January 1942
North Weald, England
Scarlett glanced between the small gift box on the table, her typewriter, and the dishes that lay piled in the sink. She hadn’t had a spare moment since breakfast. William had fussed all morning, and was finally down for an afternoon nap, which hopefully gave her at least forty-five minutes to get something done…but all she’d wanted to do was nap right next to him.
The days blurred together with the nights, which one of the other wives had told her was normal when caring for a newborn. She was so tired that she’d fallen asleep sitting at the dinner table last night.
And speaking of dinner…
She sighed, mentally sending an apology to her hatbox of stories as she made her way to the sink, blatantly ignoring the gift box addressed in her mother’s handwriting. This was her third kitchen in the past year, and though she appreciated the sizeable yet frozen garden just beyond the kitchen window, she wished it had come with a view of Constance.
They’d been at Martlesham-Heath for over a month now, and she’d only seen her sister twice. It was the longest they’d been apart since Constance’s birth. She missed her immeasurably, and while they were only an hour apart in distance, they were years apart when it came to this new stage of life.
Constance was still billeted with the other women, still taking her watches, eating in the officers’ mess—and planning a wedding. Scarlett’s closest confidant was now a six-week-old baby who wasn’t much for conversation. She really was going to have to get out and make some friends.
She was pleasantly surprised when the house was still quiet after she finished the dishes.
A quick listen told her William hadn’t woken—she might just have a
few minutes.
It felt rather indulgent, but she slid behind her typewriter anyway. It took her a matter of seconds to load the first crisp piece of blank paper. She stared at it for a moment, contemplating what it would become, what story it would hold.
Perhaps she should do as Constance suggested, and finish something.
Maybe publish it.
That hatbox was already half full with semi-formed plots, snippets of dialogue, and ideas that needed execution. It contained stories she should write for other people, endings she could twist and sweeten to make other people happy. Endings like the one Constance should have been given.
Endings like the one she wanted for herself and Jameson and William, but couldn’t guarantee. She couldn’t even guarantee that there wouldn’t be a bombing raid tonight—that she wouldn’t be among those counted as casualties.
But she could leave as much of their story for William as possible…just in case.
She started on that hot day in Middle Wallop when Mary forgot to pick them up at the train station. She remembered everything she could, writing even the smallest details about the moment she met Jameson. A smile stretched across her face. If only she could go back and tell herself then where they would end up…she never would’ve believed it. She wasn’t sure she even believed now. Theirs had been a whirlwind romance that settled into a passionate, sometimes complicated marriage.
Jameson hadn’t changed much in the last eighteen months…but she had. The woman who had made quick decisions at the planning board, who had been a rock-solid, valuable officer in the WAAF, was now…none of that, really. She was no longer responsible for the lives of hundreds of pilots, only William, not that she was alone in that, either.
When he was home, Jameson was a hands-on father. He held William, rocked him, change nappies—there wasn’t anything Jameson wouldn’t do for William, which only made her love him more. Becoming parents hadn’t
stripped them of their personalities, it had given new, deeper facets to them both.
She wrote as far as Jameson asking for their first date before William woke with shrill demand. Hearing that first cry, she removed the paper from the typewriter and put it into the hatbox, adding to the stack she’d been careful to leave on top so it wouldn’t get mixed in with the rest. Then she put it away and went to fetch her littlest love.
Hours later, William had been fed, changed, cleaned up and changed again, fed once more, mopped up after another spit up, then fed one last time and burped before he was back to sleep.
She headed into the kitchen to contemplate dinner, pulling out fish to fry, and as though right on cue, Jameson walked in the front door.
“Scarlett?”
“In the kitchen!” The relief was a jolt of energy through her system, just like it was every time he came home to her.
“Hey.” His footsteps were soft, but his mood filled the room like a thundercloud, dark and ominous.
“What’s the matter?” she asked, abandoning the fish she’d planned on frying.
He strode across the kitchen, took her face in his hands, and kissed her. It was soft, which, considering his mood, only made it that much sweeter. He was always careful with her. Their lips moved together in a soft dance that quickly deepened, intensified. It had been six weeks since William’s birth. Six weeks since her husband had shared her body, and not just her bed. According to the midwife, six weeks was long enough, and Scarlett couldn’t agree more.
…
Jameson lifted his head slowly, keeping a tight leash on his self-control. She was so damn beautiful, it was nearly impossible to keep his hands off her. Her curves were lush, her hips grabbable, and her breasts full and heavy—
she was every fantasy, every pinup painted on a plane, and she was his.
He knew she needed time to heal, and he would never push her to heal faster. He wasn’t that big of a bastard. But he missed her body, missed the feel of sliding inside her, the way the rest of the world faded until it was just the two of them, straining together. He craved her taste on his tongue, the way her hips ground against his mouth, the silk of her hair sliding over his face from above as she kissed him when she took the lead. He longed for that little catch in her throat before she came, missed the way her eyes glazed over, her breath caught, her muscles locked, the sound of his name on her lips when she finally let go. He missed the sweet oblivion he found in her body, but mostly he craved just a few moments of her undivided attention.
