by Gail Cleare
“I’d better go inside.” She stubbed out her cigarette and stood up to brush off the seat of her skirt. “Good to see you again, Jake.”
He stood up and backed away, one eyebrow raised. “A little nervous about me, are you? We can’t have that, sweet thing. Just teasing… sort of.”
“I know, it’s okay. Good night, then. See you tomorrow, probably.”
Jake tipped his imaginary cap and turned to walk away down the road.
Mary went inside and climbed the stairs to the crowded little room where she lived. It was empty at the moment, and she could hear her roommates chattering down the hall where the other women had gathered. She threw her cap on her bunk and shrugged out of her short-sleeved shirt, pausing to unbutton the waist of her skirt.
Then she noticed the brown envelope propped up against her pillow. It was a telegram. She immediately thought of her parents and her sister and tore into it to read the news:
SORRY TO INFORM YOU LT CDR THOMAS REILLY MISSING IN ACTION -(STOP) – REPORTED ENGINE TROUBLE ON MISSION THAI BINH PROVINCE – (STOP) – FOLLOWING RELEASE OF ORDNANCE HIS SKYHAWK DOWN OVER GULF OF TONKIN – (STOP) – PARACHUTE NOT SIGHTED – (STOP)-
Mary stopped breathing and stared at the page in her hand. She read it again, not trusting her eyes. Then she gasped, and a moan slipped out of her trembling lips. She sat down on her bunk and read the telegram a third time. “Parachute not sighted.” That meant he had still been inside the plane when it crashed. He was classified as “missing in action” instead of “killed in action” because they hadn’t found the remains.
Thomas was likely dead.
The telegram fell from her hand, and she felt the scream building inside her. When it burst from her throat, the other nurses came running.
Chapter 29
Bridget ~ 2014
While Nell went for a jog around the lake, Bridget lay down on the sofa and tried to nap, but her eyes kept popping open. She was tired but too wound up to sleep. Visions of her mother struggling for air haunted her.
Wandering from room to room, she inspected the cottage. She looked in the drawers and closets. In the living room cupboard, she came across a treasure trove of family memorabilia, things she had never seen before or not for many years. Pulling out boxes and cartons, she sat down on the braided rug to inspect them.
A large, flat white box tied with blue satin ribbon drew her eye first. It looked like the kind of box a sweater or a suit might come in from a nice department store. Inside was an old navy uniform, carefully folded. Lying on top of it was a framed photograph and a single dried red rose, shriveled and crumbling.
Bridget knew that Daddy had flown a plane in the Vietnam War in the 1960s and Mom had been an army nurse in Saigon. The photo was in black-and-white, a close-up shot of Thomas and Mary on a dance floor. They were both wearing military uniforms though Mom had taken off her jacket. Looking closer, Bridget saw that her mother held a dark rose in her hand.
Mom had gone to a lot of trouble to keep this iconic moment forever. It spoke of a deep and magical love. She wanted to remember him the way he was then, bright and sharp as a tack, and their relationship the way it was then as well—passionate and consuming. Staring into the white box was like looking through a window into the past.
Then Bridget saw the engagement ring on Mom’s left hand and understood: that was the night they decided to get married.
Bridget looked at the photo and touched the dried rose, thinking how trivial all her relationships had been compared to the spark and intensity of her mother’s. That beautiful love was what had sustained Mom through the sad years when Thomas disappeared and a stranger inhabited his body, looking out at her fearfully through his eyes.
Bridget carefully closed the white box and set it aside then pulled a box of odds and ends toward her. First, she found a well-worn stuffed lamb, familiar to her fingers, and a little pink-satin jewelry box with a dancing ballerina on top. The music that played when she opened it summoned a vision of her and Nell getting dressed for church, wearing necklaces of tiny pearls with their matching pink dresses.
Bridget looked deeper into the carton. In the bottom was a mirrored tray scattered with costume jewelry, matchbooks, and tiny keepsakes. She remembered it from many years ago, when it used to sit on Mom’s dresser. Mementos of her mother’s travels when she was young, the rings, bracelets, and brooches sparkled with the rich colors of Africa and Asia.
Buried beneath a large Italian cameo, a button peeked out. Its green-and-gold hexagonal pattern caught her eye. Simple dull plastic, homely compared to the flashy rhinestones and semiprecious gems surrounding it, the button called out for attention. It had a story to tell.
She picked it up and examined the six-sided barred design. Two holes in the center still held a frayed olive-green thread where it had been attached to some article of clothing. A full two inches across, it must have helped to fasten a coat, jacket, or sweater—something big and heavy.
Bridget looked at it again, and a thought came to her. A framed portrait of Mary and Thomas in the early days of their marriage hung on the wall in the den. She went in there and lifted it off the nail for a closer view, looking carefully at the suit her mother wore in the photo. Sure enough, holding a tweed jacket closed under Mom’s breasts was the button. Just the one. It did the whole job on its own.
They looked happy in the photo, young and hopeful. The world was theirs to explore together. Little did they know that Thomas would be taken away long before his time, leaving his wife to care for him, bury him, and hold the family together on her own, all alone.
