That’s what she had intended to say. Yet instantly a calm swept over him, like a power cord had been disconnected. The stillness was so sudden, so shocking, that she reflected on her own words.
The name she had called him was Jakob.
24
A noise yanked Vivian from the depths of sleep. Something tapped the window. The room was dark and curtains blocked her view. A branch must have brushed the pane.
No-no, that wasn’t possible. She lived in a brownstone, a corner room on the third floor, not a single tree within reach. Oh, these thoughts were too straining. Her skull felt packed with sand. She glanced at Luanne’s bed lying empty and disheveled. The girl must be sneaking in late, using the fire escape to avoid a lecture from the landlady.
But wouldn’t Luanne be taking the train soon? She had made mention to that effect while Vivian was getting dressed for—
Where had she gone tonight?
More taps came, growing loud as a hammer on nails. She pressed her pillow to her ears, but not fast enough to prevent her head from throbbing. She envisioned a woodpecker assaulting the glass. The need to cease the sound crushed any other thought.
She pried herself from the cocoon of her sheets and rounded Luanne’s bed. When she pushed away the curtains, sunlight blasted through the glass. Her headache bloomed in full. Squinting against the rays, she discovered ... Luanne’s brother?
Befuddled, she slid open the window.
“Morning, twinkle toes.”
In that instant, flashes of the prior night assembled in chunks. The dance. The flask. The stairs. She had kissed him. Or he’d kissed her. Had she only dreamt it? Oh, Lord, what had they done?
She pressed her fingers to her temples, dizzied from the unknown.
“Yep. That’s about how I figured you’d feel,” he said, then abruptly averted his gaze. “You might wanna ...” He motioned toward her body, which further confused her until she looked down. Her red dress hung in a crooked mess, half of her brassiere exposed.
Her mind snapped to attention, as if by a whiff of smelling salts. She covered her chest with a pillow, terrified to imagine just how much she had already shown him.
“Last night,” she said, “I didn’t—I mean, I think it was ... a mistake.”
“Yeah?” he said, now looking at her. “Which part?”
“I just-you know. With what happened.”
He raised a brow, waiting. An obstinate tack. A decent man wouldn’t demand an admission, much less take advantage of a woman in a vulnerable state.
Gene suddenly snickered. “If you’re referring to something between you and me, you’ve got nothing to worry about.”
She would have been relieved if not for the implication that any temptation would be absurd. Then again, she was hardly his type, based on the bombshell he had dated throughout high school. Paired in photos, the sprightly cheerleader and quiet quarterback were a yearbook editor’s dream.
Vivian swallowed, her saliva like a layer of sap. “In that case, would you care to tell me what did happen?”
“Nothing to alert the cavalry over. We took a walk, you fell asleep. I flagged you a cab and delivered you home to Lu, safe and sound.”
It must have been past curfew, which meant he couldn’t have made it inside. Not without creating a scene. She dreaded to ask: “So, at that hour, how did you . . .”
“I maneuvered you through this window here. And the ladders were no picnic, let me tell you.”
She nodded, his answer a light balm. “Well. I appreciate all your help.”
He didn’t reply, just handed over a paper sack.
“What is this?”
“A plain breakfast roll and two aspirin. You’re gonna need them. Oh, and chug a gallon of water or you’ll be sorry tomorrow.” He spoke as if he had been in her condition many times before. It wasn’t behavior she admired, but in this case, it reduced her embarrassment.
“I will,” she said.
For a moment, his gaze drifted off to the side. He nodded at nothing in particular. “All right, then,” he said, and turned to leave.
As he navigated the metal grates, she sieved the sand in her head to find a suitable parting. If he hadn’t been at the dance, she hated to think where-or with whom-she would have landed.
“Gene!” she called out, too loud for her own brain. She dropped her volume. “If there’s anything I can do to thank you ...”
He halted mid-descent. A look of consideration played over his face. “Actually, yeah. There is.”
