Kristina McMorris - Letters From Home

In the entry of the dance hall, Liz stretched up on the balls of her feet to see over hats and heads. Her gaze penetrated the light haze of smoke to reach the stage. There, uniformed musicians played from behind star-patterned barricades of red, white, and blue. Flags and an oversized United Service Organization banner created a vibrant backdrop, Americana at its finest. In front of the band, her roommate Betty Cordell and two other women shared a standing microphone, harmonizing the final notes of “Don’t Sit Under the Apple Tree.”

The audience broke into applause.

“Swell,” Liz groaned. She’d missed Betty’s entire debut.

Correcting her presumption, the trio jumped into another jingle.

“Thank God.” Though not a particularly religious person, Liz figured it never hurt to offer a small token of appreciation to the Almighty.

Now to find her other roommate, Julia Renard. Despite the teeming room, it took only a moment to spy the girl’s fiery, collar-length curls, her ever-chic attire.

Liz wove through the sea of military uniforms and thick wafts of Aqua Velva. Ignoring a duet of catcalls, she slid into the empty chair next to her friend. “I’m so sorry I’m late.”

“Let me guess,” Julia ventured in her honey-sweet voice. “Mr. Donovan lost his dentures, or Thelma refused to take her pills, convinced you’re trying to poison her.”

Liz edged out a smile.

“You know, it wouldn’t kill you to get off work at a decent hour. You’re making the rest of us look bad.” She used her thumb to wipe something off Liz’s cheek. “So, is Dalton parking the car?”

Liz tried for a casual shrug. “A political thing came up at the last minute.” Again trailed her statement as the unspoken word.

“Oh,” Julia replied. Not even her glowing smile could hide the sympathy invading her copper eyes.

“It’s fine,” Liz insisted. “I can’t stay long anyway. I’ve got an essay on Hawthorne due Friday.”

Julia nodded, then detoured from the awkward pause. “Hey, I think I still have notes on Hawthorne from last semester. Want to borrow them?”

“Sure, thanks,” Liz said, before considering the source. “Unless you’ve got doodle designs covering the actual notes.”

Julia scrunched her mouth, pondering. “Well, there might be a few. . . .”

Liz couldn’t help but giggle. If past lives existed, Julia had to have been an elite fashion designer with a permanently attached sketchpad. A keen knack for sewing served as further proof, as showcased by their roommate’s new dress.

“Speaking of which.” Liz motioned toward Betty. “You’ve really outdone yourself, Jules.” In the center of the crooning trio, the blonde sparkled in the form-fitted garment matching her ocean blue eyes. The fabric and buttons were so dazzling, Julia had obviously purchased the materials herself. No doubt the dress was already Betty’s favorite. From the exquisite sweetheart neckline to the elegant flow around her hips, every stitch perfectly flattered her hourglass curves. “Rita Hayworth?” Liz guessed at the inspiration.

“Yep,” Julia said proudly. “From the gown in Blood and Sand . Except I shortened it to the knee, and improved on the sleeves.”

“You’re amazing.” Too amazing to waste your talent solely as a homemaker, she wanted to say. But there was no need traversing that well-covered territory.

“It was nothing.” Julia blushed, waved her off. “You want something to drink?”

Liz only intended to stay for three songs, four tops. But some coffee to ripen her brain for a long night of reading wasn’t a bad idea. “A cup of joe would be great.”

“Coming right up.”

As Julia headed toward the snack table by the stage, Liz settled in her seat. She massaged the tension out of her palms and returned her attention to Betty. In a seasoned motion, the girl tossed her finger-waved mane off her shoulders. The bounce of her hips succeeded as a diversion from her moderate singing ability, evidenced by the front line of awestruck troops, her ideal audience.

Leave it to Betty. Up there, living carefree, without regrets. No academic pressures, no parents’ expectations looming overhead—

Jealous souls will not be answered. The passage interrupted Liz’s thoughts, one of many Shakespearean quotes she had memorized from her father’s personal tutorials.

“One quote for every sun kiss,” he would say during the lessons that ended far too soon.

Now, glancing down at the constellation of freckles on her arms, Liz recalled those long-gone days. She considered the morals her father had passed along, and wondered how different their lives would be if only she’d abided by them.

“What the hell are you up to now?” Morgan McClain demanded as his brother ducked behind his back.

“Don’t move. Need you to cover me.” Charlie raised his shoulders to his sandy blond crew cut.

When Morgan glimpsed the silver flask in his brother’s hand, he shook his head. Charlie wasn’t the only enlisted man at the dance calling for “liquid reinforcement,” just the only one daring enough to dip into his supply ten feet from the volunteers’ snack station. Luckily, the herd of GIs standing around them at the foot of the stage offered plenty of khaki camouflage. Or at least Morgan clung to that hope as his brother choked on the drink. Whiskey, from the smell of it.

“Hurry up, will ya?” Morgan told him. Typically, he would have voiced his disproval, but with Charlie’s tension over tomorrow’s departure vibrating the air, he decided to let it go. So long as the kid didn’t get carried away.

“Ahh, much better,” Charlie rasped, emerging from the protective shadow. He stepped up behind a couple of GIs from another outfit, both of them wolf whistling at the platinum blond singer on stage. “Sorry, fellas”—Charlie clapped them on the back—“but she’s already agreed to mother my fourteen children.”

“Don’t fool yourself, shorty,” the tall guy spat out. “You wouldn’t know how to use it even if you could find it.”

Charlie straightened, adding a few inches to his compact stature. “Hey, at least I have one, spaghetti bender.”

“What’d you say?” The Italian GI angled his head over his wide shoulder.

“You heard me.” Charlie took a step back. He rocked from side to side, dukes raised like Jack Dempsey.

As usual, Morgan would have to shut him up before a bigger guy’s right hook beat him to it. “Zip it, Charlie,” he ordered, then regarded the Italian. “Don’t pay him any mind. It’s his first day out of the loony bin.” Not a stretch to believe, considering the mismatched challenge.

The GI’s mouth twitched, from either amusement or agitation. To be safe, Morgan gestured to the stage and said, “Don’t look now, but I think that red-hot tomato’s got her eye on you, pal.” The sentence launched the soldier’s attention back to the bombshell, where it stuck like glue.

Problem handled.

Except for the instigator.

“So help me, Charlie,” Morgan muttered, “if you weren’t . . . my . . . if . . .” The lecture dissolved at a vision beyond his brother’s shoulder. Across the room a petite beauty sat alone, swaying to the music. Strands of chestnut brown hair slipped from the knot at the nape of her neck, a frame for her heart-shaped face. Creamy skin, feminine curves, full, rounded lips. Each feature was no less than eye catching, but it was the way she moved—like wheat in a summer breeze—that mesmerized him.

“Hey, you okay?”

Morgan heard the question but didn’t realize it was directed at him until a fluttering object broke the trance: a wave of Charlie’s fingers.

“Huh? Uh, yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.”