by Jina Bacarr
‘Gosh, Kate, you’re making me crazy. I’m going to miss you so much. Pilot training is over a year.’
‘You’ll be home on leave.’ I can’t wait much longer to tell him what awaits him. He doesn’t know he’ll be called to Washington to join the OSS at the last minute.
‘It’ll never be long enough. I hate being away from you.’
‘Me, too,’ I say between kisses. ‘There are so many like us, waiting for this war to end so they can be together. We’ve got to do our part. For me, I have to stop you from getting killed.’
‘What are you talking about?’ he asks, puzzled.
I kiss him long and hard, forgetting about playing a blushing bride-to-be, and showing him how much he means to me. Then I’ll tell him about the letter here in our house, the place I hope to return to when I go back to my own time. For fate won’t be so cruel as to keep me here in this time if I don’t change the past, make me relive every painful year, every moment without him.
He’ll come home after the war and we’ll have all those wonderful years together. Children. Here in this house. I feel him go completely still as he returns my passion, his good boy behavior gone. I let my body go limp, enjoying how his lips find mine in a hot kiss, arousing something in me I can’t stop. We kiss and kiss… I forget where we are… I put off telling him about the letter as a ghostly, deep chill permeates the closed-up house and makes us hold each other tighter, his body covering mine. No one has lived here since Jeff was a boy and the house creaks and groans as if waking up from a hundred years’ sleep.
That doesn’t stop my pulse from speeding up. I stroke his cheek gently. ‘Let’s not break all the traditions,’ I say, catching my breath. I have to remain in control of the situation. ‘Why don’t you show me the rest of the house? Then we’ll… talk,’ I tease him.
‘Now?’ he croaks, jamming his hand through his hair and making it stand up.
‘Yes, my love.’ I run my fingers up and down his muscular arms. I feel him shiver. ‘Now.’
It’s amazing how powerful anticipation can be. My poor darling unbuttons his topcoat and tosses it on a brocade covered divan the color of sweet maple and draws the blackout curtains. Not before I peer over his shoulder and catch the view of the river in the moonlight from the front parlor, its multi-framed windowpanes so clear I swear I see through time. Nothing has changed. The open field along the riverbank looks the same back in my own time. At least it did on my last trip home for cherry harvesting.
We both stop to listen when we hear the shrill whistle of the train in the distance, most likely a convoy train carrying men and supplies. Shining its bright bream of light as it flies through the night. I look at Jeff with a longing that speaks of my love for him. A train brought me here, a train will take him away. His face holds no knowledge of what’s to come.
Tell him before it’s too late.
I have time. My mind snaps back to the moment when he turns on a lamp with a rounded mosaic shade. I had no idea that before tonight he readied the house for us to live in after we’re married. The electricity is turned on. We keep the lighting minimal, the mood romantic. I link my arm through his and Jeff takes me on a tour of the country style home that has stood here for over a hundred and seventy years.
I never dreamed of a house like this. Deep-colored, wooden floors that shine like copper pennies stained with cherry juice. Luxurious rugs with intricate patterns are a focal point in the main rooms furnished with antique pieces of furniture I’m afraid to sit on. A large kitchen with modern appliances in a pleasing buttermilk tone and a bathroom with a claw foot tub and fancy spigots.
I marvel at the walls with the original paint. A smoky blue that deepened with age but retains a certain calmness. I resist the urge to gaze into the gilt-framed mirror hung over the fireplace. Tempting, but afraid of what I’ll see. A woman about to lose her love. The man who towers over me, boldly confident in everything he does, but not afraid to show his tender side and to admit when he’s wrong.
I enjoy the moment, the thought of living in this house tugging at my heart in ways I can’t put into words. Not that I don’t love our old clapboard house, but this will be my realm. Like Ma rules hers with Pop at her side. Now I understand the sense of female empowerment she enjoys in her home. How it gives her purpose and makes her whole. I envy her that.
