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

“That’s wonderful, Molly,” she said.

Our meals arrived, and we sat quietly for a moment, picking at them. I was aware that Hannah was studying me like she always had, like she could hear my thoughts. It had been a while since I’d felt that sensation, and I clamped down hard on any secrets I might be harbouring.

After a moment, she set her fork down. “Molly, as your maid of honour, I need to know: Are you sure you want to marry Ian?”

I choked. “What?”

“If you are going to marry Ian, you have to be sure, without a shadow of a doubt. No regrets, no lingering thoughts.”

I stared at her, stunned. “I don’t understand. Why are you asking me this?”

“Max is back,” she said slowly. “And any idiot can see that after all this time, nothing has changed between the two of you. My brother loves you. He always has. I want him to be happy. And I want you to be happy.”

My whole body tingled with nerves. The thing about love is that you can never know until you know, Mum had told me. Back then, I’d thought I’d known. Back then, before the world had changed.

“Of course I want to marry him,” I said quickly, dismissing the thought. “And you’ll be the best maid of honour anyone could ask for.”

But her words hummed in my head all the way back to the office. I was still deep in thought when I got to my desk.

“Miss Ryan.”

I glanced up. “Yes, Mr. Hindmarsh?”

“May I speak with you a moment?”

I rushed into his office, still in my coat, fresh nerves skittering down my spine. Mr. Hindmarsh always made me nervous, no matter what. He didn’t mean to, that’s just how he was. He indicated my chair, then he handed me a file. I opened it and saw the story I’d finished that morning was on top. My stomach rolled with apprehension. Where were his usual red editorial markings? Was it that bad?

“I think this is your best work, Miss Ryan,” he said, and relief blazed into my cheeks. “Some of my editors should consider taking lessons from you.”

“Oh, I—”

I was about to correct him, tell him that Ian and I had written this together, but then my eyes fell on the byline, noting that Ian had taken his name off. That was strange. I’d ask him about that as soon as I was finished here. Confused, I shuffled to the next article in the folder, my original story from VE Day, talking about the returning veterans. Behind it, I spotted others. Near the bottom of the pile, I saw Mr. Rabinowitz’s story. The last page was my original letter to the editor, from 1933.

“You have quite an impressive collection there, Miss Ryan. You’ve come a long way from writing church bazaar notices, haven’t you?”

My smile flickered. Where was this going?

“Yes. Well, if you have a few minutes, I wanted to speak with you about an assistant editor position that’s just come up here at the paper.”

My jaw dropped in disbelief. It was a good thing I was already sitting, because I felt dizzy with surprise. Twenty minutes later, when I left his office and headed back to my desk, I was walking on air.

Ian had left a note on my typewriter, where I couldn’t miss it, asking me to come to his house for dinner. Unexpected nerves wriggled through me. Between his reaction this morning and my lunch with Hannah—and then my recent promotion—we had a lot to discuss. I just wasn’t sure what I was going to say.

He was at the stove when I arrived at his house. He’d lit a candle on the dining room table, and the soft light felt romantic. Two empty wineglasses waited by our places, and I wondered if we were celebrating my promotion. He’d been in Mr. Hindmarsh’s office earlier, I recalled, and a thought hit me. Did he know about it already? Had he recommended me for the position?

“This looks so nice,” I said, my voice slightly higher than usual.

“It’s just spaghetti,” Ian said, plating two dishes. “It’s the only thing I can make.”

I helped him carry the plates to the table, then he went back for wine while I sat. When he returned, it struck me that he looked older in the candlelight. He looked tired.

The uneasiness from this morning still hovered over us like a cloud. When he sat across from me, he avoided my eyes. He poured the wine, and I squirmed in my seat, not sure how to react. We’d always been able to talk about anything.

“Mr. Hindmarsh called me into his office today,” I said, breaking the ice as Ian poured the wine. “He actually offered me an assistant editor job. I didn’t even know there was a position open.”

“I hope you took it,” he said, lifting his glass.

“I did.”

His smile was warm, but sad. I didn’t understand.

“I’m happy for you, Molly. You deserve this. Your piece on Max was brilliant. I knew everything you were going to put in there, but you still brought me to tears and taught me new things. Your talent, your insight, your dedication. It was yours and yours alone.”

“Thank you,” I said, blushing. “But why’d you take your name off the byline?”

“Because it was your article. We both know that.”

“We did it together, Ian. Some of those questions were too hard for me to ask. Not sure I could have done it without you.”

“Yes, you could have,” he said, taking a sip. “It was all you and Max.”

I hesitated, hearing that note of sadness in his voice. “Did you say something to Mr. Hindmarsh about the job?”

“No,” he said. “It wasn’t my idea. Mr. Hindmarsh wanted you right from the start.” He put his napkin on his lap, then he took a deep breath. “What he didn’t tell you—and I asked him not to—is that it’s my position.”

“Your position?” I echoed.

“I’ve been offered a job in Boston.”

My hand stilled on my glass. “Wh-What?