Miller's Secret

by Tess Thompson

  “I wish I was more like Rose,” said Phil. For the first time, he sensed weakness, a quaver to her voice that belied her general composure. She reminded him of a remote ballerina, straight backed, always contained, like she knew what every muscle of her body should be doing and did it.

  Walking over to her, he placed a drink in her outstretched hand. He spoke gently, not wanting to spook her. “How do you mean?”

  “Independent. My parents believed that women should always be subservient to men. That doesn’t serve one in a situation like mine.” She took a sip, cautiously, like it was a hot cup of broth. “Nice. Thank you.”

  “It must be frightening for you, alone with Teddy. You mustn’t hesitate to call on me if you need anything. Even with my lack of a few limbs, I’m quite handy.” He grinned as he sat in the armchair opposite her and took a sip of his own drink. “Not bad, if I do say so myself.”

  Phil smoothed the skirt of her dress and crossed her ankles before taking another sip, less cautiously this time. “I never dreamt I would ever be alone with a child. Eddie, Teddy’s father, was my childhood sweetheart. I was naïve enough to think we would grow old together, raising children, then enjoying grandchildren, all of it right there on the same land our fathers cultivated.” She told him how they lived on neighboring farms. “There was never anyone else but Eddie. Everything thought out and agreed upon between the two of us when we were fifteen years old. You know the rest.”

  “The war.”

  “Yes. Every dream vanished. The hardest part is Teddy. Knowing he’ll never meet his father. And, being alone without any family.”

  “They’re still in Iowa, I take it?” he asked.

  “Yes. My little sister’s only ten. You can’t imagine how I miss her. I haven’t seen her since the day I left over three years ago. It broke my heart to leave her.”

  “And your parents?”

  She smiled. “They were easier to leave.”

  “What made you come out here, alone, with Teddy?”

  She shrugged, staring at her lap, her voice soft. “It’s a long story, but I suppose you could say that my parents and I had a disagreement. It was best for me to leave. I have an uncle out here, wealthy, and he offered to find a place for me at the beach. So here I am.”

  Her past made her sad and isolated, he knew, despite her casual tone. He paused before speaking. What could he say to make her feel better, less alone? For some reason he wanted nothing more in the world than to comfort her. “My mother always said God never gives us more than we can handle.”

  She flashed him a sad smile. “I hate that expression.”

  He laughed. “Most people do, especially if they have a problem that prompts someone to say such a thing.”

  “Right.” She chuckled before taking another sip of her drink. “Henry, why is it you’re not married? Or do you have a sweetheart?”

  “Ah, well, this is a sad story indeed.” He let his eyes twinkle at her. “Do you truly want to hear it?”

  “It can’t only be my sad story.”

  “It’s a simple story and not terribly original. My sweetheart married someone else while I was away.”

  Phil’s eyes flew open and she made an adorable expression with her mouth like she had just tasted a lemon. “She didn’t wait for you? Did she think you were dead?” She popped her hand over her mouth. “I’m sorry. How rude of me. It’s this cocktail.”

  He couldn’t help but smile at her distress. She was pretty when flustered. “Don’t be sorry. No, she didn’t think I was dead. Apparently, absence does not always make the heart grow fonder. She wrote to me that she’d met someone else. She’d moved to Los Angeles for work and met a sailor there. It was a three-day romance. They married before the day he shipped out.”

  “Did he make it home?”

  “Yes. Thankfully. They’re very happy, from what I hear. Her parents live here in town and stop into the shop from time to time to give me news of her.” He finished his drink and set it on the coffee table. “It’s all for the best. I changed a lot while overseas. Life no longer seemed simple. Things were no longer black and white, good or evil. There were all these areas in between where I saw men at their worst and at their best but mostly a mixture of both. She was a nice girl looking for a party.” He rose from the couch and fetched the pitcher from the bar. “More?”

  She shook her head. He poured another glass for himself before sitting. “That’s my sad story. Do you feel terrible for me?”

