“Because you’re the good-looking one,” William answered anyway. “If she thinks the tall and handsome guy is the one who writes her letters, she might fall just in love with you.”

“But you’re the one the letters are from,” Tom pointed out.

“Sort of. For now.”

“For now?”

William leaned over the side of the bed in a conspiratorial stance.

“Look. I know what you and John were up to when he asked her to write to me. You both felt sorry that I hadn’t received any letters. You were real pals for thinking of it. And she was a sport to go along with it. But now I’m getting more letters from home than I have time to keep up with. So why don’t you just take over writing the letters to Margaret?”

A little thrill of possibility shot through him at the thought.

“And sign them as Tom?”

William shrugged. “If you want.” Then he shot his arm up in the air. “Or better yet, no. Keep writing them as William.”

Tom’s brows furrowed. “Why would I do that?”

William settled back and propped himself up on his elbows. “Look. I have sisters. And once upon a time, I used to be a little imp and sneak into their rooms to read their diaries.”

Tom’s eyes widened.

“Yeah. I’m not proud of it,” William admitted. “But I learned a little something. Now, I don’t know if this applies to all girls, but it does to my sisters. They could lose their heads over a boy just because of a passing word he’d say and they’d pick apart meaning where there was none.”

“What does that have to do with Margaret?”

“It’s like this. You’re Mr. Military. Despite that romantic heart of yours, it may be a long time before you’re in a position to settle down. If you write as me, it keeps your head in the friendly arena. No temptation to get all mushy like you might do if I left you to your own devices. Really, I’m protecting you both.”

“That sounds a lot more complicated than it needs to be.”

William lay back and pulled a Life magazine from under the cot and opened it above his head. “You don’t have to listen to me. Maybe Margaret Beck is the one girl in a million who won’t fall for your charms. But I doubt it. You’ve got matinee-idol looks, my friend. And if you go and get all Tom-like in those letters, you’re going to break that girl’s heart someday. I guarantee it.”

Tom popped a hard butterscotch candy into his mouth and ruminated.

William’s idea made some sense. If he wrote as William, it might help to keep Margaret relegated to a two-dimensional pen pal in his mind. A place to put his thoughts. A distraction through what lay ahead.