A Moment Forever

by Cat Gardiner

  “Well, I do know a few facts about his military history. He kept some of his things from his POW internment in Stalag Luft I, as well as a flight mission record over Holland.”

  “That’s great! I can take a look at our databases here and reach out to Veterans Affairs for any services he may have needed or receipt of Medicare benefits. We can play detective and see if, in fact, he did die. Perhaps he is still alive and we can track him down. Would that work?”

  He watched as her face transformed from downtrodden to outright jubilant. “That would be wonderful! In the meantime, can I take you up on that offer to drive to Glen Cove? If for no other reason, I’d like to see the water tower. Lizzy loved the water tower.”

  Jack thought wryly, I know. “Sure, we can certainly do that much.”

  Juliana slid a letter out of the bundle. “Here, just to give you an idea as to why I’m so keen on finding them, and why their story gives me a glimmer of hope.”

  July 2, 1942

  My Dear Ducky,

  After three hours at the movie theater, I have come to determine that Tyrone Power may have been handsome on screen, but he and Joan Fontaine had very little chemistry. Isn’t romance about the chemistry between two people? Don’t you agree? For example, I would say we have chemistry. Wouldn’t you? I felt it from the start when I noticed you sticking your head out of your father’s jalopy window on Memorial Day. You may claim it was my mischievous laugh that left you spellbound, but it was your shout about my speeding that did it for me. Oh so commanding and hardboiled. And how can I have not felt the chemistry when we danced to “Moonlight Serenade” and then later to “Stardust”? Just the feel of your hand resting against my back gave me goose flesh—I mean, duck flesh. You flirted almost as shamelessly as I did!

  In the movie, Tyrone Power failed to deliver in his kiss to Joan Fontaine that overwhelming feeling which causes bobbysoxers to swoon as they do with Frank Sinatra. You, on the other hand, had me swooning when we circled round and round on the carousel. That magical sound from the calliope playing as a backdrop as you held my hand between our bobbing horses made me outright dizzy. Our first kiss left me breathless and I must confess—it was the most romantic kiss I have ever received!——ooo … the chemistry, made all the more so by the way you made love to me in that deep voice of yours. And I could not fail to mention the kisses you gave me in the boat and on the beach. All positively creamy and made my knees go weak! Yes, William Martel, you and I have chemistry.

  Are you blushing yet, Flyboy? C’mon, you cannot deny the chemistry, no matter how chicken you are. Why, you’re positively as smitten with me as I am with you. It’s okay, go ahead and admit to me again how crazy you are for me. I’ll never tire of hearing it, and I assure you I won’t blush.

  Now, let’s get serious about something. How are you? Have they been training you too hard? Feeding you well? Giving you enough passes for recreation? You wrote that the airfield has an officer’s club? Do the base nurses attend the dinners as well? I am sure they would appreciate the opportunity for some air conditioning and a dance with some of the boys. Some—not all.

  Have you heard from Louie yet? Has he arrived at his destination? It’s been quite a long time since his departure last month, but Mrs. Frazier, three estates over, tells me it can take weeks to get to the Pacific Theater. I did read in the newspaper how the first of the Marines arrived in the Pacific, but I’m not sure if it was him. I do so hope he is safe.

  Stay safe, Will. Next letter I promise to tell you about Rosebriar in case you get a pass and want to take the train or bus to Sarasota. I can tell you where we hide the key. I miss you.

  Your girl,

  PPL

  With his heart clenching hidden behind a warm smile, Jack handed Juliana the letter. It near killed him to read just how much Lizzy Renner loved William Martel. But that was fifty years ago, things happened, people changed and life carried on after the war.

  He spoke as though unaffected because, in truth, he wanted to help Juliana find her great-uncle if he was still alive. Of course, there was his personal desire to help her. “PPL?”

  “Her nickname. It stands for Pistol Packin’ Lizzy.”

  “Pistol and Ducky. Well, she seemed in love with him. Now, what do you say to giving me fifteen minutes to make a few phone calls, and then we’ll take a drive to that water tower of hers?”