  “Yes, quite.” She smiled and glanced out the window. “I was raised in a strict Christian home and taught to believe every choice was black and white. Now I live in the gray and I realize what a lie they told me.” She spread her hands in the air. “Nothing they taught me is of any use. Not when it comes to the hard decisions, the ones that come down to survival. I no longer have the luxury of believing it’s as simple as good versus evil. Perhaps that comes with motherhood. There isn’t anything I wouldn’t do for Teddy. Evil be damned.” She set her half-empty drink on the coffee table. “Goodness, this drink’s gone to my head. I never talk this much.”

  “I bargained a few times with God when I was overseas, promising to be a better person if He’d get me home, or heal my mother, or let them find William. One time I even told Him to take me and send William back to Rose.” He rattled the ice in his glass. “What we’re prepared to do to save the people we love was proven over and over again with this war. We fought to ensure that those we left behind would be safe. But if war isn’t gray, I don’t know what is.”

  She had picked up her drink again and held the glass to her lips, looking at him with eyes like cups of coffee. “Do you think we’re forgiven for doing something bad if it’s for someone we love?”

  He hesitated. The way in which she gazed at him made him feel as if how he answered was vital, like the difference between life and death. “I believe so, yes.”

  “I am sorry about William and your mother. And to lose your parents within a couple years’ time must’ve been terribly hard.”

  Her eyes were glassy and so sympathetic it made a lump develop at the back of his throat. Terrified he might start to tear up, he took a quick sip of his drink. “They hated to be apart, so I suppose it was fate.” He set his drink next to hers on the coffee table. “Well, this is hardly dinner conversation. Shouldn’t we talk about my roses or the weather?”

  She giggled. “Yes, we must immediately.”

  “Would you care for some bread and cheese?”

  For some reason, they both found this enormously funny and burst into uncontrollable laughter. They might have laughed themselves silly if Teddy hadn’t appeared right at that moment.

  “Me hungee, Mama.”

  “He can’t say his r’s yet,” said Phil, whispering. “It’s going to break my heart when he learns.”

  Henry cocked his head to the right, observing Teddy, his heart full, grateful for the sunshine these beauties had brought into his house, if only for the moment. “That makes two of us.”

  **

  They dined on Mrs. Thomas’s delicious fried chicken and baby red potatoes, dug that evening and smothered in butter, and green beans Henry had brought from town. Teddy, perched atop a stack of books on one of the dining chairs, ate with gusto, devouring everything on his plate and washing it down with cold milk, developing a white mustache until his mother reminded him of the napkin in his lap. Henry opened a bottle of French Chablis from his father’s cellar and poured them both conservative portions. After the drinks before dinner, which he rarely had, it was necessary to keep his wits about him. They spoke of more casual subjects during dinner—books and the history of the community. Phil confessed to her love of film, mostly because she loved to see the costumes. “Can you imagine how wonderful it would be to work on a film, designing clothes for the actresses?” she asked.

  He put down his knife and fork and wiped his mouth before setting the napkin back in his lap. “I can’t imagine anything more daunting. I can barel
y dress myself, and I don’t mean because I have only one arm.”

  “Is it hard? Dressing, I mean?” She gazed at him with a complete lack of guile. He was surprised by the question. Most people didn’t ask about his arm.

  “I’ve developed certain techniques,” he said. “At first, everything was difficult. Things you take for granted that you never realize require two hands. But after a while I adjusted. Not much choice. My work is slower, obviously. I have a boy who comes in to help cut the wood and such if I need him. I have devices that hold the wood steady. It’s amazing how humans can adapt to their circumstance. We always find a way to keep going.”

  “Yes, we have a keen sense of survival.” A bitter expression crossed her face. It reminded him for a moment of Rose. That hard set of the mouth and glint of anger in her eyes. He didn’t like it. He must distract her from whatever it was she was feeling.

  “Did you design and sew your dress?” he asked. “It’s lovely.”

  She smiled, and the hardness evaporated. “Yes, thank you. I have a lot of designs. I study the fashion that comes out of New York and Paris. Milan even, now that the war’s over. I try to emulate the trends with my own ideas, using less expensive fabrics.” Stabbing a small piece of potato with her fork, she held it, suspended, between the plate and her mouth, obviously captivated by her subject. “My dream is to have my own dress shop.”

