More Than Words Can Say

by Robert Barclay

  “Because there were so few cottages on this lake at that time,” Brandon answered. “And because Butler also had his cottage built for him back in 1942, if what you say about Brooke coming here to spend the summers alone during the war years is correct, then yes—they had to be neighbors.”

  He then thought quietly for a moment. “Just as you and I now are,” he added.

  As Brandon’s words echoed the last journal entry that Chelsea had read, she suddenly felt her connection to him deepen. It was a sensation that she welcomed.

  “And Greg had a clubfoot, you say . . . ,” Chelsea mused, “even though it can’t be seen in any of these shots.”

  “Yes,” Brandon answered.

  “Which explains why a man of his age wasn’t in uniform,” Chelsea answered.

  “You’re right,” Brandon answered. “He couldn’t have passed the physical.”

  “And you said, ‘His name was Gregory Butler,’ ” Chelsea added. “Is he dead?”

  “Yes. Five years ago. He was a longtime smoker who died of lung cancer. When he went into the hospital for the last time, I looked in on him sometimes, but we never became close.”

  “I wonder who took these . . . ,” Chelsea mused.

  “Gregory might have,” Brandon answered. “The camera could have had a timer and been mounted on a tripod.”

  Chelsea looked at all the photos once more. There always seemed to be some sort of unspoken connection between Brooke and Gregory, something that intimated more than just neighborly friendship. Her heart suddenly in her throat, Chelsea turned and looked back at the old journal lying on the dining table.

  All of the answers are in there, she realized. I can feel it. It’s almost as if Gram is calling out to me from the past, desperate to tell me everything . . . But will her journal reveal secrets that I’ll regret learning? Were Brooke and Gregory Butler more than just friends? And if so, then what of her husband, Bill?

  Knowing that Chelsea was struggling with her emotions, Brandon remained quiet. Given that he had actually known Greg Butler, he too was being drawn into the mystery. But of greater importance, he realized that Chelsea was fearful of what she might discover, and he sympathized with her.

  Still uncertain, she looked back into his eyes. Her eager, impetuous side wanted to read every bit of the journal this very moment, no matter how long it might take, and to let the chips fall where they may. But the more romantic part of her nature demanded that she read it little by little while savoring it and gradually absorbing whatever it had to say. As she stood there looking at Brandon, she again considered whether to do so with him or alone.

  Given her growing feelings for him, sharing the journal with Brandon was the most tempting. And perhaps most important of all, if the diary proved to be truly disturbing, she believed that she could rely upon him for emotional support. But would Brandon really want to spend so much time with her? Or might he think that this was just a ruse designed to keep him near? Worse yet, would her highly personal request cause him to turn away from her? Proposing this idea would be a risk, she realized. But if he agreed, it would be worth it. It also meant that most times they could only delve into its mysteries at night, after he had returned from the hospital.

  At last, she decided to include him, if he would agree. But something else was bothering her, and it showed on her face.

  “Do you suppose we could talk a little?” she asked.

  “Is there something wrong?”

  Chelsea nodded. “Maybe,” she said. “You see, I’ve sort of been putting two and two together with these pictures, and . . .”

  “I know,” Brandon answered. “So have I. And the possibility must be disturbing for you. Tell you what—I’ll fix us something stronger than beer, and we’ll discuss it.”

  Chelsea let go a small but grateful smile. “Thank you,” she said. “I was hoping that you’d understand.”

  “And how about I make a fire?” he asked. “We can sit on the sofa and talk there.”

  While Chelsea waited on the couch, Brandon brought their drinks and readied a fire. The Fabiennes, making his job easier, had already brought newspaper, kindling, and a few logs inside. Soon there were flames jumping and crackling in the lovely rose quartz hearth, and between the fire and the bourbon, Chelsea began to feel some welcome comfort seeping into her bones. Brandon then joined her on the couch. For a while, they said nothing to one another, each of them content to simply sit side by side and watch the dancing flames. After a time, Chelsea looked down at her glass, thinking.

