Epilogue III

An Evening Fly

"I suppose our grandson will be taking his sweetheart out quite casually for an evening 'fly' in his aeroplane."

Gilbert to Anne, after reading a letter from Shirley,

Rilla of Ingleside, chapter 26

July 1919

Shirley Blythe peered expectantly out the train window.

Where is he?

He scanned the crowd at the Glen St. Mary station. It wasn't the whole town, like it had been on the day they had sent Jem and Jerry off in 1914, but still, there were an awful lot of people.

Shirley looked up and down the car, searching for whoever else must be on this train. He hadn't seen any other returning soldiers when they boarded, but perhaps he had overlooked someone.

But no, another glance at the jubilant gathering on the platform revealed only faces he knew. The Ingleside crew, of course, and the denizens of the manse. And there was Miss Cornelia and Mr. Eliot, Mary Vance and her Miller, even big, jolly Norman Douglas and clever, sharp-tongued Ellen talking with Miss Oliver.

I shouldn't have called from Charlottetown.

To slip in, unnoticed, maybe on the evening train — that would have been better. But Shirley had been a miserable correspondent all year. He'd made them all worry unnecessarily and he regretted that sincerely. He couldn't just show up and surprise Susan in the kitchen. Calling ahead had been a kindness and an apology of sorts.

Where is he?

Shirley spotted Mother and Dad, arms around one another, searching the train windows. Jem was there, laughing with Jerry, who held Nan's hand, and Ken Ford, similarly attached to Rilla. Shirley spied Susan and Di and Bruce Meredith and . . .

There. There, on the platform, lurking at the back of the Meredith delegation.

There. Right there.

He was so close, just on the other side of the glass. It had been so long since Shirley had seen him, touched him. But only a minute or two now.

Does he even want to see me?

Shirley had berated himself for cowardice all the way across the Atlantic. It really had been chicken-hearted of him to send that letter at Christmas: I know everyone wants me to come home. I'm just not sure if I can. What had he been thinking? That it would be easier for both of them? That everyone would get along fine without him? He still wasn't completely convinced he was wrong about either. But to go so long without writing . . . well, that had been lily-livered and no mistake. He deserved disdain, even fury. Is that what he'd get?

I'll find out soon.

Shirley straightened his RAF tunic, smoothing the wings sewn over his heart, echo of a paler hand in Paris. Heart hammering now as it had then.

One deep breath and another. Determined to face whatever awaited him out there, Shirley lifted his duffel bag onto his shoulder and stepped through the door toward home.

The platform was bright. Dazzling. After the dim interior of the train, Shirley's eyes needed time to adjust to the full sunlight of a gorgeous summer day in Glen St. Mary. Before they could, he was enfolded into an ecstatic embrace that was nearly too forceful for comfort.

"Hi, Dad," Shirley said, returning his father's hug.

Gilbert Blythe relinquished his son, but only so that Anne could have her turn.

"Hello, Shirley," she said, eyes shining. She didn't embrace him at once, holding him at arm's length for a moment so that she could see him properly, her view impeded only by her welling tears.

"Mum."

She was older. Thinner. Was she unwell? When Shirley wrapped his arms around her waist, it seemed that they could have gone around twice.

No time to ponder that now. Susan was on him, and no decorous glimmer shone in those steadfast eyes. Instead, she was a veritable rainbow: beaming smile shining through the tears that streamed freely down her worn and wrinkled cheeks.

"My boy, my boy," she repeated, patting his cheek affectionately. "You're home!"

Dear Susan. Mother Susan.

And then the rest were there, surrounding him, Jem and Di and Nan and Jerry and Rilla and Ken, all hugging and jostling and greeting so that Shirley didn't even have to say anything, only nod and smile and return what handshakes and back-slaps and cheek-kisses were offered him.

Then Di stepped aside and there he was. Not smiling. Jaw set. It wasn't the patch that arrested Shirley's attention, but the single blue eye, peering up through black lashes to meet his gaze.

Oh.

Carl was just as Shirley remembered him, imagined him, dreamed him. Golden-brown hair, highlighted with honey as it always was in summer. Trim waist and compact figure same as ever, though his posture was slightly stiff, whether with nerves or military discipline Shirley could not tell. The eyepatch was new of course, but Shirley had long ago incorporated it into his imagination, and it was not the reason he staggered.

. . . some are baffled, but that one is not — that one knows me . . .*

It took every emergency reserve of the much-vaunted Blythe self-control to prevent Shirley launching himself across the the platform. He could have done it. Caught Carl up in his arms and and kissed him before everybody, just as Jem and Faith had done a lifetime ago. If Carl had given him any sign of encouragement, he might have, and damn the consequences. But there could be no whoops for them, and no cheers, so they held themselves apart, hesitating even to approach one another for the appropriate greeting of long-separated friends.

