|Subject: Chapter 312 - Part 2 (end of chapter 312)
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Date Posted: Wednesday, November 07, 07:15:10am
In reply to:
's message, "Chapter 307 - Part 1 (16 and above)" on Monday, October 22, 07:10:11am
What else do I have to tell you now? Oh, yes, Madeline was talking about some recent studio plans to have a premiere for *Tainted Mind*, but a column from Hedda apparently made them decide otherwise. Mrs. Hopper said that having a premiere with an extremely expectant star was simply in bad taste, so I think that's been put off for awhile.
I know that the studio has still been thinking about premiering *Love Shadows*, however; Madeline told me that both films might well be put out as soon as the baby arrives. Depending on how they do, the studio will decide how soon they'll need me back. But I guess all of this has to wait until our son is here.
This is about the most I've heard from Premier lately, which I guess, given the current state of waiting I'm in, is pretty understandable. They mostly seem content to allow me to finish out my pregnancy in peace. Given how huge I am, that's probably for the best.
Don't worry too much about my current state, however. If you didn't find me particularly repellant when you visited two months ago, you hopefully won't find me so, once you finally return. By the time I see you again--sooner, I hope, rather than later, but I'll try not to dwell on this--I should have lost some of the weight. But, then again, why am I worrying over this, when you seem determined not to notice all my many physical flaws?
Don't take me wrongly, here, my love. I adore your kind obliviousness, in this regard. Besides, any woman who marries the god of cinema has to expect to come in a pretty shoddy second best.
Still, it's not that you've ever made me feel this way--exactly the opposite, in fact. It's just that, all this time later, I'm still amazed that you ever fell in love with me at all. I think it's what's usually referred to as "marrying beneath yourself."
Of course, I still love you for this strange flaw of yours--and I'll try not to mention it again. You get so wonderfully protective of me, when I mention my many, less than stunning, attributes. I'll try not to make this letter unreadable again.
Let me move on to other events of late. One in particular, though, has no particular update to give. Your greatest detractor and I have been engaged in a written battle with each other for at least a month now. Apparently, although you know how immobile he is, he's thinking of letting his son come talk to me again. This worries me a little, since you know what he's like, but I've been assured by Fredericks that he won't let him near the house. Besides, if the police were called--as I've told him I'd do in a heartbeat--I think this would be a bigger embarrassment for him than for me. It's not as though his son usually likes drawing such attention to himself.
Don't worry too much on my behalf, then, my love. I'm still being well looked after by my care givers. Fredericks and his wife are wonderful to me, taking especially tender care, whenever I start to worry. While they've certainly had their work cut out for them, of late, given all my fears in your silence, they're doing a very good job--they and all our friends. Most of those I've mentioned--the friends, that is--have come by to see me over the last few weeks, often more than once. They're keeping me sane, in your time away. I only wish that someone could be doing the same for you.
It's *your* safety and sanity I worry about the most, knowing what you must be going through. Even if all my fears are ridiculous--your schedule just too busy to allow time to write or your last letter lost somewhere along the long journey it has to take to reach me--you still have so much to endure. I can't even bear to think about it, fearing for both your health and your sanity. But, then again, I suppose most women never really understand the male love of war.
Don't get me wrong, my dearest husband. I'm not accusing you in any way--or suggesting that you wish to be away from me. I'm just pondering that more universal question of why men go to war, if the women at home have no desire to see them fight. But don't tell me the answers; I know them all too well--the good and the bad, including your own. It's just another of those useless wishes that the world could be different.
The major difference I want now, however, is to have you near me again. I want the average people in all those Axis countries to stand up and tell their leaders that they're behaving like fools so that the men who are forced into this conflict--like you, my love--can come home and live happy, healthy lives with the ones they love. I want those who are doing evil to quit so that I can have you near me again. I just want the danger of this violent nonsense they spread to stop, well . . . spreading, so that I can know that you'll never be taken from me again.
I can't stand the waiting, my love. I want you back in my arms. I want to see your lovely face, to look in your eyes and know instantly all of your tenderness for me. I want to be able to tell you I love you with you right beside me, to know that the rest of my life can be spent with you in happiness. I guess I want what I've always wanted, to feel my love shared by you, and yours by me, to go through our days together, unharassed and in unison. If you're not beside me, your arms around me, when I wake, nothing else that day seems quite right. I just want you as my own again.
I'm sorry. I know I've gone back to whining. I truly didn't mean to. Still, these weeks of your silence have made me crazy--every bit as crazy as you said those weeks without my letters made you, in your last, lovely note to me. I suppose there's no avoiding that, for either of us--so I should probably just learn not to complain.
All I can add, then, is my constant prayer for you: Stay safe, my love. Once this war allows you to return, come home to me alive. Any wounds you've suffered, we'll tend together. I just want to wake up with you in my arms once more.
I love you, my Michael. I always will.
Your adoring wife,
She was crying again by the time she finished the missive, had to put her face in her hands. As brave as she had tried to sound throughout most of it, she felt empty and afraid--the fact not helped by the sheer amount of effort it took to find ways to phrase the news about their many friends and enemies without raising any potential alarms in the censors' minds. The only thing which mattered to her was Michael; the only thing in the world which existed was their love. And he was the one person she was terribly afraid that she might never see again.
[End of Part 312]
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