Scarlett’s eyes were swollen and achy as she pinned her hair in place. She’d tried her hardest to fend off the tears, but they’d come anyway.
Her fingers brushed over the handle of Jameson’s razor. It felt wrong to leave it all here, but he’d need it when he returned. She walked down the hall and took one last look at William’s nursery, her heart bleeding out as she pictured Jameson in the rocking chair with his son. She closed the door gently and headed for their bedroom.
Her handbag was on the bed, neatly packed with all the papers she would need tomorrow. It was surreal, thinking that she would be in the United States in less than twenty-four hours if all went according to plan. They would be a world away, leaving Jameson and Constance behind. The emptiness of it was almost more than she could bear, but she would keep her promise. For William.
She sat on the edge of their bed, reached for Jameson’s pillow, and clutched it to her chest. It still smelled like him. She breathed deeply as countless memories washed over her, drowning her in their intensity.
His laughter. His eyes when he told her that he loved her. His arms wrapped around her in sleep. His hands on her body as he made love to her. His smile. The sound of her name on his lips, asking her to dance.
He had brought her to life in every way that mattered, had given her the life that mattered most—William.
It was silly, and wasteful, but she took his pillowcase anyway, slipping it from the pillow and folding it into a neat square. She’d already taken two of his shirts, knowing that he wouldn’t mind.
“He’ll have mine,” she said softly to herself.
There weren’t words for the agony that twisted her heart, wringing it dry with harsh, unyielding hands. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.
“There you are,” Constance said from the doorway with William on her hip. “It’s time.”
“Can’t we give them just a few more minutes?” Can’t we give me a few more minutes? That’s what she really meant.
Today would be the last day the 71st would actively search for Jameson. As of tomorrow, the missions would resume, and surely they’d keep an eye out when they flew over that area, but after today, the unit would move on.
Jameson would be another MIA.
“Not if we want to make it to the airfield in time,” Constance replied quietly.
Scarlett glanced over the dresser and the wardrobe that still held his uniforms. “Once, you asked what I would give to walk through that first house we lived in back at Kirton-in-Lindsey.”
“I didn’t know… I never would have asked if I’d thought this would happen,” Constance whispered, her eyes heavy with apology. “I never wanted you to feel this.”
“I know.” Scarlett ran her fingertips over the folded pillowcase. “This is the third house we’ve lived in since we were married.” Her lips tugged upward at the thought. “Jameson is supposed to clear this house out next week, now that the squadron has completed the move to Debden. Maybe in that way, the timing is fitting. The next house we’re supposed to live in together is in Colorado.”
William babbled, and Constance shifted him to her other hip. “And you’ll be in Colorado waiting for him. Don’t worry about anything here. I’ll have Howie and the boys pack the rest of the house up for when Jameson gets back.”
A familiar burn stung Scarlett’s nose, but she fought back another round of useless tears. “Thank you.”
“Packing is nothing.” Her sister brushed her off.
“No,” Scarlett said as she found the strength to stand, slipping the pillowcase into her handbag. “Thank you for saying when, instead of if.”
“A love like the two of you share doesn’t die so easily,” Constance said as she handed William over. “I refuse to believe it ends like this.”
Scarlett took in William’s sweet face. “It won’t,” she whispered, then glanced at her sister again. “Always the romantic, aren’t you?”
“Speaking of romance, I packed both hatboxes with your typewriter. That trunk weighs a ton, but it’s in the car.” Howie had stopped by earlier and helped with the luggage before heading to the airfield.
“Thank you.” She’d spent last night at the typewriter before Constance insisted on packing it, but she hadn’t brought their story up to date. She made it as far as their last day together, but hadn’t been able to bring herself to what came next, partly because she hadn’t accepted the events of the last three days, and partly because she didn’t know how it would end. But for those few hours, she’d let the pain slip away and had fallen into a world where Jameson was still in her arms.
That’s where she wanted to live, where that day was her own little eternity.
Holding William in the crook of her arm, she managed to open her handbag and remove the letter she’d written when she woke this morning. “I don’t know where to leave this,” she admitted softly, showing the envelope to her sister with Jameson’s name clearly inked on the outside.
Constance reached for the envelope, taking it gently from Scarlett’s hands. “I’ll give it to him when he returns,” she promised, then tucked it into the pocket of her dress. With them both out of uniform, Scarlett by force and Constance by choice, since she was on leave, it was easy to believe they’d never put them on. That the war hadn’t yet happened. But it had, and though the dresses were softer than the WAAF uniforms they’d both spent so much time in, both women were harder on the inside.
Scarlett adjusted the hat on William’s head and tugged on the sleeves of his jumper. It was June now, but still chilly for the little one, and would only get colder where they were going. With one long, last wistful look at their bedroom, Scarlett sent up yet another prayer that God would bring Jameson home to her, and then she walked out.
She held herself together as they made their way to the car, keeping her head high as Jameson would want.
Scarlett slid into the passenger seat and held William close as Constance took the wheel. The engine roared to life, and before Scarlett’s heart could overrule her mind, they pulled away from the house, driving toward Martlesham-Heath.
They were barely a few minutes into the drive when the air-raid sirens blared.
Scarlett’s gaze snapped toward the sky, where she could already make out the outline of bombers overhead.
Her stomach dropped.
“Where’s the nearest shelter?” Constance asked, her voice steady.
Scarlett glanced at their surroundings. “Turn right.”
William cried, his face turning a ruddy shade of red as the sirens screeched out their warning.
The pavement filled with civilians, all racing toward the shelter. “Pull over,” Scarlett ordered. “We’ll never make it with the streets crowded like this. We’ll have to go on foot.”