"Are you talking about the fat one with the dark stripes?" Elizabeth asked.
"Yes."
"I'll keep my eyes peeled. If I see her, I'll let you know."
"Thank you," the Old Man said. "You are too kind."
Elizabeth waved goodbye and continued on her way. She felt guilty about running off, but not too guilty. She knew she would have other chances to chat.
She smiled as she thought of her many interactions with the man in her youth, which had ranged from selling him Girl Scout cookies to running occasional errands to asking him for help with her math homework. Like Erich Wagner, the Old Man was a whiz with numbers. Unlike her father, he was often home during the day.
Elizabeth walked several more blocks and considered walking farther, but she turned around when she saw dark gray clouds gather to the west. As much as she liked strolling down Memory Lane, she did not want to do so during a heavy rainstorm.
Thirty minutes later she opened the door to her rental house. She entered the living room, sat on a crushed mohair armchair, and let her tired body go.
Elizabeth did not respond to two voices. She had decided long ago that callers, particularly younger ones with fresher legs, could come to her.
"Did you go for a walk, Mom?" Susan asked as she entered the room.
"I did. I just got back," Elizabeth said.
"Did you see anything interesting?"
Elizabeth smiled.
"I did."
Susan walked to the chair and stopped at Elizabeth's side.
"What did you see?"
Elizabeth looked up at her daughter.
"I'll tell you tonight or maybe tomorrow."
"You don't want to tell me now?" Susan asked.
"No."
"No?"
"No," Elizabeth said. She took Susan's right hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. "Go run along. Go fix dinner. Leave your tired old mother to her chair and her memories."
CHAPTER 23: AMANDA
Saturday, November 19, 1938
Amanda couldn't decide what she liked more – the tavern, the talk, or the company. It was hard to beat a taproom frequented by the Founders or a discussion about Ivy League mating rituals, but Dot Gale came close. In just a few days, she had gone from an interesting acquaintance to the time traveler's BFF.
Amanda took a sip from her pewter mug and then lifted it high. When Dot did the same, she pushed the mug forward.
"Here's to making friends," Amanda said.
The mugs clinked.
"Here's to keeping them," Dot said.
Amanda laughed.
"Are you afraid I'm going to run off?"
Dot giggled.
"Yes."
"I'll try to stick around."
"Please do," Dot said. "You're far more interesting than most of the women I knew in college and definitely more interesting than the girls I knew in high school."
Amanda smiled.
"I accept that endorsement."
"I figured you would."
Both women laughed.
Amanda sipped more lager and then took a moment to assess her surroundings. She liked what she saw. With rustic oak furniture, dim alcoves, a stone fireplace, and a low-raftered ceiling, the taproom of the Colonial Inn looked like the sort of watering hole that would have appealed to eighteenth-century patriots and rabble-rousers.
"Tell me about this place," Amanda said.
"What would you like to know?" Dot asked.
Amanda pointed to a dozen portraits on a paneled wall.
"Let's start with those pictures. Did all those dead white guys actually sleep here?"
Dot smiled.
"They slept in the building. Whether they slept in the rooms upstairs or slept off their ale and punch at these tables is still a topic of debate."
"I thought as much," Amanda said. She ran her hand across her round table. "What about all these tables and chairs? Are they the originals?"
Dot shook her head.
"Most of the furniture is new. The owners have to replace the tables and chairs every few years because the students are so hard on them," Dot said.
"You mean they break them?"
"They break them. They scuff them. They carve their initials in the wood."
"Boys," Amanda said dismissively.
"I know," Dot said. "If we didn't need them to perpetuate the species, I'd favor putting them on a rocket and blasting them to Pluto – or, better yet, Mars. We could repay the Martians for tearing up my neighborhood."
Amanda laughed again. She wondered what Dot would think if she told her that the technology to send men to Mars was closer than she thought.
"Speaking of boys or, in this case, men, where is Roy this weekend?" Amanda asked.
"He drove to Wilkes-Barre to visit his parents," Dot said. "He wanted to see them one more time before starting his next assignment later this month."
"So it's official?"
Dot nodded.
"He leaves on Tuesday for California. He'll spend most of the next year training to be a pilot at March Field, an Army air base near Los Angeles."
"I know where it is," Amanda said.
"You've been to California?"
Amanda smiled.
"I have. I've been there many times."
"I'm envious. I'm really envious," Dot said. "I've never been to California. I've never been west of St. Louis. I have a feeling that will change, though, and change soon."
"What do you mean?"
"What I mean is that I plan to join Roy after we're married. If the Army keeps him in California, then California will be my next home. I can think of worse places to live."
"I can too," Amanda said.
"What about you?" Dot asked. She sipped her beer. "What do you want to do after you conquer forty-eight states? Do you have career plans?"
Amanda paused before answering. She wanted to tell the truth but do so in a way that would not invite difficult questions.
"I do. I want to work for a research organization," Amanda said. "I want to study history and foreign affairs and influence policy. I want to build on what I did at Illinois."
