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

“Come see me after work?” she asked. “You haven’t been over in a while.”

My first reaction was to tell her I had no time, but as I opened my mouth to say the words, I realized how much I needed to see her. She’d always been my strength.

“I’ll be there.”

Over a glass of wine, she told me she’d seen Jimmy and she was concerned.

“Where’s he living, Molly? Because he doesn’t look right. When I saw him, he was sleeping on the curb. He looked awful. Filthy. And he didn’t know who I was.”

I sagged. I’d spent all that time on VE Day writing my big, important ode to veterans, thinking I knew it all, and I couldn’t even help my brother. “He’s living where he can, I guess. He can’t stand me or anyone else. He won’t take help, and he won’t listen to reason. My heart is broken for him, Hannah. I don’t know what to do.”

Hannah was quiet. “We knew this war would change them,” she said. “Jimmy’s so far down a hole he can’t see the light. I guess we just have to wait for him to come out, and we all know how stubborn he can be. I promise if I see him, I’ll make sure he’s at least eating, okay?”

I thanked her, feeling a little relief now that she’d taken some of my burden on her shoulders.

“How are you?” she asked kindly, handing me a tissue. “How’s Ian?”

“He’s happy now that we’ve finally set a date for the wedding.”

She sat up. “Oh, good! When?”

“Actually, Ian picked it.” I twisted my mouth to the side. Ian and I had gone back and forth on the date. August was now just around the corner, so I’d suggested a winter wedding, thinking it would give me more time to plan, then Ian had mentioned a possible date. We need to make happy memories to replace the sad ones, he’d said. I had reluctantly agreed.

Hannah looked at me sideways. “What date did he choose?”

“Christmas Day.”

twenty-two MOLLY

The doorman at the King Edward Hotel gave a little bow as Ian and I approached, then he swung the door open to welcome us in, scattering a few dried autumn leaves. We stepped into the elevator, then headed up to the seventeenth floor, where the doors opened to the glittering Crystal Ballroom and the lazy sound of a jazz trio. My stomach tumbled with nerves. Ian put his arm around my waist and squeezed, sensing that.

“You have nothing to worry about,” he said. “You’re the most prepared journalist in the room.”

I had been looking forward to this reception for the past week, ever since Mr. Hindmarsh had received the invitation. Tonight we’d meet and speak with a few recently arrived prisoners of war from the Japanese prison camps. From all my research, I knew this was going to be tough. The stories being leaked were of starving, sick men dealing with horrific conditions, and from personal experience with my brothers, I knew it might not be easy to get full statements. But the interviews weren’t what had me so nervous. My apprehension stemmed from the fact that Richie had been with these men out there. They had been his friends. Even if they could tell their stories, would I be able to listen without breaking down?

I noticed right away how different this event was from other receptions we’d attended recently. After VE Day, the returning men had been loud, boisterous, keen to open up over the free drinks in their hands. Some had flirted with me at first, and I’d let them, knowing I had to put them at ease if I was going to get them to talk. Ian was good at getting details in a man-to-man way, but I was better at getting beneath the surface, where emotions lurked.

Tonight the mood was quiet, but I had expected that. When Ian and I had gone to celebrate VJ Day on August 15, those crowds had been smaller than back in May. Since the majority of the fighting men and POWs had been in Europe, a lot of the city was already back to work by now, having left the war behind. It almost felt to me as if the tens of thousands returning from the Far East were an afterthought. If Japan ever came up in conversation, it was usually in reference to the atomic bombs that had been dropped over Nagasaki and Hiroshima in August, not about our men left behind.

I understood that, though. The bombs had shocked the world. The end of the war had come at a terrible price, and I was having a great deal of trouble reconciling that solution with the tens of thousands of innocent people killed. Now, as I stood in the same room as men who had been tortured for four years by the Japanese army, I wondered how they felt about it.

At the coat check counter, Ian took my coat and let out a low whistle of appreciation. “You look incredible, Molly.”

I’d bought myself a new emerald-green dress for the occasion, with boxy shoulders, a trim, belted waist, and a dainty white collar at my neck. Ian always looked well put together, and tonight he was wearing his navy suit with a pale blue tie. I knew we had dressed right for the event, but I felt self-conscious among these men with their baggy uniforms and sallow faces. I also noted that, while there were a few other reporters and government officials in the room, all in all, there were very few women.

“We stick out like sore thumbs among all these uniforms, don’t we?” I murmured.

“Mutts circling pedigree canines,” Ian said, scanning the room. “There are a lot of horrendous stories of beatings and killings coming out of these camps. This is going to be interesting.”

I touched his arm. “Don’t say ‘interesting,’ Ian. That’s cruel.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I wonder if they’ll even be able to