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JORY WALKER PLUCKED three letters from the mailbox in front of the house. Two bills and one envelope addressed to her that looked like it had been through a war. It had, according to what was scratched in the upper corner.
SSGT. T. Stevens
Anger bubbled up inside her. She made a beeline for the house, only to collide with her sister.
“Amber! What the hell?” She waved the envelope in the young woman’s face.
“I just sent him one letter.”
“This is the fourth you’ve gotten from him. When are you going to write back?”
“It was a mistake...”
“You can say that again. Especially the part where you signed my name!”
“Laura was so convincing. I thought she meant one time. Only one letter.”
“She asked people to sign up to write to guys in the military. Not to write only one letter and include a lewd photo.”
“It wasn’t lewd, whatever that means. Just me in a bikini. I’m not good at writing. Much better at pictures.” Her beautiful, blonde sister, with a Miss America figure, grinned.
“And the reason you signed my name?”
“I always liked yours better. Besides, if he wanted another letter, I knew you’d write it for me. So, it might as well have your name on it.”
“Don’t give me that bullshit smile. I’m on to you. And the answer is ‘no.’” Jory shoved the envelope from T. Stevens into Amber’s hand.
“Please? Pleeeaassseee, Jory. You’re the writer. Not me.”
“That’s right. You’re the pretty sister, and I’m the smart one.”
Amber nodded. “I don’t mean it like that. You’re so much better than me.”
“Than I.”
“See?”
“No.”
Amber’s jaw jutted out. “Okay. Disappoint some poor guy out there fighting a war. Look at his picture. He’s hot, even with a buzz cut. Besides, he might die. Your words could be the last ones he ever sees!”
“He’s expecting you, not me.”
“Yeah, the picture. But he’ll never know. He’s in Afghanistan somewhere. Real far away. Just write one or two letters then tell him you got engaged.”
“What a mean thing to do! Lead him on then dump him with a lie?”
“You’re not going to marry that creep, Archie?”
“Hell, no!”
“Then why do you go out with him?”
“He beats what’s on TV. Well, most of what’s on TV.”
“You deserve better.” Amber turned her big blues on her sibling.
As soon as she ramped up the supportive heat, Jory melted. She always did and knew her little sister was manipulating her. But she was powerless to resist. Ever since their parents had been killed in a car crash fifteen years ago, Jory had taken Amber under her wing.
She snatched the envelope from Amber’s hand with a snort of disgust and returned to the house. The pretty blonde slid behind the wheel of her car and waved goodbye.
The two girls had had to leave their home in New York City and move in with their widowed aunt, Nan Edwards. It had been traumatic for the much younger one, but Jory had adjusted well. She loved Pine Grove, a small town on Cedar Lake in upstate New York.
Amber was a different story. She dreamt of beauty pageants and Hollywood. New York had given birth to those aspirations, with the promise of fame on every corner, from Broadway to Park Avenue. Pine Grove didn’t fit that picture. No one took her seriously, least of all her big sister.
Jory, thirty-two, wrote for the Pine Grove Independent, the town weekly newspaper. It didn’t pay much, but spending her days in the company of other newshounds stimulated her curiosity. Then, there was the fun stuff—rubbing elbows with the locals. She interviewed the women’s club and covered the softball tournament between the state troopers and the volunteer firemen. She reported the pros and cons of fracking, and kept the community informed.
Respect came her way as an outgrowth of her work. Jory Walker had the ideal job, but it didn’t keep her warm at night or send shivers through her in the bedroom.
Amber worked for Beasley’s pharmacy, doing makeovers and hawking makeup for the small store. She didn’t make much money, but had access to tons of new products, which she tested on herself and her family at every opportunity. She loved her job.
Jory tossed the letter on the kitchen table, in front of her aunt, who sat sipping coffee.
“She’s done it again. Damn it,” Jory said, pouring her second cup.
Nan glanced at the piece of mail. “Done what?”
“Roped me in.” Jory added milk and sugar.
“How?”
“Remember Laura Dailey’s drive to get pen pals for military guys in Afghanistan?”
Nan raised her gaze to her niece.
“We wrote about it in the paper.”
“Oh, yes. Now I do.”
“Amber signed up.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“She had no intention of writing more than one letter to this guy, Staff Sergeant T. Stevens.”
“That’s all? Doesn’t seem too serious.” Nan shrugged.
“It is when she signs my name.”
Her aunt sprayed coffee on the table. Her eyes bugged out. “Oh my God! She signed your name?” Nan reached for a paper towel.
“Yep. Three letters have arrived from this poor, prolific sap, who’s probably wondering why I never answered his first one.” Jory shook her head. “The fourth arrived today.”
“Maybe he’s nice?”
“Good try. I’ll answer these then beg off. I’ll make up some excuse. Or maybe tell him I have five arms and two heads. I’ll think of something.” Jory headed for her room and closed the door.
The small, three-bedroom house was tidy and well organized. A large front porch and back deck gave more space for the women to carve out a few minutes of private time. The big backyard, carpeted with a combination of grass and weeds, had been the host of many a kickball game when Amber was younger. Now, it housed an old gas grill and some white vinyl lawn chairs, purchased on sale and looked it.
Jory flopped down on her bed. She had picked up the sturdy, handmade, lavender quilt at a yard sale. The covering echoed her favorite colors, with pink and dark purple flowers against green and white.
She leaned her slim frame back against three pillows and examined the postmarks on each envelope, trying to figure out the order of the letters. She opened the one with the earliest date and pulled out a small photo. Flipping it over, she saw his name neatly printed on the back. Trent Stevens. She smiled at the sexy picture of the Sergeant, stripped to the waist. He wore the short hair of the military, regulation uniform pants, boots, and dog tags, resting against an impressive, if slightly sunburned, chest.
Obviously, he worked out. Her gaze examined the defined pecs, covered with a smatter of dark hair. His biceps were impressive. A hug from SSGT Stevens would be soul-melting. A slight shiver ran through her. Archie Peabody doesn’t look like that. She hadn’t seen all of Archie, since she had refused to sleep with him. But she had seen him in a bathing suit. The words “pasty” and “flabby” came to mind when she recalled images of him at the Fourth of July celebration on the lake.
She sighed. Archie worked at the paper that was owned by his father. They mostly talked shop when they went out. Sometimes, he took her to a movie.
“Archie’s better than nothing,” she’d said a hundred times to her sister and aunt. But she knew they didn’t believe it any more than she did. He was lonely, and so was she. What’s it hurt, having dinner with him?
She opened Trent’s letter. It was a single page, with small, neat script.
I gave you all my important intel in my first letter. So this is about other stuff. I like animals. I grew up with a dog and a turtle. Tortoise, really. He was a big guy. Smart, too.
I like American food mostly, but also Mexican. Out here, I’m getting used to MRE’s. Basically, I’m a steak and potatoes kind of guy. What’s your favorite meal?
Got to go. Can’t talk about where. You understand. Please write soon.
I hope you received my last letter. We live for mail delivery.
Take care,
Trent
Jory took a piece of paper from her writing tablet and grabbed a pen. Before she began, she changed her mind, went to her desk, and pulled out a box of pretty, pink notepaper she had received as a gift but never used. She’d had no one to write a letter to before today. After slipping out a sheet, she leaned on a pad and began.