  Her own shop? “In San Francisco?”

  “I thought so, once, but since talking with Mrs. Thomas, I’ve been unable to let go of an idea of a shop right here in Stowaway.”

  “Bathing suits,” he said.

  “Pardon me?”

  “Surfboards and bathing suits. That’s what people here want. Both those visiting and those who live here. And dresses made for outdoor living. For warm environments.”

  She was staring at him now, still holding the fork with the unlucky potato hanging in limbo. “Bathing suits.” It was not a question. “Bathing suits. And beachwear.”

  “Yes, like for actresses starring in a film set at the beach,” he said. “Honestly, I think you’re on to something about the surfboards. I feel kind of dumb I didn’t think of it myself.”

  “I’m feeling something similar,” she said. “Town was swarming with people today.”

  “Yes, and they’re almost all from somewhere else, come to enjoy a day at the beach. Your shop could be one of their stops.” He smiled, imagining the storefront. “Window dressings of beach scenes. I could do them for you. I’m quite good at that kind of thing.”

  “You are?”

  “Yes, I’m artistic that way.”

  She set her fork down on her plate. “You’re making me imagine it.”

  “I can see it quite perfectly in my mind. An attractive shop, run by the prettiest woman in California.”

  “You’re very kind.” But she’d changed. Her face had become impassive, closed, like a blind abruptly closed on a sunny day. She gestured toward Teddy. “It’s getting late. We should probably be going home now. Teddy’s up way past his bedtime.”

  Teddy started to shake his head, no. “Stay at Henry’s.”

  “No, little man, listen to your mother. You can come back any time and play with the trucks,” said Henry.

  Teddy’s eyes filled with tears. “Play now.”

  Henry stood and offered Teddy his hand. “How about this? You go on home without making a fuss and I’ll let you pick out one truck to take with you.”

  Teddy’s face, although still sad, went slack in agreement. “All ’ight.” He slipped his small, pudgy hand into Henry’s. “Will you be my friend, Henry?”

  “I already am, pal. Now come along.”

  **

  Later, he sat in his living room, an open book on his lap and the radio playing a Mozart piano concerto. He wasn’t sure which one. His mother knew them all, but he found listening without knowing was as pleasurable. Next to his reading chair, a lamp shed soft light, but the rest of the room was in darkness. He’d poured another glass of wine instead of making coffee or having a whiskey, the condensation from the glass soaking into a napkin. It didn’t taste nearly as good without Phil to share it with. Since her polite but distant departure, he’d been silently chastising himself. Why had he said what he said? They’d been having fun, developing a friendship, which is all she wanted, if her reaction was any indication. He’d been comfortable with her, like his old flirtatious, confident self. Back in the day, there was no woman he couldn’t charm, and, if he were honest, he’d been a bit unscrupulous with his flirtations and certainly not discreet. Any of the girls from the old high school crowd would have described him as a shameless flirt without any regard to the way his lack of seriousness broke more than one heart. Until Sheila, he’d never had a serious girlfriend.

  His wine glass was empty. He entertained the idea of another. Good grief, he should get control of himself. No one liked a melancholy man feeling sorry for himself. Another glass of wine wouldn’t help. It was better that Phil had made her feelings known to him. Less likely to make a fool of himself this way. It would do neither of them any good if he was the inappropriate landlord, making her feel uncomfortable. He would apologize in the morning, reassure her that he was there for her like a brother would be.

  At the hum of a motor car coming up the driveway, he crossed the room to look out the front window. Two headlights bounced, headed toward the cottages. Who could it be? No one ever came to visit this late at night. He glanced at the clock on the mantel. Almost ten. The car was at the end of the driveway, but instead of turning right, it turned left, parking in front of Phil’s cottage. She had a visitor? At this time of night?

