“But I love New Orleans,” he said. “My friends and I just wanted to send over the bottles as a thank-you to you girls for doing what you do over here.”
“Well, you don’t have to go anywhere yet. Why don’t you pull up a chair?” Blanche said. “What’s your name?”
“I’m Captain Guy Sherry.” He grabbed a chair and pulled it up next to her. As Blanche was doing the introductions, I watched two GIs come down the street toward the café. One was shorter and stocky, the other lanky, and they both looked pretty beat up—the stocky one had a large white bandage on his forehead, and the other was walking with a small limp.
“Patrick Halloran!?” I said, jumping up and running over to give the limping GI a hug. “And Eddie Landon, is that you under that bandage? My God, it’s good to see you boys. I cannot believe it.” Dottie and Viv ran over to greet them too, and we stood in front of the café, hugging and laughing.
“Where’s the rest of the Eighty-Second?” I asked.
“The operation didn’t go well. We lost some guys,” Patrick said, looking away from us, focusing on something only he could see. “Some are in France. Eddie and I were injured, so we ended up on a Red Cross boat, and they brought us to a tent hospital here. We’ve got to catch up to them. We volunteered to drive a supply truck on the Red Ball Express, so we’ll get there fast.”
He paused for a moment.
“Fiona,” he said, looking at me, his big eyes full of sadness as he searched for words. I felt like I might be sick. “Tommy . . . Tommy didn’t make it.”
“Oh no, Patrick. No,” I said, putting my hand up to my mouth.
The address I had for his mom was packed away. That night, I would stay up and write the letter I had hoped I would never have to send. I bit my lip so I wouldn’t burst into tears. Dottie was already welling up; Viv was trying to hold it in like me.
I wrapped Patrick in a tight hug. He sobbed into my shoulder, trying to hide his emotions so nobody in the café would notice.
I felt a tap on my back, and the old man who owned the café handed me a small shot glass of Cognac and pointed to Patrick with a sympathetic smile. I pulled out of our embrace and handed the drink to Patrick, shielding him from the rest of the café while he composed himself and took the shot.
“I’m going to pull over another little table,” Viv declared, kissing Patrick and Eddie on the cheeks and grabbing Patrick by the elbow. “Let’s make this a reunion party, boys; I think you need it.”
The American officers had also moved to a table closer to us, and soon the air did start to feel festive. We shared stories and tried to keep the conversation light as the sun went down and the café owners put candles on all the tables. The boys told us that our other friends, our doughnut helpers from Leicester, were all okay, and they couldn’t wait to tell Nelson that Barbara the dog had made it to France.
“Is Captain Moretti in France too?” I almost jumped when Viv asked the question. She glanced at me and mouthed, “You’re welcome.” I had been trying to get up the nerve, but I was terrified of the answer. Patrick paused and took a sip of his Cognac. The owner had been spoiling him and Eddie with unlimited drinks and small plates of food—fried potatoes and cold beets and olives.
Please be okay. Please be okay. I couldn’t breathe while I waited for his answer. His Purple Heart was in my pocket as we spoke.
“Of course,” Patrick said in a matter-of-fact tone. I exhaled and looked away so they wouldn’t see my tears of relief shining in the candlelight.
“I know some GIs hate their officers, but Captain Moretti?” Patrick shook his head. “Nobody feels that way. He’s the type of soldier that everyone wants to be. Never loses his cool under pressure. Never screams like some of the other officers. So brave every goddamn time.”
“Yeah, but as I’ve said before, cowards don’t become nationally ranked boxers,” said Eddie.
“When you see him, please tell him I said hello,” I said. “And that I’m glad he’s okay.”
“Of course,” Patrick said, giving me a knowing look. “I’m pretty sure he’ll be happy to know you’re over here.”
“Can you squeeze in another seat?” Liz was standing next to the table, and it took her a second to recognize the boys from the Eighty-Second as they both leaped from their seats and gave her a hug.
