Message from Nam

by Danielle Steel

  “He must have been a nice man,” Peter said quietly, as he watched her face grow soft thinking about him.

  “He was.” There was a lump in her throat as she spoke. “I loved him a lot … my life was … very different … after he died.”

  “Why?” His voice was gentle in the night, there was so much about her he already loved, but it scared him, too, sometimes, just as it did Paxton.

  “My Mom and I are … well, pretty different.…” She didn’t want to say more, not yet, and there was no point. And it sounded too awful to say she had always thought her mother didn’t love her.

  “Is that what the Peace Corps is all about? To get away from her?”

  “No.” Paxton smiled. “But Berkeley was.” She was very honest with him, they both were. They were just that kind of people.

  “I’m glad,” he said to her, as his lips brushed hers and they lay close to each other on the floor, propped up on their elbows.

  “So am I,” she whispered back, and then he took her in his arms and they lay there and kissed for a long time, until suddenly Gabby opened the bedroom door and looked down at them with considerable interest.

  “You guys going to bed separately or together tonight, or are you just gonna lie here and neck? It’s all the same to me, I just wonder if I should wait up for Pax, or go to sleep now.” Peter groaned and Paxton laughed as she rolled away from him, her hair tangled, her cheeks pink from their kissing.

  “Has anyone told you lately what a rude pain in the ass you are, Gabrielle?” He knew how desperately she hated the name and he loved to use it to annoy her. “Christ, it’s just my luck to fall for my sister’s roommate.” He stood up then, and held out a hand to Paxton. “I guess you’d better get some sleep, babe. If the mouthpiece here will let you. I don’t know how you stand it.”

  “I just fall asleep when I’m tired.”

  “And she probably keeps talking.” All three of them laughed because it was true and he kissed Paxton goodnight and left. And when he was gone, Gabby pressed her.

  “Is it serious, Pax?”

  “Don’t be silly. We’ve only known each other for six weeks, and we’ve got our whole lives ahead of us. He’s got three years of law school, I’ve got four years of undergraduate work to do. What could be serious?” But in her heart, she knew it was, and didn’t want to admit it yet to herself or Gabby.

  “You don’t know my brother. I’ve never seen him look like this. He really cares about you. I think he’s in love with you.” And then with an earnest, investigative stare, “Has he told you he loves you?”

  “For heaven’s sake … of course not.…” But he didn’t have to. Paxton knew it. Gabby was right. And Paxton had never felt like this either. It was just rotten luck that it had happened so fast, and so early. For the moment, finding the man of her dreams was the last thing Paxton wanted.

  “Shit. Isn’t this just my luck,” Gabby complained as they got into bed. “I want to find a husband and you don’t, and what happens, you’ve got Peter drooling over you and looking like he wants to get engaged, and who have I got? No one. Some jerk with frizzy hair to his waist who wants to go to Tibet with me next summer as long as I’ll pay for his airfare. Some people have all the luck.”

  “Karma.” Paxton grinned as she lay in the dark, listening to Gabby.

  “Who’s he? Isn’t he that guy at the free-speech table on Bancroft?”

  “No, it’s that thing Dawn is always talking about. Karma. Fate. Kismet.”

  “They must be sleeping pills. Christ, did you hear her getting sick yesterday? I think she’s dying.”

  “Maybe she’s pregnant,” Paxton whispered hesitantly.

  “When does she have time to get pregnant? She’s always sleeping.” And with that, they both laughed and turned over and went to sleep. For once, Gabby had nothing left to say and she had to go to her contemporary music class in the morning. And she had a lot to do after that. It was the day before Halloween, and she wanted to work on her costume. She was going to be a gold lame pumpkin.

  It was also the day the Viet Cong attacked the Bien Hoa airbase, fifteen miles north of Saigon, the first major U.S. military installation to be hit.

