by Robin Wells
“Mother!”
“You listen to me, young lady. You are not going to break the heart of a man who’s known you his whole life and who loves you to pieces and who just returned from the war with a missing limb. Why, he nearly died, defending our freedom!”
I wanted to say that a few toes didn’t qualify as a limb, but I didn’t. “Mother, I don’t want to hurt Charlie. But I don’t want to get his hopes up, either.”
“You don’t have to do either, Adelaide. Just be nice to him. Just act like you used to when you were dating. I venture to say that after you’re around him again, you’ll realize you still have feelings for him.”
“Mother, we broke up before he left.”
“Nonsense. You’ve been writing to him.”
“I’ve been writing to several soldiers. I send them all the same letter.”
“Adelaide LeDoux.” My mother’s voice was shocked and disapproving. “I raised you better than that.”
“Better than what? I haven’t done anything wrong.” A hot flare of anger shot through me. “There was nothing of a romantic nature in those letters. I’ve told you and told you. I don’t love Charlie.”
“Well, that doesn’t matter right now. He loves you, and this is not the time to break his heart. You need to do everything you can to make him happy.”
What about my heart? I wanted to say. Don’t I have a right to be happy, too? But I bit my lip and kept my mouth shut. Arguing with my mother was futile.
When we arrived at the house, I went up to my childhood bedroom and crawled into the bed where I’d slept since I’d outgrown my crib, feeling just as helpless and under her thumb as I had back then.
• • •
By the time I got up for breakfast, Charlie had already called, and our mothers had made plans for our day.
“I’ll pack a picnic lunch,” my mother said. “You can drive his father’s car, and you two can have a lovely day down by the river. Just be back by four. The town is throwing a potluck celebration at the Baptist church at five thirty, and you want to have time to dress for it.”
Which is how we ended up driving to the country, out to the Atchafalaya River. As we left town, Charlie put his hand on my neck, playing with my hair. I told him it interfered with my ability to concentrate on my driving, and he’d chuckled, as if it pleased him. He kept his hands to himself, though—and when we got out of the car, his crutches and the fact I was carrying the picnic basket and blanket kept him from trying to hold my hand.
I tried to deflect every romantic thing he uttered.
“I can’t tell you how much I missed you,” he said.
“I’m sure you missed everyone and everything about home.”
“Oh, yeah. But you most of all.”
“Tell me all about life in the army.”
He did. I spread a blanket on the riverbank, and he talked and talked, telling me about maneuvers and battles and the personalities of his fellow soldiers. The tight guardedness in my chest eased. This was Charlie, my lifelong friend. He’d been through hell and back, and my heart ached as he talked about the cruel, ugly, unremitting horror of the war.
“How did you get injured?” I knew the general story, but I hadn’t heard the specifics.
He lay back on the blanket and draped his arm over his eyes. “We were in a trench, under heavy fire. I was sick with dysentery. All of a sudden, a grenade landed at my feet. Like most of the others, I scrambled to get away. But there was one soldier . . .” Charlie’s Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat. “His name was Albert, and he was from upstate New York. He came from money, big money, and he’d enlisted against his family’s wishes. He kept to himself all the time. He wouldn’t drink cheap hooch or cut up or joke around with the rest of us. I figured him for a snob—you know the kind, the type who thought he was too good for us. But Albert . . . well, damned if he didn’t throw himself on that grenade.”
Charlie’s face was still covered by his arm, but I saw a tear trickle down his cheek. My chest felt both floppy and tight at the same time.
“Truth is, he saved our lives. Mine, and three other guys who got hurt. My leg—well, it was covered with parts of Albert, as well as dirt and metal.”
My hand flew to my mouth. “Oh, Charlie!”
He sat up and turned away, not wanting me to see him cry. For some reason this touched me more than the tears themselves. I watched him wipe his face with his fists, the same way he’d done when he fell off his bike in his front yard when he was seven, and my eyes grew wet, as well. I scooted toward him and put my hand on his arm.
“I relive it in my mind over and over,” he said. “I hear the thud of the grenade landing. I can hear John Ansom scream, ‘Live grenade!’ I remember feeling kind of frozen for a second, not sure what to do.” He wiped his face with the sleeve of his free arm and gazed at the river. “The whole time I was in the hospital, I wondered why Albert had done it. Why didn’t he just run, too?”
His throat worked and he drew a ragged breath. “There’s something else, I wonder, too. Something I can’t stop thinking about.” He closed his eyes for a long moment. “Why didn’t I throw myself on it?”
“You can’t think like that, Charlie.”
“Why not? I was closer to it than Albert. He had to kind of shove me out of the way—out of harm’s way.” His throat moved again. “He had courage, and I didn’t.”
“You had plenty of courage, just being over there.”
“That’s not how it feels. And I’ve got to tell you, I’ve struggled with it. Still do. And I hate everyone treating me like a hero, when the truth is, I’m a damned coward.”
