Letters From Home

by Kristina McMorris

  “I didn’t want to interrupt,” he said, and winked. “Besides, the pinsetter loved your dance.”

  Julia huffed with a glare. “Okay, that’s it. I want a rematch. Right now.”

  “Are you out of your tree?” he asked, incredulous. “The bowling alley’s closing soon.”

  “Not bowling….” She pondered alternatives that leveled the playing ground.

  “What, lagging pennies?”

  “Backgammon,” she announced. “Unless that’s too intellectual for you.”

  A smile caught his lips. “We’ll find out, won’t we?”

  At that moment, she realized how much youthful feistiness was still within her—like a pair of mittens she had thought she’d outgrown, yet was still a perfect fit.

  Ian gestured to the pile of fries in her burger basket. “Gonna finish those?”

  “Be my guest.” She slid the basket toward him. “Cheater.”

  Grinning, he reached between the salt and pepper shakers for the bottle of ketchup.

  “Here, you missed one.” She lobbed a stray fry toward the basket, but overshot and hit Ian in the chest. His mouth fell open in astonishment.

  She did her best to stave off laughter. Regardless of how it came across, she never would have done such a thing intentionally. “I’m so sorry. Honest, I didn’t mean to.”

  “Uh-huh,” he said, tongue pressed against his inner cheek.

  “No, really. It was an accident.”

  He grabbed a handful of the flimsy potatoes. “Did you say you were still hungry?”

  Her amusement dropped off. “You wouldn’t dare!”

  “How rude of me not to offer you some.” He retracted his elbow, preparing to pitch.

  “Ian—”

  She tried to duck sideways in time, but the cluster hit her square in the cheek. She wiped the moisture off her face. A glob of ketchup. He exploded into laughter, emanating pure, unbridled joy, a sound she could revel in all evening—if not for retaliation taking precedence.

  Julia lurched for the oval basket, catching only the rim as Ian raised it up.

  “Let go!” she ordered.

  “Not a chance, peach.”

  A tug-of-war for the ammunition ensued, back and forth, lone fries diving this way and that. Both held firm, taking care not to yank too hard for risk of receiving a lapful.

  “I take it you kids are done here.” A stern female voice came from the side.

  Ian and Julia froze. They tentatively turned their heads up toward the waitress, whose dimpled elbows led to fists on apron-stretched hips. Clearly her wages didn’t justify mopping up after the outbreak of a diner-wide food fight.

  “Real shame you won’t be staying for dessert.” The woman confiscated their baskets and grunted as she ambled off. Once she’d disappeared through the swinging kitchen door, Julia returned to Ian. Muffled laughs snuck from their guts until finally tapering off.

  “Still up for that rematch?” he asked.

  “So long as I get the ivories.”

  “We’ll see about that.” He tossed a few crinkled bills onto the table. Then he helped her into her winter coat and extended his palm. She accepted with a smile. Hand in his, she followed him toward the door, every cell in her body soaking warmth from their unexpected connection.

  The scent of roasting almonds wafted from a vendor’s cart in the shadows. Rubbing her arms against the crisp night air, Julia surveyed the ground that surrounded the massive oak tree. Late November, and its braches remained dressed, denying the inevitable.

  “It’s somewhere overrr …there.” She pointed toward the flowerbed beside the long runway of hedgerow lining the park. A street lamp fingered shadows over the secret spot, a hand protecting the treasure of her youth.

  “I take it you got a permit,” Ian said, “with this being city-owned property.” He looked at her askance with a hint of a smile.

  Funny, it had never occurred to her she might have broken the law by burying her shoe box. A bona fide criminal at six years old. The very idea tickled her. “I suppose I was a bit of a rebel at times.” She continued leisurely on the walking path speckled with leaves like an autumn stew.

  “Sorta figured that about ya,” he said, joining her.

  She wasn’t sure how to take that, but it sounded like a compliment.

  In the background, the “L” rattled a melody on its tracks. Julia rubbed her gloved hands together, noting how quickly summer had passed. The heat she had absorbed at the diner was escaping through her stockings. She would have worn a longer skirt if bowling hadn’t been among their planned activities.

