Sentimental Journey (Home Front - Book #1)

by Barbara Bretton

  She was still asleep, her breathing soft and sweet in the quiet room. Gingerly he sat up, shivering in the cold morning air. The wounds on his chest burned and it took all of his strength to sit up straight, what with the way the room was spinning.

  So how could it hurt, staying there one more day? By tomorrow he’d be back on his feet and he could find himself a place to finish getting well. Besides, this was Christmas, and for once in his life he was going to spend Christmas with a real family—even if that family didn’t belong to him.

  * * *

  Catherine awoke with a start a little after seven. For a few seconds she couldn’t place her surroundings or remember why she was sleeping curled up on the armchair in the living room. The tree loomed in the half-light filtering through the draperies, and the gaily wrapped packages stacked beneath the boughs reminded her it was Christmas morning.

  The events of the previous day rushed back at her. The knock at the door... Johnny sprawled across the welcome mat... the miraculous letter from her father. She would almost believe it had been a dream if it wasn’t for the fact that Johnny was sound asleep on the sofa a few feet away from where she sat. She smiled at the way his covers were tangled around his legs and torso. She padded over to where he lay and smoothed the blanket and quilt back into order. His breathing was even; that labored sound of the night before was gone, and his forehead was cool to the touch.

  “You’re going to be just fine,” she whispered. He was young and strong and she was determined enough for both of them.

  * * *

  Eight o’clock mass was crowded with familiar faces—the Dustins, the O’Learys, Rose and Agnes Schellenbarger from the newspaper store at the corner. Everyone offered a smile and a holiday greeting.

  Rose cocked her head to one side and looked closely at Catherine. “Is there a reason for that smile on your face, or is it just the holiday spirit? I do hope it means you’ve heard from your dear father.”

  Catherine felt her smile widen. “Not only have we heard from him, but his letter was delivered by special messenger.” She told them the story about finding Johnny on her doorstep and finished with a rousing version of his heroism.

  The two sisters crossed themselves. “Saints be praised,” said Agnes. “It’s good to hear some happy news.”

  Before Catherine had a chance to think, she found herself inviting the elderly women to the house for eggnog later on. And as if that wasn’t enough, she invited Father O’Herlihy, the Dustin family, the O’Learys, and everyone within earshot.

  What was the point of having wonderful news if there was no one to share it with? It had been years since the house had been filled with friends and family, singing carols and sipping eggnog and arguing over the turkey roasting in the oven. That was exactly what they needed: a real old-fashioned celebration.

  She flew home, scarcely noticing the cold winds and the snowy streets. A lovely rich bread pudding—just the thing to tempt Johnny’s appetite and fill out the hollows in his cheeks. Of course her mother was probably already up and, if she knew her, scrambling some eggs for their unexpected guest.

  As she turned onto Hansen Street, clear winter sunlight sparkled against the crusty snow, crisply outlining walkways and steps and the bare branches of oak trees spreading their limbs toward the sky. Why hadn’t she noticed lately how beautiful this street was? She felt as if she’d been walking through fog, and now that fog had lifted and she was able to see—really see—for the first time.

  The storm had passed during the night and the sky was a clear deep blue frosted with wisps of pink-tinged clouds. Peals of laughter rang out from down the block as the Bellamys’ four grandchildren piled onto their new bright red sled and skimmed down the quiet street.

  She waited, expecting that old familiar ache to clutch at her heart, and when it didn’t, her own laughter rang out into the morning air.

  “Hey, Cathy!” The oldest Bellamy grandchild waved a mittened hand. “Merry Christmas!”

  “Merry Christmas, Frankie!” She smiled at the kids as they skidded to a stop at her feet. “Looks like Santa was good to you.”

  “You bet!” The boy yelped as his younger brother pelted him with a snowball. “Want us to give you a ride?”

  “Maybe this afternoon,” she said, wrapping her scarf more tightly about her throat. “My mom’s making breakfast. I’d better get inside.” She escaped just as the Bellamy grandchildren launched the first full-fledged snowball attack of the season.

