“You asked permission to go to the Pacific front?” Scarlett asked, stricken and sidestepping out of his reach.
“The squadron did. But I was in favor of it.” His arms immediately felt empty. “Our country has been attacked, and we’re all the way over here. It was only right that we ask. Only right that if we’re needed, we go.” It had been a highly contentious debate within the squadron, but the overwhelming majority had demanded they send the request for transfer.
Her chin rose, which meant he was in for a fight. “And at what point were you going to discuss the suggestion with me?” she asked, folding her arms under her breasts.
“When it was deemed a possibility,” he replied, “or now that it’s not.”
“Wrong answer.” Fire shone in her eyes.
“I can’t just sit here while my country goes to war.” He backed away from her, leaning against the kitchen table and clenching the edge.
“You are not just sitting here,” she fired back. “How many missions have you flown? How many patrols? How many bomber intercepts? You’re already an ace. How would you call that just sitting here? And the last time I checked, your country was also at war with Germany. You’re already where you need to be.”
He shook his head. “Who knows how long it will take for American soldiers to arrive? For America to do anything about the German threat? I joined the RAF to keep war from my door, to keep my family safe, to stop it here before it was my country being bombed or my mother becoming another casualty on the report. I came here to guard my home against the wolves, and while I was busy watching the front door, the wolves snuck in the back.”
“And that is not your fault!” she snapped.
“I know that. No one saw Pearl Harbor coming, but it happened, and it doesn’t change the fact that I might be needed there. If there are plans, I want to be a part of them. I can’t risk my life defending your country and not do the same for my own. Don’t ask that of me.” Every muscle in his body tensed, waiting, hoping she’d understand.
“Apparently I don’t get to ask anything at all, since you knew the 71st sent the request without so much as telling me.” Her voice pitched higher, breaking. “I thought we were partners.”
“William had just been born, and you had so much on your plate—”
“That you didn’t want to bother me?” Her eyes narrowed. “Because I have such a poor track record of handling stress?”
He rubbed his hand over his face, wishing he could take back every word since he’d walked in the door—or go back to a few weeks ago and talk this all out with her. “I should have told you.”
“Yes. You should have. Did you stop to think about what we’d do here if you were sent to the Pacific?” She gestured to the room above them, where William slept.
“They bombed Americans!”
“And you think I don’t know what it feels like to have my country torn to bits by bombs?” She tapped her chest. “To watch my childhood friends die?”
“That’s why I thought you’d understand. When England went to war, you put on a uniform and fought because you love your country just as much as I love mine.”
“I don’t have a country!” she shouted, then spun to face the window.
He saw her face crumple in the reflection of the window, and his stomach sank. Shit. “Scarlett—”
“I don’t have a country,” she said softly, turning to face him, “because I gave it up for you. I loved you more. I’m not British. I’m not American. I’m only a citizen of this marriage, which I thought was a democracy. So pardon my surprise when it turns out to be a dictatorship. Benevolent, yes, but a dictatorship nonetheless. I didn’t fight free of my father’s control to have you step into his shoes.” She scoffed and gave him a sarcastic, bitter smile.
“Honey…” He shook his head, searching for something he could say to make this better.
“It’s not just you anymore, Jameson. It’s not even just us. You can be as reckless as you want when you’re in the cockpit—I know who I married. But there’s a little boy upstairs who doesn’t know there’s a war going on, let alone that it now spans the globe. We’re responsible for him. And I understand wanting to fight for your country—I gave that up for us, too. Please don’t treat me as less than equal because I chose this family twice. If you wanted a wife who would do nothing more than cook your meals, warm your bed, and have your babies, then you chose the wrong woman. Do not mistake my sacrifices for smiling compliance. Also, since I don’t keep secrets, William received a gift today.” She motioned to a small box on the table, then walked out of the kitchen, passing him without another glance, and a few seconds later he heard her footsteps on the stairs.
Jameson rubbed the bridge of his nose and scraped his ego off the floor, where Scarlett had crushed it beneath her foot. He’d been trying to protect her, to ease her, to keep yet another worry from her shoulders, and in doing so, he’d cut her out entirely. From the moment he’d met her, he’d stripped away little pieces of her. It didn’t matter if that had never been his intention—the result was the same.
She’d transferred for him, left her first station where she’d had friends. She’d hauled her sister along so she could keep the vow she’d made to Constance, too. She’d married him, lost her British citizenship for it, then had to pull family strings once again to be reposted when he was so she could follow him. When she’d fallen pregnant, she’d given up the work she loved—the work she’d based her worth on—and after she’d delivered, they’d been reposted again, and she’d lost daily contact with Constance…with anyone outside this house, really.
She’d given everything, and he hadn’t protested because he loved her too much to let her go.
He glanced at the small box that rested near his right hand, then picked it up, plucking the note from the top.
My darling Scarlett,
Congratulations on the birth of your son. We were so very pleased to hear the news.
Please give him this token of our affection and know that we cannot wait to meet the newest Wright.
