Free The Uninvited by Cat Winters Page A

these little coffin nails right now,” he had told me out on our front porch, the night before he would board a train and leave us for good. He blew a smoke ring into the air like Alice’s caterpillar friend and added, “Pops turns to drink when he’s anxious, and that’s all fine and well, as long as his temper’s at bay. But I prefer my good pal tobacco.”
    “Cigarettes are called coffin nails for a reason, Billy Boy,” I remembered telling him. “Be careful with those things. You’re risking your life.”
    As I recalled, he turned his face toward mine in the moonlight, and he didn’t even need to say one word for me to understand the ignorance of my comment, considering where he’d be traveling in the coming weeks.
    A W A R M H A N D took hold of my wrist and shook me awake.
    “Ivy,” said May in a soft coo. “Wake up.”
    My eyes blinked open to the sight of the first light of dawn shining against May’s smooth face and brightening the watercolors on the wall behind her.
    “I stayed up late and waited for you.” She stood up straight and tightened the sash of the red silk robe she wore. “You had me worried after trekking off into the night to see that German. I thought the first-ever boarder at Dover’s Home for Women of Independent Means either eloped with the enemy or got shanghaied into the German armed forces.”
    “I’m sorry.” I winced at a sour taste in my mouth and scooted upright in the chair. “I didn’t actually speak with the German for long.”
    “Did you tell him who you are?”
    “He already knew. He threw me out of his store.”
    “Oh. I’m sorry.” May sat down on her green sofa—the one built by Daniel and his brother. “That doesn’t sound like it helped with your guilt in the slightest.”
    “Not in the slightest. I think I should go back.”
    “And say what?”
    “I don’t know, but I overheard men from the APL talk about shipping him off somewhere. Fort Oglethorpe, I think.”
    May cringed and sucked air through her teeth. “I suppose that’s better than a lynching.”
    “I suppose.” I held my head in my hands and dug my elbows into the tops of my thighs. “I can’t believe we’re even using the words, ‘That’s better than a lynching.’ What’s wrong with the world right now?”
    “What isn’t wrong with it?” She sat back on the sofa and crossed her bare right leg over her left one. “Where did you spend the rest of the night, then? You didn’t go back home, did you?”
    “No! Absolutely not.” I lifted my head. “I drove an ambulance for two Red Cross nurses who didn’t know how to drive it themselves.”
    “What?” May laughed. “ ‘Tickling the Ivories with Ivy’ also knows how to helm large automotives?”
    “I do. I used to drive tractors and trucks on the family farm. My father insisted everyone help with everything out there—even us women.”
    “Well, good for you.”
    “That part helped with the guilt a tad, but seeing how much people are suffering from this flu . . .” I closed my eyes and rubbed the balls of my fingers against the lids, finding the movement oddly soothing. “It was hard, witnessing all of that. I don’t know if I have the courage and strength to do it again.”
    May reached over and patted my leg. “Go up and sleep in your new bed for a while. It’ll make you feel better about everything, and it’ll be far more comfortable than dozing in Eddie’s grandfather’s stodgy old chair like this.”
    Another sharp pain walloped me in the middle of my stomach, but I nodded and pushed myself out of the seat.
    “Thank you for all of your help,” I said before leaving that spot in the room. “I’m sorry if people ever . . .” I trailed off, not quite knowing how to articulate what I meant without uttering stupid phrases such as I’m sorry people call you “Eddie’s souvenir” and discuss the size of your bosom .
    “If people ever what?” she asked with a tilt of her head.
    I took a deep