In the war, he had listened to many stories of women, of wives and girlfriends and daughters, had watched men read letters from the women of their bragging, unashamed of tears that rolled off their faces or of the broad smiles that blinked out of their eyes from whatever words were on the folded pages of the letters. He had never received a letter from a woman, except from his mother, had never written one to any woman other than his mother.

He thought of Marvin Linquist, how Marvin Linquist would make up letters from such movie stars as Betty Grable and Ava Gardner, telling him how they were dreaming of him, how they were remembering their tender nights with him. The letters were always signed in Marvin Linquist’s make-believe reading with, Love and kisses …

Marvin Linquist, being a merry fool, making laughter.

The nightsounds flew up around him.

ELEVEN

Eleanor knew she had overslept by the sun’s light in her room, soft white on the walls. She rolled in her bed, lifted her head, looked at the clock on the nightstand. The time was ten minutes before eight. She let her head fall again against the pillow. It had been years since she had slept so late, she thought. Years. And it was nice. She closed her eyes, took in the feeling of comfort. From outside, she heard the singing of birds and, from the barnyard, the low mooing of the milk cow.

Not used to being milked so late, she reasoned. Udders tight with milk, the teats swollen, ready for the pull of hands. She remembered learning to milk, a quick lesson taught by Boyd before leaving for the war. Remembered being afraid of the cow and the backed-off leg tensed for kicking. Remembered the warmed water drained from the milk pail for washing dust off the teats, calming the cow with a gentle massaging. And then the milking, the steady, rhythmic squeezing. Something nice about it. Something she understood in a strangely sensuous way, though the thought of it embarrassed her.

She moved her hand lightly over her breasts, letting the touch run through her body, making heat. Thought of her husband as he had been in the early days of their marriage, before the war. His hands on her, sending electricity across her chest and arms, into her throat, pulsing through her abdomen, quivering in her thighs, leaving her body flushed with blood. Convulsions. She remembered the convulsions.

She pulled her hand to her throat, let it rest against the heartbeat she could feel with her fingertips, waited for the memory to slide away. Surely she had dreamed of her husband, she thought, having the wish for a man’s touch, but she could not remember a dream. Or was it because Noah Locke and Taylor Bowers had been in her home the evening before, and the scent of their presence was still there, floating free? Or maybe it was not a scent, but a sound, still slamming against walls. There had been enough talk for it. Especially from Taylor. He had been like a performer too long away from an audience, his voice ranging from whisper to thunder, his laughter having a bell-ring to it, and the merriment he left behind had followed her to bed, lodged in a smile she could not keep from her face.