by Jaye Watson
Emaline Banister Mystery #5
What Now My Love...
A Mystery NovelByte
By
Jaye Watson
Uncial Press Aloha, Oregon
2014
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events described herein are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
ISBN 13: 978-1-60174-186-8
What Now My Love...
Copyright © 2014 by Judith B. Glad
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Copyright © 2014 by Judith B. Glad
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What Now My Love...
"Couldn't you think of something better to do on a sunny Saturday in May than clean out the attic?"
Emaline shook her head as she stepped aside to let Harry Jordan enter. "It's not just today. I've been working on this all winter, in my off hours. Besides, I did invite you to dinner." She led the way up the stairs to the second floor. "Putting in a couple of hours playing stevedore is the price."
"Yeah, yeah. I know about these projects." His voice went high and sing-song. "'Just a little chore. Won't take more than a few minutes.' That's what Sandy used to say. None of her projects were ever that simple."
She turned to look at him. "Sandy? Your ex?" Harry's ex-wife had died last year, and he was still mourning her as though they'd still been married. He'd never spoken of her unless asked.
"Yeah." His grin was a little crooked. "I didn't mean to compare—"
"No, it's just that I could almost hear Grandad saying the same thing about Gran." A shiver went up her spine, and she did her best to ignore it. "Tell you what. You help me without whining and I'll feed you fresh-baked bread for dinner."
"Fresh-baked bread? You made bread?" His eyes gleamed. If she didn't know better, she'd have thought he was about to drool.
"My second attempt. The first one was edible, but only barely. This one should be a lot better." Edging between an old treadle sewing machine in an oak cabinet and a teetering pile of boxes, she paused to make sure the teeter didn't turn into a crash. When the boxes steadied, she raised the dusty roller shades on the dormer windows and let the sun shine in.
Sort of. "Hand me the Windex, will you. And a couple of those newspapers?"
As she sprayed and wiped, removing the accumulated grime of decades, Harry lifted the top box from the stack that had almost fallen. "Didn't your family ever throw anything away?" He opened the flaps and peered inside. "Good grief. This newspaper's dated March 12, 1953." He blew, and a cloud of dust arose.
"Don't do that. Use the vacuum."
"Okay." But he was perusing the headlines. "I'll be damned."
"What?"
"Did you know the Air Force dropped an A-bomb in South Carolina on March 11, 1953?"
"You're kidding!"
"Nope. It didn't go off, though." He laid the newspaper aside and began rooting in the box.
"For which I'm sure South Carolinians are eternally grateful." After some effort, she managed to raise both lower sashes. The fresh breeze that came in scattered the dust Harry had stirred up and replaced the musty air in the attic.
He came to stand behind her. "Great view."
It was. Although most of the lots here on Mount Tabor were wooded, the one directly behind this one had been cleared when an old Craftsman house had been replaced with something that looked like a stack of shipping crates. She'd mourned the loss of afternoon shade in the back yard, but from up here, the lack of mature trees in that lot gave a view clear across the valley. On a clear winter day when the east wind blew away all traces of smog, she'd bet the Coast Range would be visible.
Today the near view was better, though. The rhodies in the back yard were starting to break into bloom, the flowering cherry her great-grandmother had planted was covered with fat pink pompoms, and a few late daffodils shone brightly from under the dogwood that was just beginning to show promise of blossoming. "Spring is really here."
He was standing just behind her, not quite touching. The old Harry would have put his arm around her. This new one, still recovering from brutal treatment at the hands of sex traffickers whom he'd gone undercover to investigate, was less openly affectionate. Almost as if he was afraid to let her get too close to him, both physically and emotionally. Today he was more like the old Harry, but there were still shadows in his eyes.
"Nothing like Spring in Portland." He sounded more sad than nostalgic.
"I know." Just this morning Emaline had peeked out the kitchen window at the raised bed where the snow peas were climbing the trellis she'd erected. Her fingers had itched to start working the soil, so she'd planted the peas and some onion starts in mid-March. Pretty soon she'd set out tomatoes and cucumbers.
"Grandad taught me to garden. I'm going to miss him this spring." She wouldn't miss the continual complaints, the unceasing demands, of the past couple of years, but she'd miss him, because he was her grandfather and had for a long time been her only close relative.
They hauled the boxes from the unsteady stack and half a dozen others down the stairs and set them in the one unfurnished bedroom. Most were labeled: Winter Clothes. Martha's School Records. Tax Returns, 1957-62. Danny's Toys. The last item she brought down was a scuffed shoebox, tied with faded ribbon. In the dim light of the attic, she hadn't been able to read the label, but now the spidery penciled words were clear. "'Letters from Bill.' This looks like Aunt Tilly's handwriting, but who was Bill?"
"An old sweetheart, maybe?" Harry had dug in the toys box and was holding up a tractor made from Erector Set parts. "Who was the budding engineer?"
