Letters From Home (20 page)

Amending the comment, she added, “Now that I’ve grown up, though, I just want to be the best wife I can for my husband.”

Ian bent down and picked up a few large pebbles without breaking stride. He side-armed one down the path, skimming as if on a frozen lake. “And what about your career?” he asked.

“Well…my job will be looking after our home.”

“But I thought you’d been offered an internship. Something in New York. In the fashion biz.”

She slowed her steps, taken aback. “How did you hear about—” she started to say, then concluded: His brother must have written him, informed him of the flattering but impractical opportunity. She’d only told Christian in a brief mention, buried in a string of the usual updates. Withholding the information, after all, would be dishonest.

“I turned it down,” she said with finality. “With us getting married, there’s no reason to go.”

“Did Chris say you couldn’t?” Ian threw another rock, harder.

“What?
No, that’s ridiculous.” Her laugh came out short, nervous sounding. “He wouldn’t have—he didn’t have to. I made the decision on my own. For the two of us.” Somehow, when she wasn’t paying attention, the casualness of their discussion had ended. She found herself in a minefield, navigating right and wrong answers.

“It’s something you enjoy, though, right?” Not a question; a statement with an underlying chill matching the air.

“Yes, I suppose….” Shame tinted her thoughts—from how long she had waited to decline the offer, how she’d responded cowardly with a note. Flustered, she answered now with the only truth that mattered. “But I love Christian more.”

Leaves rustled, a car engine coughed, and the conversation died. Yet the thoughts it propelled in Julia didn’t.

Had she said something to Ian earlier to bring this on? When she’d spoken about Liz’s teaching plans, had Julia implied she regretted her decision?

No. That couldn’t be. Because she didn’t regret a thing.

Why, then, did she feel the smothering anxiety of an inquisition? As if he were looking for something, a mistake, a flaw.

Their pace climbed, along with her defenses. She glanced at him, at the guarded expression she knew all too well.

Of course.

How could she have missed it? The way Ian had been so charming all evening—like Clark Gable as a spy in
Comrade X
—relaxing her so she’d spill her secrets. She wanted to ask what it was he held against her. Yet before she could craft an appropriate phrase, Ian huffed. Perhaps meant only for himself, but too blatant, too derisive, for her to ignore.

Her legs froze. “What does
that
mean?”

He faced her and regarded her expression. “I didn’t say anything.”

“But you were thinking something. So say it.”

He paused before replying. “It doesn’t matter.” When he tried to walk away, she tugged the elbow of his sleeve, sharply.

“It matters to
me,
“ she told him.

He turned toward the cars traversing the grid of the city, his focus on a theater glowing pink and white neon. His feet shuffled in place as though itching to flee.

In her periphery, she noticed a silhouetted couple on a park bench a few yards off the path. When Ian’s gaze panned the necking teenagers, he muttered, “C’mon, let’s go.” He set off without waiting for her.

“Ian, wait,” she said, trying to catch up. “What is it?”

“Nothing.”

She couldn’t contain her frustration a minute more. She was through with being judged. “If you don’t think I’m good enough for your brother, you should just say so!”

He stopped as if hitting an invisible wall, and wheeled. A look of genuine astoundment contorted his face. “Julia. That’s not it.”

“Then
what?”
She charged up to him. “What were you thinking?”

“I don’t—you’re just, you’re—”

“What? I’m what?”

“Perfect, all right?” he burst out. “You’re one more perfect thing in my brother’s life!”

She stared, stunned. “Ian,” she mouthed.

“Everything comes so damn easy for Chris, and now he’s got
you!
Someone who’s willing to sacrifice anything for him.”

He jerked his face to the side. The tremble in his breaths, the strain in his neck muscles, all revived the intensity of the night in his room. She could feel the hungry sorrow inside him clawing him back down. She scraped for a reply, something to soothe him, to keep him from retreating. Instead, she simply touched his wrist.

He didn’t pull away.

“Ian,” she told him, “any girl would be lucky to be with you. You’re amazing, and funny, and …” She strengthened her assertion. “You’re going to find a woman who makes you happy, I just know it.” She titled her head, seeking eye contact, to confirm he was listening.

His gaze lowered and locked with hers. The sheer desire pouring from his eyes caused her heart to seize, a shiver to race down her back.

