The Pieces We Keep Read online

  Praise for the novels of Kristina McMorris

  The Pieces We Keep

  “Kristina McMorris’s novel moves masterfully between past and present and locks us straight in the heart with a love story, a story between a mother and son, and a story of healing. The Pieces We Keep gripped me from the first page and didn’t let go.”

  –Alyson Richman, bestselling author of The Lost Wife

  “From the past to the present, The Pieces We Keep is a compelling tale with memorable characters, written in McMorris’s elegant and captivating prose. I didn’t want this novel to end.”

  –Erika Robuck, bestselling author of Call Me Zelda

  “Kristina McMorris has written an utterly absorbing novel, which takes us from present-day Oregon to World War II London, and touches on profound themes. This is a beautifully woven story, at once gripping and uplifting.”

  –Margaret Leroy, author of The Soldier’s Wife

  Bridge of Scarlet Leaves

  “McMorris’s second novel gracefully blossoms through swift prose and rich characters.... This gripping story about two ‘brothers’ in arms and a young woman caught in between them hits all the right chords.”

  –Publishers Weekly

  “A sweeping yet intimate novel that will please both romantics and lovers of American history.”

  –Kirkus Reviews

  “An unputdownable love story ... [McMorris’s] attention to detail is meticulous, the East meets West clash between cultures-revelatory.”

  –Lesley Kagen, New York Times bestselling author of

  Whistling in the Dark

  Please turn the page for more outstanding praise!

  “A wonderfully poignant tale, it’s at times terribly dramatic and others beautifully gentle.”

  —RT Book Reviews

  “Impeccably researched and beautifully written, Bridge of Scarlet Leaves is a story of loss, triumph, and awakening—and of forgiving those who have injured us the most. I highly recommend this book!”

  –Karen White, New York Times bestselling author of

  The Time Between

  “Rich in historical detail, peopled with well-developed characters, and spiced with tension and drama, Bridge of Scarlet Leaves is a novel to savor, and then to share with a friend.”

  —The Historical Novel Reviews

  Letters from Home

  “This sweeping debut novel is ambitious and compelling.... will appeal to historical fiction fans hungry for a romance of the ‘Greatest Generation.’”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “The tale is emotionally moving and the end is heartwarming. This is a tough book to put down!”

  —RT Book Reviews

  “Letters from Home is an absorbing debut, combining the emotional power of The Notebook with the stirring history and drama of Saving Private Ryan. An evocative and compelling storyteller, Kristina McMorris gives us a novel to savor and remember.”

  –Ben Sherwood, New York Times bestselling author of

  The Death and Life of Charlie St. Cloud

  “McMorris gives readers a poignant and resonant ‘Greatest Generation’ story of love and loss during wartime.”

  —Booklist

  “McMorris writes of the people and the period with a great deal of insight and compassion. Through the three heroines she captures a cross-section of the myriad experiences and coping mechanisms of the women left behind with their hopes and dreams and fears.”

  –The Historical Novels Reviews

  “This poignant novel digs deep into the emotional and physical effects of war and is well written and well researched.... highlight [s] the harsh realities of both war and human nature.”

  —New York Journal of Books

  Books by Kristina McMorris

  Letters from Home

  Bridge of Scarlet Leaves

  The Pieces We Keep

  Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

  THE PIECES WE KEEP

  KRISTINA McMORRIS

  KENSINGTON BOOKS

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Praise for the novels of Kristina McMorris

  Also by

  Title Page

  Dedication

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  PART ONE

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  PART TWO

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  PART THREE

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  47

  48

  49

  50

  PART FOUR

  51

  52

  53

  54

  55

  56

  57

  58

  59

  60

  61

  62

  63

  64

  65

  66

  67

  68

  69

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  A READING GROUP GUIDE

  Discussion Questions

  Copyright Page

  To Danny, for your unwavering faith

  in me, our family, and our journey

  Thank you for believing.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Once more, I owe the inspiration of my latest novel to true accounts. Although the characters within these pages are fictitious, the astounding case of German saboteurs in America during WWII is not. I am indebted to Melissa Marsh for bringing this slice of history to my attention, without which this book would not exist.

  Likewise, the tale of a young boy inflicted by night terrors and memories beyond logical explanation is also based on a true story (more details in the Author’s Note). For guiding me to this documented instance, as well as suggesting the two storylines were in fact the makings of a single book, I am enormously grateful to my dear friend and devoted champion Jennifer Schober.

