I want you to know that I understand why you left, just as I hope you understand why I have to enlist despite your warnings. It’s just that I can’t sit here waiting for you to come back when I realize now that it’s never going to happen. I can’t spend day after day just waiting for the war to end, or waiting to be drafted, or waiting for some other girl to come along and make me forget you (because that sure isn’t going to happen). There are some things a fella just has to do in this life if he has an ounce of integrity in his blood. I do, and I’ve got no choice. If I come home, I’ll keep trying to find you every day for the rest of my life. And if I don’t come home… I’ll find you anyway, maybe more easily, from wherever I am.
I guess all that’s left to say is that I love you, Clara… only you. Forever. Don’t wait for me; just look for me. Live your life, and be happy, and fall in love and get married and have lots of babies. Just don’t ever stop looking for me, because someday I’ll be there, like I promised. Maybe not in the way either of us would have wanted, or in the way you’d expect. But you’ll know it’s me. I’ll make sure of it.
Yours always,
Jed
P.S. You left behind the mittens your grandmother made for you. I brought them to your address the day after you left—I don’t know, maybe I was somehow still thinking I was actually going to find you there. But of course I didn’t, so I gave them to Isamu for safekeeping. I told him that someday you were going to show up, and when you did, he needed to give you the package. He promised, no questions asked. What a swell kid!
A good long cry, Clara realizes, wiping her eyes on a lace-edged handkerchief that once belonged to her grandmother Irene, can be good for the soul.
Sitting on her bed clutching Jed’s letter after reading and rereading it repeatedly, surrounded by the contents of her suitcase and purse, she marvels at the musty smell. She just saw this stuff a few weeks ago… yet it’s been put away for sixty-five years.
A paradox she’ll never understand, perhaps not even with help from Mr. Kershaw, should she ever choose to share any of this with him.
Doris told her that her belongings were stored in a far corner of the Landrys’ attic, where they remained long after Lois Landry passed away in the 1960s.
Jed had left a package for Clara, too, along with the letter.
“It was a square box, kind of heavy, wrapped in Christmas paper. Do you know how many times over the years I was tempted to open it and see what was in it? But I’m afraid it must have eventually gotten mixed up with the stuff Gilbert sold to an antique dealer when he cleaned out the attic after Mother died, because I never saw it again after that. I’m so sorry.”
“It’s all right.” Suspecting what might have been in the package, Clara tried not to let her disappointment show. At least she has the mittens. And as much as she would have liked to have had the angel snow globe Jed wanted to give her that last day, she’ll have to be content with just the letter. And Jed’s words, she knows, will go a long way to sustain her through her grief.
Doris told her that Gilbert and his wife lived on at 21 Chestnut Street and raised their family there, eventually selling the house and retiring to Florida to be near their only daughter. Jed’s spirited younger brother, whom Clara heard so much about but never met, passed away in Tampa a few years ago, a multimillionaire.
Mary Ann, too, is gone, but she left behind a husband, two children, and seven grandchildren. Penny, once a tragic war widow whose husband was shot down in the South Pacific, went on to remarry and have two more children. She and her husband live not far from Doris.
“I’d love to have you see her again, but she has a bad heart.… I’m afraid she’d keel over at the sight of you.”
Clara laughed and promised to come visit Doris after the holidays, and Doris left her with a warm hug and shared tears.
For Clara, they have yet to subside.
At least she now has the proof to dispel any lingering doubt… not that she has any.
And she even has her iPod back… though it needs to be charged, of course.
Doris told her the battery ran out soon after she left. “Jed thought he broke the darned thing, of course,” she said with a laugh. “He kept playing that one song over and over and he was sure he’d worn it out.”
“Which song?” Clara asked, though she knew very well what Doris meant.
“‘I’ll Be Home for Christmas.’ You know, you were a little ahead of your time. It wasn’t a hit record until 1943. My brother was overseas by then. I’ve always wondered how Jed reacted when he first heard it—and it was Bing Crosby and not Frank Sinatra singing it.”
Now, still clutching Jed’s letter, Clara returns to the living room. At the stereo, she trades the Bing Crosby CD for the Frank Sinatra one she downloaded onto her iPod last year.
She presses the SEEK button until the familiar opening strains fill the room.
Raising the volume, she stands, eyes closed, letter pressed to her heart, tears streaming down her face.
Caught up in memories of Jed, and what might have been, she doesn’t realize someone is knocking at the door even after she’s subconsciously heard the sharp rapping a few times.
Wiping her eyes on the sleeve of her robe, she hurries to open the door.
Drew Becker is standing there, wearing an overcoat, his cheeks ruddy with the cold.
“Merry Christmas.” He’s somewhat breathless. “Good, you’re still here.”
