Kristina McMorris - Letters From Home

LETTERS

FROM HOME

KRISTINA McMORRIS

Copyright

This novel is entirely a work of fiction.

The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

AVON

An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd. 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF www.harpercollins.co.uk

Copyright © Kristina McMorris 2011

Kristina McMorris asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

HarperCollins Publishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication

Source ISBN: 9781847562418

Ebook Edition © 2011 ISBN: 9781847562920

Version: 2018-07-25

RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED

to the veterans of World War II, a generation of heroes who, like my grandfather, fought valiantly and courageously to secure freedom for us all.

And to the unsung heroes with nary a medal nor ribbon to show for their sacrifices— for ’twas the women who waited for their loved ones to return who truly gave purpose to their soldiers’ victory.

Each separate page was like a fluttering flower-petal, loosed from your own soul, and wafted thus to mine.

—Edmond Rostand, Cyrano de Bergerac, act iv, scene viii

Contents

Cover

Title Page LETTERS FROM HOME KRISTINA McMORRIS

Copyright

Epigraph Each separate page was like a fluttering flower-petal, loosed from your own soul, and wafted thus to mine. —Edmond Rostand, Cyrano de Bergerac, act iv, scene viii

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Acknowledgments

Author’s Note

Book Club “Victory Recipes”

A Reading Group Guide

Discussion Questions

Read on for an exclusive interview with Kristina McMorris

Letters from Home Kristina McMorris

About the Author

Credits

About the Publisher

Chapter 1

July 4, 1944 Chicago, Illinois

Silence in the idling Cadillac grew as suffocating as the city’s humidity. Hands clenched on her lap, Liz Stephens averted her narrowed eyes toward the open passenger window. Chattering ladies and servicemen flocked by in the shadows; up and down they traveled over the concrete accordion of entrance steps. The sting of laughter and music drifted through the swinging glass doors, bounced off the colorless sky. Another holiday without gunpowder for celebration. No boom of metallic streamers, no sunbursts awakening the night. Only the fading memory of a simpler time.

A time when Liz knew whom she could trust.

“You know the Rotary doesn’t invite just anyone to speak,” Dalton Harris said finally. The same argument, same lack of apology in his voice. “What was I supposed to do? Tell my father I couldn’t be there because of some dance? ”

At his condescension, her gaze snapped to his slate gray eyes. “That,” she said, “is exactly what you should’ve done.”

“Honey. You’re being unreasonable.”

“So it’s unreasonable, wanting us to spend time together?”

“That’s not what I meant.” A scratch to the back of his neck punctuated his frustration, a habit that had lost the amusing charm it held when they were kids. Long before the expensive suits, the perfect ties, the tonic-slickening of his dark brown hair.

“Listen.” His square jaw slackened as he angled toward her, a debater shifting his approach. “When I was asked to run my dad’s campaign, we talked about this. I warned you my schedule would be crazy until the election. And you were the one who said I should do it, that between classes and work, you’d be—”

“As busy as ever,” she finished sharply. “Yes. I know what I said.” With Dalton in law school and her a sophomore at Northwestern, leading independent but complementary lives was nothing new; in fact, that had always been among the strengths of their relationship. Which was why he should know their separate activities weren’t the issue tonight.

“Then what’s the problem?”

“The problem is, anything else pops up, campaign or otherwise, and you don’t think twice about canceling on me.”

“I am not canceling. I’m asking you to come with me.”

Liz had attended enough political fund-raisers with him to know that whispers behind plastered smiles and greedy glad-handing would be highlights of the night. A night she could do without, even if not for her prior commitment.

“I already told you,” she said, “I promised the girls weeks ago I’d be here.” The main reason she’d agreed, given her condensed workload from summer school, was to repay Betty for accompanying her to that droning version of Henry V last week—just so Dalton’s ticket hadn’t gone to waste. “Why can’t you make an exception? Just this once?”

He dropped back in his seat, drew out a sigh. “Lizzy, it’s just a dance.”

No, it’s not . It’s more than that. I have to know I can depend on you! Her throat fastened around her retort. Explosions of words, she knew all too well, could bring irreversible consequences.

She grabbed the door handle. “I have to go.” Before he could exit and circle around to open her side, she let herself out.

“Wait,” he called as she shut the door. “Sweetheart, hold on.”

The sudden plea in his voice tugged at her like strings, halting her. Could it be that he had changed his mind? That he was still the same guy she could count on?

She slid her hand into the pocket of her ivory wraparound dress, a shred of hope cupped in her palm, before pivoting to face him.

Dalton leaned across the seat toward her. “We’ll talk about this later, all right?”

Disappointment throbbed inside, a recurrent bruise. Bridling her reaction, she replied with a nod, fully aware her agreement would translate into a truce.

“Have a good time,” he said, then gripped the steering wheel and drove away.

As she turned for the stairs, she pulled her hand from her pocket, and discovered she’d been holding but a stray thread. The first sign of a seam unraveling.