  What happened to you here, Gram? she wondered. Did you come to this wonderful place expecting to be alone but find that you were falling in love? And if so, what did you do about it? Did you and Gregory also sit on this very couch, just as Brandon and I are doing now? Did you fall willingly into his arms? Or did you resist him, knowing that it would be wrong? Was he kind, was he understanding, was he—

  Brandon gently touched Chelsea’s shoulder. “Hey,” he said. “Is anybody in there?”

  Chelsea took a deep breath. “Sorry,” she answered. “I was just thinking.” Then she paused and again sipped the smoky-flavored bourbon. “About a lot of things . . .”

  Brandon nodded thoughtfully. “If I’m about to offend you, I apologize,” he said. “But do you really think that Brooke and Gregory . . . ?”

  “I don’t know,” Chelsea answered. “With both of them gone, reading that journal is the only way to find out.”

  “Are you sure that’s what you want?” Brandon asked. “You might learn that that old journal actually belonged to Pandora, rather than Brooke . . .”

  “Maybe,” Chelsea answered. “But yes, I will read it. And for two reasons. First, I need to know.”

  “And the second reason?” Brandon asked.

  “Because Brooke asked me to,” Chelsea answered quietly. “What I don’t know, though, is why. Especially if she . . .”

  Finally deciding to take the plunge, she turned and looked into Brandon’s eyes.

  “Will you do something for me?” she asked. “I know that it’s a lot to ask, but I’m hoping that you’d be willing to read the journal along with me. At first, I couldn’t wait to read it by myself. But now I’m not sure that I want to go it alone. I know that this isn’t your concern. But perhaps we could explore a bit of Brooke’s journal each night . . . maybe taking turns reading it aloud to one another. As a way to pay you back, I’d happily make dinner for us every time. Please, Brandon . . . it would mean so much to me.”

  Brandon searched her lovely face. God, he thought, a man could get lost in those green eyes . . . To better collect his thoughts, he returned his gaze to the fire.

  Chelsea was trusting him, he realized. Enough so that she was willing to bare her beloved grandmother’s past with him—a past that might well prove disappointing and hurtful. He could easily understand her wanting someone with whom to share the journal’s secrets. But what struck his heart the most was that she wanted to do it with him. Letting go a deep breath, he decided. Just as Chelsea was becoming more special to him by the moment, so too would be their coming understanding of Brooke’s journal entries, wherever they led.

  “Of course I will,” he answered. “We’ll learn the tale together. And in return, I’ll gladly take you up on your offer of dinner every night. Regardless of what we find in the journal, that part of it sounds wonderful. Maybe we could even re-create some of the old recipes in your grandmother’s notebook.”

  “Thank you,” she said earnestly. She then went to the dining table and retrieved the journal, which she handed to him. “I’ve already read the first two entries,” said. “So if you would, I’d like you to now read them, too.”

  “All right,” he answered.

  After a time, Brandon closed the old journal and set it back down on the coffee table.

  “And so they meet . . . ,” Chelsea said quietly.

  “Yes,” Brandon answered gently. “And they go fishing together. All of which still sounds
like pretty innocent stuff to me.”

  “I know,” Chelsea answered as she again looked down at the old photos lying beside her on the couch. “But there’s something about these pictures that . . .”

  Turning, she looked into Brandon eyes. “Thank you again for doing this with me,” she said. “It means more than you know.”

  “You’re welcome,” Brandon answered. “Besides, after reading those first two entries I must admit that I’ve become hooked on Brooke’s story too, and why she wanted you to know it so badly. And like I said, I’ll be here for you, no matter where her journal might take us.”

  Smiling, he put two fingers beneath Chelsea’s chin and gently lifted her face to his. As he searched her eyes, she felt a sudden wave of emotion roll through her.

  “But right now,” he said, “I want something else.”

  Chelsea’s mind raced. A kiss? she wondered.

  “What is it?” she asked, her voice breaking again.

  Brandon grinned. “Dinner,” he answered. “You promised me, remember?”

  Although she was disappointed, Chelsea couldn’t help but laugh.