I've hugged everyone else. Even Ken. Wouldn't it would seem more suspicious not to?

Shirley was acutely aware of every eye upon him as he stepped forward and offered Carl a carefully calibrated embrace.

At first touch, he noted how rigid Carl held his own body, every muscle tensed, every sinew taut. There was precious little warmth there, though Shirley could not tell whether it was fury or fear of conflagration that rendered him cold. Rather the latter, he thought as a single sob — felt, not heard — clattered through the hollow of Carl's chest like a stone tossed down a dry well.

There was no time, not now, and no privacy, not here. Under cover of a comradely slap on the back, Shirley bent and whispered, "Midnight." Carl would remember the place, wouldn't he?

Of course he remembers. But will he come?

Tearing himself away, Shirley's knees betrayed him and he passed it off as if he had tripped. Carl had turned his blind side, and there was no possibility of anything more at the moment. If anyone were suspicious that Carl was not gladder to see his friend, well, Carl had been rather silent and morose all spring, hadn't he? Even uninjured men had come home different.

Una stepped forward then, steadying Shirley with a gentle hand on his arm. She was not much changed — still the wistful, black-haired maiden, a slight flush of pink on her marble-pale face. There was no reason for Una to dam her tears, so she did not.

"Shirley!" she smiled, clasping his hand and holding his gaze with a desperate earnestness. "I can't tell you how glad we all are to have you home."

He squeezed back, admiring her phrasing.

She'll know everything, then.

"Una," he said, hoping Carl was listening. "I'm awfully sorry it took me so long. Can you forgive me?"

By the look of things, Susan had been cooking since the day Shirley left France. Maybe since the day he left for France. The sideboard groaned with potatoes dressed three different ways, green, egg, and chicken salads, and an orchard of pies. A casual observer could be forgiven for mistakenly thinking that shortages of sugar and butter and meat were past concerns rather than present realities. How Susan had managed to arrange this unlooked-for profligacy was a question destined to remain shrouded in mystery for all time.

Despite celebratory china and silver, the meal had the air of a picnic. Exuberant nosegays of Rilla's device gladdened every place setting and all the windows had been flung wide to admit sunshine and salt-fresh breeze. Jem and Jerry had carried in an extra table so that everyone could sit together in the dining room and they were crammed in, elbow-to-elbow, as if proximity were the main thing necessary to bring them back together.

They ate and chatted merrily, Shirley doing his best to look pleased and offer satisfactory answers to the questions slung at him from every quarter.

"How was the weather on the crossing?"

"Were there many other Canadians in the RAF?"

"Do you think you'll start at Redmond in the fall?"

"What sort of aeroplane was your favorite?"

"Would you like to go for a shore picnic tomorrow?"

"What did you think of Paris?"

Shirley flicked a glance across the table to the place where Carl picked at a stagnant pile of green beans on his plate. A sick lurch of longing caught him in the gut, blotting out the world for a moment.

"Shirley? Dear?"

Beside him, Susan held a pitcher of water, ready to refresh his glass.

"Oh. Thanks, Susan. Sorry," he said, meekly surrendering the cup.

"You must be exhausted," Susan clucked. "Traveling all that way and no proper food. Here, take another slice of ham."

After dinner was dessert and after dessert was tea and after tea was more tea and all the time talking talking talking. Finally, just when Shirley felt he could not hold himself upright a moment longer, Una stood, declaring that she had a headache and would Carl please be so good as to take her home?

"Heavens, yes, we've been here all afternoon," said Rosemary Meredith. "You'll all want rest and quiet for a while without any guests hanging about."

"Nonsense," chirped Anne. "You're all family, or near enough to make no difference."

"That's right," said Ken, stretching an arm around the back of Rilla's chair. "Pretty soon there will be enough name-swapping that no one will be able to tell Blythes from Merediths or vice versa."

"Or Fords," Rilla teased. "Ooooh, maybe Shirley could marry Persis and Carl could marry Di and then we'd all be mixed up beyond any reckoning!"

The laughter following this suggestion covered the exit of Una and Carl, white-knuckled hands gripped tight as they disappeared into the hall.

"I'm exceptionally pleased to hear that you are all family," grinned Gilbert. "And for your first act as members of the clan, I suggest that you help to clear the dishes!"

In the moonless midnight, Shirley felt his way down the slope and into Rainbow Valley. He knew the place well enough, but it had been years and he would have to trust that memory would lead him as unerringly through the mundane world as it always had in dreams.

In paths untrodden,
In the growth by margins of pond-waters . . .

Past the Tree Lovers and Walter's fairy bells, past the quiet pool where fat trout dozed beneath latticed roots, past the bend in the murmuring brook to the reed-screened clearing that had always been theirs, farther up the darkened valley than others cared to wander.

When he reached what he thought was the spot, Shirley paused in the darkness, perfectly still.