His expression reminded me of how he’d looked in first grade, when one of the older boys had called him a sissy for not fighting when they tripped him on the school bus. I’d stood up for him then, and I felt the same tug to do it now. “Listen to me, Charlie McCauley. You are, too, a hero. You were over there in a trench, fighting for freedom, and you were wounded. And that makes you a hero, absolutely and positively.”
He shook his head.
“I bet you were trained to run when a grenade is thrown, correct?”
He slowly nodded.
“Well, then, you did the right thing, the absolute right thing, the thing you were trained to do. And it must have been harder for you than for the others, because you were sick and weak with dysentery. So don’t you waste one more moment of your life thinking you’re anything less than the hero you are. Do you understand me, Charlie?”
A lone tear tracked down his cheek. He brushed it away and pressed his eyes tight together.
“Tell me you understand,” I demanded.
He opened his eyes, gave a slight smile, and snapped a salute. “Yes, ma’am.”
I grinned at him. “That’s more like it.”
“Boy, you’re beautiful when you’re bossy.” He reached out and touched my hair. “You have such a way about you, a way of making everything better.” He twisted my hair strand around his finger. His eyes glowed with a soft love light, so adoring and tender that it made me queasy to know I would hurt him. “You’re the best thing that ever happened to me, Addie. Thinking about you was what pulled me through. And now—well, I can hardly believe you’re here.”
A torrent of love poured from his eyes. He was about to kiss me.
I couldn’t let that happen. I abruptly lifted my fingers from his arm and shifted away. I tried to hide the awkwardness of the moment with a bright smile. “You mean you’re here. You’re home! And everyone is so happy and relieved.”
“Everyone?” His gaze practically burned my face. “Are you happy and relieved?”
“Of course.” I busied myself opening the picnic basket.
“Happy and relieved enough to marry me?”
My hands froze on the picnic lid. “Oh, Charlie . . . no.”
“Be
cause of my foot?”
“Of course not!”
“I’m getting special shoes. They say that after a while, I won’t even have much of a limp.”
“Oh, Charlie—that’s wonderful. But that has nothing to do with this.”
Silence pulsed between us. Blue jays chattered in the trees, and a car motor purred down the road behind us. I opened the picnic basket and pulled out a covered dish of fried chicken just to have something to do.
I could feel his gaze on me. “Is it because of what I just told you?”
“Of course not. Don’t you dare try to turn that into an issue!”
“So why won’t you say yes?”
“I told you before you left. I don’t—” God, why was this so hard? “I don’t feel about you the way you deserve for a woman to feel.”
He leaned in and gripped my upper arms. It wasn’t romantic; it was uncomfortable and desperate. I was still holding the fried chicken. “I can make you feel that way, Addie. When we’re married, and you know everything is sacred and blessed, why, then you can relax and everything will be just the way it should be.”
I didn’t say anything. What could I say? I clutched the dish of chicken as if it were a shield.
“You think that life is like the movies, Addie—that love is like some kind of magic spell. It’s not that way in real life.”
I knew damned well that it could be, but I couldn’t say it. “It’s not just that, Charlie. I love being independent. I want to work and travel and see the world.”
“Travel’s not what it’s cracked up to be. It’s messy and inconvenient and believe me, there’s no place as wonderful as home. Move back here, Addie. Move back, and let’s get married.”
I shook my head, tears welling up in my eyes.
The wounded look in his eyes made me feel like I’d just kicked a puppy.
“Is there someone else?”
I didn’t answer. What could I say? I looked through the picnic basket as if I were ravenous. “I’ve had enough of this talk, Charlie. Let’s eat.”
He put his hands on my wrists, stopping me. “Answer me, Addie. Is there a man waiting for you in New Orleans?’”
Joe wasn’t in New Orleans anymore, so I could answer truthfully. “No. And I’m seriously tired of talking about this. Let’s just eat our lunch and have a good time, Charlie. I’ll tell you all about my job and all the news about Margie and the USO, and you can tell me more about the funny things you wrote me about—about the pranks the guys pulled on each other on the ship over, and how you hid the sergeant’s shoes. Let’s just have a good time and not spoil everything by talking about the future.”
“Talking about the future will spoil everything?” His voice had a bitter edge to it I’d never heard before.
“I’m just not ready, Charlie.” And I never will be. But I couldn’t tell him that. Not with his shoeless, sock-clad foot hanging out of his pants, and his collarbones sticking out of his shirt, and his eyes so haunted and forlorn that I couldn’t bear to meet his gaze.
21
matt
I came home late Thursday evening—I’d been to a three-day conference in D.C.—and was greeted at the door by both daughters and Jillian.
“Our room’s all sketched up and Hope’s ready to start painting!” Sophie said breathlessly as she hugged my neck.
“Come and see!” Zoey took me by the hand and pulled me toward the stairs. “We’re all in the picture.”
“Is Hope still here?”
“No,” Jillian said. “She left about half an hour ago.”
I followed a prancing Sophie up the stairs, feeling a little tug of disappointment. The thought of seeing Hope had added lead to my foot on the drive home from the airport.
In the bedroom, Sophie stood against the wall and flung out both arms. “Isn’t it bootiful, Daddy?”