The words had spouted from her mouth as a courtesy. Already she sensed she would come to regret her offer. “O-okay. What is it?”
“I’ll pick you up at noon. Wear something you don’t mind ruining.”
“But-what are we doing?”
“Noon,” he said, and continued downward.
She sank against the window frame. Every fiber of her body wanted to soak in a tub and sleep the day away. “Should have kept my mouth shut,” she said under her breath.
“Noon,” Gene repeated, and strode off without looking up.
The morning flew by in a snap.
Food, water, and aspirin, plus a much-needed nap, had molded Vivian into something resembling a human. Unfortunately, the creaky rumble of the truck-a vehicle Gene had borrowed from the base-threatened to reverse her progress.
“Are you planning to tell me where we’re going?” she asked.
“A house,” he said.
“A house.”
“Yep.”
“To do ... ?”
“A project.”
This was far from revelatory. His cuffed jeans and white tee told her as much. As requested, she had dressed similarly despite the undisclosed purpose. She was about to press him for more, but extracting details felt like tweezing invisible splinters. She rested her head on the side window and focused on the road, staving off a recurrence of nausea.
A few minutes later he pulled over to the curb below a gray Victorian house. Located in Ditmas Park, it had a turret, bay windows, and a wraparound porch.
Vivian followed Gene to the rear of the truck, where he released the tailgate and climbed on up. He handed her a large-bristled brush and two buckets of paint. As he lowered a ladder from the flatbed, she stared wide-eyed at the row of remaining cans.
“Surely we’re not painting a whole house,” she said. Then added, “Are we?”
“Nope.”
She blew out a breath. It wasn’t a monstrous mansion, like many of the homes in the area, but still that would have taken them days.
“Just the porch and columns,” he said. “And the lattice below. The stairs too. Oh, and the fence.”
Twinges of exhaustion set into her limbs. She recoiled at the thought of ingesting paint fumes for hours. “Marvelous.”
He hopped onto the ground.
“Any particular reason we’re painting here?” she asked.
“Yeah.” He threw an old sheet over his shoulder. “Needs a new coat.”
Weathered with cracks and dirt, the place was indeed due for a touch-up. But obviously that wasn’t her point. She wondered if the side job would earn him a fee. If so, using her as free labor would be unethical.
On account of the previous night, however, she was in no position to protest.
Gene hefted the ladder and headed for the house. “You comin’?”
The question was presumably rhetorical.
Over the arch of blue sky the sun traveled its course. Done with the latticework, Vivian started on the low white fence. Gene went from columns to railings with military precision. Other than whistling various show tunes-a surprise, as he didn’t seem the type-the guy made not a peep beyond necessity. It was no wonder he had been assigned to Intelligence.
Twice he delivered drinks from inside, the only indication somebody was home. The glasses of chilled lemonade were a luxury given the new ration on sugar. For lunch he carried out sandwiches: bologna and Swiss on rye.
After devouring h
er last bite, she said, “You do realize this is a cruel form of punishment.”
Gene was kicking back on the porch steps above her. He smiled without pity, like the overseer of a chain gang on an allotted break. He swiped a rag over his hairline and the base of his neck. The muscles in his arms rose and shifted. Small patches of sweat caused his shirt to cling, accentuating the firm breadth of his chest.
Vivian turned toward the street. She pressed her glass to her forehead, its coolness fleeting.
“We better get back to it,” he said, and none too soon.
By the time all the paint had been set to dry, the neighborhood glowed like a string of lanterns.
Vivian waited in the truck, body slumped, her limbs limper than yarn. She felt no trace of guilt for leaving Gene to repack the supplies. She had, without question, repaid her debt.
She rolled her head toward the side window and spotted him on the porch. He stood at the front door, face-to-face with a shadowy woman. She touched his arm as they spoke, Gene now with words to spare.
Vivian sat up.
