One Lavender Ribbon (7 page)

Leo flashed a disgusted smile. “Yeah, she was good at making people think of her that way.”

Adrienne’s eyes fell to the photo. “I thought she loved him.”

“Oh, she did.” Sarcasm edged his words. “Until he left. Then she quickly fell in love with the new guy in town. William deserved so much more. He’s a good man.”

Her journey and the hope of William and Gracie ended right here with Leo. For all she knew, they were both dead, and there’d been no one in the upstairs window of Will’s house. She’d probably imagined it, just like she imagined a neat tidy life for William and Grace.
Then Leo’s words sank in. “Did you say he
is
a good man?”

But Leo was taking his own trip into what was proving to be a painful past. “He came home to learn that Gracie had run off with a traveling salesman—a draft dodger no less—and that she died in a car wreck not a hundred miles from town. William lost everything for her.”

“The picture. Was it Grace on the other side?”

“I suspect.” His hand touched the jagged edge. “Probably tore herself off to give to that poor excuse for a man she ran off with.”

Adrienne’s head began to pound with slow rhythmic force. She needed to leave. Just go home, stop prying, but even as her mind agreed, her mouth was asking more questions. “What do you mean William lost everything for her?”

“He came home crippled from the war. A hero, though,” he added as an afterthought. “Screaming Eagle, one of the best.”

The twinkle in Leo’s eyes made him seem younger. Or maybe it was a mistiness that accompanied wizened old men as they chatted openly about difficulties most people would never endure. Either way, it was rare. Beautiful, tragic, and very rare.

“I’d like to know more about him, if you don’t mind.”

Leo shot a glance up to the wall clock. “Sorry. Past my nap time.” He rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. “If you want to know more about William, maybe you should go ask him.”

“He is still alive, then? Do you think he’d be open to talking with me?” Adrienne blurted.

“Sure. Can that little sports car make it to Naples? Far as I know, he still lives there.”

“Naples,” she echoed. Her car could make it. She’d just been there last week. “He lives with his grandson, doesn’t he?”

Leo nodded. “Need directions?”

“No.” She could find William Bryant’s house without directions or the help of her GPS.
Will
Bryant. She thought back on the conversation the two had shared. He had never said he didn’t know another William Bryant, just that he couldn’t help her. “Men,” she mumbled. Maybe the younger generation was all the same. In Chicago and here in Bonita Springs, telling half-truths whenever it suited their needs. Like Eric telling her they’d move to Florida. That one wasn’t even a half-truth.

Before buying the house, she’d never heard of Bonita Springs, Florida, but had found it while searching property for sale on the Gulf Coast. She’d always wanted to live by the sea. But Eric had refused after promising her in college. Chicago was the only place for a brilliant young cardiologist. Plus, it was on Lake Michigan, so she convinced herself it would
almost
be like living on the coast. But a lake, even a massive one, was vastly different from the ocean. She’d grown to love the city but never sank roots. Her heart yearned for something else. Someplace with sand and salt.

“Thanks for your help, Leo.”

“Good luck.”

Adrienne bid Leo good-bye with a new zeal squelched only by the pang of sadness about Gracie. But William had returned from the war, and now she couldn’t help but wonder what he’d come home to. It had been a bittersweet homecoming, no doubt.

A whole new barrage of questions accompanied her as she drove the palm-lined streets toward home. How could anyone not love a man like William Bryant? Someone with something to hide? The letters were left in the attic. Someone with a secret? It still seemed like they were hidden, not just left behind. Leo assumed Gracie had removed herself from the photo. Sara and William were still in the picture. That was her sister and her boyfriend. But why tear it? Maybe Gracie had given it to someone else, or maybe she’d done it in anger. Adrienne would probably never know.

It was time to put this to rest. Go home and let her imagination finish the story where the letters left off. The reality was no fairy tale. William and Gracie had lived. And as she had so achingly come to understand, especially in the last several months, life was messy. Ugly, even.

But her heart went out to the brave young soldier who’d gone off to fight a war in the hopes of earning the respect of his girlfriend’s mother. She wondered if he had recovered from Gracie’s betrayal and from the wound that left him crippled.

Adrienne pulled her car into the driveway. She stared at the house. Her house. Perhaps she had learned enough about its history. It was the future she was interested in, not the past. She’d dealt with enough drama in the last months leading up to her divorce. She didn’t need to stir up more. She’d keep the letters she’d read, but return the rest to the attic. The words were the treasure. More drama, she couldn’t handle.

She turned off her car engine and listened to it tick. Beyond the windows, she could hear birds, but right now their song wasn’t soothing. Adrienne understood wounds, scars. She could identify with the kind of pain he must have felt. She and William Bryant had one thing in common. And it was beginning to cut a little too close to her own heart again. Only six years ago, she had thought her world was going to be fairy-tale perfect. But there was no
“happily ever after.”

As she exited the car, the Florida sun shone down on her, showering its approval of her decision. The front door no longer groaned when she opened it. She’d purchased the lubricant and tightened the hinges herself. The house was her project, not a mystery from half a century past.

But when she stepped inside, there on the little table next to the door were the letters. The letters that read like poetry. And she couldn’t help herself as her fingers reached out and snatched them up. She went to the kitchen, made some iced tea, and stepped out onto the back deck, to her favorite chair.

The afternoon breeze glided over the water, and rays of light peeked from behind a smattering of clouds. She gazed up at the burning ball, awaiting an accusation, but instead found its warmth kissing her cheeks. The water-cooled air drifted up to her with the aroma of summer riding its wings. She leaned back in the lawn chair, hair dancing across her shoulders and arms. She hoisted the stack of letters to her lap, a contented smile on her face. It was a perfect day to sit and read.