  Research for the writing of this novel would have proven overwhelming if not for the generosity of many diverse experts. For enduring countless questions and even reading sections of the book for accuracy, I owe my deep appreciation to Detective Mike Hall, veterinarian Tammy Tomschin, child psychologist Kevin Wright, hypnotherapist Jennifer Boose, and Afghanistan combat veteran Bryan Wood. I am truly in awe of the selfless service you all provide to others. Thank you for allowing me a glimpse into your inspiring worlds.

  An equal amount of gratitude goes out to the following people for their insight regarding the very difficult topic of child abuse: Meta Carroll, Judith Ashley, Terrel Hoffman, Erica Strauss, and Anna Stiefvater. I also thank Sheri de Grom for invaluable information on traumatic brain injuries, John Meehan and David Davis for educating me on airline emergency protocols, David Noble for confirming details on River View Cemetery, and Steven Burke for tirelessly addressing questions on court procedures and legalities. The compilation of answers you all provided could e
asily amount to an entire book.

  I am immensely grateful to Ursula and Les Stomsvik, who spent half a day at my kitchen table sharing stories about growing up in Germany and the tragic hardships of those caught in-between. You have not only broadened my mind but also embedded yourselves in my heart.

  Additionally, I relied upon the historical expertise of archivists from the Women’s Army Museum, Francoise Bonnell and Amanda Strickland, as well as Carol Fletcher from the Telephone Museum Foundation of Gridley, who treated me to tales of working as an operator since childhood when she had to sit on books in order to reach the switchboard.

  Forever I will be grateful to: Al and Karen Cagle for their unrelenting support and help in all areas of WWII that otherwise would have eluded me; WWII airman Kenneth Tucker for his information about cargo transports; Richard Cox for his hard-found historical facts regarding Fort Hamilton; and, of course, to the Multnomah County Research Librarians for once more assisting my hunts for obscure details.

  I owe another serving of thanks to Brian and Janet Taylor and Helen Scott Taylor, who were all kind enough to read excerpts featuring 1940s London in an effort to ensure authenticity; to Joan Swan, my wonderful medical go-to person; and to Lynne Krywult for enlightening me on the ins and outs of farm life. The hayloft scene is for you!

  Thank you to Heidi McDonough and Lisa Osnes for helping me find the perfect title (and not letting me settle on a simple THE). For trudging through the lengthy outline and assuring me I was on the right track, despite my propensity for fading to black, I thank Rachel Grant, Elisabeth Naughton, and Darcy Burke. My early readers of the manuscript are all super-bionic women whose encouragement and/or suggestions were invaluable: my beloved Sue McMorris, Kathy Huston, Molly Galassi, Sharon Shuman, and literary soul sisters Erika Robuck and Therese Walsh.

  Of all the stories I have written thus far, this one undoubtedly presented the greatest challenges. My saving grace was the team of cheerleaders who kept me going, page after page, month after month. Everyone should be so blessed as to have Tracy Callan, Sunny Klever, Stephanie Stricklen, Jenna Blum, and my “twin-sie,” Alyson Richman, waiting at the finish line with pompoms and Gatorade cocktails in hand. I love and admire you all to no end.

  Thanks, as always, to the amazing Kensington team for managing to bring stories from my imagination to pages in readers’ hands. I am especially indebted to my editor John Scognamiglio, who believed in my work from the beginning; Vida Engstrand, whose energy and efforts are utterly infectious; and Kristine Mills-Noble, who continues to gift me with covers which are truly works of art. I also extend my sincere thanks to all of the readers, book clubs, and reviewers who have enjoyed my novels and generously helped spread the word. For a writer, there is no greater compliment.

  Finally, above all, I’m grateful to my husband, Danny, and our sons, Tristan and Kiernan. From marriage to motherhood, the lessons and memories I treasure more than any others have all come from you. You are the “pieces” that eternally fill my heart. Thank you for blessing my life in ways beyond measure. My love for you overflows.

  PART ONE

  Back on its golden hinges

  The gate of Memory swings,

  And my heart goes into the garden

  And walks with the olden things.

  –from “Memory’s Garden”

  by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

  1

  Mid-May 2012

  Portland, OR

  The sound of her name, in that deep familiar timbre, swept through Audra like a winter gale. Her lungs pulled a sharp breath. Her forearms prickled. In line at the airport gate, she clutched the shoulder strap of her carry-on, a makeshift lifeline, and turned toward the voice.

  “Babe, you want anything else?” the man in a floral-print shirt hollered from the coffee stand. “Andrea?”

  Andrea. Not Audra.

  And the man wasn’t Devon.

  “Just the vanilla latte,” a woman replied from a nearby table, then resumed chatting on her phone.

  For an eternal moment Audra Hughes remained frozen. She braced against the aftershock of hope, like the rush of a near car collision, when blood rages in your ears and every pore yawns open. Even now, two years after her husband’s death, she hadn’t conquered the reflex, nor the guilt. But in time she would, and today’s trip would serve as a major step, regardless of others’ opinions.