  Before the lights went out, Henry caught a glimpse of the car—a Jaguar MK V. A man dressed in a dark suit and hat got out of the car and stretched his arms over his head, like one does after a long drive. In the dim light from the porch light of Phil’s cottage, Henry could not see the man’s face, only that he was tall and slender. Henry, feeling both jealousy and protectiveness, was out his front door and trudging toward the man before he could think twice and talk himself out of it. “May I help you?”

  The man turned at the foot of the steps. “Hello there. You must be Henry Sayer.”

  His voice, on the deep side, possessed perfect diction. He thrust out his hand. “Miller Dreeser. Phil’s uncle.”

  Henry, taken aback by the man’s friendly manner, held out his own hand. They shook. Firm handshake but soft hands. A man who worked indoors. “Nice to meet you. Phil told me of your generosity earlier. I hadn’t realized it was her uncle who made the arrangements.”

  “Oh, yes, how impolite of me. My attorney deals with such matters. Perhaps he didn’t mention it was her uncle providing for her?”

  “No, I didn’t ask, actually.” He smiled. “None of my business, I suppose. Anyway, they’re settling in nicely. Rest assured I’m here if she needs anything.”

  Miller shoved his hands into his pants’ pockets. “That’s good to hear. A woman on her own can’t have enough help. I appreciate it.” In the light from the porch it was difficult to see his face exactly, but from what he gathered, Miller was a handsome man, with a full mouth, deep-set eyes, high cheekbones, and a full set of white teeth. There was an aura of authority about him. This was a man used to running things with people at his immediate disposal in which to do his bidding.

  “Well, excuse my interruption,” said Henry. “I don’t have many visitors this time of night. Wanted to make sure it wasn’t trouble arriving.”

  “Landlord and watchdog. What could be better for my Phil? I feel quite assured of her safety.” There was a glint in his eyes, hinting at cruelty under his handsome exterior. Or was it a threat? No, it couldn’t be. This was a kind man taking care of his niece. You’re letting your imagination go wild. Jealous because of your ridiculous crush on Phil.

  “Good night,” said Henry.

  “Good night.”

  A cloud cover had rolled in after dusk, and now the night w
as starless with a muddy darkness. He could not see his feet as he crossed the yard. His steps in the gravel driveway made crunching sounds too loud for the black night, like he was a thief attempting a quiet advance into his own yard, with the possibility of capture at any moment. He quickened his pace, his stomach muscles clenched. As he neared his house, Miller’s gaze bored into his back. He stopped at the bottom of his front porch steps to turn and look up to the sky. See that, Dreeser. I have not a care in the world. Just a man looking up at the sky, unworried.

  Once inside his cottage, he shut the front door and locked it, something he rarely did. Ridiculous, it’s Phil’s uncle. Obviously, he’s not a threat. Yet, his hand hovered over the knob, the hairs on his arms standing upright, like they did when he was frightened. He checked the lock from the inside, and finding it secure, went back to the living room, sitting in his armchair once more, looking out the window toward Phil’s house. The light in her living room came on, yellow behind the thin curtains. Then, like the window was a movie screen, two shadows appeared. Phil and Miller, standing close, facing one another. He leaned over her. Their face merged into one shape.

  A long, lingering kiss. The show was for him.

  Miller Dreeser was not Phil’s uncle. His instincts had been correct. He had the sudden urge to throw something as the truth of Phil’s situation fell into place.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Phil

  PHIL WAS IN BED, wide awake. Above the bed, a crack in the ceiling zigzagged from one side of the room to the other. In the morning light she’d spotted it, but now in the darkness it was no longer evident. Regardless, she knew it existed, caused by the natural settling of a house over time, and it bothered her, made her worried with an irrational fear that the entire house might come down while she and Teddy slept. This was ridiculous, she knew. Houses did not fall from one crack. She rolled to her side, carefully as her hair was set in rags, pulled the cool sheet up to her neck, and closed her eyes. A vision of Henry appeared, his cheeks flushed after the cocktail. His curls had unfurled from the neat way he combed them, falling over his forehead. She wanted to brush them away with her fingertips. Throughout the evening, she’d smelled his aftershave, and now she wished it had followed her home. What would it feel like to put her lips in the spot between his chin and neck and breathe him in for as long as she liked?