Letters From Home. Kristina McMorris

you, sir.”

      “Her father is Professor Emmett Stephens,” Dalton pointed out, “a recent transfer from Northwestern to Georgetown.”

      “Ah, yes. I believe my son, Warren, took one of his classes way back when. History, was it?”

      “Classical literature,” Liz replied, then risked a peek into Dalton’s eyes to make sure correcting the gentleman was acceptable, an act she immediately regretted. When had seeking his permission become a reflex?

      “Literature. Of course,” Mr. Bernstein said. “Well, no time for amusing folk tales anymore. Right, Dalton? Not with law school keeping you as busy as it does my own boy these days.”

      Amusing folk tales? Liz’s jaw coiled closed, and thankfully so. She was feeling less and less inclined to refrain from slinging retorts labeled “brash” by the charm school Julia had attended.

      Dalton folded his arms, wholly absorbed. “Warren is in his second year at Harvard now, isn’t he, sir? And already published in the Law Review, I believe.”

      “That’s right,” the man said, surprised. He looked down at Liz. “Sharp as a tack, this one is. You hang on to him, and you just might end up our nation’s first lady. Right after Warren’s presidential term, of course.” When he chuckled, Liz dipped her gaze to the taut thread securing his coat button, hoping for a fracture in the monotony.

      “I believe you mean his terms,” Dalton said. “Re-election would be a given.”

      Mr. Bernstein slanted a grin toward Liz. “What’d I tell you? Sharp as a tack.”

      Dalton delivered a low, hollow laugh that grated on her ears, one he had developed when the campaign began. It was an imitation, she now realized, akin to a man of Bernstein’s build. Even Dalton’s chest appeared slightly puffed to enlarge his medium frame.

      “You two enjoy the rest of your evening.” The fellow shook Dalton’s hand. “And you stay on top of those studies. We’re going to need men like you to lead when those boys get shipped back after the war.”

      “I will, sir. Thank you.”

      While other girls might, Liz never felt a bit embarrassed over her boyfriend’s lack of uniform. She preferred his safety to the unknown. Apparently so did his father, who’d made it clear that the primary obligation of his only son was to carry on the family name. That the nation would best benefit from his political prowess, not the sacrifice of his blood. With Mr. Harris’s connections, a deferment, or stateside defense job at most, was a surety should Dalton ever be drafted. A relief to Liz, on one hand; on the other, frustration that the decision wasn’t viewed as his own.

      “Good night, Elaine,” Mr. Bernstein said to Liz while leaving. “Oh, and son”—he turned back, bumping a busboy in passing— “tell your father to give me a call. We’ll see what we can do to get that man the seat in Washington he deserves.”

      Face alight, Dalton nodded. “Any support would certainly be appreciated.”

      Another shark reeled in.

      Dalton was in the midst of sitting down when their waiter returned and set a dome-covered plate before Liz. She peered up at the man. “I’m afraid there’s been a mistake. I didn’t order any dessert.” Her desire to get home squashed any craving for a decadent torte.

      Without a word, the server removed the lid in a grand arc, the dome pinging above his head.

      Obviously, no one was listening to her tonight. She would be better off skywriting a message. “Sir, I said I didn’t order—” The objection died on a gasp, strangled by the sight of the small box on her plate.

      A sterling box.

      For a ring.

      Dalton reached across the table and clasped her hand. “Elizabeth.” He spoke slow, articulate. “We’ve known each other for as long as I can remember.”

      Her hands tingled with fear of where this was leading, of sentences resembling a life-altering speech. She focused to hear him over the quick thumps of her heart. Every word carried a pulse. She strained for each vital syllable, to confirm that merely an early birthday present lay before her. Or a Christmas gift—in August.

      “Thanks to our grandfathers, you were the little pest I was stuck playing with every summer.” Nostalgia seeped into his voice. “For years I thought of you as a kid sister. But eventually, it became clear our friendship was destined to grow into something more.”

      A proposal. It was a proposal. Too soon, it was too soon!

      “Dalton,” she stage-whispered, “I thought we were going—”

      “To wait, I know. But there’s no reason we can’t make our plans official now. In less than two years, I’ll have my degree and you’ll have enough credits to graduate early. Still top of your class, knowing you. Then we can finally start our lives together. With my practicing law, and your professorship, we’ll be . . . unstoppable.” He smiled, eyes twinkling like sapphires.

      “But my father—”

      “He’s already given his permission.”

      The statement clattered in her head. “He what?”

      “He said so long as you had a degree in your hand first, we could sign the marriage license whenever we wanted.”

      Her life, in an instant, became a runaway train. The velocity left her breathless. “You spoke with him?”

      “On the phone last week. Told me he was absolutely delighted.”

      Absolutely delighted. Did he use those very words? Ones that conveyed an actual emotion? The image of her father wearing an expression in the realm of happiness slowed her thoughts, lessened her alarm. His acceptance of Dalton, though established long ago, had never implied such zeal. Perhaps with the inclining prominence of the Harris family, their marriage could resuscitate her father’s approval.

      Certainly, she favored that possibility over the alternative: his delight but a form of relief, her wedding vows marking the end of his parental obligations.

      Dalton slid from his chair and knelt before her. He picked up the box and creaked open the lid. “This ring has been in my family for four generations.” He pulled the heirloom out of the turquoise velvet tuck. A beveled emerald shone at the center of the star etched into the gold band. Five small diamonds winked between each point. “If you’ll have me, Lizzy, it would be my honor to pass it along to you.”

      Either the restaurant had fallen silent or shock was hindering her hearing. No tinking of silverware, no lobbing of laughter.

      He peered into her eyes. “Elizabeth Stephens, will you marry me?”

      The question burned in her ears, its heat stretched down her neck. Her tongue was cold, absent a reply. She glanced over Dalton’s shoulder, stalling to produce her answer. Against a swagged velvet curtain, their waiter stood at attention. She wanted to ask him to open a window before the pressure bowed the fabric-lined walls. But the bottle of champagne in his hand, surely intended for her table, indicated his task card was full.

      “Elizabeth?” Dalton said.

      She returned to the ring, then to Dalton’s face. When he leaned forward a fraction, candlelight brushed a caramel glow over his skin, erasing the hard lines on his forehead. Before her eyes, he reverted to the boy she’d grown up with. Dalton Harris, her child-hood friend. The one who spent a week by her side when she had chicken pox, playing jacks while stuffing themselves with Baby Ruth bars. The same one who taught her how to ice fish and took her to her first dance. The guy who’d held her hand at her grandfather’s funeral.

      And now, here he was, matured into a man, offering his devotion and security. What girl in her right mind would say no?

      Liz drew a breath. Under the gaze of the entire room, she smiled. Then nodded.

      Applause