Sentimental Journey (Home Front - Book #1)

by Barbara Bretton

  The basement apartment. All she had to do was go downstairs and tap on the door and—

  No. They were right to stop. Their responses to each other were so intense, so dangerous, that she dared not imagine where they might lead.

  And so she did what she was supposed to do, what she had been brought up to do. She climbed the stairs to her room alone. The light was on under Nancy’s door and Catherine tiptoed swiftly by and on down the hallway. She didn’t want to see her sister or her mother. She didn’t want to answer questions about her date with Johnny. She didn’t want to say or do anything that would diminish the magic, turn the extraordinary into the mundane. The night belonged to her and to Johnny, and she wasn’t ready to share it with anyone else.

  She had a quick bath, brushed her teeth, then, wrapped in a cotton quilted robe, padded back to her room. Her bed was turned down, the quilt folded at the foot, her pillows fluffed and ready. A cup of hot chocolate sat on her night-stand, along with a note from her mother and an envelope addressed to her.

  “Hope you had a wonderful evening, honey,” said the note. “Thought you might enjoy this. Talk to you in the morning. Love, Mom. P.S. This letter came for you in the afternoon post.”

  She sat down on the edge of the bed and looked at the envelope. Johnny’s unmistakable scrawl. Her heartbeat accelerated until she could scarcely breathe. Hands trembling, she opened it, then unfolded the two sheets of paper. They were separate letters. The first said:

  I wrote this a long time ago. I didn’t have the guts to send it to you. Didn’t even have the guts to finish it. I still don’t, but somehow that doesn’t matter anymore. What matters is that you know how I feel about you.

  A goodbye, that’s what it was. It’s been nice but... She took a deep breath and unfolded the second letter.

  December 1, 1944

  Dear Cathy,

  I’ve written this letter over and over in my head for weeks now. For a while I didn’t know if I’d ever have the chance to put these words on paper, but now that I do, I’m wondering if it’s such a smart thing, after all. But by now I guess you know I’m not always the brightest guy around. I tend to shoot off my mouth first and think second, so why should this be any different?

  I’m writing this from a hospital in England. How I got here isn’t real important. I’m going to be fine. But being here has given me a chance to think—not something I’ve done a lot of in my life. You may not like what I’ve come up with, but here it goes: I think I’m in love with you, Cathy.

  I know you’re probably ready to throw this letter in the junk pile, but hear me out. I don’t know what this means or if there could ever be any kind of future for us, but since the first moment I saw you in your blue dress, you’ve been part of me. I can tell you everything we said at the Stage Door Canteen. I can remember how you felt in my arms, the way your hair—

  I’m not asking much, Cathy, just that you give me a chance. The war won’t last forever. Someday soon I’ll be back in New York and

  That was all there was to the letter, but each word became part of Catherine’s heart and soul, and when she finally fell asleep sometime near dawn, she believed there might be a future for them after all.

  * * *

  “Will you look at them?” Dot peeked out the back window the next afternoon and sighed. “I knew it. I knew it from that very first night.”

  Nancy mumbled something and continued pouring the cream off the top of the bottle of milk. She was as happy for Catherine and Johnny as her mother was, but must she hear about it nonstop? There were other things going on in the house on Hansen Street, other romances that nobody seemed interested in hearing about.

  She sighed and patted the tiny bulge in the pocket of her linen skirt. What would they say if they knew Gerry had asked her to marry him? That he’d sent her his high-school ring as a pledge of commitment, to be replaced by the real thing the moment he stepped back on U.S. soil? Would anybody even care?

  She poured the last of the cream into the pitcher then placed the paper lid back on the milk bottle. She put the pitcher and bottle into the icebox, then wandered upstairs to her room. Gerry’s letters were tied with a red velvet ribbon and tucked in her lingerie drawer. So many hopes and dreams captured on paper and growing closer to coming true. Letters didn’t lie. You couldn’t write to someone every day for more than three years and not learn an awful lot about him. She bet she knew more about Gerry Sturdevant than most wives knew about their husbands after twenty years of marriage.

