With Eyes of Love (Heartsong Presents)

by Linda S. Glaz

  But his blood boiled before the milk could. Then he sat down in one of the kitchen chairs with his arms crossed, unsure what to make of this girl—this woman. “You haven’t changed.”

  A hiss spat from the stove. Apropos.

  “Nor you.” She lobbed a glance his direction, staring him in the face with more than sympathy.

  That was good; he didn’t need sympathy. He scrutinized her finger again. Nothing. “Is that so?”

  She swept to the cupboard again, took a cup down and transferred milk from the pan. “Would you like some?” she asked without turning around.

  He leaned his back against the chair rail that ran the length of the kitchen until the legs of the chair teetered. His mother’s reproach resonated, but he continued to rock. “You are as irritating as ever. Are you Barbara VanSomething yet?”

  Her palm slapped the edge of the ceramic sink and she flexed her fingers. “No. You can gloat now. I’m not a VanDusen. And I’m not going to be.” She glanced over her shoulder, her brows knitted together. “Do you want milk or not?”

  “Not hungry.”

  She spun around so fast, cup in hand, she almost spilled the contents. “And you’d never think to be sociable.”

  No longer amused, he tensed and the muscle along his jaw twitched as he ground his teeth. He realized his eyes showed anything but hospitality, yet, at that particular moment, who cared? “I didn’t invite you. I’m not sure why Betty did.”

  “Because Bets and I are friends. We both appreciate what friendship means. You might take a lesson from her as if you’d been taught manners at some point in your life. In fact—”

  He jumped from his seat and grabbed her wrist. “Not another word.” Inhaling sharply, he thought better of what he’d planned to say, and let go of her hand. She would not be allowed to burrow under his skin. Because if he allowed even a bit of her to get to him, he would want her in his life forever.

  He straightened his shoulders, glared into her eyes and whispered, “I was just on my way to bed, Barbara. Don’t s’pose I’ll see you before you leave, so have a safe trip home.” He stopped in the doorway. “And find another Elliott. Be happy.”

  * * *

  Jackson closed the door softly as he probably did every night not to draw attention to himself. Barbara sat down hard, the delicate rose-covered cup shaking as she moved her hand to the table. Her heart hammered, breath hitching in her chest until it escaped at last in one long groan. What a shame he had chosen this path for his life.

  That cut on his face and those burns! A deep, jagged slash across his eye outlined the angry skin and still shone red. It wouldn’t be long, holed up in his room, and he’d turn into a pale, lifeless hermit, a wasted shell of who he’d been. The other smaller slit that slithered through his upper lip, instead of repulsing her, caused her to dwell on the handsome mouth that had kissed her once so long ago.

  He sure had one huge pity party going on. According to Betty, he hadn’t even given himself a chance to heal on the inside.

  Yet, his eyes had seemed to whisper her name as she had moved around the kitchen. Called her so distinctly, she’d whirled around once, expecting to see his lips moving. She saw stone, unyielding and challenging. Barbara longed to catch a glimpse of the same captivating, intense brown eyes that had drawn her in, winked at her, charmed her when she had arrived at the Judges’ house more than a year ago. They’d danced with mischief, fresh and arrogant, settling in her heart like a wild horse tamed for only a second. Now the gold flecks warned her not to dare come too close.

  He had changed—by choice.

  Heart rate returning to normal, she sipped more of the soothing warm milk. Tasteless. He wasn’t approachable, not like this.

  His burns and cuts didn’t matter. The outside of a man didn’t make him attractive. Not really. The brown, expressive eyes pulled her into his sphere where handsome existed from the inside out.

  Did he have any hope left at all? The Judge family practiced a deep faith, she knew that of them, but Jackson seemed to have lost his. The newsreels, so far removed from her life, made her realize he had not only endured the realities, but had carried them in his heart where faith once lived.

  The last drops of milk swirled in the bottom of the cup. She rose to the sink, poured the rest of the milk out, washed her cup and placed it upside down in the drainer. Then she turned and leaned against the counter, arms crossed. There must be something she could do.

