by Lucy Sanna
Josie put her hands on her hips. “He’s a coward, then. The war will be over before he even graduates.”
“He’s not like that . . .” Kate stopped herself from defending him. He had told her things in confidence.
“Then what is he like?”
Kate closed her eyes and recalled Clay’s strong arm around her, leading her out of the storm. His eyes smiling up from the bottom of the staircase, welcoming her to his party. “He’s got a great smile. And he’s smart and well-spoken.” His kiss, the way he held her. Kate stifled a sigh and told Josie about the invitation to visit him at school. “I’ll have to make new clothes.” She thought of the stylish girls at the university.
“Well, I think he’s a coward.”
“Josie, no. He wants to go, but . . .” How could she explain without explaining too much? She put up her chin and changed the subject. “We talked about our ambitions—he wants to be a pilot, I told him I wanted to write stories—”
Josie rolled her eyes. “How boring! Boys like girls who are fun.”
Kate pondered this. Maybe that was why she hadn’t heard from him. “Oh, Josie, I just have to see him. I’m thinking of riding my bicycle up there.”
Josie picked up a man’s nightshirt and two clothespins, then stopped and dropped them into the basket. “Say, how about if we go right now? Father’s off in the motorboat, but we could take the rowboat.”
“Yes!” Kate thrilled at the plan.
As the two friends headed to the boathouse, Josie began singing, “I got a crush on you, Sweetie Pie . . .” She sang sweetly, then she paused and belted out the last of it in a slow, growling, hip-gyrating, “ ’cause I got a crush, oooo oh my baby, on youuuuuu!”
Yes, fun. That’s what Kate liked best about Josie. She was different from the other girls. She didn’t care what people thought. She just sang it out.
IN TRYING TO DIRECT THE ROWBOAT away from the dock, Josie made a show of being clumsy.
“Let me do it,” Kate said.
“You’re so much stronger than I am.” Josie settled in like a princess.
Kate feathered the oars and gave Josie a quick spray.
“You did that on purpose!”
Kate laughed and guided the boat north.
“That’s it!” She slowed at the sight of the house set far back from the shore.
“Wow, that’s some place.”
Kate pulled up the oars and let the boat bob on soft waves.
“C’mon. Let’s go up.”
Kate noted her cotton housedress and dirty bare feet. Her tangled hair needed brushing. “No. I look like a ragamuffin.”
“Well, why did we come then? If he’s your boyfriend, he’ll want to see you no matter what.”
“I didn’t say he was my boyfriend—”
“You said you were in love! What else could that mean?”
“Oh, all right. But he has a nasty dog, so if you get bitten, don’t blame me.” Hoping the dog would remember her, Kate maneuvered the boat to shore, stepped out, and pulled it up onto the marshy beach.
On this bright sunny day, Kate saw the property in a different light. At night she hadn’t noticed the grand sweep of lawns and gardens.
At the house, they walked up the porch steps and Kate rang the doorbell. No one came. No dog barked.
She peered through the window. “This is where we danced.” She recalled the jazz trio, the sugary dresses, Clay leading her around the room, everyone’s eyes on them . . .
“Well? Where are they?” Josie demanded.
Just then, William—the man who had roasted the pig at the party—came around the corner of the house, pushing a lawn mower. He stopped at the edge of the porch and squinted up toward them. “Nobody home.”
“When will they be back?” Kate said.
“Won’t know till they ’rive.”
“But . . . when did they leave?”
“Last week.” He wiped an arm across his forehead.
“Last week?” Right after the party?
“If he cared, he would have told you,” Josie said.
Kate tried to hide her embarrassment. “It must have been a last-minute decision.”
ONCE THEY’D RETURNED TO LOON ISLAND, Kate waded back to the mainland and rode her bicycle to the Turtle Bay branch library. There she learned that Senator Sullivan was from Illinois.
In answer to Kate’s questions, the librarian—the perpetually unsmiling one—directed her to the editorial pages of a recent copy of the Chicago Tribune. “He’s a war profiteer,” the woman said.
“War profiteer?”
“He’s involved with a company that sold munitions to the Germans.”
