Letters From Home

by Kristina McMorris

  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.”

  Liz tensed, suddenly aware they’d had an audience. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “My vision may be fading, but I’ve got ears like a deer.”

  “It was nothing. Just been busy. And the event slipped my mind.”

  “You certain that’s it? ‘Cause for a bride, you sure aren’t doing much blushing.”

  For a second, Liz considered sticking with denial, but she couldn’t drum up the energy. Even if she could, the look in Viola’s eyes made clear who would win the battle.

  With a sigh, Liz reseated herself on the bed. She plunged her elbows into her lap, buried her face in the bundled scarf. And through the fabric, she mumbled her confession. “I’ve met someone else,” she said. It was as good a start as any. “And?”

  Liz turned to Viola, coaxing herself onward. “He’s a soldier I’ve been writing, ever since he shipped off to Europe. And although it seems crazy”—she shoved the phrase from its hold—“I think I’ve fallen in love with him.”

  There. She had said it.

  Yet she didn’t feel any better.

  “He has the same feelings for you, I take it?”

  “Well, yes …and no.”

  “I’m listenin'.”

  Bolstering her courage, Liz answered. “He thinks my letters are from another girl.”

  Viola squinted. She nodded slowly, processing. “Let me see if I got this right. You’ve taken a liking to a boy, one you’ve kept hidden from your fiancé, through letters you’re trading while pretending to be someone else.”

  Summarized aloud, the situation sounded utterly despicable.

  “Yes,” Liz replied, light as a gasp.

  “Mmm,” Viola said. “And now you’re worried you’re making a mistake with the fella you got.”

  Liz was about to skim by with a “maybe,” but then, somewhere inside her, a drawbridge dropped and out the words surged. “I love Dalton, I just don’t know if I’m in love with him. When I think of us together, my life is a blur, like I’m lost in a crowd. But with Morgan, everything’s clear. As if he’s the one person who understands me.”

  From Viola’s silent stare, Liz felt the scrutiny of a patient’s exam. It seemed hours until Viola spoke. “I believe I’ve got the perfect story for this situation.”

  Liz smiled wearily. “Why doesn’t that surprise me.”

  Clasping her hands over her nightgown, Viola reclined int
o her pillows. She took a deep, measured breath and began. “I was barely sixteen when I met the most dashing boy I’d ever laid eyes on. The moment I saw him standing at the door, you could’ve knocked me down with a feather.” Pink eased a youthful radiance into her cheeks. “We went on a double date, to the carrot festival, of all things. He was there to escort my friend Lorraine, so naturally I didn’t let on how I felt.” She shook her head, remembering. “He was a stitch, he was. Always doing things to make people laugh. He’d walk on his hands till his face was beet red. And boy oh boy, could he imitate people’s voices. He’d do it so well you’d think the mayor himself was talking behind you till you turned around.”

  Viola paused and her expression dimmed. “It wasn’t long before his daddy got fired from the mill. That man was a downright mean drunk, couldn’t get any other work in town. Decided to pack up and move cross-country. ‘Course, I was crushed by the news. Thought for sure I’d wave good-bye to the boy, and that’d be that.

  “But then, one night, he and I ended up at a bonfire together. And that’s when he confessed it all. Told me how smitten he was. How he’d been hiding his feelings on account of not knowing I felt the same. I couldn’t help myself. Handed him a platter full of truth right back. He was leaving the next morning, figured I had nothing to lose.”

  Somehow, all these years, Liz had never thought to ask Viola how she’d met her dear late husband, Merle, and now wanted every detail. More than that, she needed confirmation that true love actually existed. “Then what happened?” she asked.

  “He kissed me,” Viola said proudly, and traced a quivering finger over her bottom lip. “It was a kiss more breathtaking than the sky on the Fourth of July. And there, sitting in front of that blazing fire, he asked me to run off with him.”

  “Well, what did you say?”

