One Lavender Ribbon

October 1944

Dear Gracie,



Something I’ve learned while being here is that a man must have clear vision. Sometimes I wonder what keeps the others going. You keep me going, Grace. The thought of your smile when we’d watch the dolphins play along the sandbar, the wind in your hair, the shimmer of sun on your skin. This would be an impossible task if it weren’t for those things. They reach to me, Gracie. Even though you’re so far away, I relive your smile, I relive your touch. Over and over I see you there, standing before me, your arms outstretched and waiting. That image keeps me alive.

I look at Rick and Chuck and the others, and I wonder. Do they have a Gracie back home? Someone who powers their ability to get up, keep moving? I won’t lie to you. There’ve been times my heart failed me and I wanted to give up. But you are the strength I lean on, the power that fuels me, from my heart to my mind, to every limb of my body.

Love is a peculiar thing, I think, lending its persuasiveness to every area of a man and giving him the fortitude to live, to thrive, to survive. Thank you for the treasure that is you. Thank you for giving me vision. And most of all, Grace, thank you for loving me.



All my heart,

William



She sighed and smiled. A light breeze lifted Adrienne’s hair from her shoulders, dragging the humidity of summer with it, but she didn’t mind. This was her home now. She watched as a tiny green frog dove off the end of her back deck. There was much to love about southern Florida. Come to think of it, she really didn’t miss Chicago at all.





Ryan, hi,” Adrienne said, eyes wide, pulling the door open. She hadn’t expected him to drop by.

Three months before, she had met him on this very porch for the first time, after a long, fitful night’s sleep in a huge house that creaked and moaned its own lullaby. Her hair had been a mess, and the sofa she’d slept on had left its imprint on her cheek. She’d pulled the door open to find a muscled, tan grad student stuffed into a Florida State T-shirt, claiming to be one of Mary Lathrop’s friends. And so a sort of relationship began. First he’d invited her out with some of his friends. Being lonely, she’d taken the invite after a few panicked hours of consideration. Ryan had been patient with her, treating her more like a friend than a date on numerous occasions. Then the big crowds became smaller, until it was just the two of them. Eeeeeaaaase into dating, her dad had told her. Ryan had seen to that. There’d always be a soft place in her heart for him.

“Hey,” he said easily as she motioned for him to come inside. He was still muscular. Still tan. Because they had discussed the boundaries of their relationship, it shouldn’t make her uncomfortable that he was here, but it sent little tremors of doubt through her. Adrienne—horrible at confrontation—didn’t want to have to figure out their friendship again.


“I was at the coffee shop the other morning, and Sammie told me about all the progress you’ve made on the house.”

What a relief. It’s just a friendly visit to check out the ongoing project. Excitement overtook any lingering apprehension. “Do you want to look around?”

He nodded and gave her a dazzling smile. He inspected the living room and glanced into the kitchen. “You’ve transformed this place. It doesn’t seem like the same house.”

The living room walls were painted a rich buttery color and the chair rail had received a crisp, new coat of white. She had stripped the ornate fireplace mantel to reveal hand-carved mahogany that, now stained, seemed to glow. In every corner, she’d found the home’s expression, the room’s personality. It was evolving into a masterpiece far beyond her expectations. Adrienne couldn’t hide her delight. “I never really thought I could do it. And there is still a lot of work to be done, but I really think I’m going to be able to pull it off.” She didn’t mind enlisting the help of professionals whenever a job was too daunting, but she hadn’t given up and called in a general contractor like Eric had told her she would. He’d ridiculed her relentlessly when she told him she would spend her divorce settlement money on a dilapidated Victorian monster poised on the Gulf of Mexico.

After a closer examination of the kitchen and discussing what was left to do there, she offered Ryan a glass of iced tea and gestured toward the back deck. Opening the French door caused sea air to slam into Ryan and pushed him closer to Adrienne. She sidestepped and dropped into a lawn chair. They sat and watched waves rush up the shore, chasing tiny birds searching for a meal. She could hear some families farther down the beach. Now and then, she allowed her gaze to drift over to Ryan. Gone was that schoolgirl fluttery feeling, she realized, and was thankful for that. In its place was just the genuine warmth of seeing a friend.

After a few minutes of silence, Ryan turned to her. “So tell me about the letters.”

