“Why anywhere? For one thing, there’s Nimitz. What kind of atmosphere did he grow up in that made him the leader he is now? That answer is here in Fredericksburg. Plus, like many small American towns, your town has given a lot.”
She nodded. “That it has …” The twins. Kurt. Plus dozens of other fathers, sons, husbands, away without any word of when they would return.
“And then there’s the obvious. Most of the town is German. Has that affected the way you’re treated, here in Texas?”
“Ah, now that’s always a good question.” She paused, pondering how best to answer him. She never thought being of German descent would be a problem, but as the war escalated, it didn’t seem to matter to some people that her own people were fighting for the right side. “Well, there are some who won’t do business with us. But we’ve been pretty self-sufficient here.”
Bradley nodded. “I’ve seen lots of small gardens in town.”
“Yes, the idea of having a victory garden is nothing new to us. We’ve always grown what we needed.” Funny. He’d changed the conversation back to Fredericksburg, away from himself. They approached the first in the small row of houses. Tante Elsie sat on the porch in her rocking chair, fanning herself, a jar of cool tea beside her foot.
“Hello, you two,” Tante Elsie called out.
“Hello, Tante Elsie.” Trudy smiled at the woman. She treasured the friendship with the Zimmermanns even more now that her own oma had passed on. Even Tante Elsie was almost like an oma to Kathe, with her own grandmother passed away.
“Miss Zimmermann.” Bradley tipped his hat to Tante Elsie, an elegant gesture. “We’re going to be neighbors for a while.” There was something refined about him, yet somewhat unpolished. Trudy glimpsed a dark shade of stubble on his chin. She envisioned him hunched over a typewriter, clacking away at the keys into the night, rubbing his chin as he thought of the right word.
“Ah, so I see.” There was a sparkle in the woman’s eye. “I’m sure the Meiers will take good care of you.”
Trudy dreaded the familiar sensation of blush. She tried to act normally, as if walking with Bradley Payne were something she did every day. She pulled the sack from her bicycle basket. “All right, there’s not much to show you here.” She balanced the sack on one hip and unlocked the door to the house. “We only kept this locked since it’s been empty, but now that you’re here, you can leave it unlocked.”
She stepped into the familiar space, now clean and swept. The one room contained a narrow bed in one corner, covered. Her dusty sneakers thudded on the wooden floor. Oma’s braided rag rug made a circle in the center of the room.
Bradley entered behind her and moved to shut the front door.
“No, please leave it open.” Trudy stepped toward him. “It’s better that way. People won’t, um, talk … about us being alone in here, behind a closed door.”
A half grin appeared on his lips. “Okay, you’ve got it. Door open. Nobody talks.”
“So,” she said, placing the sack on the square wooden table, “in that small cupboard in the corner, you’ll find some bowls and cups. The woodstove works, but you likely won’t need it. I’ve brought a few things for you. My mother’s biscuits and a jar of peach preserves, as well as a jar of honey. Plus a sandwich. I hope that will do. I can bring more biscuits by tomorrow, plus some of mother’s chicken potpie.”
“Sounds tasty. This will be fine for now. I have to write, and I don’t eat much when I’m on deadline.” He paused, the breeze from outside swirling into the small space and lifting the front of his hair. “There’s something else I’d like you to bring, though. I’d hoped you would today.”
“What’s that?”
“Bring some of your photographs. I’d like to see them.”
She almost smacked her forehead. “Oh, I did. They’re in the sack, in a folder.” She pulled it out. Mr. Greiner at the newspaper office didn’t care much for her photographs. Maybe Bradley wouldn’t either.
He accepted the folder from her and opened it. “The light’s not very good in here. I’m heading outside. C’mon.”
She followed him and settled onto the swing beside him. The friendly, almost intimate seating arrangement made her heart flutter. That, and the fact her heart was shown through the photos.
“This is beautiful.” Bradley held up the print she’d made of a field of bluebonnets and Indian paintbrush, sweeping up to an old barn that filled the sky. She’d lain on her stomach, shooting uphill to get that shot. “When did you take it?”
