Letters From Home (19 page)

She glimpsed the picture he was fashioning in lead. A squinty animal. Round and furry. Quite good, actually. “That’s a lovely koala,” she said.

He halted and raised his glacier blue eyes. See there? A simple stroke to the ego was all it took. Typical male traits clearly knew no national boundaries.

“It’s a wombat,” he corrected her with a slight edge.

“Oh. Right.” She kept her smile while thinking,
What the heck is
that?

Back to the mission.

She presented his envelope. “They missed this one, during mail call.” She set it next to him on the sheet and added in a playful tone, “One of your many lady friends, I suppose.” She waited for a reaction, a denial or affirmation.

He returned to his drawing pad. “Ta,” was all he said, tossed out like last week’s funnies. A bone to a whimpering dog.

Her jaw gaped for only a moment before she sealed it shut, hiding her simmering frustration.

Admittedly she wasn’t in top form, but she’d still declined enough date requests from patients to know she deserved a warmer reception. After all, most men on the island had gone without seeing a civilized female for over a year. It hadn’t taken her long to figure out that barbed wire surrounded the girls’ barracks more to protect the nursing staff from their own soldiers than the enemy.

So what reason could he possibly have for snubbing her outright? And what did he think made
him
so special?

The one thing she did know: She wasn’t going to stick around to find out.

“Good day, Lieutenant,” she said through tight lips, and strode off before he could reply.

20

November 1944
Chicago, Illinois

J
ulia snatched a napkin from the tabletop dispenser and wiped the chocolate shake dripping down her chin. She narrowed her eyes at Ian and tried for a scowl. But her giggles swiftly broke through and blended with the clamor of the hamburger joint—the sporadic dinging of a service bell, the prattling of customers, a Tommy Dorsey tune on the nickelodeon.

Ian reclined in his white booth seat with a cocky grin.

“You did that on purpose!” She hurled her wadded napkin at him.

He showed his palms, a poor feign of innocence. “Not my fault you took a drink right then. I was just telling a story here.”

Contemplating his tale, she eyed him dubiously, scanning for truth. “Did you and your buddies actually do that?”

“You wouldn’t blame us if you knew the sarge. He was a real boot.” Ian chomped on the last of his fries.

“So, then what did he do,” she challenged, “when he found the poor animal in his bed?”

“That’s the topper of it all,” he mumbled around his food, then washed it down with a slurp of malt. “Sarge was so drunk, he rolled over and gave the goat a smooch on the kisser. Sobered him right up when he realized the hairy thing wasn’t his wife.”

The image sent giggles again flowing out of Julia. So many this time, her stomach muscles revisited the weariness of a hike around Devils Lake from her Girl Scout days.

“Whole prank was my bunkmate’s idea. Sarge had it in for the fella since day one. And all because Marv’s last name was Sir. He’d scream in his face, ‘I hope you don’t expect me to call you Sir, Private!’ “ Ian shook his head. “Marv must’ve had double the amount of duties, on account of that blessed name.”

Recovering, Julia dabbed her happy tears with a fresh napkin and leaned back to catch her breath. Exaggerated or not, his stories were keepers.

“Are you sure you were in the war all this time?” she said. “Sounds more like a fraternity party to me.”

The broadness of his smile withered unexpectedly. Memories seemed to pass like a stream beneath his cloudy hazel eyes. “Had our share of both good times and bad, I suppose.” His words came out heavy, almost muffled. He rubbed his thumb on his beveled malt glass, then shifted his gaze to the darkened window.

Julia regretted the insinuation of her quip. Awkwardness had dangled between them when they first reunited at the bowling alley tonight, but by the fourth frame enough laughter and ribbing had brushed the discomfort away. So much so, in fact, the incidents from her visit the month before—his family dinner quarrel and nightmare manifestation—had slipped into the outskirts of her mind. Only once during their game had she witnessed him jolt at the cracking of bowling pins. And even that was easy to dismiss, given his smart appearance. The pressed slacks and button-up shirt, the Brylcreem-slicked hair. Though still leaner than he was prior to the service, Ian’s face had gained a healthy fullness, increasing the warmth he now exuded in her direction. At last, an air of acceptance for his brother’s girl.