“But that must have been before we went to war.”
“At the time, Germany was fighting our allies in Europe—”
“Oh!” Kate’s cheeks went hot. “Well, I will write to him about how disappointed I am to hear that.”
“I’m sure that will change everything,” the woman chortled.
“Could you please help me find his address?”
The librarian opened a file cabinet and brought out a folder. “Here it is.”
Kate copied down his address at the Senate Office Building, Washington, DC.
On the way out, Kate noticed a display of new books. She picked up a fat one with a picture of a woman in a low-cut dress from an earlier century and scanned a few pages. Forever Amber. It looked like something Josie would like. When she took it to the checkout desk, the librarian said, “This is not meant for a young lady. Let’s find something more appropriate.”
“I’d like this one, thank you.” Kate ignored the librarian’s grumbling as she checked it out.
Riding home, Kate wondered what Clay thought about his father’s business, about supplying the Germans. He had said he didn’t agree with his father, but what did that mean?
Kate had a box of fine pink stationery she had never used, not even to write to Professor Fleming. A birthday present from Ben, she’d been saving it for just the right occasion . . . and this was it. Sitting at her bedroom desk, she opened the box and pulled out a page. She dipped the tip of her fountain pen into the ink jar and filled it.
Dear Clay,
Thank you for saving my life! What an enchanting evening. I wonder when you and Peggy might be coming back to Door County so I can return Peggy’s party dress.
I do hope you and your family are having a swell summer.
Sincerely,
Kate Christiansen
It was getting dark when Kate rode back to town, to the barbershop, which also served as the local post office. Was the letter too forward? She recalled the touch of Clay’s fingers on her shoulder, his invitation to Northwestern, his disappointment in hearing she didn’t have a phone number. If I don’t write to him, I may never hear from him again. Before she could change her mind, she marched up the steps and put the letter into the mailbox.
After dinner, Kate sat on the porch swing facing the lake, her notebook in front of her. She began a story about a man and a woman from different worlds who fall in love. It came to her quickly—his way of thinking totally at odds with hers. What drew them together also held them apart.
But then she was stuck.
She gazed out over the wide lake, stars brightening against the darkening sky. How would the story end?
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHARLOTTE NOTICED A NEW MOODINESS she had never seen in her daughter. The girl was distracted, even more so than usual, pushing vegetables around on her plate. Karl would be coming tonight for another lesson. Was that it?
After supper, as Kate cleared the table, she dropped a plate on the floor.
Charlotte jumped at the crash. “Pay attention!”
“I’m sorry,” Kate bent to pick up the pieces.
“Char,” Thomas said, “calm yourself. We have plenty of dishes.”
“Not to throw away!” Charlotte felt nervous, on edge.
“Good evening,” Karl called through the scr
een door.
“Come on in,” Thomas said.
Once Karl was seated, his back to Charlotte, she was free to watch him, watch Kate, watch for signs. Hands, eyes, it should be obvious. But they remained respectful of each other, sitting well apart, focused on the lessons.
Charlotte finished up the dishes as quickly as possible and left the room. Thomas would stay with them, chaperoning, puffing on his pipe.
She went to the parlor and sat on the couch to nurse memories of her outburst in the barn. Stay away from him!
Bingo jumped up, mewing for attention. Charlotte ran her fingers through the cat’s fur, trying to hush the inner voices, breathing more evenly now. Once the cat settled, Charlotte picked up her sewing basket and shuffled among the projects. Three of Thomas’s socks needed darning. She pulled a strand of wool through her darning needle and began the methodical task that left her mind free to roam.
Tomorrow she would trade goat’s milk for a soup bone and a bit of rice and make a broth with early vegetables. She hummed along with Billie Holiday. She should take advantage of the good weather to start the spring cleaning—hang the rugs on the back porch and give them a thorough beating, wash the windows, air out pillows and mattresses . . .
The music stopped abruptly. An announcer introduced the president. Soon Roosevelt began in that sonorous voice: “My friends. Yesterday, on June fourth, 1944, Rome fell to American and Allied troops. The first of the Axis capitals is now in our hands. One up and two to go!”
