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“The steam from the train curled around them, all-encompassing like the mist of early morning fog. Edward gripped both of Beryl’s hands in his. “I’ll write.” The promise fell heavy between them and rang dull. Edward knew his words wouldn’t make up for his absence. He wished for another way in which he could make the money they needed, but there simply was none. His gut wrenched, and guilt rose in his throat, choking him with uncertainty.”

“She thought how different life might have been for her if Edward hadn’t grown up a farmer’s son. She might have lived in town in a fine house like Cedric’s. But is that what I would want? Some days, the farming life appealed to her: the fresh air, tending growing things, taking care of the animals. Other days, it morphed into little more than drudgery. And now, being alone. Well, she could do without that. It was not what she had agreed to.”

“His blue eyes were saying something Beryl had been wanting to hear—Edward needed her. She reached out and touched the growing hair on his jaw. He had decided to let his beard grow over the cold months. He placed his hand over hers, and turning it slowly over, he kissed her wrist. The sensation of his lips on her skin made Beryl’s knees feel weak. Good thing I’m sitting.”

“Her eyes fluttered closed for a moment. Next, Edward’s lips touched hers, feather light at first. She kissed him back. It took only seconds for them to kiss each other with a hunger that spoke of more than nourishment. Beryl’s heart raced as Edward peeled back her collar and unbuttoned the first few buttons of her shirtwaist. She sat there with her eyes closed in a trance as his lips touched the hollow of her neck. All sound vanished except the beating of her heart in her ears.”

“Edward read through his words again before sealing them up in an envelope. There were other words he wanted to say, but he didn’t know how. How could he tell Beryl that he missed the color of her eyes at night, her laugh when he made a joke, and even her chiding? Those were things he couldn’t write in a letter. He didn’t consider himself a romantic, and Beryl had known that when she had married him. June seemed like such a long time back to Edward, much longer than six months ago.”

“I blamed my absent husband for so many things, but I have come to see—life in general is to blame. Edward would have stayed home if there had been another way. I was too stubborn to recognize the truth. What will he say when I meet him at the depot? For that matter, what am I to say? Perhaps neither of us will need to speak. We will embrace and hopefully capture our hearts in our gaze, which will be enough.”