He turned to Jake. “We’ll hike back to my place and I’ll fire up the truck,” he said. “Let’s go, before the storm traps us here.”
No, he simply didn’t have the courage to be trapped in the home of the woman who blamed him for the death of her only child.
CHAPTER THREE
With everything inside him, Jake wanted to run back outside, to that moment when he’d seen Violet’s car careening toward him, and jump out of the way.
He just wanted to start over, to break free of his lies.
To be a man worthy of Violet’s esteem. Even, her affection.
His chest burned and he guessed he might be turning pale. The hike to Dottie’s house hadn’t helped, not to mention the adrenaline of the crash, the cold air constricting his lungs even more, drawing out the mucus, fisting his chest muscles. He fought to breathe as he stood, in through his nose, out through his mouth.
He just had to calm down.
Why hadn’t he let her drive by, out of his life, where she belonged? He had no right to stand in front of her, to deliver this news.
Or rather, this lie.
He married someone else, didn’t he?
Her broken question had glued the truth inside him; he could taste the bitterness of it in the back of his throat. But worst of all was the expression on Violet’s face, the hurt in her eyes. Yes, he wanted to spool back the moments, all the way back to the moment when…
When he’d read the letters she’d written to Alex and determined to take his place. At least until the war ended, until she came home. Just to encourage her, lonely soldier serving behind the line in Europe.
Somehow, however, he’d lost himself along the way, until he ended up here, in the kitchen of some angry woman, lying round and round to the woman he loved.
Yes, loved. Because how was he supposed to read her letters and not care for her, not admire her courage, not dream up her laughter, not wish for her happiness.
Perhaps even in his arms.
Standing here, in front of her, only made it worse. Because, from the moment he picked her up, held her to himself, let her arms tangle around his neck, he’d known what a bad idea he’d harbored, nurtured, even embraced when he hopped on the Burlington-Northern and headed west to Frost.
He wanted to run his hand along her creamy white face, ease the hurt from her beautiful violet-gray eyes, tangle his fingers in her dark hair. She had a strength, a confidence about her that glued his heartbeat to his chest, made his breath tight, even without the help of his injury.
And she smelled like the faintest hint of roses, not unlike her letters. He wanted to cry with the joy of seeing her.
What a wretched man he’d become.
“Violet, it’s not— Alex isn’t marrying anyone else.”
She met his eyes. Took a breath. “Oh. You’re saying he just didn’t want me in his life. What, did he send you to do his dirty work?” She gave a huff of what sounded like disbelief. “He needn’t have bothered.”
Her tone scraped him raw and he wanted to blurt it out—He’s dead! Alex is dead!
Before the urge could spur the words out, Jake felt a hand on his shoulder, followed by the voice of Gordon Lindholm. “C’mon, son. We need to leave if we hope to get her home before this storm hits.”
He wanted to round on this man, spurt out words he’d spent most of his life censoring in his head. No. He didn’t want to leave her like this—
“It’s getting worse out there—”
“Go without me!” Jake shook off his hand, and winced at his tone. The entire room went quiet. And now his chest tightened. He just had to calm down. Slow his breathing before his old wounds rose up to choke him.
“Sorry. That’s not what I meant. I just want to make sure Violet is okay.”
“Please, I don’t want to know any more about Alex, or why he sent my letter back, thank you.” She turned to Gordon. “You’re right. We should get going if we’re going to hike out to your farm and get back to town.” She stood up and he saw her wince.
“You can’t walk anywhere.” Jake put his hand on her elbow, eased her back down to the seat.
He tried to remain gentle as he bent down, picked up her foot, and raised her pant leg to ease off her boot. She groaned and closed one eye, and he felt the wince like a fist in his chest.
See, he’d made everything worse. Her ankle had already begun to swell. “You should have told me you hurt your ankle. I would have put ice on this immediately.” He almost sounded angry, and it was too late to school it.
“I’m sorry. I guess I didn’t realize I needed to report my injuries to you.”
