It Had to be You

by Susan Andersen

  “A week or two before the war ended, I broke down and wrote home to find out what Lena was doing and maybe discover why the hell she hadn’t written. Mom’s letter back to me was short and sweet. She said, I am so sorry dear, but Miss Bjornstad left town with your friend Will.” I stare him down. “You might as well have gutted me.”

  Will doesn’t display an iota of guilt. He merely raises an eyebrow at me. “Why would you care? You were gonna go to France to live in Paris anyhow. Or so Lena overheard your mama telling the postmaster.”

  “I was already in France. In September of Eighteen, the 1st Army was the attack on the Western Front at Saint-Mihiel.”

  I scrub my eyes with the heels of my palms, then drop my hands to grip my knees. I would give a bundle to be all cool and composed. But it’s late, I’m fried and I just don’t have it in me. I instead blow out a breath and simply tell Will the truth. “I felt betrayed on all fronts to hear you and Lena were together while I was fighting that fucking awful war. So, yes, rather than come home I went to Paris. I had to earn my own living for the first time in my life, and I liked it there. It’s where I fell in love with clubs and cabarets. They were such an antidote to the war.”

  I look Will in the eye. “War wasn’t anything like the glorious adventure you and I envisioned. It was constant mud and fear. It was infected feet from standing in water up to your calves in the trenches and seeing fellow soldiers get blown up in front of you out in the fields. It was airplanes strafing the ground all around you and fighting off tanks with a goddamn machine gun.” I suck in a breath and shake off the old nightmare. I give my one time friend a small half smile. It’s the best I can manage at the moment.

  “So, yeah,” I admit. “I liked the night life in Paris. It saved my sanity and gave me purpose. And since I was making a living, saving and learning a lot, I stayed until the beginning of last year when I was ready to implement my plans to open my own place. But I tell you what, Will. While I’d flirted with the idea of living in Paris, I didn’t make up my mind until I got that note from my mom about you and Lena.”

  “Wanna know the big flaw if you’re using that as your reasoning?” Will asks easily. “Lena and I weren’t together.” Clearly seeing me open my mouth, he waves a hand. “Yes, we left together,” he says. “After mama died, I came into a bit of money and shared it with Lena so we could both get a fresh start away from that damn small-minded town. But she and I...? Booker, we have never been anything but good friends.”

  My heart is suddenly trying to drum its way out of my chest. But I suck in a deep breath and slowly, slowly, exhale it.

  Then give Will a slight nod. Because... “I might have caught a hint of that earlier tonight.”

  “It better be after you decked me, asshole.”

  “Yeah. It was sort of beginning to sink in you had had nearly a decade to get married and have yourself a passel of babies.” I ignore the way the thought of the latter in particular hollows me out. “Then I went backstage to talk to you and maybe apologize for punching you. Instead, I heard you two talking. And it didn’t sound lover-like. You didn’t call each other pet names.” A thought that hadn’t occurred to me earlier sends the right side of my mouth kicking up in a half smile. “And Lena never once offered to kiss your nose all better.”

  Will gapes at me. “Why the hell would she wanna do that?”

  “Because once, in the park back home, we watched a woman clean her little fella’s hands in the drinking fountain after he skinned them up on the sidewalk. When she was done, she patted them dry with her handkerchief and said, ‘Let mama kiss it and make it better.’ Then she carefully kissed each one. Lena was completely taken with the gesture.”

  “I can picture that. God knows she had no one, growing up, to give her any kind of tenderness, let alone taking the time to kiss her ouchies, as my mama called them when I was little.” Will smiles fondly.

  I clear my throat. “Yeah. A while after that incident I cracked my crazy bone against the door jamb of the Feed and Seed and Lena kissed it better.” I remember being touched and totally aroused, thinking of other places I could ask her to kiss.

  I’m smart enough not to say as much aloud, but, hey. I was an eighteen-year-old boy at the time. Or maybe simply saying I’m male is all that’s needed to justify my youthful thoughts. I take a sip of the Canadian Club.

