When I’m in Your Arms

Chapter 1

Jesse

With one hand on the worn handlebar of his bicycle and the other on his thigh, Jesse snaked his way through the midday foot traffic with care.

On the opposite side of the street, a line of people wrapped around the block.

Some were carrying on conversations in clusters of two or three, repurposing the morning papers they’d likely pulled from the trash and fanning themselves in the shade.

Others stood with stony expressions as they waited to make it out of the humidity and into the community kitchen to collect their daily allowance of bread and soup.

Jesse had been passing this line every day since he’d been assigned his new route the previous summer.

Some days it was shorter than others, but there was no denying that it had grown significantly in the last year.

And while it was easier to stomach seeing the more feeble of the crowd a little damp in the Georgia heat rather than shivering underneath their ill-fitting coats in winter, their faces and hands were still just as dirty.

It was a stark contrast to his postal uniform.

From his bell crown cap all the way down to his neat wool trousers, everything was the same shade of nickel gray—save for the black tie tucked into his lightweight coat and his black shoes—and perfectly clean.

This often meant scrambling to ready himself for the next morning after a day of heavy rain.

Dirty shoes and trouser cuffs splattered with mud were unacceptable, and he could only afford one pair of each.

Jesse trilled his bell twice to alert a woman holding the hands of two small children that he was passing them on the left.

He knew to steer wide around the doorways of businesses that would be lunchtime busy, including the corner market sporting a handwritten sign in the window advertising a special deal on grapefruits.

After kicking his foot out to pause at the crosswalk and adjusting the padded leather satchel strap on his shoulder, he glanced both ways and proceeded across the street, pedaling faster to go around another small group of wayfaring pedestrians.

The boost of energy sparked a familiar warmth within him.

It started as a tingling in his toes, barely there at first. As he continued pumping his legs, the sensation quickly swept through him in a wash of sultry comfort that rivaled the sticky heat of the day.

A private smile quirked at the corner of his lips.

He really did love his job. In truth, he’d been doing this so long that he was almost more comfortable with pedaling than walking.

It was so easy. The thrill of riding a bicycle was nothing compared to what he felt when he was dancing, but what other career could he possibly have found himself in that allowed him to embrace his magic so freely?

A sharp right brought him onto a much quieter side street.

He gripped the handlebar with both hands now and leaned into his effort, a painless burn tickling inside his shoes.

His satchel flapped against his hip, much lighter now that he’d made all of his deliveries for the day.

The only thing inside was the letter that Maxine Hall at 402 Forsyth Street had handed to him earlier.

It smelled like her perfume and was stamped with a fresh red lipstick kiss that he’d accidentally smudged with his thumb.

He was starting to think she was stuck on him.

Jesse skidded around another corner and burst onto the best part of his daily route.

It was a residential area lined with brick row houses that were all nearly identical, save for one difference that he was counting on.

He worked against a slight incline to maintain speed as he passed by 1011 Pine.

His heart skipped when he heard the first bark.

Without looking back, he heard claws against the pavement as the patchy brown mongrel ripped out of the narrow alley next to the house and chased after him, gaining fast.

“You’re not going to beat me today, pal!

” Jesse shouted over his shoulder, up on his feet now as his bicycle rocked side to side underneath him.

More sharp barks were the only answer as they raced toward the massive cherrybark oak tree at the end of the street.

It had become their finish line for two reasons, the first being that Jesse didn’t want to tease the poor mutt away from home entirely, and the second being that it was as far as he could go without being completely out of breath.

In a flash of fur, the dog bolted past him and, adding insult to injury, had time to prance a full circle around the base of the tree before he reached it.

With a huff of laughter, Jesse swung his leg over the frame of his bicycle and dismounted in one smooth motion, walking it over to prop against the rough, ridged bark of the oak.

“You little trickster,” Jesse scolded affectionately, crouching to ruffle the dog’s floppy ears, its feathery tail wagging wildly. “Someday I’ll race you when I haven’t been working since before sunrise and then we’ll see who the real champion is.”

