“It’s probably good you were nervous,” Evelyn said. “I would’ve told you no. That’s what I tell everyone.”
Sterling laughed, and she liked the way the husky sound blended with the chords he played. She admired the olive-green dress shirt that set off the deep emerald of his eyes.
“Of course, I wasn’t prepared to be tricked into spending time with you,” Evelyn said.
He winced. “I really wasn’t trying to trick you. If I could have written you a song, I would have. Music always tells it right. My words alone aren’t strong enough.”
She began humming the tune from the music box, blending it with the chords Sterling played on his guitar. His hands flexed and moved rapidly across the strings. While he played, Evelyn allowed herself to observe his rugged good looks.
Sterling was shorter than Jim but still a head taller than her five-foot-five frame. He had broad shoulders and a thick torso. His biceps bulged against the cotton of his dress shirt, and she noticed a bit of dark grease under one of his fingernails. Her initial impression had been right. Sterling Dennison worked in a mechanic’s shop—his own. He became the sole owner after his brother died in France.
“My brother used to make fun of me,” Sterling said as if reading her thoughts. “He’d say, ‘there goes the mechanic with his guitar. Don’t get your strings all greasy.’” He laughed, and Evelyn noticed how much more relaxed he looked tonight. He was at ease with his music.
“I was pretty surprised when you told Frank you played,” she said. “I thought you might show up with a wrench tonight instead of a guitar pick.”
They both laughed, and Sterling stopped playing for a moment. “Thanks for doing this, Evelyn. I think it’ll sound great.”
She nodded. “Shall I sing now?”
Sterling strummed the beginning chords of the song. They practiced for forty-five minutes until Evelyn’s shift was about to begin. As she stood, Sterling grabbed her hand.
“Do you think you could go out with me sometime—maybe try a different restaurant for a change?”
Evelyn hesitated and noticed how tight Sterling gripped his guitar with his other hand. She wanted to say no, the same way she always did, but her heart fluttered, and she felt something she hadn’t in a long time. “I’m surprised you were able to ask me a cappella.”
For a moment Sterling didn’t say anything, and then he released her hand and began playing his guitar. He sang, his voice rich and warm, “Evelyn, will you please have dinner with me tomorrow night?”
She giggled and then she clapped her hands. “I’d be delighted.”
He continued strumming the chords. The polished wood of the guitar caught the light and reflected the flecks of gold interspersed with the green of his eyes. “Can I pick you up at six?” he sang.
Evelyn sang back to him, “But you don’t know where I live.”
“Can I walk you home tonight?” Sterling sang each word accompanied by a loud strum of his guitar.
She hummed and then whispered, “I think that would be fine.”
Sterling left the Silver Lining after their practice and promised to be back by nine o’clock to walk her home. Evelyn’s insides felt jittery all evening. When the clock chimed the ninth hour, she gathered up the menus and stacked them in a neat pile before retrieving her purse from the employees’ room.
Sterling was waiting for her out front. He had changed, and his dark brown shirt seemed to accentuate the thickness of his chest. “I’ve been working on a car tonight, trying to get it fixed by the weekend.” He motioned to his shirt. “I didn’t want to get my nice clothes dirty.”
“You didn’t have to interrupt your work to walk me home,” Evelyn said.
“This doesn’t count as an interruption.” He held the door open for her. “I don’t usually work this late, unless it’s an emergency for the customer.”
After adjusting her scarf against the cold, Evelyn took Sterling’s proffered arm, and they walked through the wintry night, their breath billowing out in soft clouds behind them. Her heels scraped against the crusty snow on the sidewalk, and for a few moments their footsteps were the predominant sound. A few teenagers roamed the streets, their laughter echoing against the pavement. A bottle shattered a few feet in front of them and Sterling jumped back with a gasp, and pulled Evelyn behind him. One of the kids shrieked, and they took off running down the street.
Sterling’s hands shook. He winced and held very still for a moment. He shivered and released Evelyn’s hands. “I’m sorry.”