  And spray it all over myself when Will murmurs, “If I’d had a pretty girl say that back then, I would have been seriously tempted to point out some other body parts needing a good kiss better.”

  I pull a clean handkerchief from my slacks pocket. Dab at my chest and thighs. And scowl at Will. “Jesus, man, give a fella a little warning, would ya?”

  Will shrugged. “You can’t tell me the thought never crossed your mind.”

  “Of course it did. I figured you’d lay me out cold, though, if I mentioned it in conjunction with Lena.”

  Will winced. “Yeah. I’d rather not rub those two thoughts together. She’s the closest thing I have to a sister.” He throws back the rest of his drink and sets the glass on the end table. “Speaking of which, what is the deal with all these missing letters?”

  I’m exhausted and not tracking anywhere near an efficient level. Consequently, I don’t exactly sound brilliant when, in answer to Will’s question, I meet his eyes, one of which is—shit—turning black and swelling shut, and say, “Huh?”

  “I know Lena never received a single letter from you, Booker. And I know how badly it busted her up inside. But I’m going to tell you the same thing I told her. I have never known either of you to lie to me or each other. You have both always been straight shooters. Yet here we are, with the two of you insisting you wrote the other. Damn, man. Doesn’t it strike you as strange that so many goddamn letters went missing? You were always aces with numbers, Jameson. And you and Lena were tighter ‘n ticks at the time you left town.”

  Will tunnels his fingers through his hair, holding it off his forehead as he studies me through the eye that’s not swollen. “Given that, what are the fucking odds not so much as one letter got through from the two of you the entire time you were gone?”

  8

  susan andersen

  Don’t know whether to scratch your watch or wind your ass

  BOOKER

  I feel my jaw drop as I stare at Will. I always thought that was just an expression, but I actually have to firm mine up. “Shit.” My brain feels as if it’s been flooded with light. “I should have thought of that, myself. But who the…?” Well, who else, genius?

  “Dad,” I say grimly.

  “Considering the bum’s rush he gave you out of Walla Walla after you and Lena got caught necking in your old Model T, it’s a reasonable theory,” Will points out. “I don’t imagine he’s thrilled with your speakeasy, either.”

  “To say the least.”

  Will’s shoulder hitches infinitesimally. “On the other hand, I raised the subject with Lena while she was mopping me up earlier, and her gut reaction was the iron-fisted Matron who ruled the Foundling home.”

  “Or the two of them acted together.” I get up to grab the fifth of whiskey out of the dining room and bring it back to the sitting area. After splashing a couple more fingers into our glasses, I leave the bottle on the table between us. “I wouldn’t put it past the old bastard. He probably “donated” money to the foundling home, only to immediately turn around and say, ‘By the way, could you do me one little favor?’”

  Every muscle in my body has tensed and I am so goddamn angry I could spit enough nails to build a new addition to the speakeasy. It takes every ounce of willpower I possess not to snatch up my car keys, jump in my car and drive the nine plus hours to Walla Walla for a showdown. God knows it’s long overdue.

  “What do ya plan to do about it?”

  Good question.

  Wait. Fuck. Will’s talking about Lena, not my issues with my old man. Plowing my fingers through my hair, I blow out an exasperated breath. “Not much I can do
now, except make a pact with Lena to at least treat each other civilly. We’ve paid lip service to the idea since she got here, but maybe this time we can actually put some muscle behind our efforts.”

  He looks at me like I’m an idiot. “That’s it?”

  “What did you expect? A helluva lot of time and water has washed under that bridge.”

  Except...

  The words no sooner leave my mouth than I realize Will was wrong about me not being a liar. If I didn’t this minute look an old friend in the eye and do just that, at the very least I’m a champion at deceiving myself.

  Let’s call a spade a spade here. Will demanding the odds of not one piece of the correspondence Lena and I claim writing ever reaching the other shined a light on a realization I should have ...well, realized on my own.

  And, the answer zero is a game changer.

