Chapter Text
Chicago, Illinois
Mid-February 1944
Dear Greta,
I hope this letter finds you well and that you are still finding work fulfilling. I often think of how fondly Ms. Rubinstein must find you, having raised you with several promotions already. I’m sure your clients must see the spark in you too or you wouldn’t have made it to Fifth. It’s exciting, Greta, getting to read your stories on all you’re experiencing out there. I look forward to your letters, always, though the fondness is equally bittersweet as each moment is a reminder of all I’ve missed out on witnessing.
As for myself, I’ve been caught up in a lot of reflecting as of late. I spent an entire summer trying to convince everyone that I was not a farm girl but in the time since we said our goodbyes and left the stoop of our Peaches’ porch, I have come to find that maybe farm girl wasn’t so far off. Though I'll never concede to the farm-girl title, perhaps small-town was fair to say. The great vastness of life, of which you seem to know much about and of which I have known little, I had hardly explored. That all changed this summer, with you. I have spent much of my life exploring the depths of humanity and the mysteries of the world only through books and dreams my mind concocted. You helped me realize that perhaps I have spent a bit too much time in my head, holding back, and dreaming rather than experiencing. You set off a spark in me, Greta, and I knew when the season came to an end, I needed to take the time and get out in the world- to know myself.
I've been thinking a lot about what you said- about my comfortable life and what I'm willing to give up. The truth is, thinking about the life I had waiting for me back in Lake Valley is anything but a comfortable endeavor. You were right. I haven't been fine for a long time. There have been parts of myself and the life I've built, or rather the one that was built for me, that I've simultaneously greatly wrestled with and ignored. After this summer, I couldn't go back to what was left of the girl I left behind last spring. The comfortable life was nothing more than a life that was already written for me under false pretenses and misreported facts, and I'm done pretending to be the person everyone wants me to be. I've come to the realization that I'd rather endure the consequences of whatever may come from truly living than be content and safe in the comfortable life I had once surrendered to live out my days.
I hope you’ll find a change in me, Greta. My time spent living in Chicago- meeting all types of people and doing things I’ve never done before- has transformed my outlook on myself and life. I feel renewed and sure that this city has given me all I needed to move forward. I hope you won't hold it against me that I needed this time away. There were things I knew I had to take care of, chapters I needed to close and boxes I needed to tie up, before I could truly move forward in the way of my true destiny, not the one my family had written for me.
I’m ready, Greta. I don’t want to waste a moment. My train arrives in New York this Saturday, and I plan to stay until we have to make our way back to Rockford. I’m hoping I’ll be able to steal you away for a moment so you can give me a proper tour of this place you’ve been calling home.
There’s so much more to say, but I’ll save it all for a night in Brooklyn.
Be well and try not to miss me too much. I’ll see you soon.
Love always,
Car
P.S.
If your work allows, maybe we can head back to Rockford a little early so we can spend a day in Chicago. I found this amazing pizza joint I know you’ll love- and I still owe you one.
The whistling sound of the train engine roared in the background as Carson folded the note and slipped it in its envelope- no return address this time. Her train wouldn’t depart for another 20 minutes and so Carson lingered with her final letter of the off-season.
She had debated back-and-forth quite some time on whether to make this trip at all. Was the timing right? Would Greta understand? Maybe she, like Charlie, never actually saw a chance of them being asked back for a second season and so they could promise the world because they never really had any intention on having to follow through with it. Maybe, Greta was just being nice. Maybe she just wanted to wrap things up nicely and everything exchanged on the porch was just her way of closing the chapter on just another one of the flings on her list. After all, she was ready to leave for the train without giving Carson a proper goodbye.
The optimistic part of her held onto the last words they exchanged. The confidence in “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
She had to still mean that, right? There’s no way you’d say something like that so convincingly and then wake up and decide one day that you don’t care anymore, right? …right?
She wanted to lean into the hopeful side. That Greta would understand why she needed time and would believe that 6 months would be enough to at least begin to open oneself up to something new. Or would it all come off as over-eager, rushed, and reckless?
Ultimately, Carson reasoned that, whatever the outcome may be, it was worth the risk to be bold and make the trip over to the big city. Tracing a finger over Geta’s address one last time, she slipped the letter in station’s letter box, grabbed her suitcase from the floor, and made her way to the east-bound train headed to New York on the NKP. The station was bustling, filled with families young and old, reunited couples, and young men just back from war. The overall spirit that filled the station was one of excitement. Whether that be from once separated families being reunited or the renewed energy the coming of spring brings, Carson was unsure. All she knew was it was strong and palpable, and yet still she felt as though not a single soul there could possibly match the anticipation she felt in her heart that day. After nearly 6 months apart, she was finally only days away from seeing Greta.
