“Then you have to take him.” Constance stepped forward and ran the backs of her fingers down William’s cheek. “I don’t know what happens to your visa if Jameson is dead.”
Scarlett’s shoulders curved inward as she battled against the rising sob in her throat. “I don’t either.” All it would take was a trip to the consulate to answer that question, but what if it canceled her visa? What if William could go but she couldn’t?
“If you stay…” Constance had to clear her throat, then try again. “If you stay, our father can have you declared hysterical. You know he would do it if it meant getting his hands on William.”
Scarlett’s tears stopped. “He wouldn’t—”
The girls shared a look, because they both knew he would. Scarlett held William a little tighter, swinging softly as he began to fuss.
“Jameson would want you to go,” Constance repeated. “Wherever he is right now, he wants you to go. Staying here won’t keep him alive.” Constance’s words faded into a whisper.
If he even was alive.
“You can’t help Jameson. But you can save your son—his son.” Constance gripped her sister’s forearm gently. “It doesn’t mean you’re giving up hope.”
Scarlett closed her eyes. If she tried hard enough, she could feel Jameson’s arms around her. She had to believe that she would feel them again. It was the only way she could keep breathing, keep moving. “If…” She couldn’t bring herself to say it. “All I would have in this world would be William, and you. How am I supposed to leave you?”
“Easily.” Constance gave her forearm a squeeze. “You let me finish packing you. You let me take care of you for once. And tomorrow, if there is no news, you let me help you leave. You take my godson somewhere he can sleep without fear of the world caving in around him. You can’t save him from whatever is coming his way—your way—when it comes to Jameson. But you can save him from this war.”
Scarlett’s heart lurched at the plea in her sister’s eyes. Constance’s face was pale, and the skin under her eyes was dark from obvious exhaustion. There was no newlywed glow about her, and though no bruises were obvious, Scarlett hadn’t missed the way her sister winced and shifted her weight often. “Come with me,” she whispered.
Constance scoffed. “Even if I could, well, I can’t. I’m married now, for better”—her gaze dropped—“or for worse.” She mustered a blatantly fake smile. “Besides, what would you do? Stow me away?”
“You would fit in the trunk,” Scarlett tried to tease, but it fell flat. There was nothing left in her to tease with. She was empty, but empty was better than feeling it. She knew as soon as she let it in, there would be no return to whatever this state was.
“Ha.” Constance arched an eyebrow. “Once I finish packing you, there won’t be much room. Are you sure this is all you can take?”
Scarlett nodded. “Jameson’s uncle said one trunk and two cases.” She’d filled Constance in on the plan the day before her wedding.
“Well then.” Constance managed a reassuring smile. “We’d better get you packed.”
William tugged on a strand of her hair, and Scarlett traded him her hair for a toy. The boy was worse than Jameson when it came to giving up something he wanted. They were two stubborn peas in a pod.
“They could find him today,” Scarlett whispered, glancing at the clock. They were still a few hours away from getting any update, if the last two days were anything to go by. “They could find him tomorrow morning,” she ended in a whisper. Please God, let them find him.
Perhaps the only thing worse than knowing Jameson was truly gone was not knowing. The hope was a double-edged sword, keeping her breathing, but perhaps only delaying the inevitable.
“And if they do, then Jameson can drive you to the airfield tomorrow himself.” Constance turned back toward the pile of William’s clothes she’d been packing and picked up the next piece. “Is there anything specific you need to take that I don’t know about?”
Scarlett breathed deeply, taking in her son’s sweet scent. You and William are my life now. She heard the words in her memory as clearly as if Jameson had been standing beside her.
“The record player.”
…
Scarlett’s eyes were swollen and achy as she pinned her hair in place. She’d tried her hardest to fend off the tears, but they’d come anyway.
Her fingers brushed over the handle of Jameson’s razor. It felt wrong to leave it all here, but he’d need it when he returned. She walked down the hall and took one last look at William’s nursery, her heart bleeding out as she pictured Jameson in the rocking chair with his son. She closed the door gently and headed for their bedroom.
Her handbag was on the bed, neatly packed with all the papers she would need tomorrow. It was surreal, thinking that she would be in the United States in less than twenty-four hours if all went according to plan. They would be a world away, leaving Jameson and Constance behind. The emptiness of it was almost more than she could bear, but she would keep her promise. For William.
She sat on the edge of their bed, reached for Jameson’s pillow, and clutched it to her chest. It still smelled like him. She breathed deeply as countless memories washed over her, drowning her in their intensity.
His laughter. His eyes when he told her that he loved her. His arms wrapped around her in sleep. His hands on her body as he made love to her. His smile. The sound of her name on his lips, asking her to dance.
He had brought her to life in every way that mattered, had given her the life that mattered most—William.
It was silly, and wasteful, but she took his pillowcase anyway, slipping it from the pillow and folding it into a neat square. She’d already taken two of his shirts, knowing that he wouldn’t mind.
“He’ll have mine,” she said softly to herself.
