When Truth Takes Flight

by Sandra McGregor

  “Be careful…” He’d come close to making the potentially fatal mistake of calling Vince by name over the phone. He’d been warned that operators were paid to listen in and report certain names or callers. The last thing he wanted to do was be responsible for anything that would put Hannah in danger, or give one of the families leverage to make Vince bow.

  “Sure, kid.”

  The line went dead, but John stared at the phone for several heartbeats before hanging it up. The situation felt out of balance. There was no way to tell for sure, but just like knowing a storm was coming, he felt sure things weren’t as they seemed. Vince had been too jovial in a way that wasn’t his style, and definitely too anxious to get off the phone.

  Something brewed.

  ****

  Hannah stood by the window, watching the evening wane while she wondered what life held in store. Six months ago, the future had been an exciting thing looming just around the next bend. The thought had never entered her mind that anything would turn her world upside down.

  “Mama, I miss you,” she whispered, laying a hand on the warm glass pane.

  John had reassured her several times that he hadn’t minded coming to her rescue with Eddie—in fact, he’d joked about being her avenging hero—but she felt so foolish for ever trusting the lighting technician in the first place, for agreeing to go out with him. He had a reputation, but she’d believed his words of sympathy and accepted the offered evening to “have a little fun and get your mind off your loss.” If her mother hadn’t recently been killed—if she hadn’t felt so alone and lonely—it would never have happened.

  But she might not have met John then, either.

  For the past few days, he had been working on the East coast, but he’d gotten home late the previous evening—not that she had been listening for him. He’d be arriving for dinner tonight in a few minutes, and she had a special meal ready to welcome him home—meatloaf and baked potatoes staying warm in the oven. With the added treat of a couple steamed carrots, the meal would be perfect. She owed him so much.

  Tonight, she wore one of her favorite dresses—in fact, the one she’d worn the day John first moved into the apartment. Was it almost two months already? Time moved fast when there was something to look forward to.

  Yet lately, there had been a tension in the air that felt thick enough to cut with a knife. If only she could figure out a way to lighten the mood.

  Music?

  She turned on the radio, closing her eyes for a few moments to sway to the crooning voice of Bing Crosby singing “Pennies From Heaven.”

  Her eyes popped open at the sound of tapping on her door. A smile widened her lips as she dashed across the room. “Who’s there?”

  “Someone bearing a gift.”

  She couldn’t get the lock turned fast enough, and she opened the door to find John holding out a long-stemmed rose.

  “Oh,” she murmured on a soft release of breath.

  “A flower for a beautiful lady.” He stepped closer and kissed her cheek.

  She’d never been given flowers before, let alone a rose. “John, you shouldn’t have. It must have cost a fortune.” She held it with reverence, not taking her gaze off the lush red bloom. “It’s beautiful,” she told him on a sigh. “Thank you.”

  She wanted to kiss him for his extravagance and thoughtfulness, but even the thought made her neck and face flush with heat. Instead, she turned toward the kitchen but had only taken one step before he had a hold on her arm and was turning her around.

  No words were needed as he leaned in and tentatively brushed his lips across hers. The kiss started slow, but, like a fire bursting into flames, he pressed in and devoured, savoring. She reached her arms up around his neck to draw him closer, loving the feel of his body meshed with her own. The scent of the rose wafted down to intoxicate her as the kiss lingered and then slowly subsided.

  Her thoughts floated, and her body tingling from head to foot as she slowly opened her eyes. She should say something, but no words came to mind. An inner voice told her to move, to retreat, but her heart wanted more.

  When sanity returned, she drew away, allowing her arms to slide down from his shoulders until the rose was again being held between them. His intense gaze sent a shiver down her back. She swallowed, even as her stomach tightened. Was this a dream, or was it really happening?

  He stepped back, taking the warmth of his body and sending another chill along her arms. His hand glided from around her waist, but his gaze continued to hold her captive while her heart pounded.

  “I missed you. I saw the rose and thought of you.”

  She gazed up into his eyes and smiled. “I hate to say it, but I missed you also,” she admitted. “I’m glad we met—that you moved in here.”

  A frown flickered across his face to narrow his gaze, but was quickly gone. The conversation felt stilted. What she really wanted was for him to kiss her again—and never stop. He had a way of being forceful, yet tender and considerate. It made her want to beg for more like a dog asking for another tidbit of meat.

  John took a step back, cleared his throat, and grinned. “Do you have a narrow vase for the rose?”

  Hannah blinked several times at the quick change of subject. “Oh, um, yes, I have a bud vase. I’ll just have to cut off part of the stem.” The rose deserved better than something bought at a dime-store, but her only other choice was a tea glass.

  She went into the kitchen, stooping down to get the cheap, glass vase from the bottom cupboard shelf. As she filled it with water, she kept her back to him, uncertain what to say next. The mood seemed to have grown chilly in the blink of an eye.

  Finally, she turned. “Did you have a tough day?”

  “My day was okay. Eight hours of meetings with other engineers to share what I learned in Atlanta.”

  “You must be very tired. Dinner will be ready in just a minute. Why don’t you take the flower and set it on the table and have a seat? I’ll bring the food in.”

