Estelle paused for only a second before continuing onward.
Military recruitment posters, enlarged and mounted, zigzagged down the wall. They featured colorful drawings of women in every branch: the WACs and WAVES, WAFS and WASPs, ANCs and SPARS, and more.
What began as an idea to honor the members of the Women’s Army Corps had expanded to include thousands of others. Jenna still had trouble keeping all of their acronyms straight, but not her gratitude for what they had sacrificed.
She hoped that message was coming through, but Estelle’s face remained unreadable. A glimpse of her family’s confusion generated little assurance.
The rectangular display case awaited on the left. Jenna debated over pointing it out, but then Estelle halted. Her eyes squinted behind her glasses as she angled her walk. Her Bronze Star, labeled with her name, was propped beside a collage of photos. Though they all featured her unit in the Pacific, only a few of the pictures had belonged to Estelle.
She stood there, staring at the case. Not saying a thing. No smile, no happy surprise. Just a quiver in her hands.
“Toss them out, donate them, do as you’d like.”
Those were the words she’d used when Jenna had first presented the keepsakes. Could she have truly meant she wanted them destroyed?
“Mom, are these of you?” Sandy asked, confounded.
Still, nothing in response.
The family closed in on the case, studying the items intently.
Jenna felt the angst of an incompetent conductor. She was orchestrating a performance headed rapidly for disaster.
“How did you . . .” Estelle began in a rasp. Her gaze remained on the pictures. “Where did you find all of these?”
An honest answer might only make things worse.
“Mrs. Porter, if you’re not comfortable with this, I could certainly let the director know.”
They could remove at least the Porters’ belongings—Jenna hoped.
Estelle’s ragged breaths suggested she was starting to cry. Jenna moved closer, flashing back to the woman’s health scare. But then Estelle glanced up to reveal a growing smile. The puffs of exhales came from quiet laughter, not tears.
“Hard to believe it,” she said, motioning downward, “but that’s how we did our laundry in a bind.”
Moisture sprang to Jenna’s eyes out of sheer relief. Amid the collage, she located the photo of Estelle and a stunning light-haired woman. They were wringing out garments over upturned helmets.
Estelle gained a reminiscent tone as she went on. “Gracious, everything we owned molded in that humidity. And the mosquitoes?” She blew out a sigh. “All bigger and deadlier than Sasquatch.”
Jenna grinned as Estelle’s focus went on to the next picture. Three ladies sat in a jeep while Estelle leaned against the hood. Palm trees in the background dotted the scene.
“Would you look at that,” she said. “Roz . . . and Betty. You know they used to call us the SOS girls, Shirley and me, on account of our names.”
“I’d heard that,” Jenna replied in truth, then diverted from an inquiry about her secret source. “You must have worked hard to take care of the patients there.”
With a calmed hand, Estelle touched the glass, hovering over a snapshot. A WAC was serving a food tray to a bedded soldier. “Met some real good fellas in that ward, that’s for sure. Her response carried a current of bittersweet memories. Something in it confirmed that the reference wasn’t limited to patients.
Reece’s father turned from the collection. “But—this is the Bronze Star,” he said, a near whisper. “Mom, why didn’t you ever tell us you served in the war?”
When Estelle fumbled for an answer, Reece interjected, “Because she thought her past was something to be ashamed of. And she was wrong.”
The warmth and meaning of his words seemed to resonate with his grandma, as well as his father. In fact, they had the same effect on Jenna.
“What a cute puppy,” Lisa commented, admiring the photo of Estelle with a Yorkshire.
“Ahh, yeah,” Estelle said. “She used to ride with a flight crew. Called her . . . oh, what was it? Smoky, I think. Her tricks were great for cheering up patients. The staff too.” Estelle shook her head with an air of remembering, and asked Jenna, “Wherever did you find these?”
As if summoning the answer, in the most literal sense, Jenna spotted his face. Tom Redding stood across the thinning room, dapper in his bow tie and gray suit. He’d claimed he was too busy to come, a blatant excuse. Yet he had gathered the nerve after all.
