Letters From Home (21 page)

Morgan hardly batted an eye at the gruesome scene that would have sickened him before entering the war. Death and devastation had since become the norm. He was, however, surprisingly troubled by another sight: a little girl crying over a doll she had dropped in the dirty slush. Strangers carelessly trampled what must have been her last cherished possession, her pleas ignored like those of countless innocents wracked in the enemy cross fire. He watched the child being tugged away. Her desperate wails compressed his heart.

He wanted to chase after her and wipe her tears, tell her it would all be over soon. But he couldn’t; word had it Hitler wasn’t about to relinquish his throne. Even now, in a massive counterattack, the Führer’s armies were penetrating thinly defended areas through the Ardennes forest, entrapping GIs and pushing battle lines back toward the English Channel. With Allied troops stretched too far away from supplies, the tide of the war could clearly turn in Germany’s favor.

Morgan tried not to dwell on that possibility once he’d reached Slevant. But it was easier said than done. In spite of the U.S. Army’s need-to-know restrictions, something told him their impending confrontation would be their most crucial yet. And rumors of a massacre of American POWs in Malmédy only magnified his nerves.

“Spread out and dig in!” shouted the second lieutenant, fresh from West Point.

“We expecting backup?” Frank asked.

“That’s a negative. Orders are to hold the line, whatever it takes. Shoot anything that moves.” With that, the guy jumped into a jeep and careened away—far away, Morgan hoped. In battle, rookie officers often proved the greatest liability.

As engineers rushed to lay mines, Morgan scouted the darkening town for tactical stationing points. Going with his gut, he led Charlie to the top of a hill overlooking a steep-sided valley and a large portion of the village. The location sandwiched them between two heavily armed teams. To the right, an embankment sported a pair of antitank bazooka GIs separated from their company; to the left, Frank and a band of machine gunners held the roof of a two-story brewery.

The ground too frozen for them to excavate, Morgan and Charlie forged a foxhole by scooping snow with their helmets. No sooner had they finished packing their mound than a message reached the hill: A Kraut armored column was headed north, directly toward Slevant.

The countdown had begun.

22

December 18, 1944
Chicago, Illinois

L
iz gripped the creaking ladder as she reached out in a rush, but her reflex had kicked in too late. The glass sphere skimmed her fingertips and shattered at the base of the tree.

“Oh, murder,” she groaned.

She ought to quit her job this minute. Surely someone else on the nursing home staff could have handled hanging the ornaments. Not everyone was preparing to head out like Julia. Or baking meat loaf like the chef. Or cataloging medications like her supervisor.

Besides, Christmas was only a week away; in no time they’d be taking all the garish decor down again. Whatever survived that long, anyhow.

She descended into the moody shadows created by the fire in the hearth. Kneeling on the cherrywood floor, she gathered the large triangular shards and tried to ignore the pungent smell of tree sap. The noble pine, fully loaded with blinking lights and shimmery garland, showed like a display at Macy’s, only feeding her annoyance. In fact, the whole sitting room could have been a Norman Rockwell sketch. Even snowflakes feathered the corners of the window with their clingling, taunting crystals.

Liz had aimed, once again, to make it through the Yuletide season without untucking old family memories. Yet what chance did she have when tomorrow marked the official anniversary? The afternoon of their quarrel. The night her mother packed her bags, leaving behind only a single wrapped present beneath the tree.
To: Elizabeth,
the small gift tag read. Characters from
The Nutcracker
on red matte paper covered the square box. A thin solitary white ribbon ran through the middle of the Sugar Plum Fairy. For months, Liz had fallen asleep staring at that wrapped gift on her dresser, bartering her hopes like a little girl—as if not opening the box, a demonstration of the restraint that had escaped her, would have brought her mother home.

To this day, buried in Papa’s basement, the package remained sealed.

“It’s beautiful.” Julia’s voice pulled her back to the tree-in-progress. The redhead stood between the open pocket doors, dressed in her navy winter coat with a curly lamb collar. Her notoriously heavy suitcase rested at her feet.

“Thanks,” Liz replied. She tried for a smile that fell flat when the velvety voice of Bing Crosby drifted into the room. “I’ll Be Home for Christmas.” The king of all merciless holiday tunes. Lyrics about snow and mistletoe caused her chest to ache, straining to uphold its weakening walls.

