Letters From Home
Authors: Kristina McMorris
KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
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Copyright © 2011 by Kristina McMorris
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eISBN-13: 978-0-7582-6807-5
eISBN-10: 0-7582-6807-6
First Kensington Trade Paperback Printing: March 2011
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Printed in the United States of America
RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED
to the veterans of World War II,
a generation of heroes who, like my grandfather,
fought valiantly and courageously
to secure freedom for us all.
And to the unsung heroes
with nary a medal nor ribbon to show for their sacrifices—
for ‘twas the women who waited for their loved ones to return
who truly gave purpose to their soldiers’ victory.
Contents
Some books sprout and flourish solely from the genius and fortitude of the author. In my case, it took an extremely large village to raise a novel. To these dedicated natives, I owe my immense gratitude:
First and foremost, to my beloved Grandma Jean and Merle “Papa” McPherren, without whom this story would not exist—nor this storyteller, for that matter. Your courtship letters are imprinted forever in my heart. I hope I did you proud.
To my mother, Linda Yoshida, for her faith and editorial input as I slaved over every syllable on these pages, but mostly for not calling me crazy the day I, the non-reader/non-writer, phoned to say, “Hey, I think I’ll write a book.” And to my father, Junki, for teaching me by example that with determination anything is possible in this great country.
For igniting the spark of my journey, I thank Scott Taylor, who once so aptly stated: “It all starts with Kinko’s.” Truer words were never spoken. I am especially grateful to those readers who survived my early drafts and still managed to keep a straight face while providing feedback and encouragement, among them: my sister Amanda Yoshida, Sue McMorris, Mike Pettinger, Bryan Mueller, my ever-loyal “divas”—Stephanie Stricklen, Sunny Klever, Michele Blaine, and Lynne House—as well as Tracy Callan, who never fails to make me feel “brilliant.” Every person should have a Tracy.
I am indebted to Julia Whitby for her keen editing eyes, and to Delilah Marvelle and Elisabeth Naughton for believing wholly in my story even when I wavered. To Steve Powers for his Midwestern limericks (I’m still frightened by just how many are crammed in his brain), and to all the experts who kindly assisted me with foreign languages, 1940s speak, and accents reaching from South Carolina to Australia, thereby making me sound more worldly than I am.
My sincere appreciation goes to Michelle Guthrie, whose incomparable support carried me through, as did that of Jennifer Sidis, who knew when I should type
The End.
To those who inspired me with their contagious passion for learning while making me earn my “stripes”: Joel Malone, Scott “Carp” Carpenter, Pat Crouser, and Joe Palese. Also, of course, to the supremely talented Mike Rich, the effervescent Pixie Chicks, and Lt. Lynn “Buck” Compton, whose humility and devotion to serving others exemplifies what it truly means to be a hero.
While I relied upon a myriad of wonderful readers and historical sources, any errors that slipped through are mine alone. For generously sharing their knowledge, I thank: Dr. Gordon Canzler for his medical savvy, history/military buffs LTC Robert A. Lynn and Alan Cagle, author-historian Mark Bando, research buddy Pete Blaine, Chicago transportation–whiz Henry Morris, archivist extraordinaire Robynne Dexter of the U.S. Army Women’s Museum, the U.S. Army Military History Institute, Northwestern University Archives, and World War II veteran/historian Ken Brody, who assured me that I “got it right.” There is no greater compliment.
Thank you to my insightful and trusting editor, John Scognamiglio, and the rest of the Kensington team for turning my dream into reality; to my film-rights agent, Jon Cassir, at CAA, for raising that dream to a galactic level; and to Jennifer Schober—my literary agent, dear friend, and partner in crime—for whom there are no words strong enough to express my gratitude. Up next: world domination.
And finally, a most heartfelt thanks to my three favorite boys—my husband, Danny, and sons Tristan and Kiernan—for your overflowing love and patience, and for not complaining about six consecutive months of mac-and-cheese dinners while Mommy typed. You, alone, make life worth living. I love you to Jupiter, over a million cars, around a zillion trees—and back.
