Letters From Home

by Kristina McMorris

  Because of you, a door to new possibilities has opened. Heeding your advice, I at last reconciled with my father. Our emotional distance would have otherwise worsened, preventing revelations that have bettered our lives tenfold. Again, I am so grateful for your candidness, and for urging me to confront a situation that had weighed heavily on me for as long as I can remember. Thus, learning that I have provided you with comfort, support, and a place to call “home” brings me immeasurable joy, since I feel the same about you.

  It seems incredible to me, how acquainted we have become almost entirely through a handful of pages. And already I cannot imagine my life without you in it. Although we are oceans apart, please know that you, too, Morgan, are not alone.

  Well, I had better drop this in the mail, or the war might be over before it arrives. (Wouldn’t that be wondrous!) Please enjoy the holiday gifts I have enclosed. The scarf, knitted by a cherished elderly friend, I pass along to you now, hoping it will provide protection from the harsh winter and, perhaps, a gentle embrace while you heal from your tragic loss. The cookies, though surely not as good as your dear mother’s, are meant to remind you of the familiar comforts, and people like myself, awaiting your safe return in the new year.

  I wish you love, peace, and a speedy recovery. Carrying you always in my thoughts.

  Affectionately yours,

  Betty

  Morgan rested the letter on his lap. Taking in Betty’s words, his feelings of loss and self-doubt all shriveled into nonexistence. In their place came her reciprocated affection, her understanding, and more than anything, his longing to be with her.

  He smiled, reviewing her message. He felt proud that he had affected her life in such a meaningful way. That she and her father had been reunited due in part to his intervention. That he, in fact, had done something right.

  Hand beneath his head, he lay back on his pillow. In his mind, he saw his brother. Polished in dress uniform, saluting during reveille. Private Charles Patrick McClain: a man, and a hero.

  Morgan felt a loosening in his chest.

  As he continued to sort his thoughts, his thumb grazed the inch-long scar on his neck, a reminder of the day he’d rescued his brother as a child. It was the mark of a debt he never imagined settling, but painfully, he realized: He and Charlie at last were even.

  That night in the darkened ward, while the world around him slept, Morgan snagged two cookies from his shoe box. He quietly placed them beside the airman’s mail on the chair dividing their beds. When he heard the kid nibbling on the baked treats a few hours later, he felt a hint of atonement.

  “A way to a soldier’s heart,” he murmured to himself, and closed his eyes.

  Indeed, Betty’s gifts, like her letters, possessed more healing power than she ever could have known.

  32

  Mid-January 1945

  Northwestern University

  Evanston, Illinois

  Not until half the room emptied did Julia realize her mind had been roaming the entire hour of class. Haze clearing, she scooted out from her desk, grabbed her books, and drifted into the wake of the mob.

  In the hallway, chattering students crisscrossed paths, a freeway of intellectuals.

  “Julia.” A man’s holler rose from the collective hum.

  She attempted to trace the voice.

  “Julia,” he called again. Ian’s face and umber hair swam into view. In a faded peacoat, he was weaving through the crowd. A few seconds from entrapping her.

  A breath rushed into her like a chill. Her gaze held at his smooth-shaven chin.

  “There you are,” he said, standing before her.

  “Ian …” The name fell from her mouth, a pebble from a cliff. No sound of it landing. Instinct urged her to run, yet her legs remained planted, arrested by a reality she couldn’t ignore. The reality of what they’d done.

  “Look,” he said, “I’m sure you’ve got—”

  “What are you doing here?” she demanded, terrified of meeting his eyes, of what they might confirm.

  “Hi, Jules,” a girl said in passing. “See you at the Avalon tonight? Double feature?”

  Julia flitted a smile as the student walked by. “Sure,” she answered, not registering who it was. Her only thoughts were of the transparency of her interaction with Ian while out in the open. She hugged the books to her chest.

  “Can I talk to you?” Ian asked.

  “I can’t. I have class soon.”

  “I’m only in town for the day. I just need a few minutes.”

  She considered his words. He wouldn’t be staying.

  Thank God.

  “Julia, please.”

  “Fine. But not here.” Her gaze circled the area and landed on a series of private music rooms. “Come on,” she said, and led the way.

  She skimmed the doors’ narrow vertical windows. A flutist. A string quartet. A harpist. Finally a vacancy.

  Once Ian stepped past her into the room, she leaned her back against the closed door. Her free hand gripped the handle behind her spine, unwilling to release her escape route. She settled her view on the clustered music stands beside the upright piano. The enclosed space felt no larger than a closet.

  Ian sat on the edge of the piano bench, facing her. He leaned forward, forearms on his knees. His mouth opened, then closed, as if he’d blanked on a prepared speech. Silence between them drew out like an endless symphony, amplifying the muffled plucking of a harp in the next room.

  What did he want, why was he here?

  She wanted to ask, but a flashback of his lips on hers prevented her from speaking.

  A trapdoor, that’s what she needed, to rid herself of this confrontation. Or a secret tunnel behind a wall panel, like in that film—what was it called?

