. . . .” The voice drew nearer, echoing as if spoken from the base of a well.
“Charlie!” he shrieked, searching, searching. “Where are you?”
A fatigue-clad arm shot up from the pile of bodies. The sandy hand grabbed hold of his shoulder and shook him.
“Morgan, wake up.”
The unexpected words jolted him back to their French campsite. From the milky light of the moon, he could see his brother, wrapped in a blanket an arm’s length away.
“You okay?” Charlie asked groggily.
Yeah, Morgan mouthed without sound. The terror of his dream tapering, he forced a dry swallow and nodded.
Charlie yawned as he rolled onto his other side, adjusted his head on his elbow.
The duty had always been Morgan’s, waking his brother from nightmares. All those months after their mother’s death, he would climb up the bunk-bed ladder to interrupt the kid’s tossing and turning.
When had things become so backward?
Morgan blew out a quiet, shaky exhale, his muscles as taut as tucked Army bedding. He swept a glance over the mounds bivouacked around him: his slumbering squad, spread throughout the pasture like grazing cattle.
He rested the back of his hand on his forehead and inhaled the familiar smell of dewy meadow. He’d find it soothing if not for the distant barrage of artillery fire, or the vengeful explosions of Hitler’s “Buzz Bombs.” Not quite the sounds of summer nights on the farm.
From star to star he drew imaginary lines, struggling to erase the haunting pictures flipping through his mind. Considering how many images there were, it was hard to believe only two months had passed since their troop transport ship left New York. For twelve days they’d sailed in the dank, creaking chamber, zigzagging to avoid wolf packs of German subs. Poor Charlie had rarely been sick a day in his life, but the Atlantic’s unforgiving pitch and roll made up for lost time; his waistline shrank two belt loops before the ship had anchored.
“Good thing we didn’t join the Navy,” Morgan had joked. Charlie hadn’t laughed.
Looking back, Morgan almost laughed himself, remembering how eager they’d all been to reach the living nightmare that waited across the English Channel. His squad had arrived on the Norman shore well after the D-Day invasion, but the gruesome crime scene still invaded his dreams. Even now, the memory of bodies washing ashore sent a chill zipping up his spine.
Then again, the thought of death sometimes offered a strange sense of peace. A morbid notion, perhaps, until you’re at the tail end of another twenty-mile march beneath the hot French sun, with sixty pounds of gear bound to your chafed, raw back, your feet swollen and bleeding, your stomach knotted from K-rations. All elements of an Army conspiracy, Morgan decided, to make battle an appealing prospect.
An effective strategy, as it turned out. At one point, he’d been suckered along with the rest of them. Like a kid awaiting a parade, he too had lined the road to welcome the tarpaulin-covered convoy. No one seemed to mind that the front line was the next scheduled stop.
Over winding roads, their truck had bumped and groaned. They’d snuck through the black of night with taped-over head-lights, getaway cars preparing for a heist. By the time they unloaded in Brezolles, Morgan was certain the torturous hours of marching or waiting for action would surely rival those spent in combat.
The theory didn’t last.
In three-foot-deep foxholes, he and Charlie had dueled trapped members of the German Panzer army, closing the Falaise Pocket like a tube of toothpaste. Though tens of thousands of Kraut soldiers had been captured, a hefty number escaped through the gap. Both a success and a failure. The essence of war.
The battles were far from over, but the amount of bloodshed Morgan had already witnessed could soak the earth to its core. He’d learned there was no limit to how violently men and their machines could deconstruct the human anatomy. How desensitized people could become. How barbaric it all was.
Now, studying the dirt road cutting through the meadow, the road they’d be tackling at daylight, he feared what other lessons war had in store for them.
“Charlie,” Morgan said in a loud whisper. Unable to sleep, he wanted someone to talk to. He tapped his brother’s shoulder. The kid didn’t move. Not even a break in the rhythm of his heavy breaths.
How was it that he rested so peacefully?
Maybe in Charlie’s dreams they were somewhere far away. A safer time, safer place, where the air brimmed with warmth and the lullabies of crickets. They were kids back in their dad’s Iowa fields, dozing out in the open, naming shapes made of stars in the sky. A sky that offered them promises, futures as limitless as the universe.
A sky that lied.
Chapter 7
Late August 1944 Chicago, Illinois
The gilding of the room amplified the stiff formality at Liz’s table. In the corner, a string quartet played Rachmaninoff over silverware clinking on fine china. A tuxedoed host at the entrance relieved a woman of her fur stole while waiters slipped in and out of the kitchen that smelled of grilled steak and spices. Diners nodded and murmured and lobbed laughter back and forth like a tennis ball in a never-ending match.
