It only proved that his thesis on growing older was right on the money. Gray hair and wrinkles weren’t the hard part; watching your illusions being stripped away, one by one—now that was tough to take. He reached for his wife’s hand, glad he had Jane with him. Someone who would understand. He’d been away so long that he wondered if there was even a place for him anymore. Truth was he understood Jane and her world a hell of a lot better than he understood the world where he’d grown up.
* * *
At that moment Jane was so petrified with fear that she could scarcely swallow, much less tender a smile to her husband. She was vaguely aware of her hand in his, but she was infinitely more aware of the way her heart was thudding crazily at the base of her throat and in her ears. It was hard to believe a heart could beat so violently—or so loudly.
The cab came to a stop in front of a big house with what seemed to be scores of rosebushes, scarlet and fuchsia and pale pink, each more beautiful than the last. The house was built along the lines of an English Tudor, all cream stucco and dark wood, and the sight of those familiar features helped ease her nerves.
She’d always heard New York was all concrete and noise, yet this neighborhood where Mac had grown up was lined with graceful trees, and the only sound was the chirp of the birds and the laughter of a child somewhere in the distance.
“This is it,” said Mac.
She nodded, staring out at the profusion of roses lining the walkway up to the front door. It was hard to imagine Mac as a little boy, climbing the five brick steps to the door, then rising on tiptoe to reach the knob. “Do you think your parents are home?”
“They’re home, all right. I can hear the radio in the front room.”
She tilted her head and caught the faint sounds of music. “‘Stranger In Paradise,’” she said, giving him a shaky smile. “Rather fitting, don’t you think?”
He leaned over and kissed her on the lips. “Come on, Janie. They’re going to love you.”
Oh, Mac, she thought as he went around the cab to open her door. From your mouth to God’s ear...
The sun was warm on her shoulders as she stepped out onto the sidewalk, warmer than she could remember it feeling in London. The sun here was more a separate presence, a distinct entity, rather than an impression of one. Back home her coworkers had spent endless hours daydreaming about trips to the Costa del Sol, spinning tales about sunburns and sun-bleached hair and other oddities. She’d never understood the appeal until now.
She breathed deeply, taking in the smell of roses and freshly mown grass and the familiar sting of petrol. This was the smell of home now, her new home. There would come a day when she wouldn’t even notice the aching blue of the clear sky overhead, the gentle wisp of clouds feathering that blue, or the lemon-yellow light that gilded everything it touched.
But that day was still in her future. Today everything was new, from the dissonant play of consonants and vowels as the cabdriver thanked Mac for his tip to the high-pitched wail of an ambulance in the distance.
Their valises were lined up on the sidewalk at the foot of the walkway, with their twin typewriters perched on top of the pile.
“Ready?” asked Mac, taking her hand.
She nodded. “I think so.”
They climbed the brick steps. Mac raised his hand to ring the doorbell when the cream-colored door swung open and she found herself swept up in an exuberant embrace.
“You’re as pretty as I knew you’d be,” said Mac’s mother, holding Jane at arm’s length for an instant before hugging her again. “We’re so happy to have you in our family, Jane.”
Jane was suddenly overcome with emotion as she looked into the vivid green eyes of Edna Weaver, eyes so like Mac’s that Jane loved the woman instantly. “I—I couldn’t be happier, Mrs. Weaver.”
The green eyes glistened with tears that matched those in Jane’s own eyes. “Call me Edna, honey.” The woman hesitated a moment. “Or Mom, if you’d care to.”
Years of loneliness, of longing for a mother to lean on, flooded over Jane like the wave that had buffeted the Queen Mary. “Mom,” she said, her voice soft with memories. “I’d like that very much.”
Les Weaver was built much along the same lines as his son. Wide shoulders, broad chest, same all-American grin. “Let me meet our new daughter,” he said, stepping up to Jane with his arms open wide. “We’re mighty glad to welcome you home, honey.”