He wasn’t jealous of his son, but he could admit the transition had a few bumps and growing pains. “I missed you today,” he said, cradling her cheeks in his hands and sweeping his thumbs across the soft skin.
“I miss you every day,” she replied with a smile. “But I saw the look on your face when you came in. Tell me what happened.”
His jaw tightened. “Where’s William?” he dodged, noting that his little man wasn’t in the bassinet.
“Sleeping upstairs.” She tilted her head. “Tell me, Jameson.”
“We’ve been denied permission to leave for the Pacific front,” he admitted quietly.
Scarlett’s spine stiffened against the counter, and he instantly regretted the words.
“You asked permission to go to the Pacific front?” Scarlett asked, stricken and sidestepping out of his reach.
“The squadron did. But I was in favor of it.” His arms immediately felt empty. “Our country has been attacked, and we’re all the way over here. It was only right that we ask. Only right that if we’re needed, we go.” It had been a highly contentious debate within the squadron, but the overwhelming majority had demanded they send the request for transfer.
Her chin rose, which meant he was in for a fight. “And at what point
were you going to discuss the suggestion with me?” she asked, folding her arms under her breasts.
“When it was deemed a possibility,” he replied, “or now that it’s not.” “Wrong answer.” Fire shone in her eyes.
“I can’t just sit here while my country goes to war.” He backed away from her, leaning against the kitchen table and clenching the edge.
“You are not just sitting here,” she fired back. “How many missions have you flown? How many patrols? How many bomber intercepts? You’re already an ace. How would you call that just sitting here? And the last time I checked, your country was also at war with Germany. You’re already where you need to be.”
He shook his head. “Who knows how long it will take for American soldiers to arrive? For America to do anything about the German threat? I joined the RAF to keep war from my door, to keep my family safe, to stop it here before it was my country being bombed or my mother becoming another casualty on the report. I came here to guard my home against the wolves, and while I was busy watching the front door, the wolves snuck in the back.”
“And that is not your fault!” she snapped.
“I know that. No one saw Pearl Harbor coming, but it happened, and it doesn’t change the fact that I might be needed there. If there are plans, I want to be a part of them. I can’t risk my life defending your country and not do the same for my own. Don’t ask that of me.” Every muscle in his body tensed, waiting, hoping she’d understand.
“Apparently I don’t get to ask anything at all, since you knew the 71st sent the request without so much as telling me.” Her voice pitched higher, breaking. “I thought we were partners.”
“William had just been born, and you had so much on your plate—” “That you didn’t want to bother me?” Her eyes narrowed. “Because I
have such a poor track record of handling stress?”
He rubbed his hand over his face, wishing he could take back every word since he’d walked in the door—or go back to a few weeks ago and
talk this all out with her. “I should have told you.”
“Yes. You should have. Did you stop to think about what we’d do here if you were sent to the Pacific?” She gestured to the room above them, where William slept.
“They bombed Americans!”
“And you think I don’t know what it feels like to have my country torn to bits by bombs?” She tapped her chest. “To watch my childhood friends die?”
“That’s why I thought you’d understand. When England went to war, you put on a uniform and fought because you love your country just as much as I love mine.”
“I don’t have a country!” she shouted, then spun to face the window.
He saw her face crumple in the reflection of the window, and his stomach sank. Shit. “Scarlett—”
“I don’t have a country,” she said softly, turning to face him, “because I gave it up for you. I loved you more. I’m not British. I’m not American. I’m only a citizen of this marriage, which I thought was a democracy. So pardon my surprise when it turns out to be a dictatorship. Benevolent, yes, but a dictatorship nonetheless. I didn’t fight free of my father’s control to have you step into his shoes.” She scoffed and gave him a sarcastic, bitter smile.
“Honey…” He shook his head, searching for something he could say to make this better.
“It’s not just you anymore, Jameson. It’s not even just us. You can be as reckless as you want when you’re in the cockpit—I know who I married. But there’s a little boy upstairs who doesn’t know there’s a war going on, let alone that it now spans the globe. We’re responsible for him. And I understand wanting to fight for your country—I gave that up for us, too. Please don’t treat me as less than equal because I chose this family twice. If you wanted a wife who would do nothing more than cook your meals, warm your bed, and have your babies, then you chose the wrong woman. Do not mistake my sacrifices for smiling compliance. Also, since I don’t keep secrets, William received a gift today.” She motioned to a small box
on the table, then walked out of the kitchen, passing him without another glance, and a few seconds later he heard her footsteps on the stairs.
Jameson rubbed the bridge of his nose and scraped his ego off the floor, where Scarlett had crushed it beneath her foot. He’d been trying to protect her, to ease her, to keep yet another worry from her shoulders, and in doing so, he’d cut her out entirely. From the moment he’d met her, he’d stripped away little pieces of her. It didn’t matter if that had never been his intention
—the result was the same.
She’d transferred for him, left her first station where she’d had friends. She’d hauled her sister along so she could keep the vow she’d made to Constance, too. She’d married him, lost her British citizenship for it, then had to pull family strings once again to be reposted when he was so she could follow him. When she’d fallen pregnant, she’d given up the work she loved—the work she’d based her worth on—and after she’d delivered, they’d been reposted again, and she’d lost daily contact with Constance… with anyone outside this house, really.
