Letters From Home

by Kristina McMorris

  I do hope, above anything in this world, my dear sweet Julia, that I have made you proud, a dutiful Navy man who never faltered in deserving your love. Thank you for everything you have given me, darling. You are the woman of my dreams. You are my best friend.

  I will love you with all my heart until the end of time.

  Christian

  Tears rolled off the tip of Liz’s nose. A hot rush of sorrow filled her, a cool sample of what Julia had to be feeling. Liz lifted her head against an overwhelming weight and gingerly touched her friend’s arm.

  “Julia,” she said hoarsely.

  An aching silence followed. No matter what consolation Liz could conjure up, nothing could bring Christian back. Nothing could change the fact that Julia’s life would never be the same.

  “Did you know I was planning to make my own?” Julia’s tone was thin and detached. Her trance-like stare remained locked on her own reflection. “I’d sketched three different designs. But then my mother took me shopping. That’s when I saw this one being carried from the back room. It was the most perfect veil I’d ever seen.”

  Liz swiped away her tears. What right did she have to cry?

  “I was actually going to have a photo taken wearing the thing, so Christian could see it. But he wrote and told me not to. Said it was bad luck.” Julia quickened, brow furrowed. “Why didn’t he listen to me? All those times, he would never listen. The night he proposed, I was the one who said we should go to the justice of the peace. But no. He wouldn’t have it. Instead, he insisted there was no reason to rush, ‘cause he was going to be home so soon, and then we could do it right.” With a head jerk, her gaze latched onto the photos lining the oval mirror. “And I believed you. I believed every word you told me!”

  Liz’s whole body flinched as Julia grabbed his pictures and threw them at the floor.

  “You promised you’d come home! You promised we’d get married! I chose you over everything, and you lied!” She knocked over the vanity seat and stormed across the room. Anger transformed her into someone Liz barely recognized.

  Dumbfounded, Liz looked down at the scattered photos. A film of tears distorted the collage of black-and-white images into a haunting kaleidoscope. Then a loud clanking yanked her attention upward. Julia was shaking the nightstand drawer, dumping the contents onto her bed. “You’re nothing but a liar. I was actually going to marry a liar!” Her face flushed with rage as she hurled the drawer onto the hardwood planks.

  Liz’s forearms flew up to protect herself. “Julia, stop,” she begged.

  Julia swooped her hand across the bedcover. Her collection of Christian’s memories flew through the room. “I’ll never forgive you for this. Never!” She wrenched the pinned veil from her hair, struggled to rip the netting in half.

  Unable to bear any more, Liz rushed over and threw her arms around her friend from behind. “That’s enough, Julia,” she ordered, but Julia fought to wiggle free.

  “Leave me alone!”

  “No,” Liz told her. “I won’t.”

  “Damn it, Christian. Lemme go!”

  Against thrashing elbows, Liz squeezed tighter. “Jules, it’s me. Look at me. Just look at me.”

  Still resisting, Julia swung her face to Liz. She halted as if slapped out of the delusion. Her eyes stared blankly, attempting to register the person restraining her.

  At last, recognition flickered. “Liz?” she rasped.

  “It’s me,” Liz assured her. “And I’m not going anywhere. I’m not leaving you.”

  Time suspended while devastation took hold, shedding Julia’s defenses—her numbness, her fury, her dignity. She wilted in Liz’s arms like a prizefighter in the twelfth round. Together they settled on their knees. Julia hugged the bundled veil to her chest, and a flood of pain poured down her cheeks. She spoke in a strained whisper. “He wasn’t supposed to be there yet. It wasn’t his turn to go.” Body trembling, she gazed up with pleading eyes. “I don’t want to live without him, Liz. I don’t know how.”

  “You’re going to be okay. We’re going to get through this.” Liz summoned more conviction than she thought possible. “Come here,” she said softly. Julia sank her cheek into the shoulder of Liz’s coat, a sponge for her muffled sobs.

  “It’s going to be all right, Jules. You’ll see.” Smothering her own tears, Liz stroked the wavy crimson locks Christian used to adore, and hoped with all her might that her words would ring true. For all of them.

