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Short
Love Stories
The Soldier
John Blanchard stood up from the bench, straightened
his Army uniform, and studied the crowd of people
making their way through Grand Central Station.
He looked for the girl whose heart he knew, but
whose face he didn't, the girl with the rose. His
interest in her had begun thirteen months before
in a Florida library. Taking a book off the shelf
he found himself intrigued, not with the words of
the book, but with the notes penciled in the margin.
The soft handwriting reflected a thoughtful soul
and insightful mind.
In front of the book, he discovered the previous
owner's name, Miss Hollis Maynell. With time and
effort he located her address. She lived in New
York City. He wrote her a letter introducing himself
and inviting her to correspond. The next day he
was shipped overseas for service in World War II
During the next year and one-month the two grew
to know each other through the mail. Each letter
was a seed falling on a fertile heart. A Romance
was budding. Blanchard requested a photograph, but
she refused. She felt that if he really cared, it
wouldn't matter what she looked like.
When the day finally came for him to return from
Europe, they scheduled their first meeting - 7:00
pm at Grand Central Station in New York.
"You'll recognize me, " she wrote, "by
the red rose I'll be wearing on my lapel."
So at 7:00 he was in the station looking for a girl
whose heart he loved, but whose face he'd never
seen.
I'll let Mr. Blanchard tell you what happened:
A young women was coming toward me, her figure long
and slim. Her blonde hair lay back in curls from
her delicate ears; her eyes were blue as flowers.
Her lips and chin had a gentle firmness, and in
her pale green suit she was like springtime come
alive. I started toward her, entirely forgetting
to notice that she was not wearing a rose. As I
moved, a small, provocative smile curved her lips.
"Going my way, sailor?" she murmured.
Almost uncontrollably I made one step closer to
her, and then I saw Hollis Maynell. She was standing
almost directly behind the girl. A women well past
40, she had graying hair tucked under a worn hat.
She was more than plump, her thick-ankled feet thrust
into low-heeled shoes. The girl in the green suit
was walking quickly away. I felt as though I split
in two, so keen was my desire to follow her, and
yet so deep was my longing for the women whose spirit
had truly companioned me and upheld my own.
And there she stood. Her pale, plump face was gentle
and sensible, her gray eyes had a warm and kindly
twinkle. I did not hesitate. My fingers gripped
the small worn blue leather copy of the book that
was something precious, something perhaps even better
than love, a friendship for which I had been and
must ever be grateful.
I squared my shoulders and saluted and held out
the book to the women, even though while I spoke
I felt choked by the bitterness of my disappointment.
"I'm Lieutenant John Blanchard, and you must
be Miss Maynell. I am so glad you could meet me;
may I take you to dinner?"
The women's face broadened into a tolerant smile.
"I don't know what this is about, son,"
she answered, "but the young lady in the green
suit who just went by, she begged me to wear this
rose on my coat. And she said if you were to ask
me out to dinner, I should go and tell you that
she is waiting for you in the big restaurant across
the street. She said it was some kind of test!"
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