You're the Cream in My Coffee

by Leo, Jennifer Lamont

  “I won’t.” A chill crept up the back of my neck as I slid my key into the lock. “But how did Kurt and Stella get away with being the inside contacts for Braccio?”

  “You kidding me? He’s a security guard. Everybody trusted him. Trusted her too, working with all that expensive jewelry. But it was nothing a few bribes couldn’t take care of. This is Chicago, after all. I have to get back to work. We’ll talk later.” He held the door open for me and gave me a quick peck on the cheek, then hurried down the steps.

  “Peter,” I called after him. “I’m sorry I thought you were a bootlegger.”

  He laughed. “Not me, baby. Never touch the stuff.”

  “Be careful.”

  He stopped, turned and loped back up the steps. He cupped my face in his hands and kissed me. Hard. And then he was gone.

  That was more like it! With stars swirling in my head, I climbed the inside staircase on wobbly legs, forgetting to avoid the squeakiest stairs so as not to disturb Mrs. Moran. When I opened the door to the apartment, my foot slid on something. I switched on a lamp and saw an envelope on the floor. I reached down and picked it up. It was a telegram, signed for by Mrs. Moran. I ripped open the envelope.

  MARJORIE STOP

  YOUR FATHER GRAVELY ILL STOP

  My insides lurched. Oh no. Not Pop.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Hastily I packed a bag, and as soon as Charlie and Dot returned from moon-gazing, I gave them the news. Then Dot kissed us both good-bye, and Charlie and I drove like the wind toward Kerryville.

  Dr. Perkins greeted us as we drove up. Pop had suffered a serious heart attack. Frances, Charlie, and I took turns sitting by his bedside at Kerryville General, fearing for the worst. After two days, the crisis abated and Pop’s health stabilized—no better, no worse.

  At the hospital, Richard stopped in to see us as often as he could between his rounds. I welcomed him as a comforting old friend, nothing more. He was a good man, and we were both moving on with our lives. Whatever awkwardness there’d been between us vanished in our shared concern over Pop.

  A couple of weeks later, after a long afternoon at the hospital, Frances and I dodged roving gangs of costumed trick-or-treaters. As we approached the house I was surprised to see Helen sitting on the porch steps, dressed as Raggedy Ann.

  “Why aren’t you off bobbing for apples at the church harvest party?”

  “Waiting for you. Marjorie, Charlie wants you down at the store.”

  I glanced at my wristwatch. “Store’s closed. He’ll be on his way home for supper by now.”

  “He said it was important and I should send you anyway.”

  I felt my nerves rapidly fraying. “Helen, I’m exhausted. What does he want?”

  “Beats me. He just said to send you down there.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake. This had better be good.”

  I trudged on past the house and down to Main Street. Sure enough, the store was locked and the “Closed” sign was visible. I was reaching into my handbag for my key when Charlie unlocked the door and swung it open.

  “What’s up? We have a telephone, you know.” I rubbed my aching forehead.

  Charlie looked queasy. He locked the door behind me and drew a deep breath. “You might want to sit down.”

  “I don’t want to sit down. Tell me what’s happening.”

  “Marjorie, listen.” His voice was hoarse with emotion. “You were right. You were right all along.”

  “Right about what?”

  “After meeting Peter at your place, I couldn’t shake the image of his face out of my mind. Couldn’t get over how much he looked like Jack. So I contacted the War Office for Jack’s records.”

  “You what?”

  “I thought they might have a record of where he was buried.”

  “Even I didn’t go that far.”

  “I’m former military. They pushed the request through.”

  I braced myself. “So? What did you find out?”

  “He’s alive.”

  All at once, my knees practically melted right out from under me.

  Time stopped. Earth ceased circling in its orbit.

  “What?”

  Charlie opened a drawer beneath the cash register and pulled out an envelope. “See for yourself.”

  I turned my face away. “I don’t want to see.”

  Charlie held out the envelope. “Take it.”

  My hands shook as I opened the envelope. Inside was a stack of papers, but they didn’t make any sense to me. They spoke of the military service, medical records, and honorable discharge of one John P. Lund, Jr.