  Juliana beamed, boldly asking, “Can I buy you lunch as a thank you?”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  ~~*~~

  Thirteen

  Sentimental Journey

  June 1992

  Sitting within the close leather confines of his new Alfa Romeo Spider, Jack and Juliana drove languidly through the hills of the northwest shore of the island. It was a splendid day for touring, especially with the convertible top down and U2’s “Mysterious Ways” playing on the radio. This newspaper reporter was by no means a speeder, and it seemed to Juliana that he was comfortable taking life slow, enjoying the sights and sounds of the area he called home.

  The road they traveled was narrow and tree-lined, sparsely dotted with vast estates hidden behind impressive wrought iron metal gates or imposing gatehouses. They passed a few newly developed family neighborhoods that seemed incongruent to the unapproachable, old money mansions and surrounding quaint villages. Like a carefully applied veneer, the area’s blue-blooded affluence, obvious with each passing Bentley, Mercedes, and Jaguar, concealed the many secrets of prior generations. Juliana briefly mused that these neighborhoods could be a metaphor of her own life.

  The Alfa Romeo eventually turned down a charming lane named Rosebud, offering a fine view of the water on their left. Juliana lifted her chin to the vibrant blue sky, deeply inhaling the salty sea air.

  “What an incredible day,” she remarked. “Thank you for taking me out here.”

  “Thank you for coming with me. It’s not every day I have the opportunity to travel anywhere with company, let alone such pretty company. My life is rather solitary.”

  “Do you like traveling so much—seeing the world and writing about it for others to experience?”

  “I do, but it’s getting tiresome. I’m thirty-one, and I can’t be a fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants guy forever. There’s got to be more than jet setting and having a blast in every city in every country I travel to. What started as a lark, has taken over my life.”

  “A lark?”

  “Yeah. I did it for my grandmother, actually. After World War Two, she had refused to travel outside the Tri-State Area, so when I graduated Columbia with a degree in journalism—which she paid for—she asked if I would show her the world through my eyes, young eyes with a young soul, she said. And she encouraged me to use my writing ability to share what I saw with others as well as with her.”

  “She sounds like a true romantic.”

  “Oh, she is.” He looked to his right, his eyes locking with hers. “So are you, even if you’re fighting it.”

  Juliana furrowed her brow. “Oh, so you think I’m fighting my innate inclinations?”

  “I think … we are all hiding or fighting something to some degree.”

  “Perhaps you’re right.” Crossing her arms in front of her, she promptly changed the subject. “So how is it that you convinced your grandmother to go to Paris with you next month if she doesn’t like to travel?”

  She noted how he paused in his response, furrowing his brow thoughtfully.

  “Well, it’s … um, the commemorative ceremony for the fiftieth anniversary of the Paris roundup of Jews during the Shoah. For that she’s willing to travel—and well, as much as I don’t see the need to go—it’s important to her. She convinced me and she’s rather tenacious at getting her way.”

  “I’m not familiar with the Parisian arrest of Jews. I’m sorry. Admittedly, my knowledge of the Holocaust is meager at best. I mean, I know about the Nazis and recently read about the Warsaw Uprising but nothing about Paris.”

  “No worries, not many are fa
miliar with it. It’s referred to as the Rafle Vél d’Hiv, but we’ll be visiting the Drancy Internment Camp as well.”

  Without realizing her impertinence, heedlessly she blurted out, “Are you Jewish?”

  “I am. Does that matter?”

  Juliana shrugged a shoulder then shifted in the seat to look directly at him. “No. Not in the least.”

  “Are you?”

  “I’m what you’d call, born Lutheran raised Agnostic.”

  As they neared Meercrest, Jack slid a compact disk into the player on his dash. Glenn Miller’s “Tuxedo Junction” lifted in the air, and he watched as a grin appeared on Juliana’s shapely lips. “Just to get you in the mood.”

  “Well, then ‘In the Mood’ might be a better selection.”

  “You know your swing.”