“To be honest,” Jenna replied, “I had a little help.”
Estelle wrinkled her brow. Her gaze proceeded to trace where Jenna had been looking and discovered the elderly gentleman. As he made his way over, he removed his fedora and smoothed his silver hair.
Recognition captured Estelle’s face, punctuated by her hand to her lips.
They stood only a few feet apart.
“How are you, Stella?”
Again, she had fallen silent and still.
The tension palpable, Tom tried again, “You’re looking lovely.”
Reece touched Jenna’s elbow. Who is this? he mouthed. The rest of his family appeared just as bewildered.
Tears mounted in Estelle’s eyes, mixed with questions. Beneath those arose a history of romance and heartbreak. Had Estelle harbored too much of the latter to even return a greeting? Maybe Tom should have mailed the letter he’d mentioned, to test the waters first.
A metal tinkling entered the air. At the end of the room, adjacent to the next hallway, Deanne jiggled a bell over her head. “Pardon me, everyone. But we have a special performance about to begin in the next hall. If you’ll kindly follow me.”
The USO girls were scheduled to sing a tribute. Jenna had helped assemble the small stage between the Rosie the Riveters area and that of the All American Women’s Baseball League. It was a highlight that now mattered little, for Jenna’s heart ached for Tom—who now angled sideways, as if to leave.
But he didn’t. He was simply offering his elbow. “Shall we, Stella?” he hazarded to ask.
She glanced down, then back to his face. The whole family was watching, waiting.
After a long beat, she slowly raised her arm and hooked it through his. Although inquiries in her eyes persisted, the smile stretching her lips mirrored the one now lighting Tom’s face. Evidently, he had no need for a letter. He’d delivered himself instead, which was a hundred times better.
Together, the couple walked out of the emptying hall. Reece’s dad and mom exchanged looks of pleasant interest, and the rest of the family followed behind.
Except for one.
Reece gave Jenna’s sleeve a soft tug, turning her around. “You mind filling me in?”
To best explain, she guided him to the last photo. Tom was holding a small branch above Estelle’s head. “That’s them.”
Reece leaned down for a closer view. “What’s he got there?”
“Some makeshift mistletoe.”
He grinned. “Smart guy.”
When Reece stood up, the distance between them shrank to inches. From the warmth of his breath and realization of being alone, Jenna fought off a shiver. Tenderly, he ran the back of his fingers across her cheek.
“So, tell me,” he said. “Did it work?”
“What’s that?”
“The mistletoe.”
She shook her head no.
“That’s too bad.”
Through the fog of Jenna’s thoughts came the rest of the story. “After their holiday party, though, she found him behind the supply tent.”
“Then what happened?”
Before she could say more, he demonstrated a guess by pressing his lips to hers. She hedged for a second, merely from surprise, then wrapped her arms around his neck. She could feel his he
art against her chest, and lost herself in the beat. His hands, strong and safe, rounded her waist and pulled her close. As he kissed her deeper, her skin prickled and knees went soft. Indescribable desire surged through her body.
Never had her emotions clashed like this. Newness battled the familiar in the scent of his skin, the taste of his lips. His touch wove a web of comfort and fear. A tangle of thoughts. A collection of feelings.
Jenna never wanted it to end.
Turn the page to read the first chapter of The Edge of Lost by Kristina McMorris!
Chapter 1
Dublin, Ireland March 1919
The foul haze of whiskey and cigarettes was lighter tonight than usual—a shame the same couldn’t be said of the mood. Not that this surprised Shanley Keagan. At nearly twelve, he’d performed in enough pubs to understand the patterns in a calendar.
Fridays were a sure bet for nice crowds, men eager to spend their fresh wages. They would sing and laugh with old pals, toasting God’s grace shining down upon them. If in an especially generous mood, they’d even buy a round for strangers. And when they were hushed down enough to welcome Shan to the “stage”—sometimes a solid platform, more often a crate from the kitchen—they might mumble over the disruption, trading dirty looks, but by the delivery of his second joke, third at most, they were roaring with laughter, as attentive as parishioners at Easter Mass.