  So, I am full of shit, claiming my relationship with Lena is water under the bridge. So full of it, it isn’t even funny. Truth be told, I considered her mine within hours of first clapping eyes on her when we were teens. Add to that my body’s reaction every time she’s anywhere in my vicinity, both then and now?

  Well, an idiot can see I still believe she is. And that’s in addition to me throwing punches with next to no provocation. I have rarely been a hothead, and I quit acting on impulse around the time I discovered war is not glorious at all, but rather muddy, bloody and most soldiers’ personal dance with the devil.

  I square my shoulders. “All right, so maybe saying Lena and I are through is bullshit. I have no idea where we’ll end up, but I do know this much to be true.” I look Will in the eye. “I’m going to do my damnedest to get her back.”

  A crooked half smile reshapes his mouth. “Now, that sounds more like the Booker I knew.” He immediately pins me with a hard look. “But understand this, buddy. If you hurt her, I will beat you into the ground.”

  “If you really think I would do that you clearly don’t know whether to scratch your watch or wind your ass. Still—” I give him a terse nod. “Message received loud and clear.”

  “So, what’s the plan for getting her back?”

  Yeah, that is the question, isn’t it? “Well, like I said, I’m going to start out trying a little faith-based interaction with the woman.”

  “And…?”

  Shit. I’m not happy with the idea of telling him I have no concrete ideas at this point. I’m not about to lie to him, however. So, I settle on a shrug. “Guess I’ll figure it out from there.”

  9

  susan andersen

  Valentino? Or Fairbanks?

  LENA

  Three evenings later

  “Oh, for God’s sake, Dot,” Clara says as the dancers and I barrel through the Twilight Room’s entry. “I am not quarreling with you over this anymore.” Her long-legged strides lead the way through the empty lounge. “I merely said the man is hotsy-totsy!”

  To no one’s surprise, Dot ignores the no arguing decree. The Brasher sisters could argue to a standstill the sun coming up in the east—while changing sides mid-argument. “Rudolph Valentino is hotsy-totsy,” she says. “Douglas Fairbanks is...well, I have to agree the man is mighty swell. But he is no Rudolph Valentino.” She turns to me. “What do you think, Lena? Fairbanks or Valentino?”

  “I’m more of a Rod La Rocque girl, myself. Did you see The Stolen Kiss?” My heart gives a little flutter, even though it must have been four, five years ago since the movie hit the silver screen. “I saw that one seven times. It was so romantic!”

  “Oooh,” Clara squeals. “I loved that movie, too! He was romantic.”

  I pat my hand over my heart. “I can hardly wait for his next, the one coming out in December.”

  “Lena!” a male voice commands. “Come in here for a moment.”

  All three of us stutter to a stop and I turn back to the office we just breezed past.

  The one I so very carefully hadn’t glanced into.

  “What’s this about?” Dot asks in a whisper.

  I give my shoulder a twitch and shake my head. I can guess, but I have no way of knowing for sure. My stomach suddenly doesn’t feel so hot, though, because I have a horrid feeling my suspicion might be true.

  The sisters give me identical sympathetic grimaces and continue toward the hallway to our dressing rooms. Blowing out a quiet breath, I reluctantly walk back to the office and poke my head through the open doorway. “You wanted to see me?”

  Booker barely skims a glance over me before returning his attention to a pile of papers on his desk. “Come in and close the door.”

  A shiver runs down my spine. Ever since Will introduced the possibility of someone other than Booker and me being responsible for us not receiving the other’s letters, I have done my best to avoid the club owner. I bite my lip and move as slowly as I dare. Because, darn it, there is a part of me deep inside I’ve guarded for years. A part that wants nothing more than to believe in Will’s theory. Yet if this notion of his does turn out to be true—

  Well, it means my immediate future is at stake. I have been outrageously mouthy to my employer. Not to mention—swallowing hard, I step into the office and ease the door closed behind me—slapping Booker’s face in front of a lounge full of customers and his other employees. It’s a wonder I’m still working here at all.