  “I like Big Band music—Benny Goodman, Glenn Miller, Tommy Dorsey. Lately, since I moved into Primrose Cottage, it’s all I listen to.”

  He smiled. “I keep it handy for when my grandmother wants to go for a ride through the hills.”

  “She sounds like a trip.”

  “Oh she is. She’s not your ordinary grandmother. She’d kill me if she knew I told anyone but she begs me shamelessly to get behind the wheel. There is no way I will ever let her drive this baby. She drives like friggin’ Mario Andretti.”

  Juliana laughed. “How old is she?”

  “Far younger than her seventy years. For her birthday, I took her skydiving. Again, something she insisted upon—not me. Apparently, it’s been something she has wanted to do for over forty years.”

  Juliana guffawed.

  Jack laughed, too. “Are any of your grandparents living?”

  “My paternal grandfather. He’s seventy-three, currently acting like a hormonal teenager and determined to remain mute since my grandmother’s death.”

  Surprised, he looked over at her.

  “Don’t ask. Grandpa Louie is quite a character.”

  The sports car stopped in front of Meercrest’s broken, crumbling archway. “Well, this is it.”

  Juliana removed the old snapshot of the gate from the purse stowed beside her feet, then glanced up at the half-remaining stone pillar. The wrought iron was gone and the forsaken crumbling relic sat shrouded in ivy and weeds. “Sad. I can’t believe this is it, the same place—Meercrest.”

  “Do you want to get out or shall I drive through?”

  “Let’s drive through. I’d really love to see Lizzy’s water tower. It’s a piece of her life’s history she wrote about affectionately.”

  Jack watched her as best he could while driving on the old familiar dirt road now littered by deep potholes and weeds, encroached by overgrown bushes. They passed the few remaining utility outbuildings along the way. Barely discernible was a small footbridge hidden by brush, a forgotten remnant where Lizzy had received her first kiss from Henry Sturgis Morgan, Jr. —so she had once told him.

  Briefly paralleling a bend of the rippling brook, he wondered if the waterfall and cave had been filled and demolished. It always made for a wonderful hiding place during “hide and seek” with his cousins. Try as Jack might, he couldn’t resist the lure of Meercrest or the pull prompting him to help Juliana. As riddled with scandal as the estate was, it still held a magical air about it, eliciting fond childhood memories each time he visited.

  Ahead, like the tower of Pisa, stood the slightly tilted water tower. Once painted a vibrant yellow and now sadly worn through to gray by the elements over these many years of neglect, it was still an impressive sight. He watched as Juliana’s nervous palms tapped her thighs in excitement with each turn of the tires. Clearly, she felt transported back to a time she had been living through the letters.

  She leaned forward grabbing the dashboard. “Oh my G-d! That’s it, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah, let’s take a look around. I see a few of the smaller structures remain.” He pointed ahead to the left. “There’s the tea gazebo. The bathing pavilion’s foundation still remains down that incline there. We can’t go into the tower, but we can scout around the grounds.”

  “Is that okay? Will anyone discover us?”

  “No, no one will care. The owners are still waiting for variances and permits, not expecting to break ground on the senior home for another six months to a year.”

  Juliana shut the car door and quirked a playful eyebrow, noting the familiarity in which he spoke about the estate. “So you do know more about this place than you alluded to, Mr. Robertsen.”

  He smirked. “Perhaps a little more, but not much. I may have come here a time or two when I was a child.”

  Jack kept the music playing when he exited the car, stretched, and surveyed the overgrown surroundings. He took a prolonged minute to breathe deeply, filling his lungs with the welcome sea air. He focused his senses on the shore off in the distance and the lapping tide. The Sound was prophetically choppy today.

  Juliana walked around the entire edifice, regarding the seventy feet, easily envisioning Lizzy in her tower like Rapunzel waiting for her flyboy to soar by in his B-26 bomber. She looked back toward Jack to unexpectedly catch sight of him crouching beside the sports car, picking up a handful of dirt and smelling it before casually dropping it to the ground. He brushed his hands together, closing his eyes for a moment, and that was when she knew—he knew this place, its owners, its story, and its history. She was sure of it—Jack Robertsen was part of Lizzy and William’s story, too.

