Sean stared at the piece as she gently laid it on the table next to his hand… which slowly coiled into a fist and withdrew. He sat back, hands in his lap, and looked toward the front door. As if contemplating leaving the restaurant, leaving her.
Okay, not exactly what she planned. “I’m sorry, Sean. I didn’t mean… Mitzi…” She closed her eyes. I’m botching this. “I never meant…”
He shoved it back across the table. “Keep it.” He tossed down a twenty and pushed to his feet. “I need to get back.”
“Wait.” She grabbed the pendant and her bag then hurried after him. “Sean, wait.” She caught up with him at the bike as he stuffed on his helmet. “Stop doing this, Sean. Stop shutting me out.”
Swinging his leg over the back of the bike, he shoved his gaze in her direction. “Trust me, it’s better this way.”
Jamie stepped to the bike. Placed a hand over his on the gear. “No. No, it’s not.” She waited till his gaze met hers. “Trust me.”
Again, he looked away, tormented. “That coin… it means things. Things I don’t believe in.”
Incredulity gripped her. “What? Like love?”
He held her gaze for a moment then quietly said, “Yeah.” He revved the gear, severing any reply. And hope.
Sean watched as Jamie walked out of the garage after their impromptu lunch. Her shoulders sagged, drawing him after her. Sun streamed down, drawing a line of demarcation between the darkness in the shop—in my life—and the world, life. Love. The thought stopped him cold at the wide-mouthed entrance, watching. Head tucked, she wiped her face.
Tears?
Something inside him knotted. What kind of guy makes a girl cry? But that pendant, knowing his aunt had held on to it for almost forty years, knowing its legacy… he didn’t want anything to do with it. And yet, when he’d told her to keep it, that he didn’t believe in it or the legacy… he’d never forget the pain gouged in her beautiful brown eyes. The gold flecks that normally sparked like glitter lost their luster.
You’re a heel.
Just like Dad.
Sean rubbed the back of his neck. Riddled with guilt and confusion, he headed to his apartment and locked the door. There, he dropped against the bench to the total workout system and cradled his head. The waters of his life trembled, slowly heating till they worked into a boil.
Over the next hour, he took out his frustration on the lat bar and the leg press. Still thrumming with frustration, he grabbed his hoodie. A run was the only way to clear his mind when he was this addled. He snatched his keys—and when his gaze hit the unopened letters, he froze.
He’d stopped reading them. They’d overloaded him with guilt and feel-good stuff he just didn’t know what to do with. He lifted one, thinking about the times he and Jamie sat on the bench facing Bow Bridge and talked about the letters.
One of the only times in his life when things felt right. Quiet… peaceful.
Sean stuffed a letter in his pocket and set off. As if one of the magnetic poles of the earth had shifted, his body kept aiming toward Central Park. Sean corrected course. He wouldn’t go there. Wouldn’t give her false hope. Wouldn’t bait himself with seeing her. Beautiful, warmhearted, and sweet, she saw past his scars. Past his grouchiness. What was with her showing up today? Seeking him out. His heart had clawed its way into his throat when he spotted her walking across the grease pit in her soft, pink coat. Him a grease monkey. Her a beauty. Like water and oil.
“What are you afraid of, Sean?” Her words snaked through the budding branches swaying overhead. Only as he noticed the branches did he realize where he was.
He stopped short. How did he get here?
“Why did you come?”
The soft words slapped him in the gut. He turned and saw Jamie on the bridge. Her eyes were puffy and red-rimmed. His wince couldn’t be helped—he’d made her cry. Seeing her like this, seeing the strong woman who’d braved his backlash reduced to tears…
I’m a coward.
“If you don’t believe in love, why come?” Her words cracked.
Breathing deep as his heart rate settled, he made his way toward her. Palmed the rail of the bridge. “There’s not much I believe in anymore.”
“That’s a shame.”
Gaze on the blue sky and cotton-ball clouds, he nodded. “Yeah. I know.”
Jamie stood beside him, back against the rail. “What do you believe in then?”
