The High Tide Club
* * *
“Step into my office,” Lizzie said as they entered the library.
Brooke set Dweezil on the floor, and the cat immediately leaped onto the windowsill.
Lizzie pointed at a battered green footlocker. “I found this shoved way at the back of the closet in here. The lid was covered in an inch-thick layer of dust and spider eggs. Louette said she’s never seen it before, and I’m pretty sure it hadn’t been opened in decades.”
S. G. Bettendorf—RCAF was stenciled on the side of the trunk, and the lid was unlocked.
Lizzie plopped down on the floor, and Brooke sat down beside her. “This was Gardiner’s air force footlocker. I found a letter from the RCAF inside, indicating that it was shipped back here to Shellhaven after he was killed in 1942.”
Brooke peered inside the trunk, not knowing what to expect, but it was empty except for a lingering, dank odor.
“I had to throw most of the stuff away,” Lizzie said apologetically. “The clothes were moldy and full of silverfish.” She turned and retrieved a thin packet of papers.
“Fortunately, these were wrapped in some kind of oilcloth, so they were pretty well preserved.” She handed over a gray cardboard folder.
Inside was a hand-colored studio photograph of a young woman. Her blond shoulder-length hair was parted on the side and swept back from her face. She wore a blue sweater and a sweet smile.
Brooke stared down at the photo, transfixed. “It’s Millie, right?” She turned the photo over.
In girlish looping script, the sender had written, To Gardiner: All my love, Millie.
“She looks so young,” Brooke murmured. “But I don’t understand what Gardiner was doing with this.”
Lizzie handed over the packet of papers, and a yellowed newspaper page fluttered to the floor. It was from the front page of The Florida Times-Union, dated October 10, 1941. BOSTON INDUSTRIALIST STILL MISSING; FOUL PLAY FEARED.
“Read the letters and you’ll understand.” Lizzie said.
Oct. 29, 1941
Hingham, Mass.
Dear Gardiner:
Thank you for your kind letter of condolence concerning Russell. I’m so torn and confused right now, your letter was a great comfort. Perhaps you’re right, and he and I were never meant to be. His poor grandparents are distraught, of course, but your dear father has been wonderful dealing with everything, and I will be forever grateful to him.
Please tell me all about your training. Is it exciting? Fascinating? Terrifying? Things are very quiet here at home with Mother and Grandmama. We never speak of what happened on Talisa, but I believe they feel I’m somehow to blame for Russell, and I fear I will never be able to move past this awful doubt. Maybe I will become an old maid and crochet doilies and shout at small children who ride their bicycles past our house. We read the newspapers every day and listen to the radio for war news, and I can’t help but be frightened for you. Please let me hear from you soon.
Your good old friend,
M
Nov. 10, 1941
Hingham, Mass.
Dear Gardiner:
I believe our last letters must have crossed in the mail. I think of you often too and pray constantly for your well-being and safe return home. Of course I would love to see you when you are back in the States on leave at the end of the month, but are you certain you wouldn’t rather spend your precious time with your family? I know Jo would be so disappointed not to see you. We had lunch together last week, and she spoke of you constantly. We had a fine time gossiping. Did you know she is doing volunteer work with the Red Cross? And Ruth has a new beau. He is from Chicago and very dashing. Not nearly as dashing as you, though, in your splendid RCAF uniform, so I do thank you for the photo, which I have hidden in my Bible, because Mother has become such a terrible snoop. She quizzes me constantly about who I am seeing and speaking to on the telephone. She has no idea of our friendship, because I am the one who brings in the mail every day, and I keep an eagle eye out for letters from my favorite airman. Speaking of the mail, must stop now before the postman arrives.
Fondly,
M
Brooke sighed. “Wouldn’t you just love to read the letters Gardiner wrote to Millie?”
“I would. And I looked for his letters but didn’t find any,” Lizzie reported. “They weren’t in the trunk, which makes sense.”
WESTERN UNION: DEAREST G: CONFIRM I WILL BE ON TRAIN FROM BOSTON, ARRIVING GRAND CENTRAL STATION AT 12:10 P.M. NOV. 27. UNTIL THEN, M.
Nov. 30, 1941
Hingham, Mass.
Darling Gardiner:
I know it’s terribly selfish of me, but I was so very glad to have had you all to myself last weekend in New York. I never dared to dream in all the years we have known each other, since I was a funny-looking little kid pestering you for a ride in your car, that you would feel the same way about me as I do about you. My darling, I cannot believe that we wasted so much time pretending otherwise. But now that we are older and wiser, I don’t intend to let a moment go by without telling you that I love you, have always, will always. The trip home was fine, but the train was awfully crowded and overheated. You asked me what I told my mother about my trip, and I am ashamed to report that I told her I was meeting Ruth in the city for some shopping. I did take Ruth into my confidence about our feelings for one another. First, because I simply had to share my happiness with someone, and second, in case Mother checks up, Ruth will cover for me. Unfortunately, I don’t think it’s wise to let Josephine know just yet about our relationship. I love Jo so, but you of all people know how prickly she can be and how jealous and protective she is of her beloved big brother. Gardiner. There are so many things I regret in my life—Russell and so on—but the hours I spent in your arms last weekend are something I will never forget or regret.
Your most loving M
Dec. 11, 1941
Hingham, Mass.
Darling G:
Well, it’s war. We all listened to President Roosevelt on the radio this week, and afterward, I hid in my bedroom with a pillow over my head while I had a good long cry. I try not to worry about you, but since your training has ended and you’ll be flying missions soon, that is impossible. So whenever I feel a black mood coming on, I pick up my knitting needles. Yes, your girl is knitting, and the results are ghastly. Which you will see for yourself—as soon as Grandmama manages to teach me how to cast off. The war is all we talk about and think about now. Ruth’s beau has signed up and shipped off to Camp Pendleton in California. Maybe now that the United States has joined the fight, we will be that much closer to beating the Germans and the Japs. All I know is that I live for the day when we will be together next. Is there any chance for New York again? Maybe at Christmas? You did mention that you might get leave again before you receive your orders, so I live in hope and am already making up a fine whopper of a tale to tell Mother. In the meantime, I am enclosing something to keep you warm in my stead.
Your loving, lousy knitter,
M
Brooke looked up, and Lizzie thrust a bulky woolen bundle at her. “Here.
It was a gray woolen scarf, knobby, full of dropped stitches, knots, and holes, but Brooke held it to her nose and inhaled. The scarf had retained the scents of cigarette smoke and camphor.
“Millie knitted this,” Brooke said wonderingly, stroking the coarse woolen fabric. “Over seventy years ago.” She sighed and looked down at the diminishing stack of letters in her lap. “This is so amazing and unexpected. But I feel like such a voyeur, reading my grandmother’s love letters.”