As Kelly watched, Tom turned and looked Charles directly in the eye. “How’s Joe taking the fact that his best friend is dying?” he asked.
Dying. There it was. The truth. Boldly, bravely tossed out among them, unveiled. So many visitors tried to push it away, but it would lurk, festering in the corner of the room, always present, putting everyone on edge.
“It’s been hard for him,” Charles said, answering Tom with an equally rare honesty. “Can you stay for a while? It would be good for Joe if you could stay for a while.”
What a liar. Charles hoped Tom would stay. Yet he would’ve preferred it if Kelly, his own daughter, packed her things and went back to Boston.
Tom made some vague sound that was neither yes nor no.
Like her father and despite her jealousy, Kelly, too, hoped that Tom would stay—but for entirely different reasons.
“When did your father grow a sense of humor?” Tom lowered himself into one of the chairs at the Ashtons’ kitchen table.
Kelly was putting ice into a couple of tall glasses, pouring them both some lemonade. She had her back to him, and even dressed as she was in wide-legged pants and a loose sleeveless silk shirt thing, Tom was hyperaware that the girl he’d drooled over had grown up into a woman who had a body to die for.
Now, as back then, she still dressed conservatively. Ever the good girl, she didn’t flaunt what God had given her. But even now, as back then, nothing short of a heavy robe would’ve successfully hidden it. And even that was disputable.
“I think it reemerged when he stopped drinking,” she told him, bending over to put the lemonade back in the fridge.
Tom tried not to look at her ass, but damn, there it was, even more perfect than ever. As she turned to face him, he pulled his gaze away just in time, pretending to be fascinated by the clock in the microwave across the room. He looked up at her and smiled as she handed him the glass, as if he’d just noticed she was there. Not staring at your body.
She smiled back at him, no doubt still completely oblivious to the effect she had on him. He could remember her walking through the halls of the high school, totally clueless to the fact that heads turned wherever she went. At thirty-two, she still exuded that fresh innocence, that sweetness that made him want to protect her from the world—and from himself.
Mostly from himself.
“How’s your mother?” he asked.
“Fine. Remarried. She’s living near Baltimore.”
“Mine’s in Florida. So when did you move back to Baldwin’s Bridge?” he asked as she sat down at the table, across from him. “Or is this just a visit?”
“I’m living half here, half in Boston, although the Boston half usually ends up being one night a week. My father refuses to let me hire a nurse, so I end up driving out here most nights. Thank God for Joe. He was the one who called me—about a week after they first found out it was cancer. If it were up to my father, I probably still wouldn’t know.”
“How long has he got?” Tom quickly added, “If you don’t mind my asking so bluntly.”
Kelly shook her head. “No, it’s good,” she said. “Really. Most people tiptoe around it.” She took a deep breath, as if bracing herself. “He’s got maybe a month before he’ll need to start a morphine drip, before he’s so weak he can’t get out of bed. Right now he’s handling the pain with pills. And he’s got good days and bad days. On his good days, he’s pretty mobile, although his hips give him trouble—that’s a totally separate issue. An age thing, not related to the cancer. I got a walker; I just put it in his room. I’m hoping he’ll just start using it. Maybe after today . . .”
For several long seconds, she faded out, staring into space, shoulders slumped, looking completely exhausted. But even tired, even sixteen years older, she had flawlessly beautiful skin. Sure, she had some lines—laughter lines around her eyes and mouth—but in Tom’s opinion they made her look even more attractive, made her look less like a porcelain doll and more like a real, living, breathing woman. Her face was still heart shaped—maybe a little bit fuller, her cheekbones more pronounced.
Her blond hair was slightly darker, slightly longer than shoulder length. But as before, she wore it back from her face in a smooth, perfect ponytail. He’d once tried to get her to show him how she did that—his hair always lumped and bumped when he pulled it back.
He ran one hand over his buzz cut, aware of how different he must look to Kelly after all these years.
She looked exactly the same, with those ocean blue eyes a man could drown in. With those gracefully shaped, naturally red lips—soft lips he’d dreamed about kissing more times than he could count. Dreamed about, but never tasted.
