Summer of the War by Gloria Whelan Page A

I was trespassing.”
    â€œI don’t care,” I lied. I didn’t know whom to be more angry with, Carrie for flirting with Ned or Ned for falling all over her. Or worst of all, myself for caring so much.
    After I delivered the groceries to Mrs. Norkin, I tramped over to the storm side of the island and spent an hour skipping stones on the lake. Grandpa had showed us how to pick out the flat oval stones and how to fling them out with a flick of your wrist so they skipped along the surface of the water. Grandpa could make a stone bounce along a dozen times. I loved the idea of a stone skimming over the water’s surface, its heaviness bewitched away. My stones were sinking. I couldn’t make them skip. I realized I was throwing the stones, wanting to hit something, and gave up.
    When I returned to the cottage, I found Carrie had borrowed my best shorts and was out in the garden planting up the lavender. Grandma was standing alongside her, a big smile on her face.
    â€œBelle, come here and see what Carrie is doing. I don’t know why I never thought of lavender. It does so well in poor soil. Just smell that fragrance. It was so thoughtful of you, Carrie, but I’m not surprised. You’re being your mother’s daughter. I’m sure she had lavender. Your mother loved this garden. It was Julia’s project. We should never have let it fall apart like this. It’s just that working on it made me unhappy, it reminded me so of her.” Grandma smiled. “You’re like your mother, Carrie. It’s almost like having Julia back.”
    Carrie stopped what she was doing and looked up at Grandma in surprise. Her face was flushed, and for a moment I thought I saw tears in her eyes. The next minute she was plunging the trowel into the ground as if she had something against the earth.
    â€œI don’t really remember my mother.” Carrie patted the sandy soil in around the plants.
    Grandma said, “One day we’ll look for some pictures of Julia when she was your age, Carrie. I’m sure there must be some in the attic.”
    I left them and wandered up to my room feeling sorry for Carrie, making excuses for her because she had no mother. When I saw our room, my sympathy dwindled away. Carrie had flung her clothes every which way, leaving the room a complete mess. Therewas no corner of the room that she hadn’t occupied. I knew that wolves peed on their territory to mark it as theirs. That seemed to be what Carrie was doing, marking my room for her own by putting her things in every corner. It was obvious that she was used to having someone pick up after her, but I wasn’t going to be another Louise. I looked at the dress she had worn to the mainland. I had never in my whole life read someone else’s mail, but I was so curious about Carrie, I couldn’t resist. I reached into the dress pocket and pulled out the letter from her father. For a minute I guess I thought she was just another character in a book I was reading and the letter was another page to turn.
    23 Park Lane
London, England
    Ma chère Carrie,
    I can speak freely about what is going on here in England, for this letter will avoid the British censors by crossing the ocean in a diplomatic pouch before it is mailed to you. I miss my Carrie very much, but it is a good thing you didn’t come to England with me. Conditions here are very bad. There was great damage from the German bombs. Houses stand with their front walls missing and the furniture still in place like a scene from a play. Each day the English people must give up one more thing. There is little food and little fuel for heating homes. They still managed the races at Ascot, and of course I was there.
    Happily there is a bit of good news from the battlefields. In Africa the British are beginning to chase the Germans, andover here General Eisenhower has just been put in charge of our American forces.
    I hope things are going well for