The Way to LA
Jame Rada, Jr.
7: War’s end
Bill Wivell knew sending Celine Winfrey off on the train to California had been the right thing to do, but it didn’t make him feel any better, despite the fact that he had recovered from his bout of Spanish Flu.
As Bill lay in bed alone at night, he would remember her face and her laugh. He missed the gentle brush of her hand, the way she tended him when fever had burned him nearly to death. His heart would ache, and it wasn’t some residual symptom from the flu. He wanted Celine in Thurmont with him, and that made him feel worse.
She was married! Her husband was in Europe fighting in the war, and Bill should have been proud of her loyalty to Nathan Winfrey. Instead, he caught himself longing to press his lips to hers. He should be wanting her to focus on her husband and getting him home safe, not Bill wanting to kiss her.
Two weeks had passed since her departure, but the ache in his chest felt fresh each morning. At least the town was stirring back to life. The hushed dread of the Spanish flu had lifted: shop windows glimmered with new stock, children’s voices rang out in the streets, and The Railroad Diner was filling again with customers, cautious but hungry. Bill remembered how weak he’d been, how Celine had hovered bedside with a damp cloth and whispered prayers until color returned to his cheeks.
And now the war was over. Victory celebrations had flared across town—bands in the square, flags draped from porches—but Bill’s thoughts turned dark. Soon soldiers would stream home and reclaim their old places. Nathan Winfrey among them. Celine’s husband would step off a train in California, gather her in his arms, and she’d slip into her expected role: wife, mother, America’s beloved war bride. Bill swallowed hard. Would he remain here waiting tables behind his mother’s counter? Dreaming of something more, yet anchored to this small town?
A shrill whistle split the air. The evening train was preparing to roll east toward Baltimore, its black engine belching steam like a living beast. Bill pressed his palm to the cool glass of the diner’s window and watched a handful of passengers scurry along the platform. He studied the rhythm of their footsteps, wondered if he could slip aboard and vanish into the great city—a place where no one knew he hadn’t fought, no one held his broken heart in their judgmental gaze. He could be anyone there. A blank slate.
He didn’t even have to go to Baltimore. He could head north or south… or west. Not west. At least not now. He would be too tempted to visit Celine in California. That wouldn’t be wise. It would reopen the wounds he was trying so hard to heal.
His mother’s soft voice drifted from behind him. “I’m not sure I like that look.”
Bill turned. Rosemary Wivell stood with flour on her apron and concern in her eyes. “Why not, Mom?”
“Because it means you’re mulling a big decision, and I can see where you’re looking.”
He shrugged, shifting his weight. “I’m thinking of going somewhere new—Virginia, North Carolina, Texas…anywhere but here.”
She cocked her head. “Not California?”
He shook his head. “I’d only pine for her more. I need to heal. I want to be happy again. I’m ready to be happy again.”
Rosemary stepped forward and wrapped him in an embrace scented faintly of cinnamon and dish soap. “Can’t you be happy here?”
He sighed. “It’s not just Celine. Everyone calls me a slacker because I didn’t serve. If I stay, I’m stuck as the diner waiter, someday inheriting a business I’m not sure I want.”
Tears gathered in her eyes. “This is where your family is.”
“And maybe where I was meant to be—once. But I don’t know what my future holds.”
He felt a pang of guilt seeing her tears, as though his own dreams were stabbing her heart. He needed to find an answer.
The next morning, Bill delivered sandwiches and coffee to his Uncle Henry, who was the Thurmont stationmaster. He left the meal on the desk in the station office and paused before a huge map tacked to the wall. It was a network of black-and-red lines stretching from coast to coast, each rail corridor promising a different life. He pressed a fingertip to the pin marking Thurmont and traced the lines outward, imagining each town, each possibility.
A distant rumble pulled him back. The morning train eased in, its wheels screeching softly on the rails. Henry Walcott, stoic in his uniform and cap, stepped onto the platform to supervise luggage and greet newcomers. Bill let his eyes wander until they landed on a lone figure stepping down from the coach. His breath caught. Her dark hair caught the sunlight. Her slender frame held her upright, shoulders squared.
“Celine.” The name slipped from his lips like a prayer.
She glanced around, then froze as recognition lit her face. A smile bloomed, warm and tender, and in that moment, all his doubts faded. He hurried out onto the platform until her gaze found his.
“What are you doing back?” he whispered in French, heart pounding.
She hesitated, then answered in careful English: “I wanted to talk to you.”
“You speak English?”
“I am learning.” She smiled shyly. “How am I doing?”
“Wonderful. But why aren’t you in California?”
Her dark eyes flicked toward his uncle’s office. “Can we sit and talk?”
Bill led her inside. Sunlight filtered through the tall windows, dust motes dancing in the still air. He offered her a chair and sank into one opposite, his pulse thundering in his ears. He watched as she gathered her courage. He just wanted to stare at her and memorize every detail. It had only been a few weeks since he had seen her, but it seemed like a lifetime.
He had asked the question about why she was here twice. He just waited for her to speak, other than saying, “You can speak in French if it’s easier.”
“In California,” she began in French, “Nathan’s parents met me kindly. They spared me from the flu, but they spoke little French, so I started learning English. I wanted to be ready.”
He nodded, leaning forward.
“But Nathan…” Her voice caught. “He caught the flu—and died just two weeks before the war ended. He never saw me again after we parted in Paris.”
Bill’s heart lurched. He reached for her hand. “I’m so sorry.”
Her fingers trembled. “He saved me. When the letter came about him dying, Nathan’s parents were very upset. His mother wouldn’t stop crying. Then they turned very cold toward me. I think they knew why Nathan married me. They were willing to let us find our way together, but once he died, knowing that I hadn’t been in love with their son, I think they resented it because they loved him so much.”
“That is a difficult position to be in.”
“That is when I decided that it would be better for me to leave.”
“Where will you go now?”
She pressed her lips together. “I have nowhere else. My home in France is destroyed, my family gone. So I wrote to your uncle, and he arranged my return to Thurmont.”
Bill turned to see Henry leaning in the doorway, a triumphant grin on his face. Beyond him, through the glass, Bill’s mother and father watched with encouraging smiles.
“You did this?” Bill whispered.
His uncle tipped his cap. “You’re welcome.”
“Why didn’t Mom tell me?”
“She wanted to surprise you.” Henry winked.
Bill turned back to Celine. The morning sun haloed her hair. “But…why here? Why me?”
She reached out and brushed a lock of hair behind his ear. Her voice was low and sure. “I thought about what makes me happiest. As a child in France, I felt joy only twice: once dancing at the harvest festival, and once here in Thurmont, helping in the diner, practicing French with you, walking beside you through town.”
Bill’s throat tightened. He opened his mouth, but no words came.
She bent closer. “I like you, Bill. I think I love you. But I need time to be sure.”
He exhaled, relief and hope blooming together. Then he leaned in and brushed his lips to hers—gentle, longing, certain. “I don’t think that will take long.”