Charlotte pushed the cat to the floor and ran to the kitchen. “Thomas, come listen!”
Thomas hurried into the parlor, with Kate and Karl right behind.
“We’ve taken Rome!” Charlotte was laughing, crying.
Roosevelt went on: “The Italians too, forswearing a partnership in the Axis which they never desired, have sent their troops to join us in our battles against the German trespassers on their soil.”
“The Italians surrendered?” Thomas took the pipe from his mouth and stared at the radio.
Charlotte held a hand to her mouth, tears streaming down her cheeks.
“For this quarter-century, the Italian people were enslaved. They were degraded by the rule of Mussolini from Rome. They will mark its liberation with deep emotion. In the north of Italy, the people are still dominated and threatened by the Nazi overlords and their Fascist puppets . . . Our victory comes at an excellent time, while our Allied forces are poised for another strike at Western Europe—and while the armies of other Nazi soldiers nervously await our assault. And in the meantime our gallant Russian allies continue to make their power felt more and more.”
“Get ’em,” Thomas interjected, pumping a fist in the air.
When the cat jumped back into her lap, Charlotte cuddled it closely. “That’s General Mark Clark’s Army. That’s Ben’s unit,” she said to the cat. “No wonder he hasn’t had time to write.” It had been weeks now since they’d had a letter from Ben. When she looked up, she saw Karl’s face, pale and sickly. Well, what did he expect? Of course good would win over evil.
Roosevelt continued: “Germany has not yet been driven to surrender . . . Therefore, the victory still lies some distance ahead. That distance will be covered in due time—have no fear of that. But it will be tough and it will be costly, as I have told you many, many times.”
When the address ended, Vera Lynn’s soaring voice sang out, “There’ll be bluebirds over the White Cliffs of Dover . . .” Charlotte let tears fall freely.
Thomas cleared his throat and turned to Karl. “What do you think of this?”
Head down, Karl was focused on the large hands sitting limp in his lap. He didn’t respond.
“‘There’ll be love and laughter, and peace ever after . . .’”
“Karl, are you all right?” Charlotte said.
He raised his eyes to her. “It is difficult to listen to how your president tells of our people.” He took a breath. “You are good people, here on this farm, but we are good people too.” He stood.
Kate stood and moved toward him. “We’re not against you, Karl . . .”
“We are done with our lesson.” He gave a bow and left.
Charlotte wanted to follow him. Instead, she sat rigid.
“I feel sorry for Karl’s family . . .” Kate smeared the backside of a hand across her teary face. “But I want Ben to come home.”
Charlotte stared at the War Mother’s Flag hanging in the window. She didn’t want to think of what Ben must have endured to get this far.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
RAIN BEAT AGAINST THE HOOD of Kate’s yellow slicker as she steered her bicycle along the slippery pavement. A wash of green meadow to her left, deep woods to her right. She passed the ice cream stand, the Moravian church, the weathered wooden sign leading down to the boat launch. Up ahead was Turtle Bay. Not quite noon. It had been three weeks since she’d mailed her letter to Clay.
When she arrived at the candy-cane pole in front of the barbershop, Kate set her bicycle against the white clapboard building and hurried up the steps to the covered porch. Inside, she threw back her hood and headed to the woodstove where Roger, a yellow Labrador sort of mongrel, lay warming himself.
Holding her cold hands over the center of warmth, Kate closed her eyes and let the fragrance of cedar envelop her. Then she bent to pet Roger. He lay back at her approach and exposed his tummy for her to rub. “You silly mutt,” she said, scratching his tummy.
Old Man Berger looked up from behind the big chair where he was clipping Mr. Beal’s thinning hair. “Howdy, Missy Kate.”
The barber was a certified postal officer, and his shop was the town’s gathering place. A familiar group of old men sat about in cracked leather chairs, smoking pipes, rustling pages of the Door County Advocate and the Green Bay Press Gazette. The RCA played in the background, a swing number. They nodded her way. “Morning, Kate.” For weeks they’d been celebrating the capture of Rome, then the landing at Normandy. Today they were talking about Assisi.
