Letters From Home (31 page)

Once more, her heart whispered a warning. This time, she heard the words:
It’s now or never.
Not the caution she expected, but true all the same. If the war had taught her anything, it was how precious, how fleeting life could be.

Submitting to her instincts, she stepped forward through the mist. Moisture carried their unspoken passion into her lungs. Brazenly, tenderly, she touched the pink scar over Leslie’s breastbone. His breathing grew heavier. She leaned down and kissed a trail over the raised line, a passageway to his yearning. He shuddered, rippling the water.

“Betty,” he said. “We can’t.”

She lifted her face. Her hand on his tightened chest, she could feel his heart thundering.

He swallowed. “It’s not fair to you.”

With her fingers, she covered his lips, quieting him. “I know I may not see you again,” she told him. “But we’re together now. Somehow, nothing else matters.”

Gently he moved her hand from his mouth. “But, Betty—”

“It’s all right. You don’t have to say anything more.”

He held her gaze, consented through his silence, drawing her into the transcendence of his eyes.

A need sweltered inside her, to do what she hadn’t dared during even the few sexual experiences of her life. With each of those boys pledging his undying love, she’d gone willingly, curiously, desperate to fill the emptiness. Then before they’d had a chance to discover the falsehood of her beauty—that the dresses and hair and cosmetics were but a diversion—she would move on to the next beau, sacrificing a lad’s heart to protect her own.

However, tonight, for the first time, she wanted someone to see all of her. She needed to know that deep down she had the courage to expose herself as the pane of glass she was—with the cracks and smudges, the fragility—and not shatter beneath his judgment.

Pulse racing, she stepped back and straightened to her full height. The waterline dropped like a robe to her waist. She reached around to the middle of her back, never leaving his eyes, and unfastened the button. The strips separated and dangled, tickled her sides. With trembling fingers, she retrieved an end of the bow tied behind her neck. She released the binding in one fluid pull. The garment fell away, caught by the water’s surface.

She felt the hands of Leslie’s gaze sliding over her body. Seconds passed like hours as she allowed the terrifying exploration. Gleaming in wonderment, he rose to his feet and moved toward her. He placed a tentative palm on her shoulder, as though expecting to pass through a mirage. His fingers glided downward, following the path his eyes had traveled: over the outside contour of her breast, the in and out of her waist, the slope of her hip.

“My God,” he whispered, “you’re so beautiful.” He spoke with such fervor, she finally believed she was.

She linked her arms around his neck. Her chest, then the flat of her stomach, melted into his skin. Her nerves settled and drifted away, natural as the tide. A tide she would surrender to completely.

He bent and kissed her shoulder, a long sensual movement. She lowered her neck to the side as his tongue journeyed upward. His hands stroked her back, sculpting her into the masterpiece she’d become in his arms. At last his mouth found hers, their forms merging into one.

Her final thought, before ecstasy blurred her world, was that if this were a dream, she never wanted to wake.

The meal cart had turned weightless. Betty effortlessly guided the wheels over the planks of the ward, still riding the crest of her bliss, still feeling the rapture of his body molded to hers. She coasted from bed to bed, taking meal trays. Her grin stretched from ear to ear. Only when she reached Leslie’s bed did her joy wilt.

The cot stood empty, the sheets disheveled. His belongings had been packed and shipped out with him, proof of his existence erased.

A ribbon of regret twisted inside her, a knot for which she could blame only herself. She was the one who’d suggested they not see each other following their parting kiss near her barracks—easily done, since his pickup was scheduled for 0600 hours. She’d told him she wasn’t a fan of sappy good-byes. The truth was, she wanted him to remember her as he’d seen her behind that waterfall, not as the blubbering wreck she might have been while watching him being driven away. The reality of his departure, she was determined to take in doses.

Now, however, staring at the bed soon to be filled by another wounded soldier, Betty would do just about anything to have seen him off that morning, to once more feel the sensation of his lips on hers. To declare she loved him.

Compressing her emotions, she focused on the chore at hand. She hadn’t brought replacement linens, but she would strip his sheets regardless. Silly as it seemed, she wanted to be the last to handle his bedding. Her secret claim to the intimacy they’d shared.

Slowly, as if to prolong the remnants of his presence, she pulled the top cover loose and rolled it into her arms. The bundle smelled of earth and rebellion. For a second, she was tempted to hoard the fabric, a sachet to keep his image alive. But she knew that eventually his scent would fade like a whisper, until all that remained was a wrinkled ball of linen and the memory of one perfect night.

She set the sheet down and reached for his pillow. Hidden beneath, she discovered a folded paper. Scribed in pencil was a single word:
Betty.

She caught herself smiling—a cockeyed smile, no doubt—and took a seat on the cot. Anticipation of the unexpected rushed through her. Yet when she opened the page, she realized the obviousness of his gift. It was the sketch of her face, plus a handwritten note.

No outlaw should be without a portrait. This one is on the house.
Missing you already,
LK

Betty refolded the drawing and tucked it into her trouser pocket. She brushed away a single tear and stored her tangled feelings of happiness, worry, and longing. She would wait for a private moment to unravel each component, not yet ready to cushion their impact.