  Feeling brazen and bold, as if Lizzy herself had jumped into her body, Juliana walked over until she was standing within inches of his squatting form. She felt as impetuous as she did with her mother over lunch days ago.

  His lowered gaze first caught her trendy pumps and the billowing cuffed hems of her slacks. Slowly his eyes scanned up her petite, slender form as she stood blocking the sun. Her blonde hair literally glowed in the sunlight, forming a resplendent golden-white halo around her angelic face.

  Her hands gripped her hips and she jutted her chin. “In the words of Lizzy the Pistol, go ahead, you can tell me. Don’t be a chicken.”

  Jack stood up toe-to-toe, looking down into her eyes flashing in challenge, suddenly desiring to kiss those scrumptious lips of hers. “I’m not chicken if you tell me what you want to hear.”

  “Tell me your history with this place. You know everything about it don’t you?”

  He ran his hand through his hair then looked away, up at Lizzy’s perch in the water tower. He needed a moment, gathering his thoughts so as not to say too much. A deep breath preceded his gaze to Juliana’s attentive expression.

  “It’s not my story to tell, Juliana. I’m sorry. It’s just … there are things about Meercrest, that if dredged up, can hurt a lot of people. Some of the family members who lived here brought about terrible tragedies, even death to millions, and telling you everything, for the purposes of satisfying your curiosity or worse …” He looked back at the water tower before continuing. “… for a fluff-piece article for publication, would reverse all the steps taken to atone for those actions. Forty-five years have been spent attempting to right a horrific injustice that can never be righted, years of seeking forgiveness when none will ever be given by those who were the victims. Don’t insist on me telling you, because I won’t. I’ll die protecting those who still live with the scars and the memories.”

  “I’m not asking you to share what they did, I’m just asking for a name. I’ll do the rest of the research at the Glen Cove Library after our lunch. I can take the train back to the city from there.”

  He bowed his head, taking her hand in his. “I know you don’t know me, and you don’t owe me anything, but I’m asking from the bottom of my heart. Don’t go there. Please don’t investigate this family. I’m begging you.”

  She looked down at their clasped hands. The best she could promise him was not to print anything she found out. “Jack, I don’t know your connection to Lizzy, but I promise you, I would never tarnish her legacy. You have my word that whatev
er I discover I will protect her and those she loved, because of the love my great-uncle had for her. But, know this—I will be researching everything in spite of your stonewalling.”

  It was fruitless. This intoxicating woman was as headstrong and determined as Lizzy, equally undeterred and stubborn. Of course she is—it’s the German-American in her.

  ~~*~~

  Standing in front of the library, Juliana leaned over the passenger door of the Alfa Romeo and removed her briefcase from the small space behind the seat. “Thanks, Jack. Are you sure you don’t want to come in with me?”

  “No, I’ll leave you to your research. Whatever you discover, I only ask that you use your intellect’s best discernment and tap into that romantic heart of yours.” He removed from his wallet a business card. “Call me if you … well, just call me. It’s my cellular phone number. The ball’s in your court.”

  The sun streamed down upon her, but it was her smile that cast its brilliance when she said, “It was really nice meeting you. You still have my word. I won’t publish a thing.” She reached into her jacket pocket, removing her business card. “You can call me. It’s not a cellular phone, and I hereby, give the ball back to you.”

  His fingers brushed hers when he took the card. “There’s one last thing I’d like for you to answer honestly. Is there another reason you’re so persistent in finding these people? Something you may not be telling me?”

  “Yes, there is. You spoke of atonement. My grandfather can’t go back to the forties, but it was a time when he and his brother shared everything. Finding my uncle could enable the possibility of healing a forty-year rift between them and that I know would make my grandfather happy. After seeing him last week, I feel as though he’s just buying time. No one should die having never been forgiven or without having the opportunity to ask for forgiveness.”