“Really, Gladys, I don’t think this is the same thing,” Dottie interjected, but the hesitation in her voice told Margaret that she wasn’t as confident as she originally had been.
“It is. The situation is different, and the players are different. But it’s the same thing. He withheld the truth because telling you, Margaret, would have hurt you. I’m not excusing it. But I’m saying that we have all done it. So let she among us who has never lied cast the first stone.”
Margaret laughed. Not a robust one, as she was still buried under the cloud of the morning, but it was as if a life preserver had been thrown into the pool in which she was drowning. She was grabbing on to it. Not yet out of danger but being reeled in to safety.
“Gladys, have you gone biblical on us?” she asked.
Gladys folded her arms and sank back into the couch. “No. It’s just common human knowledge.”
Margaret felt her heart thawing. “And you were the one who cautioned me against William. Why the change of heart? Has marriage softened you? Dottie, has our Gladys become a big old teddy bear?”
“Stop it! I haven’t gone soft. But this is what I see. I see that it’s not the name that matters. From what I can tell, William’s contribution was introductory, at best. You don’t know him personally. So what does the name even mean to you? William. Tom. Bugs Bunny. That is not the important part. It was Tom’s words that put that smile on your face. Tom is the one who bled his feelings onto paper. Tom is the one you actually wrote to.”
Her voice lowered. “He’s the one asking for your forgiveness. Which is not an easy thing to do. I should know. It’s never been my strong suit.”
Margaret looked at her friend. The one who always told it like it was. Maybe she had, indeed, missed the whole point.
“Ladies, I have some breakfast for you.” The cook peeked her head into the living room and once again Margaret marveled that Dottie’s help had impeccable timing and discretion. There was nothing like breaking bread to even the playing field between warring factions.
Dottie led them into the dining room and she pulled back the curtains to reveal the light that was beaming into the space. It refracted on the bevels, casting rainbow spectrums onto every surface. Margaret smiled at the beauty of it. And even felt reassured. However this turned out, there were some things you could always count on. Sunlight. Rainbows. Friendship.
As the cook set a plate of toast and sausages on the table, George sauntered in wearing slacks and a perfectly tailored burgundy sweater that looked like one of Dottie’s creations.
“Good morning, ladies,” he said. Seemingly unsurprised by their presence.
“May I?” Dottie asked Margaret, and Margaret nodded. She didn’t even need to finish that question to know what her dearest and oldest friend meant.
As they ate, Dottie filled George in on the news of the morning, and Gladys handed him the letters, which she had not yet let go of.
“Darling,” he said to his wife when he’d been fully apprised of the details. “I never like to disagree with you, but I have to say, I’m siding with Gladys on this.”
Margaret watched Dottie’s expression, and her initial indignation—already disappearing—seemed to melt away in her husband’s presence.
“How do you mean?” she asked.
“Well,” he said, pushing his chair back. He looked at Margaret, remembering that this conversation was really about her in the first place. “All I can say is that I know what it’s like to be a man in love. And to have to hold that love in until it is best for all parties to know.”
Gladys let out a triumphant sound under her breath.
“Do you really think so, George?” asked Margaret. “I hadn’t really thought about it from his point of view.”
“And wouldn’t the world’s problems be mitigated by doing just that.” He said it as a statement more than a question.
“Yes.”
“Now—what do you want to do about it?”
Chapter Twenty-Six
April 1945
The mail had arrived more steadily since the Airborne had left Bastogne. It had been a brutal few weeks of battle, but they’d triumphed. And the victories for all the Allies continued to mount.
Tom hadn’t had to wait long for Margaret’s response, though the few weeks between the letters had made him more nervous than any enemy he’d faced.
Tom—her missive had started. It was void of the dears and the dearests that had become so familiar between them. Albeit those had been addressed to William. But he took it as a good sign that she’d written him at all.
I have had some time to reflect on your revelation, and in fairness, I brought Dottie and Gladys and George in on it. As you said that you, John, and William shared all of your correspondences, I feel that it is only fair to have done the same.
The conclusion is that yes, I forgive you. It was terrible to learn of William’s death, but I didn’t initially consider how difficult his loss must be for you too. So, I begin with passing along my most sincere condolences. He indeed sounded like a wonderful friend and if you and John cared for him as much as you both seemed to, I’m sure his absence left a hole that has been difficult to fill.
I reread all of his letters—your letters—and imagined you sitting down to write those beautiful words. Drawing those flowers. Entertaining me with big words you’d discovered.
I also read another letter. One that you don’t know about. William—the real William—sent something that I was only supposed to read upon his death. He typed the envelope, clever boy, since I wouldn’t have known his handwriting. After you told me the news, I opened it.
His consideration in it made the fact that I never really knew him all the more painful. Because what he said revealed the soul of a person I would have liked to know.
He explained that he’d adopted the role of Cupid when the notion to do so came into his head. He made excuses to you about being too busy to respond to me and insisted that you sign his name because he knew you were “too much of a gentleman to steal his friend away without some help.”
His regard for you, in fact, would rival the most robust advertising campaign on Madison Avenue.
And while it does not excuse your subsequent decision to continue in that vein, it does shed light on all that led to it.
So. I can think of no better way to honor him than by remaining open to what I will consider his dying wish. Even if he didn’t know how very soon that date would be.
With all that we’ve exchanged, you and I have a long way to go to truly get to know each other. And whatever that develops into—friendship or something more—it has to be based on the foundations of truth and openness. My trust in you going forward can never be shaken again. I must have your assurance that you will always be forthright with me. And if you lay an oath to that on the memory of William, I will accept it.
Having said that, I am eager to put this behind us and resume our friendship. I have not yet told you that the letters and flowers became a lifeline to me too.
I would love to see them both continue.
All the best,
Margaret Beck
* * *
Tom’s first letter to Margaret—written as himself—began as if they had just been introduced. He told her that he was, indeed, from Virginia. But far from Arlington, near the Chickahominy River. He told her about his family, their farm, his college years.