by Cat Gardiner
A tear formed in Juliana’s eye and trailed down her cheek as she carefully placed the letter beside Lizzy’s photograph. She didn’t even know the woman yet she felt the pain flowing from the slip of paper written from her heart with elegant penmanship. Her own hand resisted the urge to tremble as well.
Turning from the mantle, she once again took in the simplicity of the room and walked to the open dusty door of the record player. She was part of this room now. She was part of this story—their story—and felt compelled to see it through the eyes of her great-uncle forty-two years earlier.
“What were you listening to when you left?” Juliana asked the emptiness, so filled with tangible spirit and entity.
Picking up the 78 rpm record’s paper sleeve, the word “Columbia” read back in bold letters. She noticed a black record resting upon the turntable. On a whim, she pressed the biggest button, inhaled deeply, then expelled her breath through pursed lips to dislodge the top layer of dust. She lifted the arm over, delicately lowering the needle upon the record.
As though the room suddenly cleared of its cobwebs, soot, and the foggy memories of a distant past, the record player and its Zenith emblem lit with life. Hearing the needle scratch through the powder embedded within the grooved surface, an unfamiliar voice—that of Doris Day, the sleeve had said—filled the parlor. Without realizing what she was about, Juliana sat in the armchair, took the musty-smelling afghan into her arms, and listened to the mesmerizing lyrics of “Again,” sung with so much bittersweet heartbreak and love.
She glanced at the cigarettes beside her on the table, and it became clear that William had sat here, just where she did. He smoked. He listened and stared at the mantle. He remembered. He read the letter and may have even cried. Lord knows, she was tearful. Her great-uncle’s presence and palpable longing filled the room.
The 1949 lyrics of yearning, reunion, and anticipation wrapped around her, taking her imagination to the significance the song must have held.
Although imagined, Juliana saw that night unfold before her eyes in the dimly lit room, where perhaps in 1950 only the light from the Zenith tuner and the dying embers of the fire had existed. Her imagination was uncannily accurate.
Having lost track of the hours that had passed in his nostalgia, William finally rose long after the song ended. The needle had remained circling endlessly upon the record in scratchy cadence, but he was oblivious to it when he walked to the fireplace where he read Lizzy’s painful words once more. It was the last time he swore to himself—the last time he would think of her. His index finger brushed over the embossed initials of the woman he loved. The R—not an M—sliced and stabbed his heart again and again and again, mincing it into a million tiny pieces of barely beating flesh. There was no accurate description for the cold he felt inside. Perhaps the cold of death was most appropriate. Finally, he found the courage to toss the letter into the grate and picked up her portrait. The glass covering her smiling mouth met his lips when he said his good-bye to her memory. He turned his back on her image then turned off the record player. On his way to the front door, he grabbed the subway tokens resting on the table in the hallway and left the house—her house—for the last time.
As though walking behind his ghostly shadow, Juliana followed his footsteps into the hall. She peered up the staircase to the floor above then glanced down at the forgotten moving box lying at her feet.
Curiosity overruled all the other plans she had for the day. She slowly took the stairs one at a time and, completely oblivious to the dust, enjoyed the feel of the smooth, wooden banister below her fingers. A step creaked, but she continued until she found herself standing before the first of several doors and entered.
From below she heard the closing of the front door and Mr. Gardner calling out to her. “Juliana?”
“I’m upstairs. I’ll be down in a second. Make yourself at home.”
In the pretty bedroom, soft yellow walls had turned dingy and a floral satin bedspread looked never used. Upon the walnut vanity sat two photographs on either side of the sunken table. Strangely, Juliana didn’t mind her new modus operandi for what she believed would be the next few weeks of discovery: she wiped the glass with her sleeve, revealing another photograph that captured Lizzy sitting on a blanket before a large hotel on the beach. Below read, “Pink Palace, St. Pete Beach—1942.” She looked lovely and happy and her playful spirit leaped from the image. Juliana was riveted—as riveted as she assumed William had been—captivated by this woman.