He pursed his lips. But she’d been reporting her injuries to him for two years, without knowing it. He drew in a breath.
Her voice softened. “I didn’t really notice until I stood on it. If you remember, you carried me in here.”
He looked at her, reeling in his emotions. “Indeed. My fault, for sure. I was so focused on your knee and your forehead, it didn’t occur to me to check if anything else was injured.” He put her leg down, stood. “She needs snow on her ankle. Then, we’ll leave.” He stood up, rounded to face Gordon. “I’ll be right back.”
He needed a few moments outside, anyway, just to clear his head. He took one of Dottie’s towels from the counter, stepped outside, filled it with snow. The bracing air swept the cotton, the panic from his brain.
The truth will set you free. The words thrummed in his head. Yes. If only he believed them.
He returned inside, snow in the well of the cloth, folded it, and knelt before Violet. Gordon stood by the window, arms folded, watching him like he might be Violet’s father.
“Just hold still.” Jake lifted her ankle, pressing his thumb along the swelling as he positioned the snow-packed towel against it. She winced.
“Sorry. But I don’t think you’re going anywhere.”
His chest burned. The few minutes outside hadn’t helped, either, the cold air constricting his lungs even more, drawing out the mucus, knotting his chest muscles. He fought to breathe as he stood—in through his nose, out through his mouth.
His body had always refused to play fair.
“Thank you, Jake,” she said, leaning back, closing her eyes.
Oh, she was beautiful. More than he’d guessed from Alex’s descriptions. Slim, but shapely enough in those brown pants and her dark green cardigan. He could imagine her in her WAAC uniform—no wonder Alex had chased her across Fort Meade. She had dark chocolate, slightly curly hair and green eyes that had the capacity to whisk his breath away, if it weren’t already lost. And those lips—heart shaped, red, and so expressive, even now as she caught her lower lip between her teeth.
He wanted to run his thumb along her lip—free it. “It’ll stop hurting soon. Would you like me to bring you into the parlor, set you on the sofa?”
“No, I’m fine here. I should help Mrs. Morgan—”
“Dottie.” The woman returned from her escape into the next room and now glared at Violet. “We’re not at the library, Violet. Dottie will do.” She glanced at Jake. “And for you too, young man.”
“Jake Ramsey,” he said in return. “I’m very sorry for the trouble—”
“Let’s go.” Gordon pushed up from the table.
Outside, the wind shook the house, and a shutter banged loose, slamming against the house.
Dottie made a noise of exasperation. “Wait, Gordon.” She sighed and drew her cardigan around her. “This is a bad idea. You’ll never make it across the slough in this storm. Why don’t you…take my truck into town?”
Gordon looked at her, then Jake. He made a face. “Dottie, your driveway is covered by a tree.”
Yes. The tree he downed. Nice, Jake.
The furnace kicked on again, the motor downstairs humming as the stoker came to life.
The shutter continued to bang against the house.
Dottie stared at Gordon, wearing an expression Jake couldn’t decipher. She drew a breath, h
er lips puckering to a tight knot. Then, “I knew it. Just knew it.”
“Knew what?” Gordon said.
The undercurrent of tone between these two told Jake more than he wanted to know. Hurt. Betrayal.
He didn’t need his years of training to know that these two had once had something between them.
“I can make it back to my house, Dottie,” Gordon said, almost an anger in his tone.
Her eyes sparked, although her voice cut down to a razorsharp whisper. “And if you don’t? Who’s going to go out and fetch you? Is that what you think I want? To have you tromp back to your house so you can perish in the snow? Do you think I want your death on my conscience?”
Jake froze. Gordon didn’t answer. Not verbally. Just let a muscle pull in his jaw, drew in a breath.
She held up her hand. “It’s done, Gordon. Now, we could use a fire in the hearth.” She glanced at Jake, who wanted to take a diving leap for the door.
“I’ll make another batch of soup,” Dottie said and brushed past them.
Gordon glanced at Jake. Jake raised an eyebrow.
