On Distant Shores (13 page)

Manhattan
October 4, 1943

Apartment 315. Georgie lifted the door knocker and paused.

Hutch said Phyllis worked the swing shift, so Georgie came in the morning to make sure the woman was home. She needed to meet her.

After a quick prayer, she rapped the door knocker and stepped back and gazed at Hutch’s neat square handwriting on the package. This would be her last connection to him. She’d memorized his Army Post Office number without wanting to, but she would never write him.

The door swung open. A tall brunette in a red suit looked Georgie up and down. “Yeah?”

The girl needed a demonstration of good Southern manners. Georgie set her most charming smile in place. “Good morning. Is Phyllis home?”

“Phyllis? She hasn’t lived here in over a year.”

Georgie frowned. How could Hutch be using a year-old address?

“That for her?” The brunette tapped the brown paper. “She comes by every day to pick up mail. She moved up to the fifth floor when she got married.”

“Married? I must have the wrong address, the wrong Phyllis.” She glanced down the hallway. “I was afraid I’d get lost in this big ol’ city, and I guess I did.”

The girl peered at the package. “Nah, that’s right. Phyllis Chilton. Well, it’s Phyllis Richards now.”

Georgie stared, her mouth drifting open, her face tingling. That couldn’t be. How could she be married? She was engaged to Hutch. To poor . . . poor Hutch.

“What’s the matter?” The brunette squinted at the writing again, then up to Georgie with understanding in her brown eyes. “It’s from him. He keeps writing, the poor sap. You know him?”

“We served together in Italy. He—he doesn’t know she’s married.”

“You all right, miss? You want to sit down? Have some coffee?”

Georgie managed a faint smile at the sign of manners. “No, thank you. How long ago did she get married?”

“Let’s see, June of last year.” She leaned against the doorjamb. “Ted was her supervisor at the shipyard, lives here in the building. They started dating about a month after your pal there shipped out. Edwina and I had it out with her. She said Ted made her laugh and forget her troubles. It sure didn’t take long for her to flip blonde head over high heels.”

Georgie traced Hutch’s handwriting on the package, her heart aching for him. “They’ve been married over a year?”

“Baby must be about four months old.”

“Baby?” She clapped her hand over her mouth. “Poor Hutch.”

The brunette crossed her arms. “Edwina and I told her to tell the man, but she wouldn’t listen. She read some magazine article saying nothing’s more dangerous on the front lines
than when a man gets a Dear John letter. She thinks it’s her patriotic duty to keep up morale.”

To keep up morale? Through lies? How could adding betrayal to heartbreak be good for Hutch’s morale?

The brunette motioned to the package. “Want me to take that? She’ll come by later.”

Tingles transformed to sparks. How dare the woman treat sweet, steady Hutch with such contempt? “You said she lives in the building. I’ll deliver it myself.”

“Apartment 534.” Her voice perked up. “Ooh, I wish I could watch.”

Georgie lifted her chin. “Dear Mrs. Ted Richards is about to get a dose of Southern charm at its most lethal.”

The brunette grinned. “I hope it’s more effective than New York brass.”

“Much more effective.” Georgie strode down the hallway. She took all her heartache for Hutch, her righteous indignation, and her outrage, and stirred them in her heart until they formed the gooiest, sweetest, deadliest syrup.

At Apartment 534, Georgie whacked the door knocker. She could still see Hutch sharing his photograph of Phyllis, the love and pride in his eyes.

Footsteps approached, and the door opened. “Yes?”

Tall like Hutch said. Pretty and blonde like in her photograph. A bit plumper in the face, and she’d cut her hair from shoulder-length to just below her chin.

Her last hope for a case of mistaken identity crumbled, but she bolstered her spirits and flung on a grin. “Phyllis, honey! Oh my goodness! It’s wonderful to see you.”

Alarm flashed in her eyes, quickly replaced with the polite stiff smile of someone who can’t remember the name of a friend.

Good. Georgie hugged her. “You look great. Motherhood
suits you. And I love your hair shorter like that. Just darling.” She pulled back and fluffed Phyllis’s hair.

“It—it’s wonderful to see you too.” Her gaze skittered around Georgie’s face, desperate to recognize her.

She sashayed into the apartment, which was tastefully and simply decorated. “So where’s that little sweet baby of yours?”

“The baby? He—he’s napping.”

“Isn’t that a shame? Well, maybe he’ll awake by the time we finish catching up. Oh, we have so much to talk about, don’t we, honey?” Georgie settled into a sage-green sofa and set the package beside her. “Is Ted at work?”

“Uh, yes. He’s at work.” Phyllis lowered herself into an armchair, perched on the edge, and smoothed the skirt of her bottle-green shirtwaist dress. She coordinated nicely with her furniture, although her phony smile made the scene less picturesque.