“All done here, miss?” The waiter gestured with his upturned hand, the movement as groomed as his mustache.
Liz opened her mouth to decline, but Dalton replied for her. “We both are, thank you.”
Why on earth did he choose a place as fancy as this if he wanted to eat at drive-in restaurant speed? Had she known he was in a hurry, she would have bypassed the vegetables and savored the marmalade chicken first.
Liz pressed up a smile as the waiter retrieved their plates. The distraction of eating gone, she bounced her leg under the tablecloth, keeping time with the drumming awkwardness.
Dalton took a long drink of red wine. Tabletop candlelight traveled through his crystal glass and cast severe shadows across his face. With the chiseling of his features, it wasn’t a stretch to imagine him draped in a toga, orating before the Roman Senate in another lifetime.
“Was your steak all right?” she asked, attempting conversation.
“Come again?”
“You only ate half your dinner. Was something wrong with it?”
“It was fine. I just had a late lunch.” He offered a lean smile, then popped his second Rolaids of the evening into his mouth. If it weren’t for knowing heartburn ran in his family, she might suspect she was the cause of his indigestion.
Sipping her lemon-wedged ice water, she glanced to her side. A middle-aged couple, necks adorned in a bow tie and pearls, sat silently at the next table. Engrossed in their meals, they sliced, chewed, and dabbed their mouths with white linen napkins. They had to have been married fifteen, twenty years. No children, Liz guessed. Just a small, yippy lapdog waiting at home. The woman would knit next to the radio while her husband read the paper before they retired to opposite sides of the bed.
Liz tried not to stare, but she had exchanged so few words with Dalton over dinner she began to feel as though they had more in common with the neighboring couple than each other.
Dalton drained his glass and contributed to their small talk, finally. “Did you end up with all the classes you wanted?”
“For the most part. I was hoping to take the one on Yeats, but it was still full.”
“That’s great.” He glanced over his shoulder.
Had he heard a word she’d said?
“Dalton, I said I didn’t get into the class.”
“Oh, right. Sorry. I’m just looking for our waiter.”
She hoped he was planning to ask for the bill rather than the dessert menu.
“Dalton Harris, how the heck ahh you?” A deep male voice encroached on their table.
Dalton shot to his feet, accepted a handshake. “Mr. Bernstein, it’s a pleasure to see you.”
A swath of the man’s slicked gray hair fell over his temple as he slapped a palm on Dalton’s shoulder. He reeked of cigar smoke and old Boston money, and the button closing his pin-striped suit jacket appeared ready to launch should he laugh too hard.
“Did you just arrive?” Dalton asked.
“Just finished up. Dinner meeting, you know. All hobnobbing and politics. Not a romantic evening like yours.” He motioned his double chin in Liz’s direction.
“Please,” Dalton said, “allow me to introduce my girlfriend, Elizabeth Stephens.”
Mr. Bernstein gave her hand a cordial peck. “Nice to meet you, missy.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Her father is Professor Emmett Stephens,” Dalton pointed out, “a recent transfer from Northwestern to Georgetown.”
“Ah, yes. I believe my son, Warren, took one of his classes way back when. History, was it?”
“Classical literature,” Liz replied, then risked a peek into Dalton’s eyes to make sure correcting the gentleman was acceptable, an act she immediately regretted. When had seeking his permission become a reflex?
“Literature. Of course,” Mr. Bernstein said. “Well, no time for amusing folk tales anymore. Right, Dalton? Not with law school keeping you as busy as it does my own boy these days.”
Amusing folk tales? Liz’s jaw coiled closed, and thankfully so. She was feeling less and less inclined to refrain from slinging retorts labeled “brash” by the charm school Julia had attended.
Dalton folded his arms, wholly absorbed. “Warren is in his second year at Harvard now, isn’t he, sir? And already published in the Law Review, I believe.”
“That’s right,” the man said, surprised. He looked down at Liz. “Sharp as a tack, this one is. You hang on to him, and you just might end up our nation’s first lady. Right after Warren’s presidential term, of course.” When he chuckled, Liz dipped her gaze to the taut thread securing his coat button, hoping for a fracture in the monotony.
“I believe you mean his terms,” Dalton said. “Re-election would be a given.”
Mr. Bernstein slanted a grin toward Liz. “What’d I tell you? Sharp as a tack.”
Dalton delivered a low, hollow laugh that grated on her ears, one he had developed when the campaign began. It was an imitation, she now realized, akin to a man of Bernstein’s build. Even Dalton’s chest appeared slightly puffed to enlarge his medium frame.
