Gladys let out a triumphant sound under her breath.

“Do you really think so, George?” asked Margaret. “I hadn’t really thought about it from his point of view.”

“And wouldn’t the world’s problems be mitigated by doing just that.” He said it as a statement more than a question.

“Yes.”

“Now—what do you want to do about it?”

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Six

April 1945

The mail had arrived more steadily since the Airborne had left Bastogne. It had been a brutal few weeks of battle, but they’d triumphed. And the victories for all the Allies continued to mount.

Tom hadn’t had to wait long for Margaret’s response, though the few weeks between the letters had made him more nervous than any enemy he’d faced.

Tom—her missive had started. It was void of the dears and the dearests that had become so familiar between them. Albeit those had been addressed to William. But he took it as a good sign that she’d written him at all.

I have had some time to reflect on your revelation, and in fairness, I brought Dottie and Gladys and George in on it. As you said that you, John, and William shared all of your correspondences, I feel that it is only fair to have done the same.

The conclusion is that yes, I forgive you. It was terrible to learn of William’s death, but I didn’t initially consider how difficult his loss must be for you too. So, I begin with passing along my most sincere condolences. He indeed sounded like a wonderful friend and if you and John cared for him as much as you both seemed to, I’m sure his absence left a hole that has been difficult to fill.

I reread all of his letters—your letters—and imagined you sitting down to write those beautiful words. Drawing those flowers. Entertaining me with big words you’d discovered.

I also read another letter. One that you don’t know about. William—the real William—sent something that I was only supposed to read upon his death. He typed the envelope, clever boy, since I wouldn’t have known his handwriting. After you told me the news, I opened it.

His consideration in it made the fact that I never really knew him all the more painful. Because what he said revealed the soul of a person I would have liked to know.

He explained that he’d adopted the role of Cupid when the notion to do so came into his head. He made excuses to you about being too busy to respond to me and insisted that you sign his name because he knew you were “too much of a gentleman to steal his friend away without some help.”

His regard for you, in fact, would rival the most robust advertising campaign on Madison Avenue.