  35

  February 1945—Later that evening

  Evanston, Illinois

  Every sound in Evanston ricocheted off the chilled night air, yet nothing was louder than the silence that hovered over the Stephens home.

  Liz gripped the arm of the porch swing and stared at the bare cherry tree. The copper glow from neighbors’ windows accentuated its features, as telling as the pages of a scrapbook: the trunk knobs she and Dalton had climbed as kids, the small crooked initials they’d carved, the weathered bark she’d leaned against when they shared their first kiss, brief and awkward in its innocence.

  Moonlight sieved through the branches, creating a claw that reached across the snow-spotted yard. Liz shivered at the shadowed fingers. They gripped her heart as she waited for Dalton’s response.

  “And this is what you want?” He turned to her, his expression grim. “You’re willing to throw away everything we have, for some soldier you hardly know?”

  But I do know him arrived on her tongue. She swallowed the unnecessary words.

  “Dalton,” she said simply, “this isn’t about him.”

  “There’s a good chance he won’t be coming home. You realize that, don’t you?” His voice rose.

  She paused, considering, accepting. “Yes.”

  “So you’d rather be alone than with me?”

  She wanted to reply, but honesty would only hurt him more.

  He emitted a sharp, humorless laugh. “That’s great, Liz. Then why the hell did you agree to marry me? If this is how you felt, you should’ve saved us the embarrassment.”

  “Dalton …I’m so sorry.”

  “Just tell me why. If it’s not about him, then why?”

  Because after peeking over the wall of contentment, she couldn’t reverse the ways in which the view had changed her. Yet how could she tell him that, and have him understand?

  He slung his gaze toward the street. After a long moment, he relaxed, a revelation settling. “This is about the clerkship, isn’t it?” he said, facing her. “It’s consumed more of my time than I planned, I know.”

  She shook her head. “It’s not the clerkship.”

  “Okay,” he said. “It’s school. Our schedules have been madness. But remember, we’ve only got a few terms left until—”

  “It’s not school.”

  “Well…if it’s the wedding, if you feel like we’re rushing—”

  “That’s not it either.”

  “Then what is it? What’s changed?” His tone coarsened. “Is it because I’m not in the service? Because I’m not wearing a damn uniform?”

  Thrown by the question, she hesitated.

  His mouth tightened, then his eyes. “That’s it, isn’t it?”

  “What? No.”

  “You think I’m a coward, because I didn’t go off to war like your Army hero.”

  “Dalton—”

  He cut in, nearly yelling. “Don’t you think I would’ve enlisted if I could have? If a goddamn ulcer hadn’t made me 4-F?” He stared into the air before him, his cheeks blotched from emotion. In the resounding quiet, Liz digested his words. His secret.

  She was well aware of the stigma the 4-F classification carried, had read about guys who’d committed suicide after labeled medically unfit for the military. She’d just never dreamt that Dalton Harris—the overachieving son, student, and future lawyer—adhered to anything less than perfection.

  “Why didn’t you say something before now?” she asked gently.

  He raked his bottom lip with his teet
h and released a weighted exhale. “Do you know what people would say? What it could do to my father’s career? And my own?”

  “But you could have told me.”

  “For what?” he said. “So you could pity me?”

  Instinct urged her to embrace him, extending an apology, a retraction. Instead, she touched his hand resting on the swing’s wooden grooves. “I would never pity you or think less of you for not enlisting. I just would’ve liked to have known the real reason why.”

  “Would it have mattered?”

  She pondered the question, sighed. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “But I wish we’d been able to share more about ourselves with each other. Maybe we wouldn’t have become so different.”

  For several seconds he closed his eyes, grasping her fingers. “Lizzy, please.” He looked at her gravely. “Give me a chance to show you we’re not as far apart as you think. Inside, I’m still the same guy you’ve always known.”

  “No,” she said. “You’re not.”

  “I am.”

  “Dalton, you’re not. You’ve grown up. We both have.”

  “That doesn’t mean we have to grow apart, not if we still love each other.” He contracted his brow. “You do—love me, don’t you?”

