If You Keep Me: A Prequel Christmas Second Chance Romance (A Sugar Maple Novel)

by Ciara Knight

  He straightened in his seat and attempted to scoot his leg under the table, but only made it a few inches. “Then I hope you enjoy this new beginning. More of the area should open soon, and then I can take you to a moving picture or to a real soda fountain.”

  “I think I’d like that.” She eyed the glass once more, but her thoughts infected her mood. “Vic, about earlier…”

  He reached across the table and took her hand. “No, darling. This is a new beginning. We’ll take the time to know each other as we are, not how we were.”

  “But what about my work and my lack of attention on my wifely duties? I’m conflicted between what I’ve grown to be and what I should be as your wife.”

  He only shook his head. “You be who you are, and I’ll be as I am, and we will figure out how to blend our lives once more. Neither of us should listen to articles or advice about how we should be. For now, we will just be. Can you do that for me?” he asked but didn’t wait for an answer before he left the table and she heard “Moonlight Serenade” by Glenn Miller ring through the house from the photophone. It was their song, the one they’d first danced to when they were only kids.

  He returned, took her into his arms but at a respectable distance, and swayed in the heart of their home. “As a matter of fact, you should return to your workshop at the back of the toy shop. I know that’s where you’ve been working while I’m away. There’s no sense in you remaining out in the cold.”

  “I’d like that,” she whispered before she moved a little closer and rested her head on his shoulder. Not the way she would’ve done when they were barely seventeen but the way a wife might with her unfamiliar husband.

  Chapter Six

  High school. The dancing, the laughter, the tears, the romance. That’s what Vic craved. The innocence of their youth. Tonight was a near replication of yesteryear…until it ended.

  “It’s been a lovely evening,” Rosie said, reaching for their bedroom door.

  He clumsily intercepted and pushed it open and then kissed her on the cheek. Her expectant eyes almost made him throw his plan away and forget the long game of a solid foundation to a new life. “It’s been a lovely evening; can I call on you again tomorrow?”

  At his words, Rosie’s expression changed from wounded to hopeful. She offered a shy smile. “I think I’d like that.” She entered the room but paused before she shut the door. “I appreciate you trying, Vic.”

  With those words, the door shut with an uneasiness still between them. He didn’t want to discuss, plan, or fight. Not tonight. So he dragged his reluctant feet the few steps to the guest-room-turned-hideout. The smell of baby powder lingered in the air, as if his wife had already had a baby here while he was gone, but he knew that wasn’t the case.

  The faint paint swatches in the corner of sage and blush reminded him that this was once going to be the nursery. The day he’d bought the paint, he’d returned to find Rosie on the floor of the bathroom crying. His heart thudded against his chest. From all the gore and needless sacrifice he’d seen as a solider, nothing was as nightmarish as that day. He tugged his tie from his neck so he could breathe with more ease and then removed his jacket and hung it in the wardrobe. When he shifted the hangers, he spotted a small box tucked neatly in the corner. The aroma of baby powder intensified.

  He eyed the door, not wanting to upset Rosie, but he was sure she’d not enter unannounced. With care to be silent, he slid the box out and set it on the bed. The old, worn cardboard tucked tightly together to form a lid made him pause. The third baby had only been a mention in one letter until the next letter that said the baby wasn’t going to be. After that, he’d been sent beyond mail service and was only able to receive two more letters the entire three years. Both hadn’t sounded like his Rosie. More like the terms of endearment had been copied from a book.

  He’d thought Rosie had only been pregnant a few weeks before her loss, but perhaps he’d been mistaken.

  He tugged the cardboard open, and inside he found a bottle of baby powder, ointment, and three little dresses. Not small enough to fit a baby but maybe for a toddler or young child. A sting of warning seared his skin, and he shut the box. The child Rosie had lost, the little girl she’d cared for, had reached her heart, and when she passed, the little one had taken a piece of it with her. Rosie wasn’t sentimental like most women, so the fact that she’d kept these dresses meant something.

