“That’s the problem. I’m sweating in this jacket. I don’t think the Navy gave any consideration to the fact it might be a tad warm for dancing when they selected wool for their uniforms. Maybe you could file a complaint with the head of the Navy for me.”
“Well, I might just do that, or I could just find me another partner instead.”
She started to turn, but he grabbed her hand and yanked her into the curl of his arm. “Over my dead body. You’re mine. All mine. And I’d like to keep it that way. Understood?” His jaw set stubbornly.
“I’m kidding. You know I don’t want to dance with anyone but you.”
“Good. Then we’re in agreement. How about we sit for a few minutes and drink some more champagne. Give me a chance to cool down. Then I promise I’ll give you another opportunity to show off.”
Fran frowned. “Did it seem as though I was showing off.”
Jack’s eyes softened. “I was just teasing, girl. Don’t be so serious. If anyone has the right to show off, it’s you. I don’t believe I’ve ever danced with anyone better.”
“Really?” She clutched his arm. “You’re not just saying that?”
“No,” he said solemnly as if sensing her need for reassurance.
Fran beamed at his words, she couldn’t help it. She felt wonderful. She couldn’t imagine a more perfect evening.
“A toast.” Jack held up his champagne glass. “To the best damn dancer on the floor.”
She raised her glass to his. “To the best damn partner on the floor.”
Jack clinked his glass with hers. “To us.”
Fran couldn’t have had a better time if her life depended on it. Everything was fabulous, the glitz of the club, the band, the champagne which she drank entirely too much of and Jack. Most definitely Jack. She’d never met a man so fun to be with— bright, charming, witty. God, he made her feel blissfully happy and fully alive. She felt loved for herself. He didn’t seem to mind her shyness, her awkwardness around new people and places. He offered reassurance, support, and unconditional love. What was she willing to offer? She’d given her heart, but could she give him more?
Chapter 20
Fran snuggled closer to the warmth that enveloped her. The incredibly soft bed drew her in, keeping her snug like a butterfly in its chrysalis. Well, maybe a moth would be a more apt description of her. Now Jack in all his glory better befitted the description of a butterfly. Beautiful came to her lips.
She shifted and propped her head upon her elbow giving her a better view of the sexy man lying next to her. In sleep, Jack seemed more relaxed, and the slight lines on his forehead she hadn’t noticed when last they met, had disappeared. Long dark eyelashes lay against the upper rise of his tan cheekbones. What she wouldn’t give for such lashes—for such cheekbones. The first inklings of a beard gave him a rakish appearance. His left arm lay tucked under his head where strands of black hair fell forward on his brow. He wore only his white undershirt and boxers. Her family would be scandalized.
God, she could lie there all day and just stare at him. She needed to get her camera. This was a moment she wanted caught for eternity. She might never be able to share it with anyone, but she would always be able to remember him like this. Peaceful.
Rolling to the edge of the bed, she stepped lightly on the floor trying not to wake Jack.
She would just snap a couple of photos while he slept. Pictures she could hold on to during the long, lonely nights ahead.
Kodak Brownie in hand, she moved to the end of the bed for a shot, then to the side. His nose twitched and he rubbed it, waking in the process. Those long ebony lashes lifted slowly and a seductive smile crossed his face when he spotted her. She slid the camera behind her back.
“What are you up to?” He raised an eyebrow in question.
“Nothing.” She lied poorly, as she backed toward her case.
“Why am I not convinced. Hmm, could it be because my Frannie Girl doesn’t have a dishonest bone in her body?” he said as he threw back the sheet and sprang off the bed. His hand encircled her waist coming to rest on the camera. “Well, well. What do we have here?” He yanked the camera from her fingers, holding it over his head where she couldn’t reach it. “Someone taking improper photos? Don’t you know it’s impolite to photograph a person without their permission?” He chided her. “Shame, Shame. What would your poor mother think if she knew?”
Fran felt her face flush. She imagined she resembled a beet. Embarrassment and guilt at his words flooded her. She covered her eyes with her fingers.
Jack tugged her hands away from her face and drew her toward him, wrapping her in his arms. “Hey, I was just kidding.” He hugged her. “You didn’t do anything wrong. Had I woken first, I’d done the same thing.”
Fran remained quiet, confused to what she felt.
“Hey.” Jack stepped back so he could see her eyes. “Are you feeling bad about last night? You don’t have to be ashamed. It’s not like we did anything. You were out like a light, and I don’t think I was far behind you.”
She gave him a winsome smile. “You were so peaceful and, well, sexy lying there with your hair all tousled. I wanted to remember you there in the bed we shared even if it was innocent.”
Jack’s eyes soften with emotion. He swallowed and drew her back into his arms. “I wish I didn’t have to go. I’d never fly again if I could stay here with you.” He rested his chin atop her head. “Oh, Frannie Girl, I love you with every breath I take. Now that I found you, being away from you is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to endure. Boot camp was a breeze compared to being away from you.”
Fran slid her hands up and down his back trying to soothe them both. Tears burned her eyes and she gave up any attempt to hold them in. Great racking sobs engulfed her. Please God, she cried silently. Please bring him home safe to me.
