deepened. “Good-bye, Clay. I’ll write often, and I’ll pray even more often.”
“Thank you. I will too. Good-bye.”
All he could think about was the wedding kiss, the awkwardness and sweetness. If he kissed her now, it wouldn’t be awkward. It would be an appropriate farewell. It would be sweet.
And it wouldn’t be wise. Neither one of them could afford a stronger attachment.
Instead he held out his arms and gave her a sheepish smile. A husband would embrace a wife, and a brother would embrace a sister.
She took a half step, and he closed the gap and wrapped his arms around her. My, she was tiny, only up to his chin and not much to her.
Her arms inched around his back. “Be careful, Clay. I know you have an important job, but please be careful.”
“You be careful too. Don’t go anywhere alone, night or day, especially on base.”
A shaky laugh fluttered against his raincoat. “I don’t think that’s entirely possible.”
His fingers curled around the belt of her coat. If only he could stay and keep her safe forever.
A sigh escaped. He’d done what he could. He’d leave her in the Lord’s capable hands.
Clay planted a quick kiss on her cheek. Not quick enough. He still noticed the softness, the smoothness, and the scent of hotel soap.
He stepped back. “It was an honor knowing you, Leah Paxton.”
She ducked her chin and turned for the door. “And . . . and you too.”
Clay turned up the collar of his raincoat, pulled the bill of his service cap lower, and headed into the rain. He had a dream to fulfill, and he had to do that alone.
SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 5, 1943
Leah let excess batter drip off the chicken drumsticks.
Rita Sue Bellamy nudged her. “Slather it on nice and thick. You’re in the South now.”
Leah dunked the drumsticks. “So many eggs.”
“They aren’t rationed, and we have chickens out back.”
Would she ever become accustomed to plenty? Leah plopped the heavy-laden drumsticks into the sizzling oil in Rita Sue’s cast-iron pan.
The Bellamy children bustled around the kitchen, lit by an electric lamp to counteract the gloom of the rainy day. Nine-year-old Joey cut out biscuits, seven-year-old Luella shucked peas, and six-year-old Sally set silverware on the dining room table.
Rita Sue adjusted the ties on her apron. “You did fine work cutting up that chicken.”
“Everyone helped in the orphanage, and I help Mrs. Perry in the boardinghouse.”
“When Clay comes home, he’ll be pleased to find a good cook waiting for him.”
Leah dipped chicken wings in the batter. “I hope so.” But he’d never come home, and she’d never cook for him. Clay’s premonition of his own death strained within her, but she’d promised not to tell anyone.
Where was he now? Had he arrived in Florida? That was so far away.
She could still feel his arms around her, engulfing her in security.
“I think those wings are ready.”
Leah almost dropped them. “Oh.”
Rita Sue patted her shoulder. “Don’t give in to fear, sugar.”
“I won’t.” She didn’t have to look far to find the good. “I’m proud of him. He told me how well the Rangers did in North Africa and Sicily, and now he’ll do his part.”
“Excuse me, Mama.” Joey held the biscuit pan.
Rita Sue opened the oven door. “Here you go, baby boy.”
“Mama . . .” Joey slid the pan into the oven.
“I won’t be able to call you that much longer.” She tousled his curly blond hair.
“You shouldn’t call me that now.” Joey laughed and wiggled free.
Rita Sue frowned toward the dining room. “Girls!”
Leah followed her gaze to where the two little girls bickered by the table.
“She’s bossing me!” Sally called.
Luella stamped her foot. “She isn’t doing it right.”
“Luella, let her be and bring me those peas.”
The girl stuck her tongue out at her sister and stomped into the kitchen. “She always gets her way ’cause she’s the baby.”
Rita Sue turned to Leah, rolled her eyes, and stuck out her tongue.
Leah smothered a laugh. She wanted to soak in every detail of family life. In only seven months, she’d create a home for baby Helen. How could she be a good mother when she barely remembered her own?
After Rita Sue put the peas on to boil, she pushed aside the white ruffled curtains over the sink. “Oh, that sweet husband of mine. I thought he was reading.”
Leah peeked through the window and the pouring rain. In the backyard, Mercer hammered in the doorway of a little house with tar paper on the walls.
Rita Sue opened the back door. Rain angled through,