“And you?” Georgie leaned forward and shone her most winsome smile. “Are you still working at the shipyard?”

“Not since—not since we got married.”

Another lie she’d told Hutch. “I’m so glad you can be a good wife and take care of your husband. It’s what you always wanted.”

“Yes.” Creases formed in her forehead, and she twisted her hands in her lap. “And look at you. A nurse. In the . . . Navy?”

If she hadn’t broken Hutch’s heart, Georgie would have felt sorry for her discomfort. “Army Air Forces. I’m a flight nurse.”

“Flight nurse? How exciting. I read an article about that. And you’ve always . . . well, I’m sure that’s exciting for you. I—I hadn’t heard.”

Georgie tilted her head. “No, I suppose you wouldn’t have.”

Phyllis’s upper lip twitched. “No, I hadn’t heard.”

“I’m sure you’re surprised.” Georgie crossed the room
to the fireplace. “But can you imagine how surprised I am? After everything Hutch has said, and here I find you married with a little ol’ baby. Heavens!” She picked up a framed photograph of a light-haired young man. “Is this Ted? Oh, he’s handsome, isn’t he?”

“Hu—Hutch?”

“John Hutchinson.” Georgie cocked her head and smiled. “Remember him? Your fiancé?”

“You—you know John?”

She pressed her hand to her cheek. “Didn’t I mention that? Silly me. We served together in Sicily and Italy. He sent that package over there with his
love
.”

Phyllis’s face went ghostly white. “It’s not—”

“You know how much that boy talks about you?” Georgie flapped her hand. “He’s simply crazy about you. He talks about how much he loves you, how much he misses you, how he can’t wait to come home and marry you. Isn’t he in for a big ol’ surprise?”

“You—you don’t understand.”

“You’re right, I don’t.” Georgie planted her fists on her hips. “Sugar, I don’t know how y’all do things up here, but down South where I come from, bigamy is illegal.”

Twin spots of red bloomed on her cheeks. “I’ll tell him when he comes home.”

“Oh no. You’ll tell him now.”

Phyllis gasped. “I couldn’t. I can’t tell him in a letter. That would be tacky.”

“Tacky? Tackier than marrying one man when you’re engaged to another?”

“You don’t understand.” She stood and turned to the window, facing another apartment building. “I was so lonely when John shipped out, so sad and worried. And I was angry at him for not marrying me. Ted asked me out dancing to
keep up my spirits, just as friends. We didn’t mean to fall in love. We just did.”

“And it simply slipped your mind to inform Hutch about your change of name, address, and marital status?”

Phyllis swiped away a tear and glared at Georgie over her shoulder. “I’m not completely heartless. I do care about him. That’s why I didn’t tell him.”

Georgie gazed over at the lamp. Ugly fringed thing. “You’re right. When I want to show my boyfriend I care, I lie to him.”

“Don’t you understand?” She wheeled around, a panicky look on her face. “Don’t you know how dangerous a Dear John letter is? I read an article that said soldiers are twice as likely to be wounded after they receive one. I couldn’t do that to him. And letters are the biggest factor in morale. Don’t you know that? John says my letters are the best part of his life. How could I take that away? The one thing that makes him happy? The Army’s stripped him of everything else that brings him joy.”

Georgie stared at the sincerity on the woman’s face. She honestly believed she’d done the right thing. She’d acted out of patriotism and concern.

But none of that excused her actions. Not only had she cheated on Hutch, but she’d lied to him for over a year, teasing him with the dream of one life while happily living another life.

Georgie raised a smile dripping with syrup. “Aren’t you patriotic, writing the boys overseas? Your hubby must be proud of you.”

Her gaze darted to the sofa. “I—he doesn’t know.”

“Hmm.” Georgie crossed her arms. “Well, sugar, you have yourself a decision to make. Today you’ll ’fess up to Hutch or ’fess up to hubby.”

“Oh, I couldn’t do either.”

“But you will. You’ll write to Hutch and tell him the truth. Or I’ll make myself comfortable and wait until dear Ted comes home so I can tell him his wife is still exchanging love letters with her fiancé.”

Phyllis stared Georgie down. “Who do you think you are? Marching into my home and ordering me around?”

“I’m a friend. A friend of a man who’s been nothing but faithful all his life.” She sauntered over to a desk. “Is this where you wrote all those romantic letters to Hutch? The letters saying how much you love him and miss him and can’t wait to marry him?”

“That’s quite enough.”

“You’re right. It is. Now make your choice. Tell Hutch or tell Ted.” She opened a drawer. “Look. Isn’t that the prettiest stationery? Here, I’ll set up for you. Your stationery, an envelope, your pen. Have a seat, sugar pie. Time to write one last masterpiece.”

