Sentimental Journey (Home Front - Book #1)

by Barbara Bretton

  She looked down at their fingers, laced together. “Happy New Year,” she whispered as the bittersweet strains of “Auld Lang Syne” crept into her heart.

  He cupped her chin with his other hand and tilted her head slightly. Later on she marveled that she had recognized the inevitability of that kiss from the very beginning, yet when it happened it took her genuinely by surprise. He moved closer, closer, until his features blurred in front of her eyes. His lips against hers were tentative, his touch no more than a gentle sliding motion, but that gentle touch registered itself from her head to her feet.

  And she knew it had to stop now, before everything changed and there could be no turning back. She placed her hand against his chest then remembered the shrapnel wounds and moved her hand to his shoulder.

  But it felt so wonderful to be there in his arms, to feel his lips, to smell his scent. Stop this now! the logical side of her mind warned. There’s no point to this, no future in it. Don’t start believing you can have the life you’d dreamed of when you were a girl....

  His eyes held hers, and for an instant she wished time would stop and she could sit there like that, with her hand in his, forever.

  Johnny recognized the change in Catherine the moment it happened. Her lids lowered, her lashes casting smoky shadows on her flushed cheeks. Her lips curved upward into a shy smile that found its target deep inside his chest. And he couldn’t help but notice the way her breasts rose and fell with the rapid tempo of her breathing.

  He’d dreamed about this moment, wished for it a million times the past year and a half, but never for a minute had he believed he’d ever live it. But there she was, not more than a heartbeat away from him, beautiful and trembling and ready for his kiss.

  He lowered his mouth firmly on hers. Her lips were soft as angel wings, her breath sweet as rose petals. Desire rose inside him, overriding injury and fatigue, and it took a heavy dose of conscience to keep from claiming more than he had a right to claim—except in his dreams.

  Saint or sinner. Wise man or fool. Johnny didn’t want to know. It took every ounce of willpower at his command to break the kiss.

  Catherine didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed. “We should drink the eggnog,” she said once she found her voice.

  “Yeah,” he said. “We probably should.”

  Once again they raised their glasses in a toast. “To 1945,” she said, meeting his gaze.

  He nodded. “To 1945.”

  It was as good a place as any to begin.

  Chapter Ten

  The good news was, Johnny was getting better every day. The bad news was, getting better meant he would have to say goodbye.

  By the end of the second week in January, he knew that the time was almost there. He took long walks during the day, sometimes with Mrs. Wilson, sometimes on his own, as he tried to figure out what he would do with the rest of his life.

  Today he was alone.

  The morning mail had brought the news he’d been expecting. As of February 1, 1945, Private Johnny Danza would be a civilian. Any day now he’d be well enough to leave the shelter of the Wilson home and head out on his own again. What was that old saying? Oh yeah. The more things change, the more they stay the same.

  He’d spent his entire life on the outside looking in. For a little while he’d glimpsed something different, something better, but the glimpse had been fleeting. He’d been born alone and alone he was going to stay.

  There was no place for him in that strange new world called the American home front. It was a world inhabited by women and children and weak sisters like that Eddie Martin. Guys who were too soft or too scared to do their duty for their country.

  But then again, how in hell was Johnny any better? Thanks to his injuries, he was about to become a civilian in a world where to be a civilian was to be less than a man.

  He strolled the snow-covered streets, looking for answers in every street sign and shopkeeper’s face. Did he stay in New York? Did he head out west to the wide-open spaces? Did he throw himself on Uncle Sam’s mercy and beg his way back into the army, the only home he’d ever known?

  Or would he stay right there in Forest Hills? The idea had its charm. The town was every bit as beautiful as Tom had told him during those dark nights of waiting for the enemy to strike. But the most beautiful thing of all about Forest Hills was Tom Wilson’s daughter Catherine.

