As Claire brought the coffee to the table, Brandon felt his concern for her and for Rachel start to get the better of him. While trying to control his rising anger, he abruptly shoved his chair back and stood up. He walked to one of the kitchen windows and glumly stared at the ever-present mess lying outside.
“What’s wrong?” Claire asked.
With his back still toward her, he said, “Why the hell don’t you divorce him?”
“I can’t.”
Brandon turned around and glared at her. “Why not?” he demanded.
“For one thing, I got no money,” she answered. “And even if I did, where would Rachel and I go? How would we survive? Hell, Brandon, I can’t even pay you for today . . .”
As much as it saddened him to hear it, he couldn’t disagree. But seeing her and Rachel imprisoned here like this still tore at his heart, because even now he felt partly responsible.
“I could help you, if you want,” he offered. “Money, a place to live . . . It’s the least I could do, considering . . .”
Claire shook her head. “That’d be crazy, and you know it,” she answered. “If Pug found out, there’s no tellin’ what he’d do. He still hates you bad as ever. Your helpin’ me might end up making things worse for everybody. And God knows I don’t need nothin’ worse to come along.”
Brandon sighed. As much as she and Rachel meant to him, all he wanted to do right now was to climb back into his plane and get away from here—away from the heartache, the squalor, and the scathing memories.
“I have to go,” he said. “Remember to call me if Rachel doesn’t improve. If I need to, I’ll come back. Pug or no Pug.”
“What about your coffee?” she asked.
“Sorry. Another time, maybe.”
Claire stood and embraced him. “Thank you for coming,” she whispered. “You’re the best man I know. And I feel so bad about what happened three years ago. I know that you tried . . .”
His nightmarish memories suddenly revisiting him, Brandon closed his eyes. When he opened them again they were wet, and he wiped them with one sleeve.
“Sorry again,” he said. “That still happens, sometimes. Help me push the plane off?”
“Sure,” she answered.
A bit later, Brandon was again taxiing the Cessna across Devil’s Pond. As the plane gathered speed he glanced out his side window and saw Claire standing on the dock, waving good-bye. Soon the plane was climbing into the sky and winging its way back to Lake Evergreen.
Good-bye, Claire, Brandon thought. And thank you for forgiving me. Now if I could only forgive myself. . .
Chapter 17
Thanks for this,” Brandon said to Chelsea. Fully satisfied, he put down his fork and gave her a broad smile.
“I’ve never tasted Eisenhower’s Eggs Benedict before,” he said, laughing, “and I must admit that it’s wonderful. I’ve always been a huge fan of the dish, and I never thought that it could be improved upon. But I must say that in her own way, Brooke certainly accomplished that.”
Chelsea smiled back at him. Brooke’s Eisenhower’s Eggs Benedict was made with a sausage patty instead of Canadian bacon, and the hollandaise sauce included bits of diced mushroom. Chelsea had served it along with some hash browns made with diced green pepper and onion. It had been her first attempt at preparing one of Brooke’s wartime recipes, and doing so had made her feel even more connected to both the bygone era in which they had been created and the woman who had created them.
“Why, thank you, Dr. Yale,” she said. “This is my first crack at making them—no pun intended—and I must agree that they did come out well. But the credit goes to Brooke, not me. Anyway, it’s nice to have you here tonight and to be sharing another meal with you.”
Brandon leaned back in his chair and smiled again. “And to also share another of your grandmother’s journal entries, right?” he asked.
“Yes,” Chelsea admitted. “That too.”
“Would you like some help clearing the table?” Brandon asked.
Chelsea shook her head. “No,” she said, “I’ll get this. But could you start a fire?”
“Will do,” Brandon answered. “First, though, I’ll need to bring in some more wood.”
While Brandon was around the back of the cabin gathering wood, Chelsea started cleaning up the dishes. As she did, she smiled to herself. She had always enjoyed cooking and had particularly enjoyed preparing her first of Brooke’s wartime recipes. The Eisenhower’s Eggs Benedict had been a big hit with Brandon. And soon now they would share another of Brooke’s journal entries—something else that she greatly enjoyed.