Phyllis stomped over and sat so hard the chair creaked. “If anything happens to John, it’s your fault.”

“Yes, you keep telling yourself that.” Georgie sat on the edge of the desk and smoothed her dark blue uniform skirt over her knees. “Oh, don’t mind me, sweetie pie. You just write your little ol’ letter. I’ll help you start . . . ‘Dear John—’”

She gasped. “I never start my letters that way.”

“How else would you start? ‘My dearest darling’? That wouldn’t be appropriate.” Georgie waved her hand over the paper. “Go ahead. Don’t let me make you nervous.”

“Fine.” Phyllis put pen to paper.

“Oh dear. It’s not October 3. It’s October 4.”

Icy blue eyes. “Do you mind?”

“Of course not. I don’t mind at all. I love to help people.” She batted her eyelashes.

Phyllis wrote hard for several minutes in chilly silence. “I
told him this was your idea. Some friend you are, breaking his heart and crushing his morale.”

“Please tell him that. And tell him Georgie said hi.”

“Be quiet so I can finish.” A few more lines and she folded the paper.

“I’d better proofread that for you.” She snatched it from the blonde’s fingers and scanned the letter, finding nothing but the truth, although in shaky handwriting.

Phyllis stood and held out her hand for the letter. “You may leave now.”

“Address the envelope.” Georgie slipped off the desk. “I’ll mail this myself. We wouldn’t want you to misplace it or have the baby drool on it, would we?”

Phyllis pursed her lips and scrawled Hutch’s address on the envelope. “I don’t know who you are, but I don’t like you very much.”

“Aren’t you the sweetest thing?” Georgie took the envelope. “The feeling is mutual.”

“I’m sure you can find your own way out.”

“How kind of you. Thank you for your gracious hospitality.” She headed out the door before she could hear a retort.

As she trotted down the stairs, her hands began to shake. She paused on the second landing, leaned against the wall, and stared at the two pieces of paper. With a heavy heart, she slipped the letter inside the envelope and sealed it shut.

Sealed Hutch’s fate. Phyllis was right about one thing. The Army had stripped away everything that gave him joy. This letter would steal his last dream—the dream that had been snuffed out over a year earlier without his knowledge.

Georgie pressed the letter to her chest. “Lord, be with him.”

93rd Evacuation Hospital, Montella
October 5, 1943

Hutch slorped through the mud toward Bergie’s tent. Even the gooey mud couldn’t pull his spirits down. Snuggled inside his field jacket, his application for the Pharmacy Corps and his most recent letter from Phyllis warmed his heart.

For the first time in months, Phyllis sounded cheery. She and her roommates, Edwina and Betty Jo, had spent a country weekend in Connecticut with Edwina’s family, picking apples and glorying in the fall leaves. Edwina’s sister had a four-month-old baby boy, and Phyllis described his antics.

She’d be a great mother, gentle but firm, and maybe he’d have the honor of ushering her into motherhood in the near future.

Phyllis was his destiny. Georgie was a distraction, cute and perky and present, a crush issuing from his starved heart. But Phyllis was Rebekah to his Isaac.

And Bergie was Abraham’s faithful servant. Bergie had met Phyllis at the soda fountain, the modern equivalent of the well. He knew right away, deep in his heart, that she was the woman for Hutch, and he introduced them.

Hutch knew it too. With Georgie gone, he could see clearly again.

Still, he prayed for Georgie—for God to see her through her grief and guide her decisions. Knowing she’d be home with her family and Ward eased his concerns. She’d be loved and supported, as she deserved.

Hutch counted the pyramidal tents in the officers’ area. Back in Philly, he didn’t have to knock to enter the Bergstrom home. But in Italy, rank separated him from his best friend.

He peered inside the tent. Bergie lounged on his cot, and Capt. Al Chadwick lounged on his. No barging in. “Captain Bergstrom, sir? Permission to enter, sir?”

Bergie laughed, sat up cross-legged, and set down his magazine. “Granted, of course. Come in. Sit down.”

“Thank you, sir.” He stepped inside and over the slit trench that served as drainage ditch and air raid shelter. He shot a glance at Chadwick. “I’ll stand.”

An almost imperceptible curl of the lip, and the man disappeared behind
The New England Journal of Medicine
.

“What’s up?” Bergie asked.

Hutch would have preferred to ask when Chadwick wasn’t present, but he didn’t want to waste any time. “I received the application for the Pharmacy Corps. Dad’s asking for reference letters from the dean of the Philadelphia College of Pharmacy and from my first employer, but I need some from Army contacts. Colonel Currier agreed to write one, and I have to ask Lieutenant Kazokov. Would you be willing to write one, sir?”