  Chances, are, I won’t be much longer. Oh, sure, I managed to dodge Booker for the past few nights, while doing my utmost to give great performances to build a bit of credit on the plus side of my Twilight Room let’s-keep-Lena-employed ledger.

  I didn’t try to fool myself into believing staying one step ahead of him would last forever, however. I knew good and well I was on borrowed time.

  Now he’s caught up with me, my future as the speakeasy’s canary could very well be about to change.

  “Take a seat.”

  Doing as I’m told, I perch rigidly upright on the edge of the chair facing Booker’s desk.

  “Will came to see me.”

  My heart begins pounding even faster than it had when he first hailed me. “He did? When?” Except for a brief telephone call to make sure he was doing all right the day after Booker decked him, I have neither seen nor heard from Will. He’d mentioned that in order to make room for his new projects, he’d be up to his neck completing the jobs he had set aside to go to New York.

  Booker levels a look on me. “You know, the other night—or I suppose early morning, if you want to be literal.” He shrugs, since we both know how speakeasy time goes. When one doesn’t go to work before nine p.m—and often later—the hours after midnight are all considered the same night.

  I raise an eyebrow at him. “The night you punched him in the nose?”

  Had I blinked, I would have missed Booker’s slight wince. But to his credit, he merely nods. “Yes. He came over to ask why I never questioned the fact every damn letter we both swear we wrote went missing.”

  “Oh. He said the same thing to me as well.” I sit straighter. “Did you really write me several days a week?” I’m not even sure at this point what I hope to hear.

  He meets my gaze squarely. “Yes. I did. You, too? You wrote me as often as you said you did?”

  “Ye—” The word sticks in my throat, rendering me unable to get out even a simple syllable without croaking. Okay, so it turns out I was wrong. I did want to hear Booker hadn’t forgotten about me entirely, which was sure as heck what it had felt like. Booker occupies most of my mental Midnight File already. Now, finding out he hadn’t dumped me, that he had truly loved me all those years ago, cleaves a huge swath through everything I’d believed. Confusion swarms my brain like a disturbed hive of bees, and I don’t have the first idea what to do with the knowledge.

  Do I laugh like a loon or lament every single thing I lost?

  I square my shoulders. Now isn’t the time to think about it. Clearing my throat, I nod. “Yes. I wrote.” I merely look at him over the cluttered expanse of his desktop for a moment before clearing my throa
t again. “Will said something else to me that night—something I might eventually have thought of myself if I hadn’t spent all these years gathering what I thought was undeniable proof you’re an ass. He said the Booker he remembered wasn’t a liar.”

  I lick suddenly my dry lips. “I didn’t want to hear it at the time, yet...he had a point. The Booker I knew back then wasn’t.” I hesitate, then add in all honesty, “I’m working on the believing you still aren’t part.” I shoot a glance at his neutral expression. “I imagine you’re doing likewise with me.”

  But what if he’s actually thinking this is the perfect opportunity to get rid of me? To give me the boot without having to admit he’s embarrassed he ever had anything to do with someone like me in the first place? Maybe he simply doesn’t want the girl from the foundling home around reminding him of a youthful indiscretion he wishes he never committed.

  Booker tosses the pen he’s been slowly rolling from one finger to the next on the desktop. “That brings me to what I need to say.” He seems to grow taller in his seat. “You and I have had a conversation already about showing each other civility and professionalism. Yet, we haven’t particularly done so.”

  Oh, God, this is it. The ‘We both know it’s you who hasn’t kept up your half of the bargain, who has been neither civil nor professional, so pack your bags and go’ talk. Drawing in a ragged breath, I brace myself.

  Only to blink at him in momentary confusion when he says, “I think it’s time we both work harder at it. Do you agree?”

  Trying not to sag beneath the relief of a dawning realization he is not firing me, I nod. “I do.” Then I simply look at him.

  Apologize! my self-preservation angel screams from one shoulder. It’s not that hard, Lena. Open your mouth and say ‘I know it’s been me who has been the most discourteous and I’m sorry.’