Platform Four: A Legacy Falls Romance Read online

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Dear Garreth,

  My mother would say you are forward. Perhaps you are. Perhaps I am easily flattered, but I find that I don’t much care if you aren’t being honest. It’s nice to be the one who induces smiles and pleasant thoughts. It’s nice to know that among your tasks and the labor placed upon you that my smile and, ridiculous as it seems to me, my laugh brings you peace. It isn’t impossible to imagine. I find the same sense of relief and joy when I think of you and the criminally small amount of time we spent together.

  From Ada to Garreth, 1943

  Deacon did not hold my interest, not that night nor the next time Mama extended another invitation to join us at our table. It’s not that the man was ugly or homely. He was in fact very burly and broad, strong with light brown hair and a bushy beard he kept neat and trim, and lovely green eyes that were large and bright. But there was no humor in his voice, no playfulness in his demeanor, no sweet flirtation in anything he ever said or did.

  So despite my mother’s best efforts, any and all thought of Deacon, as suitor or otherwise, left me completely with the arrival of Garreth’s first letter. It was postmarked from New York, but I had heard on the radio that most of the units out of Fort Polk, where I knew Garreth had been stationed, were heading overseas. Most likely Garreth had written that first letter before they left port. I didn’t care when or where he’d sent it, just that he had.

  Garreth’s handwriting was nothing like Mattie’s. His was sloppier than my cousin’s, the loops and swirls of his words reminding me of a youngster just learning script, but his intent was clear and his grammar impeccable. The day it had arrived, I stashed it, unread, beneath of cups of my bra and there is stayed all day during my work with the passengers at the station, and all the way home that evening. It felt like a precious weight nestled next to my heart, a secret and sustaining treat just waiting for the right moment to treasure. Finally, after Mama had turned in and the only noise that disturbed the quiet came from the low hum of Uncle Bleu’s radio as he listened to some jazz program in his room below mine, I slipped outside my second story window and curled against the larger dormer with a mug of tea in one hand and Garreth’s letter in the other. Then, I unwrapped my small treat, and by the soft light coming through the window, I read.

  Miss Ada,

  Dia duit. (That’s ‘hello’ in Irish, in case you didn’t know. But then, pretty Yank that you are, I reckon you don’t). I am writing to you from what I believe is the Newark port. New York always confounds me a bit, being so much larger than any city I’ve ever seen, even bigger than fair old Dublin. We are about to head off to England, though I’m not sure where exactly it is we’re going. I do know it’ll put me closer to home than I’ve been since I was eighteen, though it won’t be close enough, will it, to see my kin? I suppose, if I’m as loved as my folk claim I am, they’ll call on me once our leaves come through, though with this war, not one of us can depend on such things.

  I hope that things are well with you and that the fix on your trolley is still holding up. Saints alive, I hope you are still looking after yourself when you’re off in the mornings to the station and that you keep your wits about you whilst you do it. No, of course I know I’m not your fella (and what a lucky bloke that fella would be, if I’m being honest), but I do fret and worry over you on your own every morning.

  If you don’t mind my being forward, yet again, I will say that the day I spent with you in your small town brings a smile to my face when I am dog tired and worn from the tasks and worries they put us through here. I’ve had a bit of a rough go, particularly from the louder of the men in my unit because they hear my accent and assume I am not patriotic enough to wear our shared badges. Seems you aren’t the only one wondering how I can to be in the US military. But, for the life of me I can’t seem to find enough energy to care what those wankers think of me.

  I hope you are keeping yourself safe and that you’ll write me as often as you like. Your beautiful smile and that sweet voice stays firmly forefront in my mind (almost as much as the delicious biscuits and scones you gave me. I rationed them to myself over the rest of my trip, though what a burden it was!) But it wasn’t your expert baking that keeps you in my thoughts. It is the sweet, soft bend of your lips and the flecks of green and brown in your light eyes. It’s the soft wave of your hair falling across your forehead…all that keeps me from my worry. Even when I am tired and think I could not possibly have a single good thought to recall, there you are, that voice and your lovely face, yes, the bleeding loveliest. You are already keeping your promise without writing the first letter.

