by Rachel Hauck
Chet struggled to sit upright in the company of his commanding officer. But the cast on his arm and leg rendered him practically immovable.“Colonel, sir, anxious to get back on duty.”
“Not with those things.” The colonel pointed to his casts. “Even a hotshot like you needs two good legs and arms. Guess you heard a band of Eskimos coming off a fishing excursion rescued you.”
“It’s what I hear, sir.”
The duty nurse came around, pushing the mail cart. She was dark and petite, not at all like Kelly, who was tall with long waves of strawberry hair. But something in the nurse’s smile made him crave his girl back home.“Letter for the captain.”
“Thank you.”
The return address was Kelly’s. Chet tucked the envelope by his side, returning his attention to his commanding officer.
“The doc says you’re going to be out for a few months.”
“Not my prognosis.”
“We can use you to train new recruits, but we’ll get you back in the air as soon as possible.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“The medical staff claims you were mumbling about Japanese subs when they doctored your leg.”
Maybe it was the crash, or his imagination, but Chet could’ve sworn a whiff of Kelly’s perfume drifted under his nose. “Yes, sir, I fired on an I-Class sub in the Gulf of Alaska, about a hundred and fifty miles off shore.”
Colonel Sillin jotted in a small notebook. “Looks like they’re closer than we realized. Meanwhile, we’re working on getting replacement squadrons up here. Jack Chennault and his neophyte flyboys, some with less than eight hours of flight time, left Washington yesterday.” The colonel stood. “On the way here, his little lambs got lost and scattered all over God’s white Alaska.”
Chet grinned. The ore in the Alaskan soil rendered instruments useless half the time. “Do we know where they are?”
The colonel slipped his notebook into an inside pocket. “They don’t even know where they are. Can’t even begin to know where to launch search parties. It’s Chennault’s problem.”
“You know what they say: never send a boy to do a man’s job.”
“Now you tell me.” The colonel smiled, stowed his chair away, and turned for the door. “Get some rest. Read that perfumed letter from home.”
“Yes, sir.” Chet shifted against the featherless pillows, small blips of pain moving across his body—arm, leg, head.
He started the letter by savoring Kelly’s handwriting. It’s how he’d first met her. He worked at Lipsitz Department Store and she signed for packages her mama ordered. Chet brought the white envelope to his nose for a long inhale before tearing it open.
The fragrance stirred memories of their last night together. He didn’t regret their passion, though he regretted the pain of compromising Kelly. But he’d told her if she wanted to stop, he would.
The preacher’s daughter was one of the truly good girls. One who spoke of Jesus like a friend. She’d been crazy to take up with the likes of him. But he loved her in a way that made him ache.Enough to love her God if need be.
The letter brought its own healing balm, like a cool bath after a long day working his daddy’s lowcountry fields. He flew for her, for the life he wanted with her.
In the heavy gray light barely passing through the hospital hut’s dirty windows, Chet read his name, written by her beautiful hand.
Dear Chet,
Darling, I’m shaking as I write this to you, hoping this letter finds you well. It’s been weeks since a letter from you arrived.
Chet heard her rebuke and smiled. The letter in his trunk totaled ten pages now, scarred with eraser gum and smudges of lead, but his emotions didn’t spill onto the page as easily as Kelly’s. Already her voice and heart lifted from the page and settled over his soul.
While patrolling the Alaskan coast, he’d written dozens of eloquent letters to the woman he loved, only to have them evaporate the moment he pressed his pencil to the rough paper.
Please write me soon so I can hear your voice and that you still love me. Darling, you’re going to have to love me. We’re having a baby. I’m about four months now. Mama saw my growing waist so she came to my room last night. She was upset and disappointed. I knew she would be. I’m sorry for what we did, but I’m not sorry about our baby. Can I feel both so strongly?
But now we have to figure out a way to tell Daddy. I reckon he’ll be mad, but so what? I’m a grown woman. I suppose we got things turned around, and it’ll be an awful embarrassment to the congregation, but what’s done is done.
But, darling, a baby. You and me. I hope she looks like you.