  Jack.

  “I don’t understand.”

  Just then a male voice that wasn’t Charlie’s said, “It’s true.”

  Peter walked in from the stockroom. I froze in place.

  “I’m Jack. Jack Lund.” His voice cracked and tears glistened at the corners of his eyes. “You were right all along.”

  Hysteria rose in my chest, nausea in my gut. “What do you mean, I’m right?” My fingers balled into fists. “You’re Peter. Peter Bachmann.”

  “I’m Jack.”

  “But you said you didn’t know me. You said you didn’t know Jack Lund or Kerryville, or—or anything.”

  “I know.”

  My skin turned to ice. “What game is this? What kind of sick person are you? What kind of sick, dirty, loathsome—”

  All at once I was sobbing and couldn’t stop. He put his arms around me and drew me close, muffling my great gulping sobs against his coat. Fury turned to joy turned to confusion turned back to fury. I pummeled his chest with my fists.

  “Why are you doing this to me?”

  “I’m not doing anything to you. When you calm down, I’ll explain.”

  He guided me to a chair.

  “You have to understand. I should have told you from the beginning—I wanted to tell you—but I couldn’t blow my cover. And then it was just easier to be Peter Bachmann. But when Charlie got hold of my records and confronted me, I knew I had to get straight with you.”

  “I asked him to come here,” Charlie said. “I wanted the three of us to discuss this together.” He reached for his jacket and hat. “Jack and I have been talking all afternoon, sis. I’ll head home now and tell them you’ll be late. Leave you two to talk.”

  I eyed Peter uncertainly. To Charlie I said, “Don’t say anything to them yet about—about all this. I’m not ready.”

  “I won’t.” He headed out into the twilight, where an autumn wind whipped the trees.

  As the sky through the shop window turned blue, then purple, then black, Peter—or Jack—gently explained about being injured and left for dead on a French battlefield. About waking up in a hospital, not knowing what happened or where he was. About two years spent recovering, undergoing treatments, being shuffled from place to place around Europe.

  “Somehow the army mixed up my records,” he said. “One day I just up and walked out of some old chateau that had been turned into a hospital. Nobody stopped me. I just kept walking. But even though I’d pretty much recovered physically, I was in a bad way mentally. At first I had trouble finding my way, holding a job, or leading any kind of normal life. I just sort of bummed around Europe, working odd jobs. Eventually I landed in Paris and found work in a men’s clothing store. After a while I earned enough to pay for passage back to the States.”

  “Not to Kerryville,” I accused. “Not back to me.”

  “I couldn’t stand the thought of coming back to you a broken wreck. I thought you’d be repulsed by me, or worse, stay with me out of pity, as some sort of good deed.”

  The kind of girl who does good deeds.

  “You should know I’m not like that,” I said.

  “My head wasn’t right for a long time,” he said. “And I thought you’d run screaming if you ever saw this.” He pointed to his scar.

  “Oh, come on. It’s not that bad,” I said. “In fact, I sort of like it. It makes you l
ook heroic and valorous.”

  He cocked a grin. “Valorous?”

  I bumped his arm playfully. “You know what I mean. Then what happened?”

  “When I got back to the States, I stayed in New York first. Got a job at Gimbel’s, took a few night courses in business. Then I heard the Bureau was hiring former soldiers, so I started training for that.” He glanced at me. “But I did come back to Kerryville. Once.”

  I stared at him. “When?”

  He hesitated, then said, “I guess you might as well know everything.”

  “Yes. Tell me everything,” I said, even though I didn’t know how much more of “everything” I could handle.

  “By the time I made it back to Kerryville,” he continued, “my parents had died, and you were engaged to marry Richard. I heard all about how happy you were, how he could offer you this great life as a doctor’s wife. And here was I, damaged goods in more ways than one.” He ran a forefinger along his scar.

  “When was that? When did you come back?”

  “About two years ago. I was only in town for a day. Just a few hours, actually. I saw no reason to stay.”

  Confusion fogged my brain. “But I still don’t understand. You didn’t even tell Charlie that you were alive. He was your best friend. He was shattered when you died.”

