Haven Point

by Virginia Hume

  Maren tried to draw Oliver out on his family and life before Walter Reed. She wasn’t sure if he was reticent or private, but he provided scant details. She learned he was raised in Boston, that his family had a summer home in Maine, but little else before he steered the conversation in another direction.

  He wasn’t animated, precisely, but he seemed as interested in her thoughts as she was in his, and listened in his intent way to her observations. It was a nice turn of events. The few men she’d met in Washington cared little for the opinions of a twenty-year-old woman.

  Eventually Dorothy and Michael found them, and they headed to Delano Hall. To Maren’s dismay, just as they reached the dormitory, Caroline Sturgeon approached along another path. She had Juliet Gibson in her wake, a plain, dull-witted girl from Maryland who thought Caroline was the pinnacle of taste at Walter Reed, a one-sided adoration that was the only possible explanation for their friendship. Caroline’s eyes narrowed as she saw them.

  “Hello, girls. Hello, Dr. Demarest,” Caroline said in her grating voice.

  “Hello, Nurse Sturgeon, Nurse Gibson,” Oliver said politely, and introduced Michael.

  “Have you heard about the ball at Delano Hall next weekend?” Caroline asked. She cocked her head and smiled up at Oliver.

  “We have, thank you,” Oliver replied. “We will be there.”

  “I hope you’ll save me a dance,” Caroline said. Dorothy nudged her foot against Maren’s, a gesture of solidarity.

  When Juliet went inside, Maren hoped Caroline would follow, but she lingered, forcing Dorothy and Maren to say their good-byes in her presence.

  “Thank you for taking us to the pictures,” Maren said. She looked Oliver in the eye and extended her hand.

  “Thank you for joining me.” Oliver took her hand in his. Maren noted with pleasure his use of “me,” rather than “us,” implying the previous three hours had been more date than group excursion.

  “I’ll see you again soon, I hope. At the ball, certainly,” he added. Maren felt Caroline’s eyes on her and could do nothing more than nod and smile in a way she hoped was encouraging.

  When she and Dorothy reached their room, Maren went to the window to lower the shade, and paused to watch Oliver’s tall form disappear into the darkness.

  “I think he liked you,” Dorothy said.

  “Do you?” Maren turned to face Dorothy. She felt uncertain.

  “I do. Oliver has lovely manners, but if he wasn’t interested, he would have come up with some excuse to end the evening after the picture, so he could go home and stick his nose in a book. He’s terribly hardworking and serious. His brother Daniel is just the opposite. They’re different as chalk and cheese.”

  Dorothy’s words squared with Maren’s observations. He did seem kind, but serious, too. And so much older.

  “Could you believe Caroline?” Dorothy asked as she unrolled her stockings. “She told Mary Grady she joined the Cadet Corps hoping to marry a doctor. Imagine her disappointment when she discovered most of them are old civilian grandfathers. Except Oliver, of course. I’m sure she’s after him. She gives us all a bad name with her scheming.”

  Sleep did not come easily for Maren that night. While she found Caroline’s behavior distasteful, she was a bit in awe of her single-mindedness. Maren was artless, in her way, but she’d had her fantasies through the years, fueled by Clark Gable films and her beloved nineteenth-century literature. At their center was always some handsome, cultivated man.

  She knew real life wasn’t like films or novels. Romance sometimes needed to be helped along, but she had never had to throw out lures. How did one capture the attention of a man ten years one’s senior, one from a completely different world?

  She had no idea, but for the first time in her life, she wanted to find out.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Maren stood at the bedside of Private Brian O’Neill, nearly overcome by the pungent odor of decaying skin. No matter what the burn unit nurses said, she would never grow accustomed to this smell. They had suggested menthol under the nose, but it barely helped.

  Private O’Neill had had the good fortune to live through his tank being hit by a shell, but he was otherwise the unluckiest of soldiers: both amputee and burn victim. His leg was blown to pieces below the knee, and his left arm was burned from the shoulder to the tips of his fingers.

  But for all this, he was still a flirt. Everyone adored him.

