One Lavender Ribbon

September 1944

Dear Gracie,



Even as I write this, I am reluctant to pen the words. I have walked so many miles since I’ve been here, and thought of you with each step. You are what keeps me alive and keeps me moving forward when my heart would cry out to stop.

The camp is quiet, most are sleeping or what we’ve come to know as sleeping. Our numbers have diminished. There is constant shelling from the Germans. But it is not that which scares me. I think what frightens me the most is the dark hopelessness that stalks among the trees, lurking in the shadows. I dare not dwell on it. It is death. No less than a grenade, a strategic bullet, or artillery fire. We have become mechanical in our work. I think this is a blessing. When we watch a friend fall in battle, we grieve, then move on. There is no choice. We must keep moving on.

Gracie, I have a favor to ask of you and Sara. Please don’t give up. As long as I know the two of you believe in me, I am able to conquer any foe, be it one German foot soldier or the entire German Army.

Thank you for your last letter. I received it just as we were shipping out. When we invaded Normandy, other letters were lost, as was all of my gear when we made the jump. I am so sorry. Each one is golden to me. But I reread them in my mind over and over. It may be some time before our mail catches up to us again, but please have words for me. Tell me you love me, and remind me of home.

How is sweet Sara? Tell her I often think about the day I found her at the swimming hole. She’d been crying, and my heart went out to her. I’ve never known a more tender soul than sweet Sara. Please, Gracie, don’t forget to let her know that. If you see my parents, tell them I miss them. Like you, they didn’t want me to come here, but I will not let them down.

Gracie, you have all the love that’s in me.



Forever yours,

William



Adrienne tried to imagine where Grace had sat while she read the letters. Alone in her room? Outside by the shore? And Sara, the tender soul: How did she handle losing William, her friend, the one who found her crying at the swimming hole? Adrienne took a break from the letters to make a sandwich, focusing on William, not on Gracie’s betrayal. Soon, she found it easy to approach the letters with the same innocent wonder that first drew her to them and to the heroic stranger she read about.

Enjoying a peanut butter-and-jelly sandwich and cold milk on ice, her gaze fell on the phone directory, where she’d first discovered the address for William Bryant. Leaning against the sink, she balanced her weight on one foot and crossed the other in front of her, then stopped when she realized it was the same posture the man, William—Everyone calls me Will—Bryant had assumed when he stood at the doorway of his home in Naples. Slowly, she lifted the sandwich to her lips and took another bite.

Her mind drifted back to William Bryant, the war veteran. Each time a pebble landed in the water, there was a ripple effect. This was a ripple she wasn’t sure she could contain. But she knew it was inevitable. Sooner or later, she was going to go back to that house in Naples to knock on the door again. She was too nosy. If she didn’t go today, it was only a matter of time. And time, when an eighty-plus-year-old man was involved, was not to be wasted. At the end of the day, the letters belonged to William. He should have them.





William showered and made his way down the staircase to the library. He held onto the railing as he went, pressing his free hand over his left knee. Years ago he’d learned not to sleep with his good leg propped on his bad, but he must have turned onto his side in the middle of the night—this morning, his knee was screaming. He would attend to his garden later. With Will gone to work, he could spend a few hours reminiscing. Most days he’d study his family albums. Photos of Will as a kid, Charles and Peg, and his darling Betty. Sometimes he’d devote an entire day to one photo album. It was like reliving all the glorious events that made life the indescribable journey it was. But today, he’d revisit the war. He’d remember the friends he’d lost and thank God that his life was spared.


William settled into his grandson’s comfy library chair, pulling the desk lamp closer. He removed his reading glasses and rubbed them against the cotton of his shirt. Soft sunlight spilled into the room, warming the book in his hands. Not all memories were good, but they were all important. He pulled a book off the shelf and opened it, remembering how Charles had once asked him whether most of his memories of World War II were good or bad. He hadn’t known how to answer. So he hadn’t.

He thought back even further. He had lied about his age to enlist. When first approached about becoming a paratrooper, he had asked, “What’s that?”

