Beguiling Bridget

by Rachel Van Dyken

  “Come on then,” he muttered. David stepped out of the truck and slammed the heavy door. Then he strode to the passenger side and opened the door for his son. Blaine didn’t move right away. He seemed so small and frail there all alone in the truck. Instinctively, David reached in and lifted him into his arms then carried the boy to the house, up the narrow stairwell and into his dark room.

  He laid his son on the bed and sat beside him for a moment, stroking his golden hair. Something needed to be said. Some words to comfort him, to let him know his father understood his pain, but none came to mind. When David opened his mouth to speak, the words caught dry in his throat, choking him. He coughed and stood to leave.

  As he walked to the door, the one thing he could manage to say was, “Get a good rest, son. School tomorrow.” Then he turned and stalked back down the stairs cursing himself.

  David couldn’t even convince himself they were going to be okay. How was he going to convince his eleven-year-old son?

  ****

  Detroit, June 1940

  “Blaine!” David pounded on the door. “Come on, Blaine! You’ll be late for school!”

  There was silence on the other side of the door. A frigid silence, like the kind that haunted David at night when he was alone. A sudden fear shot through him, and he grasped the knob and forced the door open. “Blaine?” he pleaded with his heart in his throat. The lump under the quilt shifted slightly. David exhaled in relief at first, but his confrontation with the fear catapulted him into a rage.

  “Boy! If your dogs don’t hit the kitchen floor in one minute, I’m going to take the belt to you!”

  A groan floated out in answer. David grabbed all the bedding and his son together in one fell swoop and delivered him blankets and all to the cold wood floor.

  “Dad! Come on! I’m joed. Let a fella sleep, would ya?”

  “No, sir! School!”

  “School!” he flared, jumping to his feet. “School! Are you kidding me? Nobody cares about school, Dad! Most of the guys my age have left to work at the plant. The only people left are the dames and the brains.”

  “I don’t care about what anybody else does. You ain’t quitting school! Now get going. You’re wasting time, and I’m not listening to your trash! You’re making us both late!” The situation was teetering off the edge of control. If he didn’t defuse, this would be another blow out. Something he had noticed was occurring more often the last few weeks. “Let’s just calm down…”

  But his efforts were already too late.

  A hot fire leaped into Blaine’s steel gray eyes, and his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down in his neck with thick emotion, like he was swallowing back his fury. His hands were balled into tight fists, the knuckles whitening before David’s eyes.

  “No!” Blaine exploded. “No, Dad! I’m done calming down! You don’t ever listen to me! And now I don’t need you to tell me what to do either. I’ve been taking care of myself for five years! Ever since Mom died.

  “You do remember Mom, don’t you? The woman you buried one day and forgot about the next? You didn’t give two cents then; you don’t give two cents now… other than whether or not I’m late for school! Hang school! – And hang you!” With that he grabbed his blue jeans off the edge of the bed and stalked out of his room slamming the door. On the other side of the door, he could hear Blaine hopping around on one leg, struggling to pull on his blue jeans. He heard the clomp of his boots and the screen door slam. David was left alone in the sudden quiet.

  Quiet. But not peaceful.

  His heart wrenched inside him, and he slumped to the floor under the weight of his anguish. Oh, Emily. Emily, if you were here… His heart wept. But she wasn’t, and he had made a mess of this by himself. The old indignation threatened to swallow him again. See, God? You don’t do nothing but take from me!

  It was the last time he saw his son.

  When David arrived home that night, Blaine was gone, and the note said, “Now you don’t have to worry about me being late to school.”

  CHAPTER ONE

  Boston, November 1950

  “Logan Tower, flight one-seven-November-two-Bravo requesting permission to land.”

  “This is Logan Tower, Captain. You are clear to land.”

  Captain Blaine Graham banked to the left and brought the plane around into position to bring her safely onto the landing strip. The sun filtered over the eastern horizon, reflecting off the water surrounding most of the Logan International Airport.