Not even once.
Until that one crazy night he’d completely lost his mind.
Did she even remember?
For one moment, out on the driveway, when he’d turned the corner and was face-to-face with her for the first time in years, he’d sworn he saw an echo of that night in her eyes. But now . . .
It wasn’t the kind of thing that could be brought up gracefully under normal circumstances, let alone the current situation. “So, Kel, your dad’s dying. But hey, remember that night in Joe’s car, when we nearly . . .” Yeah. Real smooth.
And even if she did remember, it was probably something she wanted to forget. Still, he owed her an apology, and sooner or later he was going to have to bring it up.
As if realizing she wasn’t alone, Kelly shook her head, and forced a smile. “The commute’s been tough,” she said. “I’m sorry; I went in and back this morning already. I didn’t mean to space out on you.”
“Living with your father can’t be too much fun, either,” Tom countered. “It never was a picnic for you, living here. And then to have to come back like this . . .”
She tried to make light of it. “Yeah, right, that was me—the poor little rich girl.” She leaned forward. “How are you, Tom? You look good.”
He let her change the subject. “I’m doing all right.”
It was basically true—if he left out the part about the weeks spent in a coma, Rear Admiral Tucker’s attempt to disband his SO squad, his thirty days of convalescent leave, and his spotting the Merchant at Logan Airport—a fact that made Admiral Crowley believe he was crazy. Sure, outside of that, he was peachy keen, thanks.
“Are you here by yourself?” she asked.
Was her question small talk or a polite fishing expedition? He answered honestly. “Yeah, I’m still relentlessly single. I travel a lot and . . .” He shrugged and ran his hand again across his hair. “Actually, I’m surprised you even recognized me, now that I’m hair challenged.”
She laughed. “Aside from the hair, you look exactly the same. And I happen to like your hair short.”
“Thanks for lying, but—”
“I’m not lying.” She held his gaze, and something in his eyes—maybe another echo of that long ago night that Tom couldn’t hide—made her suddenly look away, a slight flush on her cheeks.
She took a sip of lemonade, and he watched her delicate throat move as she swallowed, watched as she caught a drop from her lips with the very tip of her tongue.
Lemonade. His mainstay fantasy had always started with Kelly inviting him in for a glass of lemonade. One thing would lead to another, which invariably would lead to Kelly dropping to her knees in front of him, usually right here in the kitchen of her father’s house.
Kelly Ashton’s fantasies no doubt featured a white dress, a veil, and a ceremony in church—the end result of a man getting down on his knees. She probably didn’t even know what was implied by a woman doing it.
She was far too nice.
He stood up and set his empty glass in the sink. “I should go find Joe,” he said. “He doesn’t even know I’m in town.” Coward. He should face her, right now, and apologize.
“How long will you be home?” Kelly asked.
Home. God, what a word. “I don’t know,” he admitted.
“If you�
�ve got the time,” she said, “I know my father would love to see you when he’s feeling a little better. Maybe you and Joe could come over for dinner—not necessarily tonight. I’m sure you want to spend tonight catching up. I know you’re also probably planning to visit your sister, so tomorrow night’s probably not good, either. . . .”
“I was going to stay only until the weekend, but actually . . .” Once he admitted it, there’d be no turning back. Still, with Charles Ashton dying, how could he just desert Joe? So he said it. “I’ve got thirty days.”
“Thirty!” Kelly stood, too, her face brightening. “Oh, my God, Tom, it would be great if you could stay! You know, this thing for the Fifty-fifth is next week and I’m sure Joe would love—”
“Whoa. Wait. I don’t know. What thing?”
“The celebration,” she said as if that explained everything. She laughed at the look on his face. “Didn’t you see the decorations they’ve been putting up all over town?”
“Flags,” he remembered. “I thought they were left over from the Fourth.”
