Page 43 of First Street
It had a smeared, faded postmark: France. 1918.
She stared at the name, written in tight, block letters:
Miss Josephine Fitzgerald
Fitzgerald House
Fourth Street
Harbor View, Connecticut U.S.A.
* * *
She flipped it over, her pulse ticking faster now.
Capt. Henry Stewart
Company D, 102nd Infantry Regiment
26th Division
A.E.F.
France
* * *
Someone had written this from a war.
She knew which war. World War I. 1918. She remembered from history class. The trenches, the mud, the gas masks, the millions of lives lost.
And someone had waited for this letter right here in Harbor View.
But it looked like the letters were still sealed.
Josephine Fitzgerald.
Ocean’s stomach did a little flip.
Jo.
Could it be the same Jo?
She slid the envelope carefully back under the ribbon and held the packet close as she ran upstairs.
Her room looked exactly the same as it had yesterday. Bed made, sweatshirt and jeans (that she knew she’d left in a pile) now sitting neatly in the laundry basket. Her towel had been hung perfectly on the hook. Ocean stopped and sighed.
“Jo, you really don’t have to pick up after me.”
She set the letters down on her desk. The paper looked even older in the sunlight, like it would turn to dust if she breathed on it too hard.
She hesitated. “So… I found these downstairs. In one of my grandma’s estate sale boxes. They’re from 1918. France. World War I.” She glanced toward the corner by the window. “By any chance… are you Josephine Fitzgerald?”
Silence.
Just the soft rustle of the trees outside and the smell of honeysuckle floating through the open window.
“Okay,” she said, backing toward the door. “I’m going downstairs to bring up the rest of the box. Please don’t mess with these, okay? Don’t read them, don’t organize them, don’t alphabetize them or whatever.”