  “I said yes, of course. Then I threw as many belongings into a knapsack as could possibly fit. Met him by the railroad tracks just like we’d planned—although we didn’t get farther than the county line when we had to turn back around.”

  Liz felt a tinge of disappointment. Running away sounded so lovely right about now. “Did a sheriff catch you? Or your parents?”

  Viola shook her head, a tender smile on her lips. “The decision was mine. I couldn’t leave my family, everything I’d ever known to follow some big dream in the clouds. We didn’t have so much as a plug nickel in our pockets, and I knew we couldn’t survive like that. That wasn’t real life. We had been fool-headed to think it was.”

  All right, so they’d taken a more practical route. Things had still worked out somehow. “Merle didn’t move away, then?” Liz asked, yearning for a happy ending.

  “Merle, move away? Oh, no, he never left. Not till we got married, anyhow, and settled in a charming place about five miles from here with our two youngest. But Merle, well—he’s not the boy in the story.”

  Liz wrinkled her nose, confused. “I’m not sure I follow you.”

  “The boy in the story was Nathan James. Morning after the bonfire, he left with his daddy. New Mexico, some folks said, though I’m not positive. Never did hear from him again.”

  The recount had taken an unexpected twist. However, when Liz identified the applicable lesson—the repercussions of not following your heart—she smiled. “Do you have any regrets?” she said.

  “Oh, sure. I have my share. Same as anyone, I suppose. But if you’re asking, Do I wish I’d gone with Nathan? the answer’s no. I did the only thing that made sense. And despite an occasional tribulation, I’ve lived a pleasant life all in all.”

  Liz felt her heart sinking in stages. This wasn’t the tale, or the advice, she was hoping for.

  “Of course,” Viola added, “that doesn’t change the fact that Nathan James was the most dashing boy I ever met. And I will remember that kiss till the end of time.” She gazed at Liz with gentle eyes. “Honey. You get what I’m telling you?”

  Yes, she understood; but in this case, it was Viola who didn’t understand.

  “I appreciate what you’re saying, Vy. This isn’t the same, though. The way I feel about Morgan, it’s …” How could she put indescribable emotion into words? “It’s stronger than any feeling I’ve ever known. It’s like I can tell him anything. Like we truly know each other.”

  Viola lifted a brow. “You certain about that? About telling him anything?”

  “Yes,” she insisted.

  “Like who you actually are?”

  The question blindsided Liz. It pierced all her supportive arguments in a single shot, rendering her speechless.

  The wrinkles on Viola’s chin softened. “Might not seem like it right now, but I am on your side, sweet pea. I just think you’d be doing yourself a real injustice by not taking a long hard look at the path you’re considering. It’s not often we’re allowed to shimmy backward once we take those first steps.” She moved a strand of Liz’s hair aside and looked at her lovingly. “Could be there’s a mighty good reason you haven’t told that fella who you are.”

  Sure, there were a rash of reasons: Dalton, her father, her tidy plan for the future.

  But those, Liz now realized, were not what had truly stopped her. The greatest reason for her deception remained from the start: A false name served as a last-line defense, an epistolary shield, given that in person, as herself, she hadn’t held his interest.

  And lying about her identity had hardly been a way to change that.

  “You’re right,” she admitted to Viola, to herself, her voice a pinched whisper. “It’s not real.” The acknowledgment sprang moisture to her eyes, feeding tears that soon slipped away.

  Viola reached out and enfolded her in the wings of her arms. “There, there, now,” she said, and patted her back.

  Liz wanted to remain like this forever. She wanted to stop time from moving, to avoid making a choice. But the choice, she knew, had already been made. And there was no use drawing it out. Even without the ominous lapse since Morgan’s post, she’d been kidding herself, thinking they could actually have a future together.

  All things considered, and painful though it would be, Liz accepted what she needed to do. Eyes squeezed shut, heart crumbling, she said good-bye to Morgan for good.