“You.” The word escaped so quick, he wondered if he’d really said it. But the way her gaze snapped to his told him he had.
“What do you mean?” Voice as small and squeaky as a mouse, Jamie shifted toward him.
Yeah, what did he mean? “I don’t know.” He ground his molars. “I come from bad stock, Jamie.” Man, it felt worse than breathing mustard gas. He didn’t want her to misunderstand. This wasn’t about pity. It was about protecting her. “I don’t want to hurt you. Besides, you deserve someone better.”
“What if I don’t want someone else?”
He cast her a sidelong glance.
“I know you’re hurting,” she said. “I know you’re transferring that hurt, that pain, to me.” She slowly shook her head, the long dark strands curling and bouncing. “But Sean, I’m not going anywhere. I know where I belong.”
It felt as if someone had detonated a brick of C4 in his chest. Run. It was his only thought. His feet burned to pound the pavement again. His heart throbbed, panicked at the thought of giving this a shot.
Jamie grinned.
Disoriented by her smile and unwavering stance, he barely noticed her pluck something from his pocket.
“Another letter? Shall we read it?” She took his hand and led him to the bench.
But Sean had this deep foreboding that she was leading him to a much different place… a terrifying place.
Love.
Chapter 8
Songbirds chirped overhead in the freshly budding branches of the trees. Jamie couldn’t help but draw a parallel to what was blossoming between her and Sean. It wasn’t that he didn’t like her. She was certain he did—a lot, which scared him. While she didn’t know all of his past, she knew it was painful enough to force Mitzi to hide her identity and relationship to him. Painful enough to divide siblings.
Unfolding the letter, she focused her attention on the words, not on Sean, who had yet to join her on the bench. Maybe it was too much like yielding, something she was certain he rarely did.
Lord, give me wisdom. Show me how to reach past his fears, his pain, to his heart.
She scanned the words. “It’s from your grandfather, but…” Jamie went to the next page and drew back. “Wow. The date—oh my!”
“What?” Sean eased down next to her, leaning in to see.
“This is a letter from World War Two.”
Sean took the letter. Bent forward, elbows on his knees, he started reading. “This is my great-grandfather. I was named after him.”
“Sean?”
A cockeyed grin. “No, my given name is Henry William, but mom hated the family names, so she called me Sean.”
“So, what’s it say?”
“He’s writing from ‘Somewhere in France,’” Sean said. “‘Dear Helen'—that’s his sister—'Just a quick note while I have a chance. Wanted to let you know I ran across someone who knows Bernie. Amazing thing that—imagine of all the people I run into. But it just reminded me… I need to thank you for all you did for me, Carl, and Lois—for taking care of us, for protecting us. The things I’m doing here remind me of your sacrifice. And boy, do I sure know I gave you a run for your money as a lad….’”
TO SING ANOTHER DAY
by Kim Vogel Sawyer
Dedication
For Mom,
whose faith could move mountains
[Charity] beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things.
Charity never faileth.
1 CORINTHIANS 13:7–8
Chapter 1
New Y
ork City, September 1941
Henry, are you upset with me?” Helen Wolfe held her breath as she waited for her brother’s answer. Henry’s pose—elbows on knees, head slung low—indicated sadness. Henry was a good boy, helpful beyond his years, but at fifteen his moods were often mercurial. Although in the past she’d reprimanded him for moodiness, she wouldn’t blame him if he spouted angrily at her now.
Slowly Henry lifted his head and met Helen’s gaze. “I don’t like it. Wish it didn’t have to be. But…” He released a deep sigh. “I understand.”
Helen’s breath whooshed out in an expulsion of mingled relief and regret. She leaned forward from her perch on the red velvet sofa. Reaching across the expanse of faded cabbage rose carpet, she grasped Henry’s hand. They both squeezed hard—a silent communication that spoke more eloquently than words. Tears stung Helen’s eyes. Henry’d already lost so much. This wasn’t fair, but what else could they do?
“I’ll get it back for you somehow.” She stated the promise with more confidence than she felt.