  Five American men were killed, and seventy-six were wounded. And Johnson did not order an attack in retaliation. He was trying to sit tight, especially before the election four days later. Goldwater was promising to bomb the hell out of everyone, and end our involvement in Viet Nam by crippling the North, and Johnson was promising not to get us in any deeper, which was what everyone wanted to hear. And Johnson won by a landslide on November third. The threat of Goldwater involving the country further in Viet Nam had been answered.

  And the following week, Peter asked Paxton what she was doing for Thanksgiving.

  “Nothing much. It’s too far to go home just for a few days.” Too far and too expensive, although Thanksgiving without Queenie’s turkey wouldn’t be Thanksgiving. Paxton was trying not to think of it, and she was planning to spend the day studying for a physics test, and having a turkey sandwich at the cafeteria if she even remembered.

  “I was wondering if you’d like to come home with us. I mentioned it to my mother last week, and she’d love it if you used the guest room. It might even give you a rest from listening to Gabby talk to you all night.”

  “I might miss it,” Paxton said shyly. “Are you sure it wouldn’t be an imposition?”

  “Not at all. That’s what Thanksgiving’s all about. People overeating together and watching football. In fact, Dad and I are going to the game on Saturday and I’d love it if you came. And I thought maybe we could drive over to Stinson Beach on Friday.”

  “I’d like that.” She smiled. Gabby had said something vague about it a few days before, but then she had forgotten to pursue the subject further. But Paxton couldn’t think of anything she’d like better than spending Thanksgiving with them. She hadn’t met their parents yet, but suspected from everything she’d heard that she would like them. And going there was a little frightening, too, it would bring her that much closer to Peter. But there seemed to be no way to avoid it. Most of the time they went out with friends, and she had only been out with him alone a few times, but even in a crowd of people, their attraction to each other was so strong that it was impossible to fight it.

  He told Gabby that afternoon, and she exploded into their living room while Paxton was studying and surprised her.

  “I hear you’re coming home with us for Thanksgiving, Pax, that’s terrific!” She smiled warmly. She had talked to her mother only that afternoon, and Marjorie Wilson wanted to know more about her roommate and if she was a serious interest with Peter. She had found it strange that he, and not Gabby, had called to ask if Paxton could come home with them. “You’re going to love my Mom.”

  “I’m sure I will.” She already did from all of Gabby’s stories. The two were amazingly close, and it was obvious from everything Gabby said that she was crazy about her mother. It sounded as if Marjorie Wilson was involved in causes and auxiliaries and bridge clubs, like her own mother, but unlike Beatrice Andrews, she seemed genuinely to love her children. Paxton wasn’t sure what their father did, but she assumed somehow that he was in business.

  Peter picked them up late Wednesday afternoon, and as usual Gabby had too many bags, and Paxton only had one small one. She was wearing a serious navy blue dress and her gray winter coat, and the only pair of dressy heels she’d brought, a pair of simple black ones. She looked very pretty and neat, and she had pulled her hair back in a ponytail and tied it with a navy satin ribbon, and she was wearing her grandmother’s tiny Victorian pearl earrings.

  “You look like Alice in Wonderland,” Peter said with a smile as she got into his battered Ford. He had been talking about buying one of the new Mustangs, but said he didn’t have enough money saved up from the summer. His father had offered him a trip or a car as a graduation gift, and he had opted for two months in Europe in Scotland, England, and France, and he had
no regrets about it as he drove around in the same wreck he’d had all through college.

  “Should I have worn something dressier?” Paxton asked Gabby nervously. She had a black velvet dress she could have worn, but she was saving it for Thanksgiving rather than their arrival.

  “You’re fine. Don’t listen to him.” Gabby was wearing a red velvet miniskirt and a black sweater, high-heeled red shoes, and her red hair sprang out from her head like Shirley Temple’s. “My mother will be wearing a plain black dress and pearls, and my father will be wearing plaid pants and a velvet jacket. Their uniforms.” Paxton laughed nervously and hoped she wouldn’t embarrass them, especially Peter. Suddenly it all mattered so much to her, and that frightened her too. She had never been “brought home” by anyone, as a potentially serious girlfriend, and she had the sinking feeling that that was what Peter was doing.

