by Cat Gardiner
“I finally decided to take a chill pill about the whole thing. If it makes him happy, then it makes me happy. Mimi would have wanted it that way. Anyway, the more I thought about it, his relationship with Louise doesn’t take away or diminish the memory or love he shared with my grandmother. How about you and the issue of William being the first and maybe even the most powerful, influential love of your grandmother’s life? Are you reconciling with the fact that Lizzy might renew their romance if given the opportunity?”
“I think so. In hindsight, I see that what she had with my grandfather, special as it may have been, wasn’t that kind of consuming passion we all secretly desire. Your great-uncle may have been that to her, but maybe your great-grandfather separated them.”
“We all secretly desire?”
“Yes, all of us. Recently, I’ve come to learn that true love can come when people least expect it, and a guy can’t help to feel that tugging of his heartstrings no matter how hard he tries to fight against it.” He raised an eyebrow and she deliberately looked away, taking another swig of her soda.
“What’s that on your lap?”
She picked up the letter. “It’s her last letter to my uncle before Christmas in 1942. She tells him that he is her light and her life. Isn’t that romantic? To be loved so much, to be thought of so highly that someone proclaims you are their life?”
“It is, but that’s what true love does, I think.”
“Not in 1992, and who are you kidding, you don’t really believe in everlasting love in today’s society any more than I do.”
“You’re wrong, Julie. I believe in love and so do you. You’re just gun shy, as was I up until about a week ago.”
“Perhaps.” Avoiding his heated gaze, she faced back toward the mountain and took another sip of her Coke.
Jack smiled knowingly, reflecting on how hours before when their small plane to Sitka hit a rough patch of turbulence, she had jumped into his arms. If she was truly immune to her feelings or what was developing between them, then she wouldn’t have remained in his embrace with her back against his chest afterwards, while reading a People magazine. His arm had stayed firmly wrapped in place around her small waist.
Silence settled between them on the porch until Jack rose and stood before her, blocking the view of the setting sun. Juliana quizzically furrowed her brow when he removed the soda from her hand, placing it on the table.
“What are you up to?” She asked, laying the letter beside the can.
He took her hand in his and with one swift pull, tugged her up from her seat, her slight body crashing into his hard chest. Their faces were mere inches from each other as she gazed into his hooded eyes. His hand smoothed down her spine until his palm rested at the small of her back, and he gently pulled her against him. She smiled in knowing anticipation and her heart skipped a beat when he smiled back teasingly, raising his eyebrows. His nearness felt so good, close but not crushing. It had been way too long since she allowed herself this rush of feeling for any man, the anxious prospect of their first kiss surging her already rapid pulse. Her breath hitched when he lowered his lips to hover above hers, his warm, spearmint aroma mixing with her sweet soda pop scent.
He whispered, “Don’t fight it, Julie. Kiss me.”
She did. Her lips touched his with soft tenderness. There were no tongues, wild sucking or out of control, raging impetuous passion. There was only the undeniable acceleration of her heart beat from the sweetest of kisses. Sparks collided, then traveled the length of her body. This was, without a doubt, the best and purest kiss she ever had given or received.
When their lips parted, he said, “Thank you. May I have another?”
Feeling strangely unfettered, Juliana chuckled and ran her hand up his chest.
The sun had just set leaving the sky aflame with deep orange and purple casting an erotic feel to the night. There was no denying her attraction to him and she couldn’t fight it any longer even if she wanted to. With their second kiss, she banished some of her fears, giving in to what she really wanted. Exploring with tentative tongues, they breached their united flesh, searching and playing in delicious unison as their mouths claimed one another.
Covering her one hand upon his chest, Jack entwined his fingers with her other at their side, holding her fast. She moaned under the pleasant assault of his molding lips and she pressed against him even further, reveling in the securing connection. His intention had taken on a physical form, that they were now a couple, inseparable not just in this journey but also for the unknown journeys ahead, their lives intertwining.