By now she very much liked Brandon, this handsome and rather enigmatic doctor next to whom she lived. Although it was clear he had some secrets, his supposed maudlin side never seemed to surface too often or too harshly. And that, Chelsea was beginning to realize, was one of the things that intrigued her the most. Despite whatever personal demons might taunt him, Brandon always seemed a strong, calm, and sympathetic man. And as she came to know him better, it was those very traits that further convinced her she had done the right thing when asking him to explore Brooke’s journal with her.
Before leaving Beauregard’s, Chelsea had tried asking Jenny what she meant about Pug Jennings being one of Brandon’s “demons.” Jenny had been reluctant to answer, saying only that it would be best if Brandon explained these things to her himself. Because she and Jenny had just met, Chelsea didn’t press the issue. She also knew that her relationship with Brandon was still too new to risk asking him about such sensitive things herself. So she had decided to wait and see if the time would come when he might offer them up of his own volition.
As she finished tidying up the kitchen, Chelsea looked out the open, paned window that lay just above her sink. The sun had set about an hour ago, and it was proving to be a lovely night. There was no wind, which meant that she could easily hear the night creatures singing and the waves of Lake Evergreen as they caressed the sandy shoreline. The sky was cloudless, the stars were bright, and she felt very much at ease this evening.
But then she thought about Brooke’s journal again, and she sighed slightly. She had yet to discover why Brooke had wanted her to read it or how she would feel about it when she had finished. Only time would tell her, she knew, as she and Brandon explored the rest of it.
His arms loaded with wood, Brandon came up the porch steps, followed by Dolly and Jeeves. As he began preparing a fire and the dogs hunkered down in one corner of the living room, Chelsea poured the last of the coffee into two mugs, retrieved Brooke’s old journal from the porch, and walked on into the living room.
Once the fire got going, Brandon joined her on the sofa and took a sip of coffee. “And so, are you ready?” he asked.
“As ready as I’ll ever be, I guess,” Chelsea answered as she tucked her legs up under her.
“Would you like to do the honors, or shall I?” Brandon asked.
“It’s my turn, I think,” Chelsea said as she searched through the journal. On finding the fourth entry, she began reading aloud:
Sunday, July 5, 1942, 3:00 P.M.
Another month has passed and yesterday was the Fourth of July, the first since America’s entry into this awful war. Even though I’m spending the summer here at Lake Evergreen, where everything seems so still and peaceful, this first such Fourth has touched me, even here. I cannot know what yesterday was like in Syracuse or in any of America’s other cities. But if it was anything like here, this normally celebratory day must have also carried with it a rather sad and uncharacteristically fearful tone. I’m sure that the bands played, the crowds cheered, and the red, white, and blue could be seen fluttering everywhere. But I have no doubt that beneath all that supposed good cheer, there also lay an incredible sense of worry and concern about whether this wonderful nation of ours will continue to exist and how many more such halfhearted Fourth of July celebrations must pass before we all know our futures . . .
And to that end, I
was handed a surprise last night. It was an experience that affected me deeply—not because of what was said, but rather because of what, at the request of another, was left unsaid. And its tenor remains with me even now, a full day later, as I write these words . . .
AS THE EVENING wind kept trying to disturb her hair, Brooke retied her scarf. She and Greg were in her yellow Cadillac convertible with its top down, heading into Serendipity. It was about eight P.M., the sky was clear, and the wind rushing by the open car was cooling. Greg was driving, and as the big Cadillac’s twin beams shone brightly down the country road and the dashboard lights highlighted Greg’s handsome features, Brooke found herself looking forward to this evening.
He had asked her this morning if she wanted to come with him, and although she was at first unsure, she had finally accepted. She had been momentarily concerned about what the people in Serendipity might think. Then again, those whom she knew were fully aware that her husband was away in the army, and they probably also knew by now that Greg Butler had become her new neighbor.
