He let out a sigh and turned his head so that Winters couldn’t see the tears forming in his eyes.
But he knew what Tom knew—that either of their lives could be taken just as the war was coming to an end.
“Tom, I’ve known you for a while now. You’ve kept things close to the vest, but I’d like to think that I’ve done a good job observing my men. You perform as well if not better than the best of them. But there is something bothering you. You don’t have to tell me—I’m not your confessor. But whatever it is, I suggest you remedy it. And soon. If you’ve ever seen fireworks, you know that the grand finale is what they save the biggest ones for. We’re about to head into that. I need you to be more focused than you’ve ever been. I need you to survive this. And all the men I’ve put in your care.”
Tom raised his right hand and brought it to his forehead in a salute. There was nothing he wouldn’t do for Captain Winters.
* * *
“Here you are,” the nurse said. Her gentle voice was a relief to his ears. The concussion had caused him to become especially sensitive to noise. The doctor assured him that it was temporary. But he appreciated her discretion. “I’ve brought you that pen and paper you asked for.”
Tom thanked her and sat up as she put pillows behind his back. When she walked away, he was left alone with his task.
He might live through this battle. He might not. And if the worst happened, he did not want to go to his grave without having told Margaret the truth. Winters had been right—his worry over it was a dangerous distraction. He’d been waiting for the right time. And it had just presented itself.
He took the pen and pressed it to the paper.
Dearest Margaret,
I have written this letter in my head so many times to you in the last few months that I don’t need to pen draft after draft to get it right.
This is Tom Powell. Tom, who drew the flowers for you.
I hope they’ve made you smile.
My handwriting is surely familiar.
That is what I am writing to explain.
John, William, and I shared everything. Socks, cigarettes—though I passed on those—letters. Unless there was something of a private nature said, we considered letters to be community property. No matter whose family had sent them, they sustained us more than I could ever describe.
From the beginning, William could tell that reading your letters put a smile on my face. He said it was a particular smile that he never saw me wear any other time. He pinned your picture to my pillow and I never removed it. Not until we left Chilton Foliat. It was nice to wake up to your beautiful face.
I lost it a few weeks ago during a battle. It had survived Arctic temperatures and got scratched by shrapnel and it even got bled upon. It had faded and white lines ran down where it was folded.
But it was my most treasured possession, for all that it symbolized. “You” have been with me, Margaret. Your picture reminded me every day that there was something worth living for.
And now for the difficult part. You see, of course, that I have spoken here of William in the past tense. And this is why I have put off this letter for far, far too long. William died in Normandy. All the way back in June. He was a hero, Margaret, and I will love and remember him until my last breath. On that first day in France, he ran to a bunker full of Germans and tossed a grenade into it, killing all the men. But a sniper lurked in the trees and caught him right in the chest. I saw him fall. I think it got him instantly because he didn’t even shout. Just collapsed and never moved. It is something that haunts me to this day. I often think of his parents and his sisters in Arlington. The first thing I want to do when I return—right after I see you—is go see his family. And tell them how much he was cherished.
I know you’ll need some time to grieve through that. So please put this letter down if you feel like you need to. Cry on it—I chose heftier paper instead of air mail so that it can withstand your tears. Or maybe you’ll want to rip it up when you read what I have to say next.
You’ll be confused, of course, why you continued to receive letters from William when D-Day was already so long ago.
To that, I can only say, I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.
You deserve an explanation. Please do not see this as an excuse, because I don’t pretend that what I did was right.
John asked you to write William because he hadn’t received any letters from home. And it was so kind of you to do so. Just before William was going to write you back, he injured his right hand and couldn’t grip a pen. So I played secretary to his dictation.
He liked my handwriting better anyway.
Eventually, through an administrative snafu, dozens of letters from his family arrived at the same time and it was the happiest I’d ever seen him. By then, his hand had mostly healed and it took up all of his scarce free time to write them all back.
But there was still the question of your letters. Neither of us wanted them to go unanswered. You delighted us all with your big words and your optimistic outlook and, with the gaps filled in by John’s tales of his sister, I felt like I’d really gotten to know you.
I kept writing and he would occasionally contribute some thoughts, but as time went on, the letters were mostly mine.
Until they were entirely mine.
My favorite moments have been the ones in which I was writing to you.
The flowers, at least, were always my own. And I delighted in knowing that, if you liked them, it was my gift you were enjoying.
At William’s behest, though, I continued to sign his name. And, thinking that he might want to take them over one day, I agreed.
As for the rest—once we’d lost him—I have no excuse other than to say that in my grief, I could not bring myself to write to you as the stranger I was and impart that news.
And, I couldn’t bear the thought of telling you about another loss so soon after John’s death.
You’d become a lifeline to me. Everything I was experiencing, I thought of in relation to how I would tell you about it. Every letter you sent brought me peace when there was none surrounding us.
But I don’t want to go another day without telling you. It is important to me to live a life of honor.
I hope you will find room in that generous heart of yours to forgive me. I offer only explanation, not excuse.
Love, Tom
Chapter Twenty-Five
February 1945
Margaret marched over to the telephone booth on the corner and plunked in a nickel. She dialed the rotary until she’d entered the party line in Gladys’s brownstone.
It sounded fifteen times before someone picked up the extension, to which she insisted that they knock on Gladys’s basement door and tell her there was a call for her.
It was then that she realized it was Saturday morning and she’d probably woken half the building. But it was too late to take it back now.
A sleepy Gladys finally answered. “What is it, doll? Oliver was out late on a story and then we went into Manhattan for drinks. We just got back a few hours ago.”
“Dottie’s house. One hour. I’ll see you there.”
She slammed down the phone before Gladys could respond.
She dialed Dottie’s number, happy, at least, that she had telephones that weren’t shared with any neighbors.