Shocked, Adrienne threw a look his way. Sammie must have told him. Of course, she hadn’t asked her not to tell anyone; she’d just expected it. The battle within her began. At first she was reluctant to talk about William Bryant and his story, but as she sat there thinking about war and bravery, it became clear that his was a story that needed to be heard. It was beautiful. It was inspiring.

Over the next hour, she shared William’s life with Ryan. Ryan listened, occasionally asking a question, and had actually inserted some interesting facts and tidbits of information. He was a World War II buff. “He’s a war hero, Adrienne. The real deal.”

She loved the fact that others found William as intriguing as she did. But something had consistently plagued her thoughts after meeting him three nights ago: Grace and the fact she’d continued to write William even though she’d fallen in love with someone else. The last letter was dated 1945. Grace had continued to write for close to two years. Maybe it was as simple as Gracie wanting to have a backup plan if her new love didn’t work out. “I got to meet him, you know.”

“You mean William?” Ryan took a long drink of tea, cubes of ice clinking as he finished.

“Yes. And I’m going back. I have to pick up some granite samples in Naples tomorrow.”

“So you’re going to go with granite after all?”

“Yes.” Adrienne had agonized over the decision. Beauty versus price and practicality, but in the end, her love of gourmet cooking outweighed any price factor. Even though it stretched her budget to the hilt and left no room for error, granite she would have.

Ryan wiped his hands on his shorts and reached for the letters sitting between them. He rifled through, the old pages delicately and more interested in their contents than her counter choice. “So what’s he like?”

“Old. And amazing. As amazing as his letters. Listen to this.” She took the stack from him and searched for one. “Their company was being moved from one location to another. They stopped in a village that had been abandoned. They only had a few hours to rest.” She unfolded the letter and began to read.

We’d been walking for eleven hours. Though paratroopers are jumpers, we’ve put more miles on our boots than a lot of foot soldiers. It was a cool night, but not cold. The beauty of the French countryside surrounded us. Had it not been for the remnants of battle, it would have been the most picturesque place I’ve ever seen. It had been two days since most of us had slept, so being allowed a seven-hour break was a welcome gift.

Then we saw her. She was standing in the doorway of a home that, like the others, had been all but destroyed by the constant shelling that had caused the evacuation of the town. She was a pretty girl, Gracie, reminding me of what Sara may look like in a few years. There were cuts on her arms, but her wounds seemed superficial. We wondered if she’d been left behind accidentally.

We could see she wanted to run, but she stood firm as we moved toward her. She picked up a broom handle as if she would take on the whole lot of us if she needed to. Amos made his way to her first. Being from Louisiana, he spoke some French, so we were able to discover why she was there. Once sure we meant her no harm, she pleaded with us to help her. An elderly woman lay in the small bedroom. The young girl explained that she had been too sick to move, so they stayed there despite the order to evacuate. It got into all our hearts.

Gracie, always remember when one is confronted with a random act of kindness that is neither expected nor ordinary, one is obligated to meet that kindness and exceed it if possible.

So that’s what we did. Taking turns, we repaired the roof of her house. The war was nearing its completion, or so we had been told. If we could leave her with enough food for a couple months, she might have a chance. Doc, our medic, examined the girl’s grandmother. He left her with some medicine. Most of us only got a couple hours of sleep that night, but what we’d accomplished in that few hours rejuvenated us unlike sleep ever could. It might even be enough to keep us going for the remainder of the war. We’ve brought so much death, bringing life replaced a bit of what we’d lost.

“Read that part again about a random act of kindness.” Ryan leaned his weight on the chair arm.

Adrienne didn’t have to read it. She’d probably read it a hundred times and now could quote it without looking. She dropped the paper to her lap. “When one is confronted with a random act of kindness that is neither expected nor ordinary, one is obligated to meet that kindness and exceed it if possible.”

“I’ve never heard anyone talk like that,” Ryan admitted, tilting his face to the setting sun.

“People should, though. And live by it as well.”

Ryan nodded, leaning back in the flower print cushion on the Adirondack chair. Silence fell over them as they watched a shrimp boat slide across the horizon.

“Can I tell you something?” Adrienne said.

Ryan angled to look at her.

“Meeting him, reading his letters . . . it’s changing me.” She pressed a hand to her heart. “I don’t think I ever thought of love as a force, a thing that gives you power.”

Ryan chuckled.

“Sounds stupid, right?” Her eyes rolled.

“Not if it’s how you feel.” Ryan leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. “Tell me about this force, Adrienne.”


She shrugged. “I can’t. It’s elusive.”

