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

could meet at a café, buy you lunch. What do you think? It would be more comfortable than standing here with all these people.”

“Oh, no, Ian. I don’t think that’s fair to ask of Max.” She hesitated then turned to him, and despite all the years between them, he recognized the spark of interest in her expression. She liked the idea. “Unless you want to?”

“We wouldn’t even have to name you in the article if you’d rather stay anonymous,” Ian said.

“Maybe we could talk about Richie?” Molly added, and he heard fear in her voice.

He found himself nodding. “I’m up for it if you are,” he said, but he wasn’t sure that was true.

“How’s tomorrow?” Ian asked. “We can meet at the Senator at noon. Do you remember that spot, at Yonge and Dundas? It’s a nice place. We can keep to ourselves in there. Will that work?”

“Sure. I—” He caught a movement behind Ian. “Um, I’m sorry, but my sergeant’s waving us out. They have a car for us, and I guess it’s leaving.”

“Duty calls,” Molly said, trying to smile. “At least this time I know I’ll see you again. We have all the time in the world now.”

“We sure do,” he said, wishing he could hug her again.

Ian stuck out his hand. It was a strong grip, which Max appreciated. “It’s so good to meet you at last, Max. Really.” He nudged Molly and winked. “Guess this means we’ll have one more invitation to send out for the wedding.”

Max’s stomach plunged, and his gaze slipped to the plain gold band on her finger. When he looked up, Molly’s face was flushed a dark pink.

That’s when he felt it begin again, the hardening of his heart, the construction of a wall that no emotions could penetrate. Over the past four years that wall had saved Max’s sanity so many times. He’d come home with no expectations, and tonight, he’d leave this place with even fewer.

Every light in the house was lit for Max’s return, and as he stepped out of the hired car, he wished they hadn’t done that. Of course they’d want to see him, to talk. But right now, it felt like too much. He wanted to sit in the dark, alone.

The door flew open as he limped up the walk, and Hannah ran out to him, her arms held out.

She collided with him, sank into his chest, and he lowered his face to her hair. “Hannah,” he said, feeling her whole body bump with sobs. She was a widow now, he remembered, thinking of David for the first time in a while, his body unmoving on the trampled grass. Guilt rushed through him. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Hannah. I couldn’t save him. I couldn’t bring him home.”

She leaned back, pale with understanding. “Oh, Max! I know you tried. I know you did. You couldn’t do everything.” She put her hands on his cheeks, holding his eyes with hers. “But you came home. Oh, God. I still can’t believe it. Thank you. Thank you for coming home.”

He held her again, and through his coat he felt her fingers digging into his back. Holding on tight. Over her shoulder he saw his parents, their faces wet with tears. But his own was dry. How long since he’d cried? He couldn’t remember.

“It’s all right,” he said to Hannah, then over her shoulder to his parents. “It’s all right now.” They needed him to be strong. If only he could convince himself.

Hannah finally released him, and the family ushered him into the living room, their voices ringing with happiness and laughter. Hannah’s children hugged his knees, so his progress was slow, and he had to stop himself from peeling them off him. He wanted to be here. He wanted to be with them. But their grips felt like bindings, and one of them was squeezing too tightly around his bum leg. He was relieved when he was able to sit and they left him alone.

The others settled into their chairs, happily commenting about what a wonderful day this was, watching him as if he were some sort of curiosity. Their eyes overflowed with love, and Max felt a tremor of panic. He’d seen their eyes before, at night, in the dark, with the rats scuttling nearby and the stink of men in his nostrils. He’d felt this love before, but only when he’d been beaten so badly he’d needed to cling to his memories for his own sanity. Was any of this real?

It had to be a trick. How could he possibly be here? Then his mother appeared before him, smiling with adoration, a plate of latkes held out like an offering. He’d seen her do this before, seen her stirring pots in the kitchen and bringing food to him. He’d seen it all in his mind as he picked at the rotten grains of rice, moving with maggots.

But those were just dreams, he remembered. Wildly imagined fantasies of one day leaving the camp and finding himself again. They filled his mind to punish him because he didn’t deserve that, not when all his friends were dead.

“Don’t touch me!” he cried, jerking away from the hallucination.

“But, bubbala—”

“No!” He sprang out of his chair, knocking his mother’s hands, and the plate crashed to the floor in a mess of broken china and latkes.

With a squeak of alarm, Dinah raced behind Hannah’s chair, but no one else moved a muscle, and no one said a word. In the silence, he studied their stricken faces, slowly realizing it was not a dream after all. Then it dawned on him that what he was seeing in their eyes was fear. They were afraid. Of him. He’d done that.

“I— I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m sorry.”

Hannah slowly moved toward him, keeping her movements small. “It will get easier,” she said softly. “I promise.”

“I just need sleep,” he said weakly, taking a step away from her.

His mother’s hands were bunched into fists in front of