Letters Across the Sea by Genevieve Graham (spicy books to read .txt) 📕

of a threat than the rest of them, taking advantage of her like that.” He took in my ruined dress then raised his baton. “You’ve some nerve.”

Max crouched before him, his arms over his head like a helmet. “No, sir. I’d never—”

“Don’t you dare speak!” Dad shouted. The baton came down on Max’s arms, and he cried out in pain.

“Stop!” I screamed, throwing myself on top of Max.

I closed my eyes and braced for the blow, but it never came. When I looked up, my father no longer stood there. Instead, he was on his back, unmoving, his policeman’s cap two feet away, his face slack. The fighting continued around the field, but those closest to us had withdrawn at the sight of a fallen policeman. Phil had scuttled away like the cockroach he was.

“Dad?” I whispered, a shiver of panic racing through me. I crawled toward him and touched his face, but he didn’t react. “Dad? Wake up.”

Max rose stiffly, holding his arms where he’d been hit. He pressed his fingers against Dad’s neck, feeling for a pulse. “He’s alive. Just unconscious.”

Fresh tears of regret rolled down my face. Dad had asked me not to come, and I hadn’t listened. He shouldn’t have gone after Max, but he was just trying to protect me. It was all my fault. I should never have acted on my feelings. I leaned down so he could hear me over the noise.

“Dad? Can you hear me?”

“Molly!” Jimmy cried, dropping beside me. I was so relieved to see him. “Is he okay?”

Mr. Dreyfus suddenly appeared from around the clubhouse, out of breath. His expression was dark with fury and concern until he saw Dad on the ground. “Is he all right?”

“I think he was hit,” I told them both.

Mr. Dreyfus pulled Max to him, carefully touching the cuts and bruises on his face. “I saw him hitting you. I came as fast as I could.”

Jimmy picked up a brick lying near Dad’s head and studied every face around us, his glare ferocious. “Who threw this? Did anyone see?”

No one said anything.

Then Dad groaned and opened his eyes.

“Dad,” I cried with relief. “You’re awake.”

“Molly,” he said, then his brow furrowed as he remembered. His eyes narrowed at Max, and he struggled to sit up. “You bastard,” he said.

“No, Dad! Max didn’t do anything. He rescued me.” Anger crept back into my voice. “He saved me, and you hit him.”

Mr. Dreyfus spat to the side with disgust. “You crossed a line, Garret.” His eyes passed over me then locked onto his son. “Come on, Max.”

“Papa, I’m all right. I need to—”

“What you need is to come home with me right now. We’re done here.” He glared down at my father. “Too bad that brick didn’t kill you.”

My jaw dropped, stunned by Mr. Dreyfus’s venom. Yes, my dad had done wrong, but so had Max and I. I looked at Max, then at my father, and I held my breath, afraid I might be sick.

“We’re leaving now, Max,” his father said.

Max’s eyes were on me as he leaned on his father’s shoulder, then he limped away, sticking to the outer ring of the fighting. When they reached the end of the park, Max paused and turned back. Even from there I felt his lips on mine, and it felt like goodbye.

September 1933

Dear Molly,

I didn’t know if I should write this letter, but I didn’t know what else to do. If I could have seen you one more time before I left, I could have said everything in person, but we both know that wasn’t possible.

I guess by now, Hannah’s told you that the University of Toronto changed their mind and rejected me. Before you object to their asinine decision, you should know this has nothing to do with my marks. I never told you before, but the reason I left Toronto in the first place was because of the quota U of T had on the number of Jews allowed there. It appears they lowered their quota even more this year, and as a result, I was cut. So my plans all changed at the last minute. Instead, I’m at Queen’s, in Kingston, for the next four years. It’s not bad, but it’s not home.

So much happened after Christie Pits. So much anger and injury. I think about your dad a lot and pray for his recovery. I know your family is struggling even more now, and I am so very sorry for that. I feel responsible. But when I remember that moment between us, I cannot regret a single thing—other than the outcome.

What I need to know, Moll, is do you still believe in us versus them? Are you still with me?

If the answer is yes, please write back. Either way, I want you to know that I have always loved you, Molly Ryan, as a friend, now as something more. I miss you very much, and I hope with all my heart that I will hear from you soon.

Yours, Max

PART TWO — 1939 —

ten MOLLY

Left widowed with three young sons,” I muttered to myself as I typed, but my voice was buried beneath the hubbub of the Star newsroom. I pulled the paper from my typewriter, then checked it over again out of habit.

Dies in a jail cell

North Bay, September 10, 1939. – A coroner’s jury found that Howard J. Mortimer, 39, of North Bay, Ontario, died in his jail cell of a brain hemorrhage. He had been arrested for beating his wife, who claimed he had just come home after a drunken quarrel with another man. Mrs. Mortimer has been left widowed with three young sons.

“Poor old Howard,” I sighed. “You should have just gone straight to bed. At least you won’t have to go to war.”

The rest of the newsroom clattered with two dozen or so men, blustering around between typewriters and telephones, all of