  “This your way of delaying the rematch?” he asked. “Or you just wanting a stroll down memory lane?”

  She tossed him a semi-glare. “We’re taking a shortcut to the bus stop.”

  “Thought maybe you were getting nervous, thinking of backing out.”

  “If anyone’s turning chicken, it isn’t me.”

  “Dandy,” he said. “Although you should probably know that in high school, I was president of the Backgammon Club. Genesee County champ, three seasons running.”

  She halted at the news. “Are you serious?” Of all the games she could have chosen.

  His mouth split into a slow grin. “Nah. Just giving you guff.”

  Chuckling, she lolled her head back. Then she pushed him from the walkway and onto the shadowed grass. “You’re evil, you know that.”

  “Guess it makes sense that we get along so well, then, doesn’t it?”

  She shook her head as they treaded onward, their first wordless moment of the evening, comfortable as childhood friends.

  At last, angling toward his profile, she said what she’d been waiting to all evening. “All joking aside, Ian, it’s really good to see you. I know you said you’d come out here sometime, but when I didn’t hear from you, I thought you’d changed your mind.”

  Seriousness crept over him, drawing his shoulders down. “After what happened, I wasn’t sure you’d want me to.” He dug his hands into his pockets, gave her a sideways glance. “By the way, thank you,” he said. “For not telling my folks.”

  She replied simply, “There was nothing to tell.”

  Quiet billowed as they passed a pair of picnic tables, empty and gray in the night. She thought of George and Cora, and the gray emptiness that lurked in the corners of their home. There, Ian remained an unsettled ghost, stuck between worlds of who he used to be and who he’d become.

  Julia’s sympathy for all three of them spilled over. “They love you, you know. Very much. They just need time. Same as you.”

  He didn’t speak, but she heard his thoughts like a distant voice: Maybe so …maybe so.

  Careful not to push too hard, she continued, “Are things getting better? For you, I mean. Because you seem so much better.”

  He shrugged a little. “Comes and goes some days. But yeah, it’s been better,” he said. “Since your visit.”

  In the tinged glow of another street lamp, he sucked in a breath and projected a smile, the kind that took effort. “So what’s in it? In that time capsule of yours?”

  She honored his redirection by summoning the old images. “Well, if I remember correctly …I threw in a kazoo, the front page of a newspaper. A ‘31 Lincoln penny, and a handful of candy, I think. Oh, and a whole wad of hair ribbons.”

  “Hair ribbons?”

  “Every color of the rainbow,” she said. Then she confessed, “I actually only put them in there so I wouldn’t have to wear them anymore.”

  “Did it work?”

  She rolled her eyes. “I wish. My mother ended up buying me two new sets.”

  “I see,” he drew out. “So you were the tree-climbing, world-explorer type.”

  “You could say that.” Julia smiled. “My mom had a heck of a time forcing the tomboy out of me.” As soon as the words escaped, she realized how terrible her admission might have come across. How it could rule her an ill-suited match for his younger brother, or an imprope
r mother if they were to be blessed with baby girls. A tip she’d snagged from Ladies’ Home Journal.

  Amending the comment, she added, “Now that I’ve grown up, though, I just want to be the best wife I can for my husband.”

  Ian bent down and picked up a few large pebbles without breaking stride. He side-armed one down the path, skimming as if on a frozen lake. “And what about your career?” he asked.

  “Well…my job will be looking after our home.”

  “But I thought you’d been offered an internship. Something in New York. In the fashion biz.”

  She slowed her steps, taken aback. “How did you hear about—” she started to say, then concluded: His brother must have written him, informed him of the flattering but impractical opportunity. She’d only told Christian in a brief mention, buried in a string of the usual updates. Withholding the information, after all, would be dishonest.

  “I turned it down,” she said with finality. “With us getting married, there’s no reason to go.”

  “Did Chris say you couldn’t?” Ian threw another rock, harder.