“Don’t just stand there. Fetch some wood,” Gordon said, and thundered out to the back room.
“Wait—” Violet said. She caught Jake’s arm, her hand on his wool coat. “Just tell me, is he okay?”
He. Alex. He could hear the lie, roaring to life, prowling in the back of his throat.
Jake cast a look toward the door. “I should help build the fire.” His voice still sounded tight and he turned away from her, following Gordon to the back room. What if he left—right now? Just walked away from the rest of the story. Hadn’t he done enough damage? His appearance had wrecked her car, banged up her face, crushed her knee, twisted her ankle, and now stranded her in the home of a woman who appeared like she might, any minute, throw them all out.
Gordon pushed past Jake as he walked into the kitchen with an armful of wood. He’d slipped off his boots, his jacket. “You’re getting low out there, Dottie. Sorry.”
Sorry?
Dottie didn’t look at him as she rummaged around in her pantry.
They acted like an old married couple—estranged, perhaps—but with a rhythm about their relationship that suggested ancient familiarities.
Someday, he’d like to know someone so well he knew what they were thinking. And vice versa. To have someone see inside his heart, realize that he wasn’t the man on the inside that he was forced to live on the outside.
You meant more than you know.
He hadn’t lied, not really. Alex had filled every one of his last few letters with details about Violet—her life, her dreams. The hope he had for someday. But then again, Alex fell in love every other day, with any dame that smiled his direction. Who knew but he had a gal at Fort Benning and then again one in the hospital in Paris?
Alex had cared for her, of that Jake felt certain. But Jake no longer felt the pinch of guilt when he stamped a postcard, slipped it into the mail.
The truth was, Alex had stopped writing to her the day he’d died in the battle for Berlin, nearly a year after the D-Day invasion.
Jake had filled in after that. Mostly postcards, yes, but a few letters that might bolster her spirits, help her believe that her country cared about her service.
Did Dottie know that right in her kitchen sat a woman who could rebuild a model MB “Go Devil” military jeep engine, from flash pan to carburetor? Did she know that she had volunteered for overseas assignment, serving at S.H.A.E.F, the Supreme Headquarters, Allied Expeditionary Force first in Bushey Park, London, then followed the wave of soldiers into Normandy? That she’d probably helped repair the staff cars of General Eisenhower and seen the same war, lived through the same dangers as the infantry? Did Dottie—or Gordon, for that matter—know that she’d earned a meritorious service medal?
He did.
He also knew about her four brothers, where they’d served, and breathed with relief when they arrived home. He knew about her father’s death, and her grief at hearing about it while in Berlin.
He knew that when she arrived home, she’d carried with her dreams of homecoming, hopes for a family.
And that’s when he realized, fully, what he’d done.
You meant more to him than you know.
“Keep your ankle elevated or the swelling will get worse.”
* * * * *
Do you think I want your death on my conscience?
Dottie’s own words ran in her mind as she catalogued the supplies in her pantry. A can of tomatoes, a jar of pickles, a couple tins of processed canned ham, a container of barley. She pulled out the barley and tomatoes.
The look on Gordon’s face then, a flicker of emotion, as if she’d slapped him. She drew in a quick, shaky breath.
She knew that expression too well. It could still haunt her, even twenty-seven years later.
Gordy had hiked over to her house in the storm because he heard a gunshot? She didn’t believe him for a second.
No, he’d been worried about her—and she wasn’t so frigid inside that the truth of it didn’t find her belly, warm it.
She set the ingredients on the counter then went to the back room to retrieve potatoes and onions from the bin. The chilly air tickled up her arms, down her blouse. She still wore her work attire—a skirt, long cardigan. She had a mind to go stand over the giant heating grate in the hallway, let the warm air billow her skirt up, like it had when she was a child.
Returning to the kitchen, she dumped a handful of vegetables into the sink then rooted around in her drawer for a knife. Violet sat at the table, her leg up, looking stripped.
Jake Ramsey had delivered news that turned the poor girl into a silent wreck. Dottie almost felt sorry for her.