“Like the green flash?”

Adrienne had heard of the phenomenon that happened on the beach just as the sun set. A green flash, shooting across the horizon and lasting only a couple of seconds. She’d watched the sunset almost every night and had never seen it. “Maybe even more elusive than that. But I’ll keep watching for it. I had just about given up on love before the letters. I guess that’s how they’re changing me.”

Ryan leaned back, placed his head against the chair and shut his eyes. “Good. You need it.”

“Ryan!”

“What?”

“That’s . . . that’s not very nice to say.” The wind kicked up, annoying little fingerlings of air tossing her hair in too many directions. She gathered it at her nape and trapped the strands against the chair back.

“We’re friends, right? So I should be able to talk freely.” He paused for half a second. “You’re an amazing woman, Adrienne. Some dude is going to be lucky to snag you. But fact is, that jerk in Chicago really did a number on you. So if love is like the green flash, and you’ve started watching for it again, good for you. You needed it.”

Adrienne blinked, unsure what surprised her the most: the fact that she and Ryan were having this conversation or the fact that she kept surrounding herself with blunt people who apparently had no filter on their mouths. She sighed, leaned forward, shook her head violently, and let the wind have its way. “You’re right.”

“So, let those letters work their magic.”

Adrienne settled more deeply into her chair and closed her eyes, copying Ryan’s posture. “They are, Ryan. Believe me. They are.”





Adrienne sat in the dark in the first bedroom at the top of the stairs. This was the smallest of the three bedrooms and, like the others, displayed circa 1930s wallpaper. The crown molding framing the room was painted white but had darkened as years rolled by and time left its mark. This would be the first bedroom she’d remodel, she decided. She had finished much of the downstairs, and it was time to begin the upstairs projects. But that’s not why she sat here now.

It had been two weeks since she had first met William Bryant and his irritating grandson. She had returned his letters, but not before making a copy, and then visited while Will was at work. William had invited her back. The two of them struck up a friendship, and she’d returned to visit him four times since. Over the course of time, Adrienne noticed something. He talked more about Sara than he did about Grace.

Adrienne forced Grace from her mind, but couldn’t erase Sara so easily. William spoke of her often. She’d heard so much about the sassy tomboy, she felt as though she knew her.

Plunked down on the bed with her arms spread wide, she closed her eyes and imagined her house a half century earlier. This was Sara’s room, she was sure. Sara was the sports lover, and Adrienne discovered marks on the wall in the corner of the room where someone had repeatedly bounced a ball enough times to leave rings on the wall and an impression on the hardwood floor.

Sara loved basketball, according to the letters, and at the time of William’s departure was hoping to grow tall enough to play with the boys who met every afternoon at the park on the corner.

Suddenly reminded of her own childhood, Adrienne sprang from the bed and flipped on the light.

She examined the doorframes. Her long fingers slid up one doorjamb, scanning as she went, and down the next, looking for the telltale markings she hoped to find.

Children were always intrigued with how much they’d grown. Adrienne’s father used to hold a ruler to her head, stand her against the wall, and make a tiny mark, dating it, and she would read each date in awe of how much taller she’d become. At first, Adrienne’s mom had been angry that her father was marking up the doorframe. But she’d quickly softened as she watched her child grow up before her eyes. Within a year, it was Adrienne’s mom who was calling her over to study the makeshift growth chart.

After working her way around the room and finding nothing, she thought about Sara’s mom. She would have been furious if she’d discovered her daughter had written on the wall. Adrienne’s eyes fell on the closet.

She pulled the closet door open and tugged the string on the solitary light. The dusty bulb threw a muted glow into the small empty space. Adrienne had to step completely inside to find the notches she was looking for. Standing where Sara’s clothes once hung, there they were.

The marks contained no years. Instead, each scribbled line denoted a day and a month. Sara had grown between January and March. But after April, her growth seemed to slow. Then a jump in July. That mark put her close to Adrienne’s height. She ran her fingers over the lines, then dropped her weight against the back wall of the closet. The stillness closed around her. She thought about life in the forties. What was it like to be a girl who loved to play ball and fish with live worms? Sure, that was accepted behavior now, but had not been as much back then.

Sara’s mom probably hated it. From all Adrienne could gather, Sara’s mom wanted girly girls with ribbons and bows and lace. How did she handle having a tomboy for a daughter? Probably not well at all. Adrienne pulled in a breath, tugged her weight off the back wall, and wished she knew more about Sara. As if some great power heard her plea, the rusty nail found its way into her foot.

