December 1941
North Weald, England
“Right now would be great,” Jameson said to her belly, down on his knees in front of her in full uniform. “Because right now, I’m here. And I know you want me to be here when you’re born, right?”
Scarlett rolled her eyes but ran her fingers through Jameson’s hair. Every day he had the same one-sided conversation with their baby—who was about a week overdue by the midwife’s estimate.
“But once I leave, it’s really hard to get back quickly,” he explained, his hands soft on either side of her stomach. “So what do you say? You want to meet the world today?”
Scarlett watched the hope on Jameson’s face fade to frustration and stifled a smile.
“She’s definitely a girl,” he said, looking up at her. “Stubborn like her mother.” He pressed a kiss to her belly, then stood.
“He’s a boy who loves to sleep in, just like his father,” she argued, but looped her arms around Jameson’s neck.
“I don’t want to go today,” he admitted quietly. “What if she’s born and I’m not here?” He laced his fingers at the small of her back, which was no small task considering how she was currently shaped.
“You’ve said the same thing for the last month. There’s no guarantee it will happen today, and if it does, then you’ll come home to a son. It’s not like someone will steal him if you’re not in the house when he arrives.” Jameson had gone so far as to demand he be in the room with her, but that certainly wasn’t going to happen. Though she had to admit, the thought of having him with her was more than comforting.
“That’s not even funny to joke about,” he deadpanned.
“Go to work. We’ll be here when you get back,” she urged, hiding her
very real fear that he was right. Jameson needed his full wits when flying. Anything less would get him killed. “I’m serious. Get going.”
He sighed. “Okay. I love you.”
“And I love you,” she replied, her gaze skittering over his face just like it did every day, memorizing him…just in case.
He kissed her slowly, thoroughly, as if he wasn’t already running late. As if he wasn’t about to fly off into some yet-unknown battle, or perhaps escort bombers on a raid. He kissed her as if he would do it a thousand times again, with no hint that this might be their last.
It was the way he kissed her every morning—or night—before he left for the hangar.
She melted, her grip tightening on his neck as she pulled him closer, kissed him for just a minute longer. It was always one more minute with them. One more kiss. One more touch. One more lingering look.
They’d been married for a year now, and she was still utterly besotted with her husband.
“I wish you’d let me put in a phone,” he said against her mouth, pulling out of the kiss.
“You’re due to repost back to Martlesham-Heath in two weeks. Are you going to have that kind of extravagance in all of our homes?” She brushed her mouth over his.
“Maybe.” He sighed but rose to his full height as he tangled his fingers in her hair, letting the strands pass through his fingers until they ended just under her collarbone. “Just remember the plan. Get to Mrs. Tuttle next door and she’ll—”
Scarlett laughed, then pushed at his chest. “How about I worry about having the baby, and you go fly the airplane?”
His eyes narrowed. “Fair enough.” He took his hat from the kitchen table, and Scarlett followed him to the front door, where he took his coat from the rack and put it on.
“Be safe,” she demanded.
He swooped in for another kiss, this one hard, quick, and ending with a
light nip of her lower lip. “Be pregnant when I get home…if that’s anything you have a say over.”
“I’ll do my best. Now go.” She motioned toward the door. “I love you!” he called as he walked out.
“I love you!” Only after she’d said it did he close the door.
Scarlett rested a hand on her swollen belly. “Looks like it’s just the two of us, love.” She arched her back, hoping to relieve a touch of the endless ache at the base of her spine. She’d grown so large that even her maternity dresses barely fit, and she couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen her feet.
“Shall we write a story today?” she asked her son as she settled behind the typewriter that had a permanent place at the kitchen table and elevated her feet on the nearest chair.
Then she stared at papers she’d begun storing in an old hatbox. Over the last three months, she’d started dozens of stories, but never seemed to make it past the first few chapters before something else popped into her head and she shifted gears for fear she’d forget that idea if she didn’t jot it down.
The result was a hatbox full of possibilities, but not product.
Knock, knock, knock.
Scarlett groaned. She’d just gotten semi-comfortable— “Scarlett?” Constance called from the front of the house.
“In the kitchen!” Scarlett called back, utterly relieved that she didn’t have to get up.
“Hello there, little one!” Constance came around the table and hugged her.
“Hardly little,” Scarlett argued as her sister took the chair next to her. “What made you think I was talking to you?” She smiled and leaned
toward Scarlett’s belly. “Have you considered joining us, yet?”