“No, it’s for this celebration thing,” she said. “It’s going to be a big deal—Senators Kennedy and Kerry are both coming for the opening ceremony. It’s a four-day reunion of the Fighting Fifty-fifth. Hundreds of family members—descendants of the men who served with the Fifty-fifth in Europe—as well as the surviving soldiers are coming from all over the country. I think I read in the paper that there’s fewer than a hundred of the men still alive. My father’s one of them.”
“I knew your dad was in the Second World War.” Tom leaned back against the counter, watching her. He’d said he was leaving, but he couldn’t seem to move any closer to the door. “That’s where he met Joe. In France.”
“You’re going to love this,” she said, “unless you already know, in which case I’m going to have to hit you for not telling me. But Joe’s getting a special seat onstage at the celebration ceremony next Tuesday.”
“But he wasn’t in the Fifty-fifth, he wasn’t even Army.” It didn’t make sense. “He was Air Force—a rear-turret gunner on a reconnaissance plane.” Getting Joe to talk about it had been like pulling teeth and Tom had eventually given up. He knew far more about his own grandfather, Joe’s brother, a man Tom had never met because he’d died at Anzio.
“Joe was shot down over France in ’42,” Kelly told him.
Jesus, Joe hadn’t told him that. His entire discussion with Tom of what he’d done in World War II was limited to a single sentence: “I served in Europe.” Damn.
“I’m not sure exactly what he did—Dad doesn’t talk about the war much, either—but it had something to do with the Fifty-fifth, something Joe ended up getting a Medal of Honor for.”
Tom nearly fell over, and for the first time in months his dizziness wasn’t from his head injury. “Holy shit, Joe’s got a Medal of Honor? Excuse my language—I’m floored.” He had to laugh. “You’d think he might’ve shown it to me at least once. I mean, forget about putting it on display in the living room. . . .”
“The celebration starts August 15th, the anniversary of V-J Day, the official end of the war,” Kelly told him. “The story I heard—through the newspaper, of course, God forbid either Dad or Joe tell me directly—is that on August 15, 1945, after the war was finally over, the men from the Fighting Fifty-fifth made a pact to meet fifty-five years later, in the year 2000. I think it probably seemed cosmic, the way the numbers added up. And 2000 must’ve seemed so far away back then. It truly was the future, you know? Yet there they were, part of millions of Allied troops who’d made the world safe for that future.
“They chose to meet in Baldwin’s Bridge, because for many of them this was where it all started. Did you know there was an army training center here during the Second World War?”
Tom shook his head.
“This was where those men first came, where the Fifty-fifth was formed. The base was out where they built that new Super Stop & Shop about five years ago. There was a fire there just after the war, and they tore down the remaining buildings in 1950. By the time we were in high school, there were just woods out there.”
“I didn’t know any of that,” Tom admitted.
“Joe and Dad still aren’t talking about it, but they went to a celebration planning committee meeting last week,” she told him. “You ready to hear something weird?”
He had to laugh. “Like none of this is weird enough?”
Kelly smiled, too, but wanly. “Maybe you won’t think this is strange, but I did. Last week, when they came back from that meeting, they were arguing furiously. And Joe’s been walking around in a snit ever since.”
“Joe?” Tom couldn’t believe it. Joe had worked as the Ashtons’ groundskeeper for nearly sixty years—ever since the two men had returned from the War. Charles was the snit master. He was quick tempered and opinionated. He’d spent a good portion of the past six decades in a snit. Tom had to smile. Snit was a good word for it.
“I was working on my computer,” Kelly told him, “and I heard shouting, so I went out to see what was going on. Joe was really upset. I heard only a little of what he was saying—something about running out of time. He stopped as soon as he saw me. My dad stomped into the house, and no matter what I said, I couldn’t get either of them to tell me what was wrong.”
Joe upset for an entire week. Tom couldn’t believe it. His great-uncle Joe may have been quick to both laugh and cry, unafraid to show his emotions, but he’d always managed to keep his temper carefully in control. He was the king of patience, of reason, of careful, measured thought. Good thing, since he’d spent most of his life dealing first with Charles Ashton, and then with young Tom.