All is swell here, otherwise. Christie and Hal are still fighting like the cat and dog they are. Rose is missing Ted Bell pretty bad, but he writes. (Can’t you do the same, darling?)
My job at the paper keeps me busy and from going insane worrying over you. Old senior editor Cray Harris actually gave me an assignment the other day. I declare, he might as well have had his leg sawed off without anesthesia, giving a story to a woman. You know I’m a down-home girl who wants to raise a family and keep house, Chet, but that man makes me want to shout, “Suffragette!”
Guess I’d better close this so I can hand it to Mr. McKenney when he comes by for the mail. I love you, darling, very much.
Your girl,
Kelly
That was it. Heath closed his document. If he read one more word, he’d fire his laptop against the wall. Enough editing, rewriting. It’d taken him days to write that scene. How had his first two novels come so easily? Because they stunk, that’s why. He wanted this one to work.
Just send it. Let Nate decide.
Heath launched his e-mail, attached the proposal, scribbled a semicoherent note, and clicked Send before he chickened out.
Beyond the windows, the South Carolina wind and sun beckoned him. He had a few hours before picking up Tracey-Love . . .
Peeling off his shirt, he changed into his old shorts, exchanged his flip-flops for work boots, and grabbed his gear for carving.
Outside, steam rose from the rain-soaked ground, and the heat revived him. Heath revved the chainsaw and settled into carving, the vibration shocking his sleepy, stagnant writer’s blood.
When he stepped back to survey his work, he lifted his goggles, hooked his ear guards around his neck, and wiped away sweat with his sleeve. The look of the angel rising from the wood satisfied him.
A pointy finger tapped his shoulder. He turned.
“Elle.”
“Hey.” She shoved her hair from her face, motioning to the carving. “It’s going to be beautiful.” Stepping around him, she smoothed her hand over the angel’s head, then jerked it away.
“Watch out for splinters.”
“Now you tell me.” Elle picked the small wood sliver from her palm. “How’s the book?”
“Sent a formal proposal to my agent this morning.” Had she come here for small talk? Heath raised his guard, watching her. He didn’t want to be, but he was mad at her. For leaving him hanging the night they were supposed to go to Luther’s, for being beautiful in every way and getting under his skin. Mad at himself for letting her in without caution.
“He asked me to marry him,” she said.
Saved him asking the question. “Is that what you want?” Heath bent forward to blow sawdust from the angel’s rough-hewn toes.
“I don’t know. A lot has changed. He’s at FSU now, the assistant athletic director.”
“Well, there you go. You won’t have to be a PW and live up to all the churchy expectations. I hear FSU has a great art department.”
“I didn’t say yes.” She peeled a jagged piece of wood away from the angel’s body.
“Elle, I swear—” He shook the chainsaw at her, then tossed it to the ground. A wet clump of grass stuck to the chain. “Where’s the girl with the banging bracelets and the growing confidence? The one who lives in the tower, sees angel feathers, and drives a clueless single fathe
r to the ER? The one who put her fears and past behind her, who dared to dream again?”
Emotion swelled in her green eyes. “She’s standing right here.”
He picked up a sheet of heavy sandpaper. “I don’t get women like you.”
“Oh, really? I don’t get men like you.”
“What’s to get? I’m easy, simple, straightforward.” Sand, sand, sand. He worked the angel so hard his muscles ached under his skin.
“Ha! Simple, not. Straightforward, maybe. Why are you so ticked at Jeremiah, a man you don’t even know?”
Sand, sand, sand. “Because I know his kind, Elle. Seen hundreds of them. Their inflated pride make them appear confident, but all they’re looking for is someone to prop them up.”
“You’re wrong about him.”
Heath paused with the sandpaper. “For your sake, I hope so. By the way, did you e-mail your work to Mitzy?”
Elle stuck out her tongue. “I did, about two weeks ago. Happy?”
Sand, sand, sand. “I sense big things, Elle.”
When he glanced up at her, his hand slipped and he rammed his finger into the roughhewn angel, driving a fat splinter right under the nail. Dropping the sand paper, he breathed a sour word.