"Then do it. Do it now. Do it before you get married and the dishes and diapers pile up."
Amanda smiled.
"I will. Thanks for the support."
"Don't mention it," Dot said. She studied Amanda for a moment. "You know, if you really like history and foreign affairs, you should check out some of the programs here. I know the university sponsors lectures for the public. So does the Nassau Institute."
"What's the Nassau Institute?"
"It's a brain box here in town. It's one of those places where scholars and writers get together and have deep discussions about things like FDR's trade policy with Bolivia or the growing tensions between the Laplanders and the Eskimos."
Amanda smiled. She found Dot's sarcasm both amusing and ironic. She had no idea she was describing what Amanda considered the perfect work environment.
"What about the lectures?" Amanda asked. "When's the next one?"
"December 7," Dot said. "I know that because Roy wanted to attend. The featured speaker is a retired admiral who thinks we should build more aircraft carriers."
"I love stuff like that," Amanda said. "I think we should go."
Dot grinned.
"I definitely think you should go."
"You're grinning. Why are you grinning?"
"I have my reasons," Dot said.
"What? Tell me."
Dot laughed.
"It's nothing."
"Yes, it is, or you wouldn't be grinning," Amanda said. "Spill it!"
Dot sighed.
"All right. I will. Do you remember the blond man you ogled at the dance?"
"I didn't ogle anyone, but yes, I remember him."
"Would you like to see him again?" Dot asked.
"Of course," Amanda said.
"Then I think you should attend the lecture."
"Why?"
"Why? I
'll tell you why," Dot said. "Mr. Tall, Light, and Handsome will be there. He sets up the speeches. He works at the Institute and apparently likes history, foreign affairs, and all that beeswax as much as you do."
"How do you know this?" Amanda asked.
"I had Roy check him out. You wanted his name, remember?"
"I wanted his name, not his FBI file."
"Don't get snippy," Dot said. "Beggars can't be choosers."
Amanda laughed.
"You sound like my grandma."
"I'll take that as a compliment."
"You should," Amanda said.
"In any case, your mystery man will be testing microphones and adjusting podiums two weeks from Wednesday," Dot said. She smiled. "Roy tells me his name is Kurt."
CHAPTER 24: SUSAN
Friday, November 25, 1938
Like so many buildings in Princeton, New Jersey, the public library on Nassau Street looked liked something else. With red bricks, white shutters, decorative moldings, and paned windows, it looked more like a Georgian town house or even a small dormitory than a modern repository for books, magazines, and newspapers.
Susan didn't mind. She knew that the collection inside would be as complete and up-to-date as any she had access to in her delightful but temporary hometown.
She walked through the front door and headed up marble stairs to the second floor, where novels shared space with reference books and maps. She browsed the newest offerings for about ten minutes, pulled one from the shelf, and sat at a rectangular table that abutted the back wall.
Susan smiled as she opened the novel and began to read Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier for the second time. She found the crisp, hot-off-the-press copy preferable to the tattered, dog-eared, scribble-filled text she had read in high school.
Susan plowed through the first five chapters and started the sixth when an unfamiliar voice pulled her away from her literary escape. She looked up and saw a middle-aged man stare at her with kind and weary eyes.
"I'm sorry," Susan said. "Did you say something?"
"I did," the man said. "I asked if you would mind sharing the table."
Susan looked closely at the man and saw that she would either have to accede to his request or catch some of the dozen or so books that threatened to spill from his arms. She closed her own book, slid it to the side, and motioned with a hand.
"I wouldn't mind at all," Susan said. "Please sit."
"Thank you."
The man plopped his books and a leather portfolio on the table, sat in the only other chair, and quickly arranged the books into three fairly even stacks. Then he opened the folder, pulled a pen from the pocket of his sport jacket, and scribbled a few illegible words on an empty sheet of lined notebook paper.
Susan laughed softly.
"It looks like your teacher gave you some homework."
"Someone did. That's for sure," the man said.
Susan took a few seconds to peruse the titles on the table and found only two things of interest – nonfiction works on early twentieth-century history. She didn't have much use for the automotive manuals or the three books on the mechanics of flight.
"Are you a professor at the university?" Susan asked.
"No. I'm just a retired sailor with a lot of time on his hands."
Susan gave the sturdy, dark-haired man a closer inspection and debated whether to resume the conversation or return to Rebecca. She opted for the former.
"Shouldn't sailors read books about ships?" Susan asked. She laughed again. "It looks to me like you're more interested in airplanes."
"I'm interested in both," the man said. He smiled kindly at his tablemate and extended a hand. "I'm Jack Hicks, by the way."
Susan shook his hand.
"I'm Susan Peterson. It's a pleasure to meet you. Do you come here often?"
"No," Jack said. "I rarely come here. I usually go to the university library."
"Is it not open today?"
"It's not open until Monday. It's closed for the Thanksgiving break."
"That figures. I guess there's no point to opening a school library if all of the students have left town," Susan said. She looked again at the books and then at Jack as he jotted a few more lines in his notepad. "Are you doing some sort of research?"
