Free Villa America by Liza Klaussmann Page B

underneath.
    India—I need more time to respond to what you wrote. It feels as if my head is full of the sounds, the touch of the things you describe so eloquently.
    Although you are much missed here, I would not trade places in that Jamesian paradise you find yourself in. Instead, I will await your return, which seems increasingly far off, and content myself with the company of people who eat chicken salad and nod their heads at every piece of wisdom trotted out. My God, this is a bad age for singular thought.
    Work is quite busy—with what, I am not entirely sure. If I figure it out, I will write it in my next letter.
    Yours,
Gerald
     
    Cannes
May 6, 1914
    Dear Gerald,
    I am glad spring has finally come to you. Have you seen your cherry blossoms? We have left Rome and are now in Cannes with its extremely muscular casinos. I’ve been wondering about something you wrote to me, a small thing, really, but…
     
    New York
June 1, 1914
    Sara,
    Your last letter made your absence even keener. Will you not come back…
     
    Deauville
July 6, 1914
    Dear Gerald,
    It’s strange, how finally your voice, the true one you allude to, has reached me over these thousands of miles and many months. Can it be true…
     
    New York
July 18, 1914
    Dear Sara,
    I know exactly how you feel. It’s stifling in New York, but all I can think of is that it will be exactly in this kind of weather that you return, and I therefore feel extremely amiable towards it. Still, everything here whispers of your absence. What you said has changed how I see things…
     
    London
July 18, 1914
    Dear Gerald,
    Your reply has not reached me (and may never, at this rate). But this crossed my mind in the meantime: Will you…
     
    Southampton
England
July 31, 1914
    Dear Gerald,
    I will be with you before this letter is, but writing about this in my diary doesn’t seem enough. Perhaps things have started to feel unreal unless I tell them to you. All talk is about war, and as we wait for the Lusitania to set sail, we have heard rumors that Germany is preparing to enter the dispute over the murdered archduke. Everyone on board is twitchy. We’ve been told that we will be sailing without lights, and the ship’s officers are loading the cruiser guns. She is, of course, a British ship and no one knows where we’ll be in five days, so these are the precautions. I long to read an American newspaper to see where we really stand, but alas, we can’t get hold of anything less than a week old.
    Is it really possible for these great old nations to move this fast? Things always seem just that little bit slower in Europe, a little more refined, and yet in four days, it seems as if everything has been thrown up in the air, the music going at a dizzying pace.
    I remember once longing for the Ritz to burn. I am sorry for that now. I hope we will get there safely and that yours shall be the first face I see.
    S.
     
    The day Owen went up in the flying machine had broken bright and clear over the island. He’d risen far earlier than he needed to, but he’d been waiting for this day for four years. Four years since he’d stolen his first look at her in the barn.
    Europe had just declared war on itself and it was all anyone could talk about. Even Mr. Glass. Well, especially Mr. Glass, who last evening, on one of their walks, had spoken only of that, as if the next day they wouldn’t be flying in an aeroplane in the sky.
    “Bad business, what’s happening in Europe,” he’d said. “Still, they’re always fighting about something, some small border or other. It’ll be over before you know it. We just have to keep those shipping lines clear and make sure we don’t get dragged into their mess.”
    But Owen didn’t care about shipping lines or border disputes in faraway places. All he could think about was that he was finally going to take flight, like the Wright brothers. But he’d tried to nod thoughtfully anyway as they’d ambled through the old cemetery.
    They often