  “Yes,” she said. “I remember. But it can’t be Brooke’s MacArthuroni and Cheese, because I don’t know how to make it yet. Will bacon and eggs do? And after we eat, do you suppose that we could read another of Brooke’s journal entries?”

  “That’d be perfect,” Brandon answered.

  As Chelsea arose and walked into the kitchen, Brandon placed another log on the fire.

  Chapter 12

  After finishing their dinner, Chelsea and Brandon settled down on the fireplace sofa. Not only was Chelsea eager to discover what the next entry said, she was now also looking forward to doing so with Brandon.

  She handed the journal to him and smiled. “Would you like to do the honors?” she asked.

  “Sure,” he answered. After taking the journal from her, he thumbed to the third entry and began reading loud:

  Tuesday, June 16, 9:00 P.M.

  Today was a most pleasant one. I took Greg into Serendipity for lunch and to meet Emily Rousseau, a dear friend of mine. Her father owns and runs a little French restaurant there. Not only did we have a good time, it gave me another opportunity to get to know Greg better. It seems that the more I’m around him, the more I’m coming to like him. There’s a sort of calmness and certainty about him that I must say I find appealing . . .

  AS BROOKE AND Greg stood before the little restaurant, Greg smiled. The place had a tricolor awning that hung out over the street. Dark green wooden columns graced either side of the door, and behind its prettily etched windows were low brass rails, from which hung white lace curtains. Curiously, each of the windows sported an image of a light-blue, hand-painted rooster that tickled Greg’s artistic side and made him chuckle. Brooke opened the door and ushered him inside. As he entered, Greg very much liked what he saw.

  Somewhat longer than it was wide, the Blue Rooster boasted a shiny, black and white checkerboard floor. The 1920s-style white, tin-lined walls were adorned with ersatz pilasters, each one topped with an ornate fluted crown. Booths of dark leather lined either side wall, the tops of their adjoining seat backs adorned with shiny brass rails. Wrought iron tables for four with white lace tablecloths took up the remaining floor space, and frosted globes that hung from the high ceiling supplemented the sunlight coming through the front windows. Its source a mystery, soft accordion music wafted through the room, and each table and booth held a vase filled with delicate violet flowers.

  Most of the customers were women, Greg noticed as Brooke guided him toward one of the booths. As they went, more than one intrigued female turned and watched him.

  Their rapt attention was not lost on Greg. Once he and Brooke were seated, he stared at Brooke and said, “God, I feel like a rooster in a henhouse!”

  Brooke laughed as she removed her hat and gloves. “Well,” she answered, “in truth, I must admit that not many men come here. And with so many fellows off fighting the war, good-looking ones like you are in short supply. Anyway, the Blue Rooster has always been sort of a women’s place, if you know what I mean.” Then she smiled and gave him a wink. “Maybe I should have brought along an umbrella or something, to shoo away all of your lusty admirers!”

  Greg laughed and lit a cigarette. “If it gets that bad,” he said, “just shoot me instead!” Then he looked around a bit more. “So where’s this girlfriend of yours?” he asked.

  Brooke also scanned the restaurant and finally spied the person for whom she was searching. When she pointed her out to Greg, he realized that she was one of the waitresses.

  “So that’s Emily Rousseau?” he asked.

  Brooke nodded. “She works here for her father, Henri, who owns and runs the place. Emily is married, but so far, she and her husband have no children. My mother and I first visited this place a couple of years ago, and we both fell in love with it. That was when I met Emily, and we’ve been close friends ever since.”

  While he watched Emily work, Greg took another drag on his cigarette. Like Brooke, Emily was tall and she had a nice figure. Her dirty-blond hair was rather long. For work purposes, Greg surmised, just now she wore it up. Her eyes were blue, and she smiled a lot as she worked the tables. She was so at ease with everyone that it appeared she was on at least speaking terms with most of them. As she went about her duties, her energy level seemed limitless.

  Greg returned his attention to Brooke. “She seems to know everybody,” he said.

  Brooke nodded. “Serendipity is a very small town.”

  Greg smiled. “True enough,” he said.

  Just then, Emily noticed them, and she hurried straight over. After eagerly taking a seat beside Brooke, she gave her a big hug.