And she wasn’t about to lose it.

Julia aimed for a sly expression. “So what do you think Christian’s going to say? You know, when he hears I whipped his big brother at bowling.”

Ian smiled as he met her eyes, his outer glow returning. In the reflective glass, he was again the spitting image of her fiancé. “Well, he might have some trouble buying that one.”

“Oh, and why’s that? Because no male Downing could possibly be beaten by a girl?”

He moistened his lips and leaned forward, elbows on the table. A curling motion of his finger invited her closer. She obliged, eyebrow raised. The intimate space between them felt cozy as flannel. A space reserved for Christian that only his sibling could borrow with ease.

“Truth is,” he said quietly, “I might’ve understated my usual score by a bit.” A likely excuse to protect his male ego.

“Are you claiming you
let
me win?”

He sat back. Another grin settled on his face. “You really did bowl a decent game,” he assured her. “If it’s any consolation, it’s one of the few sports I still beat Chris at.”

As she analyzed the remark, her pride began to cower. She knew firsthand that Christian’s athletic abilities didn’t exclude the art of bowling. Which meant, if Ian was being as honest as he sounded, he indeed had purposely fumbled tonight’s game of tenpins.

She flew back in her seat and crossed her arms, feeling her cheeks flush. “I did a victory dance for five minutes, and you never said a word.”

“I didn’t want to interrupt,” he said, and winked. “Besides, the pinsetter loved your dance.”

Julia huffed with a glare. “Okay, that’s it. I want a rematch. Right now.”

“Are you out of your tree?” he asked, incredulous. “The bowling alley’s closing soon.”

“Not bowling….” She pondered alternatives that leveled the playing ground.

“What, lagging pennies?”

“Backgammon,” she announced. “Unless that’s too intellectual for you.”

A smile caught his lips. “We’ll find out, won’t we?”

At that moment, she realized how much youthful feistiness was still within her—like a pair of mittens she had thought she’d outgrown, yet was still a perfect fit.

Ian gestured to the pile of fries in her burger basket. “Gonna finish those?”

“Be my guest.” She slid the basket toward him. “Cheater.”

Grinning, he reached between the salt and pepper shakers for the bottle of ketchup.

“Here, you missed one.” She lobbed a stray fry toward the basket, but overshot and hit Ian in the chest. His mouth fell open in astonishment.

She did her best to stave off laughter. Regardless of how it came across, she never would have done such a thing intentionally. “I’m so sorry. Honest, I didn’t mean to.”

“Uh-huh,” he said, tongue pressed against his inner cheek.

“No, really. It was an accident.”

He grabbed a handful of the flimsy potatoes. “Did you say you were still hungry?”

Her amusement dropped off. “You wouldn’t dare!”

“How rude of me not to offer you some.” He retracted his elbow, preparing to pitch.

“Ian—”

She tried to duck sideways in time, but the cluster hit her square in the cheek. She wiped the moisture off her face. A glob of ketchup. He exploded into laughter, emanating pure, unbridled joy, a sound she could revel in all evening—if not for retaliation taking precedence.

Julia lurched for the oval basket, catching only the rim as Ian raised it up.

“Let go!” she ordered.

“Not a chance, peach.”

A tug-of-war for the ammunition ensued, back and forth, lone fries diving this way and that. Both held firm, taking care not to yank too hard for risk of receiving a lapful.

“I take it you kids are done here.” A stern female voice came from the side.

Ian and Julia froze. They tentatively turned their heads up toward the waitress, whose dimpled elbows led to fists on apron-stretched hips. Clearly her wages didn’t justify mopping up after the outbreak of a diner-wide food fight.

“Real shame you won’t be staying for dessert.” The woman confiscated their baskets and grunted as she ambled off. Once she’d disappeared through the swinging kitchen door, Julia returned to Ian. Muffled laughs snuck from their guts until finally tapering off.

“Still up for that rematch?” he asked.

“So long as I get the ivories.”

“We’ll see about that.” He tossed a few crinkled bills onto the table. Then he helped her into her winter coat and extended his palm. She accepted with a smile. Hand in his, she followed him toward the door, every cell in her body soaking warmth from their unexpected connection.

