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

out of love for his friend. I’d like to say that in that same position, any one of us might have done the same, but I’m not sure that’s true.” He allowed a faint smile. “I guess we should have known it was him. Richie was the only one with an arm that good. The real harm was done out of shame.” He looked at Mum. “I just wish he could have come to us. Trusted us with the truth.”

She nodded weakly. “Our poor boy. Poor, poor boy.”

Dad’s words slipped around me like an embrace, his forgiveness overshadowing any anger I had felt at first. I looked down at the letter again and felt a glimmer of hope.

Max was frowning slightly, still absorbing Richie’s message. Was he thinking of their childhood? Was he remembering more recent times the two of them had spent together?

From the corner of my eye, I saw Mum gather herself, then look up at Max with so much love in her expression. She’d always loved him. I knew the division between our families had been hard on her. Seeing her now, my heart swelled.

“Dear, dear Max.” She looked from me to him, and I knew she was thinking of the letter they’d burned. “I’m so sorry for the pain we’ve caused you.”

With effort, Dad got to his feet and went to Max, holding out a hand. “A lot of wrongs were done, Max. I’m asking you to forgive me.”

Max hesitated, but just for a moment, then he took his hand. “There’s nothing to forgive, Mr. Ryan.”

“Will you tell your mother?” Mum asked, wiping her eyes. “I want to come see her. We have years to catch up on.”

“I’ll tell her first thing tomorrow.”

I walked him to the door, then I handed him Richie’s letter. “Read this to your family. There should never be any secrets between us.”

After he was gone, Mum, Dad, Liam, and I came together, wrapping our arms tightly around each other. I knew we were all thinking of Richie, wishing more than anything in the world that he was there with us, knowing he was forgiven.

“What am I missing?” came a hoarse voice from the doorway, and I laughed through my tears, seeing Jimmy, bruised and battered, but clean. Wearing nothing but a towel.

“Come here, fool,” Dad said fondly, holding out his arms.

And there was nothing more that any of us needed to say.

twenty-seven MAX

Bright and early the next morning, Max stepped out of his house and onto a fresh layer of sparkling snow. His hands were full with a plate of sufganiyot his mother had sent along for Mrs. Ryan, a first step in rekindling their friendship. His parents had been waiting up for him when he’d come home last night, worried something had happened to him, so he’d sat them down and shown them Richie’s letter. He watched their expressions melt as they read, then his father reached for his mother’s hand.

“Good,” his father had said, looking more at ease than Max had seen in a while. “Richie did the right thing.”

Max knocked on the Ryans’ door, and as Molly opened it, he heard Jimmy’s voice. She was laughing at something he’d said, and Max figured that was a good sign.

“How’s our patient?” he asked.

Stitching Jimmy up had brought Max back to the days when he’d felt satisfaction from the career he’d worked toward his whole life. After so many years of feeling useless at the camp, he’d enjoyed using his skills to finally do some good. Now Max wondered if he could help heal more than just Jimmy’s physical hurts. He’d seen the ghosts in Jimmy’s eyes, so similar to his own. All the time Max had spent speaking with Molly, telling his stories, had helped ease the guilt he’d felt at coming home when so many had not. Maybe, he thought, he could help do the same for her brother.

She tilted her head toward Jimmy, who sat at the table with a cup of coffee and a cigarette. “He’s been up for an hour now, telling me about flying without landing gear.”

Max looked at Molly, surprised. “He’s talking about combat already?”

She nodded, waving him in. “Come on in and sit. Everyone else is still asleep. It was a long night.”

“Hey, Max,” Jimmy said, raising his coffee cup in greeting.

“I bring treats,” Max announced, setting down the plate of jam-filled pastries, then grabbing a seat at the table.

Jimmy wolfed one down as Molly placed a coffee in front of Max.

“Your stitches are holding,” he said, studying Jimmy’s face. “That’s good.”

A lock of Jimmy’s unruly black hair had fallen over one eye, but he didn’t seem to notice. Jimmy hadn’t been in a POW camp, and he’d been back for months, and yet he was almost as thin as Max was. Max moved the plate toward him.

“Here, have another one. You look like you could use it.”

“Says the skeleton,” Jimmy replied in kind.

Molly took a seat and looked at Jimmy. “Tell Max what you just told me. About your plane.”

“I was out on exercises one day,” he said, “and my landing gear broke off. B-b-bang!” he yelled, grinning. “I’ll admit, it was a bit of a b-bouncy landing, but I stuck it. Impressed the b-boys, too. What a time.”

“I can imagine that,” Max said, noting Jimmy’s stammer. He hadn’t heard it when Jimmy’s system had been clouded with alcohol.

“I loved flying, you know. Just me and my squadron and the plane and the clouds. Such a feeling of freedom up there.” Jimmy frowned at the steaming coffee then took a long gulp, seemingly oblivious to the heat. “ ’Course it had its moments. Those Germans sure could fly. When they snuck up on you, you had to b-b-be ready.”

“Can you tell us about Normandy?” Molly asked gently.

Max recalled the patient look on her face from their own conversations, and felt an odd twinge of jealousy. It felt strange, not being the object of her attention