He pulled the door closed with her on the other side for one last test, and listened as she unlatched the top half of the door, pulling it open on her side. She rested her elbow on the ledge, leaning her head into her fist as she studied him.
“I don’t know about you, Mr. Hampstead.”
“Luke,” he said, the word coming out too quick. “You can call me Luke.”
“Alright, Mr. Luke. I don’t know about you.”
“What don’t you know?”
“Well, you’re a mystery, is all. You come over and spend the whole evening listening to me blabber away, and by the time we part ways, I feel like I know you. But that doesn’t add up. How you could speak three to ten words, and I could speak a hundred—”
He stifled a laugh.
“Okay, ten thousand.”
He nodded, raising his eyebrows with a suppressed smile. That was a better estimate.
“And then I wake up the next morning and can’t wait to see you again? It doesn’t make sense at all. I mean—” She stopped. Her hand flew to cover her mouth, eyes round as saucers. “I didn’t mean that. I mean, I did, but I didn’t mean anything by it or—well, I just mean—”
This was where he should jump in and say something nice, something smooth and gentlemanly to get her out of her bind. Goodness knew he understood what it felt like to be trapped by one’s own words. Think, Luke. Think . . .
“I don’t blame you,” he said. There. That would show her he understood. That he felt the same about her and looked forward to their time together. Right? Why was she looking at him like her whole being was laughing and she was barely holding it in?
“Really, now,” she said. “Well, thank you for deigning to grace me with your presence.” She laughed.
And then it hit him. What he’d said, how it had sounded.
“No—no, I meant I enjoy my time with you, too,” he said, rubbing his temple with his fingers and wincing. “I should be going.” He tried to open the door to move past her, disappear down the stairs as fast as he could, maybe find a way to disappear entirely.
But she held that door latch tight.
“Never you mind, Mr. Hampstead.”
“Luke,” he mumbled. He lifted his eyes. He could do better.
“I knew what you meant, Luke. And I’m the one that got all tongue-tied. But what I’m getting at is, who are you? How is it that you can spend all this time here when the great city of New York is waiting for you?”
His shoulders eased. This, he could answer. “Pan-Am is just making preparations right now. Anticipating the end of the war, but no one knows when that might be. So I wait to hear from them. I’ve sent them my address at the inn, and they’ll let me know once they’re ready.”
Hannah tilted her head, waiting. She was a good listener, it turned out.
But he didn’t know how to put this next part into words. It felt too . . . torn. “I know a lot of guys who’d switch places with me in a heartbeat,” he said. “Guys still up there flying, fighting.” He nodded up at the sky. “To get to come home, to have a job waiting when the time is right—and when this war ends, there are going to be more pilots freshly trained and home from the war than this nation has ever seen at once . . . but fewer jobs. I’ll have to jump on that job right away when word comes, or there’ll be a hundred guys waiting on the sidewalk to take my place.”
He paused, breathed deep.
“But . . . ?” Hannah opened the door, letting him in from the balcony. She settled into a sun patch on the wooden planked floor, and he followed suit across from her. The loft was so small, their feet nearly touched.
“I know I have a lot to be thankful for. I’m lucky to be alive,” he said. This, she grew serious at. But that was a tale for another day. “I’m here, alive, healed, and with a job waiting. I’d just—there’s part of me that would give anything to still be in the fight,” he said.
Especially looking at those blue eyes of hers, the earnest sincerity and openness of them. As long as there were people like Hannah Garland in the world, it was worth fighting to protect them.
She drew in a long breath and let out a whistle. “I guess it’s true what they say,” she said, studying him.
“What’s that?”
“Still waters run deep. You’ve got a lot going on inside of you.”
He dropped his gaze. How had she done that? Pulled so much up out of him?
“Well, you’d better keep that coming. Don’t let me talk so much.” She pointed an accusing finger at him. “Say more. I like it. And by the way, I’m glad you’re here. I’m sorry for what you went through, and what you had to leave behind. And I mean that. But at the same time—maybe you were born for such a time as this.”
