Page 49

He chuckled. “That poor slob wasn’t much of a talker when he was alive.

Great solid guy, always a good soldier, could follow and give orders.

But when it came to conversation, he wasn’t the best. More of a listener.

Jenna was the go-getter. The one that took risks.

Knew no strangers. She went her own way.

Otherwise she’d have lived her life on that apple farm.

If we’re hearing from anybody, it’s going to be her. ”

The only person alive now to tell the story of Jenna and Walter was Joey, and his days on this earth were very numbered. If I was going to find Jenna’s child, I had to hurry.

“Have you read her letters recently?”

“Not since she died. When I saw her grave, I put them away. Didn’t seem right to read them no more.”

“Do you mind if I read them? They might help me find her boy.”

He nodded. “She sent you here to get them. She wants you to find her baby. You go on and read all you want.”

I took the box, feeling as if I’d been given a great treasure. “I’ll take extra good care of these, Joey.” A frown furrowed my brow. “And if I don’t find him, I’ll bring the letters back to you.”

“No. Keep them for good. With you at least there’ll be someone alive to remember them. To remember Walter and Jenna and me.”

He settled back in his easy chair as if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He appeared lighter as he nibbled his cookie.

“So, can I come see you again? I want to come back.”

“I wouldn’t mind a visit. Wouldn’t mind it one bit. But I can’t promise I’ll be here.”

“Where would you go?”

He winked. “Kid, I’m ninety-five. I’m not going to be anywhere for much longer.”

I laughed. “Yeah, but it’s not like you’re going to die real soon.”

“It’s going to be like that, kid. I can go any minute.”

A deep sadness rose in me, and I had the sense that I was losing an old friend. “I’ll be back real soon.”

“You got your bakery to run, and if I’ve not lost my touch, you got a kid on the way. You got a full life.”

“And you’re a part of it now.”

His chin trembled a little. “That’s nice. Real nice. But don’t get too attached.”

I thumbed through the letters, anxious to find a quiet place to read. “Too late.”

He grunted. “Now I’m tired, and you got to go.”

He didn’t sound tired. He sounded energized. “But I thought I could stay and visit. Thought we could talk about Jenna and Walter.”

“Naw. I’m not much of a talker. Hell, we covered seventy years’ worth of my stored-up thoughts in two conversations. It’ll take me another ten years at least to come up with more conversation.”

More laughter bubbled. “My dad is like you. Doesn’t talk much.”

“Looks like you didn’t inherit silence from him. Bet you could talk a man’s ears off if you got rolling.”

“I’m adopted. So I didn’t inherit anything from him.” Dad and I were wired much the same, but I’d always likened that to luck or chance.

He cocked his head. “I wasn’t adopted. But I was an orphan. I’m guessing that’s why Walter and I got on so well. We had each other and the marines.”

He’d not been protecting the cherished items of old friends but of his family. “They were lucky to have you in their lives.”

For a moment he pursed his lips as if he struggled with emotion. He cleared his throat. “Naw. I was the lucky one.”

Fresh tears welled in my eyes.

“And don’t you cry, because I don’t like a woman’s tears. Upsets my day.”

I sniffed. “Sorry. It’s the baby’s doing. I’m not much of a crier.”

He looked at me with such tenderness I almost cried. “Now, you really do have to beat it.”

I rose, leaned forward, and kissed him on the cheek. “I’ll see you soon.”

He patted my shoulder with his bent hand. “Sooner’s always better than later with me.”

The bakery was quiet when I returned. The front end of the shop was clean and ready to receive guests, and the front display case sparkled, waiting for Rachel and Jean Paul to fill it again.

I pushed through the saloon doors and dropped my purse on the counter.

As I crossed to go upstairs, I noticed a fresh loaf of bread.

The handwritten note on it read, Daisy, this is for the baby. Eat. JP.

I smiled as I tore a piece of bread and bit into it. The crust was crunchy and the interior soft. A touch of salt brought out the qualities of the wheat, creating a magical blend.

The box of letters tucked under my arm, I headed to my new basement office and flipped on the lights.

I wouldn’t miss running up and down these stairs every day with baked goods.

Carrying up bottles of wine was far preferable than lugging one-hundred-pound sacks of flour and sugar or heavy trays of baked goods.

No, I wouldn’t miss the old arrangement.

In my new basement office, I flipped on the light and stared at the receipts piled on my desk.

Good to have the paperwork—it meant the bakery was coming back to life.

I glanced at the clock on the wall. It was already after seven, but I could squeeze out a little time working.

Sitting at the desk, I reviewed receipts that showed we’d had a good day.

A good day. Laying the slips of paper down, I leaned back in my chair. Was today good enough?

I thought about my earlier conversation with Rachel.

She had said she needed a change. That she could no longer keep the pace she’d maintained for the last couple of years.

And I also feared with a baby on the way I might not be able to balance the life this place required.

When I’d first come back to the bakery, I’d been thinking in temporary terms. I thought I’d have this place shipshape by now and be on my way to the next high-powered job.