That endearment was Jane’s undoing. She lowered her head and started to cry. “I—I’m tired,” she said, gratefully accepting the lace-trimmed handkerchief proffered by Edna. “Normally I never cry.”
Poor Mac. He looked as addled as Jane felt. His mother noticed and, laughing, pointed toward the profusion of valises at the bottom of the steps. “You two bring in the luggage,” she said to her husband and son in a voice that brooked no disagreement, “while Jane and I get settled.”
Before Jane had a chance to dry her tears, Edna put a hand on her waist and led her into the parlor in the front of the house.
“What a lovely room!” Jane drank in the huge leaded windows, the soft white walls, the profusion of soft chintz-covered pillows strewn across the divan. A hooked rug in shades of slate blue and rose rested before the wing chair in the far corner, and the same soft colors were picked up in the painted china lamps on the end tables. She pointed toward a needlepoint pillow gracing the rocking chair adjacent to the hearth. “‘May the road rise up to meet you,’” she read from the saying embroidered in shades of mauve. “Did you work the pillow yourself?”
Edna’s laugh was full-bodied and infectious. “Lord, no, honey. I’ve never been much with a needle and thread. My dear friend Dot worked it for me.” She held out her hand and Jane noted the multitude of scratches and cuts on her long and capable fingers. “These hands are made to prune rosebushes. I’m afraid that fancy stuff is beyond me.”
“My mother had rosebushes,” Jane said, amazed as the old memory rose to the surface. “I was only a little girl when she died, but I remember how much she loved to tend the garden behind our house.”
They’d had a house in those days, tiny and sweet and safe. That house hadn’t survived the first year of the war.
“Do you garden?”
“I did,” said Jane. “I hadn’t my mother’s touch but did my best.” She smiled at the memory of sweet-smelling earth wet with rain and the nascent beauty of the new roses. She peered out the front window at the rosebushes framing the sill. “I must say, you put the best of English gardeners to shame.”
“I’m more stubborn than the weeds, that’s all it is.” Edna fluffed up one of the pillows on the divan. “You’re welcome to try your hand in my garden anytime, Jane.”
“I should love to, Mom.”
Edna’s lined face lit with pleasure.
The front door swung open and the two women laughed at the grunts and groans from the men as they lugged the suitcases into the hallway then upstairs to where Jane supposed the sleeping quarters were.
“I should love to see the rest of the house,” Jane said.
Edna put her arm about Jane’s waist. “Come in the kitchen and have some lemonade, then I’ll give you the grand tour.” Edna led her into the narrow hallway, which was papered in a tiny pattern of fleur-de-lis on a bone-colored background. “Although I’m sure it’s not half as grand as the houses in London.”
Jane thought of her uncle’s threadbare flat and chuckled. “I’m afraid much of London is less than grand. There’s still a great deal of rebuilding to do. The war took quite a toll.”
Edna’s cheeks flooded with color, “And I have a great deal of apologizing to do. How spoiled we must seem to you. It’s hard to imagine what it must have been like to live through the horrors you must have seen.”
Jane thought of the son Edna Weaver had lost during the war, and of the loss of her own father and brother. “I think we both understand better than most,” she said softly.
Edna led her into a large and airy ki
tchen, bright with sunlight. Dark thoughts seemed almost sacrilegious. “You know about Douglas?”
Jane nodded, a lump forming in her throat. “Mac told me.”
The older woman took four large glasses down from the cabinet over the sink then met Jane’s eyes.
She instantly understood. “My brother and my father.” The words seemed to float in the air between them.
“You must have been very young.”
“Seventeen when my father was killed.”
“And you’ve gone on to become a reporter in Liverpool.” Edna poured lemonade from a big glass pitcher. “You must be very proud of yourself.”
Jane gratefully accepted the cool drink. “I’m afraid I’ve never thought much about it.” She had no education, no background, no skills other than the ability to tell a coherent story. “It was either that or work in a shop, and since I’m hopeless with numbers...” She shrugged and took a long sip. “This is superb.”