Evelyn glanced down the street and back at Sterling. “It’s no problem. It startled me, too.”
“Not like me.” Sterling’s breath hung in a cloud in front of him. He closed his eyes and she heard him sigh.
She reached out and tucked her hand in his arm, gently squeezing his bicep. “It’s okay.”
Sterling ran his tongue over his teeth and cleared his throat. “I’ve been home for eight months now.” He motioned to his leg, “The tanks were firing everywhere, and all I could see was dirt, then it felt like my whole lower body exploded.”
He hesitated and Evelyn whispered, “You don’t have to, Sterling.”
“I want you to know,” he said. “They thought I was dead—but I wasn’t. At first, when they patched me back together, I thought maybe it would have been better.” He rolled his shoulders back and his eyes held a faraway look. “The burns—the pain—it was excruciating.”
She covered his hand with hers. “I’m sorry you had to go through that.”
“I shouldn’t complain. At least I’m alive,” Sterling’s voice turned sharp. “I made it out when so many others didn’t. My brother didn’t. Your husband didn’t. Why did I?” He took hold of her hand. His voice lowered. “I’m sorry.”
Evelyn swallowed, trying to digest the arc of emotions she’d just witnessed. She wanted to agree—why did he and so many others live while Jim had died? She heard the skittering of broken ice as they stepped off the sidewalk. Sterling’s leg trailed behind him, and she felt a pang of sorrow for his loss.
“None of it’s fair,” she said. “Dead or alive. Wounded or wearing medals. We didn’t ask for any of it.” Evelyn squeezed his hand. “Be proud, Sterling. Don’t hide your limp. You earned it keeping America free—that’s what matters.”
He stopped and reached for her other hand. She could feel the slight tremor of his fingers as he gripped hers. “I’ve stayed away from people for too long now. I’ve been afraid. The memories . . .” His voice cracked, and the moonlight caught the moisture in his eyes. “Evelyn, I don’t know how to hide from them any longer.”
Biting her lip, she rocked back on her heels and recognized the fear in his eyes.
“Then don’t hide. My husband, Jim, left me a note. He said, ‘don’t die with me.’” Evelyn’s chin wobbled. “I think it could be true for you, too. The war is behind us now. We can’t change it, and we can’t trade places with anyone. We’re here—living, breathing—and whether we like it or not, right now we’re making new memories to replace the old.”
They stood beneath a giant willow tree, scattered branches crunching under their feet. “Thank you for sharing that,” Sterling said, gazing down at her. He released her hand and cupped her chin, tipping it slightly. The moonlight filtered through the tree, casting shadows on Sterling’s face.
He leaned toward her, lowering his head and Evelyn tensed as memories of kissing Jim flashed through her mind. The fibers of her neck stiffened, and although part of her wanted to kiss him, she couldn’t relax the tightness creeping into her shoulders at the thought of Sterling betraying her memories of Jim.
A half-second pause and Sterling tilted his head and kissed her cheek. He drew her toward him, wrapping his strong arms around her. “This is enough,” he whispered.
She sighed and relaxed into his arms. She would allow herself this feeling of closeness for a moment. Listening to the soft thrum of Sterling’s heartbeat, Evelyn paused and breathed in the scent of dusky
engine oil mixed with a splash of sandalwood and pine. It was the smell of hard work, an honest man trying to rebuild his life.
The long arms of the willow tree dangled in the shadows of the evening, swaying left and right with an unseen gust of wind, like a ghost slipping through the night.
Chapter 8 ~ The Desk
February 1945 ~ Leland
Late in the month of February 1945, someone knocked on the door of Leland’s shop. He opened it and a whoosh of air blew the curls back from his brow. A man dressed in a worn suit and tie stood in the doorway with a little girl. He held out his hand.
“I’ve heard about your work,” he said. “My name is Shunsaku Tanaka. I would like you to build a desk for me.”
He spoke with a clipped accent, and Leland could see the man was of Japanese descent. Leland shook his hand. “Come in, Mr. Tanaka, and let’s see what I can do for you.”