“Maybe I can get him to talk about it,” he said doubtfully. “If I ever find him.”
“Tom! Tommy? Is that your bag in my kitchen?”
Tom smiled at Kelly. “Looks like he found me.”
She smiled back at him. “Tom, if it’s really possible, stay for as long as you can,” she said. “We could all use your company.”
No way could he leave, knowing that Charles was dying, knowing that Joe—a man who’d always been there for Tom—could probably use his support.
And with Kelly Ashton standing there, smiling at him, the idea of staying in Baldwin’s Bridge for the full thirty days didn’t seem so awful.
What could he say to her, except “Yeah, I will.”
Still, when he went out the back door to meet Joe in the driveway, all he could wonder was what the hell he’d gotten himself into now.
Three
MALLORY PAOLETTI PACED the tiny living room, listening to her mother bitch about all the shit that was wrong in her life. No money, another crappy, demeaning cleaning job, this good-for-nothing kid who wasn’t even going to college next year.
Except, oh, excuse me, Angela dearest, but you wanna rewind there to complaint A—no money? If there wasn’t enough money to replace the effing water heater and pay the G.D. electric bill, how the hell was there going to be enough money for Mallory to go to college?
Her mother’s brother, Tom, sat on the sofa, patiently hearing Angela out. But when Mallory looked over, he was watching her. He crossed his eyes just for a second. Just long enough for Mallory to know that he was still okay. He was still a cool guy, still on her side, despite the fact that he was losing his hair, big time.
Her mother was finally done. Or at least she made the mistake of pausing for breath. And Tom, as smart as he was cool, quickly took the floor.
“What about the Navy?” he asked, looking directly at Mal.
Her mother laughed breathlessly and lit another cigarette. “Oh, that’s a good one, Tommy. Can you really picture Mallory—”
“I wasn’t asking you, Ang,” he said, blowing right over her. “I was asking Mal. What do you want do with your life, kid? What do you like to do? If you want, I’ll go down to the recruiter’s office with you. It doesn’t have to be the Navy. Between you, me, and the recruiting officer, we can mat
ch you up with the branch of the service that’ll put you exactly where you want to be. We can negotiate four years of college for you. They like their recruits—even enlisted—to get an education.”
“Mallory wants to get herself pierced and tattooed,” Angela said. “That’s about all she wants to do these days. I know you probably don’t believe it, Tommy, but beneath that awful cut and dye job, Mallory is a very pretty girl. She looks a lot like I did when I was eighteen.”
And that was a load of crap. Mallory was about six inches taller than her mother and built like an Amazon warrior, complete with size D cups, while Angela had been—and still was—model-slender and prettily petite. Willowy, it was called in books. Thirty-four years old, and her mother could go without a bra. Mallory hadn’t had that option since fourth grade.
Tom was still looking at her, giving her that little half smile she remembered so well from his other trips home. Take me with you, she’d cried when she was eleven or twelve, when he’d blasted into town for a weekend or, worse, a too-short day.
He had been proof that a Paoletti could shake free from the shackles of this puritanical, narrow-minded, pointy-assed town. But nowadays, Tom was proof only of her own pathetic failings. Mal was more like her mother than her uncle. She was weighed down by all the bad shit, chain-smoking Winstons even though they couldn’t find the money to buy milk, unable to break free.
“Think about it,” he told Mallory now. “I’m going to be around for a while. Probably till the end of the month.”
She dropped her perpetually bored sneer, nearly dropped her own cigarette. “Holy shit.” He was staying that long?
“Watch your mouth,” Angela murmured.
Tom was going to be in town for weeks. At one time, that news would’ve made Mallory ecstatic. Now it only made her more depressed. When it was just her and Angela hanging around the house, Mal didn’t feel like such a loser. At least she had never spent her entire paycheck betting on the dogs at Wonderland. But with Tom in town as contrast, it was obvious she and her mother were in the same subset. Double losers. A mismatched pair of misfits. It was just a matter of time before she started buying lottery tickets with her last few bucks, just like Angela.
The Unsung Hero Page 4