She’d given everything, and he hadn’t protested because he loved her too much to let her go.
He glanced at the small box that rested near his right hand, then picked it up, plucking the note from the top.
My darling Scarlett,
Congratulations on the birth of your son. We were so very pleased to hear the news.
Please give him this token of our affection and know that we cannot wait to meet the newest Wright.
Love, Mother
Jameson shook his head in disgust, then looked into the box. A small silver rattle rested on a bed of velvet. He lifted the ridiculous toy to see the
engraving that etched the handle. A large W was flanked by another W and a V.
Jameson dropped the rattle back in its box before he did something
reckless and torched the damned thing.
His son’s name was William Vernon Stanton. He wasn’t a Wright. They weren’t allowed to claim any part of him.
He pushed off the table and draped his jacket over one of the chairs, then loosened his tie as he walked up the stairs. Light shone from beneath their bedroom door, but not William’s. Jameson pressed his ear to the door, and when he heard the soft rustling and one disgruntled protest, he went in and leaned over the small crib.
William looked up at him, tightly swaddled in the blanket his grandmother had sent from Colorado, and let loose a jaw-cracking yawn, then furrowed his brow.
“Yeah, I know what that means,” Jameson said softly, picking up his son and cradling him against his chest. How ironic that someone so very small had altered the gravity in his world. He pressed a kiss to the top of his head, breathing in his scent. “Did you have a good day?”
William grunted, then opened his mouth against Jameson’s shirt.
“I’ll take that as a yes.” He rubbed small circles on William’s back, knowing that he didn’t have what he was looking for. “You might want to give her just a minute, kid. I hurt her feelings pretty badly.”
He swayed from side to side, trying to not only give Scarlett a few minutes alone but buy himself precious time to think of what he could do or say. Did he want to leave them here, in a country they weren’t legally entitled to, knowing they couldn’t get into the one they were, while he flew halfway around the world to face another enemy?
No.
The thought of leaving them behind was a knife to the gut. William was only six weeks old, and he’d already changed so much. He couldn’t imagine not seeing him grow up, leaving for a year—or more—and not recognizing his own son when he returned. And the thought of not seeing Scarlett?
Unbearable.
“I’ll take him,” she said from the doorway.
Jameson turned to see her backlit against the hallway light, her arms already outstretched. “I like holding him,” he said softly.
Some of the ice melted in her eyes. “I would hope so, but unless you can feed him, you’re not going to like holding him for much longer.” She crossed the room, and Jameson reluctantly surrendered their son.
Scarlett settled into the rocking chair in the dimly lit corner, then looked up at him expectantly. “You don’t have to stay.”
He leaned against the wall and crossed his ankles. “I don’t have to leave, either. I’ve seen your breasts before. Not sure I’ve told you lately how magnificent they are.”
She rolled her eyes, but he could have sworn he saw color rise faintly in her cheeks. She settled their son to nurse with what had become practiced ease, and stroked his soft, black hair with her fingertips.
“I’m sorry,” Jameson said quietly. Her fingers stilled.
“I should have talked it over with you while it was happening. I can make all the excuses in the world about not wanting to worry you, but they don’t matter. I was wrong to leave you in the dark.”
She slowly brought her gaze to meet his.
“If we had gone to the Pacific, I would have moved heaven and earth to send you to Colorado until I could come home. I would never have left you without making sure you were safe, and not just physically. I won’t make the mistake of leaving you out again.”
“Thank you.”
“I would…” He swallowed the prickly knot of anger rising in his throat. “I would really like to throw that rattle in the trash.”
“All right.”
His eyebrows rose. “You don’t care?”
“Not in the least. I would have put it with the rubbish myself, except I wanted you to know what was happening.” There was no jab in the
statement, just facts.
“Thank you.” He watched her silently for a moment, choosing his next words carefully. “Your visa appointment is coming up in a few months, right?”
She nodded. “May.” Almost a year after they’d begun the process. “I want you to promise me something,” he said softly.
“What?”
“Promise me that if anything happens to me, you’ll take him to the States.”
She blinked. “Don’t say things like that.”
He crossed the room, then dropped to her eye level, putting his hands on the arm of the rocking chair. “There is nothing more important to me than your lives—yours and William’s. Nothing. You’re right—it’s not just about us anymore. You’ll be safe in Colorado. Safe from the war, from poverty, from your god-awful parents. So please, promise me that you’ll take him.”
Her brow knit as she considered the request. “If something happens to you,” she clarified.
He nodded.
“Okay. I promise if anything happens to you, I’ll take William to Colorado.”
He leaned in slowly and brushed a chaste kiss over her lips. “Thank you.”
“That doesn’t mean I’m giving you permission to die.” Her gaze turned stern.
“Noted.” He kissed William’s head, then rose. “Since you’re feeding him, I’m going to go work on feeding you. I love you, Scarlett.”
“I love you, too.”
He left his wife and son in the nursery and went straight to the kitchen… and threw the rattle in the trash where it belonged.
Scarlett and William were Stantons. They were his.
