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

I could practically hear wedding bells in her voice. Beside her, Dad shifted. “Molly,” he said, his voice soft. “I know we haven’t always done the right thing, but we love you. You’re our only daughter, and we just want you to be happy.”

Christmas 1941 had put the pain of my parents’ betrayal behind me. I still grieved what might have been between Max and me if I’d received his letter, but that was years ago. As I’d told Hannah, I’d moved on.

“I know, Dad. You’ve always wanted that. And I am.”

I turned to the window, my heart pattering with nerves. A couple of weeks ago, after Ian had made his intentions clear, I had lain in bed a long time, thinking about the decision before me. For so long, I had felt sad and alone. Then Ian had come into my life, a bright sun spreading energy and excitement. Once more, I had someone to talk to about the news, politics, and my ambitions. He had taken me under his wing and never once looked down his nose at me. After Max, I’d never expected to open my heart to anyone ever again, but Ian had found a way in. He was funny, smart, and unquestionably handsome, and he doted on me. What more could I want? I was twenty-seven years old. It was time. Hannah was right. If I wasn’t careful, I would waste my life waiting.

At last, Ian arrived, his black coat sparkling with melting snow. When I opened the door, he filled the whole entrance, and his broad smile brought a new level of warmth to the room. I took his hat and coat while he stomped snow off his boots, and when he leaned down to give me a kiss on the cheek, Mum and Dad stood back, glowing like children seeing Santa Claus.

“So glad you’re here,” I murmured.

“Me too,” he said.

“Did you really drive?” I asked, hanging his coat on the hook.

“I did.” He grimaced. “The way it’s coming down, I’ll admit that might have been a poor choice.”

I watched with appreciation as he greeted Mum, complimenting her on the kitchen’s wonderful aroma and the general “beauty” of our tired old house. Then he turned to Dad, who had straightened to his full height. I smiled inside, recognizing the sergeant in him, still so proud.

Ian wasn’t daunted. “Sergeant Ryan,” he said, offering his hand. “It’s an honour to finally meet you.”

After a few minutes, Mum went to our brand-new white refrigerator to get her favourite cabbage and pineapple gelatin salad, then she ushered us all to the table, saying dinner was ready. Ian, Dad, and I took our seats, then Mum dished out the casserole. Ian was a perfect gentleman, saying, This is delicious and Thank you so much for having me, until those niceties were out of the way. Then Mum poured a little wine, and the conversation wandered into more uncharted territory.

“Why don’t you tell us about yourself, Ian,” Dad said.

Ian patted his mouth with his napkin then set it down, always happy to talk. “What is there to tell? You’ll be glad to know, Mr. Ryan, that I’m of good Protestant Irish stock. My grandparents came over from Dublin in 1868, and they settled in Bowmanville, where I was born. Molly and I actually went there to research a story the other day.”

I sat back, watching him in his element.

“Molly’s told me about her seanmháthair and a few of her wonderful stories,” he continued. “I recognized some of them from my own grandmother, God rest her soul.”

“What about your brothers and sisters?” Mum asked.

“I’m an only child, I’m afraid.”

She gave him a sympathetic look.

“That’s all right,” he said, flashing that contagious grin. “I make friends easily.”

“He’s a charmer, all right,” I agreed, touching his toes with mine under the table.

Dad lifted a censorious eyebrow. “Is that right?”

“I believe it,” Mum said, obviously warmed up to Ian already.

“And your job,” Dad said. “You seem content there, are you? Writing for a living? Why is it you never enlisted, I’m wondering.”

Ian’s smile faded. “I would have if the doctor had allowed it,” he said, sounding disappointed. I felt for him. He’d told me before that he was ashamed about being turned away by the military doctor. “I have a heart murmur. It’s never once given me cause to worry, and I tried to tell the doctor that it wouldn’t impede my abilities to fight, but he was adamant. So I’m doing my bit as well as I can, I suppose, by writing about the war. I started at the Star fresh out of school, and I was promoted to assistant editor recently, right around the time Molly became a senior reporter.”

For the first time, I wondered if he’d had anything to do with my promotion.

“And you enjoy writing?” Mum asked. “Molly always loved to write.”

Ian looked fondly at me across the table. “She’s a natural, my girl. From the first day our editor asked me to show her around, she impressed me.”

“You were a good teacher,” I told him.

“We’ve taught each other, I think,” he replied gently, and his voice felt like a caress.

Mum leaned in. “How do you like the casserole?”

“Mrs. Ryan, I believe this is the best noodle casserole I’ve ever had.”

By the end of supper, Ian was the golden boy in my parents’ eyes, and he gave me a big wink after Dad turned to the living room and invited him to join him.

“Brandy?”

“That sounds just right,” Ian said, squeezing my hand on his way out.

“He’s perfect, Molly,” Mum said softly, after he’d left.

“I knew you’d like him,” I said, picking up the drying towel.

She looked up from the sudsy dishwater. “And you seem happy.”

I held her gaze. “I am.”

We cleaned the dishes in quiet, then Mum wiped her face.

“What’s wrong, Mum?”

“I’m just being silly,” she said. “Thinking about things. Like how fast you all grew up. Oh, the noise in this house. You remember. Now it’s