Henry nodded then pushed to his feet, releasing Helen’s hand. “I’ll fetch it.” He scuffed from the parlor, his heels dragging over the scarred pine floorboards that led to the bungalow’s bedrooms.
Helen covered her face with her hands, fighting tears. She wouldn’t cry. She wouldn’t! Would tears bring back Mom and Dad? Of course not. Would tears make Richard change his mind and marry her? No. Tears fixed nothing. They served no purpose except to frighten her younger brothers and sister. She drew in fortifying breaths, and when Henry emerged from the hallway, she was sitting upright, her chin high and her eyes dry, although her insides still quaked.
Henry pressed the twenty-dollar gold piece into her palm. The engraving glared up at her, accusing her with its message: “Love never fails.” She certainly felt like a failure, taking Henry’s inheritance—his only belonging of value—from him.
Closing her fingers over the coin, she rose and wrapped one arm around Henry in a fierce hug. Then she stepped back and assumed a brisk tone to conceal her inner heartache. “Check on Lois if I’m not back in an hour, and give her another dose of tonic.” The medicine stifled the child’s cough enough to allow her to rest, and rest was important the doctor had said.
“I will. Don’t worry.”
“I’ll put supper on the table when I return, so tell Carl to stay out of the icebox.” Their twelve-year-old brother would devour the entire baked chicken in one sitting if Helen let him.
“I’ll tie it shut if I have to.”
Helen headed for the pegs beside the front door where her knitted cap and scarf hung next to Mom’s old wool coat. Outside the oval window, rain fell in a drizzly curtain. Helen grimaced. The heavy coat would do little more than absorb the moisture, but she had no other covering, so she tugged the plaid wool with its round wooden buttons over her simple cotton dress and covered her curly hair with the bold red cap. Her hand on the doorknob, she sent Henry one more sorrowful look.
Henry waved at her, scowling. “Just go already.” Then his lips quirked into a grin. “Hope you get a lot for it.” His bravado pierced Helen more deeply than pouting or fury would have.
The coin in her pocket, she set out into the dreary late afternoon.
Bernie O’Day swished the feather duster over the shelves climbing the wall behind the tall wooden counter of his family’s pawnshop. His pop had dusted twice a day—once before opening and again before closing—and Bernie followed the familiar routine partly out of habit, partly because it felt right to do what Pop had done.
He whistled as he worked, the tune for “There Is Power in the Blood” warbling from his pursed lips. Pop’s whistling had been clear and sweet, where Bernie’s sometimes hit a sour note or rasped into breathy blasts, but there wasn’t anyone in the shop to complain, so he continued onward to the chorus. With each shrill hoot for “power,” he gave the stiff feathers a sharp flick. By the time he finished, the rows of the little ceramic figurines and gold-plated statues stood completely devoid of so much as a speck of dust.
Satisfied, Bernie wheezed out the final note and plunked the duster under the counter. He glanced at the pendulum clock tick-tocking on the wall. Three more minutes till closing. His stomach rumbled in readiness. But even though he hadn’t seen a customer all afternoon, he wouldn’t put out the CLOSED sign one minute early. Pop had instilled a solid work ethic in Bernie—“Always stand true to your word, son, and you’ll never have reason to hang your head in shame.” The painted sign above the plate-glass window of the O’Day Pawn Shop stated HOURS: 9:00 AM TO 6:00 PM MONDAY THROUGH SATURDAY, and he’d honor the hours, just as Pop always had.
At one minute till six, Bernie removed his bleached apron and hung it neatly on a hook on the back wall. Then, sliding his hand over his short-cropped hair to smooth the strands into place, he headed for the door to lock up. Just as he turned the cardboard placard hanging on a string inside the door to CLOSED, a young woman in a rain-soaked plaid coat and bedraggled knit cap trotted to the opposite side of the glass door.
Her gaze fell on the sign, and her blue eyes widened into an expression of panic. Then her shoulders wilted, and she turned away, shoving her hands deep into the pockets of the threadbare coat. Her dejected pose stung Bernie’s heart. Without a second thought, he gave the brass lock a twist and flung the door wide, causing the little bell above the door to clang raucously. The girl spun around, her rosy lips forming an O of surprise. Brown curls framed her cheeks, which were pink from the cool breeze.