  “Ma’am?” The male attendant stood at the door of the Jetway. “Are the two of you boarding?”

  Audra and her son were suddenly the only passengers at the gate. She would usually make a quip, about the plane not coming to them, but her senses were still recovering. “Sorry,” she said, striding forward. “Not enough coffee.”

  Truthfully, she didn’t drink the stuff; too hard on the teeth and heart. But the excuse flowed out, plausible for any Northwest native, the caffeine kings of the world. A person couldn’t walk the length of five gates at Portland Airport without hearing the turbo blast of an espresso machine.

  The man scanned her boarding passes. Beep. Beep.

  “Enjoy the flight.”

  Audra was about to continue through the doorway when she noticed Jack hadn’t followed. The seven-year-old stood several yards away, the rolled cuffs of his jeans hanging uneven from dressing himself. Beneath his Captain America backpack and favorite gray hoodie, his hunched shoulders downplayed his sturdy form. His attention remained on a window dotted by Thursday-morning rain. The sight of their idle plane widened his slate-blue eyes, same shade and shape as Devon’s. Their hair, too, had been a perfect match, the color of sweet molasses.

  If it weren’t for that rounded nose and chin, Devon’s father used to jest, you’d never know who his mom was. It was actually a fitting claim in more ways than one. And every day Jack looked more and more like Devon. Or less and less like Audra, depending on the choice of view.

  “Buddy, time to scoot,” she told him.

  Still entranced, he stroked his little toy plane, its silver paint worn thin from the habit. He’d been awed by aircrafts since the age of three, when Devon gave him a 747, stuffed and plush with cockpit eyes and a propeller nose.

  “Jack!”

  He snapped his head toward her.

  “Let’s get onboard.”

  She expected dazed excitement to fill his eyes; what she caught was a flash of dread. Not the common kind among kids at the dentist’s or on the day of a quiz, but the type she’d witnessed a hundred times over, from animals being led into surgery or about to be put down. A look saying they knew what was coming.

  Could it be Jack sensed something wrong with the flight?

  “Mom,” he said in a hush. It was the way he often spoke these days. But this time, the plea in the word leapt out and cinched Audra’s chest.

  “Ma’am,” the attendant repeated, “we have to close the doors.”

  If Audra missed this flight, there would be no final job interview. She was currently the top pick according to her contact, who encouraged her to bring Jack along. A smart idea. The transition would be easier if he was involved in the process. Together they’d scout out houses with plenty of acreage and top-rated schools near the brand-new animal hospital. At the facility just outside Philadelphia, everything would be shiny and flawless and unused. An empty slate.

  She assessed the plane, a strong and trusted transport. Flying ranked safer than driving according to statistics.

  This had become her method of reasoning: the tangible, the provable; X-rays and blood tests. Any faith in the spiritual realm—airplane premonitions included—had been buried along with Devon.

  “Jack, let’s go,” she told him. “Now.”

  The command prodded him forward, though only increased the pursing of his lips. She clasped his hand to hurry him onto the jet bridge. The gate door sealed, dimming the snaking tunnel. Jack tightened his hold, so snug she could feel waves of apprehension pulsing through his body.

  Instinct implored her to pick him up, yet her own lecture slammed back.
Let them walk on their own. It was the instruction she gave any clients whose coddling, albeit well intentioned, stunted the confidence of their Chihuahuas, Yorkies, any number of small breeds. Treat them like big dogs and they’ll believe they are.

  Whenever applied, the lesson proved reliable, swelling Audra with pride. A stark contrast to this moment.

  If Devon were here, what would he say? What magical phrase would rid the stiffness from Jack’s steps? There was a huge difference between nurturing animals and children. It was her husband who excelled at the latter.

  Audra rubbed the crown of Jack’s head, the airplane now in sight. His hair smelled of green apple, from a shampoo that claimed to prevent tears. “Nothing to worry about, buddy. I told you, this is going to be fun.”

  “Good morning,” a uniformed woman said from the plane’s entryway. An ash-blond updo topped her petite form.

  Audra was about to return the greeting when something yanked her arm. Jack had concreted himself a few inches from the door. His eyes went wide, not blinking.

  The flight attendant leaned down to his level. “Is this your first plane ride, cutie?”

  Jack didn’t answer.

  Audra explained, “He flew a few times when he was a baby. But this is the first time he’d be old enough to remember.”

  “Well, in that case,” she told Jack, “I’ll have to make this flight extra special. How about you take your seat, and I’ll see if I can scrounge up some pilot wings. What do you say?”