“That was this spring, in April. I wish you could see the colors.”
“You have an eye for composition, and contrast. The lightness of the flowers, with the barn looming at the top of the background.” Bradley moved to the next print.
Her throat caught. Oma’s hands, kneading out bread dough, the sun slanting into the window. Then a photograph of the schoolchildren of Fredericksburg, linked arm in arm in front of their scrap collection piles, proudly celebrating what they’d done to support the war effort.
“What’s this?” Bradley asked. “A scrap king and queen?”
“Sounds silly, but they had a contest at the high school for who could bring in the most scrap metal.” Trudy shrugged. “It was newsworthy. Mr. Greiner even bought that photograph for the newspaper.”
“Nice job. You’re a pro.” Admiration filled his voice. Or was that her wishful thinking?
She looked up at him and met his gaze. No, not wishful thinking. “I’m not a real professional.”
“You were paid for your work. And that”—he poked her arm—“makes you a pro.”
“I sort of always dreamed of being a real photographer, traveling and taking pictures,” she admitted. “My former teacher told me I should open a studio and take portraits. But—”
“But you don’t want that.”
“No, I don’t.”
He smiled. “I understand. I’d rather be traveling and writing than staying in one place.”
“What about your family?”
“My … my father left when I was young. He was in and out of my life. A year ago, my mother passed away. I was an only child.” A shadow passed across his eyes.
“I’m sorry. What about grandparents, or cousins?” She placed her hand on his arm. “Surely you’re not completely alone.”
“No, not completely.” The shadow grew darker in his eyes. “Well, Miss Trudy, I hope you’ll bring me more photographs. Or maybe, we could go for a walk sometime. I’d like to see more of Fredericksburg and it would be nice to see it through a local’s eyes.”
She nodded slowly. Whatever secrets he held, he was welcome to hold them. “I’m developing a roll from yesterday. I can bring those prints. The good ones, anyway. Sometimes I get some duds.”
“I’d like that, Trudy Meier.” The shadow in his eyes disappeared with his smile.
“Tomorrow then, Bradley Payne.” She returned the grin.
The sun slipped toward the horizon and Bradley watched the shadow of the porch railing stretch longer and longer. He sat at the simple wooden table, writing out his thoughts on the last evening’s show.
The small borough of Fredericksburg …
He crossed out borough and wrote town above it.
The small town of Fredericksburg welcomed the war bond tour with a greeting as big as the Lone Star State.
Not bad. He thought of the Japanese Ha-19 midget submarine they’d wheeled down Main Street, a reminder of the proverbial last straw that had catapulted the United States into the thick of the Second World War.
With the ocean many hours away, the Japanese Ha-19 midget submarine spurred the people into action, to give to a cause that lies thousands of miles away, where many of their men are serving in harm’s way.
Not spurred. These people didn’t need to be spurred. The town, over seventy miles west of the capital city of Austin, might be far from any typical civilization, but it wasn’t immune or isolated from the effects of war. He circled the word. He�
��d find the right one before he wired his story to Frank.
His thoughts drifted to Trudy. She’d started to pry, gently, and he didn’t blame her. He’d quizzed her about her family and the town. Of course she was curious about him. Something about her was comforting, familiar. Maybe it was the photographs, the common wanderlust they shared. He could see it in her eyes.
“Hello there, young Mr. Payne,” a voice called out.
Bradley snapped his attention toward the porch. He wasn’t a betting man, but a hunch told him it was Miss Zimmermann come calling. He set down his pen and left his papers on the table.
Sure enough, the woman stood beside the single step that led onto the porch. “Miss Zimmermann.”
She regarded him with sharp eyes. “I see you’ve settled in.”
“That I have. I’m very grateful to the Meiers for renting me the house while I’m here.”
