The Lilac Cadillac

  Jane Harvey-Berrick

  Contents

  Newsletter Information

  Reviews

  Also by Jane Harvey-Berrick

  Prologue

  The First Letter

  1. Godalming, Surrey, 3rd September 1939

  2. Strawberry Point, Iowa, February 2019

  The Second Letter

  3. London, 10th September 1939

  4. Strawberry Point, February 2019

  The Third Letter

  5. The Battle of Britain, Summer 1940

  6. Strawberry Point, March 2019

  7. London, 7th September 1940

  8. Strawberry Point, April 2019

  9. Godalming, Christmas 1940

  10. Strawberry Point, April 2019

  11. WAAF Training, September 1940

  12. Strawberry Point, April 2019

  13. Station X, 1940-41

  14. Strawberry Point, April 2019

  15. Bletchley Park, Winter 1941

  16. Strawberry Point, May 2019

  17. Bletchley Park, June 1942

  18. Strawberry Point, June 2019

  19. Bletchley Park, Midsummer Eve 1942

  20. Day One, June 2019

  21. London, 21st June 1942

  22. Day Two, June 2019

  23. Bletchley Park, 22nd June 1942

  24. Day Two, June 2019

  25. Bletchley Park, July 1942

  26. Day Three, June 2019

  27. Bletchley Park, August 1942

  28. Day Three, June 2019

  29. Bletchley Park, Spring 1943

  30. Day Four, June 2019

  31. Devon, April 1943

  32. Day Five, June 2019

  33. Devon, April 1943

  34. Day Six, June 2019

  35. Devon, April 1943

  36. Day Six, June 2019

  37. Devon, April 1943

  38. Day Seven, June 2019

  39. Bletchley Park, Summer 1943

  40. Day Eight, June 2019

  41. Yorkshire Dales, December 1943

  42. Day Eight, June 2019

  43. Yorkshire Dales, December 1943

  44. Day Eight, June 2019

  45. Bletchley Park, January 1944

  46. Day Eight, June 2019

  47. RAF General Hospital, Wiltshire, March 1944

  48. Day Eight, June 2019

  49. Bletchley Park, Summer 1944

  50. Day Eight, June 2019

  51. Bletchley Park, Autumn 1944

  52. Day Nine, June 2019

  Epilogue

  A note from the Author

  Appendix

  Don’t forget to claim your free book!

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Jane Harvey-Berrick

  The Lilac Cadillac

  Copyright © 2021 Jane Harvey-Berrick

  Editing by Krista Webster & Tonya Allen

  First published in Great Britain, 2021

  This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you do, you are STEALING.

  Jane Harvey-Berrick has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination, unless where stated.

  All rights reserved; no part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher. All rights reserved.

  Cover photograph by Deposit Photos

  Cover design by Sybil Wilson / Pop Kitty Designs

  ISBN 978-1-912015-79-5

  Created with Vellum

  For Monica and Hilda

  Sisters who danced through the War with their GI sweethearts, who loved and lost and survived.

  Newsletter Information

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  Reviews

  Reviews

  I really hope that you enjoy this story. All my books are personal to me, but some affect me more than others and echo across the years. The Lilac Cadillac is one of those books.

  I hope that you’ll leave a review, too. It’s not just for me (but I do love it when I know you’ve enjoyed my book!), but reviews also help other people to make an informed decision before buying.

  So, I’d really appreciate if you took a few seconds to do just that when you’ve finished this story. Thank you!

  Goodreads

  Jane x

  Also by Jane Harvey-Berrick

  Standalone Titles

  New Adult

  *Dangerous to Know & Love

  Dazzled

  Summer of Seventeen

  Contemporary Romance

  Battle Scars

  One Careful Owner

  *Lifers

  At Your Beck & Call

  The New Samurai

  Exposure

  The Year Book (coming December 2021)

  Novellas

  *Behind the Walls

  Playing in the Rain

  Audio Books

  One Careful Owner

  (narrated by Seth Clayton)

  On the Stage

  Later, After: Playscript

  Trailer

  With Stuart Reardon

  *Undefeated (Undefeated series #1)

  *Model Boyfriend (Undefeated series #2)

  *Touch My Soul(novella)

  *Gym Or Chocolate? (Gym or Chocolate series #1)

  *The World According to Vince (Gym or Chocolate series #2)

  *The Baby Game (Gym or Chocolate series #3)