After a few minutes, their passionate kiss was growing too intense. A battle of opposing wills erupted within her, reason and logic fought with her body further warring with the promptings of her heart, each having its own agenda. She wasn’t quite psychologically ready for what her body wanted to do. Two kisses weren’t enough to vanquish eleven years of emotional insecurity, and a roll in the sack would only complicate things, confusing her even more. She pulled away.
“That was lovely,” she murmured across the short distance she had made between them, their hands still connected.
He suddenly became worried. “Too much? Too soon? Did I scare you?”
“No, the kiss was just right.” She leaned in, closing the space between them again and rested her head upon his shoulder. “I’m just afraid of what comes next. Right now my heart and head are conflicted and well … you know.”
“I understand.” Jack tilted her chin upward to gaze into her eyes. “Do you know why I’ve become a romantic?”
Juliana shook her head.
“It’s because of you. This crazy, hopeful search of yours for something so beautiful and everlasting has opened my eyes. Your romantic heart has opened mine.”
“Me? Romantic? You’ve got the wrong girl.”
“I don’t have the wrong girl. Julie, I’m falling for you. I have fallen for you. Before you, I’d never met a woman with your purity of heart, someone willing to search for the most important truth in life—to love and to be loved. I know you are worthy of that kind of happiness because you are as gorgeous inside as you are out.”
Wow … what could she say to that proclamation?
“I want to believe that because … because I’m falling for you, too. Can we just take this slow?”
“As slow as you need or want. I’ve got all the time in the world to show you how special and worthy of love you are. You have my word—I’ll never hurt you or abandon you. I intend on proving to you that a romance like Ducky and Pistol’s can happen in 1992, too.”
~~*~~
Will arrived back at the cabin late Sunday night after flying McCarthy up to Anchorage. Even the sun had finally set and by Sitka time, it was well after eleven when he closed the door behind him, glad to be in his peaceful sanctuary. Coming home was always a pleasant, comfortable feeling. Alaska was honest and pure living for him, without pretense or outlandish affluence. Sitka, in particular, with its rich cultural heritage and broad tolerance was void of societal or religious expectations. Even attendance at Shul was in a makeshift building on Friday nights, and he liked that for the times when he couldn’t make it up to Anchorage for the more traditional services.
The bad news of McCarthy’s unsuccessful surgery and the physician’s declaration of “two, three months at the most,” had left Will bone tired and emotionally spent. Resting his overnight bag by the door, he gave the narrow hall table, and the stacked mail upon it, a quick dismissing glance as he tossed his keys into the hulled wood bowl. Ginny was always so careful to organize his mail for him. She had learned early on that, for reasons he avoided explaining, his mail was important to him. Tonight, it would wait though. His heart felt heavy and his eyes even heavier. He just needed to unwind a bit before going to sleep.
The spacious open plan of the main floor was dark, allowing a clear view of the Sound beyond the floor to ceiling windows, the full moon illuminating the calm sparkling water. Mount Edgecumbe l
ooked to be barely a shadow on the horizon. An empty wine glass and a dish of half-eaten quiche still sat on the coffee table and a balled wool blanket lay at the edge of the sofa. He frowned thinking Ginny obviously didn’t expect him to arrive home tonight. She often came to house sit in his absence, but her mess—at least tonight—was an unwelcome sight.
He heard her classical radio station one flight above in the loft. “Gin? I’m back.”
She peeked her head over the balcony. “Oh! Hi Will. I didn’t expect you until tomorrow. How did everything go?”
“I’ll be up in a few to tell you.”
“Do you want me to come down?”
“No, I’ll be up soon. I need to unwind first. It was a rough flight, and you know how that unnerves me. Thanks for staying at the house while I was away.”
“Sure. I look for any chance to get out of that flat of mine.”
He walked into the kitchen with her plate and glass, placing them in the dishwasher with strains of Chopin drifting down from the upper floor around him. Silence was preferred, but at least it was soothing to his inner disharmony. The rawness he felt tonight would require more than a beer to assist his mental decompression. He poured himself a much needed double shot of scotch.