  “What? No, that’s ridiculous.” Her laugh came out short, nervous sounding. “He wouldn’t have—he didn’t have to. I made the decision on my own. For the two of us.” Somehow, when she wasn’t paying attention, the casualness of their discussion had ended. She found herself in a minefield, navigating right and wrong answers.

  “It’s something you enjoy, though, right?” Not a question; a statement with an underlying chill matching the air.

  “Yes, I suppose….” Shame tinted her thoughts—from how long she had waited to decline the offer, how she’d responded cowardly with a note. Flustered, she answered now with the only truth that mattered. “But I love Christian more.”

  Leaves rustled, a car engine coughed, and the conversation died. Yet the thoughts it propelled in Julia didn’t.

  Had she said something to Ian earlier to bring this on? When she’d spoken about Liz’s teaching plans, had Julia implied she regretted her decision?

  No. That couldn’t be. Because she didn’t regret a thing.

  Why, then, did she feel the smothering anxiety of an inquisition? As if he were looking for something, a mistake, a flaw.

  Their pace climbed, along with her defenses. She glanced at him, at the guarded expression she knew all too well.

  Of course.

  How could she have missed it? The way Ian had been so charming all evening—like Clark Gable as a spy in Comrade X—relaxing her so she’d spill her secrets. She wanted to ask what it was he held against her. Yet before she could craft an appropriate phrase, Ian huffed. Perhaps meant only for himself, but too blatant, too derisive, for her to ignore.

  Her legs froze. “What does that mean?”

  He faced her and regarded her expression. “I didn’t say anything.”

  “But you were thinking something. So say it.”

  He paused before replying. “It doesn’t matter.” When he tried to walk away, she tugged the elbow of his sleeve, sharply.

  “It matters to me, “ she told him.

  He turned toward the cars traversing the grid of the city, his focus on a theater glowing pink and white neon. His feet shuffled in place as though itching to flee.

  In her periphery, she noticed a silhouetted couple on a park bench a few yards off the path. When Ian’s gaze panned the necking teenagers, he muttered, “C’mon, let’s go.” He set off without waiting for her.

  “Ian, wait,” she said, trying to catch up. “What is it?”

  “Nothing.”

  She couldn’t contain her frustration a minute more. She was through with being judged. “If you don’t think I’m good enough for your brother, you should just say so!”

  He stopped as if hitting an invisible wall, and wheeled. A look of genuine astoundment contorted his face. “Julia. That’s not it.”

  “Then what?” She charged up to him. “What were you thinking?”

  “I don’t—you’re just, you’re—”

  “What? I’m what?”

  “Perfect, all right?” he burst out. “You’re one more perfect thing in my brother’s life!”

  She stared, stunned. “Ian,” she mouthed.

  “Everything comes so damn easy for Chris, and now he’s got you! Someone who’s willing to sacrifice anything for him.”

  He jerked his face to the side. The tremble in his breaths, the strain in his neck muscles, all revived the intensity of the night in his room. She could feel the hungry sorrow inside him clawing him back down. She scraped for a reply, something to soothe him, to keep him from retreating. Instead, she simply touched his wrist.

  He didn’t pull away.

  “Ian,” she told him, “any girl would be lucky to be with you. You’re amazing, and funny, and …” She strengthened her assertion. “You’re going to find a woman who makes you happy, I just know it.” She titled her head, seeking eye contact, to confirm he was listening.

  His gaze lowered and locked with hers. The sheer desire pouring from his eyes caused her heart to seize, a shiver to race down her back.

  “I’ve already found her,” he said, a wisp of a voice.

  Before she could think, he hooked the nape of her neck with his hand and drew her close. The mist of their breaths mingled as he leaned in, eliminating the final inches separating their lips. The raw passion of his kiss sealed her eyes, drained her strength. He swept his tongue across hers. His fingers slid through her hair. A flash of a moment and his mouth was on her neck. Primitive, strong, wanting. She could feel herself slipping away, her head drifting to the side, an invitation for more. As he pressed his body forward, heat from his skin burned through her clothing. The moisture of his lips traveled downward, and the whispering of her name rose, spoken against her collarbone. Julia. She was Julia. And he was …

  Ian.