Love,
Mother
Jameson shook his head in disgust, then looked into the box. A small silver rattle rested on a bed of velvet. He lifted the ridiculous toy to see the engraving that etched the handle. A large W was flanked by another W and a V.
Jameson dropped the rattle back in its box before he did something reckless and torched the damned thing.
His son’s name was William Vernon Stanton. He wasn’t a Wright. They weren’t allowed to claim any part of him.
He pushed off the table and draped his jacket over one of the chairs, then loosened his tie as he walked up the stairs. Light shone from beneath their bedroom door, but not William’s. Jameson pressed his ear to the door, and when he heard the soft rustling and one disgruntled protest, he went in and leaned over the small crib.
William looked up at him, tightly swaddled in the blanket his grandmother had sent from Colorado, and let loose a jaw-cracking yawn, then furrowed his brow.
“Yeah, I know what that means,” Jameson said softly, picking up his son and cradling him against his chest. How ironic that someone so very small had altered the gravity in his world. He pressed a kiss to the top of his head, breathing in his scent. “Did you have a good day?”
William grunted, then opened his mouth against Jameson’s shirt.
“I’ll take that as a yes.” He rubbed small circles on William’s back, knowing that he didn’t have what he was looking for. “You might want to give her just a minute, kid. I hurt her feelings pretty badly.”
He swayed from side to side, trying to not only give Scarlett a few minutes alone but buy himself precious time to think of what he could do or say. Did he want to leave them here, in a country they weren’t legally entitled to, knowing they couldn’t get into the one they were, while he flew halfway around the world to face
another enemy?
No.
The thought of leaving them behind was a knife to the gut. William was only six weeks old, and he’d already changed so much. He couldn’t imagine not seeing him grow up, leaving for a year—or more—and not recognizing his own son when he returned. And the thought of not seeing Scarlett? Unbearable.
“I’ll take him,” she said from the doorway.
Jameson turned to see her backlit against the hallway light, her arms already outstretched. “I like holding him,” he said softly.
Some of the ice melted in her eyes. “I would hope so, but unless you can feed him, you’re not going to like holding him for much longer.” She crossed the room, and Jameson reluctantly surrendered their son.
Scarlett settled into the rocking chair in the dimly lit corner, then looked up at him expectantly. “You don’t have to stay.”
He leaned against the wall and crossed his ankles. “I don’t have to leave, either. I’ve seen your breasts before. Not sure I’ve told you lately how magnificent they are.”
She rolled her eyes, but he could have sworn he saw color rise faintly in her cheeks. She settled their son to nurse with what had become practiced ease, and stroked his soft, black hair with her fingertips.
“I’m sorry,” Jameson said quietly.
Her fingers stilled.
“I should have talked it over with you while it was happening. I can make all the excuses in the world about not wanting to worry you, but they don’t matter. I was wrong to leave you in the dark.”
She slowly brought her gaze to meet his.
“If we had gone to the Pacific, I would have moved heaven and earth to send you to Colorado until I could come home. I would never have left you without making sure you were safe, and not just physically. I won’t make the mistake of leaving you out again.”
“Thank you.”
“I would…” He swallowed the prickly knot of anger rising in his throat. “I would really like to throw that rattle in the trash.”
“All right.”
His eyebrows rose. “You don’t care?”
“Not in the least. I would have put it with the rubbish myself, except I wanted you to know what was happening.” There was no jab in the statement, just facts.
“Thank you.” He watched her silently for a moment, choosing his next words carefully. “Your visa appointment is coming up in a few months, right?”
She nodded. “May.” Almost a year after they’d begun the process.
“I want you to promise me something,” he said softly.
“What?”
“Promise me that if anything happens to me, you’ll take him to the States.”
She blinked. “Don’t say things like that.”
He crossed the room, then dropped to her eye level, putting his hands on the arm of the rocking chair. “There is nothing more important to me than your lives—yours and William’s. Nothing. You’re right—it’s not just about us anymore. You’ll be safe in Colorado. Safe from the war, from poverty, from your god-awful parents. So please, promise me that you’ll take him.”
Her brow knit as she considered the request. “If something happens to you,” she clarified.
He nodded.
“Okay. I promise if anything happens to you, I’ll take William to Colorado.”
He leaned in slowly and brushed a chaste kiss over her lips. “Thank you.”
“That doesn’t mean I’m giving you permission to die.” Her gaze turned stern.
“Noted.” He kissed William’s head, then rose. “Since you’re feeding him, I’m going to go work on feeding you. I love you, Scarlett.”
“I love you, too.”
He left his wife and son in the nursery and went straight to the kitchen…and threw the rattle in the trash where it belonged.
Scarlett and William were Stantons.
They were his.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Georgia
Dear Jameson,
You’ve only been gone a few days, and yet I miss you as if it’s been years. This is so much harder than when we were at Middle Wallop. Now, I know what it’s like to be your wife. To lie beside you at night and wake to your smile in the morning. I asked again this morning about the transfer request, but so far there is no news. Hopefully tomorrow. I can’t bear being so far from you, knowing that you fly into danger and I can do nothing but sit here and wait. I can’t even welcome you home. I love you, Jameson. Stay safe. Our fates are intertwined, for I cannot exist in a world where you do not.