“You two enjoy the rest of your evening.” The fellow shook Dalton’s hand. “And you stay on top of those studies. We’re going to need men like you to lead when those boys get shipped back after the war.”
“I will, sir. Thank you.”
While other girls might, Liz never felt a bit embarrassed over her boyfriend’s lack of uniform. She preferred his safety to the unknown. Apparently so did his father, who’d made it clear that the primary obligation of his only son was to carry on the family name. That the nation would best benefit from his political prowess, not the sacrifice of his blood. With Mr. Harris’s connections, a deferment, or stateside defense job at most, was a surety should Dalton ever be drafted. A relief to Liz, on one hand; on the other, frustration that the decision wasn’t viewed as his own.
“Good night, Elaine,” Mr. Bernstein said to Liz while leaving. “Oh, and son”—he turned back, bumping a busboy in passing— “tell your father to give me a call. We’ll see what we can do to get that man the seat in Washington he deserves.”
Face alight, Dalton nodded. “Any support would certainly be appreciated.”
Another shark reeled in.
Dalton was in the midst of sitting down when their waiter returned and set a dome-covered plate before Liz. She peered up at the man. “I’m afraid there’s been a mistake. I didn’t order any dessert.” Her desire to get home squashed any craving for a decadent torte.
Without a word, the server removed the lid in a grand arc, the dome pinging above his head.
Obviously, no one was listening to her tonight. She would be better off skywriting a message. “Sir, I said I didn’t order—” The objection died on a gasp, strangled by the sight of the small box on her plate.
A sterling box.
For a ring.
Dalton reached across the table and clasped her hand. “Elizabeth.” He spoke slow, articulate. “We’ve known each other for as long as I can remember.”
Her hands tingled with fear of where this was leading, of sentences resembling a life-altering speech. She focused to hear him over the quick thumps of her heart. Every word carried a pulse. She strained for each vital syllable, to confirm that merely an early birthday present lay before her. Or a Christmas gift—in August.
“Thanks to our grandfathers, you were the little pest I was stuck playing with every summer.” Nostalgia seeped into his voice. “For years I thought of you as a kid sister. But eventually, it became clear our friendship was destined to grow into something more.”
A proposal. It was a proposal. Too soon, it was too soon!
“Dalton,” she stage-whispered, “I thought we were going—”
“To wait, I know. But there’s no reason we can’t make our plans official now. In less than two years, I’ll have my degree and you’ll have enough credits to graduate early. Still top of your class, knowing you. Then we can finally start our lives together. With my practicing law, and your professorship, we’ll be . . . unstoppable.” He smiled, eyes twinkling like sapphires.
“But my father—”
“He’s already given his permission.”
The statement clattered in her head. “He what?”
“He said so long as you had a degree in your hand first, we could sign the marriage license whenever we wanted.”
Her life, in an instant, became a runaway train. The velocity left her breathless. “You spoke with him?”
“On the phone last week. Told me he was absolutely delighted.”
Absolutely delighted. Did he use those very words? Ones that conveyed an actual emotion? The image of her father wearing an expression in the realm of happiness slowed her thoughts, lessened her alarm. His acceptance of Dalton, though established long ago, had never implied such zeal. Perhaps with the inclining prominence of the Harris family, their marriage could resuscitate her father’s approval.
Certainly, she favored that possibility over the alternative: his delight but a form of relief, her wedding vows marking the end of his parental obligations.
Dalton slid from his chair and knelt before her. He picked up the box and creaked open the lid. “This ring has been in my family for four generations.” He pulled the heirloom out of the turquoise velvet tuck. A beveled emerald shone at the center of the star etched into the gold band. Five small diamonds winked between each point. “If you’ll have me, Lizzy, it would be my honor to pass it along to you.”
Either the restaurant had fallen silent or shock was hindering her hearing. No tinking of silverware, no lobbing of laughter.
He peered into her eyes. “Elizabeth Stephens, will you marry me?”
The question burned in her ears, its heat stretched down her neck. Her tongue was cold, absent a reply. She glanced over Dalton’s shoulder, stalling to produce her answer. Against a swagged velvet curtain, their waiter stood at attention. She wanted to ask him to open a window before the pressure bowed the fabric-lined walls. But the bottle of champagne in his hand, surely intended for her table, indicated his task card was full.
“Elizabeth?” Dalton said.