She picked up an onion, sliced off the tail, then began to peel it, glancing up now and again at the storm billowing outside the window. In the next room, she could hear Gordon and Jake crumple paper, load in wood to the fire. Gordy, here, in her home.
How many times had she let her mind trail down dark, forbidden corridors, wondering what that might feel like? To have him in her life, instead of outside in the yard.
She would stand in her darkened bedroom, arms folded across her stomach, watching his porch light. His house sat cattycorner to hers, so that from her kitchen, her parlor, even her upstairs bedroom she could make out the glow from his yard. Sometimes, on a clear night, she even traced his dark outline as he wandered back from the barn or threw sticks to his old dog. Nelson had loved the thing—probably what made him long for his own dog.
Nelson’s cranky beagle had passed away the year he’d left. Sometimes she could still see the dog, curled up in a nest in the middle of his quilt.
Sometimes she curled up with him.
A crackle came from the hearth in the parlor, the fire sparking to life. She turned back to the potatoes, her throat filling. Oh, she simply couldn’t have houseguests. Couldn’t let the house ring with voices again. It might stir up the dust of old, happy memories.
And then, she’d choke on them.
She picked up a rag, wiped her hands, then pressed the rag to her burning eyes.
“Mrs. Morgan? I just wanted to say I’m sorry, again, for destroying your fir tree.” Violet’s voice emerged soft, with a hint of fear. “I—I’ll find you a new one and plant it in the spring.”
Dottie steeled herself, found her librarian voice. “No, that’s okay. It was dying anyway.”
She’d always feared really saying that out loud. It felt easier, in a way, to stand at the cold window, staring out into the blackness, and admit it now. “It was an old tree.”
“How old?”
She drew in a breath, scooping the chopped onion into a pot. “I planted it about a year after Nelson was born. So…I guess it’s about—”
“Twenty-five years old. I can do the math. And that’s not very old for a tree.”
“No, I suppose it isn’t.”
She heard Violet draw in her breath, as if meas
uring her words.
“I remember when Nelson used to invite his football pals out here to study. My brother Johnny always came out, told us about how you’d make Snickerdoodles for them.”
Dottie picked up a potato, began to curl the skin off, her movements too choppy for the long elegant curls Nelson used to steal. “How is Johnny?”
“Good. He and Hattie are expecting.”
Over the past five years, Dottie had become better, more adapt at steeling herself against happy news. “That’s wonderful.”
“Mmm-hmm.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Dottie saw Violet glance into the parlor. She wore a look of almost panic, as if the last thing she wanted was for Jake to return to the kitchen.
Dottie knew all about that. She would never look at Gordy again if she could manage it. Never have to face conversation. They’d go to their graves separated by the marsh and the specter of the past between them.
It was just her terrible fortune that Gordy never married. Dottie might feel less guilty, less ashamed if he had.
Dottie washed the potato then cut it into bite-size cubes. “Who is Alex?” she asked, pity more than curiosity leading the impulse. She’d spent years trying to divert her attention from Gordon Lindholm.
Violet adjusted the ice on her ankle. She probably needed snow on her knee also—it looked roughly the size of a muskmelon under those trousers. “He was a solider I met at Fort Meade. We’ve been corresponding for years. Especially during the war. We exchanged greeting cards the last couple years. I—I made the mistake of inviting him to Frost for the holidays.”
“And this Jake fella?”
“I—I don’t know. A friend of Alex’s, I guess. I’m not sure why Alex sent him here—especially since he already sent back my last letter.”
Dottie wanted to groan, but she held it in, watching her breath disintegrate on the cold window. “I’m sorry, Violet.”
“I was fooling myself…. I told myself that he was just healing from the war—I knew lots of GIs who had battle fatigue. I thought maybe if I gave him enough time, if I kept writing to him, someday he’d show up here. He stopped sending me letters after the war—mostly sent postcards. But they came almost every month, with messages like…he was thinking about me.” She pressed a hand to her mouth. “I’m such a fool.”
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