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BARBARA

A fternoon sunlight streamed through the lace curtains as I tidied the living room, gathering Frankie’s toys and straightening the embroidered pillows.

My fingers trembled as I placed the toys into a wicker basket, my thoughts drifting.

What would it be like to surrender to Victor?

To feel alive and free, swept up in the breathless grip of a clandestine romance?

The echo of his touch lingered on my skin. The ghost of his kiss danced on my lips. My stomach fluttered.

A sharp rap at the front door jarred me from my reverie. I steadied my nerves and smoothed my dress and hair as I went to see who it was. A smartly dressed private courier stood on the front porch, a single cream-colored envelope in hand.

“May I help you?”

He checked the envelope. “I have a letter for Mrs. Barbara Evans.”

“I’m Mrs. Evans.”

“Sign here, ma’am,” he said, offering me a clipboard and pen. I signed my name, and he handed me the letter.

“Thank you.”

He tipped his navy-blue cap. “Have a nice day.” He tucked the clipboard into his satchel, mounted his bicycle, and pedaled off.

I glanced up and down the street. Other than Mrs. Tucker walking her two Pomeranians, it was empty and quiet. I went back inside and shut the door.

The envelope bore my name, typed neatly, with no return address. My hands trembled as I turned the envelope over and sank onto the sofa. Who could it be from? And why had it been delivered by courier instead of through the mail?

I carefully opened the envelope and unfolded the letter inside. The stationery matched the envelope—thick, luxurious, and unmistakably expensive. Victor’s bold, elegant script flowed down the page.

January 18, 1951

Thursday

10 p.m.

Hello, my darling?—

Thursday night, and I’m “working.” At any rate, I’m here at the office, and the best thing I could possibly do is tell you how dear you are to me.

It’s quiet here, and I’m all alone and so very lonesome for you, sweetheart.

I know you won’t mind if I take this opportunity to tell you, in my own inadequate manner, how much I adore you.

I’m always so full of big ideas about the things I want to tell you.

Then I find myself face to face with you, and I lose my powers of communication. Might as well be without a voice.

I find myself daydreaming of you constantly—you and your beautiful eyes.

The whole day has been a maze of little things I remember about you—how you look when you’re about to be kissed, how your hand touches mine and the tingle that engulfs me so completely, how your lips form my name so beautifully, darling.

It feels like we’ve loved each other always, and yet I know it’s not true because we’ve hardly loved each other at all.

Just scratched the surface. And yet there is so much waiting for us—so many wonderful things in store—that the minutes and days until I see you again drag by at a snail’s pace.

The ache inside is an almost unbearable thing.

And when I do see you again, it will be as if the entire world has been magically lit up.

How can I tell you how very much you mean to me?

How can I project for you the picture of complete devotion I have in my head?

If you only knew—and dearest, I think you do—that my complete program from here on out is built around you.

My one constant desire is that you will allow me to take care of you, to respect, to cherish and adore you until there is no more time. Make my life full again, sweetheart.

There’s really no reason to cram all the volumes of things I feel I must say to you into one little note. I hope we’ve got a long time together, so I’ll ration them out—whispered more appropriately into that wonderfully soft ear of yours while you’re snuggled in my arms.

But until then, my darling, until you’re all mine, until I hold you tight again…

—V

A rush of exhilaration flooded through me. Victor’s boldness was thrilling, even as it filled me with trepidation. I knew this was reckless. But the thought of being in his arms again overpowered all apprehension.

I read the letter again and again, savoring every delicious, forbidden word.

His passion leapt off the page and set my heart racing.

I traced my fingers over his bold script, imagining his strong hands penning each line, pouring out his desire for me.

Those same hands that had glided up my thighs beneath my dress.

A fiery ache pulsed between my legs. My head swam, light and hazy, like I was two bourbons deep.

Frankie’s babbles cut through the fog. “Mama!” he called from his room down the hall.

I took a deep breath to calm the swirling tempest inside. “I’ll be right there, sweetie,” I answered back as I rose to my feet. I carefully folded the letter, slipped it back into the envelope, and tucked it into my brassiere.

