This Heart of Mine

In this short prequel to
I’ll Be Seeing You,
authors Suzanne Hayes and Loretta Nyhan introduce you to two extraordinary women who are worlds apart—but whose journals reveal they have more in common than they could ever imagine....

Chicago, 1921

Nineteen-year-old waitress Rita Strauss is trying to make it on her own in the big city, spending most of her time alone with her thoughts. The bright spot in her day is the handsome medical student who’s a regular at her diner. Rita fantasizes about what to say to him, wishing she could be more confident—until she decides to take control of her life once and for all.

Rockport, 1940

Socialite Glory Astor thinks it’s the best day of her life when her longtime beau, Robert, finally proposes. But everything gets complicated when her childhood friend Levi asks her to run away with
him
instead, forcing Glory to choose between the two men she cares about the most.

Find out how Rita’s and Glory’s lives intersect in
I’ll Be Seeing You.
Told through their letters during WWII, this incredible story brings together two unforgettable women who have never met in person yet share an unbreakable bond of friendship.

This Heart of Mine

Suzanne Hayes and Loretta Nyhan

Contents

Rita

Glory

Rita

Chicago, 1921

Tuesday, December 13, 1921

Dear Diary,

He showed up at the diner again.

I still didn’t catch his name. Anthony? Nick? Enzo? It’s too late to sneak it out of him. I tried, introducing the other girls, but he just winked and said, “Hiya,” and never offered up. To ask now would be an insult, and I can’t afford to insult a customer who tips as if he’s got a Rockefeller in his back pocket. My money’s been getting lost on its way to my purse. Where it goes, nobody knows....

Maybe I’ll give him a nickname. I do it with all the regulars, and it looks as if this mystery man is on his way to becoming one, though he doesn’t look anything like the red-faced, doughy boys who sit at my counter, ample rears hanging over the sides of their stools. This guy isn’t tall or strapping, but he’s not a shrimp either. His hair is so dark and shiny I can almost see my reflection in it. He wears the top a little long, stray locks brushing against skin the color of tea with milk. His general swarthiness makes his eyes pop like sapphires on black velvet.

I should call him Blue.

That is, if I get a chance. You never know with diner customers. Chicago is a big, unpredictable city—a fella could come every day for a week and then disappear into the ether. Happens all the time.

I hope this one comes back. He’s interesting, and I
need
interesting. He’s also nice. This evening he ordered a slice of my sorry excuse for a raisin pie. I hadn’t cut into it all day.

And, truth be told, he’s gorgeous. Who doesn’t like to look? To dream?

The new girl—Hildy—made sure she got an eyeful. The other girls don’t like her—whatever she does with her nights leaves lines on her face and slows her walk—but I do. She always refills the sugar bowls without being asked and isn’t afraid to scrub out a burnt coffeepot. “Who’s the gent?” she said while Mr. Blue dug into his pie. “He doesn’t have a good sense of direction, does he? What’s he doing in Germantown?”

I shrugged. “Who knows? Some college boy with time on his hands.” He attends Rush Medical College. It’s the one fact I do know about him and, by golly, I’m going to hang on to it pretty tight.

The corner of Hildy’s cherry-red mouth tilted upward. “More like mama’s boy,” she teased.

It’s only a saying, but my heart squeezes with jealousy when I think of someone—anyone—having a mother still walking this world. Mine’s been gone three months, but the feeling won’t leave me. Father Ulrich says we can’t mark grief the way we mark time, in increments. If he’s right, then there’s something very wrong about me because all I do is count the days since she passed, hoping my glum mood will lighten a smidge with each check on the calendar. It doesn’t. I’m climbing slowly out of a deep well, rung by rung on a rickety ladder that could go out from under my feet at any minute. It makes me careful. So careful.

My emotions live pretty far under the surface, so Hildy didn’t read the sorrow, she only picked up a shift in my mood. “Oh, Rita, you’ve got it bad, don’t you?”

“It’s Marguerite,” I said primly. “And I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Uh-huh,” she said.

Hildy’s lucky I like her, because I wanted more than anything to slap her smug grin from here to State Street. She wasn’t wrong, though. I do think he’s sweet, but I have to be careful. I need to hold on to this job. A good waitress knows diner crushes should only turn into true romance in the realm of the imagination. Our torrid affair could take place between my ears while I mix a single-chocolate malted. That way, I don’t risk making a fool of myself. If I can keep my thoughts private, my daydreams starring Mr. Blue will do what they’re supposed to—make the long day skip along at a nice pace. No one has to be the wiser. That’s the sacred motto of restaurant workers everywhere—Keep It to Yourself, Kid.

I would have told Mama. She loved to hear my stories, listening intently, laughing in all the right places and trying not to cough. She’d devise a plan to find out his name. She’d lessen the sting if he never walked back in the door.

But she’s gone. Passed from earth to heaven like a hot potato.

So that’s why I’m talking to you. You’re a real steal at a nickel, but
Diary
sounds cheap. How about I call you Mary? I saw
Pollyanna
for the seventh time last week and Mary Pickford’s smile would melt the cheese on a ham sandwich.

Time for bed. You’ll sleep tucked under my pillow. My last year at St. Scholastica I had a friend, Lilly, who wrote wishes on slips of paper and slept with them folded into her linens. She claimed they would all eventually come true. I wish I could ask her if they did, but my high school friends have all been gobbled up by life. Whatever happened to them?

Or...better yet...what happened to everybody?

Friday, December 16, 1921

Dearest Mary,

No sign of him. Hildy worked the day shift yesterday and said the counter stayed irritatingly pristine because there wasn’t anyone to mess it up. Thursdays are always dead, I told her. The week must seem pretty long for all the poor saps who spend their paychecks carousing at speakeasies on Saturday nights. By the end of the week, they’re eating buttered saltines in cold-water flats.

New girls always get Thursdays. When I told Hildy, she shrugged and said she wouldn’t be new for long. I admire her confidence. While we sorted the Christmas napkins, I wondered aloud if she’d been born with it or acquired the quality through life experience. Hildy nearly broke a rib laughing after I said it, but she didn’t answer the question.

So life carries on. Mr. Maier came by for the rent, pretending he “forgot” it was due two weeks ago. I heard him breathing outside my door. It took him about a century to knock.

“I can afford to pay my debts, Mr. Maier,” I said as I handed him the cash. “No need to worry.”

“There is only you here,” he replied, gazing at the bills as if they somehow offended him. “Uta thinks we should charge less.” Mr. Maier always speaks English with me, though he spoke only German when conversing with my father. Mr. Maier felt a child with an accent would not go far. Had I disappointed him? I can speak like a Highland Park debutante when I want to, and yet...

I pressed the bills into his palm. “I disagree. It’s the same apartment no matter who lives in it.”

His light blue eyes watered, and he patted my hand. “You are a good girl, Marguerite. A good, good girl.”

He carefully folded the bills and placed them in his pocket. They wouldn’t be there long enough to wrinkle. His wife caught the flu a few years ago and her lungs suffer still. She coughs and coughs, keeping blood-tinged handkerchiefs stuffed in her bosom. I hear the familiar racking sound rising through the floorboards, and again my apartment echoes with the sounds of a woman dying. What is there to do but keep her comfortable? I tried to instruct Mr. Maier, but there are only so many ways to tell a person his beloved is about to pass on. He calls doctors from every corner of this city. They file into the Maier flat with their hands out and leave with their pockets lined. I suppose we will all gladly pay through the nose for a sliver of hope. I sure did.

But I wasn’t lying to my landlord—I can keep the rent up, at least for a while. Though it’s been two years, the money Pops left when he died isn’t completely gone. Add my tips and the (admittedly paltry) weekly salary from the diner and I come out even nearly every week. What comes in goes out.

Why do I find that depressing? Does it mean I must live my life exactly the same way, every day, for as long as I wish to stay on top of things?

Well?

I just realized something—you’ve got to take what I dish out, but can’t answer back. Now, THAT’S the cat’s pajamas!

Monday, December 19, 1921

Mary,

Nope, not yet. No sign of him. And it’s too late to make the nickname stick, because I’ve practiced giving it to him so many times in my head it’ll sound rehearsed if I actually let the words out. I’ve taken to daydreaming about the postman, which, given his penchant for corny jokes and beet soup, is not much fun at all.

Maybe a new fella will waltz in tomorrow and order the raisin pie. Maybe one of the tall, ginger-haired boys just arrived from County Clare. Or a muscled automobile mechanic from the garage on Montrose Avenue. Or better yet, a buttoned-up banker from First Chicago.

Oh, thank God in heaven our private thoughts don’t spool from our ears on ticker tape. I’d be committed to a mental ward lickety-split.

Speaking of cuckoo clocks, Mr. Hahn left the dungeon of his office and graced the restaurant with a visit today, just before the lunch rush. I shouldn’t complain—he pays us on time and leaves us alone, so why should I give a fig if he’s not Mr. Congeniality?

He motioned for Jimmy, the hooligan busboy, to follow him into the storeroom. They came out with an electric sign to replace the tin one hanging over the door. The script was fancy, bright and
wrong
.

