Letters From Home. Kristina McMorris

Letters From Home - Kristina  McMorris


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      LETTERS

       FROM HOME

      KRISTINA McMORRIS

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      Copyright

      This novel is entirely a work of fiction.

       The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

      AVON

       An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd. 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF www.harpercollins.co.uk

      Copyright © Kristina McMorris 2011

      Kristina McMorris asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

      A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

      All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

      HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication

      Source ISBN: 9781847562418

      Ebook Edition © 2011 ISBN: 9781847562920

      Version: 2018-07-25

      RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED

       to the veterans of World War II, a generation of heroes who, like my grandfather, fought valiantly and courageously to secure freedom for us all.

       And to the unsung heroes with nary a medal nor ribbon to show for their sacrifices— for ’twas the women who waited for their loved ones to return who truly gave purpose to their soldiers’ victory.

       Each separate page was like a fluttering flower-petal, loosed from your own soul, and wafted thus to mine.

      —Edmond Rostand, Cyrano de Bergerac, act iv, scene viii

      Contents

       Cover

       Title Page

      Copyright

       Epigraph

      Chapter 1

      Chapter 2

      Chapter 3

      Chapter 4

      Chapter 5

      Chapter 6

      Chapter 7

      Chapter 8

      Chapter 9

      Chapter 10

      Chapter 11

      Chapter 12

      Chapter 13

      Chapter 14

      Chapter 15

      Chapter 16

      Chapter 17

      Chapter 18

      Chapter 19

      Chapter 20

      Chapter 21

      Chapter 22

      Chapter 23

      Chapter 24

      Chapter 25

      Chapter 26

      Chapter 27

      Chapter 28

      Chapter 29

      Chapter 30

      Chapter 31

      Chapter 32

      Chapter 33

      Chapter 34

      Chapter 35

      Chapter 36

      Chapter 37

      Chapter 38

      Chapter 39

      Chapter 40

      Chapter 41

      Chapter 42

      Chapter 43

      Chapter 44

      Chapter 45

      Chapter 46

      Acknowledgments

      Author’s Note

       Book Club “Victory Recipes”

       A Reading Group Guide

       Discussion Questions

       Read on for an exclusive interview with Kristina McMorris

       Letters from Home Kristina McMorris

      About the Author

      Credits

       About the Publisher

      Chapter 1

       July 4, 1944 Chicago, Illinois

      Silence in the idling Cadillac grew as suffocating as the city’s humidity. Hands clenched on her lap, Liz Stephens averted her narrowed eyes toward the open passenger window. Chattering ladies and servicemen flocked by in the shadows; up and down they traveled over the concrete accordion of entrance steps. The sting of laughter and music drifted through the swinging glass doors, bounced off the colorless sky. Another holiday without gunpowder for celebration. No boom of metallic streamers, no sunbursts awakening the night. Only the fading memory of a simpler time.

      A time when Liz knew whom she could trust.

      “You know the Rotary doesn’t invite just anyone to speak,” Dalton Harris said finally. The same argument, same lack of apology in his voice. “What was I supposed to do? Tell my father I couldn’t be there because of some dance?

      At his condescension, her gaze snapped to his slate gray eyes. “That,” she said, “is exactly what you should’ve done.”

      “Honey. You’re being unreasonable.”

      “So it’s unreasonable, wanting us to spend time together?”

      “That’s not what I meant.” A scratch to the back of his neck punctuated his frustration, a habit that had lost the amusing charm it held when they were kids. Long before the expensive suits, the perfect ties, the tonic-slickening of his dark brown hair.

      “Listen.” His square jaw slackened as he angled toward


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