She returned to the ring, then to Dalton’s face. When he leaned forward a fraction, candlelight brushed a caramel glow over his skin, erasing the hard lines on his forehead. Before her eyes, he reverted to the boy she’d grown up with. Dalton Harris, her child-hood friend. The one who spent a week by her side when she had chicken pox, playing jacks while stuffing themselves with Baby Ruth bars. The same one who taught her how to ice fish and took her to her first dance. The guy who’d held her hand at her grandfather’s funeral.
And now, here he was, matured into a man, offering his devotion and security. What girl in her right mind would say no?
Liz drew a breath. Under the gaze of the entire room, she smiled. Then nodded.
Applause erupted as Dalton guided the ring onto her finger. It was halfway on when her knuckle resisted the band. She winced from a second push. A feeling of self-consciousness stirred inside, an itch she couldn’t reach. Was the coliseum of spectators interpreting the mismatched size as a bad omen?
“I think it might be a little small,” she said quietly.
“It’s okay, it’ll fit.” Determined as always, he twisted the band one way, then the other, as if the solution were a matter of angle.
“No, Dalton, really.” He shoved harder, pinching her skin. “Ow!” she cried, halting him.
He raised his eyes, and his whole body sighed. “I’m sorry,” he told her. “This isn’t going the way I’d planned.” His crestfallen tone released a rush of compassion in Liz, and, in its wake, regret for misjudging his behavior throughout dinner.
“It’s no problem.” She shrugged. “I’ll just have it resized.” Smiling, she shifted the ring onto her pinkie. “Until then, this should work.”
Soon a beam returned to his face. He pulled her hand toward him and stood to embrace her. The audience caught a second wind and clapped louder.
“I love you, Lizzy,” he said into her ear.
She closed her eyes, relished the familiarity of his arms, his musky scent. “Me too,” she replied, holding him tighter.
This was right. This made sense. You didn’t need chills or flutters or illusionary magic from a fleeting dance. Just the loyalty and devotion of someone who cared. Any other notions were better left as daydreams.
Of this she was certain.
Chapter 8
Late August 1944 Chicago, Illinois
Two Fridays in a row, and still no sign of her. That was the thought still scratching at Betty’s mind as she waited at the bus stop on Michigan Avenue. Nobody at work could recall how many years Irma had been frequenting the diner, eating in that far booth—Irma’s booth—but it was long enough to leave an arresting hole when she didn’t show two weeks ago.
A cross-country trip. A visiting relative or a seasonal cold. These were the theories tossed among the staff like hamburger patties, kneaded and molded as reasons for her absence, shaped into the most tantalizing form. Yet as much as Betty strained to visualize the woman pleasuring in a lengthy train ride, or painting the town red with a long-lost cousin, she simply couldn’t. The possibility of a severe cold, on the other hand, the flu maybe, was the only explanation upholding Betty’s hopes after the first missed Friday.
Then a second one passed without the arrival of Irma. Dear, quiet Irma, who wore her aged solitude as elegantly as her silver flapper hat, her tarnished brooch.
Why did her absence bother Betty so much? She barely knew the woman.
Betty tried her darndest to flick the pointless concerns aside. It was Monday afternoon, the heat rising. Her feet were moaning from a morning shift that ran an hour over. Due to meet Julia soon for a matinee, she aimed her focus on getting home, peeling out of her diner uniform, lemon-washing the smell of grease from her hair.
But then an image of the young couple from that morning returned, another set of customers with the audacity to invade Irma’s booth. The recollection stung like a slap.
Could it be that life was no more precious than a streetcar, trudging round and round on a loop? A schedule to keep, no time to grieve over a single lost passenger.
“Nice, eh?” A man’s reedy voice came from beside her. A suited stiff, he grinned with teeth befitting a horse. “This weather we’re having. Rather nice, eh?”
She glanced at the sky, surprised to find it endless in blue. Somehow an overcast gray seemed more appropriate. “Yeah. It’s swell.”
He pushed his glasses up the bony bridge of his nose. “So, do you live around here?”
Not a chance, buster. Especially not today. “Ah, look!” She threw a glance over his shoulder. “I see a friend, but it was great talking to you.” Her feet were already in motion before she’d concluded the fib. Thankfully, only his reply chased after her as she zipped away to hide within the farthest cluster of strangers.
Safe out of his eyeshot, she checked her watch. Her standard impatience revved louder than the passing cars. A little boy halfway down the block, tap-dancing for change, wasn’t helping; the quick ticking of his shoes contrasted the creeping speed of every second.
She should have taken the “L” train. No way would she have time to bathe before the matinee. If only she had the means to roam the city with speed and style—like the two older ladies there, emerging from the revolving door of a hotel. All pearls and white gloves, they radiated with an air of high-society Brits. From the side, the taller one looked so much like . . . could it really be . . .