Frankie stood tall in his crib, gripping the railing, when I opened the door.

“Awake already, my love?”

He bounced on chubby legs, his cheeks still flushed from sleep. “Up! Up!” he chirped, reaching for me.

I lifted him into my arms, his warm little body pressed against my chest, the letter hidden between us. He wrapped his arms around my neck and nuzzled close, the scent of baby powder floating around him.

I carried Frankie to the changing table and laid him down. As I changed his diaper, my thoughts drifted once more to Victor, to the intoxicating promise of passion and fulfillment.

Frankie giggled and kicked his legs, snapping me back to the present. I tickled his round belly and cooed as he squealed with delight. “Are you hungry, sweet pea?” I asked as I carried him to the kitchen. “Let’s get you a snack, and then you can play until Daddy gets home.”

I settled Frankie into his high chair with crackers and a sliced banana to keep him busy.

As he babbled happily to himself, I set about preparing dinner, my thoughts still consumed by Victor’s letter.

I moved through the motions of peeling potatoes and chopping vegetables in a daze, my mind replaying every word, every promise.

Frankie’s cheeks were covered with smeared banana by the time he was finished.

“Silly goose,” I chided gently as I wiped his face with a clean washcloth.

His bright blue eyes shone up at me. My precious boy.

I set him up on a blanket in the living room with a basket of toys while I got back to work.

I slipped a Nat King Cole record on the turntable and placed the needle. After a few scratchy seconds, a lush instrumental intro swelled through the living room. Closing my eyes, I smiled, humming along with the tune.

I turned to folding the laundry I had taken off the line earlier, letting the rhythm settle my thoughts. I focused on the warm, clean scent of the sun-dried linens, the soft, worn cotton of Frank’s undershirts, Frankie’s pajamas, and his tiny socks.

The last wisps of daylight bled into an indigo sky.

There was something winsome about a winter twilight—a quiet, simple, understated beauty.

With a sigh, I drew the curtains closed and went to the kitchen to slide the meatloaf into the oven.

I wiped my hands on my apron and glanced at the clock.

Frank would be home soon, and I needed to pull myself together before he arrived.

I switched on a few lamps to dispel the encroaching shadows and returned to the living room.

Frankie was still absorbed in building a tower with his wooden blocks, his little brow furrowed in concentration.

I settled onto the sofa and picked up my mending basket, hoping the routine task would steady my nerves.

As I stitched a split seam in one of Frank’s work shirts, the front door clicked and swung open, followed by Frank’s heavy footfall in the foyer.

I took a steadying breath and schooled my expression into a warm smile as I set aside my sewing and stood. “Welcome home, darling,” I greeted him sweetly, crossing the room to take his coat and hat. The wool was damp from the misty evening fog, cool beneath my fingertips. “How was your day?”

Frank loosened his tie and ran a hand through his hair, the curls mussed from hours beneath his hat.

“Brutal,” he muttered. “That new accounts manager, Anderson, is a real piece of work—breathing down everyone’s necks over every damn detail.

” Frank’s shoulders were slumped, his face drawn with fatigue.

I made a sympathetic noise as I hung his coat and hat on the rack by the door. Frank exhaled heavily as he trudged toward the sideboard in the living room.

Frankie’s face lit up as he spotted his father. “Dada!” he squealed, scrambling to his feet.

Frank gave him an absent pat on the head as he passed by on his way to pour himself a generous three fingers of bourbon into a cut crystal tumbler.

The amber liquid sloshed against the sides as he raised it to his lips and took a long swallow.

He closed his eyes for a moment, then grimaced at the burn.

“What’s for dinner?” he asked, setting down his glass.

“Meatloaf.”

He grunted. “Good. I like that.” His gaze swept over the tidy living room and the folded laundry stacked neatly on the end table. “Looks like you finally got caught up on the housework today.”

I bristled at his tone but smoothed my expression as I turned away. “I did have a productive day, yes,” I replied evenly, moving to the kitchen to check on the meatloaf. The savory aroma of onions and herbs wafted out as I opened the oven door. “Dinner will be ready in about twenty minutes.”