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TWENTY

MAVERICK

Seattle, December 19, 1952

Dearest Cass,

How my heart lifted at your last letter. To hear you long to see me again as well is the best gift anyone could have given me this Christmas. No, not the best one—that would be news of a ceasefire and your homecoming—but a close second. There is snow on the ground, and the city has strung garlands between the buildings downtown, but as I sit here on Mama’s sofa in front of a crackling fire and a small, sweet-smelling tree that she’s decorated with tinsel and lights, I don’t think of the impending festivities as much as I think of you. I wonder if the Christmas spirit will reach you at all, if you will hear from your family, if there’ll be Mass to attend, a celebratory meal. I wish, I wish, I wish…

Pip is doing very well, thank you for asking. He’s a right little rascal who would spend his whole day eating if I let him, but his company has brought me so much joy that I happily contend with lost socks and frayed rugs. He’s even won over Mama, and that’s a feat. She is not an animal-lover sort of person, and she does prefer her rugs in one piece. I hope that doesn’t make her sound unfeeling —I can promise you she’s not, and I reckon the two of you would get along just swell.

How odd to think we’ll have a new year before this letter reaches you. Surely 1953 will see either the war or your tour end, don’t you think? What are your hopes and dreams for when it’s over? Tell me everything—I am as always eager for word from you.

Wishing you a most happy Christmas and a peaceful New Year!

Yours truly,

Mav