  As to that, I hope you will write me. I hope you will tell me all the things that keep you dreaming in the middle of the day, or even during the night, if you dare. Write as often as you can. The field office will send your letters forward to me.

  Thank you for that.

  My best,

  GMcG

  I must have read that letter a dozen times. More so than any of the letters that Mattie had ever written to me. Garreth’s words were like a balm I kept over my heart and it helped to ease the dull ache of worry that had begun to form and grow with every night’s news story of the lengthening war and the atrocities of battle. Not long after Garreth’s first letter, four coffins had come into the Pleasant Street station. They were unadorned, not ornate or expensive-looking. But inside those unassuming boxes had been the bodies of men I’d once known as boys. Sweet, simple men who took off their hats and stood from the tables when women entered the room. Men who had said modest things like “yes ma’am” and “no sir” when an elder addressed them.

  Garreth’s tone was light, a bit flirtatious, which I’d expected from him. But that letter, as sweet as it was, could not keep the worry for him from my mind. Especially when the weeks moved onward and more coffins darkened the stations. He’d commented on my smile and for no one’s sake but my own, I found myself, over the next few days, trying my best to smile broader, to make that smile that Garreth had spoken so fondly of, beam wide and warm. Maybe some part of me thought, as silly as it was, that he could see me; that when I greeted people in town and strangers at the station, it was with a smile that Garreth had kept so surely in his mind. Silly, of course, but it did make the worry ebb the tiniest bit.

  When the news of the troops moving deeper into Europe came our way, that smile faltered, no matter how keenly I tried to prevent it. But war is scary business, even for those not directly fighting it. To keep my own self from becoming overwhelmed with fear, I took to writing Garreth any chance I could. It was possible that he might find it silly, when almost immediately after my first letter arrived, it would be followed by two more, but I couldn't help myself. Still, it was the first letter to him where I had pinned my hopes at helping to distract him from where he was and what he’d be asked to do.

  Garreth,

  I am happy to hear that you’ve landed in England and are that closer to your family. I cannot believe that they would not do whatever they could manage to come and see you after having spent so long apart. I know I would. I’d give just about anything to see my cousin Mattie, even if that meant trudging across occupied towns and villages to get to him.

  I hope the memory of the cookies and scones can help to sustain you. If I thought it would actually reach you, I’d send a large care package of cookies and biscuits and all manner of desserts made by me especially for you. For now, we’ll have to agree that once you return to the States, that you’ll come to our home for the largest victory dinner your mind can imagine.

  But Garreth, there is something that I must share with you. I keep reliving the short time that made up our first meeting, and I cannot forget the rude question I asked you about the fear you must feel heading off to war. It was cruel of me to be so invasive, and so I hope you will accept my humblest apologies if it brought you any discomfort. I did not mean to invade your privacy. I will say that whatever your worry might be, I hope you are eased by the knowledg
e that we are here, saying prayers for you and all the brave men fighting for our country, as well as the security of our allies. You are never far from our thoughts.

  And please, do not worry about me walking to the station, even so early in the morning. I’ve managed fine for many years and Legacy Falls is a safe, boring little town - most folks don’t even bother with the locks on their doors! Instead of worrying about me, I have a request. Tell me rather about your best day in Ireland as a boy. I find that when we recall the best of our memories, the worst of our present can be held at bay, for recalling the past reminds us that yes, we once laughed, that we once held precious times and precious people close to our hearts, and those memories can never be taken from us.

  Please keep safe and keep your thoughts and day dreams on fat, flaky apple tarts, decadent, buttery biscuits and large lumps of chocolate chips that melt in your mouth and, if you are so inclined, the smile that I’m sending you right now.