  Even their front door looked wonderful and she gave the brass lion’s head door knocker a playful tweak on the nose as she entered the house. Christmas carols sounded from the radio in the living room, and she slipped out of her coat and was about to yank off her boots when she heard a commotion upstairs. Quickly she tugged off her overshoes, then dashed barefoot up the wide wooden steps.

  To her surprise, Eddie Martin greeted her in the upstairs hallway.

  “Breakfast! I clean forgot you were coming over.” She patted his arm. “I promised you French toast, didn’t I? Well, let’s go downstairs and—” She stopped, taking a closer look at the man in front of her. He didn’t look happy. “What gives?”

  “Mr. High and Mighty, that’s what.”

  “Johnny?”

  “That’s the one.” Eddie made a sour face. “Just tried to give the guy a hand...” His voice drifted away and she noted two scarlet patches blazing on his cheeks.

  “Where is he?”

  Eddie tilted his head toward the bathroom door. “In there. Les Weaver’s helping him.”

  “Uncle Les?” She frowned. “They weren’t coming over until this afternoon. You’re a strong guy. Why didn’t you—”

  “Don’t you listen, Wilson?” His tone was harsh, unlike him. “He told me to get out.”

  “I don’t understand.” The last time she saw Johnny, he’d been sound asleep on the sofa, weak and sick and docile as a kitten.

  “Yeah, well, neither do I.” Eddie gave her a curious look. “What’s he doing here, anyway?”

  She told him.

  “When’s he leaving?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Why don’t you call the hospital? Maybe there’s room for him.”

  “He doesn’t need a hospital, Eddie. He just needs some old-fashioned TLC.”

  “That’s why God made hospitals.”

  “Good Lord, Eddie! What’s with you? The man is injured. He’s a war hero, for heaven’s sake. Can’t you show some compassion?”

  “I don’t like him.”

  “That’s obvious.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m funny that way. I usually don’t like people who don’t like me.”

  “Johnny doesn’t know you well enough to like or dislike you.”

  “Wrong again, Wilson. He knows I’m not in the army. That seems to be enough.”

  She forced a laugh. “Now come on, Eddie. I doubt he asked to see your dog tags.”

  “He didn’t have to. I’m healthy, over twenty-one, and dressed in civvies. Call it a lucky guess.”

  They heard water running in the hall bathroom and the sound of male voices talking sports. She sat down on the top step and motioned for Eddie to sit next to her. “Want to tell me about it?”

  He sank onto the step. “Not much to tell. Your mom was making breakfast. She took me into the living room and introduced me to Danza. We were having a pretty good talk about the Dodgers, about your dad, then Weaver showed up and the conversation turned to the war—and that’s all she wrote. I was done for.”

  She felt as if she were skating on thin ice. She liked Eddie very much, but there was something about Johnny that had stolen a piece of her heart. Gently she placed a hand on Eddie’s wrist. “He’s not well,” she said, her voice soft. “Dr. Bernstein has him on medication.”

  Eddie shook his head. “That’s not the problem.” He met her eyes. “We both know what it is.” His sigh filled the hallway. “And he’s not the only one, Cathy. I could tell you some stories...�
��

  She listened as he told her of the growing resentment against young men who were not in the armed forces. Fistfights, shouting matches, canceled dates and ruined parties—and that didn’t include the simmering angers hidden in people too well-bred to acknowledge them.

  “I don’t feel that way, Eddie.” She clasped his hand in friendship. “I know how hard you’re trying to make the grade.”

  The bathroom door opened.

  “Clear the way,” hollered Les Weaver. “War hero coming through.”

  Eddie muttered something under his breath and disappeared down the stairs. Cathy stood up and smoothed her red corduroy skirt. She mustered up a smile. “Heading back to the living room?”

  Les appeared in the bathroom doorway with Johnny next to him. Johnny’s hair was shiny and neatly combed off his face. He had on a pair of blue flannel pajamas and he looked both embarrassed and pleased.