“You’re as bad as Jameson,” Scarlett muttered, arching her back again.
How was the ache getting worse? “No watch today?”
“As luck would have it, I’m off.” Her brow knit as she glanced back through the kitchen door. “I can’t remember the last time I’ve had a Sunday
off. I’m guessing Jameson can’t say the same?” “No. He left just a bit ago.”
“What shall we do?” Constance drummed her fingertips on the kitchen table, and Scarlett did her best to look anywhere but the ring that sparkled on her fingertip. How ironic that something so glitteringly beautiful was the harbinger of so much destruction.
“As long as it involves me not moving, I’m all for it.”
Constance smiled, then reached for the hatbox. “Tell me a story.” “Those aren’t done!” Scarlett reached for the box, but Constance was
too quick—or she was too slow.
“Since when have you ever told me a story that was already finished?” Constance scoffed, digging through the papers. “There must be at least twenty in here!”
“At least,” Scarlett admitted, shifting in her seat again.
“Are you all right?” Constance asked, noting the strain on her sister’s face with blatant concern.
“I’m fine. Just uncomfortable.”
“I’ll get you some tea.” Constance pushed away from the table, then put the kettle on. “Were you thinking about finishing any of those stories?”
“Eventually.” Scarlett leaned far enough to steal the hatbox back while Constance stood at the stove.
“Why not write one to the end, then start another?” She took tea out of the cabinet.
Scarlett had often asked herself the same thing. “I’m always afraid I’ll forget an idea, and yet then I can’t help but feel like I’m chasing butterflies, always thinking one is prettier, and never catching one because I can’t commit to the single chase.” She stared at the hatbox.
“There’s no rush.” Constance’s voice softened. “You could always type up your ideas like a briefing summary so you don’t lose them, then go back to the butterfly you’ve chosen to chase.”
“That’s an excellent idea.” Scarlett’s brows lifted. “Sometimes I wonder if I just enjoy the beginnings, and that’s why I never seem to move past
them. The beginnings are what make everything romantic.”
“Not the whole falling in love part?” Constance teased, reclaiming her seat.
“Well, that too.” She raised a shoulder. “But maybe it’s really the possibilities that are easy to fall in love with. Looking at any situation, any relationship, any story, and having the sublime ability to wonder where it will take us is a bit intoxicating, really. There’s a rush every time I load a blank sheet of paper. Like a first kiss from a first love.”
Constance gave her engagement ring a quick glance before tucking it under the table in her lap. “So you’d rather keep loading the paper than finish it?”
“Perhaps.” Scarlett rubbed at the spot just beneath her ribs where her baby often enjoyed testing the boundaries of her body. “I don’t know if this baby is a boy or a girl. I think it’s a boy, though I can’t explain why. But in this moment, I can imagine a boy with Jameson’s eyes and his reckless smile, or a girl with our blue eyes. Right now, I’m in love with both, basking in the possibilities. In a few days—at least I’m hoping it’s a few days or I swear I’ll explode—I’ll know.”
“And you don’t want to know?” Constance arched an eyebrow.
“Of course I want to know. I will love my son or my daughter with all my heart. I already do. But while I’ve entertained both possibilities, only one is the truth. Once this baby is born, that part of the story is over. One of the scenarios I’ve spent the last six months imagining won’t come true. That doesn’t make the outcome any less sweet, but the truth is, when a story is finished, no matter what kind it is, the possibilities are gone. It is what it is, or it was whatever it was.”
“So be kind to your characters and give them all a happy ending,” Constance suggested. “That’s better than anything they’d have in the real world.”
Scarlett stared at the hatbox. “Perhaps the kindest thing I could do for the characters would be to leave their stories unfinished. Leave them with their possibilities, their potential, even if they only exist in my own mind.”
“You leave the letter unopened,” Constance said softly. “Perhaps I do.”
A sad smile curved Constance’s mouth. “And in that world, perhaps Edward is actually on leave, sneaking up to Kirton-in-Lindsey to see me.”
Scarlett nodded, her entire body tightening with nearly painful emotion.
The kettle whistled, and Constance rose to her feet. “It might be a bit difficult to get published that way,” she said over her shoulder with a forced, teasing smile. “I think most people appreciate books with endings.”