  “Hello, Nurse Larsen,” he said, looking her up and down. His smoke-damaged voice was still thin and raspy, even weeks after his injury. In his Boston accent, her name sounded like “Lah-sen.”

  “Hello, Private O’Neill. How are you today?” Maren smiled indulgently and forced herself to master her stomach.

  “I’m fine, now you’re here. Care to give a poor burned, legless soldier a kiss?”

  “You’re not legless, Private O’Neill. You still have that one over there, on the other side.” Maren pointed over his stump to his remaining leg.

  He faked a look of confusion then pretended an idea had come to him. “Okay, then. Care to give a poor burned one-legged solider a kiss?”

  Maren laughed and blew him a kiss.

  “When are the other nurses coming?” Brian asked. His light tone, Maren knew, masked great apprehension at the excruciating pain he endured when the burn unit nurses removed unhealthy tissue from his arm.

  “They won’t be here for a bit, Private. You can rest easy.”

  The field surgeons had done their best with Brian in primitive battlefield conditions. They’d amputated below the knee, casted his leg, and sent him home. When he continued to suffer infections and pressure sores, the surgeons at Walter Reed had to amputate again, this time above the knee.

  The scarring on his arm was so thorough, his fingers appeared webbed. If he lived, which remained an open question, the doctors would spend months just trying to separate his fingers enough to bend.

  As Brian was a burn patient first, he was kept in the hot rooms of the burn unit. Maren had been dispatched from the amputee unit to care for his leg wound. It was meant to be a two-day rotation, but it was obvious to everyone that Brian’s mood lifted when Maren was around. The ordinarily austere and rule-bound Nurse Blair, who oversaw the cadets, had altered the schedule to let Maren attend to Brian as much as possible.

  Maren had always feared the burn unit—its smell and damp heat, and the disfigurement and suffering of the patients. The doctors and nurses there were serious and sober, almost clannish. They ate together in the cafeteria and spoke in hushed tones, on and off the unit. They had an almost spiritual devotion to their patients and to one another.

  She was still in awe of them, but helping Brian had buoyed her. Until now, she had not done anything at Walter Reed that any cadet could not have handled. The fact that her particular efforts seemed to raise the spirits of one precious patient suited her innate desire to find meaning in her work.

  “Will you write a letter for me?” Brian asked. Maren fetched a paper and pen and sat in a chair next to his bed.

  “Dear Mother,” he began. “I am sitting here with my wife-to-be.…”

  Maren put down the pen and looked at him, amused and exasperated.

  “I’m just trying to cheer her up!” Brian said. His mother, a widow, was home in Fall River with a passel of younger children. She could not visit, but Maren knew from reading her letters to Brian that she was worried. Maren smiled and waited.

  “Okay, sorry,” Brian said with a smile. “Just say I’m better, and you’re all taking good care of me here.”

  The burn unit nurses arrived just as Maren finished. Brian stiffened when he saw them.

  “Will you stay, Nurse Larsen?” one of the nurses asked. Maren agreed, and held Brian’s good hand until they finished their ministrations.

  He finally fell asleep, as he always did after the ordeal. As Maren was leaving the unit, she caught sight of the clock and groaned. She had left herself little time to get ready for t
he ball that evening.

  I’ll bet Caroline Sturgeon’s been at it for hours, she thought as she raced out the door.

  She was out of breath when she reached her room, certain she could never be ready in time. Dorothy, typically efficient, was already in her burgundy sheath dress.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll help,” Dorothy said, reading her mind. She handed her a towel, and Maren quickly showered.

  She had put her hair in pin curls the night before, but most of the waves had been defeated by the humid air of the burn unit. Dorothy helped her clip back one side with an elegant rhinestone barrette.

  She quickly stepped into the pale blue dress Dorothy had insisted she wear. It was lovely, with an organza A-line skirt and off-shoulder portrait collar. She put on her lipstick, smacked her lips, took a quick look in the mirror, and they headed downstairs.