  Be well,

  AMM

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Dear Miss Ada,

  Do you believe in magic? Sometimes I do, if I’m honest. Sometimes I think there is fairy magic at play when the sun beams down over the English rivers and to my core, I swear I hear my gran moaning over the English and my being among them, but there is magic in the roll of their green fields and the kiss of sunlight against the water. There’s magic too, I know in smaller things, though things that aren’t lesser by any stretch. Like the bend of your neck or the high, bright blush that comes right across your cheeks when you’re having a laugh. There’s magic there too. I’ve seen it myself and it shames those English hills.

  From Garreth to Ada, 1943

  There was a loop in his script. I still traced it with the tip of my finger, smoothing the chipping red polish from my nail as I read and reread Garreth’s letter. It was something I took to doing with the passing months and the collection of letters Garreth sent my way.

  In just three months, I’d sent him more than a dozen letters and had received nearly as many in reply, from places where the postmark read Upottery in Devon and Sainte Mere Eglise in Normandy. I’d worried that I'd been too forward in that initial letter and spent the better part of a week after mailing the first one that I’d being a bit tawdry. But those letters—the sending and receiving of them—were at the centerpoint of my world.

  Mama didn’t mention my letter writing, which was something I had worried about at first. When she remained silent, I suspected she believed I was firing off more letters to Mattie, which sat fine with me. She confirmed it herself a few days later when she muttered, in an uncharacteristically cheerful voice as I sat up late one night at the kitchen table hunched over a letter to Garreth, “Send him my love.”

  I wouldn’t. Nor would she have asked, had she known.

  The letters, though, did not keep my world from changing. One day, a representative from the textile factory a few counties over came into Legacy Falls recruiting women. There simply were not enough men to keep the factory running, so they were taking the bold step of hiring women to do the grunt work, something unheard of before the war. I was quick to sign up.

  For the first time in nearly four years, I did not wake at four a.m. to bake biscuits and cookies and trundle myself to the station at the crack of dawn. Instead I slept in, got myself dressed in coveralls and a bandana in my hair, and by seven every morning I took Uncle Bleu’s Ford over to Braxton county and worked elbow to elbow with women I did not know but with whom I shared sad company. We had all seen our loved ones shipped away; some were convinced that they wouldn’t be returning.

  One ginger-haired woman named Farrah Phillips, who was so thin she had to knot a handkerchief in her overall belt loops to keep them from swallowing her, swore as badly as a sailor when she mentioned her husband and how desperately lonesome she was to see him again.

  Farrah liked to say “damn” and “shit” an awful lot. She joked that she mostly talked that way to see what color my cheeks would get when she did, and I was inclined to believe her, but I enjoyed her earthiness. She was a nice woman, at least five years older than me and honest to a fault. I thought she was wonderful and sometimes, because I did, because I’d never met anyone like her at all, I got this silly, wide-eyed look on my face that seemed to give Farrah permission to say whatever she liked, no matter how personal.

  Like one Tuesday during lunch break when the sun beat down hot and blistering on our faces. “It’s the damndest thing, really,” she’d started, leisurely lighting a cigarette. “Last night I was lying in bed and pulled Billy’s pillow right against my chest and just cried something fierce.” She inhaled deeply, not even coughing, and closed her eyes as she seemed to recall her husband, Billy. If I’d learned her looks, and I like to think that I had, that particular expression on her face would precede a long, descriptive account of her husband and just how fine and handsome he was and what Farrah would like to do with him. No matter that it wasn’t my business, my new friend talked about her man with such vivid detail that I knew I shouldn’t have listened to her, but just couldn’t seem to find the notion to ignore her.

  “I had almost convinced myself I could still smell the scent of his cologne on the pillow and then the whole night I spent trying to remember what his back looked like. You know, the bend of his muscle, the way all that fine, naked flesh curves down and dips into…” She’d stopped herself, likely because my skin had turned near purple from the blush that worked over my cheeks.

  But Farrah and those vivid descriptions made my mind do some wandering of its own. I had no experience being with a man, but it didn't keep my imagination from making up its own stories.