  “Bravo,” she said, grinning at him. “I’d forgotten how tall you were.”

  He smiled back at her. “I guess I spent most of yesterday flat on my back, didn’t I?”

  “Come on,” said Les, pretending to stagger beneath Johnny’s weight. “Let’s get this young man set up, why don’t we?”

  “The living room’s going to be like Grand Central Station in a little while.” Catherine thought of the score of neighbors she’d invited over for eggnog. “I can’t believe I did something so foolish.”

  “Hey, look. I don’t want to put anybody out. I could always—”

  “Be quiet,” she said, sounding frighteningly like her mother. “We’ll put you in my room.”

  Both Johnny and Les Weaver stared at her as if she’d danced out on stage at the Folies Bergères in her underwear.

  She threw back her head and laughed. “Don’t look at me like that, you fools! I’ll move into the sewing room.”

  “Put me in the sewing room,” said Johnny, who was starting to look a little ragged around the edges. “I don’t want to put anybody out.”

  “The sewing room is on the first floor,” she pointed out. “Every time you need the bathroom, you’d have to climb the stairs.”

  “I’m not an invalid.”

  “For the time being you are.”

  “I’m going to be an invalid if we don’t put this boy somewhere soon,” Les Weaver pointed out. “I’m not as young as I used to be.”

  “Follow me.” Catherine bustled past them and hurried down the hall. “He’s going in my room and that’s it.”

  Adeste fideles

  Laeti triumphantes...

  Johnny lay in Catherine’s narrow bed later that afternoon and listened to the sounds of Christmas floating up from the first floor of the Wilson house. Laughter. The tinkle of glasses raised in toasts. Voices raised in song. He heard all of it, let it drift over and around him until it seeped through his pores and into his bones.

  You could almost pretend there wasn’t a war going on.

  He turned on his side and winced as arrows of pain shot through him from the shrapnel wounds on his chest. Almost, but not quite. Oh, it was out there, all right. Superfortresses and tanks and bullets. Blood and broken bones. Telegrams home saying, “We regret to inform you...”

  Jingle bells, jingle bells

  Jingle all the way...

  When they’d first told him he could go home on furlough to recuperate, he’d been ready to strap himself to the wing of the first plane out. He didn’t care if it was heading for Florida or the frozen harbors of northern Maine. He was going home.

  And then it had hit him: he had no home. There wasn’t anybody back there waiting for him to walk through the front door, drop his duffel bag by the coat closet, then bound into the kitchen in search of a home-cooked meal. All the way across the Atlantic, sitting in the bowels of a transport plane with a group of other scared sick GIs, he’d wondered where he would go when they landed in Delaware. He was in worse shape than he’d been in the hospital outside London. They hadn’t cured him; they’d only diverted the symptoms, and those symptoms jumped on him as he rode the train up to New York. Had they managed to discover the secret he was keeping, he’d have been given his honorable discharge on the spot. Uncle Sam didn’t have a hell of a lot of use for a soldier with an arm that didn’t always do what he wanted it to. “Shrapnel’s caused nerve damage to the muscles in your forearm,” the sawbones in England had said, shaking his head. “Permanent most likely. Best learn to live with it.”

  He could live with it, all right, if the damn fever didn’t kill him first.

  If he’d had half the brain he was born with, he’d have gotten off that train and checked into the nearest hospital.

  What he did, however, was stay on that train all the way to Grand Central Station. There was one thing he had to do no matter what: deliver Tom’s letter to his family. Once that letter was safely in Mrs. Wilson’s hands, then he’d worry about the fact that he was sick as a dog.

  O holy night

  The stars are brightly shining...

  Well, he’d delivered that letter, all right—and delivered himself right into the middle of the Wilson family’s Christmas celebration. Johnny Danza, the kid who’d spent his life on the outside looking in, was in the one place he never thought he’d be—Catherine Wilson’s bedroom.