  He’d been wrong. The last thing she needed was the distraction of children around. Davey could work at the shop for food when Rosie wasn’t around, but that was it. Nothing more.

  A creak in the floor warned Vic that Rosie had moved, so he shut the box and returned it to the place it had been preserved. He sat on the lumpy bed eyeing the door for several minutes, longing to run in there and take Rosie into his arms and hold her all night, whispering that everything was going to be okay, but she’d want more. She deserved more, but they needed time, so he changed and attempted to sleep. Besides, she had enough to carry without dealing with his night terrors.

  The night stood like a dark monster not letting him pass, leaving him suffering, longing for light and love. A feeling when he woke overtook him. It was more unbearable than the nights he’d spent in the mud and rain dreaming about returning to his beloved wife, because she was only a few steps from him. Yet, she was further than she’d ever been.

  Tomorrow he’d write her another note, like he had when they were courting, and invite her on a real date for Saturday night. They would make this work. They had to. If they could find a way to be like a dating couple, he didn’t have to fear the chance of Rosie losing another baby or, worse, dying in childbirth. The thought alone pierced his center with the intensity of an MG 42. Despite his exhaustion from tossing and turning all night, he rose from bed the minute the clock showed five, dressed, and snuck out to head to the store. He needed to figure out how to pay for a date if he wanted to court Rosie properly.

  The darkness shadowed any warmth, and he shivered while he gimped. He dreaded the bitter winter hitting their little town. Would he be able to navigate the ground with one good leg? He’d never focused too much on the loss since the doctors told him he was lucky and could still walk with the use of a cane. But sometimes it frustrated him. The feeling of being less of a man. Perhaps that’s why he wanted to pay for their date instead of tapping into Rosie’s earnings from her furniture. He didn’t have a problem with her being his equal or working with him, but he still wanted to woo her like he did before everything changed.

  The brutal winter air filled with snow only a few miles away danced on the outskirts of their town, toying with them. Inside the store was no better. If anything, the bitterness of the damp air found his innards and settled deep in his bones. He couldn’t light a fire, though. Not with the sawdust and all. So he settled at his workbench, cupped his hands, and blew on them to warm his fingers.

  Clank. Crack.

  A noise in the back alley jolted him to action. He snagged the wooden bat he’d made the day before and went to see what had happened. He shoved the door open and lifted the bat over his head. Outside, he found four children snuggling for warmth and clinging to one another. One of them had knocked a can over, and it had rolled down the hill.

  The sight stole his attention, plaguing him with memories of the little blown-out town in France they’d entered to find most children huddled together underneath a bombed building. He and his comrades had barely extracted the children before they’d received orders to move to the next town. It has haunted him always, the thought of those children he watched as he marched away, wishing he could’ve comforted them, provided them with food and shelter. He couldn’t, though. It was his duty to follow orders and protect the children of the next town.

  But he was a civilian now.

  He closed up shop and raced back to the house, where he found their spare blankets in the closet.

  “What are you doing?” Rosie stepped from her room, rubbing her eyes.

  “
Nothing, my darling. My apologies for waking you. The store is cold, so I came for some blankets to keep warm. Please, go back to bed.”

  “I’ll make you some coffee before you go.”

  He tucked the blankets under one arm and touched Rosie’s cheek with his other. “No need, my darling. Get some rest.”

  She clung to his arm for a second longer before her fingers slid away. “I’ll see you at the shop in a bit, and I’ll make a nice dinner tonight.”

  “Don’t go to any trouble. That delicious stew reheated would be perfect.” He kissed her cheek and scooted down the hall backwards. “I count the minutes until I see you again.”

  Before she could say another word, he fled from the house, not wanting to upset her with mention of the children. This was it. A few blankets and he was out. There was no room in their lives for children. They only brought grief and sadness and anxiety to Rosie.

  To his relief, when he returned to the store, the kids were still huddled in the dark corner asleep, so they didn’t need to know where the blankets had come from. Carefully, he tucked the wool cloth around their little shaking bodies. He longed to do more.

