Letters From Home

by Kristina McMorris

  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 childhood 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.

  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 di
dn’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.” 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 snappier 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 itself 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.

  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 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 increase 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 new
sreel 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 determine if she passed or failed.