Hearts Divided

by Debbie Macomber

  “I’m glad you’re saying ‘we.’ When it comes to computers, my forte is e-mail.”

  “You’re still frowning. What’s wrong?”

  “I was thinking it’s been a while since I e-mailed Winifred.”

  “Like before meeting Matthew last weekend?” Elizabeth guessed.

  “A while before that,” Gram admitted.

  “You were busy planning the reception for us at the Orchard Inn. It was a wonderful party, Gram, my unfortunate choice of fiancé notwithstanding. If you’d liked Matthew, you would’ve e-mailed Winifred right away. But you didn’t like him, and not wanting to worry her, you held off. And, of course, you were concerned about my feelings, too. The good news is you have a doozy of an e-mail to send now. With my permission.”

  “I won’t get too carried away.”

  “The truth is the truth, Gram. There are men who’d never lie to their fiancées, or spend clandestine afternoons with other women. Men like Granddad,” Elizabeth said. And Nick? “Then there are the Matthew Blaines of the world. He wasn’t in love with me. You were able to see it, even though I couldn’t.”

  “I saw something else, Elizabeth. You weren’t in love with Matthew, either.”

  “You’re just saying that to make me feel better.” Elizabeth smiled. “It would make me feel better—if it was true.”

  “It’s true, darling girl. Mark my—Nick,” she predicted as the phone began to ring.

  “Nick? Why?”

  “He’ll want to make sure there’s nothing we need.” Clara lifted the receiver. “We’re fine! Hello? Well, yes, as a matter of fact, she is here.” Your mother, she mouthed. “Safe and sound, thank goodness, and having dodged an unfortunate matrimonial bullet. No, Abby, she’s not going to marry him.”

  Clara winked at her granddaughter. Abigail MacKenzie-Winslow didn’t like being called Abby. Her mother knew it, and reserved it for times such as these, when sternness was required.

  “The engagement ring Matthew found in his foyer was a major clue. He’s bewildered? I’d suggest he put on his thinking cap. He’s a smart fellow. He ought to be able to figure this out.” Clara was silent for a moment. “She’s resting. I’ll have her call you tomorrow. She won’t be changing her mind. And, as her mother, you shouldn’t want her to.” Another silence. “I don’t know when she’ll be returning to San Francisco. I’m hoping she’ll stay here for a while. She’d be a tremendous help with a project I’m working on. Give my best to Thomas, will you?”

  Clara replaced the receiver and smiled at her granddaughter.

  “Thank you, Gram.”

  “That’s not the end of it,” Clara said. “We both know your mother better than that.”

  “She really wanted this marriage.”

  “Too bad! If Matthew’s last name wasn’t Blaine, and she wasn’t in a tizzy about how her society friends are going to react, her focus would be where it belongs—on you. Despite that, she is concerned about you.”

  “I know.”

  “How a daughter of mine could be such a snob, I’ll never know.” Gram paused. Sighed. “That’s not entirely accurate. The truth is, she comes by it honestly.”

  “She does? From where? Dad’s not a snob. And she certainly didn’t get it from you or Granddad.”

  “That’s the problem. I’m afraid she did. Who knew snobbery could be carried in the genes? Old money isn’t even supposed to be snobbish. Your father being a case in point. But, as I know well, it’s the exception that proves the rule. One of San Francisco’s oldest and wealthiest families—mine—is such an exception.”

  “Your family, Gram?”

  “The San Francisco Carltons. Even when I was a girl, the Carlton fortune was generations old. But talk about snobs. My mother especially.”

  “Your mother?”

  “My father was almost as pretentious. He was a Bronxville Smith. But we lived in San Francisco, not New York, and she was the Carlton of the two.”

  “So…you’re a Carlton.”

  “I was a Carlton. Granddad knew, and his parents. To everyone else, I was simply Clara Anne Smith, who couldn’t wait to become Clara Anne MacKenzie. It wasn’t a secret as much as an irrelevance.”