  23

  December 19, 1944

  Slevant, Belgium

  As darkness slid into dawn, Morgan battled his shivers with warm thoughts: hot coffee by a campfire, the tool shed in July, Betty’s letters. Yet nothing could stop the chill from invading his bones.

  Scrunched in the snow, blanketed knees beneath his chin, he strained to hear the first hint of a rumbling tank. But all he detected was his brother smacking chewing gum beside him. Its wintergreen scent only added to the cold. The kid soon spat out the wad, surely too hard to chew.

  “They’re comin'.” Anxious whispers rushed from one embankment to the next. A bucket brigade passing fuel to feed an explosion.

  Following Charlie’s lead, Morgan kicked off his blanket. He yanked the bulky gloves off his numb hands and grasped his rifle as tightly as he could. His pulse was gaining speed. He crouched farther into their icy hole to keep his helmet and misty breaths out of possible enemy view. Shoulder to shoulder, they awaited the signal to attack.

  An uneasy stillness. Then a muffled rattling. Tanks grinding over the snow, drawing closer and closer with every turn of their bogies.

  Morgan turned to his brother, whose eyes were rimmed in red. “Ready?” he asked in a cautious undertone.

  “You bet.” Though Charlie spoke in a whisper, there was strength in his voice. Even his jaw appeared boldly set, projecting maturity, a steadiness free of fear.

  Morgan felt a pinch in his chest, rooted deep inside. The sensation, he quickly recognized, was something resembling …loss.

  The growing rattling refocused his thoughts. He edged his head up. Through the fog, he counted three Panther tanks entering the village. The Allied troops held tight, waiting for the juggernauts to reach the center of the battle stage.
r />   Suddenly, a Kraut officer yelled an order and the armored vehicles halted.

  Morgan hunkered down in the hole. C’mon, c’mon, he urged in his mind. But there was no movement. No sound but the faint howling of wind.

  Maybe they’d changed their minds. Could be they knew the GIs were there, and were deciding on an easier route across the Am-blève River. Imagine. Morgan’s squad left fully intact, saved to battle another day, even allowed an entire day of rest.

  No sooner had the rosy thoughts formed than the tanks resumed an onward charge.

  Boom! Boom!

  The first antitank rockets were fired from the remnants of a theater on the other side of the village. The curtain had been raised and the show was under way.

  Morgan joined Charlie in stretching his neck to take another look over the embankment. More armored vehicles rolled into town, angling around their casualties.

  One of the bazookamen signaled a warning to Morgan, then brought binoculars back to his face. Morgan tried not to blink despite the breeze stinging his bleary eyes. Aware of the white ski suits Krauts often wore as camouflage, he flexed his trigger finger, gearing up to pick off anything in motion larger than a snowflake.

  Another signal, and he and Charlie teetered their rifles on the edge of the packed mound, the butt ends shoved into their shoulders. They trained their barrels on the Waffen-SS Panzer troops weaving through the village. On Morgan’s mark, the two plucked their triggers, a percussion of fire in the violent chorus. The blasting of shells from American howitzers and Kraut tanks added to the cacophony of battle. And up above, an Artist brushed the sky with majestic red and white flashes. Clink!

  In one swift motion, Morgan pulled a new eight-round clip from his ammo belt and shoved it into the receiver of his rifle, then continued where he left off.

  Swoosh!

  A German Messerschmitt 109 plane swooped down through clouds. It released a bomb that obliterated a steepled church. Weather had grounded Allied planes, but somehow the damn Luftwaffe pilots always made it into the air.

  Ack-ack-ack-ack!

  An antiaircraft battery sent a second Messerschmitt twirling to its smoke-trailed fate. Despite its proximity, Morgan barely felt the ground reverberate when the plane slammed into the earth; his focus had turned to the detonation of American bombs on the village’s strategically coveted bridge. Now, with the arched structure destroyed, he hoped the Germans would call for a retreat.