“You look like someone I know, only that was many, many years ago. He left the day he turned eighteen, broke all our hearts.” She leaned on her cane as she helped herself onto the porch. “You’re the spittin’ image of my little brother, Micah Delaney. Our sister, Joy, is going to become a grandmother any day now.”
He swallowed around a lump. “Wow, you don’t say. It’s funny how that happens.”
“Becoming a grandparent, or you resembling my brother?”
He wanted to squirm under her look. He’d encountered tough interview subjects, but seldom had found himself under someone else’s spotlight.
“Miss Zimmermann,” he heard himself say, “I believe you’re my aunt. Micah Delaney was my father.”
“Of course he was,” Tante Elsie whispered. “Was, you say?”
“He … he passed away two years ago. But he told me about all of you before he died.”
His aunt sank onto the porch swing. “I’m glad he did.” She patted the seat beside her. “Sit, sit. We have a lot to talk about.”
Bradley complied, not sure what else to add to the conversation.
“Well, you have a large family here, and I know they will all be glad to hear about you. Micah, your father, was the youngest of the three of us. But what you don’t know is that our adoptive mother and father had three more children after they took us in. Kathe is Lily’s daughter. We lost Lily to sickness and Kathe’s father is away fighting, so I’ve been keeping an eye on her. Kathe and your new friend Trudy are thick as thieves, best friends since they were in pigtails.”
“I noticed that the other day.”
“We’re having a wedding soon, in June, at my parents’ house. Your grandfather, Hank, is still alive, too.”
Bradley’s throat caught. Grandfather. “I’m looking forward to meeting him.” So much to take in. He knew his father had family, but to have ignored them for so many years. Bradley realized how much he’d missed out on. Father, if you’d only told me years ago….
Tante Elsie patted his arm. “So. Tell me about you. You’re a writer. How did you decide to do that?”
“I always wrote from the time I was a kid. Then after high school, I studied journalism at the university in Ohio, where I grew up. Then I got a stringer job in Washington, DC, reporting. A friend helped me get an assignment for This American Life magazine and the rest is history.”
“What? That’s it? Is there a ladylove, someone special waiting for you back in the capital of our country?” She gave him a sideways glance.
“No, no one.”
“Why not?”
“Time. It takes time to know someone, time I don’t have. Writing sort of takes over everything, and some women don’t understand that.” Bradley shrugged. He’d been up past midnight, writing out his first piece in longhand, then walking, bleary-eyed, in the morning to the mercantile to wire his story.
“It sounds like it’s time for you to slow down.” Tante Elsie smiled at him. “You’re not here by accident. Of course the war bond tour brought you here. But it’s your choice to stay and take some time with your family. I think it’s a good one. And who knows what can happen in a few weeks?”
He waited for a comment, linking him with Trudy Meier, but none came. “You’re right, who knows?”
Chapter 4
The light hanging from a hook inside Trudy’s closet glowed red. The aroma of photo processing chemicals filled Trudy’s nostrils, and she tried not to sneeze.
“C’mon …” She placed the photo paper into the chemical bath and waited for the exposure to take place. A series of photos hung to dry from a narrow width of clothesline stretched from one side of the closet to the other. She’d clipped each of them to a hanger and in turn hooked the hanger from the line.
The photo of the small Japanese submarine looked pretty swell. Eric would love it. She’d definitely make another copy of the photograph for him, if her chemicals held out. The newest photo image in the chemical bath emerged from the blank paper. A sunlit crowd on the town square, with everyone facing toward the bandstand. Everyone except Bradley Payne.
His smile came to life, lit by the summer sun, the shadow from his hat brim shading one of his eyes. Charming, friendly, curious. Holding secrets. Did she dare ferret them out?
Mr. Payne’s assignment here was a temporary one, so what did it matter? A sadness lurked deep in his eyes. Was it her job to help him? Maybe that was someone else’s task.
Her mother warned her of strangers, that people weren’t always what they seemed. Wolves in sheep’s clothing prowled, looking for unsuspecting lambs to devour, or so she’d been told. Trudy would admit that she wasn’t worldly wise. But she wasn’t quick to trust strangers, either.