  “Mom doesn’t know.”

  “And never needs to. Like your relationship with Matthew, my pedigree is ancient history.”

  “But how did you and Granddad meet? I always thought he’d never left Sarah’s Orchard before he went to war—and that the two of you met and fell in love before that.”

  “We met here, in September 1941. I’d just celebrated my sixteenth birthday and in two months he’d turned eighteen.”

  “And a month after that,” Elizabeth said, “Pearl Harbor was attacked.”

  “We were in love by then. Long before that day of infamy, we knew we’d spend our lives together.”

  “What were you doing in Sarah’s Orchard?”

  “What all San Francisco heiresses did in those days, attending finishing school. Because of the war in Europe, stateside boarding schools were popular, and new ones kept cropping up. Rogue River School for Girls was in its second year when I arrived that September.”

  “I’ve never heard of Rogue River School for Girls.”

  “But you know the building well. After the war, it became the Orchard Inn.”

  “Which is a short walk to MacKenzie’s Market.”

  “Where Granddad helped his parents on weekends and after school.”

  “And where a Rogue River schoolgirl happened by?”

  “A classmate and I loved the apples we were served at lunch. One day, we decided to buy some for snacks. One day became every day. Granddad always had an apple waiting for me, shined to a mirror finish on his shirtsleeve. His parents were amused by how smitten he was. Girls had been stopping by the store for apples—or whatever else was in season—for a while. But he’d never taken an interest in any of them the way he was interested in me. And, of course, he was my one and only love.”

  “And you were his.”

  “We knew it. His family knew it.”

  “And your family?”

  “I’d planned to tell them that Christmas. Charles and I talked about his coming to San Francisco for New Year’s to ask my parents’ permission for us to marry that spring. But everything changed, the world changed on December 7. I went to Portland with him. That’s where he enlisted. And where we spoke our wedding vows—privately, just to each other.” She closed her eyes for a moment. “We thought he’d be sent to the Pacific. But Congress had declared war on Germany and Italy, too, by then, and that’s where he went.”

  “How long was he gone?”

  “Three years, eight months, six days. He came home a month after VE Day.”

  “You missed him desperately.”

  “Every second of every day. I was lucky to have his parents, and this town. They welcomed me and my babies, your twin uncles.”

  “And your family?”

  Clara shook her head. “They didn’t want any part of a daughter who’d gotten pregnant out of wedlock with a country boy whose dream was to carry on the tradition of his family’s store. My parents threatened to disown me, to cut me off from the wealth and social status that were my birthright, unless I went into hiding until after I’d had my babies and given them away.”

  “They were serious?”

  “Oh, yes. And so was I. I didn’t threaten to disown them. I just did it.”

  “That must’ve been difficult.”

  “I won’t pretend it wasn’t. Not the decision—that was easy. But it hurt me deeply that they hadn’t even wanted to meet the man I loved, hadn’t given him a chance.”

  “Mom’s not that much of a snob. But,” Elizabeth said, “I wonder if Matthew is.”

  Six

  April 13, 1942

  Midnight

  Clara, my love,

  I’m remembering the first night you sneaked out of the dormitory to be with me. I was so worried you’d fall as you climbed down the tree.
You laughed at my worry. I can hear that fearless laughter even now.

  You scampered down the oak, long skirts and all, as if you’d been climbing trees all your life. We walked to the river. Do you remember? And lay beside each other on the grass. We listened to the sounds of the autumn night. The owl talking to the moon. The river lapping at our feet.

  I listened to you breathe. When you breathed out, my Clara, I breathed in. I wanted to draw deep within me the air still warm from being deep within you. I wondered if you were doing the same.

  It was the only way we could touch on that September night. We’d known each other just one week. We lay as close as we could without touching, didn’t we?

  I wanted to touch you, Clara. You discovered, later, how much. But I’m glad we didn’t touch on that night.

  I can lie here, so many miles away—a world away, my darling—and pretend you’re beside me now, and that the night air that’s giving me life, giving me hope, is doing so because it was breathed first by you.