"Hello?"

He fumbled in his pocket for a matchbook and kindled a tiny flame.

"Hello? Kit?"

In the next instant, the match was obliterated by a hurtling body. Shirley fought to maintain his balance as he was engulfed in a crushing embrace, strong arms wrapped so tightly around his neck that it felt like drowning. Not brittle now, Carl seemed to be trying to pour himself into Shirley along his whole length, conforming his body to every contour.

Shirley felt his own tension rush away in freshets, absorbing Carl as he was himself absorbed, mingling as two merged waves, indistinguishable one from the other.

Here. Right here.

After a long moment thus immersed, Carl drew back and pounded his fist against Shirley's shoulder in a series of half-hearted blows that diminished into a caress.

"Not . . . not coming home?" he gasped, twining his other hand into the collar of Shirley's shirt. "Christ, I could punch you!"

Shirley smiled, surprised at the blasphemy, and though it was too dark to see, the smile was in his voice as well. "If you must," he said. "But kiss me first, won't you?"

August 1919

Carl Meredith stood on the pebbly stretch of harbor shore, peering skeptically at the fragile-looking wings of the Curtiss HS-2L. Thin support beams showed through their translucent skin, reminding Carl irresistibly of a great, white bat.

"Is it safe?" he asked.

"Not particularly," Shirley answered, unconcerned.

"But you can fly it?"

"I think I can handle a surplus reconnaissance plane," Shirley scoffed.

Carl gulped. "It just looks very . . . precarious. Like it might break in half at any moment."

Shirley chuckled and slapped the blunt hull. "This dumpy old thing? It's like riding a cow."

Carl was not convinced. How could those criss-crossing wires possibly be sturdy enough to hold the wings in place? Weren't the seats awfully close to the propeller? And could it really take off from the water?

Shirley jumped up onto the fuselage and pulled the crank to start the engine. The propeller stuttered and spat through a puff of gray smoke, doing nothing to soothe Carl's jangling nerves. In a moment, though, the propeller found its rhythm and began to purr evenly.

Shirley adjusted his helmet, then turned back and offered Carl a hand up into the plane.

Carl hesitated.

Shirley kept his hand steady, but a flicker of uncertainty flitted across his face. "Can you trust me?"

Carl bit his lip, but he had already made his choice.

"You're . . . not going to crash it, are you?"

A slow smile chased away the shadow of doubt. "That's Jem you're thinking of. No crashes; I promise."

Carl looked up once more. Not at the delicate wings, nor the uncertain propeller, nor the stretch of harbor that seemed an impossible sort of runway. All he saw were Shirley's brown eyes, with their faint sparkle of amusement, and Shirley's broad palm, stretched out to him.

Carl took a deep breath, pulled the strap of his helmet tight, and gave Shirley his hand.

*/*/*/*/*/*/*

*Walt Whitman, "Among the Multitude," Calamus, Leaves of Grass

Dear Friends,

If you have read this far, thank you so much! This turned into a much larger project than I originally meant it to be, and your encouragement and feedback has meant so much to me. You have shared your time, your attention, your family histories, and your research, and I am forever grateful. I learned so much while writing this story. I am glad that I did it during the centennial year; I don't think I will forget in a hurry.

Special thanks must go to kslchen, whose knowledge and dedication made this story so much better than my initial drafts. Thank you, kslchen, for pushing me toward specificity and accuracy, and for being patient in bringing this 18th-century girl into the 20th century. Your own research is amazing and we are all the better for your writing and your generosity. I don't know whether we dedicate stories to one another around here, but you are definitely godmother to this whole affair.

I also want to thank my intrepid reviewers, oz diva, OriginalMcFishie, Alinyaalethia, Excel Aunt, Catiegirl, MrsVonTrapp, Kim Blythe, AnneNGil, stillpink, VickyP16, and many others who left reviews or PM'd me their thoughts. Your support has kept me going and your observations have inspired me a hundred times. Every review gives me a little thrill and fuels me to keep writing. Thank you so much for giving of your own time and letting me know that you have appreciated all the time and effort I've put into Dispatches and Glen Notes over the past five months. I promise that next time I will try to keep to a more leisurely publication schedule.

Another round of special thanks to MrsVonTrapp for putting up with my PMs and my character musings at all hours. If kslchen has kept Dispatches honest, you've kept Happiness chugging along — we'll get to all that soon enough.

I'm going to take a little breather before I launch into the next big story. Maybe catch up on reading a few stories I've been neglecting (hi, Anne o' the Island!). I've heard from several of you that you'd like to see what happened in Paris, so I'll post an M-rated short story on that subject on Friday. Check your filters!

When I've recovered a bit, I'll be back with a sequel: The Happiness We Must Win, a post-war story for Shirley, Carl, and Una.

Til then, I remain

Yours Truly,

elizasky