He leaned forward, hoping for more.
She obliged. “Seems to me whenever a body finds themselves in a place they never thought life would take them, there’s purpose there. They were born for that moment, even though it might be hard. And you, Mr. Luke . . . you are full of purpose, sure as the day is long.”
She rose to go, looking at the sky. “It’s late—Gran’ll be comin’ after me soon if I don’t get home.”
“I’ll walk you,” he said, standing.
“Mighty chivalrous of you, but don’t you worry. I know the path home like the back of my hand. And I’ve got your words to keep me company. Besides, you’d best head on home, too. Jerry’ll chew my head off if I hog you. He likes having help around.”
Luke stuffed his hands in his pockets. “I have one or two things to wrap up here, and then I’ll head back,” he said.
She narrowed her eyes. “One or two things,” she said. “That sounds mysterious.”
“You’ll see.”
And she would. He made sure of that. In the alcove beneath the narrow stair, he worked late into the night removing a piece of the wall to make a small storage closet and inserting a smallish door carved to perfection. Just-so door, he wrote on a note, and left it wedged there for her to find.
He thought of her words as he swung the door closed with a quiet click. “For such a time as this,” he said. “May it be so.”
six
JUNE 1945
Four weeks. Twenty-eight days. Six hundred seventy-two hours spent here in Oak Springs, and at least three boxes of nails expended on siding, trim, windowsills, shingles, and shelves on a tiny cottage in the shadows of a sprawling oak.
At night, Luke dreamt of the frigid dark on the outskirts of the Ardennes, fingers so stiff he could barely form a single word.
During the days, he soaked in the warmth of the Texas sun, and the warmth that was the girl who’d gotten him through that frigid night in what felt like another lifetime. Never had he imagined he’d still be here—and still had not given her that letter, nor the package he came here to deliver.
He didn’t know why. At first it felt presumptuous. Embarrassing, even, to relate that tale to a near stranger. But each day, he realized more and more that she was no stranger at all. Strange, perhaps, in a most wonderful way, and he laughed thinking of her near misses walking into posts and beams when her eyes were glued to sketches. But she was no stranger.
And then the prospect of giving her the parcel became fear. It was so very rustic compared to what she deserved. She’d lit up like a Christmas tree at the sight of the just-so door when she’d discovered it. He’d do anything to see that same thrill upon her face. Or rather—saturating her being. For nothing with Hannah Garland was confined to the surface. Whatever she felt, she felt it straight through. Whatever she did, she did with everything in her.
He was beginning to feel less a stranger here, too. Hannah’s Gran made sure of that, demanding he sit down for a full breakfast each day, and sneaking him a plate of hot sausage links when the toast served him by Hannah crunched like steel. But he finished every bite of that toast, too, his smile sincere. How had he ended up here? At a warm kitchen in a family home, when he had never known such before. The sky had bee
n his home, and he’d been fine with that.
But now . . . when he thought of New York, of taking to the skies once more, a strange ache cracked open inside of him. All through the war, he’d had no home to be homesick for. And now . . . he was pining for a home that was never his, and he wasn’t even gone from it yet.
“Pull yourself together,” Luke muttered to himself.
“What’re you mutterin’ about now?” Jerry piped up between bites of his sandwich. They were sneaking a quick bite in between repairing part of the inn’s paneling. Luke was dead tired after working all afternoon at the cottage with Hannah, but he was earning his keep here at the inn by helping Jerry into the evening.
“Nothing,” Luke said. “Just thinking.”
“Thinkin’,” Jerry said, sounding like the idea was as absurd as swallowing a frog.
“Yeah.”
“That’ll get you into trouble. How much should I wager that you’re thinkin’ on that pretty, young Hannah Garland?”