He settled onto one knee so that he could reach into his pocket and dig out the winner’s prize.

It was only a small piece of a horrifically dry bone-shaped biscuit, but the dog didn’t seem to mind.

Jesse had impulsively bought a box of them two months earlier and was trying to make sure they lasted.

He’d never be able to afford to take care of a dog on his salary, but this seemed to be a mutually-beneficial alternative.

As the dog trotted back down the street, tongue lolling, Jesse smiled after it for a moment before he retrieved his bicycle and started toward the post office.

He normally wouldn’t return until early the next morning, but the postmaster, Mr. Jones, had asked Jesse to come and see him in his office when his route was done for the day.

Pride swelled in Jesse’s chest. He was only a few days away from marking five years of service with the U.S.

Postal Service. At twenty-six, he was one of the youngest letter carriers that he knew personally to achieve such an anniversary.

He’d never missed a shift, never had any complaints.

This was it. He was finally going to get the black silk star added to his coat sleeve for everyone to see.

* * *

Jesse removed his cap and tucked it under his left arm when he arrived outside the postmaster’s office. He hastily finger-combed his black hair in the direction of the deep side part he wore and tapped his middle knuckle against the door a couple of times.

“Come in,” Mr. Jones called from the other side.

Jesse did as instructed and was met with a cursory glance from the sturdy man behind the desk.

He had no hair on his head but plenty of it on his forearms, which were exposed by his rolled sleeves.

The fan on his desk was whirring loudly, though the wet patches on the postmaster’s shirt seemed to indicate that it wasn’t doing much good.

On the wall directly over his head was a dated promotional poster that read Save Time, Get A Mailbox!

“You wanted to see me, sir?” Jesse shifted his weight where he stood, politely ignoring the stale and somewhat disorganized state of everything around him.

At one time, there had been two matching armchairs in front of the desk.

The left chair had long since disappeared.

Mr. Jones did not offer him the other one.

“Mr. Morgan,” the postmaster muttered instead, frowning at the papers he was busy shuffling through. He always seemed to be looking for something he’d lost. He took a deep breath and coughed it out thickly, waving his hand at Jesse in a hurry-up sort of way. “Shut the door.”

Jesse obliged dutifully, and when he turned back around, it appeared that Mr. Jones had found what he was looking for. His frown was now directed at Jesse.

“Do you know how to drive a car, Mr. Morgan?”

Jesse blinked at him. “No, sir.”

He’d only ridden in a car a handful of times, let alone learn how to operate one.

It seemed that more new vehicles were showing up on the streets along his postal route every day, clogging up intersections and making everyone angrier.

He was perfectly happy not being involved in any of that for as long as he could manage to avoid it.

Mr. Jones let out a gruff sigh and held up a piece of paper.

“I’ve just been informed that we’ll be getting a fleet of Model A Fords fresh off the factory floor next month.

” He shook his head in obvious resignation and leaned back in his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“I’ve been losing sleep over budget cuts for the better part of a year now, and how do they reward me? ”

Jesse studied the advertisement he’d been handed. It was a crisp sketch of an automobile with the words UNITED STATES MAIL printed on the side. Standing proudly next to the door was a person dressed in an all too familiar way: bell crown cap, black tie, gray coat and trousers, black shoes.

“I have to condense almost all of my routes,” Mr. Jones went on. “They want us to hit the ground running on this, which means I need drivers ready to go in less than two weeks. I don’t have the time or resources to train anyone new.”

Jesse opened his mouth to respond but discovered that he couldn’t. The words he might’ve said were replaced with a sudden and heavy ache in his chest.

“There’s no easy way to tell you this, kid,” Mr. Jones finally said, cutting through the thick silence between them. If there was any real sympathy in his words, Jesse couldn't hear it when he finished with: “I have to let you go.”

* * *