O’Mara
…
“You can’t be from Glenhaven Park,” he said, “or I’d know you. It’s too small a town.”
“No, I’m from the city.”
“Going back home?”
God, I hope so
. She merely nods.
“I wish I were.” He exhales a stream of smoke.
“Where are you going?”
“Fort Eastkill. My National Guard company was mobilized into the army.”
Fort Eastkill
.
He’s one of them
, Clara realizes, staring into the friendly, freckled face of a soldier who is little more than a boy.
He’s one of the eleven Glenhaven Park servicemen who was killed—who
will
be killed—in the Normandy invasion.
She swallows hard over the knot that constricts her throat and squeezes her eyes closed to block out Walter O’Mara’s unwitting innocence.
“Those fellas are part of my company, too,” he informs her, and she opens her eyes to see him gesturing at the other soldiers who boarded with them at Glenhaven Park.
She nods and turns away, staring blindly out the window. She can’t bear to look at him, at any of them, knowing what’s going to happen to them all.…
And to Jed.
Oh, Jed
.
I wish
…
No, that’s silly.
He was just part of my dream. And now that part is over, and any second now the whole dream will be over, and I’ll be home
.
Except…
He was so real.
Jed. She touched him, smelled him, can even now see his face in her mind’s eye as the train sways rhythmically, its forward motion lulling her frenzied torrent of thoughts.
She leans her head back against the seat, exhaling heavily, trying not to remember.…
And then, inexplicably, trying not to forget.
The whistle blows.
She can see every contour of Jed Landry’s face so clearly, etched against the darkened screen of her closed eyelids.
She finds herself wondering what it would have been like to kiss him.
Just once.
Her breath catches in her throat as she imagines him taking her into his arms and hungrily lowering his mouth over hers the way Michael does in their big love scene.
Except that kissing Michael is nothing like kissing the real Jed Landry. She knows that, just as she knew that beneath his stiff woolen shirt was a magnificently sculpted masculine chest, taut abs, well-defined biceps…
Terrific. Now you’re fantasizing about seeing a man who doesn’t exist
—
not in your world, anyway
—
shirtless
.
Clara yawns, suddenly weary.
Much too weary to prop open her eyes again, much less fight the searing images of her fantasy love scene with Jed Landry.
So she lets them come, borne on a welcome haze of romantic illusion as the southbound train chugs on toward the city.
Jed didn’t even lock the store when he raced out into the snow, coatless, chasing after Clara.
What would Pop say about that?
That I’m an irresponsible goof, and anyone could have walked in and robbed the place blind,
Jed thinks grimly as he steps back inside. To his relief, he sees that the store is empty—and, at a glance, the merchandise and cash register seem intact.
He drops Clara’s heavy suitcase with a thud and eyes it—as well as the pocketbook in his hand—dubiously.
Now what? What is he supposed to do with this?
What
can
he do? He’ll have to stash her things in the storeroom and hope she’ll come back to claim them.
What if she doesn’t?
You can always track her down in the city,
he tells himself.
But how? He doesn’t even know her last name.
A quick inspection of her suitcase reveals no identification tag. Not on the outside, anyway.
He glances at the handbag, turning it over.
Maybe he should—
No. Absolutely not. He can’t open a lady’s pocketbook. That’s just too… personal.
So is the suitcase. He can’t possibly go rifling through her belongings… though his pulse does quicken shamefully at the very notion of the dainty unmentionables that are undoubtedly stashed inside.
Jed moodily abandons the suitcase and returns to the soda fountain, stashing the pocketbook behind the counter. Picking up the barely
…
“You can’t be from Glenhaven Park,” he said, “or I’d know you. It’s too small a town.”
“No, I’m from the city.”
“Going back home?”
God, I hope so
. She merely nods.
“I wish I were.” He exhales a stream of smoke.
“Where are you going?”
“Fort Eastkill. My National Guard company was mobilized into the army.”
Fort Eastkill
.
He’s one of them
, Clara realizes, staring into the friendly, freckled face of a soldier who is little more than a boy.
He’s one of the eleven Glenhaven Park servicemen who was killed—who
will
be killed—in the Normandy invasion.
She swallows hard over the knot that constricts her throat and squeezes her eyes closed to block out Walter O’Mara’s unwitting innocence.
“Those fellas are part of my company, too,” he informs her, and she opens her eyes to see him gesturing at the other soldiers who boarded with them at Glenhaven Park.
She nods and turns away, staring blindly out the window. She can’t bear to look at him, at any of them, knowing what’s going to happen to them all.…
And to Jed.
Oh, Jed
.
I wish
…
No, that’s silly.
He was just part of my dream. And now that part is over, and any second now the whole dream will be over, and I’ll be home
.
Except…
He was so real.
Jed. She touched him, smelled him, can even now see his face in her mind’s eye as the train sways rhythmically, its forward motion lulling her frenzied torrent of thoughts.
She leans her head back against the seat, exhaling heavily, trying not to remember.…
And then, inexplicably, trying not to forget.
The whistle blows.
She can see every contour of Jed Landry’s face so clearly, etched against the darkened screen of her closed eyelids.
She finds herself wondering what it would have been like to kiss him.
Just once.
Her breath catches in her throat as she imagines him taking her into his arms and hungrily lowering his mouth over hers the way Michael does in their big love scene.
Except that kissing Michael is nothing like kissing the real Jed Landry. She knows that, just as she knew that beneath his stiff woolen shirt was a magnificently sculpted masculine chest, taut abs, well-defined biceps…
Terrific. Now you’re fantasizing about seeing a man who doesn’t exist
—
not in your world, anyway
—
shirtless
.
Clara yawns, suddenly weary.
Much too weary to prop open her eyes again, much less fight the searing images of her fantasy love scene with Jed Landry.
So she lets them come, borne on a welcome haze of romantic illusion as the southbound train chugs on toward the city.
Jed didn’t even lock the store when he raced out into the snow, coatless, chasing after Clara.
What would Pop say about that?
That I’m an irresponsible goof, and anyone could have walked in and robbed the place blind,
Jed thinks grimly as he steps back inside. To his relief, he sees that the store is empty—and, at a glance, the merchandise and cash register seem intact.
He drops Clara’s heavy suitcase with a thud and eyes it—as well as the pocketbook in his hand—dubiously.
Now what? What is he supposed to do with this?
What
can
he do? He’ll have to stash her things in the storeroom and hope she’ll come back to claim them.
What if she doesn’t?
You can always track her down in the city,
he tells himself.
But how? He doesn’t even know her last name.
A quick inspection of her suitcase reveals no identification tag. Not on the outside, anyway.
He glances at the handbag, turning it over.
Maybe he should—
No. Absolutely not. He can’t open a lady’s pocketbook. That’s just too… personal.
So is the suitcase. He can’t possibly go rifling through her belongings… though his pulse does quicken shamefully at the very notion of the dainty unmentionables that are undoubtedly stashed inside.
Jed moodily abandons the suitcase and returns to the soda fountain, stashing the pocketbook behind the counter. Picking up the barely
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