  I’d only held Garreth’s hand and let him kiss my knuckles—an innocent, sweet gesture. But Lord had I committed the sensation of his warm lips on my skin to memory. I’d spend hours wide awake at night, letting the replay of his words the memory of the scent of his hair when he bent to kiss my hand and the soft brush of his palm against my lower back when he led me into the general store meet up with the promises in his letters, building into their own forbidden possibilities. There was. I’d pretend to drift off at night with the stillness in the house amping my vivid thoughts so that I was left aching and desperate and horribly aroused for a man I didn’t really know but still missed fiercely.

  “Send a picture, please, love,” he’d requested in one of his earlier letters and I had, after recruiting Farrah into being a quite willing accomplice, seeing that no one in my family owned a camera. Farrah did, however, and one Saturday night, before she and I went into Liberty City to watch a silly Lon Chaney Jr. film about Dracula’s son, she spent some time primping me for a few shots, both of us laughing at the slyness of our imagined misconduct. My hair had been soft, waving around my shoulders from the pin curls I’d set it in the day before and I wore a simple cap that dipped a little over my forehead. My dress had been one that was old, likely out of fashion, but fit me well; my thin arms and legs had become stronger, my hips rounder, due to the hard work we did at the factory.

  “You look fetching,” Farrah had promised and after nagging me incessantly to smile wider, broader, and finally making me laugh, she’d caught me in an unguarded moment with color on my cheeks and a sparkle in my eyes.

  Maybe, I’d thought, the thing had come out decent enough that I would actually send it to Garreth. When it came back from developing, I quickly stuck it in the envelope and sent it before I lost my nerve, I muttered a prayer that I really did look fetching and that he’d like it.

  He did. At least, he seemed to.

  I’ve said it before, Miss Ada, and I’ve meant it each time, you a rare beauty. I opened your letter and didn’t do much a’tall but stare, gobsmacked, at that lovely smile and the twinkle working in your eyes before I even bothered to read your letter. It may be rude as the devil to say so, but it can’t be helped: you could tempt a saint and the bugger would be happy to sin just for you.

  That letter had my midnight imaginings vi
vid and real and desperately charged.

  Mama had figured out by now that it wasn’t letters to and from Mattie that had me giddy when the mail came. It’s not like she could miss how frequently the letters I received made me smile or how often I peeked at the small picture that Garreth had sent me just a few weeks after my last letter to him. He’d looked so handsome with that almost-smile crooking up the corner of his mouth and his smart looking uniform, now festooned with a Lieutenant’s badge, and those beautiful blue eyes light and brilliant. A half-smoked cigarette pinched in the corner of his mouth, giving him a mischievous look that made my belly twist and my heart speed up with each glance.

  The more letters I received, the more Deacon Smith was invited to our dinner table. Mama’s health was growing worse, her cough so rough that she took to carrying a small towel with her for fear she’d cough up blood. So, I couldn’t fuss too much when Deacon appeared one night at our front door carrying a bunch of daisies and a brown bottle tucked into his jacket pocket.

  “For your mama’s cough,” he explained when I asked him in. “My granny makes the best Bourbon cough serum this side of Bolton County. It might help.” When I thanked him for his concern, I realized that for once, it was my attention, not my mother’s that kept him engaged.

  “How is your job at the factory?” he asked between bites of my mother’s fried pork chop steaks. “Your mama mentioned you’ve been working long hours?”

  Across the table my mother’s low, long cough kept me from saying something sarcastic or rude. Instead, I smiled at Deacon, reminding myself that he hadn’t actually done anything manipulative to me, not yet at least. I knew he and his father had been trying to buy the orchard from Uncle Bleu for years. It made sense that his attention toward me had less to do with being attracted to me and everything to do with Mama being sick and Uncle Bleu being unable to tend to the orchard without her bookkeeping. Yet Deacon had never mentioned any plans for the orchard to me. I needed to be cautious, but there was no cause to be rude.