“Thank you, Jane.” Edna poured three more glasses of lemonade as she watched her new daughter walk over to the back door and look out at the postage-stamp yard. Her movements were painfully lovely, a combination of grace and confidence that belied the haunted look in her blue eyes. Edna’s generous heart went out to the tiny young woman. She couldn’t be a minute over twenty-five or -six and it didn’t take much figuring to realize she’d been on her own for at least eight years.
Edna longed to put her arms about Jane and stroke her hair and tell her everything would be okay from that moment on, but she felt she would be overstepping her boundaries. Mothers-in-law had to be so careful. She’d never understood the popularity of mother-in-law jokes. You had only to turn on the radio or tune in the television to know that mothers-in-law were the butt of every comedian’s jokes, from Milton Berle to Jack Benny to George Burns. Why, she’d loved Les’s mother, Sara, from the first moment they’d met, and she knew her relationship with Cathy would have been just as wonderful had fate not intervened.
Edna was a smart and sensitive woman and it didn’t take X-ray vision to see there was a lot of sadness in the lovely young Englishwoman Mac had taken to wife. She prayed there’d come a day when she could put her arms around the girl and help her forget the past. Just make my boy happy, she thought as the men came down the hall to the kitchen. I’ll never ask anything else of you.
Jane turned at the sound of Mac’s footsteps. He looked from his mother to his wife. “Any lemonade for us?” he asked as his father joined him in the doorway.
Edna handed each of the men a glass of lemonade. “Hand-squeezed,” she said proudly. “The way your father likes it.”
Mac crossed the room to stand near Jane. “How’re you doing?” he asked under his breath.
“Your mother is a wonderful woman,” she said honestly. “You’re a very lucky man.”
“Why don’t you show your bride the rest of the house?” Les suggested, sitting down at the kitchen table. “I have the feeling the neighbors will be swooping down on us any minute. You might not have another chance.”
* * *
The house where he grew up felt both strange and familiar to Mac as he led his new wife up the staircase to the second floor. He knew every creaking step, every squeaky floorboard, and yet the changes brought by the years disoriented him. The paper in the hallway was different, for one thing. A small matter, but Mac kind of missed the striped pattern he’d seen every day of his life until he’d left home.
And then there was the larger matter of his brother’s room. It was hard to avoid it. On his fourth birthday, Doug had chosen the bedroom at the top of the staircase so he’d be able to see and hear everything that went on in the house.
The last time Mac had been home, he’d done his damnedest to avoid looking into Doug’s room. It had been late 1945. Doug had been dead two years, but still their mother had been unable to strip the room of the Brooklyn Dodger pennants and schoolbooks and all the other paraphernalia that had been Doug’s and Doug’s alone.
He tried not to look into the room, but Jane, with unerring accuracy, headed directly for it.
“What a beautiful room,” she said, pausing in the doorway. “Whose is it?”
He lingered off to the side. “My brother’s.”
Jane nodded but said nothing. She laced her fingers with his in a gesture of compassion that reached down inside his gut to a spot he’d forgotten existed. Taking a deep breath, he looked inside the room. Pale blue walls. Frilly white curtains at the windows. A single bed with a crocheted throw.
He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
“It’s been a very long time, Mac,” said Jane in her soft voice. “Your mother had to change the room some day.”
He knew. He was glad his parents had been able to let Doug go. For a second he wondered if he could have made things easier on them, come back to the United States, been there when they needed him. But the truth was he’d never been much good at being there for people when they were needy. There was something about seeing so much raw human emotion directed right at you that unnerved Mac, made him feel uncomfortable and inadequate and downright itchy to break rank and head for the hills.
The war had given him an excuse to avoid a lot of heavy-duty situations that he had little courage for, or experience in, dealing with. Yeah, he’d been as gung-ho as the next guy about doing his bit for his country, but when push came to shove he was glad to take that oath and board the next troop ship out.
Clearing his throat, he pointed toward the far wall. “He used to pin his Brooklyn Dodger clippings up over there.”