  “From the bottom of my heart,” she said easily. The next sentence would be harder. “The problem is, I’m not…in love with you.”

  He let go of her hand. “And you know this because of a few letters? I’m the one who’s shared a history with you. Not him.”

  She nodded in thoughtful agreement. “You’re right,” she said. “And I wouldn’t trade the years we’ve spent together for anything. You’re a wonderful person. And you have an unbelievable future ahead of you—making stands, fighting for causes.”

  “You make it sound like I’m the senator instead of my father,” he muttered.

  Had he not seen what everyone else could? The respected leader he’d already become?

  “I’ve seen you at political events. I’ve seen you on stage giving speeches. The crowds adore you. You belong in that world,” she told him. “But I don’t.”

  He hunched his shoulders, barely waiting to propose an alternative. “So we’ll adjust. I can contribute in other ways. I don’t have to be the guy at the podium.”

  “No, but you should be. It’s what you were meant to do.” All of a sudden, she viewed his military exclusion for what it was: a gift, not a misfortune. She balanced her next words, heavy in truth, to communicate why. “Maybe in all this craziness, there’s a good reason you weren’t supposed to go off to war. Because back here, at home, is where you’re going to make the biggest difference.”

  He shifted in the seat, swaying them, his demeanor clouded with uncertainty. “Yeah, I guess. Maybe. I don’t know.” He shook his head, postponing the thought. Back to the puzzle, its solution just beyond reach. “Lizzy, tell me what you need to hear, what it would take to prove that we can make this work.”

  The conversation showed no signs of progressing, stuck on its circular path.

  Growing weary, Liz glanced back at the house. She thought of Julia in her bed, asleep with her veil. The image reminded Liz why she couldn’t put off her confrontation with Dalton another day.

  She spoke only loud enough for him to hear. “Christian was killed.”

  “What?” he said, jolted.

  “Julia got his farewell letter today.”

  “Oh God,” he breathed. “Is she okay?”

  “No. But she’s resting now. I sat with her until she fell asleep.” Liz met his gaze. “And that’s when I knew I had to call you.”

  Confusion tugged at his face. He approached his reply carefully. “I’m sorry about Christian, honestly I am. I don’t understand, though. What does their relationship have to do with us?”

  “Dalton, there’s no denying we feel deeply for each other. I’d be horrified if something ever happened to you. But tonight, watching Julia’s heart being ripped out, that’s when I knew—we’ll never have what they had. We’re a good match, we always have been. But we don’t need each other like that.”

  He moistened his lips, as if to help craft a reply. “I know what you’re getting at, Liz, but, given time—”

  “Given time, we’ll forget we deserve that kind of love too. Maybe neither of us will find it, but we have to at least try. Don’t we?”

  He went to respond, but faltered. No rebuttal. No deferral. In lieu of words, an unmistakable message glinted in his eyes: Although with reservations, deep down he agreed.

  In a slow sinking motion, he reclined. They sat without moving for an endless minute.

  Then Liz slid the ring from her pinkie. She handed the heirloom over with the care it deserved. “Believe me,” she said, “one day you’ll look back and realize this was the right decision.”

  The diamonds shone like the moon, gray from borrowed light, the emerald dark as an ancient gem.

  “You think so, huh?”

  “I know so.”

  He ran his thumb over the band before he gave a slight nod. Somehow, the gesture said it all. There was no need for anything more.

  But when he grabbed his trilby hat from beside him, a final thought nibbled at her. An offering she should voice. She tried to push it away. She worried he’d heard enough, and perhaps it wasn’t her place. As his friend, though, as someone who would always care, she softly submitted the words. “In case no one tells you, it’s okay not to be perfect. You’d have lots of company, I promise.”

  They exchanged a look, an understanding stemming from history, tinged with the ache of loss.

  Finally, rising from the creaky swing, he slipped the ring into his trouser pocket. Liz followed him to the stairs, as she always had to say good-bye. He stopped only one step down and shifted toward her. Sternness rode his eyes.

  “When that soldier comes home, I’d better not hear about him mistreating you. You understand?”

