by Webb, Peggy
"It's rosewood," he said.
"It's perfect," she said.
"Look at that workmanship."
"I can't believe it. Carved roses."
They looked at each other, and a secret smile passed between them. An officious-looking proprietor left his vigil beside his desk and headed in their direction.
"It looks expensive," she whispered. "How much do you think it will cost?"
"Don't give the cost another thought. The pleasure will far outweigh the price."
The smell of his pomade preceded the shop owner by a good two feet.
"May I help you?" When he spoke his eyebrows disappeared into his heavily greased hair.
"We'll take this bed," Anthony said.
His eyebrows did a disappearing act once more. "We have some other very nice beds. Might I suggest you look at the Louis XIV before you buy?"
"No, thank you. We want this bed."
"Very well, sir."
A Brahms cello sonata played in the background while he wrote the ticket. Annie hummed along softly, her eyes and cheeks aglow. Suddenly Anthony was filled with foreboding. He had an urge to toss her over his shoulder, race to the river, take the next freighter going south, and never look back.
It was on the tip of his tongue to say, "Annie, marry me . . . now," when the music was interrupted by an urgent announcement.
"Pearl Harbor has been bombed! I repeat, Pearl Harbor has been bombed!"
Annie turned as white as the dress she was wearing. He squeezed her hand.
"Anthony, let's get married. Now. Today."
They could do it, then sail away to the tropics, where he could paint and she could run along the beaches barefoot, wearing wild roses in her hair. With every fiber in his being he yearned to do her bidding. Theirs would be an idyllic life, full of sunshine and love and laughter. They could find a small island, build another house, start a family far away from the horrors of war.
The set crackled, and through the static the radio announcer told the details of the bombings. American ships had been sunk. Americans killed. America was in the war, whether she wanted to be or not.
Anthony didn't consider himself brave or patriotic, but he couldn't desert his country, wouldn't desert his country. Nor could he leave Annie a war bride, watching at the window for a soldier who might never come home.
He bent down and kissed the top of her head. "I have a better idea. Let's celebrate the purchase of our wedding bed."
Back in his apartment with the sun coming through the French windows and making patterns on their skin, he plunged into sweet, familiar territory. For a few blissful hours, Anthony and his beloved kept the world at bay.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The day Annie had been dreading finally came. It was mid-April, a gray rainy day appropriate for bad news. Standing at her bedroom window, the ruffled lace curtains of her childhood clenched into a ball in her right hand, she felt an awful foreboding as Anthony walked down the avenue of live oaks that led to her house in the Garden District. The bounce in his step was missing, the set of his shoulders, serious. Periodically he disappeared from view behind the long flower-bedecked arms of azaleas and the trailing yellow forsythia and the lush branches of sweet olive, starred with tiny fragrant white blossoms.
When the doorbell rang, she almost jumped out of her skin. For a moment she thought of pretending she wasn't home. Later she could explain that she hadn't waited for him that Saturday as usual, that she'd driven over to Baton Rouge with her mother. If she didn’t open the door, would it change things?
But she couldn't lie to him. She never had, and she wasn't about to start now.
She descended the staircase slowly, letting her fingers trail along the satiny mahogany. When she finally opened the door, she could read the news in his eyes.
"Won't you come in? I've made tea."
She stood at a decorous distance, pronouncing all this carefully, as if formal manners would somehow change things, as if the small space between them could somehow soften the blow.
"Annie . . ."
"Please." She held up her hand. "I'll get the tea."
"I'll help you."
"No. Wait in the parlor." She lifted her eyes to his. "Please, Anthony."
In the kitchen safe from view she leaned over the sink, dry heaving. On the windowsill a mockingbird trilled, imitating the flashier, better-loved cardinal. Annie shook her fist at him.
"How dare you sing today? There's a war on, don't you know that?"
Without warning everything blurred—the mockingbird, the windowsill, the trees outside the window, the blue sky beyond. It wasn't until Anthony came up and softly turned her into his arms that she realized fat tears were pouring down her cheeks.