Bridget was going to hold things together alone too. For the first time ever, she’d left one man when she didn’t have another waiting in the wings. Time to make it on my own.
She tucked the green button away in her pants pocket. Maybe it would bring her luck.
Bridget put Lulu and Winston on leashes and took them out for a quick walk around the block. She turned left at the town beach. The sidewalk led her past a row of gingerbread cottages painted pastel colors and a large white Colonial farmhouse with the porch decayed and falling off. A rusty old blue truck was parked in the driveway.
Winston suddenly yanked on the leash, pulling it out of her hand. He darted off toward the farmhouse and ran down the driveway and around the side, past the woodshed.
“Great,” Bridget muttered to herself. “Winston!” She picked Lulu up to hurry after him.
She came around the end of the house just in time to see the little white dog disappear inside the back door. She ran up the porch steps, dodging a crate filled with empty beer cans, and looked up breathlessly into the eyes of Jake Bascomb, who stood in the doorway with Winston in his arms.
Jake scratched Winston’s chest and looked at her and then at Lulu, tucked under her arm.
“Walking your… cat?” There was a glimmer in his eyes.
“Toy poodle.” She smiled, and her cheeks tingled.
He raised one raggedy eyebrow. “Beats me.” He shook his head. “You want to come in? I just made coffee.” He held the screen door open.
“Why, thank you, kind sir. Very neighborly of you,” Bridget sang out in her faux Southern accent, a flirtatious reflex. She batted her eyes a little bit as she passed him and went inside.
Jake put Winston down, and the dog ran for the water dish, lapped at it greedily, and then smiled with his pink mouth open, panting and dripping on the floor. Lulu wiggled, so Bridget put her down.
Jake watched the black fluff ball with a bemused expression and laughed when she turned around and leapt onto Winston’s head for one of their wrestling matches. “Well, it doesn’t look much like a dog, but I see it has some spunk… like you girls.” He waved her toward the table, which was clean and shining. In fact, the whole kitchen looked as though it had recently been tidied and scrubbed. Bridget
wondered again why Nell was so set against this man. Maybe he was depressed and did have a drinking problem, but at least he was trying. He poured them each a cup of coffee and sat across from her.
“Yes, our mother trained us well. I’m sorry, though, about Nell. She seems to be feeling extremely defensive about Mom. I hope you’ll forgive her rudeness.”
“Wasn’t exactly the soul of good grace myself. I call a spade a spade.”
“Frankness is an admirable quality,” she said cautiously.
“She just doesn’t get it. Me and Ellie, that is.” Intense emotion flickered in his eyes. He was clearly upset and trying to hide it.
“And what exactly is there to get, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“I adore Ellie. Always have, always will. The best friend I ever had. I’d do anything for her.” Jake shook his head sorrowfully, and his face began to crumple. A tear splashed onto the table. “Seeing her in that hospital bed is a nightmare. I can’t hardly stand it.”
“Me too.” Bridget covered his hand with hers, and her emotions flooded out. “I can’t even sleep. I just keep seeing her gasping for air. It’s horrible.” She tightened her jaw as her throat contracted, and she tried not to cry too.
Jake nodded. “I know your sister thinks I did something to hurt Ellie, but it’s not true. We were out on the lake in my boat, and the wind came up. It got rough, and I turned back. Ellie was fighting to bring down the sails. There was a big wave, and we rocked. She went over the side.” Jake looked stricken and shivered at the memory. “I got her right out again, but it was freezing cold in that wind. I made her take a hot bath, tucked her into bed, and went home, but…” He hesitated, his eyes begging for her approval. “I should have stayed and watched her. Why didn’t she call me? I would have been there in seconds.”
“It’s okay,” Bridget said, patting his hand. “You did what you could to help her. It was an accident.”
“Tell that to your sister.”
“I will. It’s just I think Nell’s worried about another boating accident. Something about Mom and your wife. We don’t know much about what actually happened.”
His eyes darkened, and he lowered his face, looking at her from under his brows. “You mean the night Ginnie died, the worst night of my life?”
“Yes.” Bridget watched his face.
Jake took a long swallow of his coffee and stared out the window into the yard. They sat in silence for a few moments while he seemed to make up his mind. His voice shook when he finally spoke. “I told them I killed her, you know. I said, ‘I’m guilty. Lock me up.’”
Bridget looked into his eyes, seeing only sadness and defeat. He was a man who had given up, not a man who was hiding the truth. Still, his statement made her nervous.
Jake leaned toward her, his eyes wide. “You don’t know what I mean, do you?”
“You killed your wife?” Bridget tensed and sat up straight.
“No, I did not.”
Bridget relaxed again. He looked as if he might feel a little better too. The stress and exhaustion of holding the secret close for all those years was on his face. His hand shook when he lifted the coffee cup for another sip. He put it back down on the table and watched her, waiting.
“Tell me.” No stranger to desperate confessions, Bridget was drawn to the man. Having been so close to rock bottom herself several times before, she recognized the signs.