I’ve spent twelve years trying to find it behind a typewriter. Not that I don’t love my job, writing my stories about the delights of food and the fascinating people who create those dishes occupies a special part of my soul. Yet I never dreamed I could have a home with a man who loves me and someday children, a place where a woman can live happily… it’s too much. I can’t lose that chance, not now. Not after I’ve come into my own. Found that special place where in the midst of war, peace is mine. Indulgent, yes, but if my plan to save Jeff goes wrong, this night will be the memory that lasts me till the end of my days. No way am I going to give it up. The man I love has never left me. I think often of that day when we were kids and he slid down the bannister and into my life. His expression didn’t falter then and it doesn’t now when he kisses me again and I let go with a deep sigh. He takes that as a sign I don’t want him to stop. That I want him to make love to me.
‘I always dreamed it would be like this, Jelly Girl,’ he says biting my ear with a playful nip.
‘Me, too, Jeff.’ An undeniable ache builds low in my belly, making me squirm as I take off my red coat but I stop there. For all my big talk – and I’m no prude – I’m afraid to let myself go. That undressing in front of this man will seem more like a striptease than a soon-to-be-bride giving her man her heart and body. Jeff will never understand a saucy bra strap dipped over a bare shoulder or a bottom leaning over and wiggling out of cotton panties. Because back in this time, a girl doesn’t do what I’m doing. Well, she does, but no one talks about it. I’m nervous; I’m not ashamed of my body – I forgot how flat my tummy is and my breasts are high with pert nipples – but fidgety with worry about how this will turn out. I’m breaking every rule, not only changing the past, but changing my life. My body. I’m willing to take the risk.
Jeff has no qualms about undressing in front of me and he’s magnificent.
Oh. He takes my breath away when he unbuttons his shirt, revealing his bare chest. He lays me down on the divan and presses his body against mine. What I’ve dreamed about for so long is revealed to me when I run my hands up and down his strong body. A male dripping with raw sex appeal with every defined muscle. Broad shoulders. Flat stomach, lean hips that move with the grace of a jungle cat. Long, muscular legs. There are no walls between us as he holds me tighter. He doesn’t grab me roughly as a young man wild with desire might, but aligns my body to his, pressing himself against me just enough to make my toes curl. He has the presence of a man who knows women, knows what they want, and his earthy scent confirms it.
I stifle a groan. We never got this heavy before. He draws in a sharp breath. I feel my blood rising to flush my cheeks already hot from the fire. Yes, we fooled around in the private office in the bank, but not like this. We never rubbed our bodies against each other. Never let it go this far. Maybe this is a mistake. Maybe it’s better for him to keep the illusion of his Jelly Girl. I’m playing with an eternal fire – ignited by the friction of our body heat – that has haunted me for years. Kept me awake at nights.
Sweat trickles down my spine. I can’t give him up now, but every good-girl instinct Ma ever taught me urges me to put a stop to this madness. He wants me and I’ve waited for so long, I don’t stop him when he puts his hand under my gown and touches my bare skin. The instant skin against skin contact brands me his. He exhales loudly and stops. The pressure of his fingers against my inner thigh intensifies the delicious arousal of our senses, but he goes no farther. I understand what’s happening here. We’re both waiting.
Daring the other to cross the line we haven’t done before.
Jeff groans, then looks at me with those smolde
ring, wanting eyes, giving me a heart stopping glimpse into his soul. His gaze never falters, but I see a tenderness in those eyes that assures me he’ll hold back, wait till I’m ready. I don’t know how long I can stall him while I suffer the anguish of whether or not to go through with this insanity, my emotions riding wave after wave of excitement, then exhilaration. Still, I hesitate. Do I even have the right to decide for my younger self?
I know what I want, always have. Him, taking me as his wife in the most precious way, but my younger self wouldn’t dare cross that line before marriage. Again, I’m at war with the girl I was and the woman I am now.
The question is, who will win?
21
I don’t want Jeff to get the wrong idea about me, but when he’s under fire from the enemy or holed up in a French farmhouse trying to elude capture by the Gestapo, he’ll remember this night. A night with a woman who adores him, wants him. Who never stopped loving him. Even if he doesn’t have a picture of me in his wallet, he’ll have one in his heart.
