Moss returned dangling the keys to a 1938 Nash parked near the guardhouse. Billie felt so grown-up when Moss held the door open for her. Agnes was going to have a fit. Nice girls didn’t get into cars with strange boys. Or men. Moss Coleman, Lieutenant (j.g.), was no boy. Agnes wouldn’t miss that fact. In spite of herself, Billie was excited and flattered.
“How long will you be in Philly?” Billie asked when Moss had maneuvered through the traffic and swung out onto the main road.
“Probably through the summer. At least, that’s the way it looks right now. Or until I can get myself assigned to where the action is. Being an errand boy for a hotshot admiral isn’t my idea of doing my part for the war effort. I’m a pilot, Billie, and a damn good one. That’s what I want to do.”
Billie nodded. She knew all there was to know about a protective parent. Moss interpreted her expression correctly. “You too, huh?”
“It’s because I’m an only child. My father died when I was little. I suppose it’s natural for a parent to be protective. They want what’s best for us.” To Moss it sounded like a recital of what her mother must have said hundreds of times. Just the way Seth Coleman had preached to him.
“I’ve got a sister, but I’m the only son. Pap is up there in years and he’s afraid for me. But I can’t let his fear rub off on me. Flying is what I do and what I do best. I don’t plan to run around for some two-star admiral whose only idea of action is signing papers and drinking scotch. Scotch that I have to procure for him.”
“What will you do?”
“It’s not what I’ll do, Billie; it’s when I’ll do it! Pap can get me assigned to fat man’s duty, but he can’t keep me here. I can speak up for myself and there’s not a damn thing he can do about it. But I hate to hurt him. He’s a great guy and I know how much I mean to him. It’s just that sometimes I really feel the weight of that responsibility pressing down on me. Being the apple of ole Pap’s eye isn’t what it’s cracked up to be.” Moss could hardly believe he was telling her these things. He was used to keeping his personal life and his problems to himself.
“Turn here. It’s two blocks down and then take the next right. Gray-and-white house. I’ll say a prayer you get what you want.”
Moss almost braked the car. Any other girl would have said she would keep her fingers crossed. This one was going to pray for him. Impulsively, he reached across the seat and took her hand. It felt small and fragile in his. He released it a moment later to shift gears and pull to a stop in front of the house. He glanced at his watch. “Five minutes to six,” he announced proudly, as though getting her home on time had been a monumental task.
Billie wondered where her friends were. Were they worrying about her? “Would you like to come in and meet my mother? Oh, but you’ve probably got other things to do, and I do appreciate your taking the time to bring me home. I’m sorry I’ve been such a nuisance.”
“You, sweet Billie, are anything but a nuisance.” He smiled, realizing he’d meant what he said. But Jesus, he didn’t want to go in and meet her mother. He loved his mother but other people’s made him nervous, especially girls’ mothers. Hell, he was here . . . maybe she was afraid she was going to catch it and he could help matters. All in the line of duty. “I’d like to meet your mother,” he lied.
Billie almost fainted. That wasn’t what he was supposed to say. Didn’t he know she was only trying to be polite? She didn’t wait for him to come around to open the door for her. Instead, she leaped out, smoothing down the skirt of her jumper. Suddenly, the fringe along the hem seemed girlishly silly and trendy, and for the second time that day she wished she were wearing stockings and heels.
Agnes Ames’s eyes narrowed when she heard the sound of a car door closing in front of the house. None of Billie’s friends drove a car. She parted the lace curtains slightly and peered out. Billie and a navy man. An officer, considering the dress whites. What could have happened? She wouldn’t panic. Billie was a responsible child. A serious, responsible child.
“Mother! I’m home. Come and meet someone.”
Moss Coleman stood a good six inches taller than Agnes, yet he was immediately aware of her strength, as if she were his height or even taller. It was in the measuring, brown eyes and in the subtle squaring of the shoulders. . . . He’d seen the same signs of character in Seth. Pearls. Why did they always wear pearls? It seemed every girl’s mother he’d ever met was adorned with them.