  It was good to be home again. Blaine had been out on a week long flight schedule and this last flight was an all-nighter. He did love to fly, but after a week of it, he was ready for a rest. Of course, as a pilot, he was “home” so seldom, he used the term loosely. Home was wherever he was sleeping that night. Today it happened to be Boston.

  Within minutes, the plane pulled up to the terminal and Blaine cut the engines. As the passengers disembarked, he and his co-pilot went through the terminating protocol quickly.

  “Long night. Be glad to get home to the wife,” his co-pilot muttered behind a yawn. Blaine stretched his arms over his head then stood, still stooped over a bit, because his full six-foot-three frame didn’t quite fit in the cramped plane.

  “I’ll just be glad to get back to my own bed.” The exhaustion started to set in as he unrolled his white shirt sleeves and buttoned them, then lifted his blazer from its hook and slipped it on. Grabbing his overnight case, he turned again to the other man. “Sounds like it’s empty out there. You ready?”

  “Just let me grab my cap.”

  A light knock on the cockpit door told them the cabin was clear. Blaine ducked out through the little door and came face to face with the stewardess. She smiled sweetly, looking straight into his gray eyes. “It was a smooth flight, Captain.”

  “Thank you.” She was still gazing at him, as if she expected him to say something more. Nothing was coming to mind. Not that he was much of one for talking, but exhaustion made small talk next to impossible for him, and conversing with women had never been one of his strong suits.

  Behind him, the co-pilot seemed to understand his loss for words. “Yeah, ‘Old Cool Hand’ we call him. Smoothest pilot I’ve ever flown with.” He slapped Blaine on the back and a broad grin swept across his face.

  Blaine breathed a sigh of relief and laughed softly with him.

  “Y’all ready?” the dark-haired man gestured toward the hatch and nodded to the stewardess. “After you, ma’am.”

  A brief glimpse of disappointment seemed to flash in her brown eyes, but she hid it well behind her polite smile and led the way down the stairs to the ground.

  “Thanks, man,” Blaine whispered.

  “A brother in need, son,” drawled the co-pilot. “I think she’s got a torch for you.”

  “You think so?” He glanced at her walking a few steps ahead of him. She was a pretty girl. Particularly from this angle.

  His companion poked him in the ribs and chuckled. “Oughta ask her dancin’.”

  The girl inclined her head slightly, as if she had heard the comment. Blaine looked at the ground in embarrassment, though the early morning dusk offered adequate cover to hide him from her view. “Shhh,” he warned, but her pace seemed to slacken, perhaps in hope Blaine would take his co-pilot’s advice. He caught up to her without meaning too, and she fell into step beside him.

  Blaine’s mind whirred frantically. He had spent so little time with women; any proximity to one flustered him. His mother had died when he was eleven. With the onset of puberty, the lack of a female influence had made him awkward and shy with the girls, and his old man had never been any help in any capacity, so he relied on his buddies. Their often misguided suggestions had a tendency to make matters worse.

  The silence seemed to suck the moisture from his mouth. Finally she broke in, “Are you stationed in Boston, Captain?”

  His voice caught somewhere in his throat, so he coughed gently to clear its way. “Yes.” She glanced at him aga
in, expectantly. Blaine hated this part of conversation. If she would just keep asking him questions, he would have something say; otherwise, his mind was a blank.

  “Okay,” whispered the saving grace from his other side. “I know it’s been a long night, but this is ridiculous.” Blaine didn’t know his co-pilot very well. It was only the second time they had flown together, but he had an easy-going confidence with the dames Blaine wished he had.

  “Old Cool Hand here is a smooth fly-boy, but he ain’t so cool with the ladies, Miss Bell,” the man chimed. “I reckon if he could talk, he’d say ‘Miss Bell, I’d sure love to take you dancin’ some time.’”

  The stewardess laughed and played along. “And then I’d say, ‘Why, Captain Graham, I’d be delighted.’” There was a mischievous twinkle in her eyes as she cast a sidelong glance back to Blaine.