“I hadn’t really thought as far as actually publishing anything.” The ache in her back flared, reaching around to the front of her abdomen in a breath-stealing, vicious grip.
“You should. I’ve always loved listening to your stories. Everyone should get that chance.”
Scarlett shifted her weight again as Constance made tea. “I think perhaps we should take that in the living room. This chair isn’t agreeing with me.”
“We can do that.”
The sound of porcelain clicking filled the kitchen as Scarlett struggled to her feet. Little by little, the ache dissipated, and she managed her first full breath.
“Scarlett?” Constance questioned, the tray in her hands. “I’m okay. Just a bit stiff.”
Constance put the tray on the table. “Would you rather take a walk?
Would that help?”
“No. I’m sure I just need to stretch my limbs here for a minute.” Constance glanced at the clock. “Why don’t we ring for the midwife?
Just to be sure.”
Scarlett shook her head. “The nearest phone is three blocks away, and I’m fine.” She was…until the ache returned and spread again, locking all the muscles of her abdomen.
“You are most certainly not fine.”
Scarlett felt a pop, and then warmth gushed down her thighs. Her waters
had broken. Fear unlike anything she’d ever known gripped her tighter than the contraction.
“I’ll ring for the midwife.” Constance took her elbow and guided her to the chair. “Sit. Don’t try to walk until I can get you into bed.”
“I want Jameson.”
“Of course,” Constance said in that soothing tone of hers as she made sure Scarlett was seated.
“Constance,” Scarlett snapped, then paused until her sister looked her in the eye. “I. Want. Jameson.”
“I’ll ring the midwife, then the squadron, I promise. Midwife first, unless your husband developed some expertise on delivering a baby?”
Scarlett glared.
“Right. Sit. Don’t move. For once in your life, let me be in charge.” She ran out the door before Scarlett could argue.
Five minutes. Ten minutes. Scarlett watched the clock tick the minutes by as she waited for Constance.
The front door opened twelve minutes after she’d left.
“I’m here!” Constance called out from the living room just before Scarlett heard the door shut. Her sister wore a large, fake smile as she came through the kitchen door. “Good news. The midwife will pop by in just a bit. She said to get you upstairs into a clean bed.”
“Jameson?” Scarlett asked through gritted teeth as another contraction took hold.
“How many contractions did you have while I was gone?” Constance asked, grabbing a few towels from a kitchen drawer and mopping up the mess she’d left.
“Two. This is the. Third.” Scarlett fought through it with deep breaths, that pain only the tip of the iceberg. “Where. Is. Jameson?”
Constance threw the towels into the wash bin. “Constance!”
“Somewhere over the North Sea.”
“Of course he is,” she said through gritted teeth. She should have told
him to stay, but there’d been no reason to—no reason acceptable to the wing leader, at least.
“I won’t leave your side,” Constance promised as she helped Scarlett to her feet.
She didn’t.
…
Nine hours later, Scarlett was tucked between newly cleaned sheets, absolutely knackered and happier than she’d ever been as she stared down at a pair of bright blue eyes.
“I don’t care what those midwives said.” Constance peered over her shoulder. “Those eyes are going to stay just that utterly, perfectly blue.”
“Even if they don’t, they’ll still be perfect,” Scarlett declared, running her finger across the tip of the smallest nose she’d ever seen.
“Agreed.”
“Do you want to hold him?” Scarlett asked. “May I?” Constance beamed.
“It seems only fair, seeing as you were equal parts nurse and maid today. Thank you.” Her voice softened. “I couldn’t have done it without you.” She lifted her son, swaddled in one of the blankets Jameson’s mother had made and shipped to them, into Constance’s arms.
“I wouldn’t have missed it,” Constance said, adjusting the newborn in her arms. “He’s perfect.”
“We want you to be his godmother.” Constance’s gaze snapped to hers. “Really?”
Scarlett nodded. “I can’t imagine anyone else. You’ll protect him, won’t you? If anything…should happen.” She was in just as much danger from a bombing raid sleeping in her bed as she was when she’d been in the WAAF. Nothing was certain.
“With my life.” Constance’s eyes misted over as she looked back at the baby in her arms. “Hello, little one. Hopefully your father will be home
soon so we can call you by a real name.” She shot Scarlett a pointed look.
Scarlett smiled. She’d refused to discuss his name until Jameson held him.