  The ballroom’s parquet floors gleamed, and the sounds of the musicians warming up their instruments bounced off the high ceilings. Entertainment for most dances consisted of one of the more musical nurses playing on the baby grand piano in the corner of the ballroom, but tonight they were to enjoy a real dance band. Nurses stood in clusters, chattering excitedly and admiring one another’s dresses.

  With the rush behind her, Maren felt some restraint of spirit. Even as the guests began to arrive and the band finally struck up a number, Maren felt as if some part of her was still back in the burn unit with Brian.

  The room filled with the lush voice of the singer, a voluptuous redhead with a lovely contralto, and a young soldier approached Maren and asked her to dance.

  “I’ll just say I’m sorry now,” he said as he led her onto the floor. “I’m a terrible dancer.”

  He was not being humble, Maren discovered, but what he lacked in skill he made up for with energetic enthusiasm. By the time the song ended and he escorted her from the floor, Maren had begun to enjoy herself.

  She stood talking to Dorothy, casting the occasional furtive glance toward the door, looking for Oliver. Just as she had begun to worry that he would not come, he appeared at the entrance, dazzling in his dress uniform. She had not laid eyes on him all week, except one brief sighting in the hallway. He had been in earnest conversation with several other doctors but caught Maren’s eye and smiled.

  His glance swept the room and stopped when it reached Maren. Her heart fluttered as he headed in her direction. Out of her peripheral vision, she saw another soldier taking steps toward her, but she kept her eyes determinedly on Oliver, and the young man turned to another nurse instead. By the time Oliver reached her, Maren’s heart was pounding.

  “Will you dance, Maren?” he asked in his mild way, smiling down at her.

  As they walked onto the floor, Maren bade a silent thanks to her mother for insisting she take dance classes. It took her little time to realize, however, she need not have known how to dance at all. Oliver guided her through the foxtrot with ease, the slightest pressure of his fingers on her back signaling their next move.

  “How is Private O’Neill?” he asked as they glided across the floor. As a surgeon, Oliver would be familiar with the case, but his question suggested he was aware of Maren’s unofficial role as Brian’s private nurse.

  “As well as he can be. He’s dear and brave and everyone adores him.”

  They talked about Brian and other hospital news, but Maren was so consumed with the sensation of his arm about her waist, she could barely keep up her end of the conversation. She had never felt her movements so anticipated and synchronized. Even with the rigidly determined steps of the dance, even in this crowded room, Maren felt an abandon, a sensual pleasure entirely new to her. When that song ended, the band struck up Glenn Miller’s tune “A String of Pearls.” Oliver kept her on the dance floor.

  His nearness, the rhythmic song, the contrast of the men’s formal uniforms to the swirling skirts and gaily arranged hair of the nurses, all acted as enchantments. Maren felt transported, completely relieved of her earlier mixed feelings. As the song came to an end, Oliver leaned toward her, his mouth near her ear.

  “They are circling,” he whispered. She looked around and saw several men, apparently eager to cut in. With his thumb and index finger, Oliver lifted her chin and locked her in eye contact.

  “I don’t think I’m ready to release you yet, if you don’t mind.” He smiled. She nodded. Seeing the pair was unlikely to present an opportunity, the competitors gave up, and Maren and Oliver danced until the band took a break after a few more songs.

  In the absence of music, Maren’s mood began a descent to earth, but remnants of euphoria lingered as they headed for the refreshment table. Oliver filled glasses of punch for them, and two more when Michael and Dorothy approached. They had a few pleasant moments before Caroline appeared. Juliet was by her side, wearing a poufy pink dress and her usual daft expression.

  “That woman is like a homing pigeon,” Dorothy whispered. Maren felt the spell begin to break. The conversation began congenially enough, but Caroline could not leave feathers unruffled for long.

  “This music is wonderful. They remind me of a terrific dance band we have in Philadelphia.” Caroline turned to Maren. “I imagine this is a far cry from entertainment in Minnesota.”

  “We do have dances in Minnesota, Caroline,” Maren said. She did her best to hide her impatience.