  She’d been honest with him about herself, too—warts and all. She’d been vain and sweet and generous and selfish, scared and lonely and every other emotion in between, right there in black and white for him to read.

  And he still loved her!

  It would be nice if her mom and sister could be happy for her, too, but in the end it really didn’t matter. All that mattered was Gerry and the future she knew they’d have together.

  * * *

  Catherine didn’t mention the love letter and Johnny didn’t ask if she’d received it. She bumped into him on her way home from church the next morning, and in the light of day it was hard to believe she had been swept into the arms of such a handsome man.

  Or been kissed by him...

  “I like that,” he said, tugging playfully at the brim of her best spring hat.

  “I like your smile,” she said.

  Oh, God, what on earth had possessed her to say something as forward and silly as that? She blushed furiously, but the embarrassed yet pleased twinkle in his blue eyes made up for it.

  “Had trouble sleeping last night,” he said as they walked side by side down Hansen Street.

  “Me, too.” She hesitated. “I kept thinking about the play.”

  His glance thrilled her down to her toes. “Not me. I kept thinking about you.”

  Her lips still registered the sweet pressure of his mouth. She was acutely aware of his closeness, of the way his arm brushed against hers, of how deeply she wished he would link his strong fingers with hers.

  “That was the best birthday I’ve ever had,’’ he said as they passed the Weavers’ house.

  “You should have had a party,” she said, looking up at him. “And a birthday cake.”

  He shrugged. “Never had either one.”

  “You’re kidding!” She couldn’t imagine having twenty-six birthdays without any acknowledgment.

  “Not a lot of celebrating in orphanages, Cathy.”

  She touched his forearm. “I forgot, Johnny. I’m sorry.” Idiot! How can you be so insensitive? Not everyone had been as lucky as she and Nancy.

  “Doesn’t matter. Yesterday made up for it.”

  Her breath caught as he took her hand in his. “I still think you need a birthday cake.”

  He grinned. “Yeah?”

  “Definitely! And I’m going to see that you get one.”

  * * *

  At first Johnny didn’t believe it was happening. She’d said she was going to make him a birthday cake, but a lot of people say a lot of things and most of those things never happen.

  He should have known Catherine was different. She’d disappeared for a few hours that afternoon and he’d heard all sorts of noises coming from the kitchen, accompanied by some tantalizing aromas.

  Mrs. Wilson served the usual Sunday dinner of roast chicken, gravy, mashed potatoes and string beans, and he was about to get up and help clear the table when Catherine put her hands on his shoulders and pushed him back down into his seat. “You stay there,” she cautioned, eyes dancing with mischief. “We’ll bring dessert out.”

  He sat there listening to their laughter floating out from the kitchen. He knew it had to have something to do with his birthday, but he figured on rice pudding with a candle in the middle of it. Not for a minute did he expect the big beautiful chocolate cake with fluffy white frosting and a dozen skinny blue candles burning brightly around the edges.

  Their off-key rendition of “Happy Birthday” sounded
better to him than the voices he’d heard last night at the theater. Especially Catherine’s.

  She placed the cake down on the table in front of him. Her thick honey-colored hair was gathered in a ponytail and tied with a pink velvet ribbon. “Happy Birthday, Johnny,” she said, her voice soft as summer rain.

  A lump formed in his throat. Years and years of being alone, or wishing for things he could never have, and now... He struggled to maintain his composure.

  “Make a wish!” Nancy cried as Mrs. Wilson set out the dessert plates and forks. “Make a wish, then blow out the candles.”

  He looked at the birthday cake, then at the women standing around the table. Make a wish...

  He met Catherine’s eyes. She smiled at him, a private smile. The kind of smile a man dreams about. He made his wish.

  And then he blew out the candles.

  * * *

  Catherine and Johnny did their best to keep their feelings a secret at Wilson Manufacturing, but trying to hide new love is an impossible task. They glowed with it, warming everyone who came near. It was a pleasure to have something new to talk about in a world that was sick to death of war, and everyone, even Harry Barnes and his ilk, couldn’t help but be affected, if only for a moment.

