Letters From Home

by Kristina McMorris

  She waited for the all-knowing skeptic inside her to proclaim I told you so. To chide her for naïvely thinking a glass slipper existed, and wasn’t she sorry for giving up a secure and enviable future as Mrs. Dalton Harris.

  Yet the reprimand didn’t come. A truth had quieted the disparaging voice. And that truth was this: She didn’t regret a single word, or moment, she had shared with Morgan. Even if the happy ending wasn’t meant to be hers.

  A sound turned her head. It was a knock on the front door. Her body bristled. The moment she’d been dreading since leaving the station was upon her. Morgan and Betty had arrived.

  She took a breath. Forcefully, she prodded herself to rise, until a thought hit her. Betty wouldn’t have bothered knocking. She’d be standing in the kitchen, demanding an explanation, with or without the soldier at her side.

  So who could it be?

  More knocks.

  Liz remained still and waited for the caller to give up. But then the doorbell chimed, summoning the answer: Dot hadn’t received the message not to pick her up for the awards gala. Now Liz would have to tell her friend in person that she was under the weather.

  On second thought, no. Regardless of how white the lie, she was done with deceiving people she cared about.

  She trudged her way to the entry, pausing to flip on a lamp in the hallway. The light flared in her eyes. Pupils recovering, she tucked her hair behind her ears and opened the door. It took her a few seconds to register the sight.

  “Morgan.” The word slipped out.

  It was him. My God, it was actually him! She couldn’t move, could hardly breathe.

  The light from inside projected a warm glow over his face, his features almost exactly as she had remembered. His emerald eyes held the same vibrancy beneath his angled service hat, his build just as broad in his uniform.

  But what was he doing here? Where was Betty?

  Morgan blinked hard before he said, “Liz? Is that you?” Amazement, not sternness, filled his tone. His lips spread into a smile. “What are you doing here?”

  He didn’t know the story. How could he not know yet?

  “Morgan,” she said again. Feeling her vocal cords collapsing, she forced out the first phrase to come to mind. “I’m so sorry, for everything.”

  His forehead crinkled. Eyes dimming, his expression hardened in degrees, as if he were remembering what brought him here. “Wait. Are you telling me …”

  “The last thing I wanted to do was deceive you.” She spoke quickly, in case his reaction prevented her from saying much more.

  “Hold on,” he ordered. “You’re Betty’s roommate?”

  Liz strained to recall the speech she had rehearsed in her head, the one she’d even delivered in her dreams while imagining this confrontation, always waking before he’d presented his judgment.Yet now, when she actually needed articulate pleas, her nerves had sent them into hiding.

  “Are you the one who’s been writing me?” he pressed.

  She hesitated before replying with a nod. Then all was quiet save the sharp pulsing in her ears.

  From a pocket he pulled out a wrinkled envelope. It was upside down from her view, but she recognized the return address and handwriting. For they were her own.

  “Was this all some kind of joke?” he asked, even and cool.

  A joke? She straightened. “No. That’s not it. It was nothing like that.”

  “If it wasn’t a gag, then why did you intentionally lie to me?”

  “It wasn’t intentional—well, not at first anyway. I didn’t mean for it to happen—not like this.” Her words tripped over themselves, struggling for footing. “I just didn’t think you’d want to hear from me. But I didn’t want you to stop writing either.”

  A crevice split his brow, from either confusion or disbelief. “Why’d you think I wouldn’t want to hear from you?”

  At a measured pace, pushing down her tears, she began her confession. “The night we met, I felt like there was something between us. But when I came back, you weren’t there. And then I saw you and Betty dancing.”

  “That’s why you left?”

  “Well—yes,” she stammered. She was about to explain her other reason—that she was already going steady at the time—yet she refrained. The fact was, had she not seen him carrying on with her roommate, Liz would have ultimately tossed out her moral compass. “Like I was saying,” she returned to the point, “from how cozy you two were together, it was clear there was no reason for me to stay.”

  “What you saw,” he said defensively, “isn’t what you think. I was just helping her out of a bind. The fact is, I searched everywhere for you that night. But I didn’t know your last name, or where you lived. And then”—his gaze dropped to the envelope in his hand—“well, then I started getting these.”

