The House On Sugar Plum Lane. Judy Duarte

some children to use it as a slide. At least, that’s what Amy might have tried to do, if she’d lived here as a girl. But something told her there hadn’t been too many children in this house.

      Maybe Ellie hadn’t liked having little ones about.

      At the top of the landing, a picture of two cherubs hung on the wall, which was the closest hint of children she’d yet to see.

      Just below the angels sat an antique table, the top of which bore what had once been a lush, green pothos. But the plant, its leaves and vines now withered from lack of water, was nearly dead. It was as if Ellie had developed dementia overnight, and the family had just let the house go.

      Yesterday, while cleaning out the pantry, she’d found a bag of cat food. She’d looked all over the house and yard for any other signs of a pet, but didn’t see any. Hopefully, the plants were the only living things that had been abandoned.

      Amy carried the pothos to the bathroom and turned on the faucet. After drenching the soil, she left the ceramic pot in the sink to drain and returned to the task at hand.

      Once inside Ellie’s bedroom, with its pale pink walls and white eyelet curtains, Amy scanned the furnishings. She wondered if they’d be considered antiques by anyone’s standards. Some of them had to be at least forty to fifty years old.

      The double bed had been covered haphazardly with a pink and white chenille spread. One edge hung noticeably lower than the other, as though it had been made by a child—someone Callie’s age.

      There was an indention on one of the pillows, as if Ellie might have lain down to take a rest before being taken away. Had she been feeling ill? Tired?

      Had she only dreamed of hippies piping marijuana through the vents? Or had it been a full-blown hallucination?

      She supposed it didn’t matter.

      A cedar chest sat at the foot of the bed, its varnish darkened and cracked with age. An old-style quilt with heart-shaped pieces had been folded carefully and draped over the top.

      Interesting, Amy thought. The hearts were all the same size and stitched onto brown squares and quilted to a calico backing, but they had been made from a hodgepodge of fabric: satin, cotton, nylon, and flannel. Some of the material, like the pale yellow and white flannel with a baby duck print and the red gingham, appeared to have been washed many times, while the white satin hadn’t.

      She couldn’t help running her fingers over the quilt, noting that the stitches were slightly uneven, the kind made by hand and not a machine. She wondered who’d made it. An older relative? A dear friend?

      Ellie Rucker herself?

      But enough woolgathering. She would never get anything done if she didn’t stop dawdling. So she released the quilt and went to the closet. As she slid back the door, she spotted a gap between the hangers. Some of the woman’s clothing appeared to be missing, but that would make sense if someone had moved her to a rest home.

      After removing the remaining dresses, sweaters, and pants, she laid the clothing across the bed, then folded each item and placed it in a box. Next she emptied the drawers in the bureau, which was quick work. She suspected whoever had packed Ellie’s essentials for her move to the home also had taken undergarments and nightgowns.

      In the top drawer of the nightstand, she found a daily devotional, a white handkerchief with H.E.R. monogrammed near the edge, a booklet about angels, and a travel brochure for a cruise to Hawaii, among other things.

      As Amy carefully emptied the drawer, she scanned each object before placing it in a second box. But when she withdrew a bundle of old letters, she paused. A white satin ribbon that had been tied and untied many times over held the missives together, as well as a small box of some kind. Still, she couldn’t help noting the address on the top envelope, which had been sketched in a bold, cursive script.

      Mrs. Eleanor Rucker

      Star Route Three

      Fairbrook, California

      USA

      It was from Private Harold Rucker.

      Amy took a seat on the edge of the bed, untied the satin, and set everything but the top envelope next to her. Then she removed the letter, unfolded the aged parchmentlike pages, and read the words.

      Friday Nite

       June 1, 1942

      My Dearest Ellie,

      I sure do miss you, Baby. I don’t know how I’m going to get along without you for so long. I really do love you, Baby. All of my thoughts are of you. I can’t help but think about the day when we will be together forever.

      I sure hope you don’t feel bad about getting married. I want you to know that I’ll never regret it and hope you don’t, either. I told you before that it was the smartest thing I ever did, and that’s saying a lot coming from a smart guy like me.

      I know there’s a chance you could be pregnant, and if you are, it’s all my fault. I should have taken better precautions, especially on our wedding night. But I have to tell you, Ellie, while I’d hate to have you go through something like that alone, I kind of hope you are.

      Sure, I know you would rather not be. I remember you saying something about that.

      So Ellie hadn’t wanted children? Did she not like them? That certainly could be one reason there weren’t any pictures of grandchildren in the house. At least none that were displayed.

      According to the research, Eleanor Rucker was Barbara Davila’s mother, so she’d at least had one child.

      Amy continued to read.

      I’ll tell you again how I enjoyed myself that nite and how I’m looking forward to many more years of the same thing. When I get home, you will probably be just like a blushing bride again, huh? We will have been apart for so long that I’ll have to start very slowly, like the first time.

      Seriously, though, Ellie, I dream of the nights we spent together and of the ones in the future. No matter how distant they seem from us now, that day will come, and when it does, we will live happily together and raise as many kids as we can afford. OK?

      That part didn’t sound as though Ellie hadn’t wanted children. Maybe it was just a matter of timing. After all, when this letter was written, Ellie was young and newly married. There was also a war raging in both Europe and the Pacific.

      I love you, Baby. I know I keep saying that, but it’s all I can think of. While I’m away, I’ll probably write a hundred letters telling you the same things I just said, but bear with me because that’s all I have to hold on to and it’s all I can think about.

      Well, honey, I have to go to chow in a few minutes, so I better sign off. We eat in groups, and if I miss my group, I miss chow. We only had one meal so far today, so I’m pretty hungry.

      I know I’d told you that when I couldn’t telephone any longer, that I would write every day, but that may not be possible. The first two days I wasn’t feeling so hot, but today the sea is smoother and I feel better. Tomorrow, I’ll tell you what has happened to me so far. I was going to start today with a sort of diary of what we are doing, but I got sidetracked on how much I love you, so I won’t have time to do that now. I don’t know whether I will mail all my letters in one package or separately, but when we hit port, I’ll send them one way or another.

      They’re calling me, so I gotta go!

      All my love, all my life,

       Harold

      Amy fingered the age-worn stationery that the young soldier had once held, that Ellie had cherished enough to keep near her bed. Letters that hadn’t been meant for anyone’s eyes but the man and his wife.

      Still, she couldn’t help reading the next dozen or so, which were just as touching and heartfelt as the first. But the last letter wasn’t from Ellie’s husband. It was from the War Department.

      We regret to inform