The response came from Rick, a buddy from school who’d just signed up. “You’ll make more money.”

Well, more money meant more respect from Grace’s momma. So William Bryant joined the 101st Airborne. They were an elite group—not by design, but by their extensive training. When others rested, they climbed the hill. When others went on furlough or had weekend passes, they remained to train. What nearly killed them in training saved them in battle.

As with many soldiers in World War II, Normandy was forever carved in his mind. William had watched the plane in front of them get hit by flak, then fall from the sky like a child’s dropped rubber ball. His plane took casualties as bullets zinged through the open side door. Explosions lit up the sky, and he wondered morbidly how many paratroopers would hit the ground already dead.

When it was his turn, he jumped into darkness. He couldn’t see ocean or beach, but they were falling into hostile territory. No one knew who’d seen them or who would greet them on the ground. But each man knew it would not be the allies.

Normandy was the horrendous battle that it had, in recent years, been portrayed as. But for him, it failed by comparison to Bastogne, a battle that stretched on and on for the 101st. It wasn’t just the isolation, but the intense cold, the knowledge that they were surrounded by the German Army, who were far from beaten. By the time the 101st Airborne reached Bastogne, they were no longer the raw recruits they had been in Normandy. After that, they were battle toughened and physically ready to face any enemy. But nothing could have prepared them for Bastogne. The lack of winter gear in the freezing temperatures stole their focus, while starvation stole their morale.

And though he now knew he was safe, knew he was home, sometimes still he’d awaken, thinking he was there again, with the smell of winter pine and death filling his nostrils. Bastogne was as much a psychological battle as a physical one, and some wounds never healed.

Hours passed by. William leaned up from the library chair. Its padded leather seat had conformed to his frame, and as he rose, he realized he’d been there longer than he’d thought.

Sun-weathered hands attempted to rub the wrinkles from his face. He stretched, left the room, and moved slowly to the kitchen. It was important to remember all he’d been through. It made the good times, the good days, that much more precious. He had really spent little time thinking about the war. And he wasn’t sure why today it seemed so important, but he had learned not to question motives. If the heart needed to take that journey, it simply did. And today, his heart had needed to.

For years he’d stayed in contact with others from the 101st. But after his wife had passed away, five years earlier, he had just lost touch. Even with Leo. Leo wasn’t in the 101st, but he had introduced William to his then-future wife, Betty. They’d shared a long, happy marriage until her passing. He still missed her. Every single day.

Some nights he would even forget she wasn’t there. He’d awaken and roll over on his side to draw her near. Instead of her soft form, his hands would grasp only cold blankets. He’d pull them to his face, burying the pain. Yes, he still missed her and probably always would.

Stiffness slowly drained from his joints as he walked to the kitchen counter, where he leaned his weight. The wall clock ticked, its second hand making slow circles around the white face. It was 4:15 and Will would be home soon. William began pulling fresh vegetables from the refrigerator, humming as he did. It was good to be needed.





Will stepped into the kitchen. “How was your day, Pops?”

His grandfather placed a bunch of fresh-picked vegetables on the counter, examining them for signs of injury. “Fine. I’m glad you’re home. I was just starting dinner.”

Will gestured to the greens. “Are you going to inspect every leaf?”

Pops took as much pride in his garden as many men took in their children. Sometimes he would be out there for hours—meandering through the vegetables, checking for bugs, pulling weeds. Last summer Will had built him custom planters for the smaller veggies, so he didn’t have to bend over as far. He’d also built several resting spots, so Pops could relax and enjoy his time in the bountiful jungle of tall plants and tilled earth. Moist and rich, the fresh fragrance of whatever was ripe and blooming floated on the air.

Will wished he could share his grandfather’s fascination with the growing process, but he didn’t. When sent to the garden, he was usually frustrated that all the inhabitants weren’t fully ripened. It was irritating to him to have to search out the best ones. Pops had given strict instructions on how to squeeze, sniff, and feel to see whether a candidate was ready. But they all felt the same to Will. He avoided the garden as much as possible.

