Letters From Home. Kristina McMorris

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СКАЧАТЬ the midst of a swallow, Liz sputtered drops of limeade. She wiped her chin. “Betty Cordell. I am not writing you a love letter.”

      “No, no, that’s not what I meant.” The blonde shifted onto her knees with a slight bounce. “Seriously, I do need your help. Please say you’ll agree.”

      Liz blew out a stream of air. She was all too familiar with the plea; Betty had used it for myriad requests over the years—everything from French kissing instructions to leg-makeup applications due to the silk and nylon shortage, an act Betty considered as her contribution to the war effort. In other words, Liz had learned to ask for details up front.

      “What exactly do you want me to do?”

      “Well, you see,” she said, “there’s this soldier I met.” Her opening hardly launched a shock wave through the room. “He’s not the usual kind I date. I mean, he’s handsome enough. But he’s sorta shy. The mysterious type.”

      “And you need my help with . . . ?”

      “Oh, right,” Betty said. “The point is, we met at the USO, where we danced and had a grand time of it. Sadly, the next day he shipped out with his brother.”

       The USO?

       His brother?

      Oh God. With Liz’s luck, she was certain to be talking about Morgan. But why now? Ten whole days had passed since the dance, and not once had Betty spoken of him. Liz had hoped to forget all about that night, all about where foolishness might have led her had she not witnessed Betty and Morgan dancing. Which, incidentally, was the best thing that could have happened to Liz.

      So why did she find herself hoping, with everything in her, that Betty was referring to another guy?

      Liz interjected, “Who is he, this soldier of yours?” She managed a casual tone.

      “I just told you,” Betty said, as if she hadn’t been listening. “He’s handsome and mysterious and—”

      “I mean his name. What’s the fellow’s name?”

      “Oh. Sorry. It’s McKall—no. McLew—wait . . .”

      Liz restrained herself from volunteering what was undoubtedly the final syllable.

      “McClain,” Betty remembered. “It’s Morgan McClain.”

      “Morgan McClain?” Julia paused in the midst of changing into her mauve blouse. “Liz, isn’t that the same guy you—”

      “Yeah, he’s the one we met,” Liz cut in. “You know him?” Betty exclaimed. “Oh, that’s perfect. Then you have to help me write to him.”

      Write to him? This couldn’t be happening. Fate couldn’t be that spiteful.

      Liz arrived easily at her answer. “I’m sorry, Betty, but I don’t have time.”

      “It’ll only take a few minutes,” she insisted. “Pleeease, I promised. And it’d be rude to keep him waiting any longer.”

      As if he didn’t deserve it. The guy was plainly out for one thing: one night of fun, one roll in the hay before deployment. An obvious deduction in hindsight.

      Then again . . .

      If a one-night companion was all Morgan had wanted, he wouldn’t have bothered asking Betty to write. Maybe he wasn’t as insincere as he’d appeared. Perhaps his initial attraction to Liz was genuine, but a single glance at the stunning blonde had cured his interest.

      Another reason to decline.

      Liz was about to do just that, more firmly this time, when Betty continued her plea.

      “I already started his letter. I just need your help with the ending, and to make sure the rest is okay.” She pouted her lips. “You know what an awful writer I am.”

      Liz couldn’t argue. Had she not rewritten all of Betty’s essays in high school, the girl would still be there.

      “And since you’ve met him,” Betty went on, “you’ll know exactly what to say.”

      “Wrong,” Liz countered. Clearly she had no clue what he wanted to hear.

      Betty held up her right hand, taking an oath. “If you help me with this, I’ll never ask you to write anything for me again. Scout’s honor.”

      Julia chimed in, “Don’t you have to be a Scout to make that pledge?” She smiled, straightening the seams of her stockings.

      “Come on, Liz.” Desperation spilled from Betty’s eyes. “You and Julia already have beaus. Don’t I deserve to be happy too?”

      Liz groaned helplessly. How could she dispute that kind of logic?

      “Besides,” Betty elongated the word, “need I remind you about an incredibly boring play I attended for a certain friend?”

      Liz narrowed her eyes. “You mean the one you slept through?”

      “One measly act,” Betty snipped. “Even so, I went, didn’t I? And without a solitary complaint.”

      Truth be told, Liz herself had come close to drifting off during the student-directed play; verses from the overdramatic actors had dripped like sap off their tongues. More relevant to Betty’s request, however, was Liz’s unwillingness to explain the real cause of her hesitation. Which left her little choice.

      “All right, I’ll do it,” she gave in. “But just this once. No exceptions.”

      “Thank you, thank you!” Betty dropped Christian’s letter while clapping with glee. Julia swooped up the pages from the floor and carefully added them to the drawer of her nightstand.

      “I’m not fooling, Betty.” Liz mustered the sternest voice she could. “No V-mail, no notes, nothing.”

      “Okaaay. I’ll even write my own obituary.”

      Julia giggled as she slipped into her black pumps and fastened the ankle straps. From her lace collar to her tailored mid-length skirt, she was as stylish as Ava Gardner. “I’m heading out, girls. Either one of you want to join me and Dot for a triple feature? The Tivoli’s playing Cover Girl again.”

      Ah, yes. Hollywood’s cure-all for the perpetually glum. A perfect example of why talkies weren’t always better than the silent pictures. At least in Casablanca the tragic ending was scripted out of realism, and the stars didn’t belt out lines in melodramatic show tunes.

      “I wish I could,” Betty moaned. “I swear, if I have to take Vera’s shift again this week, I’m quitting once and for all.”

      “What about you, Liz?”

      Any activity sounded better than ghostwriting a letter to Morgan, even suffering through a silly musical. But completing the task, purging the soldier from her system, also had its appeal.

      “I’ll take a rain СКАЧАТЬ