Luke had to stifle a laugh at the man’s description. Hannah was pretty, yes. Prettier than he had words for. And true, she was a young woman. But when he thought of Hannah, a thousand other words burst into thought, too. She was bright. Brilliant, really. Ambitious. Undaunted. Spunky and quirky and plucky, and yet just when she risked fooling everyone into thinking she was clumsy and scatterbrained, she stopped the world with some stroke of genius.
More than all that, though . . . she was kind. The sort of kindness that made a man not know what to do with himself, when she looked at him with those clearer-than-the-sky blue eyes and saw right down to his soul, stopped what she was doing, and listened. Understood.
“Well?” Jerry’s voice grated into his thoughts.
“I might’ve been thinking about her,” Luke admitted, quick to pick up a two-by-four and measure it. Hopefully Jerry would let it be.
“Well, what’re you gonna do about it, son?”
Luke propped the wood against the wall. “What can I do? I’m leaving in a few weeks. Maybe a few months.”
“See? Look at you. You’re already solving it. Stretch those weeks on into months, those months on into years, and before you know it, you’ll be as much a part of this place as old Jerry here, and then there’s no leavin’, no matter what.”
“I don’t think I can stay,” Luke said, thinking about the scarcity of that pilot job. A man needed to earn a living, especially if he had hopes of providing a home for someone someday. The very idea of having a someone was miraculous. His heart’s door had been firmly shut after everything with Caroline, and yet the thought kept knocking on it. And the irony of him needing to leave town to make that possible urged him to pound a bucket of nails more into that place inside, nail it firmly shut forever. Luke narrowed his eyes. “But even if I did, that doesn’t mean she’d want me to. I just showed up out of the blue one day and inserted myself into her life. A girl like that . . . she doesn’t need me getting in her way.”
“True, you are in the way more often than not,” Jerry said, chewing on his straw.
“Thanks.”
“Just sayin’. But who’s to say she doesn’t want you in the way? Many a fella’s tried to court Hannah Garland. Just none of ’em can keep up with her, is all. She’s got twelve schemes and ideas in her head if she’s got one, and never has there been any room there for a fella, too.”
“You sure know how to give a guy hope, Jerry.”
“Pipe down, I wasn’t finished. I was gonna say . . .” He leaned in, a conspiratorial twinkle igniting in his eyes above his stubble. “Until now.”
“Until now?”
“Shoot, do I have to spell it out for you, son? The girl thinks somethin’ of you, so quit your thinkin’ and go talk to her, for Pete’s sake. And I mean that. Pete Bresden’s gonna be in a world of hurt at his Feed and Dime if his countergirl can’t concentrate.”
Luke resumed his work, the thought enveloping him again. Maybe the man had a point. Maybe he needed to get his head out of the clouds and go talk—really talk—to Hannah. They’d conversed for hours every day, except for the times when their work in tandem slipped into easy comfortable silence. But never had either of them mentioned this growing . . . presence between them. Whatever it was.
He became aware of someone deeply impatient watching him. Looking up, he saw Jerry drop his jaw in frustration, gesturing with his hand.
“What. Now?” Luke said, straightening.
“Now! What’re you waitin’ for, lightning to strike?”
And with that, he was out the door, the deadbolt locked behind him by an emphatic Jerry. He looked at his watch—7:00 p.m. A bit late for visiting when farmers around here retired plenty early, but he knew Hannah kept odd hours. Stuffing his hands in his pockets, he took the path beneath the tree, past the cottage, and through the cotton field. He was three-quarters of the way there before he realized he should’ve brought something. A man shouldn’t come empty-handed to see a lady, that much he knew. And though all he had to offer her every day were empty hands—and she filled them, gladly, with hammers and nails—he felt the pull tonight to bring her something.
A quick detour to a patch of purple wildflowers found him stumbling into a mucky bog where the field drained. With a dubious glance at the brown mud caking his shoes, he narrowed his eyes at the patch of wildflowers that had gotten him into this mess and determined that nothing would stop him. Not mud, or the deceptively strong stems that did not want to snap at his demand, or the way his palms burned after wrestling them into a haphazard bouquet. Hannah would have fresh flowers, by golly, and now it was personal.