  Senses sobering, she lifted her eyelids.

  Jesus, what were they doing? What was she doing?

  Stop! her mind screamed as his mouth again covered hers. Confusion and panic rode her veins. Her hands tunneled up between them to reach his chest. He held her tighter.

  “Ian, don’t!” She shoved him away with a desperate heave. From her mouth came a spearing gasp of regret. “What just happened?” she whispered into her glove-covered palm, a barricade raised too late.

  “Julia,” he said, and reached for her, but she yanked herself out of the way.

  She couldn’t be touched. She couldn’t look at him. “I have to go,” she said, and spun around to leave.

  The clicking of her heels kept time with her thumping pulse. Behind her, she could feel Ian’s eyes like scorching needles on her back. Hatred for him swelled with every step, every thought—not merely for what he did, but for the poisonous seeds of doubt he’d planted within her.

  21

  December 18, 1944

  Belgium

  A stab to Morgan’s ear jarred him awake. His arms shot out of his sleeping bag. Reflexively, he snagged the Luger from the field jacket beneath his head and sprang up to a sitting position. He pointed the pistol forward, heart pounding, vision straining.

  “Mac, don’t shoot! He’s unarmed!” Jack’s voice.

  Morgan let loose a breath and relaxed his finger on the trigger, just as laughter cut through the frosty air. He rubbed his eyes with his left hand and identified the predator: a scrawny, tattered chicken, the last original resident of the barn where the eight GIs were billeted.

  As he shooed the bird away, he felt spider legs run downward from his ear. He shuddered a small convulsion. He frantically swatted at his neck and he discovered it was …bread crumbs? How the hell—

  “Baaawk! Bawk, bawk, bawk, bawk!” Jack’s mimicked squawking answered the question. The human birdbrain clomped over the tainted straw, bent elbows flapping, pecking the air with his nose. On a hay bale in the corner, Frank sat wrapped in a blanket, his smirk as broad as Charlie’s across the room.

  Morgan lay down, muttering, “Bas
tards.” He gazed at the abandoned bird nest on the rafter above, irritated that he was suddenly so awake. Until today, ever a light sleeper, he’d been exempt from their nighttime pranks. Come to think of it, his stint of sleep just now had been remarkably deep. Must have been his body’s self-reward for the two-hour guard duty he’d posted during last night’s blizzard. Back and forth, back and forth, no breaks in his pacing. Not for military diligence, but because nodding off and freezing to the ground was a quick way to earn admission through the Pearly Gates.

  “Runner just left,” Charlie told him. “Said chow’s up for grabs.”

  “See you soon, Sleeping Beauty,” Jack called out before clucking again. Charlie laughed while following Jack and two other GIs toward the doorway, all bundled in long brown overcoats.

  Morgan wanted to throw something heavy in Jack’s direction, but decided it wasn’t worth the effort. What’s more, knocking out one of the tag-team breakfast fetchers would mean having to hike to the mess tent himself.

  When Jack slid the door open on its track, snow-reflective light flooded the dim barn. Morgan jerked away. His eyes ached as though he’d stared straight into the sun.

  “Oh, and Morgan,” he heard Charlie say, “try not to scare the chicken off while we’re gone. Gonna need her for supper later.”

  “Why, Chap?” Jack said. “You looking for a date tonight?”

  The door rolled shut.

  Morgan blinked away the white spots floating before him like lightning bugs. Gradually, clarity of the weathered walls returned, the boards grooved and faded, gouged from horses’ hooves and equipment, peppered with lone rusty nails. He then made out the figure sitting hunched against the opposite wall: “Geronimo”—one-quarter Apache, full-blooded rancher from Lubbock. Reserved as always, he appeared engrossed in a Wild West pocket novel from a Red Cross volunteer.

  Morgan settled back in and closed his eyes. He tried to clear his mind, tried to sleep. He covered his ears with his jacket-turned-pillow to quiet the rustling of Geronimo turning pages. Finally, the start of grogginess fingered toward him, until a loud crack came from outside. He snapped upright.