The other was the image of a beautiful white mansion situated behind large wrought iron gates. The letter M was forged within the intricate metalwork of the archway. A small notation in the corner of the snapshot immortalized someone’s fond memory, “May 30, 1942.”
“What is this place and why is it so dear?” Juliana mused. “What happened on May 30, 1942?”
A singular item drew Juliana’s attention away from her speculation of the black and white photograph: resting beside Lizzy’s photo sat a small, royal blue velvet art deco era box.
She opened it. Nestled inside, within the pearl gray satin lining, was a cushion-cut diamond engagement ring.
“I have to know. I have to find out what happened to you.”
After long minutes later of speculation, she quit the room, leaving the ring where she found it then descended the steps where Mr. Gardner stood examining a painting upon the hallway wall. His fingers traced the wooden frame, his body leaning toward the oil landscape as he fixed his eyeglass upon the bridge of his nose. At the creak of the step he said, “This is an expensive Dutch Master, Juliana. You may want to have this insured.”
“I’ll look into it. Hey, Mr. Gardner, do you know who Lizzy was?”
~~*~~
Two
Green Eyes
May 30, 1942
Affluent and opulent were two words that only touched the surface in describing Glen Cove, a small town situated on the North Shore of Long Island, New York in an area referred to as the Gold Coast.
Upon rolling hills of breathtaking vistas of the Long Island Sound, the resort locale boasted lavish mansions ranging from ostentatious castles to English country manors. It was a town where its wealthy residents were as separated and segregated as those who worked for them. Money—old blueblood, inherited wealth of Republican stock—differentiated these select denizens from every other American who survived the Crash of ’29 and the depression. Names such as Vanderbilt, du Pont, and Loews lived on sprawling estates built during the Gilded Age, and now, the next generation had taken up residence within these imperious dwellings.
Far from their home in Brooklyn, two brothers, whose dear mother often called them “thick as thieves,” drove up on a Saturday afternoon to the gated entrance of one of these ritzy mansions. They were about to visit the home of Mr. and Mrs. Frederick Renner for a Memorial Day lawn party.
Handsome in his Army Air Forces “green and pinks” uniform, William Martel stopped his father’s 1935 Auburn Cabriolet before the towering white stone and arched wrought iron entry. He gazed up at the giant letter M staring back at him through the windshield while his older brother, Louie sat chuckling from behind his new Kodak’s lens.
“Would you put that camera away? Do you really need a photograph of someone’s grandstanding wealth?”
“Well, then drive on,” Louie replied with a mischievous grin. “Don’t tell me you’re too chicken to hobnob with the likes of Benjamin Guggenheim and John Pratt?”
“Benjamin Guggenheim went down with the Titanic, you knucklehead.”
“Whatever. You know what I meant.”
Will nervously strummed his fingers against the steering wheel; the pilot gold insignia ring his parents gave him bounced up and down. “Hardly. It takes a lot more than this kind of money to intimidate me. Tell me again how you wrangled this invitation?”
Louie, the smooth-talking, charismatic charmer couldn’t resist bragging to his conservative polar opposite. “I met this dish at tha
t U.S.O Ranch Party I went to while on pass. What a honey and she’s a volunteer with the American Red Cross Motor Corps.”
“You’re nuts! You went to Sweetwater Valley Ranch over two months ago. You mean to tell me we wasted all this gas and rubber and you might not really have an invite to this Meercrest place? We’re here at this highfalutin estate, about to crash some tycoon’s garden party, on the off-chance that this ‘dish’ remembers you?”
Louie’s pearly white, shit-eating grin gave away his implication, particularly when he added, “Oh, I have no doubt that Miss Lillian Renner will remember me. If I do say so myself, it was quite unforgettable.”
Will chuckled, shaking his head at his brother’s never ending doll dizziness. “You wolf.”
“Yup, and she tells me she has four single sisters, three of whom are just dying to meet a flyboy like you, which is fine by me because this devil dog is spoken for.”
