Dottie held her ground. “So you’re telling me that you and Oliver never…”
Gladys sat up and pulled a cigarette and lighter from her bag. She lit it and took a long drag before exhaling the smoke. Her ruby-red lipstick left a ring on the paper. “I don’t kiss and tell, dahling.”
Margaret rolled her eyes. As much as she could believe it of Gladys, she could equally believe that Gladys was pulling their legs.
Keep ’em guessing, she’d once said. Margaret supposed that included her friends.
“Back to you, doll,” continued Gladys. “I’m serious. Words are nice. And you have a weird affinity for them that he seems to share. But talk is cheap, as they say. So, yes. I stand by what I said. How do you know you will want him like that? And even more importantly, if anything truly serious came of it, do you know if he would accept having a wife who works? Because despite the hours, I can tell that you enjoy making a paycheck.”
“That’s getting way ahead of ourselves, don’t you think?” Margaret asked. William had mentioned wanting to meet her. He hadn’t exactly included a diamond ring in the envelope. It was entirely natural that two friends would want to meet.
“Oh, let’s be serious,” Gladys continued. “You and Dottie are cut from the same cloth. You’ll want the white-gown wedding in a chapel with your family and friends all around to cheer you on. You’re not the type to play around. The world is on the precipice of improving for women and I’d hate to see both of my best friends miss the opportunities that are coming. I’m just throwing some cold water on the situation and telling you to proceed with eyes wide open.”
“Says the woman who is about to be bitten by a crab.”
“Shoo!” Gladys jumped and looked where Margaret was pointing, and indeed, a sand crab was crawling precariously close to her leg. She picked up the Saturday Evening Post she’d laid down and scooped the creature up, tossing it gently a few feet away.
Dottie propped herself up on her elbows and pulled her sunglasses down to her nose. “This might be the only time it happens as long as I live, but I have to say that I agree with Gladys. You deserve every happiness, Margaret, and I hope and pray that William is the one who will provide you with that. If that’s what you want. Looking back, it may well be a dreamy story to tell your grandchildren. How you fell in love through corresponding during the war. But don’t give away your heart too quickly. It’s too precious a thing.”
Margaret pursed her lips and dug her hands into the sand, letting its granules slip through her fingers. This is not how she thought the conversation to go. She expected some kind of resistance from Gladys, but she assumed Dottie, at least, would be happy for her. This felt like they were ganging up on her. Even if they had her best interests at heart.
In fact, their hesitation had the opposite of the intended effect. She hadn’t even come here with lofty notions of a future with William. Just excitement over receiving such sentiments in the first place. But now that they were cautioning her against it, she found herself actually considering it.
She let a sniffle escape.
“Oh! Shame on us!” said Dottie, sitting all the way up. “Margaret, I’m so sorry. We were too hard on you. Of course you know what you’re doing and our worries are needless. Gosh, it is certainly something to celebrate. Margaret Beck is in love. I’ve been waiting years to say that.”
Margaret wiped her nose with a tissue. “I’m not ancient yet. Twenty-three is not exactly an old maid. And I didn’t say I’m in love.”
Dottie rubbed her hand along Margaret’s arm, and her lips curved in consolation, while Gladys folded her arms and let out a hrumph.
“Dottie had the hots for your brother before she came into her womanhood, if you know what I mean. Before those nursing breasts of hers were even tiny buds, her heart was spoken for. She’s just been waiting years for you to catch up.”
“Don’t be crass, Gladys.” But Margaret smiled despite the admonishment.
“Don’t be crass, Gladys? Margaret, that’s like asking the sun not to shine.” Dottie grinned.
“Or like asking La Guardia not to run for office again,” Gladys offered.
Dottie waved her finger in the air. “Or like asking the A train not to break down all the time.”
“Or like asking Oliver not to leave the trimmings of his morning shave in the sink.”
Dottie and Margaret looked at each other and then burst out with laughter. Gladys had just admitted to more than she’d ever said about their relationship.
“If that’s your way of making amends, you’re doing a pretty good job.” Margaret pulled both of them into a hug, wrapping her arms around their necks until their foreheads were all touching.
The best friends told you the truth that you most needed to hear.
Still, the idea of loving William had taken root.
What could go wrong?
* * *
Burying his regrets was proving more difficult than Tom had hoped, though the news of Paris’s liberation was a welcome distraction.
For days, the BBC and Radiodiffusion Nationale had been reporting on the Allied troops encroaching on German lines, getting closer and closer to the city. And the French Forces of the Interior had seen some successes on the inside. Now their joint efforts had come to fruition and cheers rose and echoed throughout the hospital wing. It didn’t matter who spoke English or how it was accented or who spoke French. Jubilation was a common language understood by all.
Despite Hitler’s decree that Paris “must not fall into the enemy’s hand except lying in complete debris,” his orders to bomb the city and its bridges as they retreated went unheeded. It was said that Paris, though it had sustained some bruises, was intact.
Tom ached to see it. It was only two hours away by train and the Allies now controlled the tracks. It had always been his mother’s dearest wish to see the City of Lights and to buy perfume from the House of Fragonard. Though his father’s English side first touched American soil in the early 1600s, his mother’s French family were newer arrivals, and she carried their stories in her heart like a treasure box.
Someday, he hoped she could see it. But until then, maybe he could do the next best thing.
He sent a note to the regional commander’s office.
This is Technician Fifth Grade Thomas Powell. I have been cleared to rejoin my unit and have been instructed to take the next transport plane to Holland. Please advise on the schedule.
The response came: At 14:30 on the 30th. We already have your name on the list.
The thirtieth. That gave him two days.
“Au revoir,” he said to the nurses who had tended to him so well. His eyes welled up with gratitude for them. They bathed the men, held their hands, listened to their cries—both the physical and emotional ones—gave them knitting needles with which to itch their skin under their casts, insisted on them using their muscles when the casts came off, encouraged them when their bodies took time to strengthen.
Tom felt as good as new, thanks to their exhausting work.
But he was ready to move on.
He was released from their care and in a rare circumstance, he had this little window of time where no one had their grips on him. His R&R train trip would be a stolen one, as he shouldn’t go anywhere without permission, but his unit had left France while he recuperated, and their only expectation was that he make that transport plane.