A portion of the author’s proceeds from the sale of
Letters from Home
will benefit United Through Reading
®
, a nonprofit organization that video records deployed U.S. military personnel reading bedtime stories for their children.
To learn more about this worthwhile program that promotes literacy while bringing together loved ones separated by tours of duty, visit: www.UnitedThroughReading.org/military.
Each separate page was like a fluttering flower-petal,
loosed from your own soul, and wafted thus to mine.
—Edmond Rostand,
Cyrano de Bergerac,
act iv, scene viii
July 4, 1944
Chicago, Illinois
S
ilence in the idling Cadillac grew as suffocating as the city’s humidity. Hands clenched on her lap, Liz Stephens averted her narrowed eyes toward the open passenger window. Chattering ladies and servicemen flocked by in the shadows; up and down they traveled over the concrete accordion of entrance steps. The sting of laughter and music drifted through the swinging glass doors, bounced off the colorless sky. Another holiday without gunpowder for celebration. No boom of metallic streamers, no sunbursts awakening the night. Only the fading memory of a simpler time.
A time when Liz knew whom she could trust.
“You know the Rotary doesn’t invite just anyone to speak,” Dalton Harris said finally. The same argument, same lack of apology in his voice. “What was I supposed to do? Tell my father I couldn’t be there because of some
dance?”
At his condescension, her gaze snapped to his slate gray eyes. “That,” she said, “is exactly what you should’ve done.”
“Honey. You’re being unreasonable.”
“So it’s unreasonable, wanting us to spend time together?”
“That’s not what I meant.” A scratch to the back of his neck punctuated his frustration, a habit that had lost the amusing charm it held when they were kids. Long before the expensive suits, the perfect ties, the Vitalis-slickening of his dark brown hair.
“Listen.” His square jaw slackened as he angled toward her, a debater shifting his approach. “When I was asked to run my dad’s campaign, we talked about this. I warned you my schedule would be crazy until the election. And you were the one who said I should do it, that between classes and work, you’d be—”
“As busy as ever,” she finished sharply. “Yes. I know what I said.” With Dalton in law school and her a sophomore at Northwestern, leading independent but complementary lives was nothing new; in fact, that had always been among the strengths of their relationship. Which was why he should know their separate activities weren’t the issue tonight.
“Then what’s the problem?”
“The problem is, anything else pops up, campaign or otherwise, and you don’t think twice about canceling on me.”
“I am
not
canceling. I’m asking you to come with me.”
Liz had attended enough political fund-raisers with him to know that whispers behind plastered smiles and greedy glad-handing would be highlights of the night. A night she could do without, even if not for her prior commitment.
“I already told you,” she said, “I promised the girls weeks ago I’d be here.” The main reason she’d agreed, given her condensed workload from summer school, was to repay Betty for accompanying her to that droning version of
Henry V
last week—just so Dalton’s ticket hadn’t gone to waste. “Why can’t you make an exception? Just this once?”
He dropped back in his seat, drew out a sigh. “Lizzy, it’s just a dance.”
No, it’s not. It’s more than that. I have to know I can depend on you!
Her throat fastened around her retort. Explosions of words, she knew all too well, could bring irreversible consequences.
She grabbed the door handle. “I have to go.” Before he could exit and circle around to open her side, she let herself out.
“Wait,” he called as she shut the door. “Sweetheart, hold on.”
The sudden plea in his voice tugged at her like strings, halting her. Could it be that he had changed his mind? That he was still the same guy she could count on?
She slid her hand into the pocket of her ivory wraparound dress, a shred of hope cupped in her palm, before pivoting to face him.
Dalton leaned across the seat toward her. “We’ll talk about this later, all right?”
Disappointment throbbed inside, a recurrent bruise. Bridling her reaction, she replied with a nod, fully aware her agreement would translate into a truce.