Her throat tightened for a moment. "My brother. He died when I was two. Anaphylactic shock. He was allergic to peanuts. I don't remember him at all." She picked at the ribbon, but it was tied in a hard knot. "Aunt Tilly hated men. I wonder why she'd keep a man's letters."
"Only one way to find out." Harry dusted his hands. "Is this all for today, or do you want to bring the rest down?"
"Hmm? Oh, no, this is enough. I'll need to leave room in here to sort and repack what I want to keep." She flipped through the letters. All the legible postmarks were between 1936 and 1941. Becoming aware that Harry was watching her curiously, she replaced them in the box and closed it. But she promised herself she'd read them the first chance she got.
"What do you say we call it a day and go out on the porch while it's still sunny?"
"Sounds good. I still feel a little moldy. It was a long, wet winter."
Emaline bit back a sympathetic reply. Harry's winter had been spent outside, living as a street person in Seattle, an even rainier town in winter than Portland. She'd already learned that he could speak of his experience, but no one else could. Not with impunity.
The old Harry had been about the most even-tempered guy she'd ever dated. This new one's temper was uncertain.
After they'd dusted themselves off, he set up the folding chairs on the porch whi
le she piled some crackers, grapes and cheese on a black walnut tray. On impulse, she opened the bottle of viognier she'd been saving for a special event.
Maybe this is one. Harry's home, and he hasn't snarled once this afternoon.
With his feet propped on the edge of a terracotta planter, Harry balanced the filled plate on his lap and sampled the wine. "Nice. Local?"
"From a vineyard near Dallas. Amy recommended it." She tried hers. "Oh, yes! That is good."
"Matt's coming home in about three weeks." From his tone, he wasn't entirely happy about his son's return.
"He's all right isn't he? He'll get his wings?"
"Oh, sure. He's third in his class." Upending his glass, Harry finished his wine, almost blasphemous for something of this quality, in her opinion. "He's bringing a woman home."
"Sounds serious."
"I think it is." He shifted restlessly. "They want to stay at my place."
"You've only got one extra bedroom." As if that should make a difference. Well, maybe it would, to Harry. He had a puritanical streak a mile wide. Every other man she'd ever dated would have tried to talk her into bed long since.
"Yeah." Grudgingly. His eyes closed and he tipped his head back. There were new lines on his face. A still-pink scar across his forehead. When he was tired, he limped, and privately she thought he should still be wearing the cast. A cracked tibia was nothing to joke about.
"They could stay here. I've plenty of room." As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she wanted to call them back. She didn't want Harry's son staying here. She wanted Harry.
And wasn't that a hoot? She'd been as reluctant to take their relationship to the next level as he'd been. Until he'd disappeared. Only then had she realized she'd somehow fallen in love with the man.
Trouble was, the man who'd returned was not the one who'd gone away, and she wasn't nearly as sure of her feelings for him.
"That's...nice of you. I'll think about it." He didn't even open his eyes.
Disgusted with herself, not quite furious with him, Emaline decided to let him enjoy his misery and find herself something interesting to do. Like reading Aunt Tilly's letters. She went to get them, and refilled her wine glass on the way back.
Harry hadn't moved. From the soft sound of his breathing, she decided he was asleep. Just as well. I know he's not sleeping well at night. We forget that it's not only soldiers who come home with PTSD.
She flipped through the letters—only nine of them, plus a handful of postcards. Most of the envelopes were so thin she knew they contained only one sheet of paper. All the missives were addressed to Miss Matilda Banister; no two were postmarked from the same place.
Augusta, Georgia
April 1, 1936
Dearest Matilda,
I wish I could come back to you sooner, but my boss won't give me time off until June, and he's assigned someone else to the Oregon sales territory. We'll just have to wait to make our plans until I know more about where I will be.
I miss you a lot. Spending that week with you in February was the most wonderful time of my life. I still can feel your soft lips, smell your sweet scent, hear your lovely voice. Meeting you was the best thing that ever happened to me. I'll be counting the days until I can hold you again.
All my love,
Bill
~~
Morrison, Oklahoma
October 29, 1936
My Darling Matilda,
Your letters have finally caught up with me. So many! I just counted them, and you wrote me one every single week since we parted.
I am so sorry for not writing sooner. I've been on the move as usual. Georgia, Alabama, Mississippi, Texas, and now Oklahoma. My boss says I'm the best salesman he's got and he keeps sending me off to train new men. The good thing is I'm making lots of money, but I miss you something awful. I'd give almost anything to get back to Oregon, even for a few days.
All my love,
Bill
~~
August 15, 1937
Dearest Tilly,
At last! I'll be in Oregon in about two weeks. My boss finally listened to my pleas and gave me a week off. I had to promise to train salesmen in Seattle and Boise, besides Portland, but at least I'll be there. Can you take time off from school? I know it's asking a lot, but won't your principal understand? Or is he one of those dried-up professor types who doesn't believe in true love?