  With Alana Albertson

  Father Figure

  Series Titles

  The Justin Trainer Series

  The bodyguard and the billionaire

  Guarding the Billionaire (Justin Trainer series #1)

  Saving the Billionaire (Justin Trainer series #2)

  * The EOD Series

  Blood, bombs and heartbreak

  *Tick Tock (EOD series #1)

  * Bombshell (EOD series #2)

  *The Traveling Series

  All the fun of the fair … and two worlds collide

  *The Traveling Man (Traveling series #1)

  *The Traveling Woman (Traveling series #2)

  *Roustabout (Traveling series #3)

  *Carnival (Traveling series #4)

  *The Education Series

  An epic love story spanning the years, through war zones and more…

  *The Education of Sebastian (Education series #1)

  *The Education of Caroline (Education series #2)

  *The Education of Sebastian & Caroline (combined edition, books 1 & 2)

  Semper Fi: The Education of Caroline (Education series #3)

  *The Rhythm Series

  Blood, sweat, tears and dance

  *Slave to the Rhythm (Rhythm series #1)

  *Luka (Rhythm series #2)

  * These titles are published in languages other than English. Please check Jane’s website for details.

  Prologue

  Life is a journey. That’s what they say, isn’t it? We’re all traveling toward some unknown destination, not knowing when or where we’ll stop, when we’ll pick up passengers or wave goodbye to others.

  We grow up, we grow older, and the direction of the journey changes. Sometimes we choose our path and sometimes our path chooses us. But sometimes, just occasionally, someone else picks a different path for us, and we’re traveling down it before we even realize.

  What happened to me is a combination of all these things: two very special people who changed the course of my life. And a large, ugly and uncomfortable car, a lilac-colored Cadillac.

  It really was ugly. But I ended up loving it, because … well, it’s a long story.

  The First Letter

  My dearest darling,

  I owe you an explanation. Oh, my love, I owe you so much more than that. But you don’t know what it was like, you don’t know why I did what I did, why I made this terrible choice. I’ll try to explain, although I know that I can never undo the mistakes I made, that we made, nor undo the damage. I beg you, let me tell you why.

  Chapter One

  Godalming, Surrey, 3rd September 1939

  Sylvia

  I was seventeen years old when the war started. So much a child, but believing myself an adult. I was Sylvia Edwards then, of course. I remember sitting in our drawing room as Father twiddled the dial on the wireless set, trying to find a clear signal. Usually, he huffed and puffed and made quite a meal of it, but that day the silence was profound.

  When he found a signal, he glanced at Mother, an unspoken message passing between them, then he lowered himself heavily into his worn leather armchair, clamping his pipe between his teeth. He carried that pipe everywhere but never lit it—Mother hated the odour of pipe tobacco, but when I think of Father, he always has that pipe.

  The wall clock in its rosewood cabinet
ticked quietly, the sound of my childhood, the hands creeping forward, unaware, as I was unaware.

  Tick Tock. Tick tock.

  11.05am.

  Tick Tock. Tick tock.

  11.10am.

  Tick Tock. Tick tock.

  11.15am.

  Nobody moved and I hardly dared to breathe.

  My hands were knotted together, the knuckles white and strained when the radio crackled to life and a man’s voice rang out from the Bakelite box.

  “This is London. You will now hear a statement by the Prime Minister.”

  Although I could hear perfectly well, I leaned forward and imagined Neville Chamberlain sitting at his desk in front of the contraption that would broadcast his words to a waiting nation. A thin, austere man, I pictured his neatly combed salt and pepper hair; the thick, bristling moustache that hid a narrow upper lip; the formal wing-tip collar and black morning tie that reminded me of an undertaker.

  Then Britain’s Prime Minister uttered the words that were to change our lives forever.

  “I am speaking to you from the Cabinet Room at 10 Downing Street. This morning, the British ambassador in Berlin handed the German government a final note stating that unless we heard from them by 11 o’clock that they were prepared at once to withdraw their troops from Poland, a state of war would exist between us. I have to tell you now that no such undertaking has been received, and that consequently this country is at war with Germany.”

  Stunned and silent, we listened to the rest of the Mr. Chamberlain’s speech. But the waiting was over and certainty smothered us: we were at war with Germany.

  I knew what this meant, or thought I did, but my dear parents lived through the horrors of the Great War, the war that was supposed to end all wars. It left my father a changed man, so Mother always said.