He moved aside and allowed Mr. Tanaka and his young daughter inside the shop. Leland chewed on his bottom lip and gave a subtle shake of his head. Was this man another survivor of the Japanese internment camps? Leland had heard that some of the Japanese families were released early when their loyalty to America was proven. Had Mr. Tanaka come back to a vacant home looted of the fine furniture and other possessions he’d worked for, destitute like so many others?
The music box played behind him, and the little girl peeked around her father’s legs. She inched closer and stood on tiptoes to watch the graceful ballerina.
“Daddy, look at the lady dance!” she squealed and did a shaky pirouette, mimicking the twirl of the ballerina. The sunlight reflected off the ebony sheath of hair falling halfway down the girl’s back. Her smile faltered when the music stopped.
“I can wind it up again for you while I take your dad’s order,” Leland said. He leaned over the box. “How old are you?”
The child stepped back and grasped her father’s hand. She looked at him and he nodded. “Tell him, Emika.”
“I’m six,” she whispered.
“Really? That’s the perfect age to be.” Leland hesitated only a half second to think of how Jessie would’ve been the same age as little Emika before he finished turning the crank and stood back. “There, she’s dancing again.” Fighting against gravity pulling at the muscles around his mouth, Leland smiled. It was like flexing a finger that had once been broken. He still remembered how. “Now let’s see what kind of desk your father wants me to build.” He pulled out a notepad and pencil.
Mr. Tanaka pulled a piece of paper from the inner pocket of his suit, and Leland saw that one of the sleeves of the suit had been patched and was missing a button. “It was my wife’s desk, given to her by her mother.” He held out a sketch of a secretary with pigeonholes and three drawers on each side.
Leland took the sketch and admired the details the artist had rendered. “Yes, I’ve seen desks like this. They take quite a bit of time to build.”
“We are prepared to wait, and I will make payments as you build it.” Mr. Tanaka straightened his shoulders. He straightened his tie. He turned to Leland, and the straight line of his mouth edged up into the barest hint of a smile.
“Mr. Tanaka, is there a reason why you don’t want to purchase a ready-made desk from the furniture store?” Leland eyed the stack of wood near the door. “The materials alone for a desk this size will be costly.”
“Please, my friends call me Shunsaku,” he said. “It was my wife’s fondest treasure. It broke her heart when we returned from the relocation camp and found it had been stolen. We want the desk to be as close to the original as possible. Those available in the store are nowhere near the quality of her mother’s desk.”
“I’m sorry,” Leland said. “It isn’t fair—the way you were treated.” The music stopped again and Leland walked over and turned the crank. Emika clapped her hands when the music began.
“We do not dwell on the past. We are happy to be home again.” Shunsaku rocked back on his heels, his hands clasped behind his back. “Can you build this desk?”
Leland wet his lips and eyed the sketch again. “I can do it. But I’ve got a lot of orders ahead of you to finish first. You’ve done well with the details here.” He pointed at the drawing. “Let’s go over some of the measurements.”
Emika played with a mound of sawdust near the door and kept an eye on the dancing ballerina. Leland watched her for a moment while Shunsaku wrote a few notes about the scrollwork around the pigeonholes of the desk.
“She’s a sweet girl. Is she your only child?”
“We have a baby boy—almost six months old,” Shunsaku said.
He didn’t inquire about Leland’s family, and Leland guessed it was because he already knew. For a moment, Shunsaku appeared taller than Leland, stronger than the recovering drunk whose wife had left him. But then Leland looked again, noticed the kindness shining from Shunsaku’s face. Their pasts fell away, and the two men stood eye to eye.
“Let me see what prices I can find on wood,” Leland said. “It will be expensive, I’m afraid.”
“I am prepared to pay the fee. We live simply. My wife loves to write, and I love to make her happy.” Shunsaku opened his wallet and handed Leland a five-dollar bill. “I understand it will take many hours of your time and I am grateful.”
Leland looked at the bill but shook his head. “I won’t be able to start on the desk for at least two months, but I’ll do my best. I can’t take any payment now. Perhaps you can come by in a few weeks, bring your wife if you’d like and choose the stain for the wood.”