Jane’s lips curved in a smile. “They’re a baseball team, aren’t they?”
He stole a kiss, glad he had her by his side. “They’re a baseball team, all right. I’ll have to take you over to Ebbets Field and introduce you to the great American pastime.”
She wrinkled her nose. “I’m not much of a sportswoman.”
“Don’t worry,” he said with a laugh. “The Dodgers aren’t much of a team.”
She lingered in the doorway to Doug’s room for a few moments, almost as if she was trying to conjure up the boy who used to live there.
“Come on,” he said, taking her hand. “Let me show you where I was born.”
His parents’ room was the same as he remembered it, all heavy mahogany furniture and cabbage roses on the wall.
“This house has a heartbeat,” Jane said, cocking her head to one side.
He listened. “I don’t hear anything.”
She leaned into him, resting her head against his chest. “That’s because it’s part of you.”
“You’re a part of me now,” he said, stroking her hair with the flat of his hand. “I’m going to make sure you have everything you’ve ever wanted.”
“Just you, Mac,” she said as he bent to kiss her again. “You’re all I could possibly want.”
Their lives were going to be special, he vowed as her mouth opened for him like a delicate flower.
He wasn’t much good at dealing with sorrow. His wife had seen too much of it for one lifetime. The only obvious solution was to make sure sorrow never found either one of them again. Their meeting had been touched by magic. Their marriage would be, as well.
Chapter Eight
By late that evening Jane had met just about everybody on Hansen Street. The Bellamys and three of their grandchildren had popped up on the doorstep to meet the new bride. The Delaneys, the Bowers, and the Hawthornes all showed up bearing gaily wrapped packages with bright pink and white ribbons.
And, of course, the Wilsons. Dot and Tom had waited a respectable thirty minutes after the taxi bearing Jane and Mac had disappeared back toward Continental Avenue before they made their appearance. Dot was beside herself with excitement. The Weavers had had more than their share of hard luck. Lord only knew, they deserved to see their Mac happy and married to such a breathtakingly lovely girl as Jane.
Mac had pumped Johnny Danza’s hand, glad to see the guy from Brooklyn had made
such a smashing success of his life—both with Cathy and their son, and with the company. Cathy went out of her way to make Jane feel comfortable, and he was pleased to see that the two of them hit it off. He’d known Cathy all his life; hell, she would’ve been his sister-in-law if Douglas had lived. It was nice to know she was still a part of his life, and now a part of Jane’s life, as well.
The women were bursting with questions about Queen Elizabeth’s coronation, which Jane answered cheerfully and with great patience. He could only imagine how many questions little Nancy Wilson—correct that, Nancy Sturdevant—would have asked if she’d been there. His mother said Nancy was living way out in the potato fields of Long Island and couldn’t make it, but promised to drop in on the weekend and say hello. He couldn’t believe freckle-faced Nancy was married with three kids of her own, and was the same age as the queen they were all so damned interested in.
Mac wasn’t much interested in rehashing the details of the Queen’s gown so he contented himself catching up on the sports news with the other men from the neighborhood. Mostly what he wanted was to be alone with his wife. This was the first time he’d had to share her with anybody since they’d met, and he found he didn’t much care for the feeling.
He had to admit, though, she seemed happy and at ease, almost as if she’d been part of the group on Hansen Street all of her life. He wished it were that easy for him. He felt as if he had stepped out of his body and was watching the whole thing from a point somewhere on the ceiling.
The house was filled with memories. Image after image from his past danced before his eyes. Doug peering down the staircase looking for Santa Claus. His parents thirty years ago, before time and sadness had left their marks. Mac himself at fifteen, looking out his bedroom window and planning his getaway.
Seeing his folks was wonderful. The connection between them was unbreakable. Trouble was, Mac couldn’t pretend to be anything but what he was in the house on Hansen Street, and what he was, wasn’t everything he’d thought he would be.
Stranger in Paradise (Home Front - Book #2) Page 12
