Excerpt: 'The Last Summer at Chelsea Beach' by Pam Jenoff

Pam Jenoff shares an excerpt from her new historical romance, The Last Summer at Chelsea Beach.

About the book (courtesy of Mira):

Summer 1941

Young Adelia Montforte flees fascist Italy for America, where she is whisked away to the shore by her well-meaning aunt and uncle. Here, she meets and falls for Charlie Connally, the eldest of the four Irish-Catholic boys next door. But all hopes for a future together are soon throttled by the war and a tragedy that hits much closer to home.

Grief-stricken, Addie flees—first to Washington and then to war-torn London—and finds a position at a prestigious newspaper, as well as a chance to redeem lost time, lost family…and lost love. But the past always nips at her heels, demanding to be reckoned with. And in a final, fateful choice, Addie discovers that the way home may be a path she never suspected.

Pam sets the scene for us …

Pam: Earlier in the day while accompanying her boss to a State Department briefing, Washington Post typist Adelia Montforte was stunned to encounter Charlie Connally, the soldier from back home to whom she'd been engaged before war and tragedy destroyed everything. Charlie begged Addie to meet him for a drink that night but, uncertain as to his intentions, she had not said yes or no.

EXCERPT (from chapter nine)

Washington, DC November 1943

I stood before the Old Ebbitt Grill. On the other side of the glass I saw Charlie, talking to himself in that way he did when he was intensely concentrating. Rehearsing what he was going to say to me. Would he tell me that nothing had changed? I couldn't bear it if he did not love me anymore. There had been something in his eyes, which I could still read even now, that said he still wanted me, just the same as he had that night and the ones before it. I could run to him right now and throw myself into his arms.

I reached out as if touching him through the window, strok­ing his hair and his cheek. All that I ever wanted was on the other side of that glass, waiting for me. A hand seemed to stop me, making it impossible to breathe. We weren't the same people anymore. We were different now, broken. Anger rose in me then. He had left that night. And now he was here just expecting me to take him back, if that's what this was all about. How could we be together, as if none of it had ever happened?

I could not go in there and face him.

"I've got to get out of here," I said aloud to no one. "This is everything I didn't want back home. This is why I left." I turned and ran, shoes smacking against the still-damp pave­ment.

Though it was well after seven, a light still burned behind the blackout curtain in the second-story window above.

I climbed the stairs and knocked at the door to the editor's office. "Mr. Steeves," I began, waving away a cloud of smoke. As his eyes lifted, I faltered. How could I dare approach him, much less make this request?

"What do you want, Montforte?" His tone was brusque, but not unkind. "I'm on deadline."

"I'll make it quick. I understand you're building up the London bureau."

He nodded. "We had to pull men out of Berlin and Paris. And with thousands of GIs headed overseas each month, we need the coverage in Britain."

"I'd like to go." The words came out in a wobbly voice that did not sound like my own.

"Go?"

I nodded. "You'll need secretarial staff, surely." My voice grew more certain. I'd come here impulsively, the notion of what I actually wanted vague and uncertain. But as the words formed, they felt right and I suddenly wanted more than any­thing to go, as far and fast as possible.

"We were planning on just staffing that locally."

"But someone with some experience with the paper. And I speak other languages—Italian, Spanish, even a bit of French." I made the case I had not known I wanted to win. Why Lon­don? Because it was not here.

"Better than the translators, it's true. It would be good to have someone who knows the home bureau," he conceded. "But wait, didn't you come from Europe?"

"Italy as a girl, yes."

"And you want to get out of here that badly?" I did not an­swer. "You've seen the stories, haven't you?" It seemed like a silly question, given that I worked for the Post. But lots of the girls out in typing never read the very newspaper they worked for, or if they did, only the entertainment and style bits. "It's a war zone, a ton of bombings, even after the Blitz."

I nodded, my stare unblinking. "I know."

"Is it about that fella at State today?" He peered at me keenly, sensing a story.

"Not at all." I had not realized Mr. Steeves had seen me talking to Charlie, or noticed the effect the conversation had on me. It was too close and personal to speak about with any­one, especially my boss.

"When did you want to go?"

"Tonight, if possible."

"Tonight? There's no way. You need a work visa. Hell, Montforte, I'm not even sure I can get you credentialed at all. They aren't letting many people in now. The Brits want folks out of the city, not in."

"I know. But you can manage it." I was surprised by my own audacity and hoped he would not find me rude. "I'll board the train for New York and you can have my papers wired."

"You've thought of everything, haven't you?" His shoulders slumped with resignation. "Fine. I'm sorry to lose you." He scribbled something on a business card and held it out to me. "I'll wire ahead to say you're coming and I'll have your train and boat tickets ready for the morning."

"Thank you, sir." I'd been too embarrassed to ask about covering the travel, but I couldn't have afforded it myself.

"Don't mention it." I stood and started for the door, not wanting to take more of his time. "But, kid…" I turned back. "Whatever it is you're running from, you're going to have to face it sooner or later."

I stared at him, dumbfounded. How much did he know? "Sir?"

"Just a newsman's hunch." Then he chuckled and turned away. "Safe travels, kid." He turned back to his work, not one for long goodbyes.

Dismissed, I walked through the outer office. I had done it—I was going to London. I gazed out the window towards the Old Ebbitt Grill. Char­lie would be wondering where I was, perhaps realizing even that I was not going to show. Should I somehow send a mes­sage? No, there was no way to explain why I had not come. And he had not given me a phone number or other way to contact him—perhaps because he did not want to give me a chance to say no.

I picked up my purse and walked from the office, closing the door behind me.

Find out more about Pam and her books at www.pamjenoff.com.