August 1944
Poplar Grove, Colorado
“Be careful around the steps, love,” Scarlett said to William as he toddled along the edge of the newly finished gazebo, his hands gripping the individual spokes of the railing as he went.
He grinned over his shoulder and kept going.
She abandoned the record she’d selected and rushed across the floor, scooping him into her arms just before he reached the stairs. “You’re going to be the death of me, William Stanton.”
William giggled, and she blew a kiss into his neck, then shifted him to her hip as she walked back to the phonograph. The fall breeze rippled her dress, and she tucked her hair to the side to keep it out of William’s grasp. The strands were longer now, falling midway down her back, her own personal calendar for how long it had been since she’d kissed Jameson goodbye in Ipswich.
Two years, and no word…but no remains, either, so she held on to hope and the spark of certainty that flared to life in her chest when she thought of him. He was alive. She knew it. She wasn’t sure where or how, but he was. He had to be.
“Which one should we listen to, poppet?” she asked their son, setting him down in front of the small collection of records on the table. He picked one at random, and she put it on. “Glenn Miller. Excellent choice.”
“Apples!”
“Right you are.” The sound of The Glenn Miller Orchestra filled the space as she led William to the blanket she’d spread out on the far end. They snacked on apples and cheese—she wasn’t sure she’d ever get used to how much food was available here in the States, but she wasn’t complaining. They were lucky.
There were no air-raid sirens. No bombs. No boards to plot. No blackouts. They were safe. William was safe.
She prayed every night that both Jameson and Constance would be, too. Her fingers brushed over the small scar on her palm, thinking of its match in England. Had the cut above her sister’s eye scarred over, too? She’d been bleeding when she forced them onto the plane that day the bombs had blasted them out of the street in Ipswich, barely sparing the three of them.
She’d packed up two new dresses for her sister yesterday and shipped them off. It had been nearly a year since Henry had slipped on the staircase and broken his fool neck, and according to her last letter, she’d met a handsome American GI who was serving in the Army Veterinary Corp.
William lay down on the blanket, and Scarlett ran her hands through his thick, dark hair as he drifted into an afternoon nap, his lips parting in sleep just like Jameson’s. When she was certain he was out, she untangled herself carefully, then made her way back to the record player.
She knew she’d pay for the indulgence later, that she’d miss him even more, but she changed out the record for Ella Fitzgerald anyway. Her heart stuttered as the familiar song began to play, and for that moment, she wasn’t in the middle of the Colorado Rockies, and those weren’t golden aspen leaves swaying in the mountain breeze all around them—no, those were the tips of long summer grass in an overgrown field just outside Middle Wallop.
She closed her eyes and swayed, allowing herself one moment to imagine he was there, holding out his hand as he asked her to dance.
“Need a partner?”
She gasped softly, her eyes flying open at the sound of the voice she’d know anywhere. The voice she’d only heard in her dreams for the last two years. But there was only the phonograph before her, William asleep on the floor beside her, and the rush of the creek as it bent around them.
“Scarlett,” he said again.
Behind her.
She spun, her dress whipping against her legs in the breeze, and quickly
tugged her hair out of her eyes to clear her field of vision.
Jameson filled the entrance to the gazebo, leaning against the support beam, his hat tucked under his arm, his uniform new but travel-worn, no longer RAF, but United States Army Air Force. His smile widened as their eyes locked.
“Jameson,” she whispered, her hands flying to her mouth. Was she dreaming? Would she wake before she could touch him? Tears pricked at her eyes as her heart warred with logic.
“No, baby, no.” Jameson strode across the space, his hat falling to the deck below. “God, don’t cry.” He cradled her face in his hands, wiping the tears away with his thumbs.
His hands were warm. Solid. Real.
“You’re really here,” she cried, her fingers trembling as she grazed his chest, his neck, the line of his jaw. “I love you. I thought I’d never get to tell you that again.”
“God, I love you, Scarlett. I’m here,” he promised, his gaze sweeping over her hungrily, starved for the sight of her, the feel of her against him. Years and miles, battles and crash landings hadn’t changed a single thing, hadn’t dimmed his love for her. “I’m here,” he repeated, because he needed to hear it, too. Needed to know they’d made it against all the odds that had come their way.
…
He tilted her face toward his and kissed her long and slow, breathing her in, tasting apples and home and Scarlett. His Scarlett.
“How?” she asked, locking her fingers behind his neck.
“A lot of luck.” He rested his forehead against hers and wrapped one arm around her waist, tugging her close. “And a really long story that involves a broken leg, a resistance operative who took mercy on me, and some very accommodating cows who didn’t mind a hidden roommate for three months while my leg healed.”
She huffed a laugh, shaking her head. “But you’re okay?”
“I am now.” He pressed a kiss to her forehead and splayed his hand wide over her lower back. “I missed you every single day. Everything I did was to get home to you.”
Her shoulders buckled as a sob slipped past her lips, and his throat closed around the lump that had formed the second he’d seen her swaying with the breeze, waiting where the creek bent around the aspen grove.
“It’s okay. We made it.”
“Do you have to go back?” she asked, her voice breaking.
“No.” He tilted her chin and fell headfirst into those blue eyes. God, no matter how detailed his memories, how perfect his dreams, nothing had come close to how beautiful his wife was. “I couldn’t get out until Maastricht was liberated. I spent a year fighting in secret with the Dutch Resistance, and I know too much for them to chance me being captured, which means the only planes I’ll be flying belong to my uncle, right here.”
“So it’s over?” she asked, her voice edged with the same desperation he felt.
“It’s over. I’m home.” He kissed her again, sinking into her mouth as she gripped the lapels of his uniform, tugging him closer.
“You’re home.” She smiled, wide and brilliant.
He dipped, locking his arms at the backs of her thighs, and lifted her to his eye level. Then he kissed her until he’d reacquainted himself with every line and curve of her mouth.
A rustle caught his attention, and his breath stuttered at the sight of William asleep on the blanket, his hand tucked beneath his head. Slowly, he set Scarlett down. “He’s so big.”
She nodded. “He’s perfect. Do you want to wake him?” Her eyes danced.
Jameson swallowed, his throat and chest tight as he glanced between his dreaming son and the love of his life. Perfect. It was all perfect, and better than anything he’d imagined during the long, empty nights and battle-torn days. He sank his hands into the silk of Scarlett’s hair and grinned at his
wife. “In a few minutes.”
Her smile was slow as she leaned up for another kiss. “In a few minutes,” she agreed.
He was home.