  The sun’s rays shot through the sky and the light intensified, revealing Davey alone behind a trash pile with a knife in his hand, as if guarding the rest of his friends. Vic’s heart burst at the sight. He was out of blankets, so he removed his coat and draped it over Davey without a care of lice or anything else the poor child endured.

  One of the little ones stirred, so he retreated back to his store in hopes the children could rest a little easier with the additional warmth. For over two hours, he whittled, sanded, and chiseled at a small animal he knew no one would buy, but what else could he do? Despite Rosie’s addition of her furniture, the failing business still weighed on him heavily. If his father were alive today, would he be disappointed in him?

  The front door jingled, and in strutted Davey with the blankets piled so high only his cap showed. He unceremoniously dumped them on the chair and huffed. “I know you did this, but we don’t need help. I protect and take care of the others.”

  The boy serving as a man in life stood with such determination, Vic thought of his commanding officer before the fighting began. “I apologize if I’ve offended you.”

  “We don’t need no charity. I take care of us.” Davey crossed his arms over his chest, and that’s when Vic saw the pride that would cost him many things in life if he didn’t learn to accept help.

  He took in a deep, sawdust-filled breath and looked to the floor. “Well, I guess you better get to work, then. I pay you with a few hot beverages and a meal today.”

  “A few?”

  “Yes.”

  “How many?”

  Vic remembered how many kids he’d seen outside. “Five, should be about right. A few meals, too.”

  “Four and one large meal.” Davey jutted his hand out and waited. The boy wouldn’t take a drink for himself. Instead, he’d give it to the others. And Vic had no doubt he’d probably give the majority of the food to the others, too. But he didn’t have a choice. It was obvious the boy didn’t trust anyone. “And you forget you saw us there.”

  Vic nodded. “Understood. Now, get to work. I need some coffee.”

  “Coffee?” Davey perked up.

  “Do you want some?”

  He eyed the floor. “No. I’m good.”

  Davey’s wilted frame couldn’t stave off the cold, and his hands trembled with each vigorous sweep of the broom.

  “Right, I thought you might be too young.”

  Davey stopped sweeping, and his lower jaw jutted out with a scrunched nose. “I ain’t too young.”

  “If you weren’t too young to drink coffee, then you’re not too young to know it’s rude to refuse a man when he offers.” Vic held his breath, hoping he’d done a good job of hiding charity behind faux proper etiquette.

  “Well, I don’t need it, but I don’t want to be rude. Yes, Mr. B. I’d like a cup, if you please.” Davey sounded like a street kid trying to pull off a British accent.

  Vic made the coffee and offered Davey a seat. He shook his head.

  “Men drink coffee sitting across from each other where they look eye-to-eye at each other.”

  “Sure are lots of man rules.” Davey shrugged and placed the broom in the corner and then settled into a seat across from Vic.

  They sat sipping their warm, bitter beverage. Rosie made much better coffee, but that wasn’t an option right now. Perhaps when she came to the shop in an hour or so, he could sneak a cup out to Davey. “You know, another thing men do is talk about stuff.”

  Davey slurped and then set the cup on the table and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “What kinds of stuff?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Like what’s going. You know, like, the weather is turning cold or I wish I had a new coat.”

  “Weather isn’t bad. And I ain’t need no coat. I’m tough.” Davey saw right through him. The boy was too smart to be manipulated.

  Vic sipped his coffee and waited, carefully considering his words. “You know… I can’t pay you, and I feel awful bad about that. Would you at least stay in the back room as part of your payment? We could push the furniture to the side at night, and you could clean up any dust and dirt before you slept in there.”

  “No.” Davey’s brows knitted so tight he looked like an old geezer. “I’m with my gang. I take care of them.”

  Vic held up his hands. “I know, and you do a great job.” If there was one thing he’d learned over the last few years, it was that when you cornered a frightened person, they’d lash out and wouldn’t listen to reason.

