go through that.”
“I shouldn’t complain. At least I’m alive,” Sterling’s voice turned sharp. “I made it out when so many others didn’t. My brother didn’t. Your husband didn’t. Why did I?” He took hold of her hand. His voice lowered. “I’m sorry.”
Evelyn swallowed, trying to digest the arc of emotions she’d just witnessed. She wanted to agree—why did he and so many others live while Jim had died? She heard the skittering of broken ice as they stepped off the sidewalk. Sterling’s leg trailed behind him, and she felt a pang of sorrow for his loss.
“None of it’s fair,” she said. “Dead or alive. Wounded or wearing medals. We didn’t ask for any of it.” Evelyn squeezed his hand. “Be proud, Sterling. Don’t hide your limp. You earned it keeping America free—that’s what matters.”
He stopped and reached for her other hand. She could feel the slight tremor of his fingers as he gripped hers. “I’ve stayed away from people for too long now. I’ve been afraid. The memories . . .” His voice cracked, and the moonlight caught the moisture in his eyes. “Evelyn, I don’t know how to hide from them any longer.”
Biting her lip, she rocked back on her heels and recognized the fear in his eyes.
“Then don’t hide. My husband, Jim, left me a note. He said, ‘don’t die with me.’” Evelyn’s chin wobbled. “I think it could be true for you, too. The war is behind us now. We can’t change it, and we can’t trade places with anyone. We’re here—living, breathing—and whether we like it or not, right now we’re making new memories to replace the old.”
They stood beneath a giant willow tree, scattered branches crunching under their feet. “Thank you for sharing that,” Sterling said, gazing down at her. He released her hand and cupped her chin, tipping it slightly. The moonlight filtered through the tree, casting shadows on Sterling’s face.
He leaned toward her, lowering his head and Evelyn tensed as memories of kissing Jim flashed through her mind. The fibers of her neck stiffened, and although part of her wanted to kiss him, she couldn’t relax the tightness creeping into her shoulders at the thought of Sterling betraying her memories of Jim.
A half-second pause and Sterling tilted his head and kissed her cheek. He drew her toward him, wrapping his strong arms around her. “This is enough,” he whispered.
She sighed and relaxed into his arms. She would allow herself this feeling of closeness for a moment. Listening to the soft thrum of Sterling’s heartbeat, Evelyn paused and breathed in the scent of dusky engine oil mixed with a splash of sandalwood and pine. It was the smell of hard work, an honest man trying to rebuild his life.
The long arms of the willow tree dangled in the shadows of the evening, swaying left and right with an unseen gust of wind, like a ghost slipping through the night.
Chapter 8 ~ The Desk
February 1945 ~ Leland
Late in the month of February 1945, someone knocked on the door of Leland’s shop. He opened it and a whoosh of air blew the curls back from his brow. A man dressed in a worn suit and tie stood in the doorway with a little girl. He held out his hand.
“I’ve heard about your work,” he said. “My name is Shunsaku Tanaka. I would like you to build a desk for me.”
He spoke with a clipped accent, and Leland could see the man was of Japanese descent. Leland shook his hand. “Come in, Mr. Tanaka, and let’s see what I can do for you.”
He moved aside and allowed Mr. Tanaka and his young daughter inside the shop. Leland chewed on his bottom lip and gave a subtle shake of his head. Was this man another survivor of the Japanese internment camps? Leland had heard that some of the Japanese families were released early when their loyalty to America was proven. Had Mr. Tanaka come back to a vacant home looted of the fine furniture and other possessions he’d worked for, destitute like so many others?
The music
“I shouldn’t complain. At least I’m alive,” Sterling’s voice turned sharp. “I made it out when so many others didn’t. My brother didn’t. Your husband didn’t. Why did I?” He took hold of her hand. His voice lowered. “I’m sorry.”
Evelyn swallowed, trying to digest the arc of emotions she’d just witnessed. She wanted to agree—why did he and so many others live while Jim had died? She heard the skittering of broken ice as they stepped off the sidewalk. Sterling’s leg trailed behind him, and she felt a pang of sorrow for his loss.
“None of it’s fair,” she said. “Dead or alive. Wounded or wearing medals. We didn’t ask for any of it.” Evelyn squeezed his hand. “Be proud, Sterling. Don’t hide your limp. You earned it keeping America free—that’s what matters.”
He stopped and reached for her other hand. She could feel the slight tremor of his fingers as he gripped hers. “I’ve stayed away from people for too long now. I’ve been afraid. The memories . . .” His voice cracked, and the moonlight caught the moisture in his eyes. “Evelyn, I don’t know how to hide from them any longer.”
Biting her lip, she rocked back on her heels and recognized the fear in his eyes.
“Then don’t hide. My husband, Jim, left me a note. He said, ‘don’t die with me.’” Evelyn’s chin wobbled. “I think it could be true for you, too. The war is behind us now. We can’t change it, and we can’t trade places with anyone. We’re here—living, breathing—and whether we like it or not, right now we’re making new memories to replace the old.”
They stood beneath a giant willow tree, scattered branches crunching under their feet. “Thank you for sharing that,” Sterling said, gazing down at her. He released her hand and cupped her chin, tipping it slightly. The moonlight filtered through the tree, casting shadows on Sterling’s face.
He leaned toward her, lowering his head and Evelyn tensed as memories of kissing Jim flashed through her mind. The fibers of her neck stiffened, and although part of her wanted to kiss him, she couldn’t relax the tightness creeping into her shoulders at the thought of Sterling betraying her memories of Jim.
A half-second pause and Sterling tilted his head and kissed her cheek. He drew her toward him, wrapping his strong arms around her. “This is enough,” he whispered.
She sighed and relaxed into his arms. She would allow herself this feeling of closeness for a moment. Listening to the soft thrum of Sterling’s heartbeat, Evelyn paused and breathed in the scent of dusky engine oil mixed with a splash of sandalwood and pine. It was the smell of hard work, an honest man trying to rebuild his life.
The long arms of the willow tree dangled in the shadows of the evening, swaying left and right with an unseen gust of wind, like a ghost slipping through the night.
Chapter 8 ~ The Desk
February 1945 ~ Leland
Late in the month of February 1945, someone knocked on the door of Leland’s shop. He opened it and a whoosh of air blew the curls back from his brow. A man dressed in a worn suit and tie stood in the doorway with a little girl. He held out his hand.
“I’ve heard about your work,” he said. “My name is Shunsaku Tanaka. I would like you to build a desk for me.”
He spoke with a clipped accent, and Leland could see the man was of Japanese descent. Leland shook his hand. “Come in, Mr. Tanaka, and let’s see what I can do for you.”
He moved aside and allowed Mr. Tanaka and his young daughter inside the shop. Leland chewed on his bottom lip and gave a subtle shake of his head. Was this man another survivor of the Japanese internment camps? Leland had heard that some of the Japanese families were released early when their loyalty to America was proven. Had Mr. Tanaka come back to a vacant home looted of the fine furniture and other possessions he’d worked for, destitute like so many others?
The music
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