There was no way to come back from this. Even a follow-up note in which Tom confessed that he’d been the actual author of the letters had little hope of success. She knew him only by his drawings at the end of what she believed were William’s longer messages. And although he had labored over each of those, trying to delight her with renderings of the countryside, it was not enough for her to reciprocate what he’d said.

The only alternative was that she would be rightfully angered by what he’d done. Intention, or no intention.

That was that. He’d go dark until he could figure out what to do. And it would be a long time before he’d know her response anyway. His bones had healed and he’d received permission to rejoin his unit.

They were heading to Holland.

Any letters from Margaret would take weeks to catch up to him.

Or may not reach him at all if they were addressed to a dead man.

*  *  *

Margaret’s heart swelled when she read William’s letter.

There was something about it that had reached a new depth. It was not merely the signature—Love, William. That just reflected what she herself had written and she could not infer any more than what she had intended in her own letter. Though it did signal a receptivity that pleased her.

It was his candor. As he’d put it, the loss of inhibition. Dottie had told Margaret that after having a baby, she was in awe of her own body and the remarkable things it was capable of. Perhaps it was the same with men—there was no more grueling challenge one could face than a battlefield. And when he’d done so—aware of the brevity and sacredness of life—he could find comfort in discovering his feelings.

She rather liked this new side of William and was flattered that he’d chosen to share those feelings with her.

She had hoped that he would mention his previous letter—the typed one with the odd message on the back of the envelope. The one she could only read if the unthinkable happened. No matter. There was no need for it now that she knew he’d survived Normandy.

As had Tom. Although William had made no mention of him, his friend had drawn a lovely likeness of a rapeseed flower. And she had just the right floss with which to embroider it.

She lay back on her bed, wrinkling the lace coverlet she’d placed across it, and held the envelope to her heart.

“Are you okay up there?” asked her mother from the bottom of the stairs. “I thought I heard a noise.”

A grin spread across Margaret’s face like butter on hot waffles and her cheeks burned with excitement.

“I’m just fine! I promise!”

She sighed and closed her eyes.