  A favor. According to his claim, that’s why he’d danced with Betty. Had the same scenario involved any other girl, Liz would be inclined to rule the excuse a hokey one. But she knew much too well how challenging her roommate was to refuse.

  Shaking her head, Liz cupped the front of her neck. How foolish she’d been to jump to such conclusions, to be less than up front since the moment they met. Although belated, he deserved the truth. All of it.

  “Please, Morgan, at least let me tell you how it all started,” she said. “You see, Betty asked me to help write you, but then she went away. I would’ve told you everything had things not been so complicated, with my father and—”

  “Liz.” His expression remained unchanged. “It doesn’t matter anymore. I only came here to find out one thing.” He raised the envelope between them. “Was there a shred of truth in these letters? That’s all I want to know.”

  She considered his question carefully, the most critical exam of her life. The answer formed as solidly as any she had ever known. “Everything but the name I signed was real. Absolutely everything.” Voice wavering, she peered into his eyes. “Morgan, believe me. I never meant to hurt you.”

  He stayed silent, unflinching, no reaction she could gauge. Finally, he wheeled around and descended the porch steps with the help of a cane she hadn’t noticed until then. He was leaving. For good.

  She wanted to call after him, to tell him she loved him, to ask for another chance. But after deceiving him for so long, she knew she had no right.

  Morgan was halfway down the path when the ignition of a taxi started. Once he’d ducked into the cab, Liz turned away. She gripped the door frame with both hands to prevent her knees from buckling.

  Keep it together, she told herself. Just keep it together.

  She heard the car door slam and the engine rev. The diminishing sound of the motor let her know he was gone. Emotions poured out in a river down her cheeks.

  Another minute and she attempted to steady herself. She took a step into the house.

  “Liz?”

  She froze at the voice. Praying to the Almighty that she hadn’t imagined it, she slowly pivoted. Her eyes widened to see around her tears.

  It was Morgan. Climbing the stairs.

  He dropped his Army bag on the porch swing. His mouth eased into a smile that reached his eyes. “You didn’t think I was leaving, did you?”

  Her feelings sought a conduit, a channel to fully communicate the remorse echoing within. “If I could do it over again,” she offered, “you have to believe I would.” And he indeed had to believe her, to know how deeply she cared, and just how much she needed him.

  Morgan nodded in assurance. Yet he had no desire for them to start over. They were right where they belonged, and he was done with regrets.

  Against the house, he leaned his cane, a reminder of his own half-truths. A symbol of the medical scare he’d never shared for fear of losing her affection.

  “Why don’t we just pick up from where we left off?” He held out his palm, welcoming her touch. “I think you owe me a dance.”

  Shuddering a sigh, she returned his smile and placed her hand in his. Together, fingers interlocked,
they swayed to the rich notes of a jazz horn drifting through the doorway. As their heartbeats joined in a single rhythm, Morgan shut his eyes. He savored the radiating warmth of her body, the silkiness of her hair on his cheek. He drank in the sweet lavender fragrance on her skin, a scent forever captured in his heart.

  Nothing in this world felt more natural than holding her. As if she were a part of him that had always been missing until now, a part of him he might never have found without guidance from his brother. Charlie—the one who had led him back to the angel in his arms.

  Morgan tossed a glance up toward the heavens, beyond the parting clouds and lucid white moon, and winked in gratitude.

  “It’s Stephens,” Liz whispered.

  “Sorry?” He drew his head back and looked into her amber eyes.

  “My name,” she said. “It’s Elizabeth Stephens.”

  He smiled. With his thumb, he wiped away the last of her tears. “Nice to meet you, Miss Stephens.”

  Studying the graceful curves of her face only confirmed what he already knew: Standing before him, regardless of names, was the woman he’d never stopped waiting for, the woman he wanted to spend the rest of his life with.

  He slid his fingers beneath her chin, and ever so slowly he pulled her close. Desire swelled as the heat of her breath reached his skin. When her eyelids lowered, he paused. Their mouths but an inch apart, he relished the sensations running through him, the thrill, the anticipation.

