Page 109 of Letters From Victor

“For her? For them? And for my daughter, if I’m ever allowed to see her again?” I met his gaze. “Yes. Yes, I am.”

Lawrence swirled his drink, the liquid catching in the lamplight and casting slow, lazy reflections on the walls. “If that’s truly your decision, then I’ll help you with the legal and business details. We can make it a clean break.”

A strange sensation prickled at my chest—hope? Fear? Maybe both. “Thank you, Larry.” My voice came out softer thanI’d heard in years. “I mean it. You’ve come to my rescue more times than I can count.”

He waved a hand dismissively, but a small smile crept onto his lips. “You pulled me out of the trenches back in France, Victor. It’s the least I can do.”

The war came rushing back—the mud, the shelling, the faces of men we’d served with. Some living. Most dead. And there we were—two survivors who had forged a brotherhood out of that inferno.

And every other inferno since.

42

BARBARA

Frankie sat on my lap, flipping the pages of a picture book. The full skirt of my favorite blue-and-yellow checkered dress fanned between us like a picnic spread. We sat together atop an old quilt against the trunk of an oak tree in Edith’s front yard, soaking in the afternoon sun. The sky stretched out in an endless crystal blue, and the temperature hovered at a perfect seventy-five degrees—a beautiful southern California summer day. A lazy breeze rustled the leaves above, sending playful shadows dancing across Frankie’s book.

“Where’s the dog?” I asked, tapping the page.

Frankie pointed enthusiastically.

“Good job, my sweet boy! And where’s the house?”

His little finger darted to the illustrated home.

“Lovely! What color is the house?”

“Red!”

I kissed the top of his head, inhaling the soft scent of baby shampoo and sunshine. “You’re so smart, my darling.”

For a moment, I let myself sink into the simplicity of the present—a mother and son, tucked away in a peaceful corner of the world, caught in a moment that should be captured in a photograph and pinned to a memory board. Yeta quiet restlessness nibbled at the edges of my contentment, threatening to unravel it. I pushed the thought away, determined to savor this fleeting peace.

The sharp chime of a bicycle bell shattered the idyllic scene. A teenage boy in a navy-blue courier’s uniform was walking his bike up the sidewalk.

“Can I help you?” I called out, shading my eyes with one hand.

“Oh, yes, ma’am.” He pulled a letter from his canvas satchel. “I’m looking for a Ms. Barbara Evans.”

I scooted Frankie off my lap and stood, smoothing my skirt and patting my hair into place. “That’s me.”

He handed me the letter. “Here you are, ma’am. Have a nice day.”

I held the envelope like a live wire, afraid the wrong touch might set it off. It had no return address, but the only person who sent me letters by private courier was Victor.

The hinge on the front door creaked. I glanced over to see Edith in the doorway, hands in her blue jean pockets.

“Who was that?”

I held up the letter.

“Is it from him?”

“Probably.” I ran a finger along the edge of the envelope, half expecting it to cut me. Inside, I imagined words like sparks—a fire that could either warm me or burn me to ash.

Edith stepped onto the porch, her bare feet making soft thuds on the wooden planks. She moved with the easy grace of a woman at home in her own skin. “Are you going to read it?”

I hesitated. “Should I?”

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