More Than Words Can Say
More Than Words
Can Say
Robert Barclay
Dedication
For my parents, Harry and Muriel.
I couldn’t have done it without you.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Prologue
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
A+ AUTHOR INSIGHTS, EXTRAS & MORE . . .
Reading Group Questions for More Than Words Can Say
More Than Words Can Say The Story Behind the Book by Robert Barclay
Addendum: A Small Collection of Brooke Bartlett’s Personal Recipes from World War II
About the Author
Also by Robert Barclay
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
Prologue
As the young woman sat on the front porch of her cabin, her heart ached. Unable to sleep, she had left her bed and come here to gaze out over the moonlit lake she so loved. It had been her hope that the soothing waves might coax the sandman nearer, but so far, that had not been the case.
A black leather journal lay in her lap, its next empty page waiting to accept her troubled thoughts. To be sure, she had written other journal entries since coming here to spend the summer alone. But to her great dismay, each one had been more heartrending than the last. Worse yet, the one she was about to create would surpass even the sadness of its predecessors.
At last, she unscrewed the cap from her fountain pen, and she began to write:
Friday, August 7, 1942, midnight
This wonderful cabin is quite unused to seeing heartache. Instead, it has always been a place to which I could come and happily forget all about the world. But now a terrible war is raging, the same awful struggle in which so many other countries have been desperately fighting for years but finally engulfed the United States just nine months ago. So now heartache and worry exist even here, instead of the happy and joyous feelings that had heretofore always filled these humble rooms. Even so, the war is but one factor in my grief, rather than the entire cause. Because most of my heartache, I must admit, is a product of my own making . . .
Before now, I had always loved being here. And for as long as I can remember, I had believed that I always would. But so much has happened to me during my brief summer stay that I can no longer be certain of those long-held sentiments. Part of my anguish is due to the fact that this terrible war has taken my loving husband far from me, so that he might finish his military training. And then he will go on to lead others like him in the killing of our enemies, leaving me alone and causing me to wonder if he will ever return . . .
Pausing for a moment, she put down her pen and then turned to gaze down the sandy, moonlit shoreline. A recently built cottage stood there in the darkness. Although no lights shined through its windows at this hour, she knew that he was there. She could almost feel his presence, beckoning her to go to him. As tears began filling her eyes, she again bent to her task . . .
As I look out at the lake, the intense quiet of this place only deepens the sense of guilt that has been growing in my heart since the day I first met him. I should go home, I know; back to Syracuse, where I would not be so easily tempted. But if I did return to my previous life, would it still hold the same meaning for me? Or would the pain of being without him cause me to rush back? Sadly, I fear that it would be the latter . . .
I know that I should leave here and do my very best to forget him, but I cannot. Because so long as he remains, my heart won’t let me. And so, I sit alone on my porch at midnight, watching the waves and wondering where the fates will eventually lead me. As I look at the sky, the clouds seem unusually bright this night, highlighted as they are by a magnificent full moon. Are all of the world’s lovers like them, I wonder? Are we too just clouds of constantly changing nature, randomly colliding with one another in a turbulent sky?
On finishing her soul-searching entry, the distraught young woman closed the journal. And this time when she cried, her tears came without end . . .
Chapter 1
Early June 1999
Syracuse, New York
Congratulations,” Allistaire Reynolds said. “Despite the tragic circumstances, of course.”
Yet again, Chelsea Enright nodded incredulously. “Thank you,” she answered.
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