The woman gave him a small basket, a token of thanks. Perhaps a trade in a blossoming courtship.
Could all of the day’s work, slaving in the sun, withering from fumes, have been done to impress a girl? He had been vague about details for a reason.
“Incredible.”
If the lovebirds wished to carry on, they could do so on their own time. Vivian pushed on the horn, yielding a glance from Gene. Then he angled toward the woman and accepted a kiss. It was only on the cheek but, had they been in private, would undoubtedly have been meant for the lips.
He trekked down the steps, revealing a full silhouette of the woman. She moved backward to close the door. Light from inside swept past her face before she disappeared. Her features were familiar, though hard to place out of context.
The aroma of bread, from Gene’s kerchief-covered basket, billowed as he drove. A block down, Vivian’s mind snagged on the recognition.
“Mrs. Langtree,” she said. “Was that . . . her house?”
He gave a nod, his gaze locked on the street.
She had almost forgotten the two were acquainted. It was from his recommendation that Mrs. Langtree had hired Luanne, and later Vivian as well. His motivation for today’s chores now became clear. A widow without a son would have few helpers to maintain her home, thus Gene’s actions had assured her that she wasn’t on her own.
Vivian cringed at her prior assumptions, namely those pertaining to the scene on the porch. In Gene’s company, Mrs. Langtree had appeared so very different.
“I had no idea you two were close,” Vivian said, stricken by how little she knew of them both.
Gene steered in silence. Finally he replied without turning. “Neal and I met at basic. Became buddies right off the bat.”
Neal Langtree. The airman.
“Oh, Gene ... I didn’t know. I’m so sorry.”
“He was hell-bent on getting those fancy pilot wings. We could’ve done it together, you know, if I’d wanted to....”
He trailed off, leaving Vivian to fill in the rest. Whether he was regretting not being there or questioning his own survival-perhaps simply mourning the senselessness of it all—the moisture rimming his eyes did not require words.
No freedom comes without a price, people would say of the pilot’s honorable end. The adage was far more palatable when those sacrificed were distant strangers.
Vivian reached past the basket and laid a hand on Gene’s arm. He didn’t grasp her fingers, didn’t glance her way, but somehow the gesture felt welcome.
Once at her brownstone, she slowly drew back. Gene exited the truck and opened her side. “Thanks for your help today,” he said, guiding her out.
“It was my pleasure.” And she meant that, in more ways than anticipated. “Well, then ... good night.”
At the absence of a response, she departed for the stoop stairs. She was halfway to the door when he called to her.
“You—have any plans tomorrow?”
She twisted around. Tomorrow would be Sunday. No work, no roommate. But she caught herself before answering. “That would depend.”
He cocked his head a little.
“Is this for some other project? Because if it is, I’d like to negotiate a rate up front.”
The corners of his lips tugged into a smile. He shoved his hands into his front pockets and said, “I just thought, our trade-it didn’t seem quite even. Figured I owe you a decent lunch at least.”
Lunch, her mother would say, did not constitute an official date. All the same, heat rose to Vivian’s cheeks, hopefully concealed in the dimness between street lamps. “Let me guess,” she said. “Noon?”
His smile widened. His dark eyes glimmered. “Sleep well, twinkle toes.”
The following hour drifted by as hazy as a dream. Vivian nestled into her bed, washed and warm, on the cusp of sleep. Only then did she realize: A full day had passed without a single thought of Isaak. His grip on her heart had loosened at last.
She rolled onto her side, blanketed by a sad sort of relief, and envisioned possibilities of tomorrow.
25
Out on the deck, Audra studied her son from across the table, visualizing the impossible. She added a dozen years to his face, put pilots’ goggles over his eyes, dressed him in a flight jacket marked with a Nazi patch.
Jack looked up at her curiously. “Mom? What is it?”
She squashed the image, outrageous in every way. “Sorry, I was just zoning out.”