  They came across the Bay Bridge at full speed, and drove west on Broadway past Carol Doda’s place and all the topless bars, and as soon as they went through the Broadway Tunnel and crossed Van Ness, they began to pass the stately homes on Broadway. Paxton was impressed, and suddenly even more nervous. And then they were there. Peter brought the car to a screeching halt, Gabby hopped out, and rang the bell, and a moment later, they were standing in the enormous front hall of a very large brick house with Peter’s parents, dressed exactly as Gabby had said, making her feel welcome. Their mother was a small woman with fading red hair, combed into a sleek bun, and bright green eyes not unlike Paxton’s, and his father was long and lanky like his son, with once blond hair now turned snow white, and an air of aristocratic good humor. His wife was warm, and when she hugged Paxton, she seemed to mean it.

  She had Gabby show her to her room, and a few moments later they were all downstairs, in a handsome wood-paneled library filled with old leather-bound books, overstuffed antique furniture, an Oriental rug, and a fire blazing. It was the kind of room one read about in books, and Paxton had had no idea that they were so wealthy. And suddenly she felt uncomfortable about her dress again, but no one seemed to care what anyone else was wearing. Whereas her own mother would have made comments about Gabby’s miniskirt, Marjorie Wilson seemed to find it amusing, and they were talking animatedly about the party she’d gone to the previous weekend, and the boy she’d met whom she considered a “serious hopeful,” her favorite term for the kind of boy she’d like to marry. And across the room, Paxton heard Peter ask his father how things were at the paper.

  “Interesting, since this recent business in Viet Nam. The attack at Bien Hoa may change things a little bit now, whether Johnson wants it that way or not. We can’t sit on our hands over there forever.” Peter didn’t say much, as he knew his father had been a staunch supporter of Goldwater, although it was a point of view he had chosen not to discuss with Peter.

  “I don’t think even being there is the answer. We should get the hell out before we get in over our heads, like the French did,” Peter said somberly to his father.

  “We’re smarter than they are, son.” His father smiled. “And we can’t let the Communists take over the world, can we?” It was an endless conversation they’d had for years, and their views were always different. Peter didn’t think the U.S. forces belonged there, but like most people of his generation, his father did, and thought they could kick ass quick, teach them a lesson, maybe even do some good, and get out without getting too badly hurt. But the big question always was, how much was “too badly”?

  They wandered over to talk to the women then, and Paxton was amused to see how much Peter looked like his father. He had the same fire, the same zest for life, the same lively blue eyes that she loved in Peter, the same warm manner. They were all warm and lively people, and she found herself totally at ease with them over dinner, more so than she had ever been with her own family in Savannah. She also discovered that they talked about the morning paper constantly, and halfway through dinner, she realized that Peter’s father worked there, and then, as they talked about what Peter was going to do the following summer, she found out something more, and for a moment the realization stunned her. Peter was talking about working for corresponding papers somewhere in the country, and as she listened, Paxton understood it all, even why Peter’s father had had to keep his support of Goldwater quiet at the office. Because the Morning Sun had officially come out in favor of Johnson, and the paper had always been staunchly Democratic. But its owner was not. And its owner was Peter and Gabby’s father. In fact, the Wilson family had owned the Morning Sun for over one hundred years and as it all came clear to her, Paxton started to laugh, as Peter looked at her in confusion. He had just said that he wasn’t sure he wanted to work for a newspaper the following summer at all, but he was thinking of volunteering for a law project in Mississippi or working for Dr. Martin Luther King, especially since he had won the Nobel peace prize in October. And she was laughing.

  “What’s so funny about that?” He looked surprised, she usually took things like that fairly seriously, and he knew she shared his views about most things, especially that one.