And then the bakery had wormed its way under my skin, proving it was indeed a jealous and selfish master.

But I’d expected I could handle the bakery’s demands, as I had handled so many difficult clients in the financial world.

And then Gordon had come waltzing into the bakery, and I’d thought maybe, just maybe, this wouldn’t be such a bad life. No huge paychecks but satisfaction.

Now, with no Gordon and a baby on the way, I wasn’t so sure satisfaction and a handful of receipts were going to cut it. I needed more time and money.

Suddenly, too tired to work on the accounts, I shut off the lights, leaving the paperwork until tomorrow.

Holding the letters close, I climbed the stairs to my room, where I flounced back on my bed and kicked off my shoes and lay very still.

My body pulsed with fatigue. Glancing at my feet, I could have sworn they’d grown two sizes since yesterday, and my belly, no longer a letting-yourself-go pouch, was now a full-fledged baby bump.

“Jenna, how did you do it?” I muttered. “How did you bury the man you loved and find the strength to bring your baby into the world?”

By all rights I should have fallen asleep, but thoughts of Jenna’s letters to Walter had unwanted energy surging. I didn’t need to read letters. I needed to sleep. I needed to block out the world and the worries so I could recharge and find a way to set my sights on tomorrow.

But as I glanced at the letters, overwhelming curiosity struck. I swung my legs over the side of the bed and reached for the box of letters. “Just one. I’ll read just one.”

I thumbed through them and realized Joey had kept them in chronological order, leaving me with the decision of where to begin.

I’m one of those people who reads the last page of a book before I buy it. Annoying, I know. Blame it on abandonment and adoption, but I like to know where the path trails before I take it.

And so I reached for the last letter. The envelope was yellowed and the paper brittle.

Unlike the other envelopes, this one was sealed and had never been opened.

I studied the postmark over the stamp. It was dated July 2, 1944.

July. When his letter had been stamped by the post office, Walter lay critically injured, his body badly mangled.

Jenna’s pregnancy would have been evident, and she’d have been so afraid.

Carefully, I ran my thumbnail under the flap, which hadn’t been opened in nearly seventy years, and pushed it back.

The faint scent of cinnamon greeted me as I peeled it back.

Joey had said Jenna had always smelled of cinnamon.

I removed the letter, and the deeply lined folds cracked as I opened the one-page letter to find Jenna’s neat script.

Without reading a word, I knew she’d taken great care when she’d written this letter.

Dearest Walter,

It’s after two in the morning, and I can’t sleep a wink.

I’ve been dreaming about you—about us—that last night you were in town.

Remember how we’d walked along the banks of the Potomac, hand in hand, and you’d told me that when you came home, we’d marry?

I cherish that moment and I hang onto it. I live for the day you return.

I’ve a beautiful secret to share with you.

I’d hoped you’d return in time but now realize I must take this moment to tell you that I’m pregnant with our child.

Now, please do not worry because I know how you worry.

We’re fine. Mr. and Mrs. McCrae have been so kind to me and tell me the baby and I’ll always have a place here.

The baby grows and kicks often. The doctor says the child will arrive in late December or early January. That’s a mere six months away but I confess I cannot wait. I ache to hold my child, our son.

Yes, I said son. I’m now certain I’m going to have a boy.

Perhaps I simply want a little version of you for I’ve often imagined lately you as a little boy. I dare say you were cute.

Despite the kindness of Mr. and Mrs. McCrae, I’ve written to my sister Kate and told her about the baby. This is a time for family. She’s already promised to smooth the waters between my father and me. She tells me not to worry, and I’ll take her advice and keep good thoughts.

I’m hoping you’ll be home by spring so you and I and our child can enjoy the apple blossoms. There’s no lovelier place than the Shenandoah Valley in the spring.

Do not worry about us. We’ll be fine. When you write again, don’t send your letter care of the bakery but to my sister at our parents’ farm. Kate Davis, Rural Route 11 Winchester, Virginia.

I send you all my love and wish you a speedy, safe return,

With all my love, Jenna

I sat back on the bed, staring at her neat, clear handwriting.

Had she felt his life seeping away on that far-off island as she’d written a letter no one opened?

It would have been late afternoon in the Western Pacific.

The fighting was constant in July on Saipan, and Walter, wherever he lay, would have heard it.

I traced Jenna’s name with my fingertip.

Find him.

The feeling rose in me, and I sensed this wasn’t a trick of my mind. It was Jenna. She wanted me to find her son. And now I had an address for her sister Kate.

I opened my laptop and typed in Kate Davis, Winchester , and hit Enter. The chance of Kate being in the same location after all these years was slim but not out of the question. Farms, like bakeries, could stay in families for generations. Several hits popped up.

Mrs. Kate Davis Simmons of the First Presbyterian Church of Winchester was honored for her service to the church.

Mrs. Kate Simmons pays tribute to veterans on Memorial Day.

Mrs. Kate Simmons and her son, Walt.

Walter . . . Walt.