  “Hello, ma chère!” she said, her voice carrying a telltale French accent. “It’s been a while!”

  “I know,” Brooke answered. “It’s good to see you, too.”

  Then Emily gave Greg a discerning look. “And who do we have here?” she asked in French. “My, but aren’t you the handsome one! I thought that Errol Flynn lived in Hollywood, but here he is, at Le Coq Bleu!”

  Greg smiled. She’s so full of life, he thought. And she apparently assumes that I didn’t understand her . . .

  “Thanks for the compliment,” Greg answered in French.

  Emily’s cheeks blushed slightly. “Whoops,” she said. “It seems that I just got caught.”

  Brooke laughed. “No fair speaking French, you two!” she admonished them. “But if I had to guess, I think that I got the gist of what you were saying!”

  Greg crushed out his cigarette in the table ashtray and stretched out his hand. “Greg Butler,” he said to Emily. “I’m Brooke’s new neighbor out at the lake.”

  Emily happily shook his hand. “Ah, oui,” she said. “Every time I’ve visited Brooke’s cottage, I’ve noticed how well your place was progressing. So it is at last done, and you have moved in?”

  “Yes,” Greg answered, “and I love it there. I’m a painter and a photographer.”

  Emily looked at Brooke. “It must be nice to finally have a neighbor after all this time, non?” she asked. “And an artistic one, too?”

  Brooke looked at Greg, thinking. “It is,” she finally answered. “And he actually fishes as well as I do.”

  Emily laughed. “Then the two of you were made for each other!” she said.

  When Brooke’s expression suddenly sobered, Emily realized her faux pas and she quickly placed one hand over her friend’s. “I’m so sorry, ma chère,” she said earnestly. “I know how much you miss Bill, and I didn’t mean to imply that—”

  “It’s okay,” Brooke answered. “It’s just that I’ve become so lonely in his absence. Until Greg moved in next door, I was actually considering going home early.”

  “But Bill’s officer’s training will be finished soon, non?” Emily asked. “And maybe then he will get some leave and come visit you before he ships out.”

  Sig
hing, Brooke comfortingly rubbed one arm. “I can’t say,” she answered. “I don’t know much about how the army works. All I know is that I miss Bill terribly, and I’m already sick and tired of this damned war.”

  Emily nodded. “As are we all,” she said. “But America just got in, and we still have a long road ahead of us, I fear . . .”

  Silence reigned among the three of them for a time as they each searched for something more pleasant to discuss. But whenever the war was mentioned, time seemed to literally stand still in a dark and macabre way. At last, Emily broke the silence.

  “So, what would you like to eat?” she asked.

  Brooke finally smiled a little at Greg. “Have you ever tried a croque-monsieur sandwich?” she asked. “Emily’s father, Henri, makes them with Gruyère.”

  Greg nodded. “I love them, but I haven’t had one in a long time.”

  “Okay, then,” Brooke said to Emily. “We’ll have two of those, and I’ll have an iced tea.”

  “Ditto on the tea,” Greg replied.

  “Oh, and before I forget, Papa has a new side dish,” Emily said.

  “What is it?” Brooke asked.

  “Seasoned, deep-fried pickle slices.”

  Brooke smiled wryly. “How interesting,” she said. “Now, how come I never thought of that?”

  “I don’t know,” Emily said, laughing. “But I’m sure that Papa would let you give them one of your made-up names, if you want.”

  “I might just take him up on that,” Brooke answered.

  “Okay, then,” Emily said. “I’ll be right back with everything.”

  As Emily hurried away, Greg watched her go. “Adorable . . . ,” he said.

  Brooke nodded. “And one of my very best friends,” she said. “Her father built this place with his own two hands. Have you ever been to Paris?”

  While lighting another cigarette, Greg shook his head.

  “Well, if you had, you’d know how close to an authentic Parisian restaurant this place really is,” Brooke answered.

  “Of that I have no doubt,” Greg answered. “And hopefully, that famous city will soon be crawling with American soldiers, rather than Nazis.”