“Have a good time,” he said, then gripped the steering wheel and drove away.
As she turned for the stairs, she pulled her hand from her pocket, and discovered she’d been holding but a stray thread. The first sign of a seam unraveling.
In the entry of the dance hall, Liz stretched up on the balls of her feet to see over hats and heads. Her gaze penetrated the light haze of smoke to reach the stage. There, uniformed musicians played from behind star-patterned barricades of red, white, and blue. Flags and an oversized USO banner created a vibrant backdrop, Americana at its finest. In front of the band, her roommate Betty Cordell and two other women shared a standing microphone, harmonizing the final notes of “Don’t Sit Under the Apple Tree.”
The audience broke into applause.
“Swell.” Liz groaned. She’d missed Betty’s entire debut.
Correcting her presumption, the trio jumped into another jingle.
“Thank God.” Though not a particularly religious person, Liz figured it never hurt to offer a small token of appreciation to the Almighty.
Now to find her other roommate, Julia Renard. Despite the teeming room, it took only a moment to spy the girl’s fiery, collar-length curls, her ever-chic attire.
Liz wove through the sea of military uniforms and thick wafts of Aqua Velva. Ignoring a duet of catcalls, she slid into the empty chair next to her friend. “I’m so sorry I’m late.”
“Let me guess,” Julia ventured in her honey-sweet voice. “Mr. Donovan lost his dentures, or Thelma refused to take her pills, convinced you’re trying to poison her.”
Liz edged out a smile.
“You know, it wouldn’t kill you to get off work at a decent hour. You’re making the rest of us look bad.” She used her thumb to wipe something off Liz’s cheek. “So, is Dalton parking the car?”
Liz tried for a casual shrug. “A political thing came up at the last minute.”
Again
trailed her statement as the unspoken word.
“Oh,” Julia replied. Not even her glowing smile could hide the sympathy invading her copper eyes.
“It’s fine,” Liz insisted. “I can’t stay long anyway. I’ve got an essay on Hawthorne due Friday.”
Julia nodded, then detoured from the awkward pause. “Hey, I think I still have notes on Hawthorne from last semester. Want to borrow them?”
“Sure, thanks,” Liz said, before considering the source. “Unless you’ve got doodle designs covering the actual notes.”
Julia scrunched her mouth, pondering. “Well, there might be a few….”
Liz couldn’t help but giggle. If past lives existed, Julia had to have been an elite fashion designer with a permanently attached sketchpad. A keen knack for sewing served as further proof, as showcased by their roommate’s new dress.
“Speaking of which.” Liz motioned toward Betty. “You’ve really outdone yourself, Jules.” In the center of the crooning trio, the blonde sparkled in the form-fitted garment matching her ocean blue eyes. The fabric and buttons were so dazzling, Julia had obviously purchased the materials herself. No doubt the dress was already Betty’s favorite. From the exquisite sweetheart neckline to the elegant flow around her hips, every stitch perfectly flattered her hourglass curves. “Rita Hayworth?” Liz guessed at the inspiration.
“Yep,” Julia said proudly. “From the gown in
Blood and Sand.
Except I shortened it to the knee, and improved on the sleeves.”
“You’re amazing.”
Too amazing to waste your talent solely as a homemaker,
she wanted to say. But there was no need traversing that well-covered territory.
“It was nothing.” Julia blushed, waved her off. “You want something to drink?”
Liz only intended to stay for three songs, four tops. But some coffee to ripen her brain for a long night of reading wasn’t a bad idea. “A cup of joe would be great.”
“Coming right up.”
As Julia headed toward the snack table by the stage, Liz settled in her seat. She massaged the tension out of her palms and returned her attention to Betty. In a seasoned motion, the girl tossed her finger-waved mane off her shoulders. The bounce of her hips succeeded as a diversion from her moderate singing ability, evidenced by the front line of awestruck troops, her ideal audience.