Liz stood and placed the glass fragments onto the claw-footed table. “I just hope they don’t take this one out of my wages,” she said, forcing a joke.

Julia didn’t smile. She seemed preoccupied, as though engaged in another conversation in her head and deciding which snippet to share aloud. With her reserved demeanor over the past several weeks, she was clearly storing up comments regarding the moral dilemma of Betty’s letters.

Not that it mattered anymore.

For several weeks nothing but bills and Christian’s weekly posts had arrived in the mail. The accumulation of gold stars in neighborhood windows continued to compound Liz’s anxiety. If something had happened to Morgan, how would she know? Would her last letter to him be returned, or added to a bin of the forgotten?

“I’ve been meaning to talk to you,” Julia said finally. “About Morgan.”

Precisely as Liz figured. Only she wasn’t up for this tonight. Even the mention of his name moistened her eyes. “Please,” she interjected. “I know what you’re going to say.”

“No. You don’t,” Julia told her. “I was going to say that—that I…”

“Yes?”
Spit it out already.

Julia exhaled. “That I’m sorry,” she finished. “I was wrong to have judged you.”

Liz’s response stalled. She hadn’t seen that coming. Her eyes connected with Julia’s. In them, she found a fresh level of understanding. So much was said in a glance, Liz needed only to respond with a nod.

Then Bing’s solemn melody wedged between them, breaking the moment.

“Anyway.” Julia flicked her hand, as if batting away the song. “When did you say your father’s arriving?”

Another swell topic. Perhaps they could cover flood and famine next.

“Christmas Eve,” Liz replied lightly. “And leaving right after New Year’s.”

“Oh, good. Then you can still make it to my parents’ in time, right? For Elsie’s birthday.”

“Are you kidding? I’m dying to meet the next Shirley Temple.”

“Well, don’t worry about a gift. My mother’s bought enough for Elsie’s next
ten
birthdays.” Tugging her white gloves on, Julia glimpsed her watch. “Jeepers, I gotta get to the station.” She wrapped a cashmere scarf over her tresses and lugged her suitcase toward the front door. “By the way, Viola wanted you to stop by when you get a sec.”

“Will do. Travel safely,” Liz said, wishing her own trip to Pittsburgh—or to anywhere else in the galaxy—were sooner.

The fine soprano humming of “Silent Night” flitted through the hall. Following the notes, Liz scraped for a convincing smile. She wasn’t in the mood for a heart-to-heart chat or analysis of her love life. And even if she were, the sweet woman, at no fault of her own, couldn’t possibly relate.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” Liz called from the door, “but a resident upstairs is complaining about someone singing off-key.”

“Is that so?” Viola retorted in bed without looking up from her knitting. “Then the person must be tone deaf.”

“Obviously,” Liz replied. Now to speed their visit along. “Julia mentioned you needed something?”

“Do me a favor, sweet pea. Fetch me the ball of pink yarn on the bureau there.”

And Julia couldn’t have done this?
was Liz’s first thought. But that was merely her annoyance talking, sharpened by her reluctance to move into close range of Viola’s all-knowing sensors.

Liz snatched the yarn, placed it on the mattress, and started away. “Well, if you need anything else …”

“What, is there a fire you gotta put out? It’s a rest home. Take a rest.” Viola indicated a spot to sit beside her blanketed knees.

Liz wanted to decline, but any believable excuse eluded her. To prevent suspicion, she perched on the bed as ordered. Viola’s knitting needles continued to dance in their silent rhythm. “So, what’s the latest project?” she asked, deflecting the focus from herself.

“A little somethin’ for my newest grandchild.”

“My goodness. How many does that make now?”

“Fourteen and a half. Danny’s wife is expecting right after the holidays.”

“Well, that should be fun, seeing the whole family next week.”

“Fun?” Viola clucked. “I’ll be lucky to make it out alive.”

A giggle almost snuck past Liz’s throat.

“God love ‘em, but they’ve all got more kids, pets, and toys than Carter has Pills. Why do you think I live
here?”

No doubt there were heartfelt reasons as well, with her late husband’s gravesite a short distance away.

“Speaking of holidays,” Viola said, “I actually did ask you here for a purpose.” She set her supplies aside and reached for her nightstand. From the top drawer, she drew a long bronze scarf. “Finally put the finishing touches on your Christmas present this afternoon. Found the perfect shade to bring out the color of those pretty eyes of yours.”