Billie broke the silence. “Mother, this is Moss Coleman. He was nice enough to bring me home so I wouldn’t be late. Moss, this is my mother, Mrs. Ames.” He waited to see if Mrs. Ames would offer her hand. She didn’t.
Billie was beginning to feel desperate. Agnes was standing her ground, staring at Moss with suspicion. “I’ve invited Moss to dinner tomorrow. He’s from Texas and it’s been a long time since he’s had a home-cooked meal. I knew you wouldn’t object,” Billie prompted hopefully.
“Dinner. Of course. We’d like to have you for dinner, Lieutenant,” Agnes offered.
Moss wondered if Mrs. Ames meant she’d like to have him as a guest or for the main course! But hold on a minute, he’d never accepted the invitation. Somebody was being railroaded here and he thought he knew who. “I wouldn’t want to impose, Mrs. Ames,” he said in his best-bred Texan, just a shade short of humble. Before he could politely make excuses, Agnes forced something that passed for a smile.
“Fine. Shall we say around two? I want to thank you for bringing my daughter home. It was very considerate of you. She’s very young and I worry when she’s late.” There it was, the gentle nudge, the reminder that he was suspected of being a troll who lived under a bridge and preyed on innocent young girls.
“It was my pleasure, ma‘am,” Moss drawled. “Billie, thank you for the invitation. I have to get the car back to the yard. Nice meeting you, ma’am.”
He still hadn’t said if he was coming to dinner and Billie felt wretched as she watched him walk out to the car, Agnes’s words about her youth still smarting.
Outside in the car, Moss exhaled a long, gusty sigh. He didn’t think he wanted to come to dinner. But Sundays were always so boring you could want to tear your hair out, and it had been nice talking with Billie. If he didn’t have anything better to do, he’d show up around two o’clock. If something came up, he’d send a note.
Before Agnes could question her daughter, Billie rushed into a lengthy explanation. “I think it was very nice of him to bring me home, don’t you, Mother?”
“Billie, you broke how many rules this afternoon?” Agnes said frigidly.
“Mother, please. Do we have to go into all of this? I’m home, safe and sound. Nothing happened. The lieutenant is charming. He didn’t say he was coming to dinner and I’m certain he has other plans, so don’t count on it. I’m sorry if I upset you.”
Agnes sniffed. It was her usual reaction to Billie’s apologies. Once, just once, Billie would have liked to hear that she was forgiven, or at least that her mother understood.
“I think I’ll go up to my room and get ready for supper.”
“I moved your room downstairs to the study. Mr. Campbell from next door and his nephew helped move down the furniture. I’m going to rent your room. We really have to do our bit, Billie. The housing situation is reaching crisis proportions.”
Billie only knew that someone else was going to live in her room, the only place she’d been able to call her own since she was a little girl. “I wish you had told me, Mother. I don’t mind the change, but I would have liked to pack my things myself. Did you go through everything? Even my pictures?” Billie felt violated.
“Everything. Go see for yourself. Now you’ll have the window seat. You can sit there tomorrow and watch the road to see if your handsome lieutenant shows up for dinner.” Agnes smiled.
Billie glanced at her mother. She’d just been bought. Agnes’s seeming acceptance of having Moss for Sunday dinner was supposed to soothe the wound of having been moved lock, stock, and barrel out o
f her room. And she had to accept the terms of truce; otherwise, if Moss did come tomorrow, she could count on Agnes’s sulky indifference, which could make Billie squirm as though she had fire ants in her bloomers.
It wasn’t fair. It just wasn’t fair. At least Agnes could have asked before renting out her bedroom from under her. Billie wandered into the study and looked at the window seat with its velvet cushion. It would be a delightful place to curl up with a book. She had a clear view of the drive and the street. Perhaps it wasn’t so bad after all.
Agnes remained in the hall at the bottom of the stairs, head cocked to one side as though she were listening to a distant noise. The sound she heard was her inner voice murmuring questions concerning Billie. Her perfectly nice and gifted daughter had returned to the house this evening and there was something different about her that had nothing to do with the lipstick or with the artificial blush applied to her cheeks.