Leave it to Betty. Up there, living carefree, without regrets. No academic pressures, no parents’ expectations looming overhead—
Jealous souls will not be answered.
The passage interrupted Liz’s thoughts, one of many Shakespearean quotes she had memorized from her father’s personal tutorials.
“One quote for every sun kiss,” he would say during the lessons that ended far too soon.
Now, glancing down at the constellation of freckles on her arms, Liz recalled those long-gone days. She considered the morals her father had passed along, and wondered how different their lives would be if only she’d abided by them.
“What the hell are you up to now?” Morgan McClain demanded as his brother ducked behind his back.
“Don’t move. Need you to cover me.” Charlie raised his shoulders to his sandy blond crew cut.
When Morgan glimpsed the silver flask in his brother’s hand, he shook his head. Charlie wasn’t the only enlisted man at the dance calling for “liquid reinforcement,” just the only one daring enough to dip into his supply ten feet from the volunteers’ snack station. Luckily, the herd of GIs standing around them at the foot of the stage offered plenty of khaki camouflage. Or at least Morgan clung to that hope as his brother choked on the drink. Whiskey, from the smell of it.
“Hurry up, will ya?” Morgan told him. Typically, he would have voiced his disproval, but with Charlie’s tension over tomorrow’s departure vibrating the air, he decided to let it go. So long as the kid didn’t get carried away.
“Ahh, much better,” Charlie rasped, emerging from the protective shadow. He stepped up behind a couple of GIs from another outfit, both of them wolf whistling at the platinum blond singer on stage. “Sorry, fellas”—Charlie clapped them on the back—“but she’s already agreed to mother my fourteen children.”
“Don’t fool yourself, shorty,” the tall guy spat out. “You wouldn’t know how to use it even if you could find it.”
Charlie straightened, adding a few inches to his compact stature. “Hey, at least I
have
one, spaghetti bender.”
“What’d you say?” The Italian GI angled his head over his wide shoulder.
“You heard me.” Charlie took a step back. He rocked from side to side, dukes raised like Jack Dempsey.
As usual, Morgan would have to shut him up before a bigger guy’s right hook beat him to it. “Zip it, Charlie,” he ordered, then regarded the Italian. “Don’t pay him any mind. It’s his first day out of the loony bin.” Not a stretch to believe, considering the mismatched challenge.
The GI’s mouth twitched, from either amusement or agitation. To be safe, Morgan gestured to the stage and said, “Don’t look now, but I think that red-hot tomato’s got her eye on you, pal.” The sentence launched the soldier’s attention back to the bombshell, where it stuck like glue.
Problem handled.
Except for the instigator.
“So help me, Charlie,” Morgan muttered, “if you weren’t…my …if …” The lecture dissolved at a vision beyond his brother’s shoulder. Across the room a petite beauty sat alone, swaying to the music. Strands of chestnut brown hair slipped from the knot at the nape of her neck, a frame for her heart-shaped face. Creamy skin, feminine curves, full, rounded lips. Each feature was no less than eye catching, but it was the way she moved—like wheat in a summer breeze—that mesmerized him.
“Hey, you okay?”
Morgan heard the question but didn’t realize it was directed at him until a fluttering object broke the trance: a wave of Charlie’s fingers.
“Huh? Uh, yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.”
Charlie swept a glance over the room, tracing the distraction. Soon a gleam appeared in his hazel eyes. “Aha, I see …” He twisted around and declared, “Gentlemen, we’ve located our primary target. We’re goin’ in.”
Before Morgan could object, his brother began pressing him through the crowd like a restive racehorse into the starting gate. GIs whooped, whistled, and hollered “attaboys” in his direction. If he retreated now, the razzing would only worsen.
He pulled a deep breath. Adjusting his tucked necktie, he imagined introducing himself; he got as far as his name when a red-haired woman joined the brunette’s table. A growing audience. His shoes turned to cinder blocks. He raised an arm to stop his brother, who swooped under and pounced into place, blocking the women’s view of the stage.