“I’ve already found her,” he said, a wisp of a voice.

Before she could think, he hooked the nape of her neck with his hand and drew her close. The mist of their breaths mingled as he leaned in, eliminating the final inches separating their lips. The raw passion of his kiss sealed her eyes, drained her strength. He swept his tongue across hers. His fingers slid through her hair. A flash of a moment and his mouth was on her neck. Primitive, strong, wanting. She could feel herself slipping away, her head drifting to the side, an invitation for more. As he pressed his body forward, heat from his skin burned through her clothing. The moisture of his lips traveled downward, and the whispering of her name rose, spoken against her collarbone. Julia. She was Julia. And he was …

Ian.

Senses sobering, she lifted her eyelids.

Jesus, what were they doing? What was
she
doing?

Stop!
her mind screamed as his mouth again covered hers. Confusion and panic rode her veins. Her hands tunneled up between them to reach his chest. He held her tighter.

“Ian, don’t!” She shoved him away with a desperate heave. From her mouth came a spearing gasp of regret. “What just happened?” she whispered into her glove-covered palm, a barricade raised too late.

“Julia,” he said, and reached for her, but she yanked herself out of the way.

She couldn’t be touched. She couldn’t look at him. “I have to go,” she said, and spun around to leave.

The clicking of her heels kept time with her thumping pulse. Behind her, she could feel Ian’s eyes like scorching needles on her back. Hatred for him swelled with every step, every thought—not merely for what he did, but for the poisonous seeds of doubt he’d planted within her.

21

December 18, 1944
Belgium

A
stab to Morgan’s ear jarred him awake. His arms shot out of his sleeping bag. Reflexively, he snagged the Luger from the field jacket beneath his head and sprang up to a sitting position. He pointed the pistol forward, heart pounding, vision straining.

“Mac, don’t shoot! He’s unarmed!” Jack’s voice.

Morgan let loose a breath and relaxed his finger on the trigger, just as laughter cut through the frosty air. He rubbed his eyes with his left hand and identified the predator: a scrawny, tattered chicken, the last original resident of the barn where the eight GIs were billeted.

As he shooed the bird away, he felt spider legs run downward from his ear. He shuddered a small convulsion. He frantically swatted at his neck and he discovered it was …bread crumbs? How the hell—

“Baaawk! Bawk, bawk, bawk, bawk!” Jack’s mimicked squawking answered the question. The human birdbrain clomped over the tainted straw, bent elbows flapping, pecking the air with his nose. On a hay bale in the corner, Frank sat wrapped in a blanket, his smirk as broad as Charlie’s across the room.

Morgan lay down, muttering, “Bastards.” He gazed at the abandoned bird nest on the rafter above, irritated that he was suddenly so awake. Until today, ever a light sleeper, he’d been exempt from their nighttime pranks. Come to think of it, his stint of sleep just now had been remarkably deep. Must have been his body’s self-reward for the two-hour guard duty he’d posted during last night’s blizzard. Back and forth, back and forth, no breaks in his pacing. Not for military diligence, but because nodding off and freezing to the ground was a quick way to earn admission through the Pearly Gates.

“Runner just left,” Charlie told him. “Said chow’s up for grabs.”

“See you soon, Sleeping Beauty,” Jack called out before clucking again. Charlie laughed while following Jack and two other GIs toward the doorway, all bundled in long brown overcoats.

Morgan wanted to throw something heavy in Jack’s direction, but decided it wasn’t worth the effort. What’s more, knocking out one of the tag-team breakfast fetchers would mean having to hike to the mess tent himself.

When Jack slid the door open on its track, snow-reflective light flooded the dim barn. Morgan jerked away. His eyes ached as though he’d stared straight into the sun.

“Oh, and Morgan,” he heard Charlie say, “try not to scare the chicken off while we’re gone. Gonna need her for supper later.”

“Why, Chap?” Jack said. “You looking for a date tonight?”

The door rolled shut.

Morgan blinked away the white spots floating before him like lightning bugs. Gradually, clarity of the weathered walls returned, the boards grooved and faded, gouged from horses’ hooves and equipment, peppered with lone rusty nails. He then made out the figure sitting hunched against the opposite wall: “Geronimo”—one-quarter Apache, full-blooded rancher from Lubbock. Reserved as always, he appeared engrossed in a Wild West pocket novel from a Red Cross volunteer.