He kissed them away one by one, and she leaned into him, sighing.
"Don't go," she wanted to say, but she couldn't bring herself to be so selfish in the face of all the patriotic fervor, the sacrifice, and the acts of heroism told daily on the radio broadcasts.
"I've packed your bag," Anthony said.
Annie saw it sitting in the door, her coat draped over the top.
"I've come to take you away for a few days," he added.
He didn't have to add "to say farewell." Annie knew. She squeezed his hand, then went to the small desk in the corner of the kitchen and wrote a note to her mother.
"Anthony has enlisted. We're going to spend his last few days together. I'll see you soon. Love, Charlotte Ann."
When she turned back to him she was smiling. There would be no more tears. Charlotte Ann Harris planned to send her man off to war with a smile, and with all her love.
She never asked where he was taking her. Anthony loved that quality in his Annie. She trusted him absolutely. There was only one place he wanted to go, one place he wanted to remember, the house they had built together on the bay, the house she had designed, the house where they'd planted roses that would be in full bloom for their wedding day. Not June of '42. There was no telling where he would be in June of '42.
But someday. Somehow. Some June.
It was late afternoon when they arrived in Fairhope, laden with food and bedding.
"Let's have a picnic on the beach," she said.
"Wind's picking up. You'll get cold."
"You'll keep me warm."
They ate chicken she'd fried and potato salad he'd tossed and gingerbread boys with crooked bodies they'd both struggled to prepare.
Sprawled on a blanket with the picnic basket between them, they watched the sun go down.
"You know why I'm marrying you, don't you?" he teased.
"Absolutely. I'm a fabulous singer." To demonstrate she chortled a rollicking rendition of "The Lady's in Love with You," half a tone flatter than usual.
Anthony clapped his hands. "That, too, of course." He lifted another piece of chicken from the basket and savored a big bite. "But this"—he waved the drumstick at her—"this is the real reason I popped the question."
"Oh yeah?" Eyes gleaming, she stalked him. When she was even with him, she planted one foot on his chest and one hand on her hip.
"Annie, what are you doing?"
"I thought I'd give you another reason." She drew a circle on his chest with the toe of her shoe. "Or maybe two." Doing a delicate balancing act, she dragged her shoe downward until it was resting lightly on his groin.
"Be careful there. That's my family you're tinkering with."
"Mine too." She began a slow, erotic massage.
"Just so you know." His voice hoarse with passion, he made a move to pull her down, but she pressed lightly with the toe of her shoe.
"This is my show, Anthony Chance. Are you trying to steal my thunder?"
"I had something else in mind."
In the deepening shadows he could see her soft smile.
"If it's my heart you're talking about, you've already stolen that," she whispered.
"It's your heart . . . and more."
She stepped back and began to unfasten
the tiny buttons on her bodice. Anthony folded his hands behind his head to watch. He knew what Annie was doing. She wasn't merely seducing him, wasn't simply undressing for the purpose of making love. She was creating magic that he would carry with him into war, a romantic moment that would burn into his mind like a comet so that when the horrors threatened to overwhelm him, he would remember, and the strength and beauty and power of the memory would bring him home again.
The moon came up, a disk of silver that laid its iridescent path on the water, and the stars lit slowly, one by one, like tiny fireflies filling the sky.
Annie cast her shirt to the ground, then spread her arms upward to rid herself of her camisole. She stood before him, stars caught in her hair, her skin gleaming like pearls.
Anthony thanked God for the evening shadows that hid his tears. Later that night, when she was fast asleep, he would sketch this memory of her, tuck it into his knapsack and take it wherever fate sent him.
Bending over him, the fragrance of roses wafting from her long hair, she unbuttoned his shirt. Breathless, Anthony waited, and memorized.
Her hair slid over one shoulder as she dipped downward and wet the indentation at the base of his throat with her tongue. The urge to take her then was powerful, but this was her show, her moment. By a supreme act of willpower, he lay still on the blanket.