Love,
Scarlett
“Are you ready for this?” Noah asked with an excited smile, straightening his tie as we sat parked in front of the studio, the January snow flurrying by.
“If I’m not?” My eyebrows arched.
“It will be awkward in an hour when everyone shows up, but we can lock the door, turn off the lights, and pretend we’re not here.” He lifted my hand and kissed the inside of my wrist, sending a jolt of need straight through me. I’d had him in my bed nearly every night for the past two and a half months, and the need hadn’t lessened. All he had to do was look at me, and I was ready for him. “But I am willing to offer any bribe you want just to see what you’ve been creating in there.”
“I am pretty proud of my little collection.” I’d just about worked my fingers off getting ready for this night. There were a few dozen minor pieces ready for sale, and a few larger ones I’d mostly made for display. Invitations had gone out, replies received, and now all I could do was open the doors and pray I hadn’t wasted what was left of my bank account.
“I’m proud of you.” This time he kissed my lips, sucking lightly on the lower one before releasing it. I was completely and thoroughly addicted to this man. It was only supposed to be a fling—that was the deal. He’d leave as soon as the book was finished, and watching the days tick by only served to remind me that we were living on borrowed time. Every day I expected him to tell me it was done, but it wasn’t. Pretty soon he’d be flirting with missing the print deadline if he wasn’t careful. “I know tonight is going to be just as amazing as you are.”
“Glad one of us is certain.” I sucked in a breath and reminded myself that this was Poplar Grove, Colorado, not New York City. There were no paparazzi, no movie stars or execs, no gossip columnists, and no one who feigned interest in me just to get five minutes with Damian. This was mine—only mine—and Noah was going to be the first person I shared it with.
He held my hand as we walked to the door, then blocked the wind as I fumbled with my key to get the heavy glass open. Then I led him inside the dark space.
“Wait right here. Close your eyes.” I wanted to see his face when the lights came on.
“You’d think it was my birthday and not yours,” he teased.
I laughed, then walked to the light switch once I was certain his eyes were well and truly closed. The space was as familiar to me as my bedroom by now. I could find my way blindfolded if I needed to.
I flipped the switch, and the gallery lit up in a dozen places. There were vases and small sculptures lining the glass shelves on the walls, two bigger tower pieces in each bay window, and in the center, on a pedestal highlighted with its own lighting, sat my favorite piece.
“You can open your eyes,” I said softly, then held my breath as Noah’s dark gaze swept over the gallery in appreciation, his smile wide as he took it all in, then fixed on the pedestal.
“Georgia,” he whispered with a shake of his head. “My God.”
“Do you like it?” I slid in to his side, and he tucked his arm around my waist, pulling me tighter.
“It’s magnificent.”
My favorite piece of the collection was a crown composed of glass icicles ranging from six to ten inches long. “Get it?” A corner of my mouth lifted in a smirk.
; “It’s befitting of an Ice Queen,” he answered with a low chuckle. “Though you’re anything but cold. It’s incredible.”
“Thank you. I never commented on their little digs because there’s power in silence and grace in holding your head high, but I figured why not own it? I’m the only person who gets to define me anymore, and besides, maybe I’ll make a crown of flames next.” I could already see it taking shape in my mind.
“You are incredible, Georgia Stanton.” He turned and cradled my face, then kissed me deeply. “Thank you for sharing this with me, and just in case I don’t get to say it again before we go home, happy birthday.”
“Thank you,” I said against his mouth, savoring our last few minutes of privacy before the catering staff arrived.
Within the hour, the doors were open, and the gallery filled with guests from my small town. I greeted the first dozen people, showing them around the space with Noah at my side. Lydia—our housekeeper—and her daughter arrived, then Hazel and Owen, Cecilia Cochran from the library, Mom—
I gasped, my free hand flying to my mouth. Noah’s arm came around my waist, steadying me as Mom came through the small crowd, wearing a pale pink sheath and a shaky smile.
“Happy birthday, Georgia,” she said softly, hugging me gently, then releasing me with her usual two pats.
“Mom?” Shock wasn’t an adequate word.
She swallowed nervously, her eyes flying to Noah’s and back. “Noah invited me. I hope you don’t mind. I just wanted to be here to wish you a happy birthday and say congratulations. This is quite an accomplishment.”
Was that really the only reason she was here?
“You and Ian?” I asked tentatively. Had they fallen apart? Was she only here to pick up the pieces under the guise of patching up mine?
“Oh, he’s fine. We’re fine,” she assured me. “He sends his best. I’m sure you understand why he’s not with me.”
Because I couldn’t stand him and he knew it, which was actually pretty considerate when I thought about it.
“How was the flight?” Noah asked, breaking the tension with that easy way he had.
The Things We Leave Unfinished Page 31