“We were in love by then. Long before that day of infamy, we knew we’d spend our lives together.”
“What were you doing in Sarah’s Orchard?”
“What all San Francisco heiresses did in those days, attending finishing school. Because of the war in Europe, stateside boarding schools were popular, and new ones kept cropping up. Rogue River School for Girls was in its second year when I arrived that September.”
“I’ve never heard of Rogue River School for Girls.”
“But you know the building well. After the war, it became the Orchard Inn.”
“Which is a short walk to MacKenzie’s Market.”
“Where Granddad helped his parents on weekends and after school.”
“And where a Rogue River schoolgirl happened by?”
“A classmate and I loved the apples we were served at lunch. One day, we decided to buy some for snacks. One day became every day. Granddad always had an apple waiting for me, shined to a mirror finish on his shirtsleeve. His parents were amused by how smitten he was. Girls had been stopping by the store for apples—or whatever else was in season—for a while. But he’d never taken an interest in any of them the way he was interested in me. And, of course, he was my one and only love.”
“And you were his.”
“We knew it. His family knew it.”
“And your family?”
“I’d planned to tell them that Christmas. Charles and I talked about his coming to San Francisco for New Year’s to ask my parents’ permission for us to marry that spring. But everything changed, the world changed on December 7. I went to Portland with him. That’s where he enlisted. And where we spoke our wedding vows—privately, just to each other.” She closed her eyes for a moment. “We thought he’d be sent to the Pacific. But Congress had declared war on Germany and Italy, too, by then, and that’s where he went.”
“How long was he gone?”
“Three years, eight months, six days. He came home a month after VE Day.”
“You missed him desperately.”
“Every second of every day. I was lucky to have his parents, and this town. They welcomed me and my babies, your twin uncles.”
“And your family?”
Clara shook her head. “They didn’t want any part of a daughter who’d gotten pregnant out of wedlock with a country boy whose dream was to carry on the tradition of his family’s store. My parents threatened to disown me, to cut me off from the wealth and social status that were my birthright, unless I went into hiding until after I’d had my babies and given them away.”
“They were serious?”
“Oh, yes. And so was I. I didn’t threaten to disown them. I just did it.”
“That must’ve been difficult.”
“I won’t pretend it wasn’t. Not the decision—that was easy. But it hurt me deeply that they hadn’t even wanted to meet the man I loved, hadn’t given him a chance.”
“Mom’s not that much of a snob. But,” Elizabeth said, “I wonder if Matthew is.”
Six
April 13, 1942 Midnight
Clara, my love, I’m remembering the first night you sneaked out of the dormitory to be with me. I was so worried you’d fall as you climbed down the tree. You laughed at my worry. I can hear that fearless laughter even now. You scampered down the oak, long skirts and all, as if you’d been climbing trees all your life. We walked to the river. Do you remember? And lay beside each other on the grass. We listened to the sounds of the autumn night. The owl talking to the moon. The river lapping at our feet. I listened to you breathe. When you breathed out, my Clara, I breathed in. I wanted to draw deep within me the air still warm from being deep within you. I wondered if you were doing the same. It was the only way we could touch on that September night. We’d known each other just one week. We lay as close as we could without touching, didn’t we? I wanted to touch you, Clara. You discovered, later, how much. But I’m glad we didn’t touch on that night. I can lie here, so many miles away—a world away, my darling—and pretend you’re beside me now, and that the night air that’s giving me life, giving me hope, is doing so because it was breathed first by you. I love you, Clara. More than life, and long beyond death. I’m lying beside you, my love. Always,
Charles “Oh, Granddad,” Elizabeth whispered as she placed the letter beside the others she’d read. “Granddad.”
After a moment, and through the blur of dampness in her eyes, she glanced at the stovetop clock.
Eleven forty-five. Time to get ready for Nick. Mentally ready, she amended, for the switching of cerebral gears from Granddad’s letters, Granddad’s love, to choosing colors schemes for the house—with Nick.
Mental preparedness was required there, as well. She felt wary about seeing Nick. Quite wary. But quite eager, too.
It was an unsettling paradox, and a crazy one. Crazy being the operative word.
A little head-clearing fresh air was in order, and it was hers for the taking. Last night’s rainstorm was now a memory. The world it left behind sparkled fresh and clean.
She walked the length of the driveway. At its farthest reach, she sat on a patch of grass beneath an apple tree. Eyes closed, she lifted her face skyward. The air was warm, as if from the lungs of a loved one lying close by. She inhaled deeply and was rewarded with a gift from an orchard of friends, the delicate scent of apples ripening beneath the summer sun.
Elizabeth Charlotte Winslow didn’t have a freeze-frame kind of beauty; Nick had already decided that.
But the face that smiled at the sun was as motionless as a painting, and more beautiful than any he’d ever seen.
She was sitting beneath the very tree where he’d found her, sobbing, as a girl, and he was approaching from behind her, as he had on that December afternoon.
He would’ve been happy to watch her forever. But she had no idea she was being observed, and he had no right not to tell her.
“Elizabeth.”
Her eyes flew open and she scrambled to her feet.
“Nick.”
“On the lookout for Matthew?”
“No. I…” On the lookout for you. “Gram said you’d be coming from Center Street.”
“I came early. There’s a fence rail that needs replacing. I wanted to check for others before making a run to the lumber store.”