I had to step closer to see it. In very light pencil, Hope had drawn stone walls and two large arched windows. The view out one of the windows showed a sprawling hill with a winding trail leading from a forest toward us. On the trail, two little princesses in flowing gowns rode ponies over a drawbridge.
“Look—that’s us!”
I looked closer, and the faces of the princesses were, indeed, Zoey and Sophie.
“And there you are, Daddy!”
Zoey’s finger pointed to a knight accompanying them over the bridge, sitting astride a tall steed, holding his helmet. The face bore an uncanny likeness to me.
“She put Mommy in, too!” Sophie said.
“Up in the clouds,” Zoey pointed again. “See?”
Sure enough, right where the sun was breaking through the clouds, hovered an angel with Christine’s face. My heart warmed. Without thinking, I reached up and ran my hand over it.
“An’ look here,” said Sophie, pointing to another part of the photo. “She put Gramma and Grandpop an’ Aunt Jillian in there, too!” I looked closer. Sure enough, the three of them were climbing out of a carriage in the courtyard out the second painted window. The likenesses were disconcertingly accurate.
“We need to move the furniture so she can start painting,” Zoey said.
“Yeah. An’ we’re gonna need to sleep in the other room.”
“I’ll move your furniture first thing in the morning,” I said.
Jillian clapped her hands together. “All right, girls, it’s past bedtime. I let you stay up to show your father the room, but now you need to go brush your teeth.”
They reluctantly trudged off. Jillian smiled at me. An awkward silence grew between us. I wished she would just go. “Thanks for staying with them.”
“My pleasure. Did you have a good trip?”
I nodded. “Always good to be home, though. And now that I am, I’m sure you’ve got things you need to do.”
“Not really. Do you want some dinner?”
“No. I grabbed something at the airport.”
Her face fell. “Well, I’ll go clean up the kitchen, then.”
“Leave it. I’ll get it after I tuck the girls in bed.”
“It’s no problem.” She left the room just as the girls came back in. The girls knelt and said their prayers, then climbed into their twin beds. I pulled up a chair and read two chapters of Pippi Longstocking. After kisses and tuck-ins, I went downstairs.
Jillian was in the kitchen, wiping an already immaculate countertop. She turned and smiled, her face expectant. “Would you like a glass of wine?”
“No, thanks.”
“I thought maybe you could use someone to talk to.”
Yeah, I could—but the person I wanted to talk to was Hope. I needed to tell her what a great job she’d done on the wall sketch. “What I could really use is about twenty minutes of fresh air. Would you mind staying with the girls while I run out for a bit?”
Her smile dimmed, but it didn’t vanish. “Not at all. Go right ahead.”
“Thanks.” I walked out, closed the door, and drew in a deep breath. Sometimes the air was so heavy with expectation around Jillian I found it hard to draw a lungful.
I walked across the lawn—deliberately breaking my own rules about sticking to the sidewalk—and knocked on Miss Addie’s door. A stocky, graying woman in scrubs opened it.
“I’m the next-door neighbor,” I explained. “I was wondering if I could see Hope for a moment.”
“She’s out walking the dog,” the woman said.
“Do you know which way she went?”
“She headed off that way.” She pointed to her left.
I took off at a jog. A block later, I spotted her on the side street, underneath a streetlamp. She turned at the sound of my footsteps.
“Hi!” I called, slowing as I approached.
“Hi, yourself. What are you running from?”
I fell into step beside her. “Maybe
I’m running toward something. Or someone.”
It sounded more profound than I’d meant it to be. I cleared my throat. “Actually, I just wanted to catch up with you and tell you the mural looks great. Although I’m not sure that I deserve to be depicted as a knight in shining armor.”
“Your girls think so.” She smiled. “And after saving my grandmother’s photos, I think so, too.”
The compliment left me disconcerted. “Well, the girls love all of it—the pictures of themselves and Jillian and Peggy and Griff.” I paused. “And their mother.”
“Are you okay with that?”
“Sure. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Well, you were pretty upset the other day when I was looking at the photos, so I didn’t know if you’d approve.”
Once more, I regretted how I’d overreacted. “You caught me off balance, that’s all. Sorry I was so harsh.”
“No worries. I understand how some things can push buttons.” Snowball tugged on the leash, and she started walking.
I fell into step beside her.
“What was your conference about?” she asked.
To my surprise, I told her. I described a bunch of new federal regulations, and she not only listened but also asked questions. I told her about the big case that was taking up most of my time. It felt great to talk to someone who wasn’t working with me or against me, who seemed really interested and engaged—so great I lost all track of time. When my phone buzzed, I pulled it out, glanced at the screen, then grimaced. “It’s Jillian. I told her I’d be back in twenty minutes, and it’s been nearly forty-five.”
Hope and I had circled around on our walk and were now only about a block from our homes. We stopped. “Are you and Jillian . . .”
I knew what she was asking, but I didn’t help her out. I just stood there and waited for her to flat out ask. I didn’t have to wait long.
“. . . involved?”
I shook my head. “She’s my sister-in-law, that’s all.”
“Seems like there’s more to it than that.”