  * * *

  Early Monday morning, the sound of a hammer ringing in the air pulled Jackson from sleep. He stole to the back window and spied his father building the gazebo he was supposed to have built. Not now. No, sir. Not on your life. He would never again go out in the daytime for everyone to gawk and laugh at. Come on over, folks. Scare the little children for the better part of a nickel.

  His room, a few good books and memories. That was all he had left now. All he needed. He dropped his hand and the curtain flapped against his cheek.

  Just leave me alone and lemme sleep. When he was asleep—sometimes—his mind didn’t rewind the newsreel called Pearl Harbor. He blasted his fist against the wall.

  Seated on the edge of the bed, Jackson stretched and ran callused fingers through his hair. He was useless. Couldn’t even pop a hole in the wall. And at the factory, Father had hired a man, Fred Brady, to replace him. What had he expected? He didn’t want the job anymore. Father needed someone to supervise the employees, and Fred was the only available man under seventy-five and over fifteen with no plans for joining the army.

  What kind of life was Jackson living? Reaching into his nightstand drawer, he pulled out a pack of gum. Mint. Not his favorite. But you had to actually go to the store if you wanted to buy something.

  Fred Brady. The guy didn’t know the factory. Only how to yell at people and expect more than they could give. Fred didn’t manage, he bossed. There was a huge difference.

  The only other choice, and the one his father wanted, was Jackson himself. No way would he go back to work in public. And now, he was nothing more than a mooch, a drain on the family’s finances. Not for long. Once Betty left on her honeymoon, he’d set things right.

  * * *

  Barbara glanced around to be sure no one saw her lingering outside Jackson’s door. She heard him stirring inside. A loud thump shook the wall, then nothing. There was plenty she wanted to say. Plenty. But Betty had warned her to leave Jackson alone. While leaning her head to the door, she rapped lightly. Maybe he’d invite her in.

  And maybe not.

  She tapped again and whispered through the crack, “I know you’re in there. I can hear you. Come out and help your father. You might have your family hoodwinked, but you can’t fool me.”

  “Go away.”

  “Oh, that’s original. I’ll bet they’ve heard you say those words at least a dozen times. Well I’m not your family. How about if you pitch in, pull your share of the load? Betty’s wedding is in three weeks and your father could use your help.”

  “No one needs me. Especially my family. Now, leave me be.”

  She stood quietly for a few seconds before her face warmed and the blood made a rushing sound in her ears. She dug fists into her pockets to keep from battering the door down. The longer she stood there, the more his words registered. No one needs me. Leave me be.

  “Jackson Judge, stop feeling sorry for yourself and get out here.” She whipped her hand out of her pocket and sent a woodpecker’s tap against the door.

  No noise inside the room.

  “Fine, stay there and have your pity party. See if I care. What’s horrid is that you don’t give a hoot about Betty’s feelings. I’m ashamed to know you.” She turned her back.

  Leaning over the banister, she calmed down before joining the others. Then questioned her next move. She could do more coercing, but she obviously wasn’t as good as her mother in the guilt department.

  The door behind her creaked. She held her breath, afraid if she turned and saw him, he�
��d retreat into the bedroom. A hand gripped her upper arm. She jumped and squealed.

  He held her so she couldn’t face him. “What are you doing in Will’s clothes?” The words hissed in her ear.

  Barbara stiffened, her cheeks hot now, her eyes narrowed. “I beg your pardon. They aren’t Will’s clothes. I like pants, so I wear them.” She struggled against his grip and finally pivoted to face him. “I think they’re quite...” she looked into his eyes “...handsome.” Her heart fluttered. Say something. He’ll notice you staring. “I can move comfortably in them and do hard work. Stuff I couldn’t do in a skirt.”

  His hand tightened until it pinched her arm like a vise. He scowled. “You look ridiculous. What next? Gonna go to Detroit and work in a defense factory?”

  She looked down her nose at his grip and he loosened up. “I might have expected you to be narrow-minded. You can’t hurt my feelings, Jackson. I’m secure with who I am and I like wearing slacks when I work.” She had her head raised so high, her neck smarted. “Sometimes even when I’m not working. And let’s face it, right now women keep the war machines moving along. Don’t impugn their efforts.”