Irma?
Betty’s eyes froze wide as she studied her. It seemed an eternity before the gal turned toward an approaching taxi. A full view of her face clarified the lunacy of the notion. Still, just to be sure, Betty watched while their doorman helped exchange passengers. Out of the cab, he guided the hand of an Army nurse, roughly Betty’s age. The sun threw a spotlight onto her crisp white hat, her blue and red cape. The older women—neither of them Irma— smiled at the girl and nodded in approval.
No. More than that: admiration, respect.
Acceptance.
They looked at the nurse as though she were important, her purpose meaningful. As if people might actually care that she missed her Friday supper at a diner.
“Are you gettin’ on or not?” a man behind Betty grumbled.
Her gaze swayed toward the bus that had instantly appeared, cloaking her in its shade. Exhaust fumes were like smelling salts to her senses. She awakened to discover the passenger before her climbing the stairs.
Betty rushed forward and closed the gap. Stepping onboard, she glanced down to grab coins from her pocket, its pastel fabric streaked with mustard and syrup and who knew what else. Same went for her pitifully roughened fingernails. Tough scrubs could wash away the grime, but not her station in life. Her mother, by example, had taught her that; had ingrained early on that Betty’s ticket to prosperity lay in her beauty. All she needed was to groom herself like a rose and prepare for her prince to arrive, regal in his shiny gold buttons and polished shoes. After all, she was never going to be one of those college girls, like Liz and Julia, with the smarts and the dough. Girls who had so effortlessly attracted their Mr. Rights.
Thus she’d waited, in her mother’s tiny rented room, ready to be plucked away, displayed in a crystal vase for all to admire.
But the prince had yet to show. Undependable, as all men were. Even that soldier from the dance, the supposed gentleman, hadn’t bothered to write her back. It was high time she took control of the matter.
“Move your feet, will ya?” the man snapped behind her.
Her legs, she realized, had concreted on the middle step. As she paused to deposit her fare, the bus driver, too, appeared annoyed. No question, she received better treatment when donning a snap-pier outfit. If the USO had provided a uniform—demanding respect, admiration—she’d wear it every day of the week.
From the thought, an idea chipped free. A brilliant idea. Utterly brilliant. “That’s it,” she murmured to herself. Floating, revolving, the solution came solidly formed, as if waiting all along to make it-self known. Why oh why hadn’t this occurred to her before?
“Hey.” The creep behind her huffed. “I’ve got better things to do than stand here waiting all day.”
A solid grin overtook her lips from the surety of her plan. She pivoted around. “So do I,” she announced, then pushed past him and marched down the block.
Chapter 9
Late August 1944 Chicago, Illinois
“Get down!” the man shouted into the darkness.
Julia ducked a few inches in her chair. It took her a moment to realize the stranger was merely yelling at latecomers, silhouettes obstructing the movie screen.
She quietly laughed at herself. Apparently, she hadn’t fully shed habits gained from those first jittery blackouts in the city, back when the war was a ubiquitous intruder crouched just outside the door. When, at any hour, another wave of General Tojo’s planes was expected to hail greetings across America, a nation vulnerable in its paranoia.
On the home front, a gradual semblance of safety had returned. The battles were a million miles away. Or at least that’s how far the distance seemed separating her from Christian.
She’d been used to his absence, before the war. With his living in Michigan, weekly letters and stretches of longing between visits became the standard after they met three years ago. He had been working in Chicago for the summer, a soda jerk in his uncle’s drugstore, and she thanked every day since for a cherry Coke craving that had led her through those doors and into his life.
The very thought of him now made the seat beside her feel even emptier.
Oh, bother, where was Betty? The newsreel had already begun: Allied infantry streaming into a village, a drumbeat added to in-crease the drama. As if local casualty lists in the newspapers weren’t dramatic enough.
Twisting around, Julia scanned the aisle in search of the blonde, then craned her neck to see the balcony above. Beneath the projector’s tunnel of light, only a scattering of couples came into view, each in the midst of a thorough tonsil check. Couldn’t they wait for the feature to begin? And why did all the guys appear to be sailors?
Julia flopped back against her chair. She should have met Betty at the house instead. It wouldn’t be the first time the girl had gone to the wrong movie palace.
Usually, Julia had no issue seeing a picture alone. Only when Christian was the one beside her—bringing her undivided attention to his soft lips on hers, the shawl of his arm—could her focus be swayed from the featured films. All those glamorous characters, exhibiting the latest fashions, entangled in heart-melting romances. They wouldn’t so much as jump off the screen as suck Julia in to enjoy them firsthand.