But we’re still likely to cause some comment, just the same, Brooke thought as they entered the outskirts of Serendipity. And I’m going to let that be their problem, rather than mine. It is, after all, a fund-raiser for the war. And there’s no reason that Greg and I, like everybody else who will be going, can’t enjoy ourselves.
They were headed to the high school, where there was to be a Fourth of July fund-raising dance for the USO. And although the gymnasium wasn’t a swanky venue, it had been beautifully decorated.
As they entered the large room, Greg put a twenty-dollar bill into the kitty that was being tended to by a pretty young WAC, who thanked him profusely. Given the times, it was a handsome contribution indeed. When Brooke asked him about it, he shrugged his shoulders and lit a cigarette.
“I realize that it’s probably more than most are donating,” he said. “But given that I can’t enlist, it seems the least I can do.”
“Thank you for bringing me here tonight,” Brooke said. Then she couldn’t help but again think of Bill, and she sighed a little. “And I also thank you for the contribution you just made.”
With that, Greg seemed to buck up a little. “A small price to pay, madam, for accompanying such a beautiful woman to this event.”
After Greg escorted her to one of the many little tables for four that had been arranged around the perimeter of the room, Brooke sat down with him and took it all in. A stage had been set up at the far end, upon which a ten-piece band was playing popular tunes. Red, white, and blue bunting seemed to hang everywhere, as did the American flag with its forty-eight bright white stars. There were also war posters that castigated American citizens for talking out of turn and others that showed Uncle Sam imperiously pointing his index finger at the viewer and demanding that they either buy yet more war bonds or immediately join the army. Another proclaimed, WEAR THE FIGHTIN’-EST WINGS IN THE SERVICE! FLY WITH THE MARINES! while the one hanging next to it shouted out, MAN THE GUNS! JOIN THE NAVY!
Although Brooke and Greg had arrived early, she guessed that there were already at least two hundred people there, most of them couples who were dancing and drinking the night away. Most of the women wore dresses and gloves, and the men wore single- or double-breasted suits. Greg was wearing a dark gray double-breasted, a white shirt with a blue tie, and a gray fedora. Brooke had chosen a white dress with matching pumps and gloves. There was also a smattering of men and women here in uniform who, Brooke guessed, were recently enlisted citizens of Serendipity come home on leave. Because the Fourth of July had landed on a Saturday this year, the timing for this event had been perfect.
“Would you like a drink?” Greg asked as he removed his hat and set it on the table.
Brooke nodded. “I’d love a sidecar,” she said, “provided they know how to make it. It’s been ages since I had one.”
Greg stood up, crushed his cigarette out in the ashtray, and gave her a wink. “Good choice,” he said. “And if they don’t know how, I’ll teach them!”
Brooke laughed. “Of that, I have no doubt!”
Just then, Emily Rousseau and her husband, John, approached Brooke’s table. Brooke saw them coming, and she smiled.
“Hello, you!” Emily said. “I didn’t know you’d be here!”
“Hi, Emily,” Brooke answered happily. “Coming here tonight was Greg’s idea. And I must say that I’m glad! I honestly didn’t think it would be this nice!”
“Yeah,” Emily answered. “It looks great, doesn’t it? I’m hoping that we can raise some decent money for the USO.”
Brooke then turned and looked at John. “Good to see you, too,” she said.
“And you,” John answered. “Damn, but you’re a vision in that white dress! Betty Grable’s got nothing on you!”
Just then Greg returned with the drinks, whereupon Brooke introduced him to John. “Pleased to meet you,” Greg said. “Want to join us?”
Emily gave Greg a wink. “I thought you’d never ask!” she said.
“I heard some news on the radio today,” John said while sitting down, raising his voice above the music. “It seems that the Flying Tigers have been disbanded. They did a helluva job, though. Shot down more than three hundred Jap aircraft and lost only fifty of our own. Now, if things were only going that well in Europe . . .”