Morgan settled back in and closed his eyes. He tried to clear his mind, tried to sleep. He covered his ears with his jacket-turned-pillow to quiet the rustling of Geronimo turning pages. Finally, the start of grogginess fingered toward him, until a loud crack came from outside. He snapped upright.

Frank afforded the small filthy window above him a two-second glance, then back to his letter writing. Geronimo simply flipped another page in his story. Neither showed concern, but Morgan still found his body rising to investigate. Better safe than sorry.

Cocooned in his blankets, Luger at his side, he used his sleeve to wipe a circle clean on the glass pane. Flawless white snow covered nearly every inch of the country road outside.

Then came another crack.

This time he saw the source: a pine tree bough collapsing under the weight of that pretty, harmless-looking snow. In nature, he’d learned, everything had a breaking point. And beauty could be deceiving.

“A little jumpy today?” Frank asked him.

“Gee, I wonder why.”

Frank grinned as if reliving Jack’s stunt in his mind. “Looks like you had a nice nap, at least.”

“Yeah,” Morgan said, still amazed at the fact. “Actually slept like I was back home.”

“You farm boys always sleep in barns?”

“Only on special occasions.” The answer conjured a flashback from Morgan’s early teens, he and Charlie passed out in the hayloft. They’d spent half the night flexing their rebellious muscles with a fifth of cheap whiskey and a hand-rolled cigarette. A long day of fieldwork with brutal hangovers had served as their father’s most effective punishment.

Morgan grabbed a seat on a bale, set his pistol aside. Until he could quell his jitters, sleep would be a lost cause. “So where’s Boomer?” he asked.

“Pneumonia.” Frank’s tone was matter-of-fact. “Sarge came to get him while you were sleepin'. Sent him to a rear field hospital.”

The Florida-native firefighter never stood a chance against the weather. “Poor guy.”

“Yeah, but at least his hackin’ won’t keep us up anymore. I could use the rest.”

Not long ago, Morgan’s first inclination would have been to protest the coldhearted comment. Instead, he found himself nodding in agreement. “Wish I’d jotted down some of the guy’s punch lines.”

“He had some whoppers, I’ll give him that.”

“Five bucks says he’s showing off his ‘girlfriend’ as we speak.”

“Ten bucks says the docs will find her more amusin’ than the nurses.”

Morgan smiled, imagining their reactions to the pinup model tattooed on Boomer’s forearm jiggling and dancing as he wiggled his knuckles.

It was always rougher losing the funny ones.

“Writing June?” Morgan motioned toward the scrawled paper on Frank’s lap.

With a shrug, Frank replied, “God knows when mail’s coming around, but might as well keep scribblin'.” His hands, swollen from cuts, evidenced a recent night of preparing barbed-wire apron entanglements minus the hindrance of gloves. The skin was chapped and cracked, painful for sure, but the guy was never one to complain.

“Now, Rev, you need any poems for June, you be sure and tell me.”

Frank grinned. “Thanks, but I’ll stick with my standards.”

“Suit yourself,” he said. “So long as you don’t forget to rave about all your high-class buddies here.”

“Always do. Right after I give her the dope about our gourmet food and fancy hotels.”

Despite the lighthearted delivery, Morgan knew there was truth in his friend’s clowning; no doubt the majority of soldiers packed their letters with similar falsehoods. All well meant, but Morgan had yet to find comfort in the fibbing-out-of-love principle. Even with his father, it had taken years for Morgan’s resentment to dissipate over the lie that stole the meaningful good-byes he and Charlie had deserved with their mother. A moment they could never get back.

Morgan flinched at a thud on the barn roof, then a sliding sound. Another branch. He huffed solid breaths into his cold, cupped hands. “So,” he said, “you marrying this girl, or what?”

“Better believe it, Mac.” Frank pulled a small photo out of his pocket, rubbed the edge with his thumb. “We get home, first thing I’m gonna do is get down on one knee and pop the question.”

Morgan glanced at the snapshot, already familiar with her sweet doe eyes and long black hair. The photo had accumulated no fewer wrinkles than Betty’s from periodic peeks.

“And what about
your
gal?” Frank asked.

“What do you mean?”