  A multitude of emotions whirled inside her, quivered her chin. Her one relief was that, this time, regret wasn’t among them.

  Dalton placed his hand on her shoulder and sweetly kissed her forehead. “See you around, kiddo,” he said. Then he walked away.

  36

  June 1945

  Paris, France

  Laughter and chatter bounced off the stone walls of the bar. In the corner, a U.S. Army regimental band traded eights in a battle of jazz. The reek of smoke and stale beer was overpowered only by the smell of victory. And more notably, Hitler’s defeat.

  From the doorway, Morgan scanned the dim room bulging with well-groomed GIs. They puffed on cigarettes and chugged down pints, flirted with the ladies swarming about them.

  “I think I’ve died and gone to heaven,” Jack mumbled through a mouthful of bread. His gaze traced the Mae West figure of a blonde sauntering by. She turned and blew him a kiss. Before he could catch it, a sailor grabbed her around the waist, squeezing a giggle out of her curvy frame.

  “Sure you don’t want to do more sightseeing?” Morgan joked.

  “What do you think I’m doin’ right now? Best sights in town.”

  On three-day leave from their camp in Germany, Morgan had towed his friend on a tourist race against the clock. The Notre Dame Cathedral, Eiffel Tower, Arc de Triomphe. Clearly, nothing had impressed Jack more than the majestic beauty of the Parisian female form.

  “So many dollies, so little time.” Jack sighed.

  “Don’t you ever take a break?”

  “Can’t. Too many dames would be disappointed.” Jack chomped on the last bite of his baguette. “What about you, Mac? See anything you want for your birthday?”

  “You offering yourself as a gift?”

  “Hey, you know I would, but I’m saving myself for marriage.”

  Morgan smiled. “Listen,” he said, “I still need to buy a present before we leave tomorrow. Why don’t you grab a beer and I’ll be back in two shakes.”

  Jack didn’t answer, just nabbed Morgan’s jacket sleeve as a
stunner displaying more skin than clothing shimmied past. “Hoo boy, it’s a tough call. I had Belgium in the lead, but now I’m thinking the French might have the hottest broads, after all.”

  Thank goodness the war hadn’t changed Jack’s youthful humor. Never a dull moment in his company. The one difference Morgan had noticed, however, was a look in his eyes. A dullness that said he had seen things he’d never talk about.

  But then, who among them hadn’t?

  Already Morgan knew there were memories he too would never share. Not even with Betty. And to think, he’d actually believed he had witnessed the worst of war before visiting the liberated confines of Dachau. The satanic masterpiece housed such evil it should have collapsed into the molten center of the earth.

  At the concentration camp, he and two other GIs, one of whom spoke fluent German, had trailed behind a skeletal inmate who spattered his accounts like a racing propeller. He’d toured them from one ghastly site to the next: crematorium with gas chambers, boxcars for corpses, a courtyard for mass executions. The laboratories for medical experiments were too heinous for a wax museum of horrors.

  How were humans capable of imagining such atrocities, let alone committing them?

  In a moment of needed solitude, Morgan had gripped a chain-link fence and bowed his head. It was then that he uncovered the single answer to his bitter questions of “why.” Tears pooling, he peered into the sky and whispered, “This, Charlie. This is why we were here.”

  Morgan’s first impulse had been to purge the encounter in a letter to Betty. After all, she was the one person who was certain to believe his claims, not discount the speculative facilities as exaggerated propaganda—a crime he himself was guilty of before knowing better.

  Ultimately, though, he had spared Betty the recap. Rather, he’d filled his pages with just about every other subject, each of their posts growing in openness and affection. He felt there was nothing they couldn’t tell one another—except maybe a few romantic things he would reserve for whispering in her ear someday. At least he hoped for that chance. Until then, he would continue to share snippets about himself, his family, and his unit, which he’d rejoined in early February. With mixed emotions, he had already written her about the Purple Heart he’d received from a colonel in a bedside ceremony. And most recently, he’d described the surrealism of civilians in an intact German town shopping and strolling the streets. Such a display intensified his desire to resume his own normal life in the States, but as usual, he’d have to wait his turn in line.