With John’s talk of the war, Greg saw Brooke’s expression falter a little, and he gave her a smile. “Enough of all that,” he said to Brooke. “Shall we dance?”
Brooke nodded. “Yes, thanks,” she answered. But as Greg escorted her into the midst of the whirling couples, a concern crossed her mind. “Forgive me for asking,” she said, “but are you sure . . . ?”
Greg took her into his arms and nodded. “Well, I’m no Fred Astaire,” he answered with a wink. “But if you’ll stick close, I’ll do my best to see to it that we get around the floor and back without creating a scene.”
Brooke smiled. “You got yourself a deal,” she answered.
Just then the band finished the tune they had been playing and started up again with “Stardust,” a song that had been made wildly popular last year by Artie Shaw.
When he heard it, Greg smiled. “Perfect . . . ,” he said.
As Greg led her around the dance floor, Brooke found his dancing to be better than she had expected. Not perfect, certainly, but she soon realized none of that mattered. All that mattered was that she was with him, and she quickly became swept up in the moment. Brooke was a very good dancer, and despite Greg’s rather awkward style she followed him effortlessly.
As the band played on, Greg held her a bit closer and Brooke did not object. And then, a few moments later, something happened, something that would change this night for Brooke and that she would never forget.
She watched as an attractive young army officer in uniform walked up behind Greg and tapped him on the shoulder, asking if he could cut in. Before replying, Greg searched Brooke’s face for an answer. But Brooke had none, stunned as she was by seeing a man who looked not unlike her husband, Bill, standing before them in his crisp new uniform and asking for a dance. When Brooke did not reply, Greg decided that he had little choice but to grant the soldier’s wish.
As Greg retreated and Brooke’s new partner took her into his arms, she became deeply affected by his presence. No man in uniform—not even Bill—had ever held her. And as the dashing officer began to lead her about the floor, she found herself suddenly wondering what her beloved Bill was doing, so far away, at this very moment.
The officer smiled at her. “Thank you for this,” he said quietly.
Still nearly at a loss for words, Brooke said, “You’re welcome . . . May I ask where you’re from?”
To her surprise, the officer shook his head. “Please,” he said, “would it be all right with you if we didn’t talk?”
His answer surprised her. “Why not?” she asked.
Although the captain smiled back at her, his expression was tinge
d with a bit of sadness.
“Well, you see,” he said, “I’m shipping out soon. And you have absolutely no idea what it means to a man like me to be in the arms of a woman like you, even for so briefly, just before I have to go away. And so, if it’s all right with you, can we just enjoy this moment for what it is? Because for me, well . . . I can’t be sure that one will ever come again.”
Brooke found herself so affected by the young captain’s heartfelt remarks that all she could do was nod. And as he skillfully guided her across the floor, she again found herself thinking about Bill. Closing her eyes, she at last held the young captain a bit closer, and he gladly obeyed her wishes. And when he gently placed his cheek alongside hers, she realized that he was trying to take in her perfume so that he could always remember it, wherever the war might lead him.
Only moments later, it seemed, the band finished playing and the captain released her from his grasp. And then, when at last Brooke opened her eyes, without a word he was gone. Moments later, Greg had his arm hooked through hers, and he was escorting her back to their table . . .
“SOON AFTER THAT,” Chelsea read aloud, “I asked Greg to bring me home. Being in that officer’s arms has somehow stirred a divide within me that I had yet to realize was present. For a time, it was like I was dancing with Bill. And then when he left me so suddenly and Greg appeared, all that consumed me was a renewed desire to be in Greg’s arms again, and to be guided around the dance floor in that wonderfully awkward way of his. And so we danced once more, before I asked him to take me home. But rather than being able to leave these new and strangely conflicting feelings behind at the dance, it seems that they have followed me home, where they haunt me still, even as I write these words . . .”
With that, Chelsea closed her grandmother’s old journal and set it on the coffee table.
“I’m assuming that’s the end of the fourth entry?” Brandon asked.
More Than Words Can Say Page 14