  “Disappearing seemed like the right thing to do at the time,” he said simply. “You deserved better.”

  “I never stopped grieving, not inwardly,” I said. “I was never really able to love Richard or anyone else—not in the way I had loved you.”

  “I wish I’d known that,” he said. “But you were still really just a kid when I left. People change so much. You’re not the same girl I left behind. And I sure as heck am not the same boy who went to war. And as I said, I’d been told your life was turning out perfectly and not to interfere. And since you’d stopped answering my letters . . .”

  “Letters?” I said. “What letters? I answered all your . . .” A sickening realization darkened my heart. It couldn’t be . . . “Jack,” I said slowly, “when you came back to Kerryville, who told you about me and Richard?”

  He hesitated. “Does it matter?”

  “It matters.”

  He bit his lip. “I don’t think—”

  I was pretty sure I knew the answer, but I needed him to say it. “Tell me.”

  He looked at me for a long moment, then sighed. “Frances.”

  Ice chilled my veins. “Frances. I should have known.”

  “I came by the house and she answered the door. You weren’t home. She said you were blissfully happy with Richard, that you’d long gotten over me, and that it’d ruin everything if you found out the truth. At the time, I’m sorry to say, I was weak enough to believe her.”

  “Frances,” I muttered. “She must have thrown out your letters, too.” I turned to him. “Oh, Peter—I mean, Jack—I mean—” I threw up my hands. “I don’t even know what to call you.”

  He smiled weakly. “I don’t need to keep my cover identity intact anymore. But I still feel like Peter. Jack is—well, let’s just consider him gone. I’m a different man now, Marjorie. And you’re a different woman.”

  I shivered. “It’s a lot to take in. I feel so—I don’t know. Like everything has been a lie.”

  “Not everything,” he said, touching my cheek. “My feelings for you are real. It’s always been you for me, Marjorie.” He moved his thumb along my jaw, sending tingles down my spine. “Even when I wasn’t sure who I was, when I wasn’t in my right mind, it was always you.”

  So many years lost. A flash of anger threatened to choke me. “I still can’t believe this—that you stayed away so long, and that Frances deliberately came between us. And now that you’re playing this—this—charade of being Peter Bachmann.”

  “I am Peter Bachmann,” he said. “I put Jack Lund to rest a long time ago. And as for Frances, well, don’t be too hard on her. She only wanted what was best for you. And in the end, she didn’t succeed in keeping us apart. God wanted us together, and when God wants something, there’s no stopping Him.”

  He shifted and leaned his face toward mine. By instinct I pulled back at first. Amid so much falsehood, how did I know this part was real? But the magnetism was too strong. Jack was back. Frances was a problem for another day. For now, we had some catching up to do.

  Later, as we strolled back to my house arm-in-arm, I said, “I want to know the rest of the story. How did you end up working for the Feds?”

  “Turned out my military experience, plus my lack of family ties, made me a good candidate for undercover work. And since I had retail experience—I really did work at Gimbel’s for a while—the bureau assigned me to crack the smuggling ring at Field’s. They sent me here from New York. I adopted an alias, and everything was fine, until you showed up.”

  “Yes. I showed up.” I smiled through my tears, remembering the scene I made at Union Station, in what seemed like another lifetime ago.

  “I almost swallowed my tongue when I first saw you,” he said.

  “You were one cool cat then. I thought for sure I was seeing things,” I said. “How did you choose the name ‘Peter Bachmann’?”

  “Easy. My middle name’s Peter and my mother’s maiden name was Bachmann.”

  “So many lies.”

  “The bureau calls them cover stories. I wanted so badly to tell you everything, to get it all out in the open,” Peter insisted, “but I couldn’t risk blowing my cover. Not until the case was over, at least. To do so would have put the entire operation in jeopardy, and worse, could have put you and your family’s lives at risk. The less you knew, the better.”

  I shivered.

  “Even when the case was over, I could never rustle up the nerve to tell you. And you being engaged to Richard mixed things up even more . . .” He grimaced. “I have to warn you, Marjorie. While I’m a lot better than I was even a couple of years ago, I don’t know if I’ll ever be completely well. I get headaches sometimes. Nightmares. I would never want to burden you.”