When she answered the door to his knock with the sky dusking quickly, she took a look at the state of him, and a look at the flowers, and appeared speechless.
“These are for you,” Luke said, refusing to let this maddening heat overtake his face. He offered the flowers to her and she took them slowly.
“Thistles,” she said, her voice low.
Great. He had made himself into a swamp creature in order to bring the girl he—admired—thistles? He was sending the wrong message, on all fronts.
She swiped a tear. Oh no. This was not good.
Then she looked at her fingers, freshly wet from that tear, and gaped at him. “You made me cry,” she said, mouth open in astonishment.
“I’m so sorry,” he blurted. “I just wanted to bring you something nice, and—well, I didn’t know they were thistles. You have to believe me.”
“Thistles,” she murmured again, running her palm gently over their tops and . . . smiling?
A great rush of relief flooded him. Perhaps he hadn’t blundered as badly as he’d thought.
“Would you like to walk with me?” he asked, trying to salvage the evening.
For the first time, she turned her wide, tear-flooded eyes to his, and held them. “I would be honored, Luke Hampstead,” she said. “And I’ll just bring these right along, if it’s all the same to you. I should perhaps explain myself.” She lifted her chin with gathered resolve, her smile dimpling.
He offered an arm, and they strolled deep into the cotton field. It was like a sea of white-capped waves in the moonlight, tossing in the breeze, making an island of the two of them.
“I’m sorry the flowers weren’t something more,” he said, breaking the silence.
She stopped and faced him. “The flowers are everything, and don’t you think for a minute otherwise. I assumed Danny must’ve told you.”
He tilted his head, questioning. “No, I don’t think he did. They just—they looked nice, and they made me think of you,” he said. Why wasn’t he better with words? They stumbled out of him and flopped miserably in their attempt to show something of what he wished to offer, from the depths of himself.
“Well, let me fill you in, then, Mr. Hampstead.” She resumed walking in a roundabout way toward the tree, skirting a pond where frogs sang into the night. “When I was sixteen, I was supposed to go to the wa
termelon festival with Burl Taggart. Only he never came. I showed up at the town hall that night with Danny for the dance, and do you know who was there?”
“Don’t say Burl.”
“Burl.”
“The fiend.”
“Yes! Fiend! With Marybeth Hendricks on his arm. They’re married now and have four children and I love all six of those Taggarts dearly, but let me tell you, I did not love them dearly that night. I ran home and climbed up in this old oak.” She gestured to where it stood as they drew closer to it. “Danny rode his old horse Methuselah up—galloped him up that hill like a brotherly knight in shining armor, only he wore a plaid shirt and his cowboy hat. He came knocking at the trunk like it was a door, telling me to come down, that he’d found my corsage, and we’d better get to the dance before I missed my favorite part.”
“Which was . . . ?”
“Watermelon seed spitting after the dance. What else? Anyway, I climbed down, ready to just turn in like the spinster I was meant to be, and Danny was standing there with his hand behind his back. He pulled out a bundle of purple flowers tied up with baling twine from the hay barn, secured it around my wrist, and escorted me to that dance like I was one of the English princesses! Margaret or Elizabeth, I can never keep them straight. Anyway, Danny danced the night away with Sarah Brighton, and I’m glad of that, but I’ll never forget that he picked me up from my wallowing pit and helped me look Burl Taggart and Marybeth Hendricks in the eye with my corsage of thistles. I don’t blame Burl for choosing Marybeth. I’m an odd duck and I know it, and truth was, we’d have been a terrible fit all around. But Danny told me something that night that I’ll never forget. He said, ‘You’re not like anyone else, Hannah, and you’re not supposed to be. God knew just what He was doing when He made you, and one of these days you’re going to take flight, I just know it.’”
The Kissing Tree Page 20
