The Last Night in London by Karen White (reading list .TXT) 📕

she gargled with lavender water and spritzed on a heavy dose of Vol de Nuit. It wasn’t that she couldn’t bear to think of Graham never walking or dancing again. Or driving a car or flying a plane, all those things he loved to do. What mattered was that he was alive. And as long as he was alive, she would be waiting for him whether he wanted her to or not.

“You’re not fooling anyone, you know,” Mr. Danek said as he dipped a brush into a mascara pot.

“What do you mean?”

“I still smell the whisky, and the perfume hides nothing. You shouldn’t drink alone, my dear. It’s bad for the soul.”

Taking his words to heart, Eva brought the rest of the bottle to Horvath’s after work, and she and Mr. Danek shared it while she sat, dry-eyed. He plied her with coffee and food, dishes placed in front of her by seemingly invisible hands.

“You need to eat,” he said, pushing yet another plate forward. “When St. John returns, he’ll need you to be strong for him.”

“But he doesn’t want me.”

“Of course he does. The heart remains faithful even when the head tells it otherwise.” He patted her hand. “Have you written to him?”

“Yes.” She looked down at the table to hide burgeoning tears. “Only short postcards—Sophia said we shouldn’t tire him overly much. But he’s never written back.” She choked on the last word.

Mr. Danek patted her hand. “He is injured, yes? It could be very difficult for him to write. Have you considered that? But he will surely want to hear your words. They will help him heal.”

Eva felt a glimmer of hope somewhere in her alcoholic haze. “You’re right. Thank you, Mr. Danek. I will. I will! I’ll write to him right now.” She stood and hugged the older man, then kissed his scruffy cheek, making him blush.

She rushed back to the empty flat and wrote her first long letter to Graham. She took her time, discarding precious paper as she perfected her penmanship, trying to make it look as refined and feminine as Sophia’s. She’d been practicing, and it looked more natural than her earlier attempts, more graceful.

When she was done, she sealed the letter in an envelope and enclosed it inside a larger one with a letter to Precious, instructing her to give it to Graham when he was capable of reading it himself. Her words were meant for Graham alone; she hoped he would feel the love expressed in each line, hoped he would forgive her. That he would write back.

She waited each morning for the slam of the post slot in the door. But as the days, and then weeks, and finally two months passed, she began to lose hope. Even Alex commented on her despondency, which she didn’t bother trying to hide from him. Whether or not he guessed the reason for it, he never asked, and she didn’t offer an explanation. To cheer her, he plied her with more and more expensive gifts—jewelry and perfume, black-market items such as French champagne and silk stockings. She accepted them, unwilling to use any of the gifts but equally unwilling to reject them. It was as if the two persons inside of her were at an impasse, fighting over who would survive.

In desperation, Eva wrote to Precious, asking for reassurance that Graham had received her letters. Precious’s response was quick and precise, offering only that he had gotten them. Eva’s despair was tempered by the news in the same letter that Graham’s recovery was going better than expected, that much to the surprise and delight of his doctors, he was already up and walking with crutches. Graham had become a hero to the other wounded men, an example of what will and fortitude might accomplish.

Eva wrote one more letter, her fifth, knowing she couldn’t write any more and retain what pride she still possessed.

My dearest Graham,

Precious tells me you have made miraculous progress with your recovery. I expected no less from you, darling. My only wish is that I could have been the one to nurse you, but I’m not going to spend time thinking about what-ifs and if-onlies and will just be grateful that you are well on your way to recovery.

I love you so very much, and only wish for one letter, one word from you, to let me know you haven’t forgotten me. That you still love me. Please, darling. Forgive me for any sins I have committed, whether imagined or real. I can say with a clear conscience that I have never willingly done anything to hurt you. My heart is yours and always will be.

You promised me once that you would always love me. Do you remember? That day in the park, when the sirens were sounding and we were alone in our secret tunnel. You promised me, and I know you to be a man of your word.

I still dream of our house by the sea. Promise me that you dream of it, too. And that when this war is over, we will build it together. Come back to me, darling. I will always love you. It will always only be you.

Yours forever,

Eva

The only response she received was from Precious, letting her know that Graham continued to recover and was expected to be sent home soon. With that hope in her heart, she rushed to visit Sophia, who was still on bed rest but who always welcomed visitors.

Sophia sat up in her enormous bed cushioned by dozens of pillows and wearing a white fox fur bed jacket. She looked thin and drawn, not at all like a happy expectant mother should. Her hands were cold and clammy, almost clawlike as she gripped Eva’s. Eva kissed each rouged cheek, trying to remain cheerful.

“You’re looking beautiful,” Eva said, sitting on the edge of the bed.

“Liar,” said Sophia with a warm smile. “But I’ll take it. You and David are all I need for my ego.”

“Is everything . . . all right?” Eva asked,