There weren’t words for the agony that twisted her heart, wringing it dry with harsh, unyielding hands. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.
“There you are,” Constance said from the doorway with William on her hip. “It’s time.”
“Can’t we give them just a few more minutes?” Can’t we give me a few more minutes? That’s what she really meant.
Today would be the last day the 71st would actively search for Jameson. As of tomorrow, the missions would resume, and surely they’d keep an eye out when they flew over that area, but after today, the unit would move on.
Jameson would be another MIA.
“Not if we want to make it to the airfield in time,” Constance replied quietly.
Scarlett glanced over the dresser and the wardrobe that still held his uniforms. “Once, you asked what I would give to walk through that first house we lived in back at Kirton-in-Lindsey.”
“I didn’t know… I never would have asked if I’d thought this would happen,” Constance whispered, her eyes heavy with apology. “I never wanted you to feel this.”
“I know.” Scarlett ran her fingertips over the folded pillowcase. “This is the third house we’ve lived in since we were married.” Her lips tugged upward at the thought. “Jameson is supposed to clear this house out next week, now that the squadron has completed the move to Debden. Maybe in that way, the timing is fitting. The next house we’re supposed to live in together is in Colorado.”
William babbled, and Constance shifted him to her other hip. “And you’ll be in Colorado waiting for him. Don’t worry about anything here. I’ll have Howie and the boys pack the rest of the house up for when Jameson gets back.”
A familiar burn stung Scarlett’s nose, but she fought back another round of useless tears. “Thank you.”
“Packing is nothing.” Her sister brushed her off.
“No,” Scarlett said as she found the strength to stand, slipping the pillowcase into her handbag. “Thank you for saying when, instead of if.”
“A love like the
two of you share doesn’t die so easily,” Constance said as she handed William over. “I refuse to believe it ends like this.”
Scarlett took in William’s sweet face. “It won’t,” she whispered, then glanced at her sister again. “Always the romantic, aren’t you?”
“Speaking of romance, I packed both hatboxes with your typewriter. That trunk weighs a ton, but it’s in the car.” Howie had stopped by earlier and helped with the luggage before heading to the airfield.
“Thank you.” She’d spent last night at the typewriter before Constance insisted on packing it, but she hadn’t brought their story up to date. She made it as far as their last day together, but hadn’t been able to bring herself to what came next, partly because she hadn’t accepted the events of the last three days, and partly because she didn’t know how it would end. But for those few hours, she’d let the pain slip away and had fallen into a world where Jameson was still in her arms.
That’s where she wanted to live, where that day was her own little eternity.
Holding William in the crook of her arm, she managed to open her handbag and remove the letter she’d written when she woke this morning. “I don’t know where to leave this,” she admitted softly, showing the envelope to her sister with Jameson’s name clearly inked on the outside.
Constance reached for the envelope, taking it gently from Scarlett’s hands. “I’ll give it to him when he returns,” she promised, then tucked it into the pocket of her dress. With them both out of uniform, Scarlett by force and Constance by choice, since she was on leave, it was easy to believe they’d never put them on. That the war hadn’t yet happened. But it had, and though the dresses were softer than the WAAF uniforms they’d both spent so much time in, both women were harder on the inside.
Scarlett adjusted the hat on William’s head and tugged on the sleeves of his jumper. It was June now, but still chilly for the little one, and would only get colder where they were going. With one long, last wistful look at their bedroom, Scarlett sent up yet another prayer that God would bring Jameson home to her, and then she walked out.
She held herself together as they made their way to the car, keeping her head high as Jameson would want.
Scarlett slid into the passenger seat and held William close as Constance took the wheel. The engine roared to life, and before Scarlett’s heart could overrule her mind, they pulled away from the house, driving toward Martlesham-Heath.
They were barely a few minutes into the drive when the air-raid sirens blared.
Scarlett’s gaze snapped toward the sky, where she could already make out the outline of bombers overhead.
Her stomach dropped.
“Where’s the nearest shelter?” Constance asked, her voice steady.
Scarlett glanced at their surroundings. “Turn right.”
William cried, his face turning a ruddy shade of red as the sirens screeched out their warning.
The pavement filled with civilians, all racing toward the shelter. “Pull over,” Scarlett ordered. “We’ll never make it with the streets crowded like this. We’ll have to go on foot.”
Constance nodded, immediately parking the car along the left side. They exited the car, then raced down the street toward the shelter as the first explosions sounded.
There wasn’t enough time.
Her heart raced as she clutched William to her chest and ran with Constance at her side.
They were a block away.
“Faster!” Scarlett shouted as another earth-shaking boom sounded behind them.
The word had barely left her mouth when the telltale sound of a high-pitched whistle filled her ears, and their world blew apart.
…
The relentless ringing in her ears was only broken by the sound of William’s cry.
Scarlett pried her eyes open, pushing past the pain that screamed through her ribs.
It took a few disoriented seconds to get her bearings, to remember what had happened.
They’d been bombed.