  Not that he hadn’t spent a few sleepless nights imagining what it would be like to have a girl like that to call his own. And he’d sure as hell imagined what he’d do if he ever found himself in her bed. The only trouble was, none of those daydreams had him in her bed while she enjoyed a Christmas party half a house away.

  That’s what you get, Danza. Even in his fantasies he couldn’t quite bridge the gap between who she was and who he would never be. The kind of guy Catherine Wilson would love was blond and blue-eyed. A guy who played tennis instead of stickball and read the New York Times rather than the sports pages of the Daily News.

  A guy exactly like the guy smiling at him from the framed picture on Catherine’s frilly dressing table.

  “So you’re Douglas,” he said, with a mock salute. “I’ve been wondering what all the fuss was about.”

  Actually it wasn’t hard to see. Douglas Weaver was everything Johnny had figured. Young, handsome, as American as apple pie and boogie-woogie music. If the guy hadn’t already paid such a high price for his good fortune, Johnny would have hated him. But how could you hate a dead war hero, even if he was the guy who’d once had Catherine’s heart?

  Silent night

  Holy night...

  He closed his eyes and let the distant sound of singing wash over him. The bed was soft, welcoming; he shifted his body into the curves made over the years by her slender form. The white cotton sheets smelled of soap and fresh air, but still he caught the faint tantalizing fragrance of her perfume. Sweet, but with a hint of spice. He remembered that perfume. She’d been wearing it the night they met.

  He was drifting off to sleep when a knock at the door roused him. He cleared his throat. “Come in.”

  The door opened and Catherine stepped into the room, bearing a tray piled high with covered dishes.

  He raised himself on one elbow. “What’s all that?”

  “Christmas dinner.” A smile danced quickly across her face. “You didn’t think we’d forget you.”

  “Looks like a lot of food. I don’t know if I’m up to all that yet.”

  “We’ll see about that.” She placed the tray on top of her dressing table and didn’t give the photo of Douglas so much as a look. “Can you sit up?”

  “Sure.” He struggled upright and wedged a pillow behind his back.

  “Wait a minute.” She was at his side in a flash, rearranging the pillow and adding another one from the easy chair in the corner of the room. “That’s more like it.”

  “Thanks.” In the middle of all this luxury he felt like a sultan.

  She gave him a funny look, more quizzical than anything else, then placed the tray on his lap. “Enjoy.” She turned and headed toward
the door.

  “Hey, wait a minute!”

  She paused in the doorway. “Yes?”

  “You leaving so soon?”

  “Of course,” she said. “You don’t need me to cut your turkey, do you?”

  “I, uh, thought maybe you would sit here and talk to me while I eat.”

  She folded her arms across her chest and watched him, her gaze level, measuring. “You did, did you?”

  He picked up the fork, studied it, then tossed it back down on the tray. “Look, if I did something wrong I’d be glad to apologize, but first you gotta tell me what it is.”

  Her level gaze deteriorated into a downright glare and she approached the bed. “You had no right to treat Eddie the way you did.”

  His brows slid together in a frown. “Eddie?”

  She towered over the bed. “Eddie Martin. Short, dark hair—” she aimed her fury at him and scored a bull’s-eye “—civilian.”

  He shoved the tray away from him. “Yeah, I remember the guy.”

  “How dare you treat a friend of mine that way.”

  “What did I do that was so terrible?”

  “You threw him out when he was trying to help you.”

  “I didn’t need his help.”

  She waved her finger beneath his nose and for an instant he wondered if she was going to pop him one. “You needed Les Weaver’s help.”

  “That was different.”

  “Oh, really?” She sat down on the edge of the bed. “Would you mind explaining it to me?”

  She bristled with outrage. He wouldn’t have believed an angry woman could be so beautiful. “I think you were terribly unfair to Eddie. He deserves better.”

  He shifted position again. “I’m a big guy. I needed someone I could lean on.” Les Weaver outweighed Eddie Martin by a good fifty pounds.

  She wasn’t buying it. “You can do better than that, Danza. From what I heard, you had no problem leaning on Eddie until you found out he was 4-F.”