"I am, as a matter of fact. I'm researching a book on naval aviation. With any luck, I'll have something to send to a publisher by the end of next year."
Susan wanted to tell the interesting stranger that she, too, was an author, but she knew that doing so would invite questions about titles that wouldn't be published for another sixty to seventy years. So she asked a question instead.
"Does this library have a lot of books on the subject?"
"No," Jack said. "It has very few. I came here today to grab a few tidbits from books I can use and prepare for a presentation I'm giving next month."
"Oh," Susan said. "Then I guess I had better let you get back to your work."
Jack smiled, put down his pen, and gazed at Susan. He looked at her like a man who was suddenly more interested in a gabby blonde than the finer points of naval aviation.
"There's no need," Jack said. "I could probably use a break."
"Didn't you just get here?" Susan asked.
"No. I've been here since the library opened at nine."
Susan felt guilty about pulling a man away from his work but not guilty enough to shut up or walk away. She had not met someone her age since arriving in Princeton and didn't want to squander an opportunity to make a new friend.
"Do you live here?" Susan asked. "Do you live in Princeton?"
"I have for the past two years," Jack said.
"The only reason I ask is that you don't have a local accent. I can't quite place it, but it's definitely not New Jersey."
"Try Oklahoma. That's where I grew up."
"That makes sense," Susan said. "I heard the same accent coming out here."
Jack tilted his head.
"Is that so? Where are you from?"
Susan paused before responding. If she answered "California," she would have to add another layer to the lie that was her past. If she answered "Chicago," she would have to explain why she drove through the Sooner State on a trip to New Jersey. She decided to keep it simple and stick to the family script.
"I'm from Chicago. I moved here a few weeks ago."
Jack smiled.
"So tell me something," Jack said. "Where does a woman from Chicago hear an Oklahoma accent on her way to New Jersey?"
Think, Susan. Think.
"She hears it in Pennsylvania," Susan said. "I met a nice family from Tulsa on a stop in Pittsburgh. They spoke with the same lovely lilt."
Jack laughed.
"I've heard my accent called a lot of things, but never 'lovely.'"
Susan smiled.
"Well, there's a first time for everything."
Jack laughed again.
"I suppose."
Susan brightened at the sight of his smile. She didn't know where this conversation was going, but she knew she wanted it to continue. She pushed Rebecca farther away and directed her full attention to the sailor with the pleasant face.
"So what brings an Oklahoma man to Princeton, New Jersey?" Susan asked.
Jack sighed.
"His wife."
"Your wife's from Princeton?"
"She was," Jack said. "Janet died in January."
Susan took a breath and pulled back. Talk about an answer she didn't expect. In a matter of seconds, a light conversation had turned heavy.
"I'm sorry."
"I am too. We came here two years ago, at her insistence, after I retired. I didn't care much for the East – I'm still not sure I do – but I decided to give it a try. Janet had followed me around for twenty-seven years. I figured it was my turn to follow her."
"Was her passing sudden?" Susan asked.
Jack nodded.
"She was diagnosed with stomach cancer a year ago and died a few weeks later."
"It was difficult, to say the least," Jack said. "In any case, our happy retirement was short. I thought about selling our house and moving back to Muskogee, where I grew up, but I changed my mind. I decided I could make more progress on my book right here and maybe find some peace. I think Janet would have wanted me to stay in Princeton."
Susan offered a comforting smile.
"If it's any consolation, I know how you feel. I lost my husband a few months ago. I came here with my mother and daughter to find some peace of my own."
"I'm sorry to hear about your husband," Jack said. "Do you have roots in New Jersey?"
Susan nodded.
"My mom grew up in Princeton. That's why we came here. She wanted to visit her hometown again before we all got on with our lives. We live in a rental house on Mercer Street."
"I see," Jack said. "Do you plan to stick around?"
Susan shook her head.
"We plan to stay through the spring and maybe the summer but not through the fall. We intend to return to Chicago in September at the latest."
"So this is sort of an extended vacation."
"You could call it that," Susan said.
"Well, I hope your stay is a pleasant one."
"Thank you."
Susan glanced at a clock on a wall, saw it was four o'clock, and remembered that she had promised to make dinner. She wanted to continue her conversation with the fascinating Mr. Hicks, but she didn't want to let the others down.
"Is something wrong?" Jack asked.
"No. I just noticed the time. I promised to make dinner for my family tonight, so I had better head home and make it."
"Well, don't let me keep you."
"I won't," Susan said. "I would like to ask you something, though, before I go."
"What's that?"
"Did you say you were working on a presentation?"
"I did. I'm giving a little speech at the Mercer Auditorium on December 7."
"Will it be open to the public?"
"Yes. It will," Jack said. "Why? Are you interested in attending?"
Susan nodded.
"I'm very interested. When does it start?"
"Seven thirty," Jack said. He smiled softly. "The doors open at seven."
CHAPTER 25: SUSAN
Mercer Street (American Journey Book 2) Page 13