Letters From Home. Kristina McMorris

      “As busy as ever,” she finished sharply. “Yes. I know what I said.” With Dalton in law school and her a sophomore at Northwestern, leading independent but complementary lives was nothing new; in fact, that had always been among the strengths of their relationship. Which was why he should know their separate activities weren’t the issue tonight.

      “Then what’s the problem?”

      “The problem is, anything else pops up, campaign or otherwise, and you don’t think twice about canceling on me.”

      “I am not canceling. I’m asking you to come with me.”

      Liz had attended enough political fund-raisers with him to know that whispers behind plastered smiles and greedy glad-handing would be highlights of the night. A night she could do without, even if not for her prior commitment.

      “I already told you,” she said, “I promised the girls weeks ago I’d be here.” The main reason she’d agreed, given her condensed workload from summer school, was to repay Betty for accompanying her to that droning version of Henry V last week—just so Dalton’s ticket hadn’t gone to waste. “Why can’t you make an exception? Just this once?”

      He dropped back in his seat, drew out a sigh. “Lizzy, it’s just a dance.”

      No, it’s not. It’s more than that. I have to know I can depend on you! Her throat fastened around her retort. Explosions of words, she knew all too well, could bring irreversible consequences.

      She grabbed the door handle. “I have to go.” Before he could exit and circle around to open her side, she let herself out.

      “Wait,” he called as she shut the door. “Sweetheart, hold on.”

      The sudden plea in his voice tugged at her like strings, halting her. Could it be that he had changed his mind? That he was still the same guy she could count on?

      She slid her hand into the pocket of her ivory wraparound dress, a shred of hope cupped in her palm, before pivoting to face him.

      Dalton leaned across the seat toward her. “We’ll talk about this later, all right?”

      Disappointment throbbed inside, a recurrent bruise. Bridling her reaction, she replied with a nod, fully aware her agreement would translate into a truce.

      “Have a good time,” he said, then gripped the steering wheel and drove away.

      As she turned for the stairs, she pulled her hand from her pocket, and discovered she’d been holding but a stray thread. The first sign of a seam unraveling.

      In the entry of the dance hall, Liz stretched up on the balls of her feet to see over hats and heads. Her gaze penetrated the light haze of smoke to reach the stage. There, uniformed musicians played from behind star-patterned barricades of red, white, and blue. Flags and an oversized United Service Organization banner created a vibrant backdrop, Americana at its finest. In front of the band, her roommate Betty Cordell and two other women shared a standing microphone, harmonizing the final notes of “Don’t Sit Under the Apple Tree.”

      The audience broke into applause.

      “Swell,” Liz groaned. She’d missed Betty’s entire debut.

      Correcting her presumption, the trio jumped into another jingle.

      “Thank God.” Though not a particularly religious person, Liz figured it never hurt to offer a small token of appreciation to the Almighty.

      Now to find her other roommate, Julia Renard. Despite the teeming room, it took only a moment to spy the girl’s fiery, collar-length curls, her ever-chic attire.

      Liz wove through the sea of military uniforms and thick wafts of Aqua Velva. Ignoring a duet of catcalls, she slid into the empty chair next to her friend. “I’m so sorry I’m late.”

      “Let me guess,” Julia ventured in her honey-sweet voice. “Mr. Donovan lost his dentures, or Thelma refused to take her pills, convinced you’re trying to poison her.”

      Liz edged out a smile.

      “You know, it wouldn’t kill you to get off work at a decent hour. You’re making the rest of us look bad.” She used her thumb to wipe something off Liz’s cheek. “So, is Dalton parking the car?”

      Liz tried for a casual shrug. “A political thing came up at the last minute.” Again trailed her statement as the unspoken word.

      “Oh,” Julia replied. Not even her glowing smile could hide the sympathy invading her copper eyes.

      “It’s fine,” Liz insisted. “I can’t stay long anyway. I’ve got an essay on Hawthorne due Friday.”

      Julia nodded, then detoured from the awkward pause. “Hey, I think I still have notes on Hawthorne from last semester. Want to borrow them?”

      “Sure, thanks,” Liz said, before considering the source. “Unless you’ve got doodle designs covering the actual notes.”

      Julia scrunched her mouth, pondering. “Well, there might be a few. . . .”

      Liz couldn’t help but giggle. If past lives existed, Julia had to have been an elite fashion designer with a permanently attached sketchpad. A keen knack for sewing served as further proof, as showcased by their roommate’s new dress.

      “Speaking of which.” Liz motioned toward Betty. “You’ve really outdone yourself, Jules.” In the center of the crooning trio, the blonde sparkled in the form-fitted garment matching her ocean blue eyes. The fabric and buttons were so dazzling, Julia had obviously purchased the materials herself. No doubt the dress was already Betty’s favorite. From the exquisite sweetheart neckline to the elegant flow around her hips, every stitch perfectly flattered her hourglass curves. “Rita Hayworth?” Liz guessed at the inspiration.

      “Yep,” Julia said proudly. “From the gown in Blood and Sand. Except I shortened it to the knee, and improved on the sleeves.”

      “You’re amazing.” Too amazing to waste your talent solely as a homemaker, she wanted to say. But there was no need traversing that well-covered territory.

      “It was nothing.” Julia blushed, waved her off. “You want something to drink?”

      Liz only intended to stay for three songs, four tops. But some coffee to ripen her brain for a long night of reading wasn’t a bad idea. “A cup of joe would be great.”

      “Coming right up.”

      As Julia headed toward the snack table by the stage, Liz settled in her seat. She massaged the tension out of her palms and returned her attention to Betty. In a seasoned motion, the girl tossed her finger-waved mane off her shoulders. The bounce of her hips succeeded as a diversion from her moderate singing ability, evidenced by the front line of awestruck troops, her ideal audience.

      Leave it to Betty. Up there, living carefree, without regrets. No academic pressures, no parents’ expectations looming overhead—

      Jealous souls will not be answered. The passage interrupted Liz’s thoughts, one of many Shakespearean quotes she had memorized from her father’s personal tutorials.

      “One quote for every sun kiss,” he would say during the lessons that ended far too soon.

      Now, glancing down at the constellation of freckles on her arms, Liz recalled those long-gone days. She considered the morals her father had passed along, and wondered how different their lives would be if only she’d abided by them.

      “What the hell are you up to now?” Morgan McClain demanded as his brother ducked behind his back.

      “Don’t move. Need you to cover me.” Charlie raised his shoulders to his sandy blond crew cut.

      When Morgan glimpsed the silver flask in his brother’s hand, he shook his head. Charlie wasn’t the only enlisted man at the dance calling for “liquid reinforcement,”