September 1944

Dear Gracie,

Even as I write this, I am reluctant to pen the words. I have walked so many miles since I’ve been here, and thought of you with each step. You are what keeps me alive and keeps me moving forward when my heart would cry out to stop.

The camp is quiet, most are sleeping or what we’ve come to know as sleeping. Our numbers have diminished. There is constant shelling from the Germans. But it is not that which scares me. I think what frightens me the most is the dark hopelessness that stalks among the trees, lurking in the shadows. I dare not dwell on it. It is death. No less than a grenade, a strategic bullet, or artillery fire. We have become mechanical in our work. I think this is a blessing. When we watch a friend fall in battle, we grieve, then move on. There is no choice. We must keep moving on.

Gracie, I have a favor to ask of you and Sara. Please don’t give up. As long as I know the two of you believe in me, I am able to conquer any foe, be it one German foot soldier or the entire German Army.

Thank you for your last letter. I received it just as we were shipping out. When we invaded Normandy, other letters were lost, as was all of my gear when we made the jump. I am so sorry. Each one is golden to me. But I reread them in my mind over and over. It may be some time before our mail catches up to us again, but please have words for me. Tell me you love me, and remind me of home.

How is sweet Sara? Tell her I often think about the day I found her at the swimming hole. She’d been crying, and my heart went out to her. I’ve never known a more tender soul than sweet Sara. Please, Gracie, don’t forget to let her know that. If you see my parents, tell them I miss them. Like you, they didn’t want me to come here, but I will not let them down.

Gracie, you have all the love that’s in me.

Forever yours,

William

Adrienne tried to imagine where Grace had sat while she read the letters. Alone in her room? Outside by the shore? And Sara, the tender soul: How did she handle losing William, her friend, the one who found her crying at the swimming hole? Adrienne took a break from the letters to make a sandwich, focusing on William, not on Gracie’s betrayal. Soon, she found it easy to approach the letters with the same innocent wonder that first drew her to them and to the heroic stranger she read about.

Enjoying a peanut butter-and-jelly sandwich and cold milk on ice, her gaze fell on the phone directory, where she’d first discovered the address for William Bryant. Leaning against the sink, she balanced her weight on one foot and crossed the other in front of her, then stopped when she realized it was the same posture the man, William—
Everyone calls me Will
—Bryant had assumed when he stood at the doorway of his home in Naples. Slowly, she lifted the sandwich to her lips and took another bite.

Her mind drifted back to William Bryant, the war veteran. Each time a pebble landed in the water, there was a ripple effect. This was a ripple she wasn’t sure she could contain. But she knew it was inevitable. Sooner or later, she was going to go back to that house in Naples to knock on the door again. She was too nosy. If she didn’t go today, it was only a matter of time. And time, when an eighty-plus-year-old man was involved, was not to be wasted. At the end of the day, the letters belonged to William. He should have them.

W
illiam showered and made his way down the staircase to the library. He held onto the railing as he went, pressing his free hand over his left knee. Years ago he’d learned not to sleep with his good leg propped on his bad, but he must have turned onto his side in the middle of the night—this morning, his knee was screaming. He would attend to his garden later. With Will gone to work, he could spend a few hours reminiscing. Most days he’d study his family albums. Photos of Will as a kid, Charles and Peg, and his darling Betty. Sometimes he’d devote an entire day to one photo album. It was like reliving all the glorious events that made life the indescribable journey it was. But today, he’d revisit the war. He’d remember the friends he’d lost and thank God that his life was spared.

William settled into his grandson’s comfy library chair, pulling the desk lamp closer. He removed his reading glasses and rubbed them against the cotton of his shirt. Soft sunlight spilled into the room, warming the book in his hands. Not all memories were good, but they were all important. He pulled a book off the shelf and opened it, remembering how Charles had once asked him whether most of his memories of World War II were good or bad. He hadn’t known how to answer. So he hadn’t.

He thought back even further. He had lied about his age to enlist. When first approached about becoming a paratrooper, he had asked, “What’s that?”

The response came from Rick, a buddy from school who’d just signed up. “You’ll make more money.”

Well, more money meant more respect from Grace’s momma. So William Bryant joined the 101st Airborne. They were an elite group—not by design, but by their extensive training. When others rested, they climbed the hill. When others went on furlough or had weekend passes, they remained to train. What nearly killed them in training saved them in battle.

As with many soldiers in World War II, Normandy was forever carved in his mind. William had watched the plane in front of them get hit by flak, then fall from the sky like a child’s dropped rubber ball. His plane took casualties as bullets zinged through the open side door. Explosions lit up the sky, and he wondered morbidly how many paratroopers would hit the ground already dead.

When it was his turn, he jumped into darkness. He couldn’t see ocean or beach, but they were falling into hostile territory. No one knew who’d seen them or who would greet them on the ground. But each man knew it would not be the allies.

Normandy was the horrendous battle that it had, in recent years, been portrayed as. But for him, it failed by comparison to Bastogne, a battle that stretched on and on for the 101st. It wasn’t just the isolation, but the intense cold, the knowledge that they were surrounded by the German Army, who were far from beaten. By the time the 101st Airborne reached Bastogne, they were no longer the raw recruits they had been in Normandy. After that, they were battle toughened and physically ready to face any enemy. But nothing could have prepared them for Bastogne. The lack of winter gear in the freezing temperatures stole their focus, while starvation stole their morale.