Yet there was something in Bradley’s eyes, despite how he tried to push people away.
Dear Lord, we’ve all been through so much. We can use some hope, some joy. It’s hard to believe sometimes that You’re in control when the news talks about the insanity of war. Trudy slammed the brakes on her thoughts, especially the ones surrounding her doubts. It seemed, though, no matter how much anyone prayed and believed, the longed-for answers didn’t come.
Bradley’s image shimmered beneath the surface of developer. There. The photo was done. She snatched it out with her tongs then slid it into the water tray. After a rinse, she hung the photo to dry like its companions.
She clung to the faith she’d had since childhood, but as a grown woman, the answers of childhood didn’t satisfy her as much. Some answers I can live with, that’s all I ask. And how can I help someone like Bradley Payne, when I don’t have answers for myself?
“Trudy!” Eric bellowed outside the closet door, the shrillness in his voice making her jump.
She bit her lip. “What is it? I’m only in the closet, not hard of hearing.”
The door handle jiggled.
“Don’t open the door, you’ll ruin everything.”
“Mama’s home early. She’s real tired. She wants to know if you picked the vegetables yet.”
“No. Tell her I’ll be right there.” She sighed. Although, she had to admit that she found gardening relaxing. The first few vegetables were maturing now with an early onset of spring back in March.
“Don’t be mad, Trudy.”
“I’m not mad, Eric.” She turned out the light and the closet filled with darkness. She reached with her toes to pull the towel away from the crack between the door and the wooden floor of her bedroom. She pushed the door open.
The room was empty. Evidently, Eric had scampered off to his next adventure. Oh, to be twelve again, when the biggest care was if your friend could come outside to play. She scolded herself. Eric didn’t have it easy. A boy needed his father, and their father was an ocean away.
Trudy left her trays of developing solution in the closet and padded barefooted downstairs to find her mother in the kitchen.
“You’re home early,” she said.
Mother nodded. “They didn’t need me today at the hospital. So I thought you and I could pick vegetables.”
Of course this meant Mother wanted to talk. It
seemed they all had battles with worries and cares since the war came to their doorstep. Within a few minutes, they both carried a basket to the back garden.
The first baby potatoes were ready, along with lettuce and tiny cucumbers. By summertime, they might have enough to put up jars of pickles. The soil felt cool to Trudy’s feet as she squatted to pick some tomatoes.
“It’s a good garden this year,” Mother said. “Your father would be proud of us.”
“I—I hope we get another letter soon,” Trudy said aloud. “After what happened to Kurt, missing in action …” Missing. Not dead or wounded. But somewhere that no one knew about. And if someone did, they were likely the enemy.
“Are you sure you made the right decision, calling off the engagement?” Mother inspected the tops of the carrots, then passed them by.
“Yes. Not like it matters now.”
“He might come back. Would you reconsider?”
“I don’t think I would.”
Her mother sighed. “Everything has changed. I never imagined this for our family. Here you are, twenty-one, halfway out our door. I just dread the thought of someone coming and taking you away …”
Trudy listened to the sound of the breeze whistling through the branches of the peach trees at the end of the garden. “I don’t think anyone will take me away. But if I ever do leave, Fredericksburg will always be my home.”
“I—I have a confession to make.” Her mother retrieved a narrow envelope from her apron pocket. “Here … this is for you.”
Trudy sat in the middle of the row of plants, not caring that her dungarees would get dirty. The return address was for Texas Wildflowers magazine. Back in April, she’d sent them a photograph of a field of bluebonnets, the Texas state flower.
Dear Miss Meier,
We find your photograph of the bluebonnet field of great interest to our magazine and intend to use it in our late summer issue. Please find a cheque for three dollars. We will also send you five complimentary copies of the summer 1943 issue of our magazine. If you have more photographs of our lovely wildflower landscape, we would like to see those as well.
A Sentimental Journey Romance Collection Page 48