William lay back and pulled a Life magazine from under the cot and opened it above his head. “You don’t have to listen to me. Maybe Margaret Beck is the one girl in a million who won’t fall for your charms. But I doubt it. You’ve got matinee-idol looks, my friend. And if you go and get all Tom-like in those letters, you’re going to break that girl’s heart someday. I guarantee it.”
Tom popped a hard butterscotch candy into his mouth and ruminated.
William’s idea made some sense. If he wrote as William, it might help to keep Margaret relegated to a two-dimensional pen pal in his mind. A place to put his thoughts. A distraction through what lay ahead.
As Tom, he might be inclined to let his thoughts go where they shouldn’t. Not if he planned to stay on after the war and make a career of it.
William knew him well.
As it was, when he read Margaret’s letters, he found himself spending hours composing responses in his head. Responses that never made it to paper. He wanted to tell her about Virginia and the peach pies he made with his mother and about the way the rain smelled when it drizzled onto the Chickahominy River. He wanted to share with her new words and admit that he’d taken up studying them because of her and tell her about the English countryside he’d come to love on his walks from Chilton Foliat to Aldbourne. He wanted to describe the peppermint tea that Mrs. Brown steeped in the evenings and the lightness of her Yorkshire pudding. He wanted to confess that he’d kept her picture where William had pinned it on his pillow and that waking up to it every morning made him want to survive this war.
Yes, he’d thought about it plenty.
He had a lot to consider. But one thing was for sure—if William was too busy to write Margaret back, Tom would make sure that she got a reply.
Chapter Twelve
April 1944
The engraving room was unusually silent, as the lunch break had taken some of the other girls outdoors into the glorious spring weather that had befallen the city. Margaret would join them after she finished the last letters of her project.
She could almost taste the pastrami sandwich she’d packed from a trip into Manhattan to go to Russ & Daughters. She’d read that it was the first business in the country to add & Daughters to its title, so she and Gladys had taken the subway to East Houston Street yesterday to give them their patronage. Gladys said they needed to support women’s businesses as much as possible in order to encourage more of them. She and Margaret had been saving their extra pay for little splurges that reminded them of what normalcy felt like.
While there, they walked the two blocks down Ludlow Street and went to Economy Candy to buy some Red Hots for Dottie. She’d been craving spicy foods, a vast departure from her normal palate. Margaret was continually amazed at how such a tiny being could bring about such drastic changes.
They’d been worried about leaving Dottie alone as her due date was just a couple of weeks away, but she dismissed their concern.
“I don’t need a babysitter,” Dottie had insisted when Gladys and Margaret had first discussed the outing. “You both treat me like I’m some delicate piece of porcelain. And I’m not.”
Gladys ignored her. “I know!” she’d said. “Let’s ask George if he can sit with her for a while.”
Dottie’s mouth opened in protest, but she closed it before she’d uttered a sound. Margaret noticed the flush of her cheeks. Dottie’s face revealed what her words wouldn’t—she enjoyed his company very much.
Margaret wanted to tell her that she didn’t mind. That John would want her to be happy. That five months since the terrible news and four more since they’d last seen him was a very long time. Dottie was young and beautiful and vibrant, and she had a wonderful man who cherished her as she deserved. How could Margaret stand in the way of that?
Now, back at work, she wondered if she should tell Dottie that she would have her blessing.
“Margaret!”
Dottie’s scream pierced through the quiet engraving room and startled Margaret out of her thoughts.
She left her sandwich, pickle slices spilling onto the work counter, and hurried over to Dottie.
“What’s the matter?”
Dottie wrapped her arms around her belly and rocked back and forth on her chair. “I think it’s happening.”
“The baby? Today?”
“Yes—today! Now!”
“But first babies are always late. That’s what I read!”
“Well, this baby didn’t read that book and I’m telling you, Margaret. This. Is. It!”
“Are you sure these are real contractions? I read that your body practices for the real thing before the big day.”
“Dammit, Margaret! I’ve already had plenty of those! I feel like there’s a watermelon that wants to get out of me this very minute!”
Dottie never cursed. This was serious. Margaret took a breath and collected herself, wiping away the sweat forming on her temples. “Right. Right. Right. Okay. George. Let’s go find George. And Gladys.”
“Owwwww! Hurry!”
Margaret started running for the door and looked back to see Dottie doubled over in the pain of the contraction.
“I’m hurrying! I’m hurrying!”
Margaret pushed open the heavy door of the engraving room and came upon the promenade, which was lit with the intensity of the noonday sun. Her pupils throbbed after languishing in the dim workroom for so many hours, and she shaded her eyes before taking another step.
It was the kind of day that might have otherwise tempted her and Dottie to play hooky in order to escape to the beach and pretend, even for a brief time, that the troubles of the world didn’t exist.
But the troubles were all too real. If not across the ocean, then right here in Brooklyn. Where Dottie was about to have her baby.
In the engraving room, if they didn’t act fast.
“George!” Margaret shouted with little hope of him hearing her. George walked the promenade at this time every day, but it was too long to see the end of either side. If she ran one way, he might very well be on the other side. So she stood here in the middle. At some point, he would be within earshot.
“George!” she shouted again.
It took four attempts, but before too long, she saw a figure coming toward her from far down on the right, silhouetted like an eclipse. He had the right gait for George, and as he approached, she saw with relief that it was him. She ran so fast toward him that he had to put his arms out to stop her.
“Margaret? Is everything okay with Dottie?”
She stopped and laughed incongruously. And that made her laugh even more. How charming that Dottie was always his first concern.
“Yes! No. I mean—”
“Margaret—is Dottie okay?” he asked again, with the first strain of impatience she’d ever seen in him.
“The baby is coming!”
His eyes widened. “Why didn’t you say so? I’ll go get my car!”
George ran ahead, and then looked back. “See if she can manage to walk to the parking lot. I’ll drive up as close as I can. And tell her—”
“What?”
“Tell her that everything will be all right.”
* * *