In all likelihood, the familiarity that came with such continued correspondence naturally increased intimacy with each one. It was no more than that. Imagining that there was anything else was the simple product of being surrounded by Dottie and George, Gladys and Oliver—the fresh bloom of love surrounding her daily like an inescapable perfume.
But whatever it could be called, she found that the desire to bare her soul to someone—even someone whose face she had never seen—was a new impulse that was intoxicating.
The other half of the equation—mutual attraction, the electricity of a touch—these were things to be considered another day. Ruminating on such things was a poor use of time, and her fingernails were chewed to their stubs from enough worry as it was.
She’d have to wait until the end of the war to find her answers to this and to all her questions about the future.
It seemed that all of life pivoted on five simple words—when the war is over—as if the world held its collective breath and could only exhale once one side or the other had become victorious.
It seemed as if people believed that things would return to normal, denying that the world was, in fact, profoundly changed.
She had finished off the previous letter with All the Best, as she had with nearly all the rest of them. But on this one, she’d signed Love, Margaret without even thinking. It was not a gesture of romanticism, as that’s how she had completed her notes to John as well. But it was a symbol that however the heart wanted to label it, she’d grown to care for William and the expression was a sincere one.
She’d sealed the envelope immediately before she could second-guess that choice and how he might react to it, but found herself trembling now as she opened the door to the mailbox.
The letter made a plinking sound as it hit the bottom.
“First letter of the day. Must be an important one,” said a thickly accented voice.
“Good morning, Mr. Bellavia,” she answered, dodging his statement. The newspaper stand owner had just purchased this shop a few months ago from another Italian family who had never kept up with the newer products that the younger generation wanted. The store’s wood green exterior had deteriorated over the years, but Mr. Bellavia had reinvigorated it with a fresh coat of paint and a new sign.
He pulled a worn scarf from around his neck as he opened his shuttered metal doors and began to arrange the bundle of the day’s newspapers in front.
“What’s your flavor today?” he asked. “Got a new box of Wrigley’s in if you’d like some gum. Or if you’d care for some cigarettes to calm those nerves, Mild as May is made for the ladies.”
“No, thank you,” she replied, regretting that her pensiveness was on such display. If Margaret did smoke, she’d never choose something marketed specifically for women, lest she get a tongue-lashing from Gladys on the inequality of it. She had to give him credit, though, for pushing the two items. It seemed to her that chewing gum and cigarettes should indeed be bought in pairs. The one covering up the smell of the other. But she’d prefer to save the money on both and take it to the movies.
It was a strategy that she’d employed in her father’s shop—to turn one sale into two by suggesting that the customer buy a set of spare laces to go along with their shoes. Her father had taught her that the profits were in such margins.
She was about to say goodbye and walk on when a headline caught her eye.
ARRIVING AT NORMANDY, shouted the front page of the New York Times.
Ernie Pyle’s much-anticipated article about the reality of all that had happened just six days ago on the beaches of France. D-Day, they were calling it. The scant news about it had suggested that it was a horrific battle.
Had William and Tom been there? William’s letters had suggested that they were getting ready to leave Chilton Foliat. But he could not tell her where they were going. He had a perfect record, so far, for not getting redacted.
She paid a dime to the shop owner and tucked the newspaper under her arm. She had to find somewhere to read it where she could be alone.
Chapter Fourteen
Tom’s dreams were never of the fantastical nature that his friends at school experienced. He was amused by their retellings of elephants on ice skates or arriving to class stark naked. He wished his mind could wander to such entertaining places, but his dreams merely recalled events that had already happened.
Sometimes he got to relive a particularly happy birthday or the simple pleasures of catching lightning bugs as the sun descended over the river’s waters. And other times—like now—they brought back memories in the vivid, painful color that he would have preferred to forget entirely.
This was one such moment, and Tom would have earned and then given away a fortune just to banish these thoughts forever.
The morphine made the dreams longer. Realer. Sadder.
And yet, the morphine dulled the present day’s physical pain. So it was a toss-up.
Hurt in your sleep. Or hurt while awake.
Both were agony.
The choice was not his to make, though. The nurses made it for him, quelling the sweats and yelling that emerged from his mouth and blended with the screams of the other men in the makeshift field hospital.
And so, he slept.
* * *
“What are you going to miss most?” William had asked Tom as they cleaned their rifles after a rigorous day on the range. Dick Winters seemed especially focused on honing their shooting skills, and an air of anticipation hovered over the men.
The battle would begin any day now.
“Mrs. Brown’s Yorkshire pudding. I’m not sure even my mother can put it together quite like she does.”
“Yeah. I’ll miss everything about that old couple. When I get home, I want to send them something nice.”
“I’ll add to that,” said Tom. “We’re both Virginia boys. Maybe some salted ham. And some peanuts. And peach jam.”
William licked his lips. “Oh, I wish I could see their faces when that package arrives.”
“We should come back over and hand-deliver them.”
“Nah, not me.” William shook his head. “Once I set foot on American soil, I’m never leaving again. I’ve seen all I want to of this continent.”
“You’ve seen Chilton Foliat and Aldbourne. Two tiny towns in England. You haven’t even seen the real part of the continent yet. And neither of us made it to Oxford as we’d hoped.”
William grew somber. “You know all that’s about to change, right? We’re rolling out as soon as we get the word.”
Tom clenched his jaw and nodded as he inserted the bore down the barrel and scrubbed. “Yeah. I saw some of the planes. In fact, I got recruited to help paint them.”
“Just imagine it. Two thousand Waco CG-4s.” He spoke with the same awe as he did with the beauty of a sunset. William had adopted John’s ability to see the best in a situation, and Tom had to admit that the sight of such a fleet had been as impressive as it had been ominous.
“Twenty-one hundred of them, I heard. That would be quite a feat if we didn’t have the whole company working on it.”
“They ordered the company to have it done by tomorrow. I think that means whatever is coming is imminent.”