  Everyone, that was, except Eddie Martin. From the start he’d made it clear Johnny wasn’t his favorite person, and to Catherine’s regret, Johnny hadn’t done anything to help change that situation. Johnny was many things, but tolerant wasn’t one of them. Catherine had tried to explain Eddie’s problem to him, but he couldn’t—or wouldn’t—understand. No matter that Eddie had spent the better part of three years trying to get into the army; all Johnny saw was the end result.

  And that end result was the saddest thing of all. The war was winding down, and with it went Eddie’s hopes of ever serving his country. There were so many things Catherine wanted to say to him, but Eddie had erected a wall of liquor around himself that she couldn’t breach. He called in sick more times than she would tolerate from any other employee, but still she tried to look the other way. He was in pain and she wouldn’t do anything to make that pain any worse.

  There were times she felt that she’d somehow failed Eddie. Her life had changed drastically since Johnny exploded into it that Christmas Eve, and perhaps she’d been less of a friend to Eddie than she could have been. When she’d broached the topic with him a few days after her first real date with Johnny, Eddie had brushed off her attempt with a wave of his hand.

  At least she’d tried, but it just didn’t feel as if she’d done enough.

  But of course there were many other things to think about those first days in April. Allied tanks were pushing toward Berlin while the British swept eastward across the Westphalian plain. The Russians took Danzig and invaded Austria while, in the Pacific, six task forces were operating off the Ryukyus.

  And then there was Johnny. She made dinner for him twice, elaborate affairs made possible by the extra ration coupons she had begged and borrowed from friends and neighbors. They went to movies at the Forest Hills and the Elmwood cinemas, but rarely remembered what they saw. Kissing in the balcony was as much fun at twenty-three as it had been at sixteen.

  Catherine worked an hour late on the second Thursday in April. Johnny was waiting for her at the front gate of the factory. He had long since run out of his army-issue Camel cigarettes and was smoking one of the roll-your-own brands most civilians had been reduced to.

  He brushed a lock of hair back from her forehead. “You look tired.”

  She nodded. It had been a long day, one filled with personnel problems. “You didn’t have to wait for me.”

  He grinned. “Sure I did.”

  “I’m so tired I’m asleep on my feet.”

  “I can take care of that.”

  He swept her up into his arms and she shrieked with laughter. “Johnny! Put me down! Someone might see us.”

  “Let them.” He kissed her on the lips, right there in the middle of the street. “I missed you today.” He’d spent most of it out on an excursion to western Long Island to talk with a Mr. Levitt who had some ideas for constructing housing in what were expansive potato fields.

  She ducked her head as he went to kiss her again. “Johnny, please! What if one of the workers sees me?”

  He put her down but he didn’t let her go as they headed toward the subway. “Isn’t it about time we went public?”

  “I thought we agreed that wasn’t a good idea—at least, not at the factory.” Being the owner’s daughter was difficult enough; being Johnny’s girl would be impossible.

  “You won’t be at the factory forever.”

  Her heart bumped up against her rib cage. “I won’t?” It was a struggle to keep the emotion from her voice.

  He took her elbow and guided her down the subway stairs. “You hear what’s happening out there,” he said as he dropped a nickel into each of the two turnstiles. “The Nazis are practically done for, and it won’t be long before the Japanese are in the same boat. Your dad’s going to come home one day soon, Cathy, and want his office back.”

  She bit her lip and kept her gaze fastened on the steps as they hurried down another flight to the platform below. You dope, Catherine, she thought as she blinked back tears. Here she’d been imagining Johnny was about to propose marriage, and all he wanted to talk about was the war coming to an end. She didn’t pay much attention to his words. All she knew was that he wasn’t asking her to marry him—and that she was more disappointed than she’d have ever imagined.

  It was a little after six-thirty when the train slid into the station at Continental Avenue.

