A Distant Melody (38 page)

“I’m sorry. I truly am. But—well, I’m here today.”

“Yes, I see.” Miss Montclair’s gaze grew steelier with each step. “Your mother will be quite pleased.”

“No.” She tried not to make an unladylike face. “She’ll be most displeased.”

“Is that right?” A smile cut a rocky canyon in Miss Montclair’s face. “Come along. Let me show you what I’ve done.”

Oh no. Mother’s wedding gown.

Miss Montclair disappeared in a black and white blur behind a maroon curtain. She returned with a garment bag, which she hooked over a dressing room door. She glanced at Allie and chuckled. “Oh, if you could see your face.”

Allie set down her pocketbook and joined Miss Montclair, who lifted the bag and removed a white gown with a deep, pointed lace collar, a blousy bodice, and narrow, elbow-length sleeves.

“Mother’s gown! You put it back together.”

“I thought you’d like that.”

“I love it. You have no idea how thrilled I am.” Allie fingered the delicate fabric, searched for signs of damage, and found none. “You did a beautiful job. Oh, I’m so pleased. The thought of Mother’s dress ruined for—” She looked up to Miss Montclair’s satisfied face. “How did you know I broke my engagement?”

“I had my suspicions. After our last conversation, I halted work. Then you stopped coming to your appointments, and Mary started avoiding me at church. She’s rather upset, isn’t she?”

Allie lifted the lacy sleeve and sighed. “Upset? To be upset would mean some degree of acceptance. No, she keeps making wedding plans, convinced I have cold feet. But today I cancelled all the arrangements. Now she’ll have to accept it.”

“Good for you.” Miss Montclair scrutinized Allie’s face. “Are you happy, dear?”

Her smile rose from a peaceful place in her heart, untouched by the chaos at home. “I am. I’ll be much happier when my parents take me seriously, but I made the right decision. I can’t describe how wonderful it feels.”

“You’ve forgotten, dear. I already know.” She returned the gown to the bag. “Is there another man waiting in the wings?”

Wings—what an unfortunate choice of words. Allie managed to smile. “No. This is between Baxter and the Lord and me.”

On the bus ride home, her feelings for Walt disrupted her peace—unremitting love, loneliness for his friendship, and nagging worry about his fate.

Her dreams had stopped. Had God released her from her responsibility? Had
Flossie
been damaged? Did Walt have a break from missions? Had he been transferred to a ground position? Or had something horrible happened to him? Betty hadn’t mentioned him in her letters, but then she never did.

Allie could still see the headline: “Forts flatten Nazi factory.” Then the subhead: “Sixteen B-17s lost.”

Sixteen! She’d never read of losses so high. Why, Walt’s chances . . .

No, she wouldn’t allow herself to worry. Besides, many of the men survived as prisoners of war. Some even managed to avoid capture and work their way to England via the underground. If anyone could make it back, Walt could.

However, the thought of Walt in a prison camp or hiding from Nazi soldiers in a French cellar made her shudder.

Allie stepped off the bus and walked up the long driveway under rustling citrus leaves. “Oh Lord, wherever he is, whatever has happened to him, please keep him safe. Please comfort him and strengthen him.”

Over dinner, Allie steered conversation away from wedding plans and toward the resolution of the coal strike that had infuriated Father.

After a peaceful meal, Mother brought in fresh strawberries from the Victory Garden for dessert. “So, Allie, you had several appointments today. Did you keep them?” Her voice was stiffened by too many broken appointments.

Allie nodded, her mouth full of a strawberry she should have sliced.

Mother’s smile electrified. “See, Baxter, I told you she’d come around.”

Oh dear. She misunderstood. Allie chewed vigorously to clear her mouth.

“I told you she’d come to her senses, didn’t I?” Father said with a smile Allie had missed the last few months. “I didn’t have to change the will after all. Baxter, you still have that ring?”

“Of course.”

Allie swallowed too large a bite, and the acid ate into her throat. “The will?”

Mother poured cream over her berries. “You didn’t leave us much of a choice, dear. We were going to tell you next week when it’s finalized, to give you an incentive to do what’s proper.”

“What—what did you do?”

Mother’s smile fluttered. “Well, Baxter is now the sole heir of our estate. You told your father it was only right. But it’s nothing to worry about anymore.”

“The—the estate?” Her voice strangled in her throat. “You mean the company—just the company.”

“The whole estate.” Father lowered his spoon and the corners of his mouth.

It couldn’t be. He didn’t want to leave his company to another man, even though there was no other man. But the whole estate? It couldn’t be. “You disinherited me?”

“No, no, no,” Mother said. “When you marry Baxter, you’ll inherit as before.”

Allie’s breath bounced off the top of her lungs as on a too firm mattress. “You chose Baxter over your only daughter? You—you disinherited me?”

Father’s gaze hardened. “Not if you marry Baxter as you promised.”

Baxter twirled his spoon in his bowl. “I thought you’d come to your senses.”

“No. I mean, yes. Yes, I did—back in February. I won’t marry you and I won’t change my mind.”

“Why not? You changed it once before.”

“I won’t—I won’t marry you.” How could they? How could they do this to her?

“But, Allie.” Mother gripped her bowl in both hands, her eyes enormous. “You said you kept your appointments.”

“I did, but not as you think. I cancelled everything—the flowers, the invitations, the reservations—everything.”

“No! How could you?” Mother’s voice shook.

“I had to.” Allie’s voice echoed her mother’s. “You wouldn’t take me seriously. You need to accept this.”

“No, you need to accept
this
.” Father stood and planted his palms on the table. “Baxter is my sole heir. If you don’t marry him, you’ll receive nothing. I trust you’ll make the right choice.”

Her jaw set as firmly as her mind. “I already have.” She dashed from the dining room past the elegant furniture of the home she’d never inherit.

“Allie! Allie, wait.” Baxter’s voice and footsteps followed her.

“What?” She whirled around under the crystal chandelier in the entry. “What more could you possibly want?”

He thumped to a stop and smoothed back an errant strand of hair. “I want you to know I’m willing to give you a second chance. Over the past three months you’ve embarrassed me in front of your parents, and now in front of half of Riverside. Nevertheless, I’m willing to forgive you and take you back.”

“Why?” She flung out her hands. “Why on earth would you want to marry me? J. Baxter Hicks has already accomplished his goals. J. Baxter Hicks has taken everything he wanted from the boss’s daughter. You took the company, my inheritance, my home—why, you even took my parents’ love and approval. You’re done. What more could you want from me?”

His face softened, and he reached for her hand. “I want you for my wife. I want to raise a family with you.”

Allie stepped back, away. “No. Don’t you understand? You’ve taken it all, but I won’t, I won’t let you take my soul.” She turned, and her feet pounded up the stairs.

“They’re right to disinherit you,” he yelled after her. “You fickle, ungrateful, disobedient—”

“Disobedient?” She spun around at the top of the stairs. “You can call me anything you want but disobedient. My obedience got me into this mess.” She ran down the hall, fumbled with her doorknob, and entered her bedroom, bathed golden in the sunset.

She walked in circles past her bed, her bureau, the window, her desk, her armoire, the door, