was born a Tucker and that she was descended from both families.
Feeling like I was breaking some kind of law, or at the very least violating someone’s privacy in a big way, I pulled the thin sheets from the envelope, letting my greedy eyes devour the missive within.
My Dearest Robert:
Thank you for your last. I never know when your letters will arrive, and though my heart burns during the long waits between receiving them, each one is celebrated and cherished.
Life here continues as ever. Mother goes on about the way your father stole her birthright and Uncle Lester continues to plot and scheme—for he is even more fixated than Mother. They are both relieved you are gone, since they clearly think distance will lead me to forget about the love we share, or allow me to become distracted with someone else. Though, honestly, all the boys are with you over there and the town feels sad and empty. I miss you, and hope you know I will never love another. I am waiting for you. We will deal with our parents when you return.
We are doing well otherwise, though as the fall sets in again I find my mind always on you, on your location, your duties. I bide my time until you return to me, my love, and eagerly await the day when I might be held in your arms once again.
Stay safe and come home soon to me.
Yours ever,
Lucille
“What’s that? One of the letters?” Michael asked, striding into the kitchen, his hair damp and his skin freshly shaven. He smelled clean as he came to stand beside me, like soap and spring and fresh laundry. I wanted to lean into him, breathe deeply, relax.
“Yeah. They’re love letters.”
He chuckled. “Really? Whose?”
“Robert Tucker and Lucille Tanner. Dated 1918. And Robert must’ve been deployed overseas. Look.” I showed him the front of the envelope and Michael stared at it for a moment.
“I’ve heard of Robert. We talk about him like a war hero in our family. But I was never sure quite how we were related.”
“I guess maybe he was Filene’s dad.”
We exchanged a glance, and I sensed he was as interested and curious about our shared history as I was, and then Michael skimmed the letter. “World War I,” he said. Then his eyes darted to me and his lips pressed into a line, almost as if he was deciding whether or not to tell me something. “The 29th Division saw some major action at the end of the war. They fought in Meuse-Argonne. It was a bloody battle.”
I smiled up at him, surprised. “Bit of a history buff, are we?”
“It was this guy. Knowing we had a hero in the family, a vet. I did a bunch of research when I was about Daniel’s age.”
“Well, he must’ve made it home,” I mused. “No mention here of a baby. I don’t think they’d gotten married yet.”
Michael folded the letter back up carefully and tucked it into the envelope, setting it gingerly onto the table in front of me. He eyed the box of letters with something like longing, his inner history buff no doubt curious about what else was tucked into these old envelopes. “I better get going. See you in a few hours?”
“Okay,” I said. And as he picked up his keys and headed out the back door, I was hit with a strange wave of emotion. Longing? Familiarity? I could see this same scene playing out in another lifetime—me saying goodbye to my husband as he headed out the door to work.
I pushed down the sentimental idea. That was not what this was. This was a business arrangement. And I needed to focus. Today I’d call my supervisor and inform him that my leave of absence would be at least six months. Perhaps that would have been a wise thing to do before diving headlong into this agreement, but wise had not been my strong suit lately. Then I’d read a couple more letters if I was brave enough to be in the house, and then I’d go to Mom’s. After that, I’d figure out what I needed to sleep in the room upstairs without running to Michael every night.
13
Tanner Trouble
Michael
The store was a bit of a disaster, since I hadn’t been there all day the day prior. Technically, Virgil was assistant manager, and some days (against my better judgment), I left him in charge. And it sometimes turned out just fine.