“I’m your Aunt Constance. I know, I know, I look a lot like your mummy, but she’s at least a half-inch taller than I am, and her feet are a full size bigger. Don’t worry, we’ll come into focus a bit better once you’re a few months older.” She lowered her face. “Want to know a secret? I’m going to be your godmother. That means I’ll love you, and spoil you, and always, always protect you. Even from your mummy’s awful cooking.”
Scarlett scoffed.
“Now, I’m going to go make something for her to eat.” She smiled down at the baby one more time, then handed him back to Scarlett. “Do you need anything before I head downstairs?” She eased off the bed as the bedroom door flew open.
…
“Are you okay?” Jameson’s strides ate up the distance to the bed as Constance slipped past him out of the bedroom. His heart hadn’t stopped racing since he’d landed, or more specifically, since the clerk ran him down and told him Constance had called that morning.
That. Morning. No one had radioed—not that he could have gone off mission and flown back, but he would have. Somehow.
“I’m fine,” Scarlett promised, smiling up at him with a mix of radiance and what he assumed had to be bone-weary exhaustion. She looked unharmed, but there was a lot of her he couldn’t see under all those blankets. “Meet your son.” Her smile widened as she lifted the small, blanketed bundle.
He sat on the edge of the bed and cradled the tiny, breakable baby in his arms, careful to support his head. His skin was pink, the shock of hair he could see was black, and his eyes were blue. He was gorgeous, and Jameson was instantly head over heels.
“Our son.” Jameson looked at his wife to find her already watching him, her eyes heavy with unshed tears. “He’s amazing.”
“He is.” She flashed a smile, and twin tears streaked down her face. “I’m so happy you’re here.”
“Me too.” He leaned forward and brushed her tears away, careful to keep his son tucked safely in the crook of his arm. “I’m sorry I missed it.”
“Only the messy bits,” she countered. “It’s only been an hour or so.” “And you’re truly okay? How do you feel?”
“Tired. Happy. Like I’ve been torn in two. Madly in love.” She leaned in slightly to gaze down at their son.
“Go back to the torn-in-two part,” he demanded. Scarlett laughed. “I’m fine. Really. Nothing abnormal.”
“You’d tell me if something had gone wrong? If you were hurt?” Jameson studied her carefully, weighing her words with her eyes, her face, and the set of her shoulders.
“I would,” she promised. “Though he’d be worth it.”
Jameson’s eyes fell to his son, who looked up at him with quiet expectation. An old soul, then. “What do you want to name him?” They’d been kicking around names for months.
“I like William.”
Jameson smiled, glancing up at his wife and nodding. “Hi, William. Welcome to life. The first thing you need to know is that your mother is always right, which you probably already know, since she’s been saying you were a boy for the last six months.”
Scarlett laughed, but it was softer. Her eyelids were drooping, too.
“The second thing is I’m your dad, so it’s a good thing you look a lot like your mom.” He lowered his lips to William’s head and pressed a soft kiss at his hairline. “I love you.”
He leaned forward and brushed a kiss over Scarlett’s mouth. “And I love you. Thank you for him.”
“I love you, too, and I could say the same.” Her breaths deepened, so Jameson placed their son in the small cradle next to the bed and tucked his
wife in.
“Can I do anything?”
“Just stay,” she whispered, fading off to sleep.
That first night was an eye-opener. William was up every few hours, and Jameson did what he could to help, but he couldn’t exactly feed him.
They were already awake at seven a.m. when there was a knock on their bedroom door.
“Probably Constance,” Scarlett muttered with William at her shoulder.
Jameson glanced back to make sure she was covered, then opened the door to find Constance standing in the hallway, blocking Howard.
“You can wait downstairs,” she snapped. “This can’t wait.”
“What’s going on?” Jameson asked from the doorway.
Howard raked his hand through his hair and looked at Jameson over the top of Constance’s head. “I figured you hadn’t turned on the news.”
“No.” His stomach tensed.
“The Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor. Thousands are dead. The fleet’s gone,” he said with a slight break in his voice.
“Holy shit.” Thousands are dead. Jameson sagged against the doorframe. He’d dedicated the past two years of his life to keeping this war from reaching American soil, while another had sucker-punched them.
“Yeah. You know what that means?” Howard’s jaw flexed.
Jameson nodded, looking back over his shoulder at Scarlett’s horrified expression before facing his friend again. “We’re on the wrong side of the world.”