“Heath, what’d you do?” Elle cupped her hand under his. “Let me see.”
“Easy.” On reflex, he tried to pull free when she tugged at the splinter.
Elle hung on. “Let me get it. Don’t be a big six-foot baby.”
“Two. Six two.”
“I stand corrected.” Elle tried to pinch the splinter free, but the sliver of wooden angel remained embedded. Heath squirmed and winced. Now he remembered why he’d quit carving years ago. It wasn’t his Yale education or law degree, even lack of time. It was splinters. And the needles required to dig them out. “Elle, you’re going to have to get a needle. It’s the only way.”
“Come up to the studio then. I just bought a sewing kit.”
In the bare light of Elle’s teeny, tiny bathroom, she sterilized a needle with alcohol, then glanced into Heath’s eyes. “Ready?” She poised the instrument over his finger.
“I’m ready. Are you?” He’d dig it out himself, but his Florence Nightingale smelled like warm cotton. It reminded him of Tracey-Love’s hospital room, when he came in and Elle was rubbing lotion on his girl’s hands.
Elle drew a deep breath, aimed the needled, then stopped.
Heath shoved his hand toward her. “Believe me, it’ll hurt me more than it’ll hurt you. Just do it.”
It took a few tries and a lot of Elle wincing, but she freed the splinter. “There, now, that wasn’t so bad.”
“For who—you or me?”
“Me.” Still holding his hand, she rooted in the medicine cabinet for Bactine.
At once, it wasn’t about the splinter anymore. He wanted to hold and kiss her. “I need to go.”
She let his hand slide free. “Okay. Heath, I know what you’re saying about Jeremiah. But I have to see this through, settle our relationship in my heart.”
“Yeah, I know.” Gently he pulled her to him, his arms locked around her. When her hands slipped about his waist, he almost exposed the tender, new emotion rooting in his soul.
Heath McCord was in love for the second time in his life.
TWENTY-TWO
PLEASE JOIN US FOR THE GRAND OPENING
OF
JULIANNE’S
MERIDIAN ROAD
JULY 7TH
7:00–9:00 P.M.
The shop flowed with well-wishers, each one with a paper cup of punch in their hands, waiting a turn for a five-minute neck massage, a manicure, or a free hair consultation.
Daddy dragged the mayor, who happened to be a boyhood friend, over to the manicure tables. A photographer from the Gazette snapped his picture while Lacy soaked his hands in sudsy water.
Julianne glowed like Venus on a clear night, as the queen of her universe and quite pleased about it.
Rio, dressed in a pink dress and white shoes, mimicked Julianne’s every move, right down to her airy laugh. She dragged Tracey-Love—who wore an old pale-green dress Rio had outgrown and a pair of green Crocs—in tow.
On the half hour, Julianne drew for prizes—courtesy of Danny Simmons, Elle guessed—and the small shop never emptied. Prizes won so far were a free “spa” day at Julianne’s; gift certificates to Luther’s, Panini’s, Plums, and the Frogmore Café; a night at the Beaufort Inn; and a starter kit from big sister Sara Beth’s cosmetic line, SB Cosmetics.
At eight o’clock, Julianne stood by the refreshment tables and rang her old school bell. “This time around we’re drawing for an iPod Nano.”
Big excitement over this prize. “Draw my name,” Elle called, but Julianne shushed her. “Sisters of the owner are not eligible.”
A small rumble rose from the contingent of Garvey Girls. Fine, but as Elle stood shoulder to shoulder with Sara Beth, Mary Jo, and Candace, she was more curious about the absence of Danny Simmons than who would win the media player.
Closing her eyes, Julianne fished in the basket for the winning ticket. She smiled when she read the name. “Tracey-Love McCord.”
The girl’s eyes grew round and her mouth formed a little O. She gazed back at Elle.
“You won, baby. Go get it.”
TL moved forward at a snail’s pace, staring down at the dark polished tongue and groove floor, holding out her palm.
Julianne lay the square iPod in the center of her hand. “Congratulations, Tracey-Love.”
