Letters From Home. Kristina McMorris

up, will ya?” Morgan told him. Typically, he would have voiced his disproval, but with Charlie’s tension over tomorrow’s departure vibrating the air, he decided to let it go. So long as the kid didn’t get carried away.

      “Ahh, much better,” Charlie rasped, emerging from the protective shadow. He stepped up behind a couple of GIs from another outfit, both of them wolf whistling at the platinum blond singer on stage. “Sorry, fellas”—Charlie clapped them on the back—“but she’s already agreed to mother my fourteen children.”

      “Don’t fool yourself, shorty,” the tall guy spat out. “You wouldn’t know how to use it even if you could find it.”

      Charlie straightened, adding a few inches to his compact stature. “Hey, at least I have one, spaghetti bender.”

      “What’d you say?” The Italian GI angled his head over his wide shoulder.

      “You heard me.” Charlie took a step back. He rocked from side to side, dukes raised like Jack Dempsey.

      As usual, Morgan would have to shut him up before a bigger guy’s right hook beat him to it. “Zip it, Charlie,” he ordered, then regarded the Italian. “Don’t pay him any mind. It’s his first day out of the loony bin.” Not a stretch to believe, considering the mismatched challenge.

      The GI’s mouth twitched, from either amusement or agitation. To be safe, Morgan gestured to the stage and said, “Don’t look now, but I think that red-hot tomato’s got her eye on you, pal.” The sentence launched the soldier’s attention back to the bombshell, where it stuck like glue.

      Problem handled.

      Except for the instigator.

      “So help me, Charlie,” Morgan muttered, “if you weren’t . . . my . . . if . . .” The lecture dissolved at a vision beyond his brother’s shoulder. Across the room a petite beauty sat alone, swaying to the music. Strands of chestnut brown hair slipped from the knot at the nape of her neck, a frame for her heart-shaped face. Creamy skin, feminine curves, full, rounded lips. Each feature was no less than eye catching, but it was the way she moved—like wheat in a summer breeze—that mesmerized him.

      “Hey, you okay?”

      Morgan heard the question but didn’t realize it was directed at him until a fluttering object broke the trance: a wave of Charlie’s fingers.

      “Huh? Uh, yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.”

      Charlie swept a glance over the room, tracing the distraction. Soon a gleam appeared in his hazel eyes. “Aha, I see . . .” He twisted around and declared, “Gentlemen, we’ve located our primary target. We’re goin’ in.”

      Before Morgan could object, his brother began pressing him through the crowd like a restive racehorse into the starting gate. GIs whooped, whistled, and hollered “attaboys” in his direction. If he retreated now, the razzing would only worsen.

      He pulled a deep breath. Adjusting his tucked necktie, he imagined introducing himself; he got as far as his name when a red-haired woman joined the brunette’s table. A growing audience. His shoes turned to cinder blocks. He raised an arm to stop his brother, who swooped under and pounced into place, blocking the women’s view of the stage.

      “Pardon me, ladies,” Charlie said. “We’re in dire need of your assistance.”

      “Why? You lost, soldier?” the redhead teased.

      “Not anymore.” He grinned, sporting his dimples. “Now that I’ve found my way to your heart.”

      When the gals exchanged incredulous looks, Morgan considered sneaking away, preserving his dignity while the possibility remained. But the mere sight of the brunette’s profile locked his knees. Unbelievably, she was even prettier up close.

      “Wait a minute,” Charlie went on. “I think we’ve met you girls before. You’re Gor and Geous, ain’t ya?” Their lack of response didn’t faze him. “All right, what are your lovely names, then?”

      Nothing. Just blank stares.

      “Afraid I’m not going anywhere till I know.” Charlie crossed his arms and waited, a rare showing of following through.

      The brunette released a sharp sigh. “Fine. I’m Liz, this is Julia, and you’re leaving.”

      Morgan pressed down a grin.

      “Leaving?” Charlie repeated. “How could I, after finding the two prettiest gals in the city?”

      Julia shook her head. “Has any of this actually worked on a girl before?”

      “She means a human girl,” Liz added.

      “Ouch!” Charlie stumbled backward as though her insult had struck more than his ego. “You sure know how to hurt a guy.” For the pathetic come-on alone, Morgan could think of a worse punishment.

      “Goodness me,” Liz exclaimed, hand on her chest. “Where are my manners?”

      “Not to worry, apology accepted.” Charlie’s assurance drove straight through her sarcasm, arching her brow. “Besides. I owe you an apology as well, for not introducing myself properly.”

      The situation was deteriorating. But it wasn’t too late. If Morgan moved now, blended into the crowd, he just might escape the quicksand of humiliation. His brother could find his way back on his own.

      “My name’s Charlie,” he said as Morgan edged away, “but good friends and peachy gals like you call me Chap. And this dashing gentleman over here is my brother, Staff Sergeant Morgan McClain.”

      Staff sergeant? Morgan bristled at the lie, and found himself trapped by their gazes. He held his breath, arms at his sides, as if preparing for Saturday inspection.

      Liz stretched her neck over her shoulder, curiosity forcing a peek. With Morgan’s charcoal black hair and olive complexion, she questioned if he and the fair-skinned knucklehead were actually brothers.

      “Evening,” Morgan said, the word barely audible. A fitted service shirt outlined his broad build. His facial features were of the average sort, but he had an allure about him, an unnamable quality Liz couldn’t dismiss.

      “Hi,” she replied as Charlie continued.

      “Honestly, ladies, here’s our situation.” His serious tone implied a change in strategy. “You see, me and Morgan, we’re leaving for war soon. As two of the U.S. Army’s finest, we’ll be fighting on the front lines. So without much time left to live, I’ve got just one thing I’m wishin’ for.” He knelt, presenting Julia his palm. “To dance with this red-haired knockout before I go.”

      “Sorry, Casanova, but I’m already spoken for.” She held up her left hand to display her engagement ring. Daily polishing, since her fiancé’s fleet shipped out a month ago, kept the gold shiny as new.

      “Well, then . . .” The gears clearly cranked away in Charlie’s mind. “How ’bout a dance to celebrate your engagement?”

      Liz replied for her. “How ’bout we celebrate when your squad tosses you overboard?” She heard Morgan quietly laugh, a second before his brother directed his plea to Liz.

      “C’mon,” he said. “Is this how you thank a man who’ll be risking his life for your freedom?”

      She felt a smile threatening to surface. “If you got these lines out of a book from the drugstore, you should really get your nickel back.”

      “Hey, I’m just trying to save your friend Julie, here, from years of guilt. Imagine the headlines: ‘Soldier denied a final dance . . . dies for his country . . .’”

      Julia giggled, hand covering her mouth. “Okay, okay.” She rolled her eyes. “One song.” Together they headed toward the dance floor, where skirts flared and couples dipped to the band’s emboldening tune.

      After