Jake seemed to teeter on the edge of the decision then decided to take a plunge. His big hands wrapped around the coffee cup and engulfed it as he looked her straight in the eye. “When they pulled my wife’s body out of the lake, and I saw her lying there like a dead fish in the rain, it was like my head exploded and my mind just… went away somewhere.”
“I can’t even imagine.”
“Your mother was there, and the police, and the EMTs, and a bunch of people. There were lights flashing and people shouting. And Ginnie was… lying on a tarp on the ground, and they wrapped it up around her a little and kind of dragged her along toward the ambulance, and her head… bounced…” His voice broke, and his face folded into a grimace. He wiped his eyes quickly with the back of his hand.
She was holding his other hand now too. “Jake,” she said, shaking her head. “Don’t… you don’t have to tell me. It’s too awful.”
“No, I want to. You still don’t understand. I never talked to anyone about this before except Ellie. She’s the only one who knows what really happened.”
“Yes, Nell told me.”
He looked disgusted. “Nell doesn’t know shit, if you’ll excuse my French.”
“Well, that’s true sometimes. You tell me, then.”
“I thought about this a lot while I was in jail. Adam lost enough that night. His mother was dead. No need for him to lose all of us by knowing everything. There was no good way to explain it to him, why it really happened. That’s why I never told him. Adam came back pretty well from that night.” Jake’s voice took on a note of pride. “He took over the family business and threw himself into it.”
“And you?” she asked.
“I do okay,” Jake answered in a gruff voice, but his face said otherwise.
She saw the chaotic house, the empty liquor bottles on top of the refrigerator and the unfinished projects scattered around the yard. He had cleaned up recently, but she could still spot the signs of a soul in pain. Self-loathing radiated from the man sitting across from her, and he had told his story haltingly, glancing up at her between phrases for reassurance.
Bridget’s generous heart went out to him, and she understood why Mary had been so involved with his family all these years. She’d been a physical caretaker at home with Thomas and a spiritual caretaker in Hartland. Between the two, Thomas and Jake had satisfied her instinct for healing. Mom hadn’t become a nurse by accident—it was her true calling. She had been needed, appreciated, and loved. Hard for any woman to turn away from that. Bridget had never fully experienced being needed that way, and she could see the attraction.
The trust that suddenly blossomed between Bridget and Jake was a gift that did them both good. Jake bared his soul, and Bridget accepted the honor of his confidence, thinking that in all the years of their marriage, Eric had never been this honest with her, not once. He’d given her diamonds, clothes, and a big fancy house, but he’d never given her the truth. She’d never really known him.
But this vulnerable man was sharing his most private secret with her, and they had only just met that day. Fancy that. Bridget heard him in silence and consoled him with her eyes, their fingers entwined on the table between them.
Chapter 30
Nell ~ 2014
Nell went back to the cottage and started dinner. She turned on the music she and Adam had listened to and daydreamed while she worked. At first she thought Bridget must still be napping upstairs, then she realized the dogs were gone. Probably at the town beach or walking by the lake. She made a mug of tea and went into the garden to wait, sitting on the glider. She checked her phone and answered a text from David, automatically adding the heart graphic she always used as a sort of signature in their family messages.
The sky had become overcast, and a cold breeze was pushing gray clouds in from the north. Nell wished she’d worn a sweater. But the warm drink in her hands helped, and she felt lazy, so she sat and sipped while she rocked.
Emotions swirled inside her. Mom seemed better again, but that had happened before and had given her false hope. The stress of uncertainty was wearing Nell down. Half of her wanted to rush back and watch over Mom all night, while the other half wanted to believe things were improving and simply escape for a while. She needed David’s support but didn’t call because she couldn’t offer hers in return. Her attention to her own needs seemed selfish, but yet, there it was. The conflict buzzed in her head.
We must a
ll feel this way from time to time, Nell rationalized. It’s part of normal life to want to run away from it once in a while. That’s why God invented the vacation.
Then she thought of Adam, who was probably on his way over. Adam made her feel as if he really cared what she thought and wasn’t just waiting for her to finish talking so it would be his turn. With her family, Nell was the confessor but had to keep her worries to herself. It was in her job description.
With Adam, she felt as comfortable and easy as with her most trusted women friends. His presence nourished her spirit. It used to be that way with David, but they had fallen into a pattern of routine and habit that kept them partitioned off in separate areas of responsibility. They intersected at one or two daily meals, at the kids’ most important life events, and when asleep. She realized that as time had flowed onward, their relationship had faded and been pushed to the back of a dusty closet. There was no time to be friends—it wasn’t on the agenda.
Wind tossed the trees, and leaves flipped up to show their silvery undersides. The forecast said that night they were going to get rain from the remnants of the hurricane, which had blown itself out halfway up the coast. It was getting dark fast. She heard voices, a man’s and a woman’s, coming from the woods behind her. A moment later, Winston came running up to jump into her lap, and Jake Bascomb walked into the yard, followed by Bridget with Lulubelle tucked under her arm.