  His brows lowered and his eyes stared with an eerie darkness she hadn’t noticed before. He drew close enough for her to feel hot breath on her face. She cleared her throat and started to step back, but he held tight.

  Tugging her closer, he hesitated, still mere inches from her face. Finally, he pulled her as close as he could and whispered in her ear, “Barbara, you’d do well to keep your distance.”

  “But you should—”

  “Stop.” Looking her in the eye, he reached up, held her jaw between his thumb and forefinger. “Your opinions aren’t wanted by me, not now, not ever. I don’t really care whether you wear pants, skirts or Eskimo parkas. You need to do whatever it is you came for and leave.”

  Barbara swallowed hard, tipped her nose up and jerked free of his grasp. She pictured a raging dragon blowing fire in her face, angry because the fair damsel was too strong. He couldn’t gobble her up. With a slight shake of her head, she glared into his eyes.

  Her jaw clamped together so tightly she could barely speak, but she did. “You don’t frighten me, Jackson.” Oh, yes, you do. So much so, I can’t believe I’m still standing. “I don’t begin to understand what happened to you, but wallowing in self-pity won’t heal your scars. I’m sorry I ever met you.”

  He lifted his hand again, ran his thumb along her cheek. So gently this time she could feel the ridges of the troubled skin of his thumb. “So am I, Barbara. So...am...I.” He reentered his room and closed the door. Once again, very softly.

  Anger bubbling to the surface, her teeth chattered.

  Father, I’m sorry for losing my temper, but he just doesn’t understand. Burns and bruises don’t make the man. You do. Please, wrap him in Your arms. Show him Your love.

  Love? She thought the word, and her heart spoke it into being.

  Barbara returned to her room and looked out the window while she brushed at the dark gabardine pants, dusting off the harsh words she’d said. This meanness of spirit wasn’t like her. Well, he deserved to hear the truth. Now, she’d put her same forceful effort into helping Will and Mr. Judge. Make herself useful. And looking through her window, she could see that Will’s efforts were downright pitiful.

  Muscles twitching from her intense emotions, she banged through the house like a grizzly searching for his dinner and dashed out the back door. Heading toward the men in the yard, she screeched to a halt, her feet digging into loose ground. She had to calm down.

  A little more charity.

  The men looked up, went right back to work. Mr. Judge grunted while he nailed a long two-by-four into place. Will was working on one of the beams. But the gentle slant from the top to the edge didn’t slope right. If only he’d adjust the angle slightly.

  “It’s no use, Dad. I don’t work as well as Jack with my hands. I hate letting you down.”

  His father clapped him on the shoulder. “You’re doing a fine job, son. With a few licks of the sander, we’ll have this slick and polished.”

  She stepped forward. “May I help?”

  He smiled at Barbara. “Hello there, young lady. My, don’t you look the picture of fashion. Betty has begged for a pair of those silly pants for over a year. I s’pose we’ll have to give in sooner or later and buy her some or we’ll never hear the end of it.” His face clouded. “Well I guess her beau’ll be buying them for her, won’t he?” His eyes took on a distant expression. “Still can’t believe my little girl’s getting married in three weeks.”

  Barbara shaded her eyes from the sun and looked up at the window to Jackson’s room. Was it her imagination or did the curtains move? If only he’d join them. “Here, Will. I can hold while you sand. Tilt the sandpaper block like this.”

  “Hey, thanks, Miss Richardson—”

  “You’d better call me Barbara.”

  “Okay. You sure are good at this. Who would have thought a girl could do carpentry.”

  “I used to help my father a lot when I was younger. After all, he didn’t have any sons. Now, Mama says it isn’t becoming for a girl to do that sort of thing. And I miss it. I was good at woodworking.” She took one end of the two-by-four. “Here we go. I’ll support the board so you can angle it just right.”

  Will struggled at first, the block flipping over the edge of the board, but then, after she had shown him a couple more tricks, he seemed to get the hang of sanding. “Hey, this isn’t so tough after all. Thanks. But I’m not about to admit a girl helped me.”

  Barbara smiled and finger-locked her lips. “Our little secret.”

