Letters From Home. Kristina McMorris

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      “No, Dalton, really.” He shoved harder, pinching her skin. “Ow!” she cried, halting him.

      He raised his eyes, and his whole body sighed. “I’m sorry,” he told her. “This isn’t going the way I’d planned.” His crestfallen tone released a rush of compassion in Liz, and, in its wake, regret for misjudging his behavior throughout dinner.

      “It’s no problem.” She shrugged. “I’ll just have it resized.” Smiling, she shifted the ring onto her pinkie. “Until then, this should work.”

      Soon a beam returned to his face. He pulled her hand toward him and stood to embrace her. The audience caught a second wind and clapped louder.

      “I love you, Lizzy,” he said into her ear.

      She closed her eyes, relished the familiarity of his arms, his musky scent. “Me too,” she replied, holding him tighter.

      This was right. This made sense. You didn’t need chills or flutters or illusionary magic from a fleeting dance. Just the loyalty and devotion of someone who cared. Any other notions were better left as daydreams.

      Of this she was certain.

      Chapter 8

       Late August 1944 Chicago, Illinois

      Two Fridays in a row, and still no sign of her. That was the thought still scratching at Betty’s mind as she waited at the bus stop on Michigan Avenue. Nobody at work could recall how many years Irma had been frequenting the diner, eating in that far booth—Irma’s booth—but it was long enough to leave an arresting hole when she didn’t show two weeks ago.

      A cross-country trip. A visiting relative or a seasonal cold. These were the theories tossed among the staff like hamburger patties, kneaded and molded as reasons for her absence, shaped into the most tantalizing form. Yet as much as Betty strained to visualize the woman pleasuring in a lengthy train ride, or painting the town red with a long-lost cousin, she simply couldn’t. The possibility of a severe cold, on the other hand, the flu maybe, was the only explanation upholding Betty’s hopes after the first missed Friday.

      Then a second one passed without the arrival of Irma. Dear, quiet Irma, who wore her aged solitude as elegantly as her silver flapper hat, her tarnished brooch.

      Why did her absence bother Betty so much? She barely knew the woman.

      Betty tried her darndest to flick the pointless concerns aside. It was Monday afternoon, the heat rising. Her feet were moaning from a morning shift that ran an hour over. Due to meet Julia soon for a matinee, she aimed her focus on getting home, peeling out of her diner uniform, lemon-washing the smell of grease from her hair.

      But then an image of the young couple from that morning returned, another set of customers with the audacity to invade Irma’s booth. The recollection stung like a slap.

      Could it be that life was no more precious than a streetcar, trudging round and round on a loop? A schedule to keep, no time to grieve over a single lost passenger.

      “Nice, eh?” A man’s reedy voice came from beside her. A suited stiff, he grinned with teeth befitting a horse. “This weather we’re having. Rather nice, eh?”

      She glanced at the sky, surprised to find it endless in blue. Somehow an overcast gray seemed more appropriate. “Yeah. It’s swell.”

      He pushed his glasses up the bony bridge of his nose. “So, do you live around here?”

      Not a chance, buster. Especially not today. “Ah, look!” She threw a glance over his shoulder. “I see a friend, but it was great talking to you.” Her feet were already in motion before she’d concluded the fib. Thankfully, only his reply chased after her as she zipped away to hide within the farthest cluster of strangers.

      Safe out of his eyeshot, she checked her watch. Her standard impatience revved louder than the passing cars. A little boy halfway down the block, tap-dancing for change, wasn’t helping; the quick ticking of his shoes contrasted the creeping speed of every second.

      She should have taken the “L” train. No way would she have time to bathe before the matinee. If only she had the means to roam the city with speed and style—like the two older ladies there, emerging from the revolving door of a hotel. All pearls and white gloves, they radiated with an air of high-society Brits. From the side, the taller one looked so much like . . . could it really be . . .

       Irma?

      Betty’s eyes froze wide as she studied her. It seemed an eternity before the gal turned toward an approaching taxi. A full view of her face clarified the lunacy of the notion. Still, just to be sure, Betty watched while their doorman helped exchange passengers. Out of the cab, he guided the hand of an Army nurse, roughly Betty’s age. The sun threw a spotlight onto her crisp white hat, her blue and red cape. The older women—neither of them Irma— smiled at the girl and nodded in approval.

      No. More than that: admiration, respect.

      Acceptance.

      They looked at the nurse as though she were important, her purpose meaningful. As if people might actually care that she missed her Friday supper at a diner.

      “Are you gettin’ on or not?” a man behind Betty grumbled.

      Her gaze swayed toward the bus that had instantly appeared, cloaking her in its shade. Exhaust fumes were like smelling salts to her senses. She awakened to discover the passenger before her climbing the stairs.

      Betty rushed forward and closed the gap. Stepping onboard, she glanced down to grab coins from her pocket, its pastel fabric streaked with mustard and syrup and who knew what else. Same went for her pitifully roughened fingernails. Tough scrubs could wash away the grime, but not her station in life. Her mother, by example, had taught her that; had ingrained early on that Betty’s ticket to prosperity lay in her beauty. All she needed was to groom herself like a rose and prepare for her prince to arrive, regal in his shiny gold buttons and polished shoes. After all, she was never going to be one of those college girls, like Liz and Julia, with the smarts and the dough. Girls who had so effortlessly attracted their Mr. Rights.

      Thus she’d waited, in her mother’s tiny rented room, ready to be plucked away, displayed in a crystal vase for all to admire.

      But the prince had yet to show. Undependable, as all men were. Even that soldier from the dance, the supposed gentleman, hadn’t bothered to write her back. It was high time she took control of the matter.

      “Move your feet, will ya?” the man snapped behind her.

      Her legs, she realized, had concreted on the middle step. As she paused to deposit her fare, the bus driver, too, appeared annoyed. No question, she received better treatment when donning a snap-pier outfit. If the USO had provided a uniform—demanding respect, admiration—she’d wear it every day of the week.

      From the thought, an idea chipped free. A brilliant idea. Utterly brilliant. “That’s it,” she murmured to herself. Floating, revolving, the solution came solidly formed, as if waiting all along to make it-self known. Why oh why hadn’t this occurred to her before?

      “Hey.” The creep behind her huffed. “I’ve got better things to do than stand here waiting all day.”

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