  Oh, blast it, why did it matter? This wasn’t Hollywood. They weren’t hitting marks on a soundstage. This was real life, in all its confusion and complexity. And she was tired of putting on an act, pretending their kiss hadn’t been eating away at her every day since that night.

  “I brought something for you,” Ian said suddenly, reaching into his coat pocket. He held out a palm-sized box.

  A courting gift.

  He was here to sway her affections. Away from his own brother, the man to whom she’d promised her heart, her everything.

  Julia’s eyes flared up to his. Her hands clenched. “You have to stop this, Ian. There’s nothing between us. I love Christian. He’s the most important thing in my life. I love him more than I could ever love anyone else.” Truth, like steel beams, supported the core of her words. Against their strength, any doubt left within her crumbled away.

  Ian retracted the box. He breathed out and replied, “I know you do, Julia.” His tone surprised her, equally accepting and warm.

  Guard lowering, cautious this time, she relaxed into his gaze, one that no longer held a threat. How strange, scanning his features now, that he appeared completely different from his brother. Could it be she had missed Christian so much that she’d morphed their traits, convincing herself they matched more than they did?

  “I’m only here,” he said, “to say I’m sorry. What happened was a mistake. My mistake.”

  She couldn’t help feeling she was being released too easily from the hook, that the responsibility was mutual. But she nodded regardless, grateful for the gesture.

  He rose from his seat. “Anyway, I know you gotta go. And I got someone waiting for me, long drive ahead of us.”

  Something told her he wasn’t referring to a vacation. “Where are you going?” she asked, stepping toward him.

  “A pal from my outfit, he got me a job in Montana. A cattle drive, if you can believe it.”

  “A cattle drive?”

  His mouth suggested a smile. “Hey, it’s something new.”

  Concern swooped through her as she imagined Cora’s reaction to his decision. “What about your folks? What do they think?”

  “That I’m screwy.” He shrugged. “But that it just might be w
hat I need. Plenty of time to get your head straight when you’re staring at the rear ends of a hundred cows, right?”

  She shook her head and laughed. “Thank you for the image.”

  Grinning, he again raised the box toward her. “An early wedding present,” he explained. “Since I don’t know how soon I’ll be back this way.”

  A wedding present.

  Now she truly felt silly.

  She set her books atop the piano and accepted the gift. “What is it?”

  “What, you gotta know everything? Open it.”

  She removed the lid. Inside was a compass wrapped with a long scarlet ribbon tied into a bow. The significance of the hair accessory was clear, from the tale about her time capsule. But the compass puzzled her.

  “Are you afraid I might get lost?” she mused.

  He peered at her thoughtfully. “Way I figure it, you may be the ribbon type now, but the world traveler in you is still there. So I suppose this is a reminder that it’s okay to be both.”

  The sentiment tightened her throat. She fingered the ribbon, so red her skin looked nearly translucent in contrast. Perhaps Ian wasn’t the only unsettled ghost. In some ways, they were all stuck between who they once were and who they’d become.

  Ian hunched his shoulders. “Corny, huh?”

  “No.” She smiled. “It’s the best gift ever.” She extended her hand to shake his. No shivers or change in pulse. Just the comforting touch of a friend. “Thank you,” she said, “for…well. Just thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” he said simply.

  She eyed the box and twisted her lips. “I do wonder, though,” she added in jest, “if you shouldn’t keep this for yourself.”

  “Why’s that?” He sounded afraid to ask.

  “I’d hate to think of your getting lost out there in the country. My main concern being for the cows’ sakes, naturally.”

  He chuckled. “Don’t you worry. One way or another, I’ll find my way home.”

  She nodded at him and smiled again. “I’m sure you will.”

  After bidding their farewells, Ian started down the hall. Yet as he reached the thinning mass, an afterthought found her. For peace of mind, Julia needed to confirm he wasn’t going to tell anyone about their encounter—specifically Christian.

  “Ian,” she called, spinning him around. But before the words could form, she realized the request would only insult the understanding they had built. She replaced the thought with one that said everything.

  “Don’t forget,” she told him, “you owe me a backgammon match.”

  “We’ll get to it one of these days, won’t we, peach?” he said with a wink. Then he waved and disappeared around the corner.

  33

  Mid-January 1945

  Dutch New Guinea

  “Bloody hell, you’ve gotten us lost,” Leslie chided a few feet behind Betty.

  “No, I haven’t,” she lied while scanning for landmarks. Overhead, a roof of trees shuttered the moon, the jungle now an endless house of shadows. She ducked around a swag of vines bearing a disturbing resemblance to a python. Nerves doubled the beading on her brow.

  A noise halted her. A rustling off to the left. “Wait,” she whispered to Leslie, and gripped her blanket roll. The natives no longer alarmed her, but she couldn’t say the same about Japanese guerrillas.

  During the long moment of intent listening, she contemplated aborting the mission. A decent send-off for the pilot had seemed like a good idea, though not at the cost of their lives. Silently she cursed Rosalyn’s directions. Then herself, for being willing to give up already, and in front of Leslie. She’d conquered bigger obstacles than this. She could handle a measly jungle. She could, she could.

  Straightening, she gestured for them to continue and treaded forward.