“I’m still here.…” And she must look a sight. She’s been crying; her hand strays to her hair, uncombed since she rolled out of bed a few hours ago.
Yet nonetheless, despite the emotional upheaval over Jed, she finds herself glad to see Drew. More than glad, really.
Admit it. You are attracted to him. And maybe he is your type.
“I know you have to go to your mother’s,” he says hurriedly, “but I just wanted to stop by to say Merry Christmas… and to give you this.”
He thrusts a gift-wrapped box into her hands.
“What…?”
“Open it. I went out for a long walk and to get the paper this morning, and… I found this antique store. More of a used-junk store, really. But it was open, and I was cold… so I went in. When I spotted this on the shelf, I knew I had to get it for you.”
“What is it?” Clara asks, looking down at the weighty square box.
“You’ll see. Go on, open it.” Clearly, he’s eager.
She tears off the paper carefully.
The box is plain cardboard—no hint to its contents.
In the background, Frank is singing about presents on the tree, and Clara swallows hard over a lump in her throat, remembering…
Then she opens the box lid.…
And there it is.
A snow globe.
The snow globe.
Stunned, she lifts it out.
It can’t be.…
But it is. The exact one.
A dark-haired little angel with a broken wing tip smiles at her from behind a faint crack in the curved glass.
She looks up at Drew, speechless.
“For your collection,” he says, gesturing at the mantel.
She told him about the dark-haired angels last night. She told him a lot of things.…
But not, of course, about Jed.
Or… this.
How could he have known?
He couldn’t have. There’s no way on earth.…
On earth.
She stares at the snow globe, her hands shaking so violently that the angel is lost in a blizzard of glittery white flakes.
“I can’t believe… I can’t believe you found this.…”
“I can’t either, actually. I was walking kind of aimlessly, but something just told me to go into that store, and when I saw this… well, it was actually kind of strange. For a second there I almost thought you might already have it, because I definitely felt like I remembered it. You know… like I had seen it before.”
“I… I don’t already have it.”
>
“Good. Oh, and it’s musical, see?” Drew takes it from her and winds the key on the bottom.
Tinkling notes spill forth to mingle with Frank, in the background, singing about snow and mistletoe.
So caught up in shock is Clara that she doesn’t immediately realize that the music box melody is, incredibly, the same as the one playing on her stereo.
“But… it’s supposed to be ‘Hark! The Herald Angels Sing,’” she tells Drew in amazement.
“Are you sure you don’t already have one like this?”
“No, it’s just… the song. I thought it would be… different.”
He just looks at her. “It’s ‘I’ll Be Home for Christmas.’ Don’t you hear it?”
“Yes… I do. I hear it.”
And in her mind, Clara hears something else.
Just don’t ever stop looking for me, because someday I’ll be there, like I promised. Maybe not in the way either of us would have wanted, or in the way you’d expect. But you’ll know it’s me. I’ll make sure of it.
Clara shakes her head, laughing and crying at once.
“Are you all right?” Drew asks, eyes wide.
“I’m fine.…”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive. I’m just a little emotional. You know… because it’s Christmas.”
Drew watches her with uncertainty for a moment, then shrugs.
“Hey, you know what I’ve always wondered about this song?” he asks, changing the subject. “Why do they say presents on the tree instead of under the tree? That doesn’t make any sense. How can presents be on the tree?”
Clara reaches out to take his hand. His fingers wrap around hers; she instantly feels warm, and safe, and a spark of something… familiar.
“Listen, what are you doing today?” Clara asks Drew Becker, and he grins.
“Oh, my schedule is wide open.… Why?” he asks with a wink.
A wink.
And in the background, the song concludes at last with a fervent, “If only… in my dreams.…”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The author acknowledges with gratitude the contributions of Mark Staub, Leonard Staub, Mark Lipton, Lisa Ginsberg, David Ginsberg, David H. Lippman, and Joel Gultz. Any historic inconsistencies are my own and quite possibly deliberate, for the sake of the plot.
Thank you also to my wonderful editor, Laura Cifelli, whose timing is exquisite; to my publicist, Nancy Berland, and her terrific staff; to my agents Laura Blake Peterson, Holly Frederick, and Nathan Bransford at Curtis Brown, Ltd.; and to the helpful librarians at the Katonah Village Library.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Wendy Markham’s contemporary romance and women’s fiction have frequently appeared on the USA TODAY and other national best-seller lists. Wendy Markham is the pseudonym for author Wendy Corsi Staub, the award-winning writer of more than eighty published novels that have sold more than four million copies worldwide. Under her own name, Wendy achieved New York Times best-selling status with her single-title psychological suspense novels.
Wendy Markham, If Only in My Dreams
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