Jack swung her up into his arms and carried her to the bed, dropping on one knee he laid her on the mattress. He slid down and cradled her in his arms until her tears ebbed.
She clung to him like there was no tomorrow or maybe perhaps because she feared it to be true. A world without Jack was one she couldn’t face and suddenly knew she didn’t want any regrets. She turned her lips to his and tentatively explored them as she slid her arms around his neck and pressed her body against his.
Sensing her mood, Jack leaned back and locked eyes with her. “You sure?”
She reached up and pulled his lips back down to hers, and what happened next came as natural as breathing.
Chapter 21
June 1944
Fran swatted a fly away from her face as she sat in the cool morning breeze and finished her one cup of rationed coffee. The weather was unusually warm for an early-June day and little noise intruded on her senses as she sat on the front porch re-reading Jack’s last letter. The street had not yet come alive with traffic.
Almost three months had passed since her weekend in the city with Jack. He’d shipped out a couple of weeks afterwards leaving an aching hole in her heart. A handful of letters had arrived since his departure, but nothing new since the end of May. She suspected he’d been sent to the Eastern Theater rather than the Pacific. The news on the radio and in the papers talked of a massive invasion by the Allies on the French coast. Scores of ships and planes had been used. The headlines reported a high death toll. Everyone in town worried about their loved ones, Fran included.
A soft whirring sound snapped Fran’s attention away from the letter she’d been re-reading and panic stirred in her breast. She recognized the sound long before her eyes focused on the white and yellow uniform of the Western Union boy cycling down the street. His telegrams delivered both the good news and the bad. These days, they were mostly bad. She held her breath as he rode her way. She let it out again when he went by, only to draw it back in when he neared the Lake’s house. She silen
tly prayed.
Her heart jolted when the bright yellow bicycle veered off the road and up her friend’s driveway.
Oh, God. No. She stood, letting the worn letter she treasured, slip from her fingers to the bare wooden planks at her feet. “Mom, it’s the Lakes, come quick,” she screamed in through the screen door then mindlessly began running. No. Please. No.
She reached the Lake’s house just as Amy’s mother collapsed, sobbing into her daughter’s arms. Tears streamed down her friend’s cheeks.
Unable to speak with fear, she swallowed and managed to croak, “Who?”
“Red.” Amy sobbed over her mother’s shoulder as she clung to her.
“How bad?”
“He’s gone.” Amy managed to gasp between her heart wrenching cries.
Aghast, Fran remained frozen by her own dread and fear. Tears streamed down her face unchecked at the loss of Red. Images of his good-natured teasing flashed through her mind. All the memories of the time they spent together as teens sledding, skating, and bless it all even his left-footed dancing. How could someone so alive be gone in the blink of an eye? Shaking, she slid her arms around both Lakes and held them. Dear God, if Red is gone, what about Jack? Paralyzed by her own fear, she couldn’t seem to function.
Her mom arrived just as Fran thought she’d collapse on the floor. She glanced to Fran, a question in her eye.
“Red,” she mouthed over Amy’s shoulder then shook her head back and forth.
Her mother’s expression fell as sorrow welled in her eyes. “Come.” Her mother ushered them all into the kitchen and set the teakettle to the stove. “I’ll make us some tea.”
Mrs. Lake wiped her eyes with her apron and nodded.
Once the kettle began to boil, her mother filled four cups and liberally sprinkled them with sugar. Then she took the chair adjacent to Amy’s mother. “Oh, Lillian, my dear.” She took Mrs. Lake’s hands in her own and squeezed them. “I’m sorry, so very sorry to hear about Red. He was like a son to me.”
“Thank you,” Mrs. Lake responded stiltedly, tears puddled in her eyes waiting to drop.
“Is there anything I can do for you?”
“No. No. I don’t think so. I just . . .” She broke down and put her hands to her face. “Oh, God. I don’t know if I can bear it. It was hard enough when my husband passed, but my son . . .” Her shoulders began to shake.
Fran’s mom put an arm around Amy’s mother to hug her. “Just don’t you worry about a thing. I’ll take care of anything that needs to be done. We’ll just sit here for now and finish our tea with you, then maybe if you’re up to it, we can discuss who you would like us to contact.”
Mrs. Lake simply shook her head against Mrs. Jones shoulder, but made no move to sit up. After several minutes, she sighed, wiped her fingertips under her eyes, and took a sip of her tea.
Lying on the table sat the now crumpled wire that had been delivered earlier. Fran’s fingers itched to snatch it up but felt it insensitive to do so. No one except her mother knew about her feelings for Jack or her need to know what happened to him. She didn’t feel it appropriate to question the Lakes about the circumstances of Red’s death right now. But oh, God, she was dying to know.
“Do you mind?” Her mom reached for the telegram.
Fran silently blessed her.
“No, it’s fine. I honestly didn’t read anything beyond the first line. I don’t even know what happened.”
Her mother unfolded the wire and scanned it. The lines around her mouth tight, she said, “His plane went down during the recent European invasion.” Her eyes connected with Fran’s. “There were no survivors.”