“Thank you, I will do that,” Shunsaku said. “Emika, we’re ready to go now.”
“The pretty ballerina is still dancing, Daddy.” She pointed and stood on her tiptoes again for a closer look at the music box.
“She will dance for you again next time, okay?” Leland said.
Emika smiled and took her father’s hand. With a wave, she walked out of the shop. Leland stood in the doorway watching the father and daughter walk down the street. Emika skipped and giggled as the wind blew dark strands of hair around her face.
Once they were out of sight, Leland’s cheeks trembled against his firm jawline. Wiping his nose with the sleeve of his flannel shirt, Leland let the door close and turned to face the music box. His chest constricted as he thought about Shunsaku’s words, “We do not dwell on the past.”
The gold embossed edge of the music box was covered with the fine grit of sawdust, and Leland knew this was no place for it, but he had his reasons. The side compartment opened noiselessly. Leland stared at the bent corner of the red velvet paper. It felt fuzzy under his fingertips like the back of one of those fat black caterpillars. He knew the words, but he looked anyway, studying the careful scripts of two different people who knew about loss. “Don’t die with me.” “Forgive yourself—allow God to forgive.”
“I’m doing better, Jessie—Rhonda. I’m doing better now.”
Chapter 9 ~ The Performance
March 1945 ~ Evelyn
Ever the businessman, Frank took advantage of the hour and a half before Evelyn sang to have her work her regular duties as hostess. She stood in front of a flashy poster announcing “Tonight, our debut talent will be your lovely hostess Evelyn!”
Her cheeks grew warm from the gushing excitement of family and friends who had come to hear her sing. A flutter of anticipation stirred in her stomach, and Evelyn hoped she would be able to keep her voice from trembling with anxiety.
“LaRue, I need to go get ready in about twenty minutes. Can you tell Philip?”
“Sure, hon, we can’t wait to hear you.” She patted Evelyn’s arm as she sashayed by. “You’ll do great.”
“Thanks,” Evelyn murmured. She straightened the menus and made notes on the reservation list until she heard the squeaky hinge on the door. Her eyes crinkled with a smile when she saw Sterling shuffle in with his guitar case. He held out a rose.
“I wanted to wish the most beautiful lady good luck tonight.”
&nb
sp; Evelyn took the rose and tucked it into the glass vial holding her pencils. “I might get stage fright and my accompanist will have to do a guitar solo,” she teased.
Sterling grinned. “Are you ready to practice?”
Before she could answer, a boisterous group of three men entered and approached. One with blond hair and wearing his dress uniform whistled when he saw her. “Hello, I thought the name of this place was just for fun, but looking at you I can see you’ve got to be my silver lining. What time do you get off?”
Evelyn smiled the way LaRue and Frank had instructed her to and replied, “Not till late. Do you have a reservation?”
The blond man jostled his buddies and chuckled. He lurched forward and grabbed Evelyn’s hand. “Late is good for me. What time can I meet you?”
She looked down at the tablet where her fine handwriting indicated the expected guests that night. A group of three for seven o’clock caught her eye. “Let me guess, you must be Harlan, Michael, and Blaine. Can I show you to your table?” She raised her head and caught the blond with a simmering gaze.
“I’m Harlan, and I’d like you to show me the time your shift ends here.” The blond had a lanky frame and he towered over her. His friends chuckled and crowded closer.
One of them leered at her. “Harlan is a favorite with the ladies. We’re planning to go dancing later, will you join us?”
“No, thank you,” she replied. “I have to get home and take care of my baby.”
Harlan pulled her left hand closer to his face. “No ring here. You must be a sweet little war widow.”
Sterling cleared his throat and Harlan turned to look at him with a sneer. Sterling glared at him. Evelyn pulled her hand from his grasp and tried to hide the tremor in her voice. “Ah, Mr. Dennison, your table isn’t far from these boys’.” She motioned to him. “If you’ll all follow me, I will seat you.”
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