Drink in hand, he eased open the sliding door to the deck, then stepped out into moonlight. He stood on the deck listening to an unseen owl hooting from the forested acreage behind him until stone silence fell. Ruminating, the events of the last two days occupied his mind until he heard nothing else, not even Chopin.
“Life is short,” he spoke aloud, remembering McCarthy and Margie’s tears and the way their hands remained clasped on the way home.
His mind drifted, as it had all too often over the last couple of days, but tonight, his buried recollections took form. The desperation that Margie felt when all hope seemed lost brought forward dreadful memories from January of ’43. He vividly remembered waiting for mail call at Rougham Air Field in England, when that panicked feeling overtook him, that Pistol had done the unthinkable—moved on. That same blistering anxiety was germinating again tonight, anticipating Alan’s packet to arrive any day.
Penetrating winds whipping the dreary cold rain of Suffolk couldn’t release him from waiting for the sergeant to call out his name. The boys of the 322nd stood beside a metal nissen hut, seemingly unperturbed by the weather or the wait as they anticipated letters from home. Hell, he’d wait at attention for hours if it meant receiving one small letter containing even one brief line from Lizzy. “I’m safe. I love you. I miss you.” That was all he wanted, just reassurance but none had come for four weeks now. He knew that it wasn’t the military’s fault, knowing that mail hadn’t been misdirected. Rocco, the PPL’s navigator from the Bronx, had received a letter from his sister, replied, and had already gotten back a response. So what was Lizzy’s excuse? He couldn’t help fearing the worse. She either had bad news about his family in Paris and was avoiding telling him or she had dumped him. Maybe her father even had his hand in their separation, all three possibilities causing a fear in him disrupting his core stoicism, obsessively tormenting him.
Searching his mind for fortitude, he referenced the 322nd’s motto “I fear none in doing right,” but the words were an empty platitude as he stood there waiting. He needed to hear from his sweetheart, to know that his girl was safe and still his.
The last letter in the stack was called by the sergeant, and the recipient wasn’t “Martel.” The disappointment was immense and he wanted to hang his head and cry, but shook it off when McCarthy slapped his back in his familiar fashion.
-C’mon. Let’s go make a record.
-A record? What’a you talking about?
-Yeah, there’s this dishy British bird over at the Red Cross Club at Rattlesden and she suggested we stop by to record one of those Letter on a Records. You can send one to Pistol and by the tone of your sappy voice, she’ll be writing you in no time.
-We have a practice mission at 16:00 hours.
McCarthy winked. -Stick with me, Skipper. I’ll have us back in no time.
An hour later at the nearby RAF airfield, Will was approaching the “dishy” blonde whose pleasant smile did nothing to quell the pain in his heart.
The woman stood beside the entrance to a small booth. -Go ahead, Lieutenant. It’s very simple, really. When I close the door you should begin speaking into that microphone so that your voice will be cut into the record.
He looked at her dubiously. -Into a 78 rpm? Me?
-Yes, you. Your girl back home will love you for it. It’ll be like you’re there with her, and don’t you worry about a thing. I won’t be listening.
Will ran his finger under his collar, afraid that he might say the wrong thing. If Lizzy was mad at him for unknown reasons, he didn’t want her to snap her cap at something he said in a wrong way but, by G-d, he was resolute to say what he should have said in October. The woman closed the door and motioned to him through the glass to begin speaking. He was tentative at first, holding back, then finally, removed his service cap and placed it on the small counter before him. He leaned toward the silver microphone.
-Um … Hi Lizzy. It’s me Will. I bet it’s a shock to the ticker to hear me on this 78 but the Red Cross volunteer said that it would sound just like I was home. It’s probably as scratchy as that old Ink Spots record we listened to at Rosebriar.
He broke out into a sweat and wiped his brow, watching the black lacquered record go round and round below the needle.