I want that picture to be the girl next door. A girl he can be proud of and respect. I make my decision because it’s the right one. I can’t make love to him. Not here, not now. Yet I fear I’ve already gone too far. The hunger in his eyes is so intense, the deepening fire in those eyes dominating everything in the room with a hypnotic spell he can’t break, much less understand.
‘You’re so beautiful, Kate.’ The words come out husky, yet filled with a reverence that surprises me. He doesn’t make a move to go any farther, moves I know so well from nights filled with passion. Nights when I tried to make myself believe I was in love with the man trying to please me, when all the time I pretended that man was Jeff. A short lived pang of guilt shoots through me because I never gave them a chance. Because no one can take his place in my mind.
And now he’s here, leaning over me, his muscular frame overpowering me with his masculine presence. He’s holding back, barely. Waiting for a signal from me. I can’t. I lie here and stare at him. Memorizing every sculpted plane of his broad chest, those strong arms bulging with muscle when he flexes his biceps, folding his hands behind his head, his glance penetrating, questioning, while he tries to decide what to do next. His flat stomach rippling, and that face. Awestruck. The deepening fire in his eyes dominating everything in the room with a hypnotic spell that even he can’t break, much less understand.
I want you, Jeff, yes, but we have to wait. Oh, you don’t know how much I want to marry you.
I mouth the words, for I’m afraid if I speak them aloud, it will break the spell. We’re here together on the soft divan in a house where patriots’ boots once trod in their pursuit of freedom. I seek freedom, too. From the pain that has consumed me for so long. I arch my back to quell the sensation, pleasurable as it is. The reaction on Jeff’s face sends me farther along on my way to losing control. I almost change my mind, abandon my plan of self-righteousness for the overwhelming temptation of a riotous ride with him kissing me, touching, probing. Sending me to a place so long denied me. Hot tears well up in my eyes. I teeter back and forth in my mind for arduous seconds, my body aching for fulfillment. Sweating. Eyes misty.
Jeff isn’t helping, panting hard, his bare chest shining with sweat. He’s a man in need of release, but his love for me makes him refrain from going any farther. The hot desire in his eyes gives him away, but he doesn’t push me. The way he holds me when he pulls me into his arms is protective, noble. My heart swells. I never loved him more than I do at this moment.
I want us to embrace our union of man and woman when it’s right, in the future. There’s only one way I can make that happen. I can’t wait any longer to tell him about the letter before we both lose control and do something we regret.
‘Jeff, there’s something I want to tell you.’
‘I know, Jelly Girl. I’ve known for a while.’
‘You do?’ He isn’t making this any easier for me, kissing the back of my neck.
‘What you got me for Christmas. Socks, right?’ Breathing hard, he holds me tight and I study his face burning a golden bronze against the flames in the fireplace, his eyes penetrating, questioning, while he tries to defuse the situation with a light moment and quell his passion. I sense he’s accepted what I didn’t put into words. That we have to wait. ‘Every soldier going overseas gets socks.’
‘What if I told you I know things about this war others don’t?’ I ask him.
He looks at me strangely. The hollows in his cheeks deepen, his eyes flutter, like he didn’t sleep a wink last night. ‘Snooping at keyholes again?’
‘No… and it’s not because I watch the newsreels every Saturday. I know what’s going on over there. How our government has been sending tanks, guns, and ammunition to help liberate France. That will happen in August which means France is a dangerous place for anyone working with the underground… like a pilot who could be shot down.’
I let my voice drift off, as low as the whisper of an angel on the holiest of nights, expecting him to say something. He doesn’t move, but snuggles me in his arms. I wait for him to refute my words, challenge me, demand to know where I get these insane notions. There’s enough truth in what I’m telling him reported in the newspapers to make him believe me.
I saw a small column on the front page earlier about how the German high command believes an invasion is coming from England. A hint at the upcoming Allied advance on the beaches of Normandy on June 6, 1944.
The bigwigs in Washington need intelligence to make that plan work. No wonder they pull Jeff out of flight school and plunk him down right in the middle of a nest of Nazis.
I rack my brain on how much to tell him. What if my plan doesn’t work and he’s captured and tortured by the Gestapo? In my awkward attempt to warn him, I may have planted a seed in his brain that will be his undoing. How can I explain to him he’s in danger?
