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

Orangeman for more than just the colour of his hair. Ever since I was little, he had lectured us on the importance of our family history and the longstanding feud between Protestants and Catholics. He’d made sure we knew that way back in 1690, William of Orange had saved us from becoming second-class citizens under Catholic rule when he’d defeated King James II at the Battle of the Boyne. William’s heirs had ended up forming the Orange Order, a group dedicated to upholding the faith, and my father was a proud member, as were many of Toronto’s policemen, government officials, and labourers. Practically anyone could join the Orangemen, as long as they were Protestant.

The Orangemen had been responsible for coining the nickname “Toronto the Good.” Over the past hundred years, they had put in place many laws. The purpose of those laws, in my mind, was basically to prevent people from having fun. Like no tobogganing on Sundays. I never understood the reason for that one.

Every July 12, the Glorious Twelfth it was called, the Orange Order held a parade downtown, and my dad and the others always marched in it. I’d grown up loving the pomp and circumstance—who didn’t love a parade?—but these days, it seemed a little ridiculous. Not much more than a showy demonstration that the Orangemen were still in power. But I knew better than to mention that to my father.

“The parade always gives people something to look forward to,” Mum said, smiling.

Beside me, Jimmy took his last bite. “Is there any more?”

My father narrowed his eyes at Jimmy, looking like an orange cat ready to pounce. “You’re lucky to be getting anything at all. I work all day to put food in your mouth, and your mother slaves over the stove. You’ll eat what you’re given and be thankful for it, or you’ll have nothing.”

“Sorry I asked,” Jimmy said, a familiar note of defiance in his voice.

Jimmy had always been the kid with a cheeky remark, and he was a scrapper. In school, he’d challenged teachers whenever he could, which landed him in trouble, but he was smart, so he still managed to get good grades. Richie, on the other hand, took after our father, a strong, athletic leader who wasn’t afraid to get into a fight for a good cause. Dad didn’t mind the fighting, but he hated rebellion. He said that as a policeman he dealt with rebels all day long, and he didn’t want to come home and have to deal with another one.

The only person in the world who had ever dared speak back to my father was my seanmháthair, my grandmother. “Garret, tóg go réidh é.” Be calm, she would say in Gaelic. It used to soothe him, and me as well. She’d died a year ago, but I still felt an ache in my chest, thinking of her.

“Jimmy’s playing ball tonight,” I said, trying to ease the mood. “We should all go, like we used to. He’s really fast these days. Centre field.”

Jimmy flashed me a grateful smile. “Thanks, Molly.”

Dad pushed corned beef onto his fork. “People getting fired, losing their livelihoods, us with barely enough to eat, and you want to go to a ball game. When are you kids gonna grow up?”

Jimmy stood, his chair scraping noisily along the floor. “Well, I’m not growing up today. I’m off to play ball. Can’t let the team down.”

The rest of us braced for Dad’s wrath, but it never came. He just sighed and slouched a little lower over his dinner, clearly worn. Jimmy brought his dishes to the counter then slipped out the door.

I glared at my plate, wishing I could have gone with him. I missed the days when we’d all go together, sitting with Hannah’s family, having a picnic while we cheered the teams on. Dad had been the most enthusiastic fan of all—especially when his boys were playing—and Mum would laugh at how he whooped and hollered. These days, he didn’t laugh as much, and his temper could be quick. But he was a good father. I knew he meant well for us all. It was this Depression. It was hard on everyone.

At last, we finished our meals, and I rose to collect the dishes.

“I can’t help you tonight, Molly,” Mum said. “I’ve mending to do before the morning. You’ll have to do the washing up on your own.”

My heart sank. “Can’t one of the boys help? I’m supposed to be meeting Hannah at the game.”

“You still friends with Hannah Dreyfus, are you?” Dad asked, his tone shifting from my father to Sergeant Ryan. I recognized the sound of an interrogation. He dabbed his lip with his napkin. “You know, people say it’s her kind that are responsible for all this poverty.”

I paused, unsure. “Her kind? Are you talking about Jewish people?”

“Them and their communist ideals are causing all these strikes and demonstrations. Now, I have nothing against the Dreyfuses, but times are changing. More folks are blaming Jews these days, and when tempers flare, fights break out. People are getting hurt.”

I couldn’t bite my tongue this time. “It takes two to fight.”

“Not necessarily, in my experience.”

“If it’s so dangerous, who’s going to protect Hannah and her family?” I pressed.

“You let the police worry about that. I just want you to be safe.”

I was a little surprised Richie hadn’t said anything, but he just grabbed the newspaper and left the table. He and Hannah’s brother, Max, used to be as close as Hannah and I were. They’d stuck together like brothers until Max left the city for university.

“Listen to your father,” Mum was saying. “Make friends with some of the girls at church. It’s safer. Who knows? You might meet a nice boy. You’re eighteen, after all.” Her lips tightened slightly. “Though you’ll never meet anyone with your head always in a book.”

My cheeks warmed. The fact that I spent most of my free time reading was somewhat of a sore spot between my mother and