Mondays were the worst of the lot. Even Uncle Will, who was far from choosy when scheduling Shan’s shows, knew Mondays were to be avoided. If there was a crowd at all, it was mostly customers addicted to the drink, or veterans just back from the Great War hoping to drown their memories. The few others were brooders in search of refuge from their wives, having no more interest in being nagged about finding a job than in actually doing just that.
Wednesdays, on the other hand—now, those were tough to predict. They could resemble Fridays as easily as Mondays, or fall somewhere in between. And on this particular Wednesday, as Shan stepped onto a splintered crate, he sensed precisely which it was.
Of the dozen patrons seated about, two were passed out at their tables. Up in front a pair of scabby fellows looked deep in conversation with no mind for anything more. The rest stared at Shan, their eyes right quick to judge.
“Hoi, now! Get on with it,” ordered a grizzled man from his seat. “Or be Jaysus, bring on the dancing girls!”
Another shot back: “’Tis the closest you’d ever get to seeing a lady in her knickers. Aside from that ugly sister of yours.”
Several customers chuckled, egging on a retort.
Shan needed to regain the spotlight before sneers could turn to punches and squelch any chance of a show. Of this he was well aware, even before catching a glimpse of his uncle.
Across the room William O’Mara stood at the bar, scowling between sips of his pint. The freckled skin of his bony face, normally pale next to Shan’s dark features, was reddening to the shade of his patchy beard. Perform well, his firm eyes said, or I’ll be wise to drop you at an orphanage, where you’ll be sleepin’ with rats on a dingy floor and eatin’ rotten cabbage soup.
The man had spoken these words often enough that Shan could hear them in his mind. And he knew better than to ignore the warning. With a loud clearing of his throat, Shan straightened to feel grander than his average build, ignoring the hollow ache in his stomach.“Good evening, ladies and gents. I’m Shan Keagan.”
He had learned early on not to use his proper christened name unless he wanted to be heckled—“Shanley” being traditionally reserved for a surname. He’d change it altogether if it weren’t among the few things left from his mam.
“I’ll be entertaining you tonight while you enjoy your pints.” Now that he’d gained their attention, he started with a reliable joke. “There’s such a chill out, it brings to mind a tale of a terrible snowstorm. The drifts were so high one night, a priest and a nun found themselves stuck in a church alone. When the sister complained of being cold, the kindly father searched about and fetched her a blanket. Again and again this happened, but the heap of blankets failed to help. At last, desperately freezing, the sister insisted the Lord would surely forgive them for acting as a married couple to keep warm for a single night. Full of joy, the father agreed. ‘Aye,’ he cried, ‘from now on, you’ll fetch the blankets on your own!’ ”
Shan paused to read the audience. Only tepid smiles, but not to fret. Experience had taught him to skip to his impressions, normally the second part of his act.
From endless practice, he proceeded to reshape his voice into a colorful range of characters. Fists on his hips, he transformed into a harping Irish mother. A lick of the lips and he was a whistling Yankee, his new favorite for many a reason. With shoulders hunched, he became a dumber-than-ox Englishman.
Still, for all of this, he earned only a sprinkling of snickers.
His palms slickened with sweat. Insulting the Brits usually endeared even the hardest Irish crowd. Since late January, when the War of Independence began, sentiments against the Crown had ratcheted to a higher level—if that were even possible. Perhaps this explained why Shan sensed a swelling desire in the room to take aim at a target. And that was just what he’d become if he didn’t switch course. A silly song would hopefully do.
In the warbling style of folk singer Eugene Fitzpatrick, he belted out “’Twas Sure I Fell in Love When I Fell into Me Ale.” Nerves magnified cracks in Shan’s voice, a growing curse of his age, and he found relief at finishing the tune—though none from the room’s intensity.