  I love you, Clara. More than life, and long beyond death.

  I’m lying beside you, my love.

  Always,

  Charles

  “Oh, Granddad,” Elizabeth whispered as she placed the letter beside the others she’d read. “Granddad.”

  After a moment, and through the blur of dampness in her eyes, she glanced at the stovetop clock.

  Eleven forty-five. Time to get ready for Nick. Mentally ready, she amended, for the switching of cerebral gears from Granddad’s letters, Granddad’s love, to choosing colors schemes for the house—with Nick.

  Mental preparedness was required there, as well. She felt wary about seeing Nick. Quite wary. But quite eager, too.

  It was an unsettling paradox, and a crazy one. Crazy being the operative word.

  A little head-clearing fresh air was in order, and it was hers for the taking. Last night’s rainstorm was now a memory. The world it left behind sparkled fresh and clean.

  She walked the length of the driveway. At its farthest reach, she sat on a patch of grass beneath an apple tree. Eyes closed, she lifted her face skyward. The air was warm, as if from the lungs of a loved one lying close by. She inhaled deeply and was rewarded with a gift from an orchard of friends, the delicate scent of apples ripening beneath the summer sun.

  Elizabeth Charlotte Winslow didn’t have a freeze-frame kind of beauty; Nick had already decided that.

  But the face that smiled at the sun was as motionless as a painting, and more beautiful than any he’d ever seen.

  She was sitting beneath the very tree where he’d found her, sobbing, as a girl, and he was approaching from behind her, as he had on that December afternoon.

  He would’ve been happy to watch her forever. But she had no idea she was being observed, and he had no right not to tell her.

  “Elizabeth.”

  Her eyes flew open and she scrambled to her feet.

  “Nick.”

  “On the lookout for Matthew?”

  “No. I…” On the lookout for you. “Gram said you’d be coming from Center Street.”

  “I came early. There’s a fence rail that needs replacing. I wanted to check for others before making a run to the lumber store.”

  “You take such good care of her.”

  “I’m honored that she lets me.” Nick gestured toward the hill up which he’d once carried a singing, clinging little girl. “Shall we?”

  “Sure.” They ascended in silence, except for the swishing sound of her jeans legs brushing against each other. Finally she said, “Matthew won’t be coming to Sarah’s Orchard.”

  “So he’s dead, after all.”

  “What? No!”

  “No?” Then why isn’t he moving heaven and earth to win you back? “What did you do?”

  “When I saw…what I saw, I put my engagement ring in a wedding-invitation envelope, slid it through the mail slot in his door and drove away.”

  “That’s nice. Classy.” His smile was solemn. But it was a smile. “Very haiku.”

  She stopped. The denim stopped.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “Nothing. I thought it was very haiku, too. Are you a poet?”

  “I’m a handyman, Elizabeth.” Nick resumed walking. “So you think your haiku message will keep Matthew away?”

  “No. But I’m hoping the conversation we had when he called last night will. I believe I made it clear that any further discussions would be a waste of his time—and mine.”

  “You meant it.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “I’ll bet he wasn’t happy.”

  “He was…surprised. He tried to convince me that what he’d done had ‘just happened,’ as if he’d had no more control over it than if he’d been struck by lightning. And, of course, he said it meant nothing to him. Janine meant nothing.”

  “You obviously weren’t convinced.”

  “I told him I thought he was in love with Janine and should have the courage to marry her, no matter how his parents felt about it. That wasn’t what he wanted to hear. He was still trying to persuade me to forgive him. I said I already had, but that the marriage was off.”

  “Why?”

  “Why?”

  “I’m not questioning your decision. I’m just wondering if you expanded on your reasons.”

  “I did point out that lies don’t ‘just happen.’ And that he’d lied to me in advance about where he’d be yesterday afternoon.”

  “A premeditated lie.”

  “Yes.”

  “Betrayal in the first degree.”

