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

about that summer, too. On impulse, I reached across the table to take his hand, but my gold ring shone in the light, and he pulled away.

twenty-five MAX

Max knocked on the door of Ian’s house, then shifted in the cold. It seemed his leg hurt more in the winter, and his limp was acting up. While he waited, he reached into his pocket, checking for the letter he’d tucked in there before coming. Tonight was the night. He’d waited long enough.

A week after Molly had made him rugelach, she had called him and asked if he could come for dinner at Ian’s house instead of lunch at the Senator. From the tone of her voice, he couldn’t tell if it was her idea or Ian’s, but he supposed it didn’t matter. Sometimes Max wondered about Ian, and what he thought about all the time he and Molly had been spending alone together, but Ian had never complained. Lately, though, Max had caught something in Ian’s expression that clearly said he wasn’t comfortable with the whole situation anymore.

Molly was thrilled with everything they’d been doing. She said her editor was very happy with how the series was coming along, and that she’d be adding research from other sources so it would be a well-rounded piece. She positively glowed when she talked about it. Despite the memories the interviews dug up, Max would’ve continued doing them for as long as she wanted, just to see her happy. But it was one week before Christmas. Their time was running out.

He knocked again, and the door swung open. “Max,” Ian said, smiling broadly and stepping aside so Max could enter. “You made it. Thanks for coming out this way for a change.”

He took Max’s coat and hat then ushered him through to the dining room where the smells of home hit him. Molly was there, her long hair drawn partly back by a light blue bow that matched her dress. She was beautiful. But then, she was Molly. She’d always been beautiful.

He stepped closer, checking the steaming bowls already on the table. “Is that goulash?”

She grinned. “I thought you might like something warm to counter the bitter cold outside. And you can have as many seconds as you like.”

Ian pulled out the chair at the head of the table and gestured toward them. “Let’s eat before it gets cold!”

Molly nodded at Max, suggesting he take the spot to Ian’s left, then she claimed the chair across from Max. Her eyes were on him as he eased himself down, always careful not to bump his leg. She smiled, watching his reaction as he took his first taste.

“This is delicious, Moll,” Max said, and it was. “Tastes like home.”

Her face lit with the compliment. “I did learn this recipe in your mother’s kitchen,” she reminded him.

“Mama would be proud of you. I’ll tell her.”

“Yes, really good, sweetheart,” Ian said, then he looked over at Max. “So about tonight,” he said. “Since we’re getting close to Christmas and all, I’m wondering if we could talk about Stanley Village. I think it’s the final piece of the puzzle.”

She shot him a look. “We talked about this. It doesn’t have to be the final piece.”

Ian reached for her hand. “One week left, Molly. It’s time to put this article to bed.”

Her gaze flickered to his own. The subject of their wedding had hardly been mentioned until recently, at least not during the interviews, and it felt a bit like a slap, being reminded of it that way. A couple of days ago he’d been sitting on Hannah’s stairs while Dinah ran up and down them, fascinated by the “Slinky” Max had bought for her, and he’d brought up the subject of the wedding with his sister. He’d tried to keep his personal feelings out of the conversation, but she always saw right through him.

“He does dote on her, Max,” she’d said, leaning against the bannister at the base of the stairs. “And Molly seems happy.”

“She does,” he allowed.

“Listen, Max. I warned you once before to be careful around her, and I’m going to warn you again, but not for the reason you think.” She shook her head sadly. “You both have been through way too much. I’m not sure either of you could survive having your heart broken again.”

She was right, of course. Even if Molly changed her mind about Ian and stepped over that line with Max, they could never be together. But it was so hard to think of her married to another man. To imagine Molly and Ian standing before a minister together, then to imagine them after the wedding. Whenever he allowed his mind to wander in that direction, it hurt.

Molly was holding up a spoonful of goulash and watching him. “He’s right, you know. Stanley Village is the one thing we haven’t talked about. Are you ready to talk about it?”

No, he wasn’t. If he had a choice, Max would never again return to that battlefield or to any other thought from that day. Christmas 1941 had been the worst day of his life, until the camps. But if Molly wanted to go there, and of course she did, he would tell her everything she needed to know. Even if it broke her heart.

“Sure, Moll.”

“Okay then,” Ian said, producing his notepad and pen.

Molly scowled. “Ian, slow down. What’s the rush?”

“It’s okay, Molly,” Max said.

Ian flipped through his pages. “Before we actually get to Stanley Village, I wanted to ask you about some concerning reports coming out about the Battle of Hong Kong. It sounds like the Canadians were woefully underprepared and lacking in proper weapons. Was that your experience?”

Instantly, Max found himself crouched in the dark jungle, the cold of that night at Lye Mun hardened in his bones. Panic clogged his veins once more. The Japanese were coming. They were almost there.

All Max had to do was close his eyes, and he could see his friends