“T-thank y-you.” She ran to Elle. “I win, I win.”
Elle dropped down. “Won’t Daddy be surprised?” Heath was home rewriting his chapters. His agent still wasn’t thrilled with a World War II love story, but he’d gamely given Heath feedback.
“Elle.” Mama leaned over her shoulder. “The punch bowl is low, but it’s after eight. Do you think we should mix up more?”
“No one’s left yet and we have another hour.” Elle lifted the bowl and headed to the back room as several of Julianne’s high school friends arrived.
Julianne had turned the former mud room in the back into the break/storage room. As Elle kicked open the door, she heard a strained, tight-jaw conversation.
“Are you going to keep it a secret forever?”
“The grand opening is not the time and place, and you know it.”
Elle discovered a cornered Danny and a fiery Julianne. Well, this answered her where’s-Danny question. She motioned to the bowl. “Need more punch.”
Opening the fridge for the ingredients to make Granny’s famous Cherries Jubilee (soft on the Jubilee) recipe, Elle kept tuned to the whispers behind her, hating the way the conversation dimmed the joy in Julianne’s eyes.
Danny had no right. Partner, investor, boyfriend, or whatever. How dare he barge in here and demand something of her during the salon’s grand opening.
“Drop it.” Julianne.
“Fine, but we’re revisiting this.” Danny, of course.
He brushed by Elle as she tore open the packets of gelatin and dumped them into the punch bowl. He closed the door with a quiet click, leaving the sisters to huddle under a weighty silence.
Elle twisted open the ginger ale, thinking, praying as her sister wept quietly. “Are you going to tell me?”
“Always with the questions, Elle.” Julianne ripped two tissues from the box on the table.
“Always with the secrets, Jules.”
She pressed the thin tissue under her eyes to soak up the water. “Everything is going so well. Why does he have to push me?”
“At the risk of asking another question, what issue is he pushing?”
Mama chose this moment to check on her refreshment committee (Elle). Her lovely round face peered into the utility room. “Is the punch ready? I declare, twenty more people showed up. Mary Jo is giving them the grand tour. Julianne, are you doing another prize drawing?”
“Yes.” She kept her tear-stained face away from Mama by preten
ding to rearrange the hair coloring on the shelves. “Ask Daddy to do it, please. The prize is the Hilton Head weekend.”
Instead of consenting and leaving, Mama stepped into the room and shut the door behind her. As if it wasn’t hot and tense enough. Elle averted her gaze. If she looked, she’d crack. Every family had a squealer, stoolie, snitch. The Garvey Girls had Elle. Stool pigeon, first class. She couldn’t help it. One look from Daddy and she always broke like cold glass in a hot oven.
“Everything all right in here?” Mama moved between Elle and Julianne with slow, metered steps.
Elle stirred the punch and watched the floor. The tips of Mama’s perfectly painted red toenails peeked through peep-toe pumps. Mama stopped, pointing her toes in Julianne’s direction.
“We’re fine, Mama.” Julianne shuffled boxes. “What are these doing here? Out of order?”
“Elle?” Mama’s toes implicated her now. “Is this about Jeremiah? You girls seem very distracted.” No malfunction of her Mama Radar.
“Not at all about Jeremiah, Mama.” More punch stirring and a slight sloshing, but Elle held together. “The punch is ready. Can you open the door for me?”
The red-tipped toes hesitated, but did as Elle asked. “I’ll have Daddy do the drawing. Come on out, Julianne. Save the straightening for business hours.”
Mama exited and Julianne grabbed Elle’s arm. Red punch rolled like the tide up the side of the bowl, nearly spilling over onto her white tank.
“Not a word, stoolie. You pinky promised.”
Elle clinched her jaw. Maybe they were too adult for pinky promises. “All right, but whatever is going on with you two, fix it.”
“It’s not so easy.”
“Then make it easy.” Elle’s leg started to cramp from stretching to hold open the door. “I’ve got to get this punch to the table, but we’re not through with this conversation.”
“Yes, we are.”
“No, we’re not.”