“I’d be glad to. But what’s it worth? Sure, I can tell them what a great fellow you are, but honestly, how can I evaluate your work?”

“Threefold. First, you can account for my character. Second, you can describe how I relate to physicians. Third, you can evaluate how my work affects your practice.”

Bergie laughed. “Typical methodical Hutch.”

“Methodical is good in a pharmacist. Put that in.” He grinned. “Sir.”

“All right, then.” Bergie swung one leg over the side of the cot and slipped on his combat boot. “Since you’ve got my letter written for me, tell me how your practice affects mine.”

Didn’t he know that? Hutch shifted his weight from one leg to the other. “Don’t I always get you the meds you need, properly prepared, in a timely manner?”

A snort from behind
The New England Journal
. “Except aspirin. Remember that?”

Hutch snuffed out a spark of annoyance. “Sir, if you’ll remember, that was a theater-wide shortage. All hospitals were affected. And I compounded aspirin from scratch as soon as we settled in.”

“What? One part asp, two parts rin? Must be difficult.” Chadwick laughed and glanced at his fellow doctor.

Bergie smiled and tightened his bootlaces.

Another spark. Alarm this time. But he put on a pleasant smile. “It is. It’s tricky. The instructions aren’t in the Army manual, but I learned it in school.”

Now Bergie smiled at Hutch. “Say, that’s good. I’ll put that in the letter.”

“Thanks.” He stepped closer. “See, that’s why we need the Corps. The pharmacies in most mobile hospitals are run by technicians with three months of training. Back home it’s illegal for anyone but a pharmacist to fill a script. Don’t our patients deserve the same level of care they’d get at home?”

“Puh-reach it, Brother John! When do you need the letter?”

“By the end of the month. The earlier, the better.”

“Will do. Say, Chad, ready for supper?”

“If you can call it that.” He set down his journal and lifted his nose at Hutch. “You’re dismissed, Sergeant.”

A jab in his stomach. “Yes, sir.” He stepped out of the tent
into the dimming daylight and plodded through the mud toward the administration tent Kaz shared with three other staff officers.

What was wrong with Bergie? He’d jumped on Kaz for condescending to Hutch, but he let Chadwick get away with it?

Hutch pulled a metal pillbox from his trouser pocket, flipped it open, and chewed a sodium bicarbonate tablet to neutralize the acid in his stomach.

Only one more letter, but this would be the most difficult. And the most necessary. Ivor Griffith served as both the dean of Hutch’s alma mater and the president of the American Pharmaceutical Association, so his letter would shine with authority. Mr. Hancock from Liberty Bell Drugs would trumpet Hutch’s skill, Currier’s letter would carry weight, and Bergie’s would lend authenticity. But the Army would look most closely at the letter from his current CO, supposedly the most familiar with his work habits.

Hutch stepped inside the administration tent. Kaz sat at a field desk, typing away. The typewriter belonged in pharmacy and lab for labels and reports, but Kaz kept it in his office so he wouldn’t have to share one with the other officers. The way the man churned out reports, sharing probably wasn’t an option.

“Good evening, Lieutenant Kazokov, sir.”

His shoulders sagged. “You need to type labels
again
?”

“No, sir. I have a favor to ask.”

“What do you need?”

Hutch stood straight and tall. “I’m sure you’ve heard me mention my interest in joining the new Pharmacy Corps. I received my application and I need letters of recommendation.”

“You want one from me?” One thin dark eyebrow hitched up.

He swallowed hard. “Yes, sir. Colonel Currier and Captain
Bergstrom have already agreed, but I need a letter from my immediate commanding officer.”

“Need? Or want?”

“Um, need, sir.”

“No, you want it.” He stood and clasped his hands behind his lower back. “There’s a difference between needs and wants, Sergeant.”

“I know that, sir. But—”

He held up his hand to block Hutch’s argument. “I’m a busy man with important work, and unless this is official Army business, your personal favor will go to the bottom of my pile.”

“Yes, sir.” He chewed on his lips. He needed to try a different angle. “I would appreciate the help, sir. Only one short letter, but it will carry a lot of weight in the Army. They’ll be impressed with your concern for the men under your command. And think, if I join the Corps, I can spread your ideas for modernization.” He’d spread them as ideas of what
not
to do, but Kaz didn’t need to know that.

Kaz cocked his head and pushed out his lower lip in thought. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“You’re welcome. You may return to duty.”

“Thank you, sir. O’Shea’s working the night shift. I’m off now.”

“I know the schedule. I set it.”

A sigh leached past his fake smile. “I’m thankful for it, sir. Good night.”

Hutch marched outside into the twilight.

Begging to use a typewriter. Working in an alphabetized environment. Giving respect when he received none in return. He’d better be accepted into the Corps.