CHAPTER TWO
Agnes Ames bent down to baste the roasting chicken. As with almost everyone else in Philadelphia—and Agnes did aspire to being like everyone else, only better—after coming home from Sunday service the first order of the day was to dress the chicken and stick it in the oven. It was one thing to invite a guest to Sunday dinner and quite another to plan a meal that was acceptable yet not expensive.
The chicken was a delectable golden brown, the bread stuffing savory with herbs. Her practiced eye took in the bowl of garden salad and the fresh string beans, which, being out of season, had cost more than she cared to spend. Mashed potatoes and gravy would be more than enough when she’d added her homemade biscuits. The butter, dearer than dear since rationing, was first allowed to soften, then whipped with ice water to increase its volume, and chilled again. It was one of her little tricks and it worked quite well. Agnes Ames could not abide white, unpalatable oleo. She had prepared a deep-dish apple pie the night before and it would be mouth-watering. If there was one culinary talent she possessed, it was making pies. The secret was using rendered suet instead of shortening, which cost a fortune, for the crust. She did not like to think about the dent in her sugar supply for the sweet dessert.
The music coming from the living room had a mournful sound. That wasn’t like Billie. Normally, she’d be playing light, popular tunes after her practicing was done. Once, Agnes had had dreams of her daughter becoming a concert pianist and she’d been told by experts that Billie had the talent. But after learning the prohibitive cost of schooling and lessons and recitals, Agnes had regretfully abandoned the idea and turned her ambitions for Billie along less flamboyant lines.
Agnes listened for a moment. Billie must have learned a new piece. Perhaps it wasn’t mournful, just sad. Her thoughts immediately went to the young lieutenant. Moss Coleman frightened her. Or was it the way Billie looked at Moss Coleman? A Texan! No doubt he was a ranch hand—or did they call them cowpokes? And that atrocious drawl! Not for Billie. Definitely not for Billie. She’d been worrying all morning what she would do if the cowboy did show up for dinner and managed, despite her, to ask Billie for a date. Up to now, Billie had always listened to her, always behaved and followed her advice. Agnes’s stomach fluttered.
If the lieutenant was still around through summer, what would that do to Billie’s chances with Neal Fox? Neal Fox, whose father owned the bank. Neal Fox, who was more than acceptable with his studious habits, family money, and 4F classification. Martha Fox, a member of Agnes’s garden club, had eagerly arranged a date for the two youngsters. Comparing the Fox boy with someone like Lieutenant Coleman . . . Agnes shuddered and almost cut her thumb as she peeled the potatoes. She hoped—no, prayed—that the lieutenant wouldn’t come for dinner. He had thanked them for the invitation but never actually accepted. No manners. Ignorant cowhand. Agnes supposed this was the way cowboys did things. Neal was the kind of boy who would arrive exactly fifteen minutes early for dinner, carrying a bouquet of flowers for her and a box of candy for Billie. That was the way it should be done. The lieutenant would arrive, maybe, with his hat in his hand, eat three helpings of everything, hold the chicken in his fingers and lick them afterward. She’d been to the movies; she knew cowboys cooked over open fires and ate out of cans. But was the handsome, young lieutenant actually one of those? There’d been something about him when he’d met her penetrating gaze. It was as though he’d been trying to figure her out. A Texan!
Today would be a good time to talk to Billie about Neal. After their guest left and they were doing the dishes. A nice mother-to-daughter talk. Billie seemed to like that Sunday bit of intimacy. Agnes personally found it especially boring. Her own life was uneventful and Billie’s was so placid and predictable that it didn’t leave much room for conversation. Usually they ended up discussing a book or the progress of the garden, or exchanging pieces of gossip.
Agnes glanced at the clock. It was one-forty-five. Fifteen minutes till their guest arrived. Billie stopped playing. She closed the piano. She was going into her room. Agnes knew her daughter was perched on the window seat, book in hand, staring out at the road. Waiting for a white uniform.
The telephone rang at three minutes of two. Billie almost broke her neck running out to the hall to pick up the receiver. “Hello,” she breathed.