Her lips were roses touching his, dewy and sweet. She lingered there, savoring him, letting him savor her, and the moon tracked across the sky.
When he was near the point of explosion, she rose and slid her skirt and petticoat down her hips. The evening had grown cool, but Annie didn't wrap her arms around herself to keep warm. Instead she lifted her arms and stood before him like some night-loving, cold-immune goddess.
"Come, my love," she whispered, beckoning.
He didn't question, but stood and shucked off the clothes that restricted him. She led him to the sea. Water lapped against their ankles, then their knees, and in the luminescence created by reflections of moon and stars in the bay he could see the goose bumps that dotted her fine skin.
"I've always wanted to swim naked with you in the bay in the moonlight," she whispered.
He caught her in his arms and waded waist-deep, holding her close against the warmth of his chest, high above the waves.
"And what else, my love?"
"This." She kissed him again, a deep kiss that went into eternity. "And this." In one smooth move she was out of his arms and swimming strongly away, diving and resurfacing, a mermaid frolicking in the moonlight, her skin cast silver by the stars.
He swam after her, meeting her in a wave that sprayed their faces with foam. She came to him then, arms and legs open. Wrapped tightly together, they rode the waves and each other, and afterward they strolled along the beach, Annie wearing her white dress without camisole and petticoats and Anthony with his arms wrapped around her.
Speaking softly lest they disturb the enchantment, they talked until they were hoarse, talked of everything from architecture to art, from religion to politics, from building houses to making babies. But neither of them mentioned war.
They slept curled tightly together in a twin bed in their guest room. Down the hall the rosewood bed stood in lonely splendor, draped with sheets, awaiting its grand unveiling on their wedding night.
The days and nights blended, one so like the other in joy that Annie couldn't have told whether it was Tuesday or Saturday. But the morning she woke to find Anthony standing at the window, she knew the time had come to say good-bye. There was resolve in every line of his body, from the stiff angle of his neck to the unyielding posture of his back.
Her heart lurched, and she pressed her hand over her mouth to keep from crying out.
Anthony turned from the window, and she forced a smile.
"Shall I start the coffee?" she said, hoping he'd grin and climb back into bed and gather her close and make love to her until the sun was over the top of the magnolia, as he had on so many mornings.
He shook his head. "It's already made. I was waiting for you to wake up." The springs squeaked as he sat beside her. Cupping her face, he gazed deeply at her, then pressed a sweet, lingering kiss on her lips.
The springs creaked once more. "Wait right here. I'm serving you breakfast in bed today."
He was at the door before she could trust herself to speak.
"Shall I pack?"
"Yes."
That was all he said. And then he was gone.
Naked, she flung clothes into her bag, neither knowing nor caring whether they wrinkled. Then she brushed her hair. Her hands shook so badly, she dropped her silver-handled brush three times.
When she heard his footsteps on the stairs, she leaped back into bed, a smile on her face.
"That was fast," she said. "Can I interest you in a job as my butler?"
"Your butler . . ." He kissed her cheek. "Your footman . . ." He kissed her nose. "Your slave." He kissed her mouth. "Forever and always, Annie."
He set the tray on the bed, food in artistic array and a single paper rose resting on the white linen napkin.
Then he sat solemnly beside her and watched her eat until every morsel was gone.
"Do I get dessert?" she asked, her smile full of wicked whimsy.
"You do. But first, this." From his knapsack he took the Felix the Cat clock, fully wound, tail wagging and pop eyes rolling. It was a happy clock, just the kind of thing Anthony would choose.
"To mark the time until we meet again," he said, and then he folded her in his arms and held her close to his heart.
o0o
That summer Annie and her mother moved into the house on the bay to await Anthony's return.
"But why Fairhope, Charlotte Ann? Why can't we wait out the war here in New Orleans?" Her mother's protests had been mild, considering what Annie wanted her to do, pull up roots and leave her home and her friends behind.
