Margaret shrugged. There was no use splitting hairs over something that had already happened. And besides—Hurricane Gladys had gone and done it. She’d gotten married.
Margaret felt her resentment slip away. Gladys was okay and the Brooklyn Navy Yard had somehow continued to stand in her absence.
“Well,” Dottie conceded, standing up and drawing Gladys into a hug. “We couldn’t be happier for you. Welcome to the club of old married couples.”
“I highly recommend it, Mags,” Gladys teased. “Your turn will be next.”
Margaret turned her back to them and opened the filing cabinet. She fumbled through paperwork instead of replying, occupying herself with nothing. “Not likely,” she finally said. “Maybe that’s just not in the cards for me after all.”
With every day that passed without a letter from William, her heart grew heavier. The old adage held true here—absence makes the heart grow fonder. Every day that the mailbox did not contain word from him made her anticipate it even more.
And worry more. If she was not hearing from him, something might be wrong.
It was the only thing that kept her from acknowledging the possibility that she could be falling in love with him. There was no reason to consider a future with a man who may not live to see it.
Dottie had patiently listened to her woes on the subject over a few afternoons spent at the Beck home while Margaret’s parents played with Joanna.
Margaret could hear her whisper to Gladys, “She hasn’t heard from William in a while.”
“Still? Geez, Mags. That’s rough.”
Margaret shrugged.
Gladys leaned over and put her hands on Margaret’s shoulders.
“This might be an unpopular opinion, but my vote is that you don’t turn yourself into a nun. I’m not saying to ditch him. But if another boy crosses your path, don’t pine for something that might be an illusion.”
“Gladys,” Dottie said in an admonishing tone.
Gladys tilted her head. “What? You’re thinking it. But I’m saying it.”
“Just because you have Oliver live and in the flesh doesn’t mean that you know everything about love.”
Margaret stood up and placed her hands on the top of her desk. She hung her head down and her hair brushed its surface, a smile emerging on her face despite her sour mood. She straightened herself and crossed her arms, looking at both of them.
“I have the two best friends in the world, you know. Can we just focus on that?”
Gladys came around the desk to pull Margaret into a hug. “I know, doll. You’re right. I’m just defensive when I see my friends feeling hurt. You know I love a good cause.”
“I don’t want to be your cause. I just want…”
“What?” asked Dottie softly.
“I just want to know he’s okay.”
* * *
“What the hell are you doing, Powell? Take cover!”
Tom felt himself being dragged through the snow and was pulled into the foxhole. He looked down at the grenade he was still holding. The grenade! He tossed it out toward German lines, as far as he could. It landed on the ground. And did nothing.
A dud.
He’d expected to die.
Why had everything gone black?
“What kind of nut are you diving on a grenade like that?” asked the solider who’d yanked him into the foxhole.
“I didn’t want it to get you guys.”
“That’s some guts, man. Thank you. You hit your head pretty hard when you landed. I think on a rock that was hidden in the snow.”
That explained it. The ache in his head. And in his stomach. He winced as he touched that spot and opened his jacket to check it out.
Blood. He’d been cut on something that tore through the fatigues. But when he checked his skin, the wound was superficial.
He wasn’t sure whether to feel relieved or disappointed. The only thing that seemed to offer certainty right now was death.
“Incoming!” someone shouted before someone could call for a medic.
The soldier grabbed Tom by the shoulders until he was fully belowground.
A bomb exploded so near them that Tom’s ears went silent.
* * *
Tom woke to a blinding light and welcomed the thought that he was dead. At last.
That would mean that he’d never have to face battle again.
The light retreated and he blinked before seeing a shadowed figure hovering over him.
“How many fingers am I holding up?”
The words sounded as if they were said through a tunnel, but Tom could understand them easily enough.
Tom squeezed his eyes closed and then opened them again.
He was alive. It was not a relief.
Though at least he hadn’t lost his hearing.
He could barely make it out but took a guess. “Four.”
“Who is the president?”
“FDR.”
“Sit up for me, son.”
Tom pushed himself up on wobbly arms but immediately wrapped them around his stomach. Dizziness overtook him and he leaned over the side of the bed and vomited right on the floor.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. A nurse was immediately at his side, offering him a towel and wetting a mop.
The doctor had a squared jawline and looked as if there was nothing he hadn’t seen.
“I heard you got into a brawl with a grenade. Mighty brave of you. That’s the stuff medals get awarded for.”
Tom started to shake his head, but his brain felt like it was rattling from side to side. He rushed his hands to his temples.
“You’re concussed, son. The grenade was a dud, lucky for you. But you fell onto a rock that was hidden by the snow. Don’t talk—I know what you’re going to ask. Yes, you’ll recover. And, yes, they’re going to ask you to get back on the front lines just as soon as I clear you.”
Tom lay back. He felt like a cat with nine lives that were getting checked off one by one. He didn’t know how many other near misses he might have. And as much as he might want them to be over with here in the hospital, that wasn’t really where his heart was. He couldn’t wish that for his mother and father—or for Margaret.
If Tom died, all three of them would be lost to her. John. William. Tom.
There was a rustle of the canvas curtain and Captain Winters came in.
“What are you doing here?” Tom asked. He immediately regretted that he hadn’t saluted. In his confusion, he’d forgotten protocol.
“I told the regiment I needed to come back to the unit for a bit. And what did I find? Sergeant Powell decided to be Captain America?”
Tom grinned. “Sergeant America to you.”
Winters’s laugh was heartier than Tom had ever heard.
“Well, I came here to find out if our sergeant is returning to us and I think we can resoundingly say yes.” He sat on the corner of the bed and put his hand on Tom’s arm. “I’m not going to sugarcoat it for you. We’re almost there. The Germans are retreating right and left. But they’re putting up a fight. This is not over yet.”
Tom closed his eyes. The idea of going back was terrifying and he could feel his blood race at the mention of it. “What a waste of life. Think of how many could be saved if they’d only surrender.”