  “Nothing, I’m sorry. I just figured something out that neither of you bothered to tell me. I thought you just talked about the Morning Sun all the time because your father works there. I never figured out until just now that you … that …” She looked mildly embarrassed and Peter grinned as his father laughed.

  “Don’t feel bad, Paxton. When he was a little boy, he used to tell his friends I sold newspapers on Mission Street, at least his humility doesn’t go quite that far anymore, or maybe it does. Is that what he told you?”

  “No.” She shook her head as she laughed, and Gabby grinned. She had never said anything to Paxton either. They had never liked bragging to friends, and Paxton could see why. Although they lived beautifully, they weren’t showy people. It was the kind of old money, and discretion, that would have really impressed her mother. “Actually neither of them ever said anything. I never gave it a thought.”

  “I didn’t think it was important,” Peter explained quietly, knowing that she liked him for himself and not what his father owned. And Paxton was quick to reassure him.

  “It isn’t. But it’s interesting. At least you can talk about something intelligent at home. All we ever talk about is who’s getting married, who bought a new house, and which of my brother’s patients is dying.”

  “Is your father a doctor too?” Marjorie Wilson asked with a warm smile.

  “No,” Paxton said quietly, feeling sad somewhere deep inside. She wished she still had a father, like Gabby and Peter. “My father was an attorney. He died seven years ago, when his plane crashed.”

  “I’m sorry,” Gabby’s mother said softly.

  “Me too.” It was so different being with them, it was all so normal and so happy. They played dominoes that night, and teased and laughed. Peter talked to his father in front of the fire for a long time, and then he included Paxton. They talked about Viet Nam again, and Diem, and Johnson’s position with the Russians since the recent coup d’état had stripped Khrushchev of power in September. And Paxton found herself full of admiration for Edward Wilson. He was intelligent and reasonable and he had great foresight, which she respected, even though their opinions on Viet Nam differed. They talked about the realities of integration in the South, and Martin Luther King, and even the recent developments and student unrest at Berkeley. The Free Speech Movement had gotten out of hand in the past few days, and the Board of Regents were taking a tough position, refusing to negotiate with the students, which Peter’s father agreed with, and Paxton said she did too, although it was not a popular view on campus. It turned out that President Kerr was a friend of his, and they had had a long conversation only that morning.

  “He’s not going to play ball with those kids. There’s too much at stake. If he gives in, they’ll lose all control at the campus.” Peter strongly disagreed with him, and they talked about it for a long time, but Paxton found all of its discussions exhilarating and refreshing. It
was exciting being with people who talked about intelligent things, and were aware of what was happening in the world. In Savannah, she felt so cut off from the real world sometimes, so bogged down by the South, and its desperate fight to hang on to the past and a way of life that had to go by the wayside. And Paxton said as much to Ed Wilson.

  “You have a wonderful paper down there, though. W. S. Morris and I are old friends.”

  “I’m hoping to work for him, or for the paper anyway, next summer. I’m a journalism major, or I will be next year.” Peter smiled proudly at her, and reached out and took her hand, which did not escape his father. Ed Wilson didn’t say anything to him, but he did to Marjorie that night, when they were undressing in their bedroom.

  “I think your son is seriously smitten, my love.” He looked tenderly at his wife. She loved her children so much, he wondered if it would be hard for her when they finally fell in love and got married and had lives of their own, apart from their parents. “Something tells me he’s really in love with that girl.”

  “I think so too,” she said pensively as she sat at her dressing table and brushed the once red hair. “But you know something, I like her. She’s quiet at first, but there’s a lot to her. She really cares about him, and she’s decent and straightforward and very honest.”

  “And much too young to get married,” her husband added. “At eighteen, it would be crazy to even consider marriage.”

  “I don’t think she is considering it. Something tells me that there’s a lot she wants to do with her life. I think she’s even more levelheaded than Peter.”

  “I hope so.” He sighed. And then as he bent and kissed his wife’s neck with a tender smile, “I’m not ready for grandchildren yet.”