  At the end of the broadcast, with the last notes of God Save the King echoing across the airwaves, Mother rose hurriedly, her handkerchief pressed to her mouth, retreating to the kitchen where Father seldom went.

  I wanted to follow her but I needed my father’s reassurance, something to steady the hammering of my heart. I tried to speak, but the words wouldn’t come. As I stared at Father, he seemed to have turned to stone. Not by a flicker, not by a single movement did he react. He sat and he stared.

  And then the long silence started.

  Six years of suffering.

  Six years of separation.

  Six years of war.

  Chapter Two

  Strawberry Point, Iowa, February 2019

  Fiona

  “Happy birthday to you,

  Happy birthday to you.

  Happy birthday, Mr. President!

  Happy birthday to you.”

  I practiced Marilyn’s pout in the mirror, her sexy shimmer, the vibrato in her voice.

  She was a goddess, an amazing actress with incredible comic timing. Her perfect face, her hourglass figure, those soft wounded eyes that made you want to protect her, that lisping voice that sounded like sugar and honey. The beautiful blonde bombshell—sassy and sexy on the outside, a fragile little girl on the inside. An orphan who became an icon, adored across the decades: she was my idol. I wanted to be just like her. I wanted to be her.

  Glancing at my bedside clock, I realized that I had to hurry or risk being late. Bertha, my poor old Honda, was so ancient that it took forever to get going in cold weather, and today was forecast with a high of 30o. Some high. It felt like winter had been going on forever. Where the heck was spring?

  My first appointment was only a few minutes away, but I hated being late. I pulled on snow boots and my thick coat that was more blanket than article of clothing, and tramped through the thin dusting of snow to my car.

  I coaxed her to life, as the engine coughed and spluttered, crossing my fingers that Bertha would make it to the end of the month. My next paycheck was destined to be spent on a complete tune-up. I was praying that a good mechanic could breathe a little more life into my beater.

  Finally, I was able to see that the defogger was working and gently eased into drive, releasing a long breath as we pulled away from the curb. I drove down the street, passing the one-story town hall with the giant fiberglass strawberry outside, and tried to feel optimistic in the Land of James T. Kirk. Well, not here exactly, but in Iowa. Somewhere.

  At least I had a job.

  The low hills above my home town were dusted with snow, sparkly and pretty, even if the town itself was dull and ordinary. I parked outside Muller & Son, then entered through the staff entrance around the back, ready for my first client.

  “Hello, my name is Fiona. It’s nice to meet you. I’m your cosmetologist and I’m here to make you look beautiful for your special day. I want your family and friends to be able to remember you looking your best.”

  I greeted all my clients like this. I didn’t care if other people thought it was weird or spooky because, in my opinion, I had a responsibility as a caretaker of the dead, and they deserved respect as much as the living.

  I wouldn’t say that being a mortuary makeup artist had been on my list of career choices when I graduated from cosmetology school. Like everyone else in my graduating class, I had dreams of fame and fortune—makeup artist to the stars, New York, Hollywood, glamorous movie sets, red carpets and premieres—seeing sunrises where the streets were paved with gold. But Strawberry Point, Iowa, population 1227, had been in decline for decades. I’d taken the first job I’d been offered to start paying off my student loans.

  My present client was Ida Swinton, 82 years at the time of her death. A mother of two, grandmother of five, and a widow. It gave me a sense of contentment to think that she was now reunited with her late husband.

  I knew that the body was just the empty shell left behind, and the soul or spirit or whatever you called it, had already been released from its earthly flesh. I wouldn’t describe myself as religious, but I did believe that.

  I studied the embalmer’s carefully prepared folder containing several photographs of Ida. She liked pink lipstick and matching nail polish. She wore her hair in an old fashioned corkscrew perm. I glanced across at the embalming table: Ida was already wearing the summer dress from the picture—perhaps it was a favorite.

  Rooting through the Bucket, I searched for anything pink. The Bucket was a large tub of makeup that had been donated to the funeral home over the years by families of the deceased. Not that we could give it back after I’d used it on the body, although it was surprising the number of relatives who asked later.

  “I think you’ll like these, Ida,” I said to the empty room, her favorite colors ready and waiting.

  As I leaned closer, I tried not to breathe in too deeply. Not that Ida smelled bad, but formaldehyde left a strong chemical odor. It used to make me sick, but after a few months, I’d gotten used to it.