New York City, New York
Mid-February 1944
The groundhog predicted another six weeks of winter and so far that seemed to be holding true. The city had been absolutely miserable lately- days on end of fog and a cold, persistent drizzle of rain. Greta dreaded the coming weekend’s walk to work that was bound to be ridden by the slush of a late winter snow. It was nearly impossible to make it in to the salon not feeling like a disheveled mess whilst her skin turned purple and her standard heels grew drenched from snow. She made herself a mental note to remember to add an extra handkerchief to her purse so she could make herself dry some before clocking in for the day. She had met Ms. Rubinstein’s expectations for her thus far and didn’t want to call her worthiness into question now.
Taking the offer to move to New York had decidedly been the right decision to make. While in the quiet, contemplative moments of the day Greta did find herself reminiscing over the summer she had experienced, working for someone as bold and inspiring as Vivienne Hughes proved to be both a great distraction and an opportunity for a more stable sense of independence. Greta found the work first challenging, though she quickly found her way in rising through the ranks. With business booming, there wasn’t a shortage of work to be done and Greta found that that was precisely what she needed. Something to keep her mind distracted, thoughts at bay. Something to inspire, to fill the space in case another summer was not in store for her in Rockford.
The walks home were what really tested the powers of a good distraction the most. While the streets were always alive with the comings and goings of strangers, the walk back to her empty apartment was often the loneliest place to be. Friends skipped off to their evening plans, business partners eagerly discussed their next buy-ins, and the couples lucky enough to walk side-by-side, hand-in-hand, strolled at-leisure with a blush of happiness cast all over them. Greta found herself always giving a gracious smile, but it trailed, lingering on her face ’til the soul of it was completely gone, fleeing miles away to its rightful protector so that all that was left of the evidence of joy was a mere shell, a placeholder for what was expected but never true.
It brought her back every time. She used to fight it in order to go about her days and find the living of life digestible. But these days Greta found herself entertaining each thought and every memory those thoughts fell into. Amongst all the longing and sadness, there was a strong sense of comfort. For the first time in eight years, it was real- is real. As hard as the world tried, that was the last thing it couldn’t touch, it couldn’t take away- a love witnessed, experienced, and treasured. The longing and heartache served not to taunt but rather to remind Greta that after years of suppression and building up walls, there was still a part of her that survived, a heart so stubborn and defiant that it dared to be loved and to love again.
Just as Greta was getting lost in her thoughts about her old teammate, she rounded the corner to her apartment building. It was much safer than the place she stayed at last time she was in New York though only a couple blocks away. Here, she was greeted by a doorman, John, whom she often exchanged pleasantries with. He was an older man, a few inches shorter than Greta, with thinning grey hair and a kind complexion. He offered her a smile as he opened the door.
“Good evening, Ms. Gill.”
“Good evening, John, “ Greta smiled, skipping inside. “How’s the day been treating ya?”
“Just fine.” John nodded, gesturing towards the stairwell. “Mail just arrived. Looks like everyone’s box got filled tonight so I’d give it a look before you head up for the night.”
These days, it wasn't all that common for Greta to receive mail, given her relatively small circle of confidents, so she appreciated the gesture. “You’re the sweetest, John!” Greta hummed, making the man blush. “Always looking out for me.”
John tipped his hat to her. “It’s my pleasure, Ms. Gills. Have a good night.”
“You as well.”
Greta slipped her hand inside her purse to pull out a set of keys as she approached the back wall, slipping it into the keyhole of 812. Sure enough, just as John had predicted, a couple envelopes filled her box. She never did get to the second letter that night, for after she caught the handwriting on the top envelope, her mind could be entertained with nothing else.
Ms. Greta Gill
6200 Bogart St. NW
Apartment #812
New York, NY 11026
She could recognize that handwriting a mile away. In a singular motion, Greta shut the door to her mailbox and slid the key out, making a bolt to the stairs. Eight floors were never scaled so quickly.
She opened the door on the eighth floor of the stairwell and took a sharp left down her hall. With the keys that never left her hand, Greta opened her apartment door and quickly shut and locked it behind her. Greta never did catch her breath- whether from the slight work of the stairs or the burning letter in her hand remained unclear. It didn't matter- her thoughts were racing too fast to care. Unable to take one step further, Greta slid down the door to the floor and slipped a finger in the crease of the envelope, carefully tearing it open.
A heavy exhale followed as she removed the paper tucked inside.
She finally wrote back. It was really her.
Carson.