was brilliant and kind and an excellent hostess, her finger pastries and cucumber sandwiches didn’t exactly stick to the ribs.
“Think Lilly could be persuaded to set an extra place at the table for me?” Ivan leaned toward Red, looking like a hound about to tree a coon. “My mom has a party planned for my homecoming tonight, but man, oh, man, Lilly’s chicken and dumplings for lunch would make the whole ordeal worth enduring.”
Red sometimes kidded Ivan that he was not his mother’s son. Arielle Potts was a cultured lady—an accomplished hostess, who loved to entertain. She was a savvy political wife who enjoyed helping her husband campaign for mayor of Hideaway—not that there’d been much campaigning to do. Gerald Potts’s only opponent had been Gramercy Short, who likely didn’t get more than a total of ten votes, all from his relatives, and there were probably at least two dozen Shorts in Hideaway.
Ivan, on the other hand, would rather go huntin’ with Red and his coon dogs any night than socialize with the town’s high and mighty.
“Sure,” Red said, “come on over. Even if Ma hasn’t made chicken and dumplings, the meal’s bound to be good.”
Ivan nodded. “I’ll do it.”
Ivan had the kind of face that revealed his thoughts several seconds before he spoke them. And he always spoke them. He didn’t believe in keeping things to himself. As long as Red had known him, there was most often a hint of humor in Ivan’s eyes, not quite mischief, but almost.
As Red watched, all humor left Ivan’s face, and the darkness entered his expression again. Red didn’t have any trouble knowing what was going through his friend’s mind.
“Red, the war’s taken something from us that we might never get back.” He glanced up and down the aisle at the other passengers.
Red waited without speaking. This wasn’t the time to talk about it. Not now. Not on this train with other people listening. Besides, he couldn’t help thinking that if he spoke aloud what had been on his mind the past few weeks, it would make everything that happened over on those deadly fields too real.
“I think it’s hit you harder,” Ivan said at last. “Hasn’t it?”
Red swallowed. “Not sure what makes you think that. We’ve all been through a lot.”
Ivan leaned closer and waited until Red met his gaze. “Because I know you, buddy. You bury things down deep inside. Me, I sit by myself and write my poetry and get it out of my system. You should see the stack of poetry in my duffle bag. I’ve probably sent poems to half of Hideaway, and several of Bertie’s friends in California.”
“You oughta try to get them published. You’ll be rich.”
Ivan laughed out loud at that. “You think there’s money in poetry? My Daddy taught me how to make a living, don’t you worry. And don’t change the subject.”
“Thought the subject was poetry.”
Ivan sobered. “You’ve lost something, Red.” His words were soft and gentle, but they felt like broken strands of chicken wire digging into Red’s heart. Ivan didn’t know the half of it. “It’s like all the laughter’s dried up inside of you.”
Red didn’t know what to say. He’d not seen much to laugh about.
“Find some way to get this war out of your system,” Ivan told him. “Don’t let it keep you down.”
Red nodded toward the window. “We’re getting close. Better get your things. I’ll see you for dinner.”
Ivan frowned. “Lunch, Red. Noon meal is lunch.”
“Not where I come from.”
“You come from here, same as me.”
“Your mother comes from Baltimore.”
Ivan chuckled and gave Red a playful sock in the arm. It was one of their favorite arguments.
To Red’s shame, he felt only relief when Ivan shook his head and walked back up the aisle toward the door that led to the forward car.
Chapter Four
Thoughts of Red once more filled Bertie’s mind as she struggled with a misshapen part. She tossed it to the side so Emma could pick it up to send back for repair.
Time to switch the lathe to a higher gear and get some of these parts finished. Hurriedly, she turned off the machine, released the tension on the v-belt, and reached down to move it to a larger v-pulley. Her hand slipped. The belt which hadn’t come to a complete stop, grabbed her forefinger. Before she could react, her finger was snatched into the pulley.
Pain streaked up her arm. She gritted her teeth to keep from crying out as she jerked her hand back.
Blood spread over and down her fingers, and for a moment, because of the pain, she thought all her fingers had been mangled. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply to keep from passing out, then turned to look around and see if anyone had noticed what had happened.
No one looked her way.
She reached for the bandana on her head. Her hot hair once again fell over her shoulders as she tore off a strip of the cloth and dabbed away the blood. To her relief, only her index finger was torn.
Maybe she could take care of this herself, without going to First Aid.
But she discovered she would have no choice. The blood kept flowing from a fair-sized cut over her knuckle. There was no way to deal with it on her own.
She used what was left of the bandana to tie her hair back into a ponytail, her movements awkward.
Reluctantly, she went to find her supervisor for permission to go to First Aid. She’d catch an earful this time.
Red peered out the window at the passenger cars curving along the track in front of him. He thought he saw Ivan’s blond head in one square of window, but it was too far away to know for sure.
He couldn’t say why he was relieved that Ivan had gone back to his seat. It’d been good to see his friend, to know there was someone else, someone he knew, who could understand what he’d gone through.
But then, looking into Ivan’s face, Red had been able to recall the war that much clearer, when what he really wanted to do was forget it, not be reminded of every detail, every death. There were too many.
Rubbing his fingertip across the corner of one of the envelopes in his pocket, Red resisted the urge to pull them out again. He knew what the letters said. He had most every word memorized. He could see Bertie Moennig’s face against his closed eyelids—her sweet, saucy smile, her thick, fair hair, and turned-up nose.
The letters he’d gotten from her were nearly falling apart, he’d read them so often. The latest ones, of course, were full of questions, full of worry and wondering why he hadn’t written. Those were the ones that ate at him.
He remembered one letter he’d gotten last year, soon after he returned from leave. It had been even harder than leaving the first time, and it’d apparently been hard for Bertie, too.
I’ve