Any composure Fran had been clinging to disappeared at her mother’s words and sobs tore from her throat. Like Amy, she lay her head down in her arms on the table and sobbed as though there were no tomorrow. For in truth, that is exactly how she felt. The loss was like a giant gaping hole had engulfed her, swallowed her in its dark abyss. Images of Jack’s smile flashed through her mind. She could hear his gentle voice. He had become the love of her life, the focus of her being, and now he was irrevocably gone. She couldn’t bear it. She just couldn’t. How would she go on without him? He lifted her up—made her brighter than she’d ever been.”
She felt as if her world had turned black, and then it did.
Chapter 22
February 2013
With her mind full of images of Grams and Jack, Sara sat lost in thought beside the still shape of her grandmother. She imagined how they must have been and replayed their story a half a dozen times or more in her head. Without a doubt her grandmother still felt an indescribable love for Jack McOmber. She thoroughly expected him to be waiting on the other side of death’s door.
Sara didn’t know much about a love like that. She certainly never experienced one and had doubted its existence—until now. Was there such a love waiting for her? Did she dare to hope?
A long time ago she believed it possible. She even thought she’d found it, once. Now she could admit, she’d known from the beginning her marriage had been a mistake. She never shared all its gory details with her grandmother—the emotional and occasional physical abuse, the anxiety caused from living with a Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, the loss of her self-worth.
Today, she liked who she saw in the mirror. Well, barring the few lines around her eyes, that is. She felt comfortable in her own skin and had made peace with the past, mostly. She was content with her life. She had a few close friends, a thriving business she loved, a house of her own. Did she need more than contentment? Was it worth the risk to try?
A hitch in Gram’s breath brought Sara back to the present. Her heart lurched for a second at the sound then continued to beat normally at the return of her grandmother’s soft snore. Sara glanced at her watch. Maybe she’d slip out for a bit. She rubbed her stiff neck. Lord she was tired. A deep tissue massage would feel great about now, and she wondered if there was a masseuse nearby with a free appointment. Fat chance. Dinner somewhere away from the hospital was the next best option. Lynne should be down shortly. Then maybe she would go find a decent place to eat for once.
On the way out, Sara stopped by the nursing station and literally bumped into Paul Anderson.
“Whoa.” His hand clasped her elbow to check her forward motion.
Searing heat ran up her arm causing her to step back and almost lose her balance. Shit.
“Pardon me,” she blurted out and placed her hand on the nurses’ counter to steady herself.
Paul’s eyes lit with a gleam of emotion. “Where are you off to in such a hurry? The devil chasing you?”
Sara regained her equilibrium and fought for some composure. Why she let this man unnerve her, she didn’t know. Okay, maybe that wasn’t quite honest. Probably had something to do with the fact he was intoxicating to the eye and appeared to be a decent guy to boot. Her experience with both qualities in one male she could count on one hand or maybe a couple of fingers, if that. “I’m feeling the need for a break. Thought I’d go somewhere for dinner and then come back and sit with my grandmother for another hour until visiting hours are up.”
“I’ll see you out. You never know what deranged soul might be hanging around outside.”
“You do remember this is Brockport, not Jacksonville.”
His lips pursed and the lines by the corners of his eyes crinkled in humor. “Caught, red-handed.” He held out both his palms as if awaiting handcuffs. “Needed some excuse to walk the pretty lady to her car in hopes she might invite me to dinner.”
“Are you for real?”
He gave her a sheepish grin, the worry lines around his eyes creased. “Sorry. Not one of my better lines. Truth be told . . .” He rubbed his hand back and forth across the nape of his neck. “I could use a break myself. My uncle’s sleeping and I can’t
face another cafeteria meal.”
“I know the feeling. I actually wouldn’t mind some company myself. I’m used to eating alone but can’t say as I’ve enjoyed it lately—too much time to think.”
“I’ll make you a deal. You drive, I’ll buy.”
“Best offer I’ve had all day. Follow me.” Sara moved toward the door. “Your limo awaits you.”
The Village Restaurant next to the lift bridge over the canal was an old, but faithful place for the locals. The food was typical of a small-town diner definitely a step up from hospital food, but not your five-star gourmet. The menu provided an exhaustive supply of meal combinations, but Sara found the dessert menu more interesting—fatigue and depression, a sure-fire recipe for a sugar overdose.
“You know . . .” She glanced up from her menu. “I ate my first piece of cheesecake here at this restaurant. I was twenty-two.”
“Twenty-two? And you’d never eaten cheesecake before then?”
“Nope.” Sara shook her head. “If I recall, that was the same response my date had at the time. I envisioned it to be a cake made with cheese.” She wrinkled her nose. “Didn’t sound very appetizing.”
“What made you give in and try it?”
“My date ordered it and insisted I would love it if I tasted it. Man, oh man, I didn’t know what I’d been missing. Unfortunately, I missed out on all those guilt-free years when I could have been enjoying it.”
“Guilt free?”
“I used to be skinny as a rail and could eat anything I wanted without worry, but now . . .”
“From what I’ve noticed . . .” Paul interrupted. “It doesn’t seem as though things have changed much. A few pieces of dessert would probably do you some good.”
Cherished Wings (Return to the Home Front Book 1) Page 14