  “Really? I am trying to envision a big band out in farm country,” Caroline replied, tilting her head as if Maren were a fascinating anthropological specimen.

  “Well, it might be hard to imagine, but so it is.” Though her resolve to remain in charity with Caroline was fast dwindling, Maren managed a little shrug and smile, then turned to Dorothy and began to speak. Caroline would not be put off. She interrupted before Maren could finish a syllable.

  “Really, Maren. I’m dying to hear. Where does one even hold a dance in Ada, Minnesota?”

  Maren’s temper flared. “Why, we just throw open the doors to Daddy’s barn. It is so dreamy.” Maren elongated her Os in an exaggerated Minnesota accent and widened her eyes in her best country-girl-in-the-big-city impersonation.

  Caroline raised her eyebrows, obviously gratified to have provoked her, and Maren immediately regretted the outburst. Oliver looked amused, but Maren felt certain such childishness would only highlight their difference in age. She resolved to be more careful. Caroline, however, had no such compunction. When the music started up again, she parried with another tactic.

  “Dr. Demarest. It’s a Ladies’ Choice dance. Shall we?” Caroline held her hand out to him.

  He assented politely and led her to the floor. What little was left of Maren’s exhilaration was gone. Dancing in Oliver’s arms, it was easy to believe his attention toward her was special, but watching him move across the dance floor with the abominable Caroline Sturgeon reminded her how sought-after he was. She felt as if she were swimming far out of her depth.

  The moment that song came to an end, a sweet-faced young soldier asked Maren to dance. After that, another took his place, and then another. She caught glimpses of Oliver, first at the refreshment table, then talking with some other doctors, and then dancing with Dorothy, who attempted to angle him in her direction, but was thwarted by the crowd.

  After nearly an hour of this, Maren extricated herself from the dance floor. A few nurses stood near a potted tree by one of the ballroom’s tall windows. Maren tucked behind them and sat on the low windowsill, hidden from view by the plant and the shimmering skirts, safe from requests to dance. The window, slightly ajar, admitted the cool night air. She leaned back, closed her eyes, and breathed in, trying to conquer what felt like irrational disappointment. After a moment she sensed a presence, a shadow blocking the light.

  “I hope you aren’t hiding from me.” Maren opened her eyes to find Oliver standing over her, hand outstretched. She took it and let him pull her from her perch.

  “Are you too tired for another dance?” he asked.

  “Not at all. I was just getting a lit
tle air,” Maren answered, forcing her voice to rally. She was pleased he’d come to fetch her, but the previous hour’s insecurities were still fresh.

  He led her onto the floor as the singer approached the microphone. When the band played the first notes of “When the Lights Go On Again,” the dance floor quickly filled. The song had become an instant anthem when it was released the previous year. Its lyrics spoke to the great yearning for an end to war, painting a tantalizing picture of a day when the boys would finally be home again, when there would be time for love and a return to simple pleasures. The singer performed without affectation, allowing the words and melody to deliver the sentiment.

  As Maren and Oliver moved wordlessly around the dance floor, she felt a tension in his arms she’d not noticed earlier. He pulled her tighter, and she felt his breath on her ear.

  She tried to imagine how he felt—his brother fighting God only knew where, and the war’s most appalling consequences paraded before his eyes, day after day.

  How he must worry, Maren thought.

  She allowed him to hold her closer than she was accustomed to, closer than she would ordinarily allow.

  * * *

  The following day, Maren raced through her duties on the amputee ward so she would have time to visit Brian. One of the burn unit nurses had told her in passing that he had spiked a fever and passed a difficult night. When she finally reached his side, he smiled weakly.

  “Hello, beautiful,” he said, his voice even thinner than usual.

  “Hello, Private O’Neill,” she replied. “How are you feeling?”

  “Not real well,” he said.

  Maren sat and took his good hand in her own. What was it about hands that made them so personal? Brian’s was thin and freckled, his youth evident in its smoothness. He was just eighteen, after all.

  Feeling sad for him, and more worried than she thought she should be, she released his hand and attended to his bandages. When she finished, he indicated a book by his bedside.