  She had become a part of him, although he had yet to admit to himself, much less to her, how much he cared. During those long days and nights when he was coming back to the land of the living, it was Catherine’s face he remembered, Catherine’s voice that lingered in his head, Catherine’s touch that made him burn.

  “Damn,” he muttered, his breath visible in curls of frost. He had no business thinking like this. The Wilsons had opened their home to him out of the goodness of their hearts. They talked endlessly of the unselfish act of courage that had saved their Tom’s life, but to Johnny his act of courage paled by comparison to all they had done for him.

  He’d made a hash out of his marriage, just as he’d made a hash out of his childhood and his teen years. He thought he’d found a home in the army, but that idea had gone the way of so many others dreams he’d had along the way. In these past few weeks with the Wilsons he’d found himself wanting things that were way beyond his grasp, things he had no experience dealing with. Home. Family. Permanence.

  Catherine. Twice he’d almost given her the letter he’d carried with him all the way from that English hospital, but both times he’d plain lost his nerve. That brief New Year’s Eve kiss had shaken him to his roots. The way she looked, the sound of her voice, the sweet smell of her hair—

  “Forget it, Danza,” he said into the wind as he turned back onto Hansen Street. “Just forget it.”

  * * *

  “No!” The word burst from Catherine’s lips before she had a chance to think. “I mean, you’re not well enough to leave yet, are you?” Get a grip on yourself girl! You sound like an idiot.

  Johnny looked at her across the dinner table. “I can’t stay here forever.”

  “Now don’t talk like that!” God bless her mother for adding her own two cents. “You know you’re welcome to stay here for as long as you want.”

  “I appreciate that, Mrs. Wilson, but it’s about time I got out of your hair.”

  Catherine found it impossible to keep her own counsel. “What about the army? Surely you’ll be back with another squad or platoon or—”

  “Forget it,” said Johnny. “February first I’m a free man.”

  “Do you have a job yet?” Leave it to Nancy to jump right in with both feet.

  Johnny shifted in his seat. “I, uh, haven’t started to look yet, Nance.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous!” Catherine glared at her younger sister. “The man is barely out of his sickbed. He has plenty of time.”

  “You’ll need it,” said Nancy with a knowing nod of her head. “Jobs are pretty easy to find but housing isn’t. Believe me, I know. That boardinghouse I lived in this summer was awful.”

  “She’s right,” said Catherine, suddenly siding with her sister. “People are doubling and tripling up, and there still aren’t enough apartments to go around.” After Pearl Harbor, war-production plants had sprung up almost overnight, bringing large influxes of workers into areas ill prepared to house them.

  Johnny stared down at his mashed potatoes and gravy. Nancy launched into a convoluted story about the assorted types she’d roomed with out in Long Island. Dot, oblivious to the undercurrent of tension in the room, bustled into the kitchen for more green beans and carrots to go with the roast chicken.

  Catherine pretended to concentrate on her own dinner, but her mind was scattered in a million directions. Johnny was a grown man. He had the right to go wherever he wanted, whenever he wanted. Just because they owed him an enormous debt of gratitude was no reason to force the poor man to stay put while they paid off that debt.

  And just becaus
e she could still feel the touch of his lips against hers was no reason to wish him anything but the best life had to offer, even if it meant moving on.

  * * *

  A few hours later Catherine knocked on the door to her room. “It’s me,” she called out, her voice deceptively bright and easy. “I need a few things from my closet.”

  Johnny swung open the door. He was dressed in a pair of army-issue trousers and a white cotton undershirt that emphasized the contours of his chest. Not that she was interested, of course, but it was difficult to concentrate on a man’s eyes when there were other more fascinating places to look.

  He stepped aside so she could enter the room.

  “I’ll get out of your way.” He grabbed a shirt from the foot of the bed and slid his arms into it. “Promised your mom I’d take a look at the kitchen sink.”

  She positioned herself between Johnny and the bedroom door. “Mom went over to play bridge at the Weavers’. She won’t be back until later.”