Pops, on the other hand, gloried in it. “I’m just glad there wasn’t any hail with the storm we got last week. It would have killed these.” He lifted a handful of lettuce greens to Will’s face and shook them at him. Particles of dirt fluttered to the open newspaper Pops had underneath them.

Will nodded, leaning back slightly. He placed his cell phone, car keys, and loose change on the side table that split the kitchen area and living room. “What can I do to help?” He squirted dish soap into his hands and scrubbed them under the kitchen faucet.

“I’ve got it all under control,” Pops assured him. “I’m going to pick a few red peppers, then slip down to the dock and check on my crab traps.”

Will noticed the large pot of water on the stove. “I’ll go check the traps.”

“No, I have a certain order I do it in.” Pops winked. “You’d probably mess up my system.”

“Probably.” Pops did a lot of the housework. Will was constantly trying to help out, but he’d noticed how much more content the older man was when he was contributing like this. “So what should I do?”

“Why don’t you go upstairs and change, and sit and read that novel I bought you.” His eyes twinkled. Will used to love to read fiction, but over the years it had slipped away from him.

Why Pops felt it was important to become reacquainted with it, Will couldn’t fathom. When he took time to read for pleasure these days, he liked books on self-help. The Power of Positive Words in Business and How to Grow Your Field of Influence—these were the titles he preferred, not an adventure book about modern-day pirates on the high seas. But if it pleased Pops, he’d read the thing. “Sounds good.”

Pops faced him, smiling and nodding. “I’ll holler when dinner’s ready.”

“Okay, if you’re sure,” he said, as if he needed a little more convincing, “I mean, I feel guilty sitting and reading while you’re down here working so hard.”


Pops beamed. “You’ve worked hard all day. I’m just throwing dinner together.” He brushed a hand through the air dismissively, but couldn’t disguise his pleasure.

Will watched him leave through the back door, humming and swinging the crab bucket. What would he ever do without Pops? Will grabbed a bottle of ice-cold water and started up the stairs. After all, he had an exciting high-adventure pirate novel waiting for him.





Adrienne hated admitting it, but she’d driven by the house twice since last week, when she was so rudely dismissed by Will Bryant, bank boy. She paused in front of the home, with her heart picking up beats. An admirable garden stretched alongside. Her vantage point gave her a good view, so she admired it, hoping to kick up the courage to go to the door again.

The garden was full and lush and reminded her of the one she had in Chicago, but on a much grander scale. It was anchored by a picket fence that enclosed it in priceless oasis fashion. Tall stalks of a variety of vegetables reached toward the sky. Dots of red, gold, yellow, and purple were visible from under their protective leaves. She tried to count the number of different types of vegetables, but couldn’t. There were raised boxes of herbs and ground cover plants, birdbaths, and benches. And the whole thing looked like something you might see in the French countryside. Even from her car she could smell the mint that nestled in one corner.

The scent brought back memories of Chicago—good memories for a change. There were a few things she missed about the Windy City. Her garden topped the list. Then, of course, the museums. She could sit for hours and watch history collide with the present—schoolchildren strolling through the Middle Ages, young couples in love admiring the raw diamonds. Her parents had come to visit her one spring. What had her father said about museums? Oh, yes, God’s family photo album.

She’d left a few friends in the city as well. But no really close friends. Eric had discouraged her from getting too close to anyone. And the friends she’d left behind would probably have little to nothing in common with her now. The circle of five girls that got together once a week for lunch spent their time discussing what was happening in town, the new theater shows, who had gotten the best deal on a Prada bag or Chanel dress, where the new sushi bar was opening. Adrienne’s gaze drifted down over her T-shirt and jeans. If they could see me now. It was strange that she didn’t miss them more. But she did miss her garden.

She continued to admire the beautifully landscaped, custom wooden boxes of herbs, flowers, and the greenery. She might be able to build a smaller version.

That’s when she saw him.

