Tom’s eyes jerked open. Sweat streamed down his face as he relived those terrible moments. The pain in his right arm screamed in anguish as he remembered where he was.

And then, with all the veracity that mind and body could muster, he was reminded of several truths.

Despite the loss of blood and the near loss of his arm, he would recover.

Which meant that he would have to go back into battle.

Without William.

The despair of loneliness was perhaps the worst pain of all.

Because—like John—William was gone.

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Fifteen

July 1944

After several months in the engraving yard, Margaret’s fingers seemed permanently grayed from the metal shavings. Soap and water merely dulled them, and bleach had left them feeling raw.

They did not at all suit the best friend of the bride, and she was glad to have an excuse to wear lacy gloves today. They would hide the discoloration and prevent her from picking at her nails. Newly polished for the occasion.

Margaret tried to zip up the back of her dress but had some difficulty as the fabric was caught. She looked out her window to see if her mother was already outside so that she could call down for some help. Instead, she saw the mailman walk up their stoop, flipping through envelopes before slipping them through their door.

She rushed downstairs, her back exposed. But she didn’t care. Her father was already outside and her mother was the only other person in the house.

She sorted through advertisements and bills and at last found the letter she’d been hoping for. She almost passed it by—it was typed rather than handwritten—but there it was, William’s name on the envelope.

Her heart did a little leap. He was alive!

But then she saw the post date. June 3. And her stomach knotted with disappointment. It was written before her last letter. And worse—sent before the invasion in Normandy. The deadliest battle of the war that she’d heard of so far. This wouldn’t tell her what she most wanted to know—if William and Tom had survived.

She walked back upstairs and set it facedown on her desk, eager to read it after the wedding.

But then she stopped.

On the back, he’d written: Do not open unless I don’t make it back from the war.

Her eagerness melted into confusion. What could he have to say that he wouldn’t want her to read unless he was dead?

What were you thinking, William?

It was almost worse than not receiving a letter at all, and her temples throbbed with the beginnings of a headache. She was tempted to read it anyway and slid her thumb under the seal. But no, she couldn’t do that. William wouldn’t have written that if he didn’t have a serious reason to.