Liz sighed at the meticulous needlework. “Oh, Vy. It’s divine.”

She dragged the fuzzy fringe across her cheek, her whole body warming at the touch.

“I know it’s a smidge late for your engagement, so this is my one stone taking out two birds.”

At the mention of her nuptials, Liz’s delight shrank as fast as it had risen. She pulled the gift from her face, let coolness retake her skin, and doubled the scarf around her neck. “Thank you,” she said, and leaned in for an embrace. It was in that moment she realized just how much she needed one.

“Pardon me, ladies.”

Liz turned toward the familiar voice, surprised. “Dalton, hi.”

He stood at the door, pinching his hat against his side. His smile appeared as thin as the pinstripes in his suit.

“Well, if it isn’t Prince Charming,” Viola said.

“Nice to see you, Ms. Knowles.”

“It’s been a while since I’ve seen you round here. Everything Liz has been saying about you must be true.”

“I guess that all depends on what she’s told you.” Sternness bound his voice, squeezing each syllable into a jagged point. “Liz, may I speak to you?” He motioned behind him with his hat.

“Of course,” she said, and turned to Viola. “If you’ll excuse us.”

Viola gave a few waves of her hand. “Shoo, shoo, off you go.”

As Liz moved toward the hallway, she picked through possible causes for Dalton’s demeanor: a negative ruling in his mock trial, his article rejected by the
Law Review.
However, neither seemed likely, nor urgent enough to bring him down here at this hour. So what could it be?

Her cheeks flushed at the conclusion: He’d found out. About Morgan. But how?

Oh God, how could she explain? And how could he understand why, or what she was feeling?
She
didn’t even understand as much.

In the hall, she swallowed her nerves, forced them down like cod liver oil. Casually clasping her hands, she faced Dalton and smiled. “To what do I owe this honor?”

“Liz, I know we haven’t spent much time together lately, but how could you?” He rubbed the back of his neck in aggravation.

The thudding in her chest grew, moving to her throat and on to her temples.

“I thought—” he started. “No, I
know
I told you how important tonight’s banquet was to me.”

Banquet?

Relief drifted over her, relaxing her from the outside in, until she grasped her error. His first prominent speaking engagement, she’d missed it completely. “Dalton, I don’t know what to say. I meant to ask for the night off, I did.”

“I waited at your house for half an hour. I barely made it in time. Had to tell everyone you got sick at the last minute.”

“I’m so sorry. I know this meant a lot to you.”

Lips tucked, he stared at the wall, contemplating.

“Dalton.”

He didn’t respond.

“Dalton,” she repeated, and gently guided his cheek to face her. “I’ll make it up to you. I promise.”

After a quiet, indecipherable moment, his look of anger slackened. He glanced down and closed his hand around hers. His thumb rubbed the base of her bare fourth finger, as if smoothing a pathway for her ring.

“Lizzy…” He raised his head, searched her eyes. “Are we in trouble?”

Her first instinct was to tell him he was being silly, but the intensity of his concern melted away her nonchalance. The time had come to spill the truth.

Yet was she ready to let him go?

She glanced at his hand holding hers, a hand that had been there when few others were, and realized she didn’t know. What she did know was she loved him and didn’t want to hurt him. He was a kind, decent man. A man of whom her father approved. A man whose future made sense with hers. And most important, a man who would never leave.

“We’re fine,” she told him. “Truly, everything’s fine.” She kissed him tenderly, gave his fingers an affirming squeeze. In a matter of seconds, his manner warmed, his creases softened. He gleamed again with certainty.

“All right, sweetheart.” He brushed her nose with his finger. “I have to get back. But how about dinner this weekend?”

“Sure thing,” she said, smiling. As he turned to leave, she added, “I swear I won’t forget.”

His mouth split into a grin. “I’ll hold you to that.” He waved farewell with his hat.

The panic humming inside her faded with his departure. A head-on collision barely missed. She felt fortunate, weary, ashamed. As if she’d consciously driven in the oncoming lane yet was surprised when she needed to swerve.

How long could she press her luck? In the end, would she look back and believe it was worth it?

Uncoiling the scarf around her neck, she reentered Viola’s room—where the elderly woman sat with crossed arms and a shrewd glower.

“Heavens to Betsy, girl, if you don’t have some explaining to do.”