  “Leave it to the Yanks and their fancy maps.” He sounded amused.

  Betty was reaching for a comeback when something bit her calf, right through her pants. She shrieked.

  “What is it?” Leslie yelled as she kicked and swatted. He rushed closer, just as she identified the assailant.

  “It’s okay,” she said, relieved. “It was only a branch.”

  He puffed a breath and laughed. “Remind me never to take you camping in the bush. Mobs of deadly branches out there.”

  The vision of the two of them sharing a tent, alone in the Australian wilderness, launched a fresh streak of sweat down her spine. Fortunately, a fuzzy sight nudged the image away; the pair of C-shaped trees she’d been searching for appeared in silhouette.

  “Almost there,” she announced as if their looping and weaving had been intentional. The distant rush of a waterfall grew in volume. “I can hear the water,” she thought aloud.

  “What a relief. For a moment, I forgot we were on a bloody island.”

  “That’s not what I—” She stopped, grumbled. “Oh, shush.”

  From one point to another she led him through the maze of secret clues, until finally they reached the drop-off. Six feet down, the rocky slope leveled into slate surrounding a secluded swimming hole. With sharp coral dominating beaches in the area, worsened by shallow salt water and vicious rip tides, this retreat was a priceless find. Mythical, it seemed. The waterfall sparkling like a silver ribbon. Moonlight pouring a white line across the surface. The pool as smooth as a Seabees airstrip.

  She only wished she could have gifted Junior with a view like this—to thank him before it was too late.

  “I’ll go first,” Leslie offered, and handed off a paper sack. “No peeking, now.” His hands looked so powerful without his casts.

  While he laddered down the protruding stones, she contemplated the weight of the bag. He didn’t say she couldn’t investigate the gift by feel. Her grip closed around the base of the items, rustling the paper. Two bottles of beer, from what she could tell.

  “Leave it,” he playfully ordered. Planted below, he demanded the bag and blanket before he’d help her down. When she neared the bottom, he grasped the sides of her waist from behind. She felt a slow burn beneath his fingers. Once lowered, she turned around, bringing their faces only inches apart. His Adam’s apple rose and fell with a swallow. His hands didn’t release, instead tightened a fraction. Almost enough to make her forget her thin layers of khaki.

  Then, with a jerk, he snatched their supplies from the ground. “Shall we?” He gestured for her to take the lead.

  Collecting herself, she nodded. She wasn’t the least bit offended, actually, nor did she question her own appeal. He’d seen her at her worst—soaked in mud and rain and self-pity, blood on her cheeks in place of rouge, fragranced with antiseptic—yet his shielded glances had confirmed he found something to his liking.

  Not that it should make a difference. They were, after all, merely friends. Friends who would be saying good-bye tomorrow.

  “A bonzer spot for a midnight picnic,” he said as they seated themselves on the blanket.

  Crystalline stars speckled the black dome of a sky. A breeze from the waterfall, soft as an angel’s kiss, swept over her face.

  “I was wrong to doubt you,” he conceded.

  “Yes,” she told him. “You were.”

  He slanted his eyes. “No need to get cheeky. If you hadn’t finally noticed the wishbone trees, we’d be on our fourth circle right now.”

  She reviewed his words, the realization sinking in. “You already knew how to get here.”

  “A mate at the ward mentioned a detail or two.”

  When his mouth crept into a smile, she gave his arm a light smack. “Bastard.”

  “You do know that’s a term of endearment to us Aussies.”

  She shook her head, giggling in spite of herself. “Open up the bag before I leave you here to drown.”

  “In a hurry, are we?”

  She didn’t respond, though the truth was, she couldn’t escape a dusting of anxiety from knowing she was violating at least four Army regulations. While breaking rules had been something of a hobby o
f hers in the past, disappointing Kitzafenny, after everything it had taken to earn her acceptance, was an unsettling thought.

  “Not bad, eh?” Leslie motioned proudly at the crackers, cheese tin, bag of nuts, and two bottles of Coca-Cola displayed on the blanket.

  “No champagne for a farewell party?”

  “Figured this was safer. Too afraid that if we got tiddly, I’d be tempted to take advantage of you.”

  She smiled over the jolt in her pulse and focused on the caps he was removing with his knife. When he passed her a bottle, a shiver surged up her arm, from more than his touch.

  “They’re cold,” she said in disbelief. Coke was always a prized treat. But chilled soda of any kind, in a primitive world absent of ice, was a downright miracle. She wrapped both hands around the sweating bottle. “How’d you manage that?”

  “I’m part of the Ned Kelly Gang, remember? Heaps of resources for us outlaws.”

  “I thought you weren’t any relation,” she reminded him.

  He shrugged. “Depends on the day you ask.” He clinked the neck of his bottle against hers, said, “Cheers,” and brought the drink to his lips.

  Sipping the beverage, she savored the caramel-flavored bubbles fizzing down her throat. It was the real McCoy, all right. By far, the most terrific beverage she’d ever had. Another long pull and she paused to roll the cool bottle across her forehead.

  “I think I’m in love,” Betty thought. She only realized she’d voiced the words when Leslie murmured, “Me too.”