“I see you’ve met Captain Guy Sherry,” Liz said. She squeezed in between Frankie and Dottie, and the little old man appeared out of nowhere and handed her a glass. “Or at least Blanche has met Captain Guy Sherry.”
“Who is he?” I asked, frowning.
“He happens to be the liaison I told you about this morning,” she said. At some point, Blanche and the captain had moved to a table away from the crowd, up against the café’s facade. Their faces were almost touching as he whispered into her ear, his hand grazing hers on the table. They were sharing a cigarette.
“Wait—he’s going to be traveling with us?” Martha said, eyes wide.
“Yes, he is,” Liz said, laughing a little. “To be fair, he has no idea what Clubmobile group he’s been assigned to.”
We all looked around at each other, amused and unsure of what to do next.
“Who’s going to tell Blanche?” Viv asked.
“She’ll find out soon enough,” Frankie said, rubbing her hands together. “This is fantastic—Blanche is the star of her own scandal. We’re going to need more champagne.”
Chapter Twenty
September 26, 1944
Dear Mrs. Doyle,
I’m struggling to find words to convey how sorry I am for the loss of your son, Tommy. My name is Fiona Denning, and I’m a Red Cross Clubmobile girl from Boston, currently stationed in Europe. Your son became a dear friend of mine here; we met while he was stationed in England. I loved Tommy like a little brother, as did my friends Viv and Dottie.
Tommy often helped us make doughnuts and coffee for his fellow soldiers. He always said how proud you would be that he finally learned how to cook something. He often bragged about your cooking and talked about how much he loved and missed his family in Southie.
Tommy was an amazing young man, and to know him was to love him. Life here can be so hard, but he was always able to cheer people up, to get them to smile or laugh for a little while, no matter the circumstances.
And he was always looking out for his friends. You must know he had so many friends here who loved him dearly and mourn his loss. His best friends, Patrick Halloran and Eddie Landon, are planning on visiting you when this horrible war is over. We all want you to know how much Tommy meant to everyone over here.
I will miss his deep belly laugh and his proud Boston accent. I will miss dancing the jitterbug with him in muddy fields in the British countryside and drinking coffee and talking to him about the Red Sox and all of the things we loved about our hometown. I will miss my dear friend so much.
Again, I am so incredibly sorry for your loss, Mrs. Doyle. I just hope that this letter offers you a little solace knowing that your beautiful son had such a positive impact on those around him here, and that he was loved and adored by many.
Warmest regards,
Fiona
I had woken up at five and rewritten the letter for the tenth time before putting it in the addressed envelope and sealing it so I wouldn’t have the opportunity to rewrite it again.
What do you say to a mother who has just lost her son? No matter how I rearranged the words, they would never be good or meaningful enough. The draft sealed in the envelope was the best I could do. I hoped it offered her a small amount of comfort.
At six, we all met downstairs to wait in front of Club Victoire with our musettes. We hadn’t even told Blanche about the captain before we left the café; we had just dragged her out of there at eleven so that she wouldn’t do anything she’d regret, and so that the rest of us wouldn’t be completely exhausted in the morning.
The six of us stood in front of the club, still yawning and rubbing our eyes as two jeeps came around the corner and pulled up. Liz was driving the first one, Captain Sherry the second.
“Good morning,” Liz said, a huge smile on her face. “I think you’ve all met Captain Sherry. He’s going to be your liaison for the next eight weeks.”
“Yes, good morning, we, uh . . . met briefly last night,” Captain Sherry said, his feelings of awkwardness about the situation apparent. His face was several shades of scarlet, and he could not even look in Blanche’s direction. “And no need to be formal. Please call me Guy, or Captain Guy, or whatever you like.”
We said our hellos, and Blanche’s jaw dropped open as she absorbed the news. Her blonde curls were disheveled, and she turned a shade of green, either from too much champagne or the shock of discovering her flirtation from the night before was going to be our new constant traveling companion. Frankie was so entertained by the whole situation that I elbowed her to tone it down a little. “Who’s riding with me?” Liz asked.