Letters Across the Sea by Genevieve Graham (best short novels of all time txt) 📗

a gunner with the Sixty-Seventh Battery. We were sent to protect Allied assets in Russia from the incoming Germans, but things got complicated.”

He looked like he might stop there, so I prodded a little. “How?”

“We were working with what they called the White Russians, but those folks were also fighting with the Red Army. We got caught in the middle, you could say. It’s not a good story.”

Mum was watching him with a soft expression in her eyes. “It’s okay, Garret. She can handle it.”

He considered what she’d said, then nodded. “All right. It was November, and colder than you could believe. Lots of snow, and our big guns were stuck in it. When the Red Army troops came up on us, they came from the rear, and we couldn’t get the artillery turned.” He shook his head, remembering. “The rest of the men spread out, covering us with their rifles while we wrestled those things. They managed to hold the Reds off until the Brits arrived with reinforcements.” He frowned at his paper, remembering. “We lost two men. A couple of days later, the Reds killed two more of our guys on reconnaissance patrol. When we found them, they’d been hacked apart by axes.”

I wasn’t sure what to say. “Oh, Dad. I’m so sorry. That must have been awful.”

“And damn cold,” he muttered, his nostrils flared. “I wouldn’t wish that patrol on anyone.” After a pause, he shook the paper and held it up like a shield. “Think the Americans are ever gonna get into this thing?” he asked, steering the conversation to less painful ground.

I was grateful he’d finally shared a piece of his past with me. “Well, there’s no rush, Dad. I mean, our own men haven’t even seen any action yet.”

“And thank the Lord for that,” Mum said. She turned to me. “I notice you’ve been spending quite a bit of time with the Collins boy these days, Molly.”

I smiled, imagining Ian’s reaction. “He’s what, twenty-nine? I don’t think I’d call him a boy, Mum.”

“Why’s he not fighting?” Dad wanted to know.

“He has a substantial heart murmur, according to the doctor.”

Dad’s eyes narrowed, assessing the idea.

“But you like him, don’t you, Molly?” Mum pressed.

I knew what she was asking, obviously. And I knew Ian was thinking along the same lines as she was, but I still wasn’t ready to commit to anything beyond dating.

“I’m having fun with him, Mum. That’s all for now. He’s a smart, funny man, and we enjoy each other’s company.”

“Good,” she said. “But don’t wait too long.”

Dad was still stewing about Ian’s heart defect. “Don’t rush into it, either.”

Outside, a wintery blast rattled the window, and I turned to my letter, sliding my finger under the flap of the envelope.

Dear Molly,

I never thought I’d write to you again, but here I am. I hope it’s okay, after all this time.

I caught my breath, and my eyes dropped to the signature: three little letters that set my world alight.

“Molly? Are you all right?” Mum asked, dropping her knitting to her lap.

“I’m… I got a letter from Max,” I said, barely aware my parents were still in the room. My lips felt numb with adrenaline. I brought the paper closer, squinting at it in the dim light of the lamp beside me.

What a day I had. First, Hannah sent the article you wrote for the Star about Mr. Rabinowitz. My God, Molly. I had no idea you were working there. Congratulations! Your writing is beautiful. Your portrait of Mr. Rabinowitz really made me think.

He’d read my article! My heart flipped at the thought. I read those lines again, thinking of Hannah this time, and I felt a stab of regret, realizing how long it had been since she and I had last spoken. I didn’t realize she knew I was at the Star. I’d heard from someone that she’d had another baby, but her home with David wasn’t in the old neighbourhood, and their new place was out of the way.

Just after I finished reading it, I had a real heart-to-heart with Richie. It was actually the best conversation we’ve had in years. He said—

Max and Richie were in the same battalion? When I looked up, my parents were watching me intently.

“Did you know Max and Richie were in C Force together?” I asked.

Mum leaned forward, worry in her eyes. “He wrote about Richie? Is Richie all right? Did something happen?”

“No, no. Richie’s fine. In fact, he and Max seem to be patching things up.” I followed his messy writing. “He says… he says…” I stopped, my blood running cold at his words.

I touched my finger to his signature again, then lowered the letter.

“What is it?” Mum asked.

“Max says he wrote to me a long time ago,” I said slowly. In my mind I finished the sentence: to see if we could make things work. “But I never got anything from him. I can’t understand it.”

My parents looked sideways at each other.

“What?” I asked, my skin prickling with uncertainty.

“Molly dear,” Mum said carefully. “Your father and I felt, well, things being what they were, and Max being what he was, we thought it would be better—”

I stared, my mouth hanging open as her words started tripping out, faster and faster.

“What did you do?” I whispered, sick to my stomach.

“It was for your own good,” she said.

Dad cleared his throat. “We thought it was better this way. Now, it might not have been the right thing to do, looking back, but at the time—”

“What did you do?” I demanded again.

“We burned his first letter.”

“You burned it?”

“But we didn’t read it,” Mum said, as if that made everything all right. “We never did. We just thought if you didn’t know it had come, you wouldn’t think about him so much. You could move on.”

“Things were heated back then,” Dad explained. “With everything that had happened between the two of you—”

“Then his father with the brick, and your father getting so ill,” Mama added, putting her hand