  “Mom and Nancy are going to a church supper with Aunt Edna,” Catherine said as they strolled toward home. “Maybe we should stop at the deli and get some bologna or something. I’ll make us sandwiches.” She stifled a yawn.

  “I have a better idea.” He steered her back toward Continental Avenue. “How does the T-Bone Diner sound to you?”

  “Like the answer to a prayer.” The thought of doing anything even as energetic as spreading mustard on a slice of rye was dreadful. “They have the best egg-salad sandwiches in town.”

  How splendid it was to stroll down the street with your best beau. She loved holding hands with him, walking proudly next to a man as tall and handsome as Johnny. People said they made a lovely couple. She tried to pretend that didn’t matter one whit, but the truth was she wanted everyone in the world to notice them, to smile at them, to acknowledge just how perfect she and Johnny were together.

  The diner was doing a brisk business these days, what with the wartime prosperity, and Catherine considered themselves fortunate to find a booth near the rear. She and Johnny made light conversation while they waited for their orders to be served, but the moment their triple-decker sandwiches arrived they got down to the business of eating.

  “You should’ve ordered the BLT,” Johnny said, reaching for his chocolate malted. He snitched a French fry from her plate.

  She laughed and made a grab for his coleslaw when something at the counter caught her eye. She froze, her fork poised in midair. Maisie, the counter waitress, was crying into her apron, and from the expression on her customers’ faces, she wasn’t crying over her tips.

  “Something terrible’s happened.” Catherine tore her gaze away from Maisie. “Look Johnny.” She gestured toward the counter. “Look at their faces.”

  Johnny lowered his sandwich to his plate. “Maybe she got some bad news about her kid.” Maisie had a son who flew bombers somewhere in the Pacific.

  A cold sweat broke out at the back of Catherine’s neck. “I don’t think so.” She grabbed Johnny’s wrist. “You don’t think we’ve lost the war, do you?” A hundred possibilities, all of them terrible, occurred to her. What if the Japanese had bombed Pearl Harbor again or—worse—what if they had somehow managed to bomb the California coast? There’d been talk of Japanese firebombs scattered throughout the Oregon forests.

  A woman at a win
dow table started to sob, while the man she was with lowered his head and began to cry openly. The cook came out of the kitchen with a radio, plugged it in, then placed it on top of the counter. He fiddled with the dial as static crackled through the diner. Johnny reached for Catherine’s hand.

  “... unexpected news. For those of you just joining our broadcast...” The radio announcer’s voice trembled, then gathered strength. “For those of you just joining our broadcast, it is our sad, sad duty to announce that at 3:55 Eastern War Time our beloved President, Franklin Delano Roosevelt, died of a cerebral hemorrhage at the Little White House in Warm Springs, Georgia. His funeral cortege will be brought by railroad tonight to the capital. Sources close to Mrs. Roosevelt say—”

  The cook clicked off the radio. The diner was silent save for the sound of crying. Catherine’s tears flowed freely, and she looked across the table to see Johnny wiping away tears of his own.

  Their meal was forgotten. By silent agreement they both rose and, after paying their tab at the cash register, started walking. They had no destination in mind, but it didn’t matter. Motion was what was important. Maybe if they kept moving they could stay one step ahead of the terrible truth.

  “It’s so unfair,” Catherine said as they walked past the Forest Hills Inn. “We’re so close to winning the war. Why did he have to die now?”

  “Who said life is fair?” Johnny stroked her hair. “Nothing about this whole stinking war has been fair.” Extermination camps, he thought. Innocent children beaten and left for dead. Everything that was fine and good about the Old World turned to ashes and rubble.

  They passed other dazed New Yorkers who gathered on street corners and on front stoops as they tried to make sense of the unthinkable.

  “What’s going to happen to us?” Catherine asked as they passed the Rego Park Synagogue. “President Roosevelt is—I mean, was—the heart of this country. Who’s going to lead us now?” She laughed shrilly. “I can’t even remember the name of the vice president.”