  John lingered, watching as she pulled the casserole dish from the oven. “Meatloaf. It smells wonderful. You know, it amazes me how you can work all day, standing on your feet for hours without a break, and still come home to cook a good meal. You’re amazing.”

  She smiled with pride. “If you’ll get the dish of butter from the icebox, dinner is served.”

  ****

  John sat reclining on the sofa, nursing a cup of lukewarm coffee while his stomach churned. The meal had been delicious, every bit as good as his mother’s, but his efforts to stuff Vince into a neat box and forget him was proving to be more difficult than he’d thought. On the other end of the sofa, Hannah sat with an expectant gaze, as if waiting for him to respond when he hadn’t even heard the question.

  The wall clock ticked away the seconds.

  “Are you all right?”

  He glanced up from staring into his coffee cup. “Hm? Oh, sure, I’m just tired.” Liar.

  “Maybe we should call it a night and let you get some sleep,” she suggested.

  She leaned forward to place a gentle hand on his arm—a hand that brushed like a feather, raising fine hairs to attention where they, along with the rest of his mind, body, and soul, begged for more.

  He hesitated, then nodded and stood, setting the mug on the coffee table. “I’m sorry. You made a delicious meal, and I’m—I’m just not good company tonight.”

  Hannah’s apartment, a haven in the middle of a cold, heartless city, usually erased life’s concerns, even if only for a couple of hours. Tonight, the faint but lingering aroma of their meal that wafted through the air, along with a hint of cinnamon from the sprinkle of the spice she’d warmed in a cup of water on the stove, failed to work its magic. She called her cinnamon water “adding atmosphere,” but all he could think of was his mother’s apple dumplings…and the conversation he’d had with her about Hannah.

  He should never have come.

  For a moment, he vacillated, willing to be swayed if she asked him t
o stay, yet knowing his mood was a sore that would continue to fester until it totally ruined the evening. Concern for Vince paced in his sub-conscience, hounding him with reminders of dark tunnels and front-page photographs.

  Her frown shouted growing suspicions—suspicions that would soon generate questions. He sighed, tired of lying to her, tired of dodging questions, and tired of being the middle man who had no way to win in this situation.

  This deception needed to end, but not tonight. He needed sleep, and a little time to consider how to bring up the subject. Tomorrow.

  ****

  The trolley clanged at each intersection, warning pedestrians to be careful and keeping John awake when all he wanted to do was doze until his stop. The workday had been long, but his mind repeatedly wandered to the dilemma of how to start the conversation that would be the end of his relationship with Hannah. She’d hate him, he had no doubt, but he had no choice.

  Tell her straight off or eat first and tackle it over coffee? That was a selfish question.

  He glanced at the newspaper lying on the lap of the man sitting next to him. The front photograph gripped his stomach and twisted. It took every ounce of willpower not to grab the paper so he could read the story below the picture of two men lying dead in the street. The headline gave nothing away.

  Could Vince be one of them?

  At his stop, he stepped from the trolley car, turned left, and jogged toward the corner where a young boy was calling out for passersby to buy his papers. “Extra, extra! Read all about it! Mob families gun each other down in New York. Extra, extra!”

  He slapped a nickel in the kid’s hand and took the paper. After stopping a few feet away, he skimmed the story, looking for Vince’s name.

  Three of New York’s top crime families were involved in a shootout last evening in front of Dino’s Italian Restaurant that left two dead and three injured.

  Vince was listed as wounded in the shoulder but doing well at the local hospital. John grunted, the sound turning the head of a woman walking by.

  “Anyone with a brain knows better than that,” he mumbled.

  He’d watched the process in action when he was young. There had been one time when an enforcer got shot, but it wasn’t life and death, so he’d been bundled into a car and brought back to the compound for treatment by the family doctor. To be left at the hospital would mean being vulnerable—readily available to whomever had just tried to kill him.

  John entered the market and headed toward the back, stepping around shoppers, but not slowing down. He stopped short when he saw the phone was in use. The delay—and the uncertainty of Vince’s condition—gnawed at his stomach. With the phone still in use, he read the entire article, then leaned against the wall, closed his eyes, and took time to inhale a deep breath and calm down.

  The moment the man finished, John pushed away from the wall, closed himself in the small phone booth, and followed the protocol to be connected to a New York operator and through to Vince’s compound. It took a couple minutes to be connected, but at least the family lieutenant confirmed the newspaper report that the older man was alive and doing well under the circumstances.

  “Vince wasn’t the main target, so his wounds aren’t life-threatening.”

  The words repeated over and over in his mind. Not life-threatening—not life threatening.

  Not this time.

  He hardly remembered leaving the market or making the two-block walk home. After unlocking the front door of the boarding house, he climbed the stairs and, without conscious thought, turned toward Hannah’s apartment. He rejected solitude, instead seeking reassurance that there were areas of peace and sanity—people who lived normal lives where couples sat down to dinner without ending up shot and bleeding.

  Every thought, every effort was focused on getting to Hannah and holding her in his arms until his mind and body could relax. Even as he reached up to knock, he knew tonight was the night to tell her the truth. The weeks of avoidance and holding back were over.