  “Well, I’d say that settles the matter. Are you game, Sir?” His companion nudged his arm questioningly.

  Blaine shrugged and offered an uncertain, awkward smile to Miss Bell. “Sure. I’d like that.”

  “You’ll have to excuse him, Miss Bell. He’s a million laughs in the cockpit, but ‘comes downright taciturn whenever he leaves the safety of the flight deck.”

  She giggled again and laid a petite hand on Blaine’s bicep. “Don’t worry, Captain. I’m a wonderful dancer, and I promise I don’t bite.”

  Her lingering touch did little to settle the knots in his churning stomach, and already he was regretting the concession to take her out.

  “So all’s settled but the shoutin’. When and where, Miss Bell?” Fate seemed to be in the hands of the co-pilot now, and his current was sweeping away Blaine’s sense of control. He started to interject, but his two companions stepped closer together to work out the details of his “date.” If there were a guarantee he wouldn’t have to see either of them again, he would duck out now and forget the whole thing.

  ****

  When the taxi pulled up in front of the brownstone boarding house, it was close to eight o’clock in the morning. Blaine’s exhaustion was bone deep, and his movements were slow and deliberate as he slung his overnight bag across his shoulders and dragged himself up the steps to the front door. He rang the buzzer, and waited for the land-lady, Mrs. Callahan, to let him in.

  The old Irish woman broke into a wide grin when she saw him standing in the frigid morning, his breath a cloud of steam against the November chill. “Ah, it’s yerself, is it, Captain Graham? We’ve been missin’ ye ‘round here.” He felt like he would drop where he stood and must’ve appeared as such. “Well, come in, come in! Can’t have ye fallin’ asleep on the stoop now, can we?”

  Mrs. Callahan was a warm, maternal woman; her fiery red hair dusted with a smattering of gray was always pulled up in a loose bun in the back of her head. She ushered him in the house and guided him to his room on the second floor.

  “To bed with ye, Captain Graham, and never fear, I’ll wake ye fer yer supper.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Callahan.” He offered her a weary smile and shuffled into his room.

  “Ah, yer a good lad, Blaine Graham.” She pulled the door closed behind him, leaving him alone in the quiet.

  Her maternal affection always warmed him from the inside out, a balm which soothed his aching soul – the one thing he’d been missing since his own mother’s death.

  Slowly, he hung up his uniform in the closet and changed into a clean pair of pajamas from the bureau. Thankfully, Mrs. Callahan had filled the pitcher with fresh water in anticipation of his arrival. He poured some into the basin and scooped up a handful to wash his face.

  And then he fell into bed. His bed. He sank deep into the feather mattress and pulled the patchwork quilt up over his head, darkening the world around him. Sweet sleep possessed him, to which Blaine was happy to surrender.

  ****

  A steady rhythmic rapping on the old oak door pried Blaine out of a deep sleep. Groaning, he rolled onto his back and pushed the quilt away from his face. The broad daylight streaming through the window blinded him temporarily. He threw back the covers and sat up on the edge of the bed. Rubbing the haze from his eyes with his fists, he called out, “Yes, Mrs. Callahan, I’m up… I’m up.”

  From behind the heavy wood door, he could hear Mrs. Callahan’s thick Irish brogue, “I drew ye a bath, Captain Graham. Th’ water’s coolin’.” Almost as an afterthought, she added, “You might want to hop to it, Laddie, before Old Mr. Hanigan jumps yer claim.”

  Blaine chuckled. “Yes, ma’am! Just you tell that old codger to mind himself.”

  Her throaty laugh echoed back to him. “He’ll mind himself, or he’ll be talkin’ out t’other side of his face. Supper will be in half an hour.”

  From farther down the hall, Blaine could hear the faint sound of Mr. Hanigan’s stern protest, “Madam, I’ll thank ye t’ leave me out of it.”

  Mrs. Callahan’s laugh echoed through the house as she tromped back down the stairs.

