Eric snorts a little through his nose.
“What?” I shoot, my hand on the door.
“Nothing.” With a slight shake of his head, Eric turns and heads up the stairs to a set of bedrooms I’ll never be a part of.
If I didn’t already feel awkward on the front steps of this house, that certainly did it. Getting into my car, I’m forced to chuckle a little at the absurdity of his request. I didn’t feel at home with Eric when we were married, never mind now. Still, come home, distracts me on my entire drive to the Soldiers’ Home.
“Sorry I’m late, guys.” Sitting in the free chair across from George and Marion, I let out what I hope to be the final sigh regarding Eric.
“I’m not goin’ anywhere,” George deadpans.
“Everything okay, Hon?” Marion eyes me carefully.
After staring at them for a few seconds, I realize I won’t get away with beating around the bush, so I dive in. I tell them about my conversation with Eric this morning and how it’s completely thrown me off balance, given its origins somewhere in left field.
“I’ve done nothing to make him think we’d be getting back together . . .” Finishing my story I look to both of them for insight.
Marion grins. “Don’t let it get you down. It’s just a little distraction . . . like Evie.”
“Oh for the love of . . . really, Marion?” George groans.
“Evie?” I question, looking between the two of them.
“Here we go . . .” George murmurs, picking up a magazine and thumbing through it as an apparent effort to escape from the conversation.
Ignoring his childish display, Marion faces me. “Evie was George’s high school girlfriend, before he came to his senses.” She casts a sideways glance to George, but he doesn’t bite. “Anyway,” she continues, “George and I had been together for quite a while by the time he went to Korea, but that didn’t stop Evie from sending him letters.”
Arching my eyebrow, my mouth flies open.
“See?” Marion gestures toward me, looking at George.
George shakes his head but doesn’t look up from his pretend reading session. “I never wrote her back, Marion.”
“That’s not the point,” Marion and I say at the same time. She laughs, and I catch George smile, too.
Looking back to Marion, I ask, “How’d you find out?”
“I found them in a box a few months after he got home and we were moving into our house.”
“What’d you do?”
“I’ll tell you what she did.” George sets his magazine down, defeated at his attempt to avoid participation. “Marion knocked on Evie’s door—”
“I’ll finish,” Marion cuts in. “I politely went to her house and informed her that while it was nice of her to try to keep my future husband company while he was in Korea, now that he was home, he no longer needed her friendship services. And I turned on my heels and walked away.”
Laughter flies out of me at the thought of tiny Marion taking down an opportunist, 1950’s style.
“Did you ever hear from her again?” I ask, wiping laughter-induced tears from under my eyes.
“Not a word.” Marion sits back, crosses her arms, and offers me a stern nod. “Sometimes you just have to nip those things right in the bud. You did good with what you said to Eric today, Dear.”
“Did you throw the letters away?”
Marion shakes her head. “Goodness, no. They’re his—wasn’t my place. You bet your behind I thought about it six or seven . . . hundred times over the last sixty years. But, I have his letters to me, and that’s the point.”
I stay for lunch with George and Marion, and we talk about upcoming holiday plans before I drive in refreshed quiet back to my apartment.
Sifting through my mail as I walk up the stairs, I stop at a large envelope addressed to me in my mother’s handwriting. We haven’t spoken since the boys’ birthday party; any communication has been through my father. I felt her apology was just this side of half-assed, and she clearly felt the same or she wouldn’t be avoiding me. Opening the envelope, I find a note and another envelope. I sit as I take in her words.
Natalie,
I’ve had a long time to think since our talk at Max and Oliver’s birthday party. You’re a strong young woman who I’m proud to call my daughter. Your father tells me he’s been speaking with Bill Manning via e-mail for the last ten years. He’s shown me some of the correspondence, and I’m sorry. I misjudged you, and I misjudged Ryker. You two have been through so much, and I’m sorry for any stress I added to the situation.