Jeff is strangely quiet. He must think he’s marrying someone else, not his Jelly Girl. That I’ve morphed into a different woman. My emotions rule me when I’m nineteen, setting my body on fire whenever he touches me, kisses me. I know nothing of the world or the workings of the war machine of Washington. My emotions also rule me now, but the stakes are higher. I’m sweating but the primal need burning low in my belly has turned cold. Making love to him isn’t on my mind. I’m desperate to save him. In doing so, I can lose him.
I shudder as if I’ve jumped off a precipice, thinking I can fly. I went straight down into the abyss and I’m still falling. My mind tells me I’ve gone about this all wrong, that presenting facts to this man is plain stupid. Most likely, he’s been briefed in Washington and knows more than what I laid out. I have to try another approach, but what?
My guilt for having said too much is surpassed only by my cowardice to nudge him and ask him his thoughts. I cuddle up against his chest, waiting for him to say something. Anything. I notice his breathing is slow and steady. Is he thinking about what I said? Or is he upset with me and he wants to break off our engagement?
The embers in the fireplace are still warm. A shiver makes me tremble. I pull away from him and smile when I see his eyes are closed. A loud, mood shattering, beautiful snore breaks the silence.
I smile, then kiss his lips and take up my position cradled against his chest. Lovely, just lovely. He’s fast asleep.
I doubt he heard a word I said.
Jeff is gone.
I awake with a start and feel the empty space beside me, the divan cover wrinkled and cool to my touch. His body heat long gone. The fire smolders, giving off little warmth. I fell asleep. The last thing I remember is rifling my fingers through his hair, enjoying looking at him, when I drifted off into a Neverland and floated through one beautiful dream after another. Jeff kissing me… touching me… when the first sprinkle of dawn dances over my eyelids in spite of the blacked-out windows.
I jump up, smooth my gown, and pace around the room, every nerve in my body alert. I try to shake off this groggy feeling. I can’t. Where
is he? Does he regret bringing me here? Or did something else happen? Has what I feared come true? What I dread, what I can’t face. That somehow I’ve come back to my own time?
I run outside, throwing my red coat over my gown, leaving it unbuttoned, eager to see if the landscape has changed. If the dirt road has become a highway or houses have been built. I see in the daylight what I couldn’t see in the dark last night. It strikes me with awe. The early morning sun tints the windows with a light shimmer, the wind sweeping over the grassy lawn, sprinkling dew on its shiny blades of grass, while a pink-gray sky slowly peels off the black glove of night holding it tight in its fist. As far as I can see – over beyond the woods, then down the dirt road leading back here to the stone house – nothing has changed.
My heart beats faster when I see Jeff standing by the river, tossing stones into the rippling water. He hears me approaching, but he doesn’t turn around.
‘Someday I want to redesign this house with big picture windows in the back so we can sit here every night and watch the river,’ he says, his voice deep and heavy with emotion.
I smile. So that’s why he added it to the drawing.
‘Swirling with rough whitecaps in the winter,’ he continues, ‘and smooth and calm on a warm summer evening.’
‘Sounds wonderful, Jeff.’ I link my arm through his. ‘I’d like that, too.’
I don’t tell him the house sits empty for over a decade, overgrown with weeds and time. I never forgot how we’d drive by the place in his roadster and he talked about the good memories he had here. Over the years, the tall oaks held their place like good soldiers, their limbs bending under a great sadness. The leaves falling from the trees scatter as quickly as they fall, as if they can’t bear to linger in a place where there’s no life, no hope.
I came here after we got the news about Jeff being killed. I walked and walked for what seemed like hours after Mrs Rushbrooke threw me out of the memorial ceremony. I didn’t know then that he planned for us to live here, but I was sure this was the house in the drawing he did of me. It was a good walk from the mill, but I remembered the way. I didn’t dare get too close, fearing Mrs Rushbrooke would get me for trespassing. I had a special feeling about the place back then. Like I could hear Jeff’s faint voice in my ear, telling me he loved me. Now I know why.