  He had to smile as he stood and grabbed his robe. Their playful adversarial banter was part of what made this place home. It was what Blaine imagined a happy family sounded like, a whole family… one that had settled into a comfortable co-existence. And the boarding house residents were his family. At any rate, the closest thing he’d had to it in over fifteen years.

  “I always miss your cooking when I’m flying, Mrs. Callahan.” Blaine finished off his third helping of the tender roasted beef and potatoes and pushed back from the table with a contented sigh.

  “Thank’ee, lad. Yer appetite pleases me considerable. Th’rest of these blokes don’t know how t’ compliment the cook. They eat like birds. Old crotchety birds.” A chorus of protests mixed with belated attempts to favor her cooking rose from the three older men at the table, but Mrs. Callahan just shook her head and replied, “No, no. Yer too late.”

  “It’s getting close to seven. I’ll be going out tonight,” Blaine stated with a glance at the dining room clock, trying to sound nonchalant.

  “Oh?” He could see the gears turning behind her twinkling emerald eyes. The rarity of the event wasn’t lost on her, and she was a quick study. “What might ye be about?”

  “I’m going dancing.”

  “I see. Um… and will there be a young lady joining ye this evenin’, Mr. Graham?” She glanced at Mr. Hanigan, who winked knowingly and chuckled under his breath.

  The suggestion brought a warm blush creeping across Blaine’s face in response. “Yes,” he murmured. “Miss Bell, a stewardess on the flight last night. She’ll be joining me.”

  “Well, then!” Mrs. Callahan clapped her hands together. “Ye best be getting ‘round, says I!” Her delight took him by surprise, but it seemed contagious. Mr. Hanigan grinned and slapped Blaine on the back in congratulations, while the other two boarders nodded their whole-hearted approval.

  Blaine shrugged and rose from his chair. “I’ll just go grab my wallet.” As he strode down the hall and up the stairs to his room, his stomach churned uneasily. It had been a long time since he’d last been out with a woman. How long? Four? Five years? It had been in Italy if he remembered right. Celebrating V-E Day. Everyone was carousing in the streets then – there was a good chance it didn’t actually count.

  With anxiety surging through him, he scoured his room for his wallet, becoming increasingly frazzled in the search. It was just like him to misplace the stupid thing in this situation.

  “Captain Graham?” Mrs. Callahan hollered up the stairwell. “Captain Graham?”

  Hearing the tangible fear in her voice sent a chill down his spine, and he sped down the stairs. “What is it? What’s wrong, Mrs. Callahan?” Her eyes were bugging wide with apprehension.

  “There’s a telegram for ye.”

  Telegrams never carried good news. The war years were too recent, and Mrs. Callahan told him she had held her breath every time the buzzer rang in those days, waiting for the telegram which would finally confirm her worst fears of the fate of her only son. That te
legram was delivered six years ago, but the residual effects of that one delivery haunted her still.

  She stood beside the courier with her hands clasped together over her mouth. Her eyes glistened with the threatening tears and burned with fear into Blaine’s face.

  He approached the uniformed man and took the envelope from his outstretched hand. The man’s face was emotionless, revealing nothing, but the intensity of Mrs. Callahan’s concern transferred to Blaine. He ran his free hand through his sandy blond hair and stared at the envelope in his trembling hand.

  “I’m sure it’s nothing,” Mr. Hanigan intoned.

  “Just open it, lad,” encouraged another boarder, Mr. Casey.

  Blaine glanced from one face to another, then peeled the flap open and read the message silently. When he looked up again, all their eyes were glued to him for his reaction. An uncertain grin spread across his face as he folded the telegram and put it in his pocket. “Mr. Hanigan is right. It’s nothing. Nothing to be concerned about, Mrs. Callahan.” He cleared his throat and averted his eyes to the old grandfather clock. “Well, I need to be going… How do I look?”

  Outside on the front steps, he pulled the paper out of his pocket again and tried to absorb the words printed there.

  His father was dying. He wanted him to come home.

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  Table of Contents

  Beguiling Bridget

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen