The worst torment was hearing them at night.
Mauve’s excited, beautiful laugh falling on the dark like cool silver water. Blackie’s groan, fetched up from the deepest, most fervent part of his body. These were nocturnal melodies to shatter Amy Archer’s young heart back in the spring of 1945.
Her mother, Mauve, would be wearing one of her satin nightgowns in tea-rose or ivory with ecru lace. Amy had all Mauve’s nightgowns memorized as they lay folded in neat piles and scented with lavender sachets in the chiffonier Mauve shared with Amy’s dad, the Captain, who was never coming back because he was dead or missing in action in the Philippines
From her side of the wall in their house in Saguaro Hills, Amy imagined how her mom, alluring as a movie star, would be kicking off her mules with the swan’s-down toe-puffs and dropping her nightgown straps.
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