  “The sink’s still there.”

  “Filled with dishes, Johnny. I’m afraid we’re a sloppy group.”

  “Okay,” he said, leaning against the chifforobe, “what’s up?”

  “You’re very suspicious tonight.” Casually she strolled over to her closet and flipped through the dresses hanging in neat rows inside. The sight of his trousers and shirts hanging side by side with her jumpers and frilly blouses affected her like a blow to the stomach.

  “Do I have reason to be suspicious?”

  She withdrew a navy wool jumper and a plain white cotton blouse with Joan Crawford shoulder pads to give it authority. “I’m not being very subtle, am I?”

  He shook his head. “Not very.”

  “Okay,” she said, draping the clothes over the back of a chair. “I’ll give it to you straight.” He folded his arms across his chest and looked her straight in the eye as she gathered both her courage and her words. “Now that you’re going to be a civilian again it occurred to me... What I mean is, it seems you’ll have a lot of time on your... The point is—”

  “Are you offering me a job?”

  Her breath rushed out in one relieved whoosh. “Yes!”

  “At Wilson Manufacturing?”

  “Of course.”

  “No, thanks.”

  “I haven’t told you about the position.” It had taken her two hours to work out a description enticing enough to mask the fact that her motives were less than pure.

  “Doesn’t matter. I don’t take charity.”

  “Then you have nothing to worry about. I’m not in the habit of offering charity.”

  “Tell it to the marines, Cathy.”

  “Very original,” she said, her tone frosty. “I’ll have to remember that.”

  “Am I wrong?”

  She hesitated a beat too long.

  “That’s what I thought. Nice idea but forget it. I’ll find my own job.”

  “That might be harder than you realize, Johnny.”

  “I’ll manage.”

  She took a step toward him. “We’d like to help.”

  “You’ve helped enough.”

  “Why don’t you let me explain the job to you?”

  “Why don’t you give up?”

  “Because I care about you.”

  Dear God, had she really said that? Her words echoed inside her head and she wished she could call them back, but it was too late. He turned away so she couldn’t see his face. Oh, yes, she thought, it was definitely too late for that now.

  “I can make it on my own,” he said, his voice low and menacing. “I’ve never asked for anyone’s help before and I’m not about to start now.”

  “Johnny, please listen to me.” She crossed the room to where he stood with his back to her. Gently she placed her hand against his forearm. He remained still as a statue. She increased the pressure of her fingers against his arm. Still nothing. A chill began at the base of her spine, then worked its way upward to her scalp. No... please, no... she swallowed hard. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Because it’s none of your business.”

  She trailed her forefinger along the ridge of muscle that was as beautifully sculpted as marble—and as unfeeling. Her heart went out to him. “I’m so sorry.”

  He spun around, all rage and hurt. “Don’t say that.”

  “But I mean it, Johnny. I wish you’d shared it with me—with us.” She didn’t have to ask how it had happened; she was certain it was a result of the heroic action that had saved her father’s life. “I should have... I mean, I don’t understand why we didn’t notice—” She stopped cold at the look of anger on his face.

  “Still have a job for me, Cathy? A little manual labor, maybe, something just right for a big strong guy like me?”

  “Don’t talk like that. Of course, I still have a job for you. This doesn’t change anything.” The loading dock. Assembly line. Everything she had thought of had been ruled out in that single instant of comprehension. But she’d come up with something else. She had to.

  “You don’t sound so sure of yourself, Cathy. Not so easy to find a job for a guy like me, is it?”

  “It’s not your arm that worries me, it’s your attitude.”

  “Not grateful enough?”

  Anger, towering and pure, soared through her and she lifted her hand to slap his face. “Damn you,” she whispered as reason got the better of her. She had never cursed another person in her life, but her emotions were running so hot and fast that she couldn’t control her tongue. “Don’t you know when someone’s trying to help?”

  “Don’t you know when it’s not wanted?”