“You know, the blonde who sends those letters you can’t put down?”

Morgan felt his ears redden, yet his nerves calming at the thought of her. “Not sure, just have to see. It’s not like you and June,” he said. “I really hardly know her.”

Frank slanted a smile. “You sure trade a lot of mail with a dame you hardly know.”

Morgan’s gaze dropped to the floor. Was he completely off his nut to fall for a girl he’d exchanged all of a dozen words with in person? The question had been passing through his mind more and more frequently, always disappearing before logic could respond.

Ah, what the hell. If anyone would give him a straight answer, it was Frank.

“Thing is,” Morgan admitted, “I barely spoke to her when we met. But now, I just…I think she might be the gal for me.” He scuffed his boot in the dirt. “Sounds pretty stupid, huh?”

“Nah, not a bit. The second I first saw June walk into that diner, I knew right then.” Frank hesitated and his eyes darkened. “You wanna hear stupid, it’s me being stubborn. Telling her she has to move to Chicago to be with me, rather than stay in New York where her family lives.” He pointed his pen at Morgan. “I tell you this much. When we’re back stateside, I don’t care if it’s New York or Mars, wherever she is, that’s where I’m gonna be.”

The door squeaked open, severing the discussion, one Morgan suspected would never continue.

Charlie stomped into the barn and shook off his snow-covered overshoes. The other GIs trailed directly behind. The chicken made a sad attempt to flap out of their way.

“Breakfast is served, ladies.” Charlie handed Morgan the standard special of the week: a canteen of chilled coffee and a mess kit filled with cold oatmeal and flapjacks. Not a brass-worthy spread, but a step up from another can of pork ‘n’ beans. “Gonna have to wolf it down, though. We’re movin’ out.”

“How soon?” Frank asked.

“Didn’t say.” Jack passed along Frank’s meal. “But convoys should be rolling in any minute.”

Frank slid his paper into the coat pocket where he stored letters from June. When he caught Morgan’s eye, they exchanged a swift look of understanding. Neither was about to tear up his most treasured items, regardless of the policy for GIs headed to the front.

While their buddies gathered up, the two of them joined Geronimo in shoveling down their food. They ate their pancakes as eagerly as if they were hot off the griddle and slathered with maple syrup. Morgan had barely swallowed his first spoonful of the bland, pasty oatmeal when he heard wheels crunching snow outside. An icy siren calling them back to war.

All seven soldiers, packed and layered in combat gear, raced out to put dibs on a wooden-bench spot in the rear of a cold truck. Much like the Army slop lines, seats were obtained on a first-come-first-served basis, the tailgate favored for its fresher air and convenient escape route. Somehow, it was a seat Charlie always managed to nab.

The convoy soon set off for an undisclosed destination.

Over slippery roads, the trucks crept along. They stopped intermittently, waiting for signals to continue, occasionally heaving vehicles mired in the semi-frozen mud. Rounding the sixth hour, Morgan studied the haggard GIs seated across from him—noses as red as their bloodshot eyes, bodies hunched, faces drawn. In eerie silence they swayed, like passengers in a hearse being driven to their own funerals.

The way Allied troops had been storming across Europe, rumors that the war would be over by Christmas had flurried. Fellas in Morgan’s outfit had gone into great detail describing the turkey dinners they planned to devour with their families and the evenings they’d spend singing along with tunes on a Victrola. Thus, enthusiasm had plummeted like never before when the news arrived: Kraut paratroopers were dropping throughout Belgium; disguised, English-speaking saboteurs were infiltrating American camps; and Allied infantry were retreating westward in masses.

If not for telling Betty he’d hold firm to the belief of making it home, surrendering his hope might have been an option.

After ten long hours, the convoy came to a halt, this time with orders to proceed on foot. In a single column of human dominoes, they marched thirty feet apart as a defense strategy.

Morgan stared at the muddy trail ahead. Lining the road, GI helmets topped bayoneted rifles planted in the ground; each acted as a “litter” marker for the frozen soldiers lying in the ditches awaiting proper burial. Horse and cow carcasses lay half buried in the snow, adding to the smell of decay and despair. In the opposing direction, a drove of refugees and civilians marched endlessly to nowhere. The feeble travelers, forced to abandon their homes, hauled only their lightest and most valuable belongings.