Fifty yards beyond the garden on the dock stood a man just about the age she was looking for. She threw the car into park and shaded her eyes with her hand. The evening mist came with the low sun, sneaking up the end of the pier and almost encasing him. It was like a painting, a masterpiece half hidden in the mist’s shadow. But the man. He alone was what caused her heart to stop. In what seemed like slow motion, he worked, dragging something up out of the water. Hand over hand, he tugged a drenched rope.

As if he sensed being watched, he turned just enough for her to catch his profile. He was taller than she’d imagined and extremely fit for a man who’d seen so many decades. He worked the rope into a circle on the dock, where little droplets of water pooled on the wooden planks; the motion caused him to face her.

Her fingers shook and something dropped into the pit of her stomach. On shaky legs, Adrienne left the safety of her car. Without thinking about it, or what she might say, or anything, her feet carried her toward him. Past the house, past the vegetable garden with its sharp scent of herbs and earth. She didn’t care that she was trespassing. She walked to the edge of the pier, barely noticing the luxurious boat moored there, for her gaze stayed fixed on William.

He pulled in what looked to her like some kind of trap, seemingly unaware that she was standing there as he dropped the trap’s contents into a bucket and hoisted the container. He turned fully, as if to head home, but jolted when he saw her. Adrienne’s hand flew into her pocket where the photo lay. She stared at it, then back at him. The decay of time had taken its toll, but there was no denying the strong chin, structured features, and high brow.

William.

A friendly smile animated his face. “Evening, young lady. How can I help you?”

This was it. It was him. “I believe I’m looking for you. William Bryant.” There was more answer than question as his name rolled off her tongue. More star-struck wonder than she would have thought.

Kind eyes searched her face, a hint of a frown deepening the lines between his brows. “Do we know each other? I’m sorry, I don’t recognize you.”

“I recognize you.” She reached into her pocket and held the photo out to him. “But not from your picture. From the letters.”

Ever so slowly he took the photo from her. She watched sixty years of memories flood him, and for an instant, Adrienne was sure her coming was a mistake.

He sat the bucket down gently. Angry crabs bumped and knocked at the sides as he gazed upon his past. Beyond them, the boat rocked, canal water slapping against it. Crickets were beginning their nightly song, their sound intensifying as night fell. Finally, he spoke. “You said you recognized me from my letters?”

She nodded and was struck with the very real possibility that he would have no interest in talking to her. A wave of anxiety washed over. Maybe he would want to retrieve the letters and bid her good-bye.

Of course, that was supposed to be okay. But now that she was here, face to face, the idea of leaving without having even one conversation with this man scared her.

Tender blue eyes, watery from age, studied her as if he read her thoughts. “I think we must have a lot to talk about.”

Adrienne sighed relief.

He motioned in front of them toward his back door, just up a slight hill from the pier. As the fog closed in and drained color from the surrounding world, they made their way to the back of the house, with William pressing a hand against his left knee with each step.

They reached the back porch, but Adrienne paused in hesitation, recalling the conversation only a week before with the other William Bryant.

“Something wrong, dear?” He pulled the door open.

“Yes,” she said quietly. “Last week I knocked on the front door. The man there was less than forthcoming about your whereabouts.”

He frowned for a quick second. “That’s Will, my grandson. He’s got a heart of gold but tends to be a little overprotective.”

Heart of gold, yeah, right. “Well, I don’t think he’ll be happy I’m here. He was pretty quick to get rid of me.”

“Nonsense.” He shooed her into the kitchen while crabs smacked the sides of the bucket. “We can talk while I fix dinner. Would that be okay?”

“Um, yes.” Adrienne raised and dropped her hands. “That would be fine.”

They went inside, and he reached for a stack of newspapers and handed some to Adrienne. She copied him, spreading the papers across the kitchen table, noticing the difference between her hands—smooth and with fingertips tinted by wood stain, and his—wrinkled and age-spotted, with swollen, arthritic knuckles. Somehow, he managed an air of strength despite the obvious frailty.

She couldn’t believe she was here. With him. With William. The same man who had invaded Normandy. The same man who had nearly frozen and starved at Bastogne. The man who never gave up. But the most remarkable thing about it—he was everything she’d imagined. Men like him really did exist. Even if they were from generations ago.