  “You could never be a burden. And this may come as a shock to you, but I’m not perfect either.”

  He laughed.

  I said, “Together with God we are more than a match for whatever comes our way.” I snuggled against his shoulder. “So what happens now?”

  “I guess that’s up to you, me, and the Lord.”

  “Let’s take our time. It’s a big adjustment.”

  “There’s no rush. We have all the time in the world.”

  CHAPTER FORTY

  “I’m so sorry, Marjorie,” Frances said tearfully, during a late-night vigil by Pop’s hospital bed after I’d confronted her about interfering between Jack and me. “I never meant to cause you heartache. I truly thought you’d have a much better future with Richard. I only wanted the best for you.”

  “You wanted the best for you, Frances,” I said as gently as I could under the circumstances. “You weren’t looking out for anyone’s interest but your own—not mine, and certainly not Richard’s. Richard is a good man, a kind man. He deserves a woman who truly loves him.”

  I glanced at Pop, who appeared to be sound asleep, his chest rising and falling under the starched sheet and army-green blanket.

  “Did Pop know, too?” I whispered. “Did he know Jack was alive?”

  “No. I never told him.”

  “That’s a relief.” Tension drained from my shoulders. Somehow the sort of subterfuge that I found par for the course in Frances would have been unthinkable in Pop.

  Frances’s eyes glistened with tears of genuine remorse. “Can you ever forgive me?”

  Gulping hard, I reached out and put my hand over hers. Holding a grudge wouldn’t do anybody any good. “Of course I can, Frances. The important thing is that he’s alive, and he’s back. Even when we couldn’t see it, God’s been in charge the whole time. No matter what plans you or I make, in the end, His plans prevail. He’s in control.”

  Frances turned
her gaze to Pop’s face, wan and ashen against the pillow. “He is in control, even now.”

  I squeezed her hand. “Yes. Even now. But from now on, let each of us live our lives the way we see fit. That goes for me, and for Helen and Charlie, too. Respect works both ways. We appreciate your advice and guidance, and we promise to listen to what you have to say. But no more schemes and manipulation.”

  She spoke barely above a whisper. “I’ll never do anything like that again.” I believed her, and felt the weight of resentment slide off my shoulders.

  The following week, I was able to return to work in Chicago, coming home on the weekends. Mr. Fraser temporarily let me work a four-day week, Monday through Thursday, so I could spend Friday through Sunday in Kerryville.

  “You’re a good worker, Marjorie,” he said. “I wish I could grant you a full leave of absence to help your family, but I desperately need your help on the Christmas windows.”

  I didn’t mind. Pop was recovering well, and I missed my life in the city—and Peter. No longer assigned to Field’s, he worked on other, smaller cases that didn’t require such an elaborate ruse. We saw each other as often as we could, but our dates were mostly confined to fleeting lunches or hastily grabbed dinners. Still, we made the most of them. I loved every minute of getting to know the man he was now, no longer a ghost from the past.

  With its owner in jail, Louie’s Villa Italiana closed its doors (at least temporarily, until Louie found the right authority to bribe, which in Chicago would not take long). At my suggestion, Dot started filling her evenings by helping Ruthie at the settlement house. With her musical talent, she was a natural at getting everyone enthusiastic about singing, even the boys. My new schedule didn’t allow me to make it to rehearsals very often, but at home I sewed two dozen angelic white robes with red collars, while continuing to work on Gabriella’s new dress in secret.

  Mr. Fraser wasn’t kidding about the amount of work that went into preparing Field’s Christmas windows. The theme that year was “The Store with the Spirit of Christmas,” a splendid wonderland of dolls dressed in the native costumes of many lands, along with model trains, miniature Ferris wheels, and a lavish showcase of the finest toys money could buy. In the middle of everything, the famous aviatrix Amelia Earhart came to sign her new book at Field’s book department—a momentous event I shared with Helen. Over post-book-signing sundaes in the tea room, she positively bubbled over with excitement.