Bernie smiled. “Did’ja need something?” He suspected she could use a new coat. He had several from which to choose, and he’d make her a good deal.
She pointed to the little sign. “Aren’t you closed?”
“Haven’t locked up yet. C’mon in.”
Uncertainty marred her brow. She hunched into her soggy coat and nibbled her lower lip.
Bernie held the door wider. “At least get out of the drizzle for a minute or two. You look chilled all the way through.”
A shiver shook her frame, and it seemed to spur her to action. She darted forward, scooting past him into the store. Bernie let the door close then turned to face her. She stood rooted between aisles, dripping, her hands clasped in front of her. “I’m sorry to be so late,” she said, her voice very prim although it quavered slightly. “It took longer to walk than I thought it would.”
Bernie offered a smile, hoping to put her at ease. “No need to apologize.” From the looks of her, she’d covered a fair distance in the rain. He wondered why she hadn’t taken a trolley. Quicker—and drier—than walking. Her drooping curls and waterlogged coat gave her a sad, waiflike appearance that stirred his sympathy. He gestured to the stove in the far corner of the room, where a few coals still glowed in the round belly. “Why don’tcha move closer over there—warm up a little. Then you can tell me what you’re shoppin’ for. I got pretty much anything a person needs.” Pop had prided himself on their wide array of merchandise. Bernie felt certain whatever the girl needed he’d have it.
She hung her head, toying with one limp curl. “Actually, I’m not here to make a purchase. I… I’d hoped…” Her voice trailed away, and she stared off to the side.
Since she still hadn’t moved toward the stove, Bernie headed in that direction. To his relief, she scuffed along behind him and released a little sigh when she reached the warmth radiating from the black iron. She stood stiffly beside the potbellied stove, her arms folded over her ribs. He waited, but she didn’t speak.
Leaning his elbow on the counter, Bernie assumed a casual air he hoped might put her at ease. She seemed as skittish as a newborn colt. “What is it you’re needing today, miss?”
She jerked as if roused from a sound sleep. Her hand slipped into her pocket, and she withdrew a round gold coin. “I need to sell this.”
Bernie pinched the coin between his thumb and finger and held it to the bare bulb hanging overhead. The Liberty twenty-dollar piece had been rubbed nearly
smooth on the front side, and someone had carefully engraved the words “Love never fails” in an arch on the upper part of the coin. Below, “W.W.” and “Central Park” filled the bottom half. Bernie rubbed his thumb over the engraving, his brow puckered.
“William Wolfe was my grandfather,” the girl said. She bobbed her chin toward the coin, her eyes shining. “He gave this coin to my grandmother as a token of his affection after fighting in the Civil War. It’s been in our family for almost a hundred years.”
Bernie wondered why she would part with it when the coin clearly meant a great deal to her. He turned it over to examine the back side. The tips of the eagle’s wings were marred by some sort of grayish blobs. Bernie angled the coin toward the girl. “What happened here?”
“My father soldered a pin back onto it so my mother could wear it as jewelry, but the fixture fell off. Does… does that diminish its value?”
Bernie hated to tell her a defaced coin held little monetary value even without the lumps of solder on its back. He rubbed the coin between his thumb and finger, trying to decide what to say. Then, without conscious thought, he blurted, “Why are you selling it?”
The girl ducked her head, her cheeks flooding with color. “To be honest, Mr. O’Day, I’m sorely in need of the funds. My sister has been ill for over a month. I had to quit my job to take care of her, and the doctor bills have eaten up what little reserve I had in my bank account.”
He wondered why she was caring for her sister. Where were her parents? But he decided not to be nosy. He’d already made her uncomfortable with his blunt question. He stepped behind the counter and pulled out his cash box and pad of tickets. “I tell you what… Since this is a twenty-dollar piece, I can give you a straight trade—twenty dollars for the coin. Does that sound reasonable?”
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