He adjusted his khaki service cap with meticulous pride and rightfully so. Will knew that many of those in the Marine Corps were considered the toughest men fighting this war. He was proud of his brother’s enlistment and confidence.
“What’s wrong with the fourth sister?”
Louie shrugged a shoulder. “Beats me. I wasn’t about to ask. At the time, I had silky unmentionables on my mind.”
“You’re such a jarhead.”
“Personally I like leatherneck, which is certainly more admired than you being called an airhead or vaporhead.”
“At least I’m not a numbskull. I can’t believe you’re trying to fix me up. I’m leaving for Florida soon and you want me to get rationed. No way.”
“Hey, you need a girl and a little I and I before you get behind one of those B-26 Widowmakers and crash and burn to death in Tampa Bay.”
Will reached down and shifted the gear handle. The car slowly rolled through the open gates onto the narrow driveway. “I’ll leave the intoxication and intercourse to you, Lou. I’m not looking for a girl and won’t be until I return home—if I return home.”
There. He said it. He finally admitted aloud his whole rationale for not dating—getting close meant the possible breaking of a heart. Either hers at the receiving end of a Western Union Telegram or his at the receiving end of a Dear John letter. It was bad enough he knew the B-26 bomber was considered a death sentence—but wasn’t all war, in reality, a death sentence? Will didn’t even want to think about what his brother was going to encounter when Louie arrived in the Pacific, let alone the possibility of not returning home.
“Better not let Mom hear you talk that way. I was joking about crashing and burning. We’ll both return home.” Louie slapped his brother’s shoulder. “Now, let’s focus on what’s important—we have a few rich honeys to meet.”
Loud honks and equally loud music from the car behind them interrupted the brothers from their banter-turned-serious talk. The incessant blaring of beep, beep combined with the swing sound of Tommy Dorsey’s “Keepin’ Out of Mischief Now” broke the peaceful air with its disturbing cacophony. Will looked in the rearview mirror to see the impatient noisemaker.
He noticed that the gorgeous woman in the driver’s seat of a shiny, black convertible insisted on coercing the older model car out of her way with each impatient depression of the horn.
Louie turned to look out the back window. “Hot Damn! That’s a convertible Lincoln Zephyr.”
Obviously frustrated by the slow, uncertain speed of what she probably thought a jalopy in front of her, one of the young woman’s gloved hands slammed against the horn again. The other remained gripping the steering wheel in anxious anticipation.
Beep, beep.
Will motioned with one arm out the window. “Go around,” he complained with equal frustration though his eyes remained riveted on the rear view mirror at the reflection of the woman adorned in a light green headscarf and tinted eyewear. After removing his Ray-Ban aviator sunglasses, he continued staring until the Zephyr sped past the driver’s side of the Cabriolet.
Taking up the entire expanse of the driveway, her luxury sports car caused Will to veer off into the ditch running parallel. He had just enough time to notice the woman’s pert nose, radiant smile, and beautiful profile as she raised her arm high in the air, waving to signal her thanks for getting out of her way.
Her laugh was almost taunting when she gassed the vehicle, kicking up gravel from her tires with a burst of cloudy dust. Even over the blaring swing music, Will heard the subtle pinging of rocks against the metal of his father’s car where it sat with its passenger side wheels six inches deep in mud.
The normally genteel and amiable pilot stuck his head out the window. “Thanks for burning the rubber my bomber wheels need!”
That devilish laugh of hers rang out in response.
“Holy smokes! Did you get a look at that dame? Wowza!” Louie exclaimed, obviously unconcerned that the car was now stuck. “Now, that’s one high-class woman.”
“Yeah, so high class she rudely ran us off the road. Her wealth obviously removes her from upholding gas and rubber ration constraints. If she keeps driving like that, her tires won’t last the duration. She’s not helping the war effort.”
“Don’t be such a hard-ass. Besides, gas ration was only put into place last week. You can’t expect these people to jump to it. That attitude isn’t going to win the war or get your johnson any closer to successful action either.”