Adrienne felt the raw sensation of tearing flesh at the same time she tripped. She caught herself by the doorjamb, fingers tight over Sara’s growth marks. She glanced down at her bare feet, already knowing by the pain in her left heel what had happened.

The bathroom door was only a few hobbles away. She walked on her toes, bearing as little weight on the injured heel as possible. With her foot propped against the sink and counter, she cleaned the fresh cut. It wasn’t deep, so Adrienne poured on rubbing alcohol, sucked in air through her teeth, and wondered how sore it would be the next day. A square bandage covered the wound.

Leaving the bathroom, she discovered a neat red trail of dots from the bath to the bedroom. “Great,” she muttered, and snagged an old towel from beneath the sink. She kept a good stash of ratty towels there because she was constantly filthy from the remodel. She’d ruined a set of expensive ones by thinking her hands were clean after refitting a pipe in the kitchen. Blue gunk still decorated that washcloth and hand towel.

Adrienne dropped to her knees at the first bead of blood. She scrubbed each as she moved along, her heel throbbing its own conga beat as she went and her knees screaming for kneepads. At least she didn’t have to get a tetanus shot. That little journey had taken place one week after arrival, when a loose nail in the shutters ripped her arm open.

When the last droplet was cleaned—or at least smeared into the pockmarked wood floor enough to be unnoticeable—she stopped at the closet door again to catch her breath. Tiny beads of sweat popped out across her forehead and caused her hair to stick to her temples. Once she was inside the closet, she saw the nail protruding near a final spot of her blood. She moved in carefully, no longer trusting the wood floor, and rubbed the rag against the stain, cautious not to catch her finger on the evil nail.

Loose wood shifted under the pressure of the hand towel. At first, Adrienne thought nothing of the creak, creak, creak sound it made. But something stopped her. She shifted her weight and noticed there were three nails in the floor that looked like they’d been removed and replaced many times. Hair hung in her face, obscuring portions of her view, so she gathered the strands on one side, spun them into a rope, and tucked it beneath the collar of her shirt.


The old plank flooring of the closet was a mix of short scrap pieces. Two pieces were loose enough to wiggle back and forth beneath the wobbly nails. She reached to the protruding spike that had snagged her foot and grabbed it. It slid out easily.

Adrienne adjusted to a more comfortable position and reached between the ill-fitting planks to get a decent grip. The first pulled up easily, groaning as it did. A gaping hole stared back. It was about six inches wide and ten inches long. Though it was covered in dust and cobwebs, she could see the distinct shape of something hidden inside.

She pushed the door open more to illuminate the space and cast a light into the shadowy hole. Brushing aside thoughts of spiders and other creepy crawlies, she reached under the other plank and tugged. It groaned, but wouldn’t give. She readjusted herself on her knees and tugged again. It moved only slightly, but it was enough to fuel her intent, so she rocked the plank back and forth until it finally gave up the battle. The scent of dust and decay rose.

Adrienne used her forearm to push back the hair that had escaped. Pieces were matted to her wet brow where even more sweat had accumulated in her struggle. She set this plank on the floor by the first one and reached into the hole.

The book was sheathed in a light cotton material that could once have been a piece of a bedsheet or part of an old dress. The cotton, though threadbare and decomposing, had kept the book safe for a very long time. Dust rose as she unwrapped it and examined the front cover.

It held no lock and looked to be an inexpensive journal. Brittle pages clicked as she pulled the book open to examine its inside cover. It was stiff from years of disuse, but the words were legible and clear. The front cover sported the name she had hoped she would find.

Adrienne hobbled from the room and down the stairs. Maybe she would get all her questions answered now. Maybe this would help her understand about Gracie and her bitter betrayal. And maybe Adrienne could get to know Sara from these pages.

Once at the table, Adrienne flipped the book open and hoped to find page after page of Sara’s thoughts.

Writing on page one. Two. Adrienne frowned, her fingers gliding through more pages, empty pages. Her eyes scanned as if her intensity could will words and thoughts into the book. Writing on page three. Her nose tickled with so much dust and she wriggled it, not wanting to sneeze.

Disappointment worked its way through her system. Only a few pages at the front of the book had been written on. At least those might answer some questions, she assured herself. But after thirty minutes of reading the same four entries over and over, Adrienne was more confused than ever.