  The front door swung open, and in stepped Rosie in a dress that looked like one she wore before the war but updated. “Good morning. I thought you could use some breakfast.” Her bright smile downturned, and she dropped the bag which thudded against the floor. “What’s he doing in here?”

  Her voice sounded cold, but her eyes looked forlorn. Davey gulped the last of his coffee, hopped down off the stool, removed his hat, and did some sort of bow. “Sorry, ma’am.” He dashed behind Rosie and shot out the door.

  Rosie looked at Vic with such pain and anger. “That boy never comes in the store.” Before he could argue, she about-faced on her heels and retreated.

  Chapter Seven

  Rosie changed into her work clothes and returned to the workshop in the back office, sanding and painting with a vengeance. Why was Davey in the store with Vic? She’d asked—no, begged—him to come inside the store and house countless times, but he’d always refused. Vic had him sitting drinking coffee in a matter of days. Maybe God didn’t bless her with a baby because she’d make a horrible mother. Davey hadn’t come near her since Esther’s death, and even before then, he only came long enough to bathe, de-lice, and eat a meal.

  Perhaps it was good that Davey had Vic in his life. She’d give them space to bond. Perhaps Saturday they could bond while she borrowed the truck to drop off the next order in Clinton. Hopefully Vic wouldn’t have a problem with it. She had no idea how to ask since there were no rules to follow. She felt both relieved and lost at the idea that everything she’d read and planned for his return was worthless in practice.

  Her dry hands cracked from man’s work, but she didn’t stop to put lotion on them. Instead she scrubbed harder, pushing the thoughts of Davey and Esther from her mind.

  For hours she worked until her hands cramped, back tightened, and fingers bled. The afternoon turned gray, and she shivered from the chill in the air, even if it was warmer than outside. Something she didn’t feel until her skin was pink and puffy. Part of her wanted to bury herself underneath the work so she didn’t have to face the world, but considering her outburst at the shop when she’d seen Davey, the least she could do was warm the stew and make some fresh bread for Vic. She didn’t want him to think she was still fragile.

  She cleaned up the room and joined Vic at the shop. “I’m headed home to get cleaned up, warm the soup, do so
me laundry, and vacuum. I’ll see you at home.”

  “I’ll vacuum and help with laundry since you’ve been working all day, too.”

  Rosie blinked at him. “You’re going to do household chores?”

  “Sure, why not? It seems fair if you’ve been working away. I mean, you didn’t even take a break in the last six hours. You must be exhausted.”

  His offer warmed her insides more than the manual labor of furniture construction had. “That’s kind of you. If I’m not done when you get home, that would be lovely. Thanks.”

  With a chaste kiss to his cheek, she made her way home to the warmth. After a hot shower, removing the sawdust from her body, she donned her dress from earlier for dinner and headed from her room, when she stopped at the guest room where Vic had been sleeping.

  With a deep breath, she stepped into the drab space that needed some attention and noticed the armoire door ajar. A sting shot through her, sending her to her knees in front of the resting place of Esther’s things. Her heart pinched. The pain was intense, but after two deep breaths, it faded.

  She retrieved the box from its resting place and set it on her lap. Stuttered breaths threatened to bring tears and another meltdown, but she didn’t toss it back into the dark space. Instead, she opened the box and studied the tiny dresses and baby powder.

  She brushed her trembling fingers over the costumes she’d made Esther for when she stayed with her. That’s what Esther had called them. Her princess costumes, but she always left them when she returned home to that man who called himself her papa.

  The slight aroma of gingerbread, Esther’s favorite treat, remained on the material. Rosie lifted the soft fabric to her nose and inhaled deeply, savoring the memory of baking cookies with her the night before she’d disappeared. Esther’s little eyes had been wide with delight, and she’d kept spinning around in the kitchen to show how her dress flowed like a princess at a ball. Full of life and hope and dreams yet with a darkness behind her eyes. She’d smiled and danced until night came, and before she fell asleep in Rosie’s arms, she’d mumbled how nice it was to pretend. As if the child knew she’d never really live a good life.