Page 12 of Two Wars and a Wedding

Betsy had a feeling this was the start of terrible things.

She felt as wobbly as if she were still on the water as she followed Kit Carson down the makeshift pier. The tropical sun shone through the dust, giving everything a curious haze, as though she were fighting her way through glazed glass.

“You all right?” Kit put a hand on Betsy’s elbow. “You look like you’re about to keel over.”

Betsy forced a smile. “I forgot to eat breakfast. Or lunch.”

She wasn’t sure when she’d last eaten anything at all. Some bread and cheese on the train. Horrible train coffee, tasting of chicory and served with milk that clumped. She’d held it for the warmth and dumped it out the window when it had gone cold.

“Here.” Kit dug in her pocket. “I always keep something handy. . . .”

“No, really. There’s no need—” The thought of chewing, of swallowing, was overwhelming. Betsy had geared up all her energy, all her courage, for this one grand sacrifice: offering herself up in place of Ava. But one couldn’t offer oneself up in place of someone who wasn’t there.

What was she meant to do now?

Kit stuck something into Betsy’s hand. “Here. Reed’s rolls. Butterscotch. It’ll rot my teeth out someday, but it’s worth it.”

Fumbling with the paper, Betsy unwrapped it and put it in her mouth, feeling the sugar dissolving on her tongue, sending a rush of warmth through her. The butterscotch tasted of fall evenings on campus, of hot buttered cider and bread toasted on the fender and dried leaves crunching underfoot.

“Thank you,” she said. The words felt rusty, and not just because she was talking around a large block of butterscotch.

“Think nothing of it. You gave me an excuse to escape the abattoir.” Something in Betsy’s face made Kit say quickly, “Just joking. It hasn’t been as bad as all that. We get a lot of scalds and burns—boys who’ve never cooked around a campfire before. We’ve had synovitis of the knee, necrosis of the bones of the leg, sixteen ear infections, and a partridge in a pear tree. But you must have seen all this before.”

“Not so many partridges in Greece. And I’m not even sure what synovitis is.”

“Neither am I,” said Kit cheerfully. “I’m just repeating what I heard Sister Bettina writing in her report. I’d thought necrosis sounded pretty dire, but it’s just something to do with the joints. It’ll impress the readers, though. Look, there’s the train.”

“The train?” In her addled brain, Betsy wondered for a moment if Kit had been given orders to pack her off to Boston. “I thought—weren’t you showing me the way to the hotel?”

“This is the way to the hotel,” Kit said, picking up speed, her eyes on the train belching black smoke at the station. “Good, you’ve got some pink back in your cheeks. The easiest way from Port Tampa to Tampa is by train. The roads are clogged with military. The trains are clogged too, but they’re still better than the roads.”

Betsy stumbled along in a clumsy half jog, her carpetbag bumping against her leg. “I didn’t mean to take you so far out of your way.”

Kit stopped on the platform with a sigh of satisfaction. “Phew, we haven’t missed it. They’re still unloading. And it’s no bother. I was looking for an excuse to go that way anyway. It’s where the news is. Such news as there is.”

“Such news as there is?” Betsy echoed. Her corset was soaked through; her carpetbag, with the additional burden of her new uniform, weighed approximately ten tons. She felt a million years old, all the energy that had buoyed her on the long journey gone.

“I’ve seen children’s parties organized more effectively than this war. No one knows whether they’re coming or going. You should have seen the number of orders sent and canceled just since I’ve been here! Although the men do drill nicely.” Kit waved a hand in the direction of a group of soldiers standing nearby. “Hiya, boys!”

Several of the men grinned and lifted their hats in reply. “Miss Carson!”

“It’s missus, really,” Kit confided to Betsy, waving to friends along the way as she took Betsy’s arm and hurried her along the platform toward her preferred train car. “But you know how men are. Mention you’re a mother and suddenly it’s all ‘ma’am’ and foot shuffling and they won’t tell you a thing. This way I’m like their kid sister and they blab their little hearts out.”

“You’re married?” Betsy was still trying to get her breath back.

Kit swung herself up easily into the train. “And two kids. Boy and a girl. I’d show you their pictures, but that would ruin my image.”

“How old are they?” It was the sort of thing one asked.

“Six and four. Limbs of mischief, both of them.” Kit looked at her sideways as they jostled their way to their seats. “Are you going to tell me I should be home with them?”

“Why should I?”

Kit gave her a look of surprise. “Most people do. But I was a reporter before I was a mother, and I’ll be hanged if I’m going to give it up.” Kit plopped down in the seat next to Betsy. “What about you? Husband? Kids?”

“None that I acknowledge.”

Kit hooted. “Funny.”