Will rolled his eyes and answered his brother by getting out of the car followed by a hard slam to the door. He walked to the front end of the vehicle, motioning to Louie. “C’mon, help me get the car out of this mess.”
Thirty minutes later, the Cabriolet finally came to park at the public entrance of the estate on the opposite side of the mansion. Apparently, they had come through the private entrance and Will surmised it was the reason for Miss Hoity-toity’s frustration. Of course, that didn’t excuse her rude behavior, and he just wouldn’t let that go.
The two brothers walked along the pathway, around the sixty-thousand square foot mansion, to the gardens and lawn overlooking the Long Island Sound. The salty sea air grew stronger as they stepped onto the grassy hill, taking in the panorama before them. Both men resisted their jaws slackening in awe of the massive estate where building after building was as impressive as the vista and gardens surrounding them. All of it overlooked the deep blue water where Renner’s private yacht sat moored at the boat landing. Just beyond, U.S. Coast Guard Reserve patrol boats dotted the view of the water.
“Take a gander at this,” Louie stated in awe followed by a whistle.
“Yeah, we’re a far cry from Brooklyn.”
On one side of a fountain pond, in a small section of the estate’s one hundred acres, white tents billowed in the coastal breeze. Even a dance floor lay in the center of the field with lantern lights strung across it leading to a white gazebo where a band played.
Gentle strains of “I Don’t Want to Set the World on Fire” traveled from the wood structure, and it seemed that many of the guests matched the slow, dragging tempo. The women of society’s crème de la crème congregated on the lawn, each one wearing large hats and fashionable pale colored tea dresses. Some sat drinking tea or lemonade, as the men, clothed in summer suits, smoked or held drinks. Long tables laden with food and draped in American flag bunting sat under the tents and off to one side, a game of lawn croquet occupied some of the younger guests. The only spectators were a young woman in a high-backed, wicker wheelchair and her nurse standing at attention behind her.
Over the music, Will heard that familiar melodious—mischievous—laugh carry in the wind. It was her. He saw the woman in green raise her croquet mallet high in the air in victory, and it got under his skin. Irked, he looked down at his brother then his muddied trouser bottoms and once shined shoes. He clenched his jaw. “I think you and I stick out like sore thumbs—not to mention filthy ones at that. We’re the only GIs here. Are you sure we’re welcome?”
“Of course we’re w
elcome. Stop being such a stick in the mud. What’s really eating you—the dame in the Zephyr or your dirty uniform?”
“They’re one in the same.” Will sighed. “Maybe I’m more offended by the Zephyr itself. Don’t these people know there’s a war on?”
“Life goes on brother and when you’ve got it—flaunt it. Someone had to buy the few cars rolling off Ford’s assembly line before they started building bombers and tanks.”
Will resisted the urge to spit at the name “Ford” and it was a darn good thing he did.
Louie raised his arm, waving at a young woman. Will assumed it was the one and only Miss Lillian Renner, who approached up the small hill, wearing the standard issue American Red Cross Motor Corps blue-grey uniform. She was a looker—definitely a dish—and he now understood his brother’s interest.
Blonde tresses, blue eyes, and a beaming, welcoming smile greeted them. “I knew you would come! My sister Ingrid tried to convince me otherwise, but I just knew it!”
The object of Lillian’s affection was suddenly shy and uncomfortable, and Will smiled inside when he noticed his brother was shifting his weight from one foot to the other. It was obvious that Louie was smitten with this girl, and Will reveled in the fact that finally someone had unseated his brother’s womanizing bravado.
Louie kissed Lillian’s cheek. “Thank you for inviting us. It’s swell to see you, Lillian. Say, this is my brother, Will. You remember I told you about the knucklehead who wants to fly bombers?”
Lillian shook his hand. “Welcome to Meercrest. I have a few sisters who will love to make your acquaintance. The youngest is an outrageous flirt, and a pilot is right up her alley, so look out.”
Genuinely pleased to meet her, Will smiled broadly. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lillian. You have a beautiful home, and the weather is just perfect to celebrate Memorial Day while enjoying the magnificence of the estate.”