  Tonight, Hannah would learn about her real father.

  Chapter Eleven

  When Hannah heard the knock, she grabbed the match, struck it, and lit the candle sitting in the middle of the table set for two. “Perfect.” The spaghetti was almost ready. There was even fresh bread, a gift from Mable Wilson in 1-D.

  With a big smile, she opened the door, prepared to share the excitement of her day. Her enthusiasm dimmed when she saw the somber face.

  “John, what is it?” Was his mother okay? Did he get fired? “Come in, come in.” She took his hand and led him to the sofa where he remained standing, staring at her.

  The chill dancing along her arms made her tremble. Was the world at war again? His face was ashen, his breathing shallow and more rapid than usual.

  “Talk to me,” she coaxed, taking his hands in hers and rubbing her thumbs along the chilled backs.

  He slowly sucked in a deep breath. “I’m sorry. It’s been a rough day, and I’m tired. Can we save the heavy discussion for later?”

  His gaze held a foreboding that the lovingly orchestrated evening would not go as planned.

  Hannah was no longer hungry, but she pasted on a smile. “I’ve made spaghetti, and we have fresh bread. I hope you like it.”

  “I’m sure it’ll be great.”

  A weak smile stretched his lips, but failed to reach his eyes. She decided not to push. Before long, he’d share whatever had upset him. If he didn’t, there was no way she’d allow him to go home. Her mother had once said she’d given her daughter at least a couple of her traits—dark hair and stubbornness.

  Well, sometimes that’s what’s needed.

  Hannah slid her arms up around his neck and stepped closer, drawing him into her warmth. She held him, willing to remain as long as needed.

  A couple minutes passed before she felt a shiver ripple down his back.

  Almost immediately, he stepped back and cleared his throat. “I’m sorry. I probably shouldn’t have come tonight, but…” He turned enough to look over at the table where the candle flickered, casting a shadow against the closest wall.

  “Come on. Sit down and let me serve dinner. Eating will help you feel a little better, and we can talk about what’s on your mind. Sometimes sharing with someone else helps gain insight from another perspective.”

  His expression was guarded, tense, but he nodded, and sat down in his usual chair. She hesitated another moment before moving into the kitchen to take up their plates. Once she set them on the table, she sat down across from him.

  “This smells really good. I missed lunch today.”

  Like every other night, John blessed the food and they ate in silence for several minutes, but Hannah’s appetite was gone. She mostly moved the food in a haphazard pattern on the plate but still managed to consume a little more than John. His focus remained on his meal with little more than a token bite occasionally. She glanced several times at the clock, planning to give him fifteen minutes before she stepped in.

  The minutes ticked by. Whatever was wrong, it drove his thoughts inward, leaving her alone outside his mental wall—a familiar place, but a place she refused to remain.

  Enough was enough.

  “Why don’t I make us each a cup of coffee, and then I’ll join you on the couch?”

  John lifted his gaze, stared into her eyes, then nodded. While the coffee brewed, she watched him stretch out his legs where he sat, lean his head back against the sofa, then close his eyes as if intending to doze.

  What in the world had him so upset, so quiet? She prayed she wouldn’t have to wait long to find out. Maybe if she could get his mind off work or whatever had him in the dumpster, he’d cheer up.

  Within minutes, she carried two cups to the coffee table and sat down beside him. Hope was renewed when he reached over and took her hand in his, linking their fingers. She forced her shoulders to relax as she leaned against him.

  “Thank you for all the effort you went to for dinner. I wish I’d be
en hungrier.”

  “There’s enough left over for another night, so you get a second chance,” she said, laughing softly.

  His lips lifted a fraction, but his gaze remained focused on their joined hands.

  Maybe engaging him in casual conversation would help redirect his thoughts. “Did you hear about the mob shooting in New York? The paper said two men were killed and several others injured. My mother used to say they all deserved what they got, and as long as they only shot each other, the police should stay out of it and let them kill each other off.”

  His gaze slowly rose to meet hers, a frown marring his brow. “Is that how you feel?”

  She shrugged. “I guess that opinion makes sense up to a point, but I hate all the killing. That’s not how civilized people should act.”

  He nodded, glancing away before returning his gaze to her a moment later. “I’m sorry about not being very good company tonight. Something happened to make me realize I need to take a step back and do something I promised never to do.”

  Something had happened. She hadn’t wanted to be right, but at least John was going to share it with her.

  I’ll be strong for him. I’ll be strong.

  He took a deep breath and released it slowly. “First, though, I need to give you a little history.”

  She nodded, but remained quiet.

  “I never knew my father because he left soon after he found out my mother was expecting me. She worked two jobs and long hours, but we were doing okay. When I was about nine, mother met a man at the coffee shop where she worked, and next thing I knew, we were moving from Mobile up to New York City.”

  She brought her hand up to rest over her stomach. On the heels of the newspaper article and combined with the level of John’s turmoil, this didn’t bode well for a happy ending.

  “We lived in New York for a few good years, and then my mother suddenly packed up and moved me back to Mobile. She refused to discuss my stepfather after that, but when I graduated high school, I got a letter from him offering to pay my way through college.”