  At last, he leaned in and kissed her tenderly. Her lips were petal soft, the movement so comfortable he could spend a lifetime doing exactly this. When she laid her head against his chest, he smoothed her chestnut hair. Eyes closed, he held her tight, and thanked God for bringing him home.

  Author’s Note

  It all started with a family Christmas gift. That was my sole intent, anyhow, when I self-published a cookbook several years ago featuring recipes my grandmother had collected and created over several decades. For the biographical chapter, I interviewed Grandma Jean about her life—which entailed walking a minimum of six miles a day to attend school, in addition to caring for her siblings and keeping up with chores on her dad’s Iowa farm.

  She then went on to recount familiar details of her courtship with my late grandfather during World War II, yet this time revealing an astounding fact: She had dated the U.S. Navy signalman during merely two of his leaves before they exchanged vows. To best explain why, Grandma retrieved from her closet a bound stack of wartime love letters written by “Papa,” a collection no one in the family knew existed. I needed to read only a few pages of his script, as elegant as his words despite the “plow jockey’s” youth, to understand the reason she so readily said, “I do.”

  Long after the cookbook was complete, I continued to ponder their era, one charged with romance, tragedy, uncertainty, and loss of innocence. A time of self-discovery, sacrifice, and female independence. Intrigued by this dramatic setting, and with Papa’s correspondence lingering in my mind, I found myself wondering how different the couple’s relationship would have been had their courtship been woven with fibers of deception. Therein bloomed the idea for my first novel.

  The deeper I delved into research, the more compelled I became to honor what has aptly been dubbed the Greatest Generation. Of the many firsthand accounts and texts I found invaluable, these gems could not go unmentioned: The Good Soldier by Selene H. C. Weise, They Called Them Angels by Kathi Jackson, Letters Home by Sally Hitchcock Pullman, Foot Soldier by Roscoe C. Blunt Jr., Roll Me Over by Raymond Gantter, Yorkie Doodle Dandy by William A. Wynne, and The Women’s Army Corps by Mattie E. Treadwell.

  Although mine is a work of fiction, I strove to be as historically accurate as possible. The only significant poetic liberties I have taken involve: military personnel processing, wartime postal speed and forwarding, and the fictitious village Slevant, inspired by the battle of Stoumont, allowing for flexibility of weather and combat specifics.

  Conversely, I enjoyed incorporating such authentic elements as Smoky, the legendary Yorkie who made hospital rounds with nurses on New Guinea, lifting spirits of wounded soldiers with her clever tricks. I was also moved by accounts from families who first learned of their soldiers’ passing through a radio report or “letter from the grave.” And the most fundamental to my story was a documented instance of twin brothers assigned to serve side by side in World War II, even after the Sullivan brothers’ infamous naval tragedy. Authorities confirmed that legislation commonly known as the Sullivan Act or Law requiring the separation of siblings in the military was proposed but never enacted; and though the practice was thereafter frowned upon, there were exceptions to every rule—as always seems the case in love and war.

  For more historical tidbits, actual excerpts from Papa’s letters, and creative ideas for book clubs, visit www.KristinaMcMorris.com.

  Book Club “Victory Recipes”

  These deliciously unique 1940s recipes, coupled with the Reading Group Guide Discussion Questions, are sure to make your book club gathering nostalgic and unforgettable. Each Letters from Home recipe was adapted from Hugh and Judy Gowan’s Cooking on the Home Front and The Lily Wallace New American Cook Book (a longtime favorite of Grandma Jean’s). More available at www.KristinaMcMorris.com

  Sweet Carrot Pie

  A memorable treat from Viola’s first date at the carrot festival! (If the recipe title has you cringing, rest assured it’s akin to pumpkin pie and just as yummy.)

  2 cups chopped carrots

  2/3 cup sugar

  1 1/3 cups milk

  3 eggs, well beaten

  1 tablespoon flour

  1 tablespoon butter, melted

  1 teaspoon vanilla

  9” refrigerated piecrust

  Boil chopped carrots in water until tender (approximately 10 min.). Drain and set aside. In a blender or food processor, mix all remaining ingredients (2–3 min.), then add carrots and blend again until smooth. Pour evenly into unbaked piecrust. Bake at 350°F for 50–60 minutes. Serve warm, topped with whipped cream.