I'll wire you when to expect me. Don't worry about finding me a place to stay. The boss already got me a room in a place out on Interstate Ave. I guess AeroSyph always puts salesmen up there. I suppose I'll be able to take a bus to your place. Or you could come and visit me? I don't bite (unless you want me to). Ha ha!
I can hardly wait to see you. I meant what I said in my last letter. It's time for us to talk about the future.
Your loving,
Bill
Emaline went back and reread the previous two letters. No, she hadn't missed anything. Bill had said nothing about the future. She must have never received the letter. Poor Aunt Tilly. But at least she knew he was alive.
Green Bay, Wisconsin
January 15 1938
Dear Tilly,
I sure wish I was in Portland right now. I've been in Wisconsin since right after the first of the year, and I haven't been warm since I got here. Today the temperature got up into the twenties, and it might be the warmest day this month. If I was there you could cuddle up with me and we'd keep each other warm.
I hope you've got over being mad at me. If I'd known you were an innocent, I'd have been a little more careful. But your sweet body just made me so hot. I couldn't help myself.
I think you're being a little unfair, calling me a philanderer. I'm not cheating on you. But you can't expect me to avoid all women when I haven't seen you for so long. And I just don't know when I'll be back that way. The boss wants me to head for New England when I get done in this territory, and after that, it's anybody's guess where he'll send me. Maybe by summer I can get back to Portland.
I do love you. And I'm sorry you're upset.
Love,
Bill
"How old was Aunt Tilly then? Old enough not to be taken in by a lothario, surely."
"Huh?" Harry sat up straight, shook his head. "I must have dozed. Did you say something?"
"Just muttering to myself." After tucking the letter back into its envelope, she set the box aside. "You slept soundly for a good half hour. Maybe you should spend more time drinking wine and basking in the sun."
"Maybe so. I feel a lot better. Any more of that wine?"
"I'll get it." She filled his glass and poured the last little bit into hers. Definitely something for the "Buy More" list. When she stepped back on to the deck, she said, "It's nearly six. Shall I put the soup on?"
"Soup? I thought you promised me homemade bread."
"I did. And homemade minestrone to go with it. Lemon meringue pie for dessert."
"No hurry. The cheese and crackers took the edge off. Let's enjoy the last of the sunshine while we can. The clouds are moving in." He leaned back and sipped at his wine.
When he'd said nothing for a good ten minutes, Emaline glanced over her shoulder. He was asleep again, and looking more like the old Harry than she'd seen since his return. She picked up the shoebox again, pulled the next letter out and opened it. Bill's writing, never really flowing, was even more irregular and difficult to read.
Greensboro, North Carolina
September 15, 1938
Dear Tilly,
Well, it looks like I'll be seeing you in few months. The boss says that as soon as I finish this circuit through the South, he's going to send me back to the West Coast. Sales have fallen off out there, and he thinks it's because the salesmen are getting lazy. I think it's because nobody's got any money to spend, and what they have they're holding onto. That Hitler fella scares folks, and a lot of the business people I talk to are worried we're going to get into another war. I tell them not to worry. Mr. Roosevelt's to
o busy putting this country back together to worry about what's going on over in Europe.
When I get there we'll talk about getting married. Not that I believe I'm obligated to marry you, just because we went a little farther than you figure was proper, but I want to keep my baby happy.
Get yourself some dancing shoes. I learned how to jitterbug when I was in Chicago and I'm going to teach you. It's swell!
Love,
Bill
~~
Sacramento, California
March 23 1939
Happy birthday to my best girl. I'm still working at getting back to Portland. Trouble is, some of those big aircraft plants down in LA are looking at installing AeroSyph systems, and there's nobody out here who knows as much about them as I do. Looks like it'll be a while yet.
I've sent you a birthday present. Watch for it. And if it doesn't fit, you can take it to any Sears Roebuck store and get one that does. I'd tell you to have your picture taken in it, but I don't want anybody but me to see you wearing it.
Love,
Bill
"Learn anything?"
His voice brought her back to the present. "Only that Bill was playing Aunt Tilly. He strung her along with promises to come back to Portland, hints that he'd marry her. I doubt he had any intention of doing anything but getting her into bed, if he ever came this way again. Why, I'll bet he had a girl in every town."
"You're taking this really seriously. What difference does it make?" Harry picked up an envelope she'd dropped to the floor. He rubbed a thumb over the postmark, faded but still legible. "It all happened eighty years ago."
"You're right. But I remember Aunt Tilly. She was the saddest person I've ever seen. I always felt sort of sorry for her, that she didn't know how to be happy."
"Maybe there was a reason. One named Bill." Harry stood up, held out his hand. "You're making yourself as sad as your aunt. Let's go see about dinner. Put the letters away."
She did, and they had a pleasant couple of hours over soup and bread. Harry made a visible effort to be cheerful and open. A small step, but to Emaline it said he was getting better.