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

the pile as a reminder. That day, the legendary Mr. Henry Comfort Hindmarsh, managing editor of the Toronto Daily Star, hired me as a junior reporter.

The big clock on the newsroom wall ticked to five o’clock. Outside, the rain was coming down in sheets, so I gathered my coat and handbag, then reached under the desk for my umbrella. As I passed by Ian’s desk, he raised a hand.

“Have a good night with your family,” he said, warm as always, and I thought again about maybe saying yes to him next time.

The rain pounded my umbrella as I rushed toward the streetcar, dodging puddles and wishing I’d had the forethought to bring galoshes as well. Inside, the streetcar aisle was slick, so I clung to seat backs until I found an empty one. I settled in and gazed out the streaming window, my thoughts still on the riot so long ago. That night had marked a change for the city. Things were still tumultuous, noisy with continuing protests and prejudice, but there had been no more major uprisings after that one. I liked to think that maybe a few people had read my letter and taken it to heart.

Then just this past August, seven hundred or so local German Canadians had gathered near Maple Street, showing their support of the Nazis. The following Monday, when their leader, Martin Kaiser, returned to his job as a foreman at a factory on Geary Avenue, his coworkers had a few things to say to him, then a fight broke out. As soon as I heard about the brawl, I’d braced at my desk, hoping Ian would take me with him to the scene, but that wasn’t up to him. Instead, I was tasked with writing about a church bazaar. Ian and another reporter got back to the office hours later, and he told me the factory floor had been covered with bloody towels.

The streetcar stopped at Spadina, and I got off to wait for the one headed north. By the time it arrived, my shoes were soaked through, and my teeth were chattering from the cold. As we rattled past Mr. Dreyfus’s factory, I found myself thinking about Max again. Once, he’d been the sun and the moon to me, but we’d been so young. Now, when I looked back, I regretted my actions that day. As much as I wanted him, I hadn’t given any thought to how it might affect others, and my selfishness had caused so much needless pain. I hadn’t spoken to Max in years, and I’d only seen him a handful of times through my window. Other than to visit, he’d never returned after his four years at medical school, so I assumed he was working somewhere else. Maybe, like Richie, he was married. I hoped he was happy. I really did.

That fall, Richie had joined the police force, and I thought his decision had a lot to do with what had happened to Dad. During the first few weeks after the riot, I’d occasionally come home from work and seen the two of them in Dad’s bedroom, talking quietly between themselves. Then Richie had applied and was accepted into the police force, and Dad seemed to like the fact that there was still a Ryan in uniform. A few months later, Richie married a quiet, pretty barmaid named Barbara, and I’d become an aunt two years ago to sweet little Evelyn. Barbara was pregnant with their second baby now, and she’d positively glowed the last time they’d come over for dinner. Her hands rested on her belly, and I’d felt an unexpected twinge of envy.

Tonight, when I stepped out of the rain and into the house, I could smell ham in the oven. Mum was leaning over a pot, the steam rising into her face. I noticed her apron was covering a neat new dress, which made me smile. She deserved that.

“Hi, Mum,” I said, dropping my week’s pay into the Friday Night Tax Bucket.

Only my youngest brother Liam and I were still living at home these days, and the Depression was easing a little, so things had improved around the house. But without Dad working, there was still pressure to contribute. Fortunately, my eight dollars a week at Eaton’s had grown to almost thirty at the Star. I’d even been able to set some of it aside for myself, for the future.

Over the past year or so, life in Toronto had slowly improved. More jobs had opened up, and the need didn’t seem as dire. People started shopping again, though they were still prudent in their purchases.

My brothers were all working and doing well. Mark had lucked into a job driving streetcars, and that’s where he’d met his wife, Helen. Love at first sight, he’d said. She couldn’t find the right coins, but he’d taken one look at her and let her ride for free. Helen had a curly brown bob and a lovely smile, and she clearly adored my brother.

At my voice, Mum looked up from the stove. She seemed better these days, though she was understandably drained from tending Dad. “How was your day?”

I shrugged out of my dripping coat and hung it by the door. I didn’t want to tell her how discouraged I was at my job, not after everything I’d done to get into this field of work.

“Busy. So much going on now that Canada’s fighting.”

She turned back to the pot, shaking her head as she stirred. “I had hoped it would never come to that. Didn’t we learn anything from the last war? Oh, the stories your father told me. Not that he talked much about it.” She sighed, sounding resigned. “Molly, dear, if you’re not too tired, would you please set the table? The boys should be here any minute.”

From the cabinet I took out the set of plates I’d bought for her last birthday, then pulled out a few of the older, chipped ones. Our evenings were quiet