The scent of roasting almonds wafted from a vendor’s cart in the shadows. Rubbing her arms against the crisp night air, Julia surveyed the ground that surrounded the massive oak tree. Late November, and its braches remained dressed, denying the inevitable.

“It’s somewhere overrr …there.” She pointed toward the flowerbed beside the long runway of hedgerow lining the park. A street lamp fingered shadows over the secret spot, a hand protecting the treasure of her youth.

“I take it you got a permit,” Ian said, “with this being city-owned property.” He looked at her askance with a hint of a smile.

Funny, it had never occurred to her she might have broken the law by burying her shoe box. A bona fide criminal at six years old. The very idea tickled her. “I suppose I was a bit of a rebel at times.” She continued leisurely on the walking path speckled with leaves like an autumn stew.

“Sorta figured that about ya,” he said, joining her.

She wasn’t sure how to take that, but it sounded like a compliment.

In the background, the “L” rattled a melody on its tracks. Julia rubbed her gloved hands together, noting how quickly summer had passed. The heat she had absorbed at the diner was escaping through her stockings. She would have worn a longer skirt if bowling hadn’t been among their planned activities.

“This your way of delaying the rematch?” he asked. “Or you just wanting a stroll down memory lane?”

She tossed him a semi-glare. “We’re taking a shortcut to the bus stop.”

“Thought maybe you were getting nervous, thinking of backing out.”

“If anyone’s turning chicken, it isn’t me.”

“Dandy,” he said. “Although you should probably know that in high school, I was president of the Backgammon Club. Genesee County champ, three seasons running.”

She halted at the news. “Are you serious?” Of all the games she could have chosen.

His mouth split into a slow grin. “Nah. Just giving you guff.”

Chuckling, she lolled her head back. Then she pushed him from the walkway and onto the shadowed grass. “You’re evil, you
know
that.”

“Guess it makes sense that we get along so well, then, doesn’t it?”

She shook her head as they treaded onward, their first wordless moment of the evening, comfortable as childhood friends.

At last, angling toward his profile, she said what she’d been waiting to all evening. “All joking aside, Ian, it’s really good to see you. I know you said you’d come out here sometime, but when I didn’t hear from you, I thought you’d changed your mind.”

Seriousness crept over him, drawing his shoulders down. “After what happened, I wasn’t sure you’d want me to.” He dug his hands into his pockets, gave her a sideways glance. “By the way, thank you,” he said. “For not telling my folks.”

She replied simply, “There was nothing to tell.”

Quiet billowed as they passed a pair of picnic tables, empty and gray in the night. She thought of George and Cora, and the gray emptiness that lurked in the corners of their home. There, Ian remained an unsettled ghost, stuck between worlds of who he used to be and who he’d become.

Julia’s sympathy for all three of them spilled over. “They love you, you know. Very much. They just need time. Same as you.”

He didn’t speak, but she heard his thoughts like a distant voice:
Maybe so …maybe so.

Careful not to push too hard, she continued, “Are things getting better? For you, I mean. Because you seem so much better.”

He shrugged a little. “Comes and goes some days. But yeah, it’s been better,” he said. “Since your visit.”

In the tinged glow of another street lamp, he sucked in a breath and projected a smile, the kind that took effort. “So what’s in it? In that time capsule of yours?”

She honored his redirection by summoning the old images. “Well, if I remember correctly …I threw in a kazoo, the front page of a newspaper. A ‘31 Lincoln penny, and a handful of candy, I think. Oh, and a whole wad of hair ribbons.”

“Hair ribbons?”

“Every color of the rainbow,” she said. Then she confessed, “I actually only put them in there so I wouldn’t have to wear them anymore.”

“Did it work?”

She rolled her eyes. “I wish. My mother ended up buying me two new sets.”

“I see,” he drew out. “So you were the tree-climbing, world-explorer type.”

“You could say that.” Julia smiled. “My mom had a heck of a time forcing the tomboy out of me.” As soon as the words escaped, she realized how terrible her admission might have come across. How it could rule her an ill-suited match for his younger brother, or an improper mother if they were to be blessed with baby girls. A tip she’d snagged from
Ladies’ Home Journal.