Chapter Seventeen

August 1944

As soon as Tom sent the letter off, he regretted it.

Not the sentiments. Actually, pouring onto paper what he’d been wanting to say for months felt like nothing he’d ever felt before. Perhaps the closest thing was the moment he jumped from an airplane. The second of hesitation and fear, toes hanging over the edge, questioning and hesitant. Choosing courage. Stepping off into nothingness. A literal leap of faith. And then—the exhilaration of a free fall as he looked around and marveled at the beauty that he would never have seen if he’d kept his feet on the ground.

Yes—it was exactly like that. He’d jumped.

Would she be his parachute? Or would his words fall flat and be extinguished?

No, he did not regret the sentiments. He’d seen life snuffed out too soon too many times to think that playing it safe was a winning strategy.

It was the name that made him wince. He’d signed it as William.

Why oh why oh why had he done that?

In the moment, he’d told himself that she couldn’t bear more bad news just when she was finally sounding happy again. But had that really been the considerate thing to do? Or was it a less daunting way for him to share his feelings—hiding behind the protection of William’s name? The familiarity of it?

He’d sent the nurse to retrieve it, begging her in his stilted French to rescue the letter before it was tossed into the mail sack with countless others and shipped off in a cargo plane.

She’d come back empty-handed, consoling him only with a warm glass of milk. The plane had taken off.

What had he done?

One little action—seven letters instead of the three in his name—had changed everything.

It was one thing to do so when William was alive. And even with his encouragement. William had rightly pegged that Tom would feel more freedom in his words if he wrote them in proxy.

It was a worthy exercise for a while. When the stakes were lower.

But shouldn’t things be different now that he was no longer here?

If Margaret welcomed the words, she would welcome them as William’s words. Not Tom’s.

If the words were unwanted by her, she might stop writing altogether. Or she’d send a letter letting him down easy.

Oh, that would hurt worse than all of the broken bones he’d endured.