Today, though, even the riveting newsreel had to vie for her interest. She felt her irritation spreading like a rash. A mounting impatience, a clock ticking in her ear. The war should have been over by now, she thought for the hundredth time. She wanted the complications to end, the life she was building with Christian to resume and soar.
A reflection of the same thought played out in the images before her. Freed European villagers flickered in black and white. Stories poured from their eyes. They’d held on to but a thread of hope, and now they could finally grasp the tapestry of their future. With outstretched arms and gifts, they welcomed the liberating GIs. Young girls waved American flags. They were pretty girls, exotic in their features. Girls no older than Julia. Elation brightened their faces; their gazes swam with gratitude.
But just how far did their tokens of appreciation go?
A terrible thought.
Simply terrible.
But it was one Julia couldn’t help dwelling upon now, surrounded by sailors whose groping hands and searching mouths bobbed like buoys in the shadows. If this was how they conducted themselves back at home, imagine how they acted after months at sea, after being welcomed by those young, exotic girls willing to twirl around far more fabric than a flag.
The room suddenly turned sweltering. Dots of sweat met the inside collar of her blouse, the lining of her skirt. The clasp on her garter itched. She needed to stand, to move. In an instant, she was striding up the aisle and out the theater. Sunlight choked her vision as she breathed deep of the city air.
She was being silly, letting her imagination scuttle away like this. She couldn’t have asked for a more devoted beau than Christian. Regardless, with his handsome face and athletic shape, not to mention his dapper uniform, there was no question he would be tested at some point.
That’s what this was: a test. Just like their long-distance relationship had always been. Just like the internship offer she had yet to decline.
Only days away from autumn, her deadline imminent, and still she had provided no answer. She’d savored the mere possibility weeks longer than she should have. This, she now realized, was the rash, the ticking clock. This was the test of their love. And the response she would give—today, she’d go there today—would deter-mine if she passed or failed.
The brick academy loomed like a haunted mansion. At the base of the entrance steps, Julia’s momentum hit a wall. On her way from the theater, her mind had flipped through article after article, recollections from Woman’s Day and Good Housekeeping. Her husband would come first, above all. His needs, not hers. Christian, of course, wasn’t ever one to limit her choices, which was exactly the reason she needed to do this. Because he wouldn’t ask her to. Be-cause love required sacrifice. And, if nothing else in this world, she knew she wanted to be a good wife.
“Are you going in?”
Julia tracked the voice to the gal behind her, lustrous with her sleek ponytail and crisscross dress. Tangerine fabric with snaking copper buttons billowed like foam at the upper edge of her hand-held bag. A daring new design.
Are you going in? the girl had asked.
Was Julia going in?
“I don’t know,” she heard herself reply.
Understandably, the stranger appeared confused.
Julia glanced at the doors, and a sudden fear came over her. Certainly, the idea of disappointing her instructor had prolonged the answer; Simone had put her faith and reputation on the line. But now it was the challenge—perhaps impossibility—of saying no, should Julia dare to step foot into her beloved classroom again.
Maybe that had always been her true cause of hesitation.
Julia turned to the girl. “Could you pass something along for me, to Madame Simone?”
She shrugged. “Sure. I’d be happy to.”
Not permitting herself another thought, Julia pulled from her purse a small notepad. She scribbled the same words that had been waiting from the start.
Dear Madame Simone,
Thank you again for all you’ve done, for everything you’ve taught me. But I’m sorry. I simply can’t.
Yours sincerely,
Julia Renard
Immediately, Julia handed off the note and walked away. A pound of angst dissolved with every step, and to her relief, she felt no urge to look back.
Chapter 10
Late August 1944 Chicago, Illinois
Although vacant for lunch hour, the room felt full around Betty, gapless with her teeming eagerness. The fan oscillating on the file cabinet spread equal attention across the office. A futile attempt to loosen the knotted heat. From its ticking blades, a gentle gust ruffled a browning fern in the corner, stacked documents on the neighboring desks.
This was meant to be, she told herself while waiting in her seat. Having barely caught the sergeant on his way out was a sign: Her life would soon be turning around.
Giddiness, which had sprouted during her rush from the bus stop, flourished now as she studied the posters, an array of Army recruitment plastering the wall. She’d seen them a million times— the vibrant drawings of gorgeous gals in uniform, posed before waving flags, proclaiming a need for women with Star-Spangled hearts. Then there was the portrait of old Uncle Sam, in dire need of a visit to the barber, scaring boys into the service with his menacing eyes and accusatory finger.