  “I wish I’d said that. Are you an attorney, Nick?”

  “Elizabeth,” he said, “I’m a handyman.”

  “Who can do anything, according to Gram.”

  “I can do a few things.”

  “Have you always been a handyman?”

  Not always, Nick thought. Not until a December afternoon. Before then, he’d been a boy no one wanted, or valued.

  He hadn’t believed—until then—in a better world than the one he’d always known. But there was a better world, he’d discovered. And, just maybe, it was a world in which he could belong. He’d vowed to try.

  “From the time I was seven, when I’ve seen something that needed fixing, I’ve done my best to fix it.”

  “Do you think I should’ve tried to fix my relationship with Matthew?”

  “Not in a million years. Not even if you loved him.” This time it was Nick who stopped. He waited until she met his dark gray eyes. “Did you?”

  “Love the man I was going to marry? And whom I would have married if I hadn’t caught him in flagrante with Janine?”

  “Yes,” Nick said. “That man.”

  “No.” It began as a whisper, as if it were a confession almost too shameful to reveal. Once exposed to the summer sun—or perhaps to the gray eyes that glittered with sparks of blue—the no took on a life of its own. A happy life, relieved…and giggling. Bubbling. “No. No! I didn’t love him.”

  Seven

  “Where’s Clara?” Nick asked when they entered the kitchen.

  “She’s at Eve’s.”

  “Ah.”

  “Lemonade?” she offered.

  “Sure. Thank you.” Tossing the folder he’d brought with him onto the kitchen table, Nick walked to the counter where Charles’s letters lay, taken from their glossy boxes. “Are you reading these?”

  “Yes. Gram wants all of us to read them. All of us is her family…and you.” It surprised him, Elizabeth thought. And moved him. He swallowed and looked away. “After making copies, I’m going to have each set professionally bound.”

  “That’s nice.” Nick touched the stack that had been removed from their envelopes. “Are these the ones you’ve read so far?”

  Elizabeth nodded as she gave him a glass of lemonade. “I put the envelopes in order first. That didn’t take as long as Gram figured it might. Then I started reading. The letters begin the day Granddad said goodbye to her
in Portland. He introduces each fellow soldier he meets like an author introduces the characters in his story—who each of them is, where he comes from, who he loves, who and what he left behind. It’s a diverse group, but they’re united in their commitment to what they’ve chosen to do. Granddad doesn’t portray their journey as a grand adventure. And yet, as they’re crossing the country—and then the ocean—it feels that way. There’s a sense of excitement, of eagerness for what lies ahead.”

  “Do you think they know what lies ahead?”

  Elizabeth shook her head. “How could they? They’re only eighteen. And, like Granddad, they’ve enlisted because of Pearl Harbor. The country they love has been attacked. They want to defend it. They believe what they’re doing is right and good. And because it is right and good, they also believe they’ll return triumphant and whole. But they can’t, can they? Not all of them.”

  “No,” Nick said. “Not all of them. In the letters you’ve read, have they gone into battle yet?”

  “Yes. Just. And they all survived. Granddad says it that succinctly, that flatly, without any description of what actually happened.” Elizabeth handed him the letter Charles wrote at midnight on April 13, 1942. “A few hours later, he wrote this.”

  Nick’s expression as he read revealed nothing. When he finished and looked at her, his eyes were the color of stone. “What do you think?”

  “About the letter? That it’s beautiful. He loves Gram so much.”

  “Yes, he does.” Nick hesitated briefly. “I’m sensing you have other thoughts.”

  “I get the feeling something horrible happened. He needs to tell her what it was.”

  “He won’t. Ever.”

  “What?”

  “He’ll tell her succinctly, flatly, when one of his band of brothers dies. But he’ll never describe how his friends die, or the way it feels to aim a rifle at another human being and pull the trigger and watch him fall, or how frightened he is, or angry, or if there comes a time when he wishes he could take a bullet instead of firing one.”

  “He has to tell her those things.”