“Shouldn’t that say Albrecht’s?” Hildy said, asking what the rest of us were thinking. Albrecht was the family name of the previous owners, who opened the restaurant in the golden glow of the Gay Nineties. Nearly every living soul in the neighborhood—and all of the dead ones—knew the name Albrecht’s.

“It is time for a change,” Mr. Hahn answered, a note of finality in his voice. He held up the sign for us to admire. Mondlicht Café.

Jimmy scratched his head. “What does it mean? Why isn’t it in American?”

“It means moonlight,” I offered. But I wondered, too. Why not in English?

Mr. Hahn gently lowered the sign onto its side. He picked up a soiled cloth from the counter and began wiping his glasses. “It has international appeal,” he finally said.

“It has
sex
appeal,” Hildy muttered under her breath, and I had to bite my tongue to keep from giggling. She’s not quite right—it is more romantic than lurid. I felt my mouth curve into a smile—a real-deal, from-the-heart smile. “I like it, Mr. Hahn,” I said. “I really do.”

He nodded curtly, then began giving Jimmy detailed orders for the sign’s installation. I was nearly overcome by the desire to help—the Albrecht’s sign suddenly seemed crass and pedestrian, and I wanted it gone, gone, gone!

Some customers entered and Mr. Hahn returned to his damp hovel. I suspect he sleeps there. He is not married, though he must be at least forty. His collar is often dirty and he never reads the funnies or eats sweets and always looks like his idea of a good time is sucking on a lemon.

Where in the world did the idea for that sign come from?

Tuesday, December 20, 1921

Sweet Mary (Mother of God!),

He’s back! I know I shouldn’t be this excited, but I am. I am!

Oh, it’s a real beaut of a story, and I can tell it in gorgeous detail because I haven’t been able to think about anything else since this afternoon.

So...without further ahh-doo...

For the past few days, I’d practiced exactly what I would say should he return, but when he walked in the door, I could only nod hello. When he casually lowered himself onto the counter stool, I somehow managed to pass him a menu with shaking hands. I’ve heard that can happen—sudden muteness—but strangely, I had a million witticisms running wild through my head. I just couldn’t pluck out the right one.

Rachel saved me. She belongs to Marta, our humorless fry cook, and can’t be more than six if she’s a day. School’s out for the holiday, and the streets are full of tykes with red noses and eager smiles—the sight does a heart good. Sadly, Rachel couldn’t join in. She’s got the sniffles, so the poor thing was stuck sitting at the counter all day. We put her to work stringing popcorn.

“Wanna help?” she asked him.
Ask
for
his
name
, I thought, but she didn’t, grinning at him with a somewhat toothless smile.

“Sure thing,” he said. “I’m an expert.” Rachel carefully slid the bowl between them and handed him the spool of nearly invisible thread.

I couldn’t let a grade-schooler best me. “Would you like some coffee?” I asked. I know, scintillating, but at least I said
something
. My mouth felt drier than Marta’s pork chops.

“Dash of sugar, dash of cream,” he replied, and winked.

I turned to pour it and Hildy brushed past me. Half of me hoped she could get him talking, and half of me...didn’t. I took a breath to calm my beating heart and placed the coffee directly in front of him.

“Thanks,” he said, but didn’t look up from the serious business of popcorn threading. He has nice hands. Masculine and capable but nimble.

“Are you off school, too?” Rachel asked.

“I am,” he said.

She scrunched her tiny brow. “Are your teachers mean old witches?”

He smiled. Another attribute. “I don’t mind the mean ones. It’s the boring ones that sink my boat. I’ve got some real yawners.”

“In college?” Hildy asked. She gave me a start. I’d somehow forgotten she was standing there.

His face grew serious, and he looked at me, then her. “In college. Rush Medical.”

Hildy’s hand went to her hip. “How old are you?”

The smile returned, aided by some crinkling around those deep blue eyes. “Nineteen.”

“Rita’s nineteen, too,” she said. “Imagine the odds.”

I nudged her with my elbow. “It’s Marguerite.”

Hildy ignored me. “Ain’t you on the young side for doctor school?”

“I skipped two grades,” he said. “Seventh and eighth.” Only a rare type of person could get away with saying that without sounding like a real gasbag, but he managed it.

“You skipped ahead?” Rachel asked, eyes wide. “Lucky duck.”

“Not really,” he said, turning his stool toward her. “I took a test and some egghead in Washington decided I was an egghead, too.” Rachel gave him her full attention, and he tweaked her nose. “Problem is, in the land of eggs, I’m a little scrambled.”

Rachel giggled and Hildy groaned, simultaneously.

There was a pause then, awkward and lengthy, and I knew it was me who should fill it. What I said came out all wrong: “You must not be doing too poorly if you can spend so much time on that stool.” The minute it left my mouth I wanted to die—
die
—right then and there.