Letters From Home. Kristina McMorris

mind was spinning. “And this is . . . for how long?”

      “That is up to them,” she replied. “Or you. At the end of the summer, you could decide to return to school, or remain. The choice would be yours.”

      Julia breathed against the enclosure of her excitement. She felt herself drifting once more toward the clouds. Grounding herself as best she could, she shook her head and said, “I don’t know what to say, how to thank you.”

      Simone’s reply came strong. “Don’t prove me wrong.” The teacher’s reputation had obviously served as an ante in the gambling match. The shared pressure didn’t go unnoticed. “Of course,” she added, “you will need to do some preparation work, around your studies at the university.”

      “The university?” Julia barely grasped the familiar word.

      A suggestion of a smile played on Simone’s lips. “Eh bien. I have given you much to consider. They will need your answer by end of summer.”

      Carried by the irrational current of the moment, Julia embraced her. As could be expected, there was no reciprocal effort—the teacher treated hugs like a contagious illness—but Julia didn’t care. She had been handed a throne, and she wasn’t about to complain about the detailing of its cushion. Rather, she simply stepped back and said, “Thank you.”

      Simone nodded before returning her attention to her box of scraps. A cue that their meeting had ended.

      “Have a good day,” Julia bid, and headed for the hall.

      “Mmm,” she said. “And Zhoolia.”

      “Yes?” She turned to find Simone’s head still down.

      “No playing with other people’s designs while at Vogue. D’accord?”

      Julia’s gaze darted to the mannequin. She felt a poke at her side, the finger of guilt. “Yes, ma’am,” she replied, and without another word, she ducked out the door.

      Once outside, Julia strode down the sidewalk, bridling an urge to skip. She could hardly feel her shoes making contact with the ridges of city cement.

      A streetcar of strangers clanged across the street. A hefty construction worker passed lugging two buckets of tools. Julia wanted to shout to them all, spreading the news. She wanted to pick up a phone, tell her parents. Race home and write Christian all about it—

      Christian.

      Her fiancé.

      “I’m engaged,” she reminded herself. And again, a near reprimand, “I’m engaged.”

      What was she thinking? They would be getting married as soon as the war ended. Which, after three years of America swinging punches in the ring, couldn’t be far away. Next spring wasn’t the time to go tromping off to New York, laying the foundation for a career she had no intention of pursuing.

      Sure, the offer was amazing. Marvelous. Incredible. But for someone who wouldn’t waste the opportunity. There was no sense robbing another girl of the internship, a girl whose dreams rested in the balance of such a springboard. Julia was, after all, going to be a wife, wedded to her beloved Christian Downing.

      Her parents were right. She adored fashion, creating garments from pictures in her head. But it was a hobby, just for fun. Like moviegoing and shopping. Nothing that should interfere with the gay future that awaited. Marriage, motherhood, a charming home to fill with love and laughter. There was no comparison.

      Slowly she wheeled toward the academy. Through the trees, she could see movement in the second-story classroom. A figure in black.

      Julia already felt dread pluming from her ankles. Simone had gone out of her way to recommend her, even saw to it that exceptions were made. The least Julia could do was give the impression she had heavily pondered the offer. The delivery of a snap judgment, no matter how obvious, seemed outright ungrateful.

      Indeed. She would give it a reasonable amount of time before letting the woman down.

      At a decisive clip, Julia resumed her departure. Blocks away, the streetcar rattled into the distance, crammed with passengers who would never hear her news; nor would anyone else. At least not until she presented the inevitable answer. She had no desire to allow Liz, Betty, or even Christian to sway her choice. Of all the paths, she knew which was right—despite the unforeseen temptation.

      Chapter 3

       July 5, 1944 Chicago Union Station

      The minutes until departure were evaporating as briskly as steam from the locomotive’s smokestack. Morgan gripped the vertical handlebar of the coach’s entry step and shot another glance at his wristwatch, an heirloom willed to him from his father. Now more than ever, he wished it were running fast. The leather band was weathered and the crystal scratched, but the movement could always be counted on for timekeeping. Unlike his dim-witted brother.

      “Come on, come on,” Morgan said, imploring the kid to show. Missing the last overnighter to Trenton would mean a guaranteed late arrival at Fort Dix, and likely even a seat in the cargo hold of their transport ship. Or in the latrine, depending on their commander’s mood.

      Charlie was a marvel. Who else would pull a stunt like this after waiting nearly three years? And Morgan wasn’t the only one he’d be answering to if he fouled this up. Even their uncle with rarely a word to spare had gone out on a limb, ensuring the two served together by calling in a favor from a war vet buddy with military pull. A few “adjustments” to Charlie’s birth certificate and everyone was happy. Supposedly, the desk-planted appeasers in Washington carried a lighter conscience when cousins rather than brothers shared a unit.

      Not that it mattered now. Morgan appeared to be going solo.

      “All aboard!” The conductor’s voice echoed off the darkened ceiling of the underground station.

      With a determined eye, Morgan studied the bustling platform. Dolled-up gals waved to windows, shedding tears, blowing kisses. Mothers held hankies to their mouths as their husbands consoled them with an arm around their shoulders. But still no sighting of the dimwit.

      “Dammit all,” Morgan growled. What had he been thinking last night, letting his brother leave the dance without him? That’d teach him to steer clear of dames and to stick with stuff he understood. Livestock auctions and auto engines. Things that came with instruction manuals.

      The locomotive lurched into a sluggish chug.

      Decision time. Of course, he had only one option: grab his belongings and leap off before landing required a body roll over gravel.

      “Hey, Morgan!” A voice cut through the commotion. “I’m here!” Sure enough, there was Charlie’s capped head bobbing through the crowd. In and out he wove, dividing paired travelers, his Army-issue duffel bag slung over his shoulder. He hurdled a trunk and the toe of his shoe caught an edge. His pace slowed for a moment while he regained his footing. Half turned, in motion, he yelled something to the shapely dame standing beside the luggage.

      “Move it!” Morgan shouted, leaning out from the step. Charlie resumed his sprint alongside the train. His free arm pumped, his face flushed red. Once close enough, Morgan stretched out his hand and yanked him inside. A small stumble and Charlie planted his feet. Tailbone against the wall, he hunched over to catch his breath.

      “Un-believable.” Morgan smacked the back of his brother’s head, a punishment so often delivered since childhood the kid scarcely flinched.

      “Not my fault,” he gasped. “Army time still confuses the hell out of me.” He wiped his sleeve across his forehead and flipped a grin. When he straightened, his service shirt showcased its unevenly fastened buttons, a perfect complement to the dark circles under his eyes.

      Morgan was about to ask where he had slept last night—assuming he’d slept at all—then decided he’d rather not know. “I swear,” he muttered, “I may shoot you before the Nazis get a chance.” With a sharp