Until today, though, it hadn’t dawned on her that those messages were also meant for her. Not the way they were intended maybe, but in the same realm.
“Afraid we don’t have anything stronger than water round here.” The uniformed sergeant approached with a pair of paper cups and handed one over. Easing into his desk chair, he reclined with the same cloying arrogance he wore when they’d met at the diner. He didn’t deserve to be as good-looking as he was.
“Water’s perfect, thanks,” she said, and drew a polite sip.
“So tell me, Betty. What brings you down to my neck of the woods?” Smugness lingered in his smile. It was clear he believed she’d hunted him up in hopes of a rendezvous; no doubt plenty of other girls had done the same. Awaiting her answer, he took a drink, eying her as if examining a rack of lamb at the butcher shop.
That’s when Betty realized why she had actually remembered his name: J.T. Wessel sounded remarkably similar to Just a Weasel. Fitting. She could have opted for another recruiter, but seeing J.T.’s reaction would be worth every second.
She straightened in her chair, and with her chin determinedly set, she reported, “I’m here to enlist.”
His cup crinkled slightly in his grip. He pulled his water away and cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, did you say you—”
“Wanted to enlist.” Evidently, his enticing pitches about overseas service had filled his little black book more than his enlistment quota. She grinned with satisfaction. “Why, yes, I did.”
To his credit, he gathered himself quickly. “I see,” he said. Then he scrounged a pencil from his torrent of papers. “Did you have a particular area in mind?”
“As a matter of fact, yes.” Time to unleash her idea on the world: essentially, a civilian’s role with all the perks. “I’d like to sing,” she replied.
He went still for a moment before raising his head. “You . . . wanna sing. For the Army.” Confusion stretched his words, his eyes. She was rather enjoying this.
“The Army has bands, doesn’t it?”
“Well . . . yes . . .”
“Then it should have vocalists as well. Obviously, the USO sees the importance of singers in raising soldiers’ morale. I think the Army would agree, don’t you?”
He opened his mouth, but no argument formed, which only fed her confidence to continue.
“The military believes in promoting entertainment. Otherwise, it wouldn’t have the likes of Joe DiMaggio playing baseball for the Armed Forces. And I for one don’t see how this is any different.”
J.T. nodded slowly, as if receiving the information through Morse code. Then a broad grin returned. “Betty, I’d be happy to look into that. For now, though, let’s just get some basic paperwork going.” He poised his pencil. “How about we start with your full name and age.”
Right away, she rattled off her information, enunciated all but her middle name—“Betty Jo” sounded like such a hillbilly.
“So you just turned twenty?” he confirmed.
“That’s right.”
“In that case, as you probably know, you’ll need parental permission.”
“Say again?”
“Since you’re under twenty-one.” He scribbled and looked up. “Is that a problem?”
A problem? He could say that.
But how could she tactfully phrase that her father had been some married guy who’d split before she was born, and that her mother, the fool who fell for him, was the last person Betty wanted help from? Besides, her communication with her mom had slimmed to mere holiday cards years ago, after Betty was dumped on relatives in Evanston—supposedly a means to curb the high schooler’s rebellious nature.
At least in the end, with all her aunt’s plastic-covered furniture and earmarked Bibles, Betty had realized that living with a mother who was home every minute of the day, versus always out working like her own, could be just as miserable.
“My mother,” Betty explained, “actually lives in Kansas.” She couldn’t say the state name without it sounding raspy and rushed. Like a sneeze from a cold she couldn’t kick. “Do you need to see her, or is there any other way?”
“We do need her signature in person, but I could send a local recruiter to get it.”
“Great,” she said, before catching the disappointment ground into the word. She was about to divert with a peppier sentence when the clicking of footsteps interrupted, saving her.
“Afternoon, Sergeant,” a uniformed female called from the doorway. She was hardly as attractive as the Women’s Army Corps on the poster, but was just as magnetic. Everything from the shiny captain’s bars on her shoulder loops to her authoritative chin commanded attention.
J.T.’s posture stiffened like a pole. “Ma’am.”
“Busy recruiting, I see?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Nice to see you’ve been paying attention.” After a brief pause, the captain produced a chiding smile. “Back at it, then. We need every fine lady we can get.” She tipped her billed hat at Betty and strode into her office, shutting the door behind her.
How fascinating to see a woman in power for a change, specifically over a man.
A down-to-business look tightened J.T.’s face, only an ounce of resentment leaking through. He glanced back at his document. “So tell me, is there any other area you might be interested in?”
“Other area?”
“Outside of singing, that is. An alternative you might consider.”
She was about to say no—why would she need one?—when he added in a whisper, “Just have to put something on paper. A formality for the file.”
