Love and War
A country under attack and the story of one woman’s fight to protect England and her heart.
1941. The German war machine has crushed all of Europe-only England holds fast. To force a surrender, the German Luftwaffe bombs cities and villages the length of the country. As the battle rages, Britain is in desperate need to put more pilots in the air.
To free up more men a new unit is formed: The Ack Ack Girls. These special teams of courageous women will now fight in the anti-aircraft stations. Determined to be part of the effort, Ava Armstrong, volunteers for one of the special teams.
Her unit just happens to be located near an RAF airfield teaming with pilots. Sparks fly, and not just from artillery, When Ava crosses paths with Chris Fairfield, a handsome and cocky pilot stationed there. But nothing is easy in time of war, not even love.
“I like your rose bed, so many colors and variety of sizes,” Chris said.
Over the seasons, Ava and her mother had planted cabbage roses, damask roses, grandiflora, tea and common bushes. They had different shades of pink, lavender, red, yellow, peach, and even put in one of deep blue the summer before.
“Which is your favorite color?” Chris asked.
“We have a tea rose that blooms in a soft blush and cabbage rose bushes that bloom in bright pink and orange. Those are my favorites.”
Chris brought her hand up and kissed the back of her fingers. “I need to know if I’m to send you flowers.”
No one had ever sent Ava flowers. She’d never had a special beau or someone she even saw on a regular basis. It never bothered her. Chris sending her bouquets bothered her in the best of ways.
“I’d love any flowers you send me. A bouquet means you thought of me. That makes the gift perfect.”
He dropped her hand to stroke the blush-tone tea bloom. “My mother calls my father and I Philistines because neither of us can ever tell a tea rose from a young rose that is just budding.”
“I countered with they both have smaller than usual blossoms, they both come in various colors, and they both smell nice, right? She said, yes. I asked rhetorically, what’s the difference? I concluded with a rose by any other name, and all that rot.”
“I’m sure she had a rebuttal.”
He grinned. “She countered with a genetic insult regarding my father’s blood and the two of us having been cut from the same bourgeois cloth.”
About the Author
I was raised in Chicago. My father was a history professor, and my mother, a voracious reader who passed on a love of history and books to me along with a love of travel.
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