  He pushed past her, and before she could say another word, he was down the stairs and gone.

  * * *

  “Bad night?” Eddie asked the next morning as Catherine slogged away at her desk.

  She looked up from her latest stack of employee grievances, straight from the pen of Harry Barnes. “It shows?”

  “It shows.” Eddie sat on the edge of her desk. “Bad news from the front?”

  “Bad news at home.”

  “Anything you feel like talking about?”

  She shook her head. “Not this time, but thanks.”

  “I kind of miss our talks,” he said, tapping a pencil against her desk. “Doesn’t seem to be so much time since the war hero moved into your house.”

  She massaged her temples in an attempt to stave off the gathering headache. “Not today, Eddie. I’m not in the mood.” She shifted her attention from the personal to the professional. “We have a new batch of complaints from Barnes.”

  “That’s not the half of it. They’re talking about a walkout day after tomorrow.”

  Her mouth dropped open in shock. “Are you certain?”

  “Certain as an outcast can get.” Eddie’s situation had been deteriorating in the past few weeks. When he wasn’t fighting with some of his older coworkers, he was taking time off to visit draft boards from there to Boston and back.

  She scribbled some thoughts down on a lined yellow pad. “Do me a favor. Go downstairs and make these proposals to Harry.”

  “Talk to those goons?” Eddie’s laugh was short, bitter. “They’d have me for lunch.”

  “I need help, Eddie. This isn’t something they want to hear from a woman.”

  “Yeah? Well, they’d rather hear it from a woman than a 4-F, I’ll tell you that.”

  She started to tell him he was being oversensitive, but the memory of the latest in a series of black eyes gave her pause. “Don’t worry about it,” she said finally. “It’s my problem.”

  Eddie stood up and went back to work, leaving Catherine with the nagging question: what on earth wasn’t her problem these days? Everything from Eddie’s situation to the stopped-up kitchen drain ended up on her shoulders. Something wrong? Call Catherine. She had all the answers. All you had to do was ask.

  Trouble was, when it came to her own problems the answers weren’t so easy to find. Eddie would
probably never find his way into the army, no matter how she wished she could make it right for him. Harry Barnes would never listen to a word she had to say. The workers would stage the walkout they’d threatened and Wilson’s productivity would stop cold. And, worst of all, Johnny would pack his duffel bag and disappear from her life forever.

  “We’ve gotta talk.”

  Her head jerked up and she stared at the man in the doorway to her office. “Johnny’?” It didn’t seem possible. He’d disappeared last night after their argument and, as far as she knew, hadn’t come back home.

  He motioned toward the chair adjacent to her desk. “Can I come in?”

  “Of course.” She swept the stack of grievances off to one side, then folded her hands primly atop her desk blotter. No more begging him to let her do him a favor. If he wanted to be a tough guy, the kind who needed nobody’s help, she’d just let him stew alone. It would serve him right. “What can I do for you?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  She blinked. “What was that?”

  “I said, I’m sorry.”

  “You’re kidding.” She narrowed her eyes and looked at him. “You’re not kidding.”

  He gestured, palms outward. “You think you got the market cornered on apologies?”

  She smiled for the first time that day. “I guess not.”

  “I acted like a jerk last night.”

  “Yes, you did.” She fiddled with the band of her watch, aware of how little she actually understood about him.

  “You meant well.”

  “But?”

  “But I can’t take you up on it.”

  She nodded. “I understand.”

  He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. “I don’t think so.”

  “Does it matter, Johnny? Your mind’s made up. There’s nothing I can do to change it. You told me that last night.”

  He broke eye contact, his gaze drifting toward the window. Any hope that he’d had a change of heart disappeared. Sighing, she was about to reach for the stack of papers she’d pushed aside when Eddie showed up in her doorway for the second time that morning.

  “I think I blew it.” He glanced over at Johnny, then, obviously decided to ignore him. “Barnes is on the warpath.”