“Oh. Oh, right.”
He resumed his spiel. “You know, there’s lots of exciting things you can do in the WAC, and with skills you already have. For instance, do you know how to drive?”
She shrugged. “Never been a need, with me living around Chi cago.”
“Sure, sure,” he said, understanding. “How about cooking? You like to cook, don’t ya?”
“Once in a while. Unless it requires heat.”
He started to laugh, then stopped when he saw she wasn’t kidding. Betty was tempted to explain. But there was no sense relating the hazardous brownie episode that could have burned Liz’s house to the ground. She swiftly pointed out, “Cold things, though, are a breeze.”
“Uh-huh.” He dragged in a breath. “What about typing?”
“Mmm, not really.”
“Shorthand?”
“Nope.”
“You don’t . . . speak another language?” The doubt in his voice made the question rhetorical.
She shook her head anyway.
“Didn’t think so,” he murmured, before shifting to a lighter tone. “Well, like I told you, there’s loads of exciting duties out there. Everything from weather forecasting and glass blowing to working as a control tower operator. Even issuing weapons. Sounds pretty good, doesn’t it?”
Not really, she wanted to say, but held back. The reply could come off as unpatriotic, which she undoubtedly was not. On the contrary, she was no less patriotic than, say, that nurse near the bus stop. What with her fancy cape, her white exclamation of a hat, both serving as badges from years of schooling.
Oh, there had to be another option. Something similar yet more appropriate for her personality. Granted, it was just an unlikely backup she was choosing, but Betty preferred not to have anything remotely ordinary in her file.
She then thought of her roommates. For extra spending money, Liz and Julia held jobs in a nursing home—a semi-medical field— and they’d never indicated it being strenuous.
“What about hospital work?” she asked him.
“If you mean the Army Nurse Corps, the Red Cross handles all—”
“No,” she broke in. “Just something like it. But without the blood and mess. And not all that long, tedious training. After all, I do want to help out before the war’s actually over.” She smiled.
The fan in the corner ticked away the seconds. A useless breeze passed by.
J.T. gave his head a weary rub. Lacing his hands on the desk, he sat forward as though it took great effort. As though being back in action would be a relief in comparison. “Look, Betty. You’re a nice, pretty girl . . .”
She cringed at the familiar phrase. It had been a favorite from her guidance counselor, a guy who smelled like pickles and always ended their conversations with a verbal pat on the head, a why don’t you run off and play with your dolls conclusion.
Though tempering herself now, she interjected, “Are you trying to say that pretty girls can’t be WACs?”
“Of course they can,” J.T. countered. Then he threw a conspiratory glance around the empty room and continued in a hushed tone. “You already got a gig as a singer, right? Why not just focus on that, sweetheart, and forget about all this Army stuff. Didn’t you say something about touring with the USO, trotting the globe?”
The USO tour. The aspiration she had so often boasted about. Suddenly, tossed back at her in the presence of her filthy diner dress, the possibility seemed stripped down, naked in its unlikelihood.
“But I wanna help,” she managed to assert.
“And I’m sure you’d be great at . . . something. I’m just not confident the Army is the best place to utilize your talents.”
Like serving malts and meat loaves was?
“Thanks for coming by, though. It was swell seeing you.” That cocky recline again. “Hey, maybe we can go out to dinner some night, after one of your shows.”
Disgusted by his nerve, she couldn’t bring herself to reply. She stood up, head pressed against the ceiling of her crushed hopes, and started for the door. When she reached for the handle, however, a harsh truth slammed into her, one she never saw coming:
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/kristina-mcmorris/letters-from-home-39785489/) на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.
Kristina McMorris
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современная зарубежная литература
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
Отзывы: Пока нет Добавить отзыв
О книге: Two people. An unforgettable moment. One extraordinary love story.In Chicago, Illinois, two people are about to lock eyes across a crowded dance floor. The following moment will spark the love story of a lifetime…The year is 1944 and America has just entered the war. Young men and women are being drafted in to fight with their allies on Europe’s distant shores. Throughout America, sweethearts are saying their last goodbyes.Liz Stephens is already betrothed to budding US politician Dalton Harris, but when she meets GI Morgan McClain, she feels an instant and intense connection. But then he dances with her flirtatious best friend Betty and Liz is left feeling like just another soldier’s fancy.Betty is mesmerized by Morgan and begs Liz to write letters for her to post to him overseas. Liz reluctantly agrees, in the end anxious to retain a connection to him. As the last searing days of World War II loom, a correspondence begins that will alter the course of their lives forever.