The High Tide Club
“I know,” Lizzie said, nodding sympathetically. “Keep going anyway.”
Jan. 8, 1942
Hingham, Mass.
Darling G:
Christmas came and went without you, and I was in a terrible, foul black mood. Please forgive my selfishness. You warned me that it was unlikely you could get away again, so this is all my fault. Can you forgive me for not writing sooner and sending you buckets of love and cheer? I did receive your sweet gifts. We all loved the maple syrup, which was such a treat with all the sugar rationing now. And the cashmere sweater was much too extravagant, and a totally improper gift from a gentleman to a spinster such as myself, which made me love it—and you—that much more. We actually spent Christmas Day with Jo and your papa at the house in Boston. There was a ham sent up from Talisa and oysters and as much jollity as we could muster under the circumstances. I believe Mr. Samuel has finally come around to agree with your views on the war, and at any rate, he and Jo are so terribly proud of their royal airman. I know you can’t tell me much about your orders or where you’re being sent, but I pray every moment that God will keep and protect you until we are together again.
Your loving, bratty M
Brooke’s eyes filled with tears as she tucked the letter back into its envelope. “I want my mom to read these letters. This is a side of Millie I don’t think either of us ever saw. I know I didn’t. Even despite the war, she seems so young and alive and joyful and frank and funny in these.” She found a tissue and dabbed at her eyes. “This is so unbelievably poignant, knowing Gardiner actually didn’t make it back to Millie.” She sniffed.
“From the documents I found with the footlocker, Gardiner’s Spitfire was shot down by the Luftwaffe while he was on a bombing raid in northern France at the end of January ’42,” Lizzie said. “He’d just strafed a railway station in Boulogne and was headed back to base when his plane was hit.”
Lizzie passed a hand over her own glittering eyes. “I researched it, you know? Online? These kind of RAF missions were called ‘Rhubarb Raids.’ They were basically just a nuisance to distract the Germans and keep them from concentrating on fighting on the western border. I think Gardiner and the men in his squadron were considered collateral damage.”
“Fuckers,” Brooke whispered.
“There’s one more letter from Millie,” Lizzie said hesitantly, holding it in her outstretched hand. “And it’s what Grandma Ruth would have called a doozy.”
61
Feb. 21, 1942
Hingham, Mass.
Darling Gardiner:
It’s nearly midnight here at home. We’ve had so much snow this month, the drifts have nearly covered the dining room windows. Grandmama has had the flu, and now Mother has a fever too, but the weather has been so terrible the doctor can’t get here to check on them. Right now, I am tucked into bed under my quilt. I have all your beautiful letters saved in the now empty chocolate box you gave me in New York. Nights like this, when I am lonely and afraid, I read and reread them, and your sweet words of love give me strength. I’m praying that I’ll receive one of your letters any day now. It’s been a month, and I miss you so terribly, my darling. I follow the war news and believe your squadron must be in England by now, though I know the censors won’t allow you to say more. The thing is, darling, I have some news of my own that I’m afraid can’t wait. I’m pregnant! By my calculations, the baby is due in August. I finally saw a doctor in the city this week, and he confirmed my suspicions.
I am so terribly sorry to bring you this news now, but I really don’t know what else to do. We talked about marriage in New York, and I know I was the one who was afraid of creating a scandal by marrying so soon after Russell, but now I realize just how foolish I was. Oh, if only we had married in November, and I could call you my husband and announce this news to the world and hold my head high.
Of course, I dare not tell Mother. Do you know, she still seems to be mourning Russell? So far, I think my secret is safe. I’ve barely gained any weight, and aside from a little bit of morning queasiness, I feel fine. I did confide again in Ruth, and she has been my rock. She suggests that if you can somehow get emergency leave to come home, we could have a quick wedding. Eyebrows might be raised, and tongues would be wagged, and months would be counted, but that is the least of my concerns right now. But we both agree Jo cannot hear about the baby until after we are married and you have made a “respectable woman” of me. You know your sister can be terribly old-fashioned.
Write to me soon, darling Gardiner, and tell me what to do. I love and miss you with all my heart, but the thought that I will soon hold our own sweet baby in my arms has me giddy with excitement. And terror. Do you know, I’ve never held a newborn or changed a diaper?
Your expectant M
Brooke read the letter a second time and again a third time. She heard the loud ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner and the whir of the box fan in the window, and she felt the slow slide of sweat trickling down her back. Finally, she looked up at Lizzie, who was watching her with open curiosity.
“My God,” Brooke said finally. “Millie was pregnant with my mother. And Gardiner was my mom’s father. Not Pops. Gardiner.”
“That’s what it looks like to me,” Lizzie said. “Gardiner Bettendorf was your grandfather. Which means that Josephine was your great-aunt.”
Brooke’s hand trembled as she handed the letter back to Lizzie. “I’ve got to talk to my mother.”
“Agreed,” Lizzie said. “And then you’d better call Gabe too.”
“Gabe?”
“Uh, duh. If Gardiner was Marie’s father and your grandfather, unless I’m sadly mistaken, that makes the two of you Josephine’s closest family. Her heirs.”
Brooke let that sink in for a moment, especially in light of what they’d learned during their visit to the children’s home in Savannah.
“Don’t count out C. D. yet,” Brooke cautioned. “If he really is Josephine’s long-lost son, he’ll be calling all the shots around here.”
“And he’d be your mom’s cousin.”
“Eeeewww,” they said in unison.
Brooke flopped backward onto the carpet and stared up at the ceiling, whose plaster was water-stained and flaking. “This whole thing is too weird to be true.”
“I know. It’s gonna make a great story. And just think! You’ll have every right to tell Dorcas and Delphine to kiss your grits.”
“Kiss my grits?” Brooke said. “Now I know you really have gone native.”
62
Brooke and her mother sat in the small room her parents had added to the back of the 1920s-era Ardsley Park home. Marie had transformed the former den into a cozy sunroom, painting the dark pine paneling, ripping down the drapes, and installing a pair of flowered chintz love seats, wicker armchairs, and huge baskets of ferns and pots of pink geraniums.
“I fixed us an early supper,” Marie said. There was a large club salad with wedges of juicy red tomatoes, hard-boiled eggs, sliced, poached chicken breasts, and bacon bits. She served Brooke a plate and handed her a linen napkin rolled around the flatware.
Marie had never flagged in keeping up the standards Millie had instilled in her. Bone china, linen napkins, and always the good silver. The only time Brooke could ever remember eating off paper plates was when the family went on beach picnics.