Winter in June by Kathryn Miller Haines

our newest roommate at our rooming house in New York:
    Hiya, Rosie (and Jayne).
    The place has been quiet as kittens since you two left. Belle rented out your room to a magician’s assistant who we’re pretty certain is making our valuables disappear. Ruby’s up for a lead (of course) and seems to be quite taken with that feline you left her in charge of. I’m killing time doing an American Theatre Wing tour of the local schools, showing all the boys and girls out there what they can do to help out the red, white, and blue. The stuff’s pure schlock, but the kids seem to like it, probably because they get to miss class to be with yours truly. Tell Jayne that Tony finally stopped calling. Belle let it slip that you two were West Coast–bound and I think he finally caught the hint that that meant Jayne wouldn’t be calling him back any time soon.
    Drop me a line and let me know how tricks are.
    Zelda
    â€œI got a letter from Zelda,” I told Jayne. She hummed a response that I took to mean Please go on . “Belle rented our room.”
    â€œThat was fast.”
    â€œAnd Zelda says Tony stopped calling.”
    She waved one of her letters at me. “That’s ’cause he started writing.”
    â€œHow’d he get the address?”
    She shrugged. “How does he get anything?” Jayne’s ex-boyfriend, Tony B., was a well-connected mobster. When she’d given Tony his walking papers, he’d had a hard time taking no for an answer. I was thrilled the two were finally kaput. Right before we left New York I’d heard from a reliable source that Tony wasn’t just a criminal—he was a murderer.
    Jayne sifted through her other pieces of mail. They all looked as if they were written in the same hand. If Tony had any positive qualities, he was persistent. And had excellent penmanship.
    â€œAre you all right?” I asked.
    â€œI thought I would’ve heard from Billy by now. It’s been almost a month.” Billy DeMille was a sailor Jayne had met at the Stage Door Canteen and developed quite a correspondence with. After all of the drama between her and Tony, I’d been thrilled to see her focusing on a man whose only record involved 78 revolutions per minute. Jayne didn’t talk much about him, other than to report when he wrote and when she replied, but it was obvious the two were becoming more than mere pen pals. She was sweet on the guy, and it was impossible to believe that he wasn’t feeling the same for her.
    â€œDid you tell him we were leaving?” I asked.
    â€œOf course.”
    â€œMaybe he forgot and wrote to the Shaw House. I’m sure his letters will show up soon.”
    â€œYou’re probably right,” she said, though I knew she didn’t really believe that. If a man in the military stopped writing you, it was usually because he no longer could.
    Â 
    Kay and Violet returned, their faces much paler than when they departed.
    â€œHow was the latrine?” I asked.
    Violet fanned herself as though she needed to push away the scented memory that orbited her. “It’s basically a glorified outhouse. Only a paper-thin shower curtain separates you from the rest of the camp.”
    Knowing Violet’s propensity for drama, I turned to Kay to verify that it was as bad as she claimed. “It’s fine,” she said. “I’ve dealt with worse.”
    Her face didn’t look right. I may have known Kay only a week, but it was clear that she wore her emotions like a stripper wore her brassiere—outside where everyone could see it. “Why the glum puss?” I asked.
    â€œThe bathroom isn’t ours alone. We have to share it,” said Violet. “Apparently, there’s a large contingency of G.I. Janes that just moved in over the hill.”
    â€œWacs? That’s cozy,” I said.
    â€œTurns out Kay knows some of them. Don’t you, Kay?” said Violet.
    Kay