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

Now I sat at my desk in the newsroom, thinking about how so many more would be coming home soon. Tomorrow, people would fill the streets, ticker tape would float from the rooftops, and strangers would embrace, their voices lifted in joy for a change. But when they raised their glasses, how many would think of those who would never come home? Or those who did, but lived with the scars and wounds of the battlefield, visible or not?

While the rest of the newsroom hurried about, working on their own VE assignments, I pulled out my notes, rolled a fresh sheet of paper into the typewriter, and began to type. I lost track of time while I wrote, and I was surprised to hear Ian’s voice behind me.

“ ‘There is no programme the government could offer that might ease the pain of these returning heroes,’ ” he read. “ ‘But the question of financial compensation, at least, must remain paramount in discussions.’ ” He nodded. “I like it. Now let’s go.”

“Where?”

“It’s time to celebrate,” he said.

“Oh, I don’t know. I’m not really great company.”

“Doesn’t matter. I am.”

I looked up at him, puffed up with excitement. And why shouldn’t he be? The war was over. He was right.

“Well, if you are, then that does it,” I told him. “I’m ready. Where are we going?”

“Everyone’s going to the press club. That’s the only place we might possibly get a seat tonight. We’ll get some food, have some drinks. Trust me. It’s exactly what you need,” he said, reaching for my handbag. “I won’t take no for an answer. I’ve already told everyone you’re my date.”

I smiled in spite of myself. “Well, who else would be?”

“No one. You’re the only girl for me.”

I picked up my article. “Okay, let me just drop this off.”

Ian held out my coat and scarf while I dropped the pages in Mr. Hindmarsh’s tray, knowing he’d be pleased I’d kept it under five hundred words. I hoped he wouldn’t edit too much out.

The temperature outside was barely above freezing, surprisingly cold for May, and it felt like rain might be coming. I hoped not. That would spoil tomorrow’s citywide party. Ian grinned, squeezing my hand in his, and we wound our way between revellers on the street. We could hear the noise from the tavern from halfway down the block, and when we got to the door we had to squeeze through the crowds. Ian was almost a head taller than most of the people there, so he went first, holding my hand tight so he could clear a path. Halfway through, he checked on me over his shoulder.

“I’m fine!” I yelled over the noise, following him past a group of ladies standing on a table, singing the national anthem with great gusto.

“Gin and tonic?”

“Yes please!”

“Gin and tonic, and a scotch!” Ian bellowed, I assumed at the bartender.

There was no way to reach the bar through the throngs of people, so when we were about six people away, he passed the cash forward, and the people ahead of us passed the drinks back, toasting us along the way.

Ian’s cheeks flushed with excitement as he handed me my glass. “To the end of the war!” he called, lifting his glass, and half the bar replied, “To the end of the war!”

The room was electric with happiness and alcohol. I left my concerns briefly behind, letting the energy infect me. Ian introduced me to practically everyone in the place, and he was right. I had a terrific time. I met new people and listened to the kinds of stories one could only hear in a roomful of reporters, and I drank far too much gin. When it was time for the evening to end, Ian went to retrieve my coat and hat.

“That was so much fun,” I said, sliding into the front seat of his dark blue Chevy. My head swam with alcohol and warm, happy remnants of the evening. “Thanks for making me go.”

“I told you so.”

“Nobody likes anyone who says that, you know.”

“You’re wrong,” he said, pulling into traffic. “Everybody likes me.”

I chuckled and closed my eyes, letting the motion of the car lull me to sleep. Moments later, Ian gently jostled my arm. “Molly, wake up. We’re here.”

I blinked open my eyes and my street came into view, everyone’s porch lights left on in celebration. After he parked beside my house, he went around to open my door.

“Thanks for the ride, mister,” I said groggily, curling into him. He tugged me close, his lips on my neck, and a delicious thrill raced through me. “Why, you!”

“Molly?”

Startled by a new voice, I pulled away and peered at the dark shape sitting at the side of our front step, avoiding the light overhead. I took another step toward the house, unsure.

“Hey, Molly.”

My heart stopped. “Jimmy?”

With the same slow, casual ease I’d known all my life, Jimmy got to his feet and set his hands on his hips. “Is this any way to welcome your b-b-big brother home?”

I felt as if an ocean wave crested on top of me. “Oh my God, Jimmy,” I cried, rushing toward him. His arms closed tight around me, and I heard his heart thumping against my ear. “You’re home. You’re home. You’re really home,” I sobbed.

“Yeah,” he said, his voice rough. “Here I am.”

I didn’t want to let him go, but Jimmy’s hold eased, and I realized he was looking behind me, at Ian. I stepped back, and Ian offered his hand.

“Jimmy,” he said. “It’s an honour to meet you. Your sister never stops talking about you.”

He eyed Ian’s hand for a moment before taking it. “You must be Molly’s fiancé.”

I jumped in. “Jimmy, this is Ian Collins, assistant editor at the Star. And yes, he and I are engaged.”

Jimmy didn’t say anything, just studied Ian while I studied him. His face was a lot thinner than it had been when he’d left, and his uniform coat fell loosely over his frame. His