“Got the chef’s special for two here,” Robert announced, delivering a plate of veggie patties. His timing was impeccable.
“Wonderful,” Audra said. “Thanks for making those.”
“You betcha.” He wiped his hands on his apron, the caricature type that transformed his torso into that of a bodybuilder. “Buns will be right over.” He swooped back to the barbecue, where he plated the meat patties for him and Meredith and the toasted bread for them all.
Audra was grateful the weather allowed them to celebrate outside. Helium balloons were tied around the deck, adding a rainbow of color to her in-laws’ backyard. Special occasions of any kind could be rough after a loss; that’s why Audra was determined to make this a bright and cheery event.
“Are you excited to see your cake?” she asked Jack.
“Uh-huh.” He took a gulp of his fruit punch, staining his mouth with a joker’s grin.
She stage-whispered, “I hear Grandpa got you something super special this year.”
“Really? What is it?”
“I don’t know yet. Apparently it’s Top Secret.”
He smiled and bounced his legs dangling off the seat. Audra reveled in his delight until he snagged a baby carrot from the veggie tray. Combined with the setting, the sight reminded her of Isabella and her rabbit on a blanket by the garden....
Audra brushed away the thought to make room for anything light. Like an old favorite game.
“I see ... Geppetto,” she said, indicating Robert as the target.
Jack twisted his lips, thinking. “Super Mario.”
“Hmm, good one. How about ... Elmer Fudd with a mustache.”
“Papa Smurf.”
Tied, two to two. Audra was pondering more mustached characters when Meredith returned from the house. She joined them at the table with a bowl of potato salad.
“This one’s a new recipe, so I hope it’s okay.”
“I’m sure it’s great,” Audra said.
Robert brought the last of the items over and settled in his chair. “I say we have at it. Okay with you, Mama?”
Meredith hesitated only a moment before nodding. “Let’s dig in,” she said with a smile. She was skipping the blessing on account of her guests. While part of Audra found this refreshing, the rest of her sank with guilt. Her commentary about harps and wings must have spurred the change.
Jack, on the other hand, didn’t seem to notice. Though he was accustomed to prayers before m
eals here—as Audra never discouraged him; he would discover the truth on his own—he appeared just as pleased to dive into his burger.
“Careful now, Jack,” Audra said. “Try not to get ketchup on your cast.” She took care in articulating his name. Ever since last night, when calling him Jakob had distinctly soothed him, she feared making the same mistake—almost as much as she feared the reason it had worked. On the drive over, she had asked him about the name, undeniably similar to his own. As usual, he shook his head.
Whose idea had it been to call him Jack in the first place? Hers or Devon’s, she couldn’t remember. It wasn’t a family name. No specific actor or athlete or character in a book sprang to mind as the inspiration.
Not that it mattered.
“So, Robert, how’s business going?” she asked while scooping up fruit cocktail.
“Pretty well,” he said. “They tell me no walls have fallen down this week. So far.”
“That’s always good news.”
Meredith said, “What about you, Audra? Any word from your interviews?” She seemed more interested than investigative, a welcomed difference from before.
“There might be an opportunity. Nothing set yet.” In actuality, as of this morning, a solid option had materialized. But she would save that for a private discussion. She diverted the subject, perpetuating small talk as they all enjoyed their lunch.
To Meredith’s credit, her mentions of Devon were limited, her efforts for levity clear. Always a teacher, she entertained Jack with fun facts that ranged from the formation of Multnomah Falls to squirrel-proofing her garden with mothballs and cayenne pepper.
When the time came, the couple went inside to prepare for the finale. Audra transferred gifts from the car to the back deck, where Robert assembled a mound of presents. On this day above any, Audra saw the value of a grandparent’s duty to spoil.
They all sang “Happy Birthday” as Meredith carried out the cake. It was shaped like a moon, with candles surrounding a big wax 8. A sign protruded from airbrushed craters: Happy birthday to our shooting star!
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