“Billie?”
“Yes.” It was him. “Yes, yes, it’s me. Moss?”
A low chuckle came over the wire. “I’m sorry, Billie, but I won’t be able to come to dinner. The admiral wants to play golf this afternoon and can’t find a partner. I’m the best he can come up with. Perhaps you’ll invite me another time?”
Billie sucked in her breath. He wasn’t coming. Somehow, she’d known he wouldn’t. She wanted so badly to see him walk up to her front door. She couldn’t remember ever wanting something so badly, unless it was the Christmas she’d wanted a two-wheeled bike. She hadn’t gotten that, either. “Anytime,” she said brightly, hiding her disappointment. “Our Sundays are open. You don’t need an invitation.” There. Short of begging, what else could she say?
“That’s very kind of you. Please thank your mother. Listen, Billie, if you’re ever at the Front Street USO on a Saturday night, I hope you’ll save me a dance.”
USO. Dance. Save him a dance. “I’ll do that, Lieutenant. Thank you for calling,” Billie said pleasantly. When she hung up the phone, she forced a smile to her lips. She knew Agnes was standing in the doorway and had probably heard every word. She had to turn and face her mother. Do it. Do it now before your face cracks with the strain.
“Oh, Mother—there you are. That was Lieutenant Coleman. He won’t be able to make dinner. He has to play golf with the admiral. I told him he had an open invitation. Was that all right, Mother?”
Relief coursed through Agnes. Neal was still in the running. “Of course, dear. We must do our part, small as it may seem. I’m certain that one day, when he has nothing better to do, he’ll drop by for a home-cooked meal.”
Billie wanted to run to her room and cry. Cry when things got too bad. But it wouldn’t be the same now. Now she was sleeping in the study because her room, a room that had been hers and hers alone, was to be rented! How she had loved it, the small windows under the eaves, the shelves holding all her books. Her music scores in neat stacks, the pictures she’d painted, and her bulging portfolio of designs that leaned against the wall. Now it was all a jumble in the study. A study wasn’t a bedroom. She was sick with disappointment.
“Well, since there are just the two of us, we might as well eat now.” Agnes turned and went back into the kitchen. “We’ll eat in here; no sense going to all the trouble of messing up the dining room, is there?”
Billie followed after her mother, knowing how difficult it was going to be to swallow even one bite. She adjusted her features into a pleasant mask of indifference. It was going to be just another Sunday.
As Moss replaced the phone, his eyes went to the golf bag in the corner of Admiral McCarter’s office. The admiral was entertaining a visiting three-star at the Officers Club. Mos
s’s conscience pricked slightly as he made his way down the long battleship-gray hallway. He joined three of his friends who waited impatiently at the curb in the parking lot.
“New York City, here we come!” one of the j.g.’s shouted hoarsely. Moss grinned and climbed into the backseat of the Ford.
He didn’t think about Billie Ames again until the next Sunday morning, when he awoke feeling achy and out of sorts. He brushed his teeth and swallowed three aspirin. When was he going to learn that Saturday-night hangovers hung on like leeches and were the ruination of a good Sunday? As long as he was going to be miserable, he might as well salve his conscience and go to dinner at Billie’s house.
For a long moment he looked at the pay phone on the wall outside his quarters. Who was he kidding? Last night at the USO, he’d hung about the doorway watching for her. It was only after eleven o’clock, when nice girls like Billie would already be home, that he’d gone out to the local bar to tie one on. Now, he quickly dropped his nickel into the slot before he could talk sense to himself.
Billie picked up the phone on the first ring. She tilted her hat slightly to the side so she could comfortably place the receiver against her ear. She expected to hear her girlfriend’s voice.
“Billie?”
When she heard his low, husky drawl, she felt her knees buckle. Her knuckles whitened on the prayer book in her hand. He’d called. Her eyes lifted upward, acknowledging the power of prayer.
Cool and calm. “Lieutenant, how are you? Did you have a nice golf game last Sunday with the admiral?” she asked for want of anything better and needing a moment to compose herself. Lordy, why couldn’t she be more sophisticated?
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