The few sounds from the audience came from an old man being repeatedly woken by his own nasally snores, and from a lady giggling at a far table, where a scruffy man in a flannel shirt tickled her sides. She wore a dress as bold as her red lips, the sort of woman who, according to Uncle Will, charged for the pleasure of her company. When she leaned forward, her bosoms rose in large white mounds, resembling loaves from the baker.
Shan fought the urge to stare. He mined his memory for material and remembered Murphy, a made-up fool of a drunk. If nothing else, the tales could fill enough time to secure a free supper, his personal reward from the pubs.
His stomach growled as he launched into a story. He was halfway through when a burly man pushed back from his table and shot to his feet.
“What’s that you’re sayin’ about me, boy?”
“Ah, Murphy,” hollered an older man. “The lad wasn’t talking about you. Sit down on your arse.”
Murphy swayed, as if riding the internal waves of his liquor. Shan forced a swallow. “Did I say ‘Murphy,’ sir? What I meant, of course, was ‘Mickey.’ My apologies for the error.”
The man held a stern face but slowly reclaimed his seat. Shan sighed to himself before praying to the good Lord that no one in the room was a Mickey.
“Now, then,” he tried again. “I believe I was describing the day Mickey awoke covered in mud and feathers, head to toe.”
No one spoke out, a fortunate thing. Shan was about to continue when, once more, his belly grumbled. This time it brought a hunger so strong it jellied his knees. He tightened his legs to keep his balance, but the shift of weight caused a loud crack beneath his boots. Before he could adjust, the crate gave way and he landed hard on his rear. Laughter broke out in the room. He hurried to rise from the wooden floor, brushing grime and spilled ale from his clothes.
“What’s that you were singing about?” a man called to him. “Something about fallin’, was it?” The laughter spread, but Shan didn’t rejoice. Embarrassment and anger formed a bitter reply on his tongue. The words churned and expanded, preparing to spew free. Just in time, he gulped them down, remembering Uncle Will. Shan dared to look over. Beside the bar, his uncle and the pub owner were engaged in a chat. A welcome discovery, until Shan noted the sharpness of their eyes. Uncle Will shook something—a coin—in his right fist. The owner stood a good foot shorter, but in th
e manner of one not intimidated by height. As if to prove as much, he crossed his arms and jutted his chin. The challenge wasn’t missed by Uncle Will, whose clenched jaw signaled a rage in the making.
Shan bristled, a reflex. His body was well aware of where those rages led. The scars on his neck and hip throbbed as a reminder, urging him to take cover. Alas, he had no choice. The last thing an orphan needed was for his only relative to be carted off and locked in a cell.
“You heard me, all right,” Uncle Will said as Shan approached to intervene. “I called you a cheatin’ bastard, because that’s what ye are. The deal was for a shilling, not a goddamn sixpence.”
The owner’s nostrils flared as if swiped with smelling salts. “You’re lucky to get that much. The boy would bring in a crowd, ye said. Would make me more money, ye said.”
“And he bloody would have, if this place weren’t such a hell-hole. I’ve taken a shite in privies better than this.”
“Uncle Will, please,” Shan implored. But his uncle ignored him and spat at the owner, who burst into a fit.
“That’s it! Get out. Right this minute, or I’ll thump ye in the—”
The threat stopped short. Uncle Will’s knuckles made sure of it by plowing into the man’s face.
Shan reached for his uncle to coax him away but a bartender and another man moved in, pushing Shan aside. A whirl of punches flew. Barstools toppled and a pint glass shattered.
Two hands grasped Shan’s shoulders. He started to wrench free, but a woman’s voice entered his ear. “Shh, ’twill be all right,” she said, drawing him away from the scuffle and shards. She was the lady with red lips and loaves for a chest.
The owner swung hard at Uncle Will’s gut before ordering his helpers to put the rubbish where it belonged. Dutifully the men dragged Uncle Will, short of breath and doubled over, out to the street.
Shan just stood there, already dreading the long walk home. He wasn’t dim enough to think a free bowl of corned beef remained an option. Around him, people returned to their lives as if nothing had happened.
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