  From the corner of her eye, she noticed the curtain flutter again.

  Chapter 6

  Barbara giggled as Mrs. Judge divulged the last-minute details of her ruse to get Betty to her surprise shower. Mary Anne, Betty’s cousin, had delayed the party so Barbara could attend. And late April had favored them with perfect warm weather, ideal for a garden party.

  “Do you think she’s suspicious?” Barbara asked when she cornered Mrs. Judge in the kitchen.

  Betty’s mother shook her head. “Not a bit.”

  They moved to the parlor where Betty folded half a bolt of material.

  Unusually downcast, Betty plunked into the parlor chair. “Mother. Any reason why we have to take this fabric to Aunt Jenny tonight? Couldn’t we wait ’til morning? I’m really tired.”

  Her mother reached for her arm, gently lifting her to her feet. “Young lady. Your aunt needs to finish Barbara’s dress, now, doesn’t she? She has the bodice finished, but she needs the rest of this fabric to finish the skirt.”

  Barbara wanted to laugh out loud at the story.

  Betty’s face lit like a firefly at the mention of her wedding, doing away with her exhaustion or blues or whatever her problem was.

  Maybe Barbara would feel the same joy one day.

  Two blocks over on Pennyman Lane, the three women stepped from Mrs. Judge’s yellow Studebaker. Betty bobbed her head to the side, indicating the many cars parked next door. “Sure looks like their neighbors are having a party.”

  Her mother took notice and nodded. “It does, now, doesn’t it? Maybe someone’s birthday.” She took a couple more steps. “Yes, I do believe I hear someone singing ‘Happy Birthday.’” Then she hustled Betty through the yard.

  Barbara choked back a laugh. She tugged Betty’s arm against her, and they bounced up the steps, past forsythia bushes already blooming bright yellow. Betty knocked.

  “The house is dark, Mother. Maybe they were invited to the party next door. We should have called first.”

  As Betty turned to go, her cousin, Mary Anne, answered the knock, a sheepish grin covering her face like Little Bo Peep. A dozen or more ladies, young and old, pushed into the entrance crying, “Surprise!”

  Betty’s eyes and mouth circled round with wonder. “For me?”

  Barbara stepped back and giggled. “No, sil
ly. For the Queen of Sheba. Who else but for you?” She hustled Betty through the doorway where more women waited, smiles wide.

  A lace-covered table laden with sweet tea, pink ice cream punch, tea cakes, butter cookies and tiny finger sandwiches greeted them as they were escorted to the chairs outside. White paper bells interlaced with garlands festooned the grape arbor like a soft, white canopy. Gifts large and small dotted a card table, covered with a round bleached-muslin cloth that allowed the bright packages to shine against the plain white surface.

  Betty hauled Barbara closer. “Everyone, c’mere. This is Barbara, my best friend from Indiana. You’ve heard me talk about her.”

  Barbara extended a hand, but hugs won out.

  After cups of punch and most of the tea cakes had been eaten, Barbara parked herself next to Betty, collecting bows and paper. “Just remember, don’t break the bows or you’ll have to keep adding extra bedrooms onto your house.”

  “We don’t have a house.” Pink inched up Betty’s cheeks. “But I’ll be careful.”

  Her aunt’s German neighbor, Anna Schroeder, scowled when Betty opened a box that held a feather tick and two feather pillows. “How beautiful.”

  The scowl turned into a huge grin. “You like dem? You use dem, right? You ladies still use fedders on your beds?”

  Betty blinked back tears.

  Barbara smoothed and folded the bright paper wrapping to use later as she admired the lovely plump pillows. She hadn’t seen a feather tick since the one on her grandmother’s rope bed. So comfy that when she and her sisters plunged into Grandma’s bed at night, they got lost in the thick, marshmallow softness.

  “Oh, Mrs. Schroeder.” Betty sighed, taking the old woman’s hands. “They’re wonderful. We’ll enjoy these forever.” She patted the kind old hands.

  * * *

  Dusk settled like a blanket of semidarkness over the street. Jackson could still see out the front hallway window. His father struggled to unload the Studey all by himself. Jackson should be helping.