"Because I want Anthony to picture me in that house, waiting for him. It's a show of faith and confidence, Mother. If he knows I'm there waiting for him where we'll build our life and our family, he'll come home. I just know he will."
And in June instead of walking down the aisle in white as she'd planned, Charlotte Ann Harris took her mother to Fairhope to wait for the war to be over.
Daily she wrote to Anthony.
"August 8, 1942. My darling, I know from the news that the first Allied offensive in the Pacific War began yesterday when the Marines went ashore at Guadalcanal. I feel better knowing you're in the sky. When you're flying up there, touch the stars, my love, and know that I wait for you at home. All my love, Annie."
Summer turned to fall, and except for the calendar Annie didn't know the difference. The air was stifling, and she spent most of her days barefoot, curled on a blanket under the magnolia tree reading Anthony's letters, and writing.
"September 30, 1942. My dearest love, it does my heart good to know that you're on a brand-new cruiser and that furthermore it's full of Southern rebels. Nobody can give 'em hell the way a rebel can. I'm counting the minutes until you come home, with the help of Felix the Cat, of course. Forever and always, Annie."
She mailed his Christmas package in November in the hopes it would reach him in time.
"Let's not bother with a tree this year," her mother said, but Annie insisted.
"It'll keep our spirits up," she said.
The days became weeks, the weeks became months, and Annie haunted the mailbox. Every time a letter arrived, she breathed a sigh of relief.
o0o
On the other side of the world, Anthony Chance lived up to his name. He took chances in his fighter plane that no other pilot would dare. He made light of his exploits to Annie, knowing she would worry, never dreaming she'd hear of them anyway through a series of articles written by a war correspondent.
"My darling Annie," he wrote to her. "In a few hours I go up for the last time before I ship out for home. Always, I think of you waiting there for me, and the thought gives me courag
e. The stars are out tonight, almost as bright as they were that evening we went swimming in the bay. I close my eyes and see you there with stars in your hair. I can't wait to touch you, to hold you, to make love to you. Count the hours, my love, dust the rosewood bed. I'm coming home. Always, Anthony."
His plane was a dark shadow on the deck of the cruiser. Anthony climbed into the cockpit and gave the thumbs-up signal, then touched the small sketch of Annie he always kept in his breast pocket.
As the plane climbed into the star-studded heavens he felt as if he were flying straight toward the face of God. His targets were below, visible by the light of the star shells fired by the Montpelier.
Anthony flew in low, target locked in. There was an explosion, a burst of fire along his right wing, and then a plume of smoke. Stars ricocheted past the cockpit as his plane rocked and bucked.
He fought for control, refusing to believe what had happened. Tomorrow he was shipping out for home. He couldn't be hit.
"No!" His defiant yell was lost in the screaming of the plane as it spiraled downward. Anthony touched the picture of Annie over his heart, then clenched his teeth against the dizzying speed of his descent and tried to force his plane back into a climb. A huge expanse of gunmetal gray came rapidly toward him, the Pacific, cold and forbidding in the dark.
Anthony clung to consciousness, registering events in bits and pieces. Another burst of flame. Blinding hot. Metal ripping. Searing pain. Cold. Wet. Tunnel. Spiraling.
"Annie! I'll come for you, Annie. I'll find a way.”
Darkness, soft and peaceful.
And then the light.
o0o
The officer who stood in her doorway was young and ill at ease. Annie knew she ought to try and make him feel more comfortable—it was the way of Southern hospitality—but she couldn't think how, couldn't think of anything except the knapsack he was holding.
"His possessions." The officer's name was James, Lieutenant James. "He wanted you to have them . . ." Lieutenant James stuttered to a halt. "... in case anything happened to him."
Annie recognized the knapsack. She'd seen it hundreds of times, on the floor of her closet, under her bed, behind Anthony's art supplies, in the trunk of his car. She clasped her hands tightly together, refusing to accept it.