  Baconized Cornbread Muffins

  Just the way Morgan’s mother made them on their Iowa farm!

  1 cup flour

  1 cup cornmeal ¼ cup sugar

  1 tablespoon baking powder

  ½ teaspoon baking soda

  1 teaspoon salt

  1 egg

  1 cup buttermilk

  2 tablespoons melted butter

  4 uncooked bacon strips, diced

  Sift flour, cornmeal, sugar, baking powder, baking soda, and salt together. Beat the egg with buttermilk, then combine with flour mixture. Add melted butter and mix well. Fill paper muffin cups 2/3 full. Sprinkle tops with uncooked diced bacon. Bake at 400°F for 15 minutes, then broil to crisp bacon. Serve warm with honey or honey butter. Yield: 12 muffins.

  Herb’s Jungle Juice

  Without the “zip” of island-brewed alcohol, this is a much safer refreshment, according to Betty.

  1 cup sugar

  2 cups boiling water

  2 cups cranberry juice

  1/3 cup lemon juice

  2 cups orange juice

  1 quart ginger ale

  Orange and lemon slices

  Mint sprigs

  Dissolve sugar in boiling water. Add all three juices. Chill. Just before serving, turn into punch bowl; add ginger ale and fruit slices. Serve decorated with mint sprigs. (The fresh mint truly makes this drink a swell one!) Serves 10.

  Ham, Broccoli, Cheese Pie

  In times of rationing, Cora took pride in serving this nutritious “one-pot meal” to her boys.

  10-oz. package frozen broccoli florets

  9” refrigerated piecrust

  1 cup cooked ham, thinly sliced

  2 tablespoons chopped onion

  1½ cups total shredded cheddar and swiss cheese

  1 cup milk

  4 eggs, slightly beaten

  ½ teaspoon salt

  ¼ teaspoon pepper

  ¼ teaspoon dry
mustard

  Blanch broccoli. Drain well. Layer in unbaked piecrust as follows: ham, broccoli, onion, and cheese (reserve some cheese for topping). In a medium bowl, gradually blend milk and beaten eggs. Add salt, pepper, and mustard, then pour liquid mixture over pie. Sprinkle with remaining cheese. Bake at 350°F for 45 minutes or until center is firm.

  Fried Green Tomatoes

  Rosalyn says any respectable woman, Southern or not, should have a good recipe for these!

  4 medium firm green tomatoes

  1 tablespoon sugar

  ½ teaspoon pepper

  1 teaspoon salt

  1 egg, well beaten

  ½ cup Italian-style bread crumbs Vegetable oil

  Cut tomatoes into ½-inch slices. In a small bowl, add sugar, pepper, and salt to the beaten egg. (Garlic powder and/or cayenne pepper optional.) Fully dip each tomato slice in mixture, then coat both sides in bread crumbs. Heat an oiled frying pan on mediumhigh. Brown tomato slices on both sides.

  Peach Basket Turnover

  A tasty twist on pineapple upside-down cake, this was another of Liz’s favorites made by Nana.

  2 eggs (yolks and whites separated) ½ cup sugar

  2 15-oz. cans sliced peaches in light syrup

  1 cup flour

  1 teaspoon baking powder

  ½ teaspoon salt, divided 1 teaspoon vanilla

  1 cup brown sugar

  2 tablespoons butter

  In a bowl, beat yolks with sugar until light. Drain syrup from canned peaches into a cup. Set peaches aside. Add 1/3 cup of the syrup to yolk mixture. Beat 5 minutes. Fold in egg whites. Sift together flour, baking powder, and ¼ teaspoon salt. Blend with mixture and add vanilla. In a separate medium bowl, cream together brown sugar and butter, then add peaches and rest of salt. Spread peach mixture evenly in greased 8”×8” baking pan. Pour batter over top. Bake at 400°F for 40 minutes or until done. Turn out upside down. Serve hot with whipped cream.