Standing, she resumed her task by gathering the rest of his bedding. In her usual turnover routine, she peeked under the cot, where she found the standard trail: gum and candy wrappers, a pencil stub, eraser shavings, shreds of paper from torn envelope seals. Occasionally, staff would find an item of greater value that would go into lost and found or, depending on the locator, fall under the category of finders keepers.

Betty couldn’t help wishing Leslie had left yet another sentimental treasure behind for her—perhaps a book of poems by the infamous Joe Byrne. But alas she’d inherited mere litter for her palm.

About to rise, she noticed a wallet-sized photograph propped between a cot leg and the ward wall. Could it be a picture of him? A portrait of the uniformed pilot for her to keep?

All this time and she’d never thought to seek out a camera from someone on staff. Not that she needed proof he had been real. He’d left his imprint on her heart, invisible to others but with permanence she detected with every rhythmic beat.

She knelt and stretched her arm under the bed, then yanked the photo free. The image was clearly a family member, a memento he’d left by accident.

A disappointed sigh slipped from her mouth.

Although …it did make a great excuse to write Leslie first. Maybe he’d even dropped it there for that purpose. She wouldn’t put it past him. The scoundrel.

Curious for details, hungry for anything about his life, she flipped the picture over. A note appeared on the back. She read the words, bewildered. The second time through, the implications materialized. Like the teeth of a vampire, they pierced layer after layer, sinking painfully into her being. She felt her soul being sucked away as she collapsed against the bed, the photo still clinging to her hand.

34

February 1945
Evanston, Illinois

“J
ules, I’m home!” Liz tapped her snow-tipped shoes against the entry baseboard. She pulled off her damp black mittens and tossed them onto the heated radiator. “My group wanted to finish the whole project tonight,” she called out. “Believe it or not, I was the first one to leave.”

She shook the moist flakes off her braids as she headed down the hallway. The notes of “As Time Goes By” flowed from Julia’s illuminated bedroom. Passing the kitchen, Liz flicked a glance at the rooster clock on the wall.

Late but doable. If they hurried, they could still catch the newsreel preceding
Lifeboat,
Hitchcock’s latest, followed by some new Loretta Young flick even Liz had been wanting to see.

She rubbed her hands together and hastened her steps. Approaching the door, she stifled a sneeze. Infiltrating the air was the overpowering woodsy scent of the perfume Julia had recently received from Christian as a Valentine’s gift.

Leave it to a guy to choose a fragrance that smelled like a campground.

Liz poked her head into the room. “Jules, do you have any gloves I could—” Her words broke off at the sight of the redhead adorned in her sheer, shoulder-length wedding veil, seated at the vanity. Again.

By now, it was a wonder Liz noticed the accessory at all. Since Julia’s shopping excursion in Manhattan, the veil had been on constant exhibition around the house. Laundry, homework, dishes, dusting—no chore was too mundane for the display.

“You’re not really going to wear that to the movie, are you?” Liz said. “You’ll block half the screen for all the lovebirds sitting behind you.” She marched over to the shortwave radio on the nightstand and clicked the power off. “Come on, let’s scoot. I hate getting stuck in the back of the balcony.”

Julia wasn’t cooperating

“All right, Mrs. Christian Downing.” Liz snatched the empty boutique box from the foot of the bed and held it out. “Either I’m going or the veil’s going, but not both.”

The redhead didn’t budge.

“Hel-looo,” Liz sang.

Julia gazed into the mirror, a stoic expression carved on her face.

A spark of concern pulled Liz to the vanity. “Jules, what’s wrong?”

Slowly Julia handed over the folded beige papers from her lap.

“What is this?”

No response.

Setting the box aside, Liz combated a list of assumptions. Grief streaked each scenario. Hesitant, she knelt on the floor before unfolding the pages. An embossed emblem of a golden eagle with ropes and anchors appeared at the top. Recognizing the stationery as Christian’s, she could already feel the hem of Julia’s world loosening.

My beloved Julia,

If you are reading this letter, darling, it means I will not be coming home. The mere thought of us not being together brings tears to my eyes. For as long as I can remember, I have dreamt of little more than spending every minute by your side. I have so looked forward to the day when I would make you my bride, when I could hear you declare to heaven and earth that you had chosen me.

On nights like tonight when I can’t sleep, I often lie here in my bunk making plans for our future. I imagine the home we would buy and the children we would fill it with—sons who are strong but fair, daughters with your grace and soft red curls. I can just see us, sitting on the front porch many years from now, reminiscing over memories of days gone by. Even in old age, I know you will be just as beautiful as the day I first saw you walk into my uncle’s store, a day that changed my life forever.

If, for me, tomorrow doesn’t come, this would be my solitary wish: to spend one more day holding you in my arms, kissing your lips, and telling you how much I love you. No matter how short our time has been together, please know that you alone have carried me through this trying war, and given me the true reason to fight for our country’s freedom.

There is no question in my mind that our souls will one day reunite at heaven’s gate. However, until then, I plead that you live a happy and fulfilling life, regardless of my absence. As hard as it is on me to envision you in the arms of another man, I will only rest peacefully knowing you will someday marry a fellow who will cherish you as dearly as I, and have a houseful of children to bring you joy.

You have so much love to give, so much kindness to share, that you must promise to follow the journey God has laid out for you. I ask simply that you think of me every once in a while and recall the teenage boy you met one summer, who for a short time was given the chance to touch your heart.

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.