-I’m recording this from England where I’ve been for four weeks now. The weather hasn’t been too good, but thankfully, my squadron is still in training. The Marauders have yet to show off what we can do.
-I miss you, and I hope you miss me, too. The thing is, Pistol … I’ve been writing you and haven’t heard back since before I left Christmas week. I know there was a delay in my getting a letter out to you, but it took some time to embark, paper work and all that, then flying out and the whole process upon our arrival into the Eighth Air Force. The last thing I received from Glen Cove was your Christmas card and the letter the week earlier letting me know you had the stomach flu. I hope you’re feeling better and that everything is okay on Long Island.
Tilting his head, he surreptitiously looked to see where the Gray Lady was now seated at a small desk, then he moved closer to the microphone.
-Lizzy, I’m desperate, baby. I’ve tried everything to get to you, even writing my parents and Louie asking them to write to you. It’s not going into battle I’m afraid of, it’s that something has happened to you. I’m terrified that … that we’re through … that you’ve found another fella and given me the heave ho. Say it ain’t so, because I don’t think I could survive it. I love you. I know I should have asked you before I left, but I was chicken. I wanted to get everything in order for you, for a life with you.
He took a deep breath, looked out the glass again, and dropped to his knee in the small booth. -Will you marry me as soon as I come home? Will you be Mrs. Martel forever, till the end of life’s story?
He rose and gripped the arm of the microphone, the hardboiled Army pilot now reduced almost to tears.
-Please write me. Just two words, Pistol. The only two words I hope to hear from you: I will.
It was many more long minutes in the dark with his scotch before he stepped back inside to look at the mail, something niggling in the back of his mind, gnawing at him.
As Will drew nearer, he could see the edge of the large white envelope taunting him. The bold blue F of FedEx stuck out like a sore thumb. With a tentative hand, he slid it from the bottom of the pile. It was from Alan Gardner. Although thick and tempting, he hesitated. He obviously found her. Now what are you going to do? Can you really go back in time? Do you really want to?
Standing in front of the native Tlingit carving on the wall, he ran his finger along the edge of the envelope, flicking the paper tab back and forth. Pull it. No, don’t pull it. Not tonight. No, he’d wait, of course
he would. The phone call was too impetuous, too spontaneous. He had to think of the road ahead if he pulled the cord to the envelope. This was one packet that needed all his attention. Besides, he still had to talk to Ginny and it was best that he gave her his answer before reading the contents of his lawyer’s findings.
He carried the envelope out onto the deck with him, settled back into the Adirondack chair, and nursing his scotch, stared up at the millions of stars. Most were simple pinpoints of distant light but there were just a few that twinkled brightly. They always called to mind a pair of sparkling green eyes and from there, those twisting lips of cherry bomb sweetness. Denial was fruitless. After fifty years, he was still in love with her and over the last two days, she was all he could think of. When McCarthy got the news that the cancer had spread everywhere, his mind had gravitated to life and death, and how he didn’t want to leave this world without seeing her—or loving her—just one last time.
His fingers tapped the strip seal of the FedEx envelope, and he spoke to himself. “What if she’s dead? Can you deal with that? What if she’s alive and still married? Can you deal with that? You’re not twenty-one any longer, even if you feel like it. What if she doesn’t like who you have become?” He looked down at the dark shadow of his floatplane docked at the pier. It was in need of a tune-up. That should take him a good two days to accomplish while he mulled over the ramifications of opening the packet. Tossing the envelope onto the table beside him, he said, “Foolish whim. This’ll come back and bite you in the ass. Just like seeing her in ’49 did. Loving her that one last time nearly did you in.”
“Did you say something, Will?” Ginny asked appearing on the deck, disturbing his privacy.
He turned to see her all bundled up in one of his sweaters, and he smiled thoughtfully. She was a pretty woman with a wonderful heart and a great sense of humor, but she wasn’t Lizzy. She could never be his Pistol.
“Hey, Gin. Listen … we have to talk.”