Kate came to check for mail nearly every day now, embarrassed in front of these men at the lack of response, as if they knew why she was here. A jilted lover. Was that what she was?
“How’s your mother?” Mr. Krause asked.
“Fine, thank you.”
“You know,” he continued, addressing the others, “I think this girl is looking more and more like Charlotte every day.”
Kate winced as eyes fixed on her, men smiling, exchanging glances. Kate caught the sharp scent of aftershave Mr. Berger was patting onto Mr. Beal’s cheeks.
“Got a couple of letters for you, Missy,” the barber said, wiping his doughy hands on the white cotton apron stretched over his round belly.
Kate’s heart leapt, but then she had to wait. She waited while Old Man Berger unsnapped his customer’s smock, while Mr. Beal fiddled in his pocket for a few coins, while the barber went behind the counter, opened the cash register, and dropped coins into their proper compartments.
Mr. Mueller stood and climbed into the big barber’s throne. “Just a shave today.”
“My letters?” Kate was nearly breathless.
“Ah.” Old Man Berger opened a cupboard drawer to retrieve two envelopes. “One’s for your mother”—he handed her an envelope that looked like so many others Ben had sent—“but this here, this one’s mighty fancy.” He gave her a wink.
It was a cream-colored, linen-textured envelope with a fine blue script addressed to Miss Kate Christiansen. The postmark was Washington, DC. Clay! Kate slipped her finger under the flap and gently, slowly, moved it along the edge—the very edge Clay must have licked—down to the rounded point and back up the other side. She opened the flap and slid out the folded page.
The men were watching her. She ducked out to the covered porch.
Dear Kate,
Your most welcome note has made its way from my father’s office to our residence here in Georgetown.
I apologize for leaving without a word, but politics
called my father away, all of us away, no time to say good-bye. Please know that I have thought often of our evening together, how lovely you looked and, even more, how genuine you are, rare and unique. Unafraid. You inspired me to face up to my own challenge. I’ll explain when I see you.
I will be returning to Door County to host a Fourth of July wingding. I would be delighted if you could join us. It will be a casual day of games. Bring a swimsuit. I see us gliding in a canoe in the moonlight.
Yours truly,
Clay
Kate spun around. “Rare” . . . “unique” . . . “lovely” . . . oh! And he could have written “sincerely,” but instead he wrote “yours truly”!
That was when she noticed the second letter. The envelope was addressed to Mrs. Christiansen. That was odd. Ben typically sent letters to all three of them—Mother, Father, and Kate. What secret does he have for Mother? Resisting the temptation to open it, she slipped it into her slicker pocket along with the letter from Clay. Clay!
The rain had stopped and the world smelled fresh and clean. A fragment of rainbow crossed the sky, pointing right to Clay’s house. She danced down the steps and breathed in the spring air. Feeling like the leading lady, she sang out, “Oh, what a beautiful morning, oh, what a beautiful day . . .” She pushed her bicycle past the feed store and the shuttered Dew Drop Inn and the fragrant bakery and the butcher shop. She began forming a response. “I was thrilled to receive . . .” No, no, no. Let him know I’m interested, but not too interested. “Imply other options,” Josie would say.
Kate’s mind drifted to Gatsby parties on the lawn, picturing herself among elegant people, elegant conversation, elegant clothes. She stopped. What will I wear? The other girls would surely be showing off the latest chic styles.
Kate pushed her bicycle across the street to Schwarz’s Drug Store and peered through the window at the magazine rack. Vogue. She had a few coins in her pocket, not enough to buy a magazine, but enough for a cherry soda. Inside, she picked up a copy of Vogue and sat at the counter and ordered a soda. It was the big summer issue, introducing the latest designs in linen skirts and slacks and pedal pushers and midi-blouses and . . . yes! She stared at a photo of Ginger Rogers in short tap pants, cinched in at the waist, cut and flared at the thigh. That’s it! Josie tells me I have nice legs. Mrs. J will help me. Kate cast a guilty glimpse around the room—no one was watching—then tore the photo from the magazine and tucked it into her pocket.