Minutes. Hours? How much time had passed? William!
He cried again, and Scarlett rolled to her side, nearly weeping with relief at the sight of his tearful face wailing beside her.
She brushed the dirt and dust from his cheeks, but his tears only smeared the streaks. “It’s okay, love. Mummy is right here,” she promised, pulling him into her arms as her eyes swept over the destruction around them.
The blast had blown them into a garden bed, which had miraculously sheltered William. Her ribs ached and her ankle protested, but other than those small inconveniences, she was okay. She struggled to sit, holding William against her chest, and startled at the sight of blood slowly oozing from a gash on her shin, but she gave it only a cursory glance as dread filled her chest, replacing the ache in her ribs.
Where was Constance?
The building they’d been running by was nothing but a heap of rubble, and she coughed when her lungs took in more dirt than air.
“Constance!” she screamed, panic overtaking her.
The iron fence of the garden they’d landed in was broken, and through the gap of the bars, Scarlett caught a glimpse of red.
Constance.
She struggled to her feet, her lungs and ribs protesting with vehemence as she staggered toward the scrap of fabric she recognized as Constance’s dress. Her arm caught on something, and she gazed down with confusion. Her handbag was still looped around her arm, and she’d snagged it on one of the iron bars. She yanked it free and stumbled a few more feet before falling to her knees at Constance’s side, careful to keep William from the harsh blocks of stone that lay around his aunt… That lay on his aunt.
No. No. No.
God couldn’t be this cruel, could he? A scream built up in Scarlett’s throat, then ripped free as she used one arm and all her strength to shove the offensive, ugly piece of masonry from her sister’s chest.
The warmth drained from her body, her soul, as she stared at Constance’s dust-and-blood-covered face.
“No!” she screamed. It couldn’t end like this. This couldn’t be Constance’s fate.
William began to cry harder, as if he, too, felt the light grow dimmer in the world.
She gripped her sister’s hand, but there was no response.
Constance was dead.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Georgia
Dear Scarlett,
Marry me. Yes, I mean it. Yes, I’m going to ask you again and again until you’re my wife. It’s only been two days since I left Middle Wallop, and I can barely breathe, that’s how much I already miss you. I love you, Scarlett, and it’s not the kind of love that fades with distance or time. I’m yours and have been since the first time I looked into your eyes. I’ll be yours no matter how much time passes before I see your eyes again. Always.
Jameson
“Do you think fifty thousand would cover it for the district?” I asked, wedging the phone between my ear and very sore shoulder as I took notes. I’d pushed it too hard this morning at the gym, but at least I hadn’t fallen.
“That’s more than enough! Thank you!” the librarian—Mr. Bell—exclaimed.
“You’re very welcome.” I grinned. This was the best part of my job. “I’ll send the check out today.”
“Thank you!” Mr. Bell repeated.
We hung up, and I opened the corporate checkbook to the next blank check. The Scarlett Stanton Foundation for Literacy. I brushed my finger over the scrolling script, then filled out the check, this time to a school district in Idaho.
The guidelines were simple: schools that needed books got money for books.
Gran would have loved it.
I dated the check March first, then sealed it into the envelope and scheduled a pickup with an overnight courier. There. Done. Now I could get to the studio.
A pen with
a New York Mets logo rolled as I opened the top drawer, and my heart sank all over again, just like it did every single day. Noah’s pen.
Because for nearly three months, this hadn’t just been Gran’s desk—my desk—it had been Noah’s, too. And because throwing that pen away wouldn’t change that fact, I put the checkbook in the drawer and shut it again.
The pen was my smallest reminder, anyway.
He was everywhere I looked. I saw us dancing in the living room every time I spotted the phonograph, heard the low timbre of his voice every time I ventured into the greenhouse. He was in my kitchen, making me tea. My entryway, kissing me breathless. My bedroom, making love to me. He was in this very office, admitting that he’d lied.
I sucked in a deep breath but didn’t push away the pain. Feeling it was the only way through it. Otherwise I’d be the same shell I’d been after Damian.
The doorbell rang, and I took the envelope to the entryway, but it wasn’t the courier on the other side when I opened the door.
I blinked in pure disbelief, my jaw dropping an inch before I snapped my mouth shut with an audible click.
“Aren’t you going to invite me in?” Damian asked, thrusting a vase of flowers in my direction. “Happy seventh anniversary, sweetheart.”
I weighed the gleeful thought of shutting the door in his face with the satisfaction of knowing exactly why he was here, and went with the latter, stepping back to let him in, then shutting the door as a frigid breeze swept over my skin.
“Thanks, I forgot how cold it is here,” he said, holding the flowers—pale pink roses—with an expectant look.
“What do you want, Damian?” I set the envelope on the entry table. What ploy was he going to try to use to get what he wanted? Guilt? Bribery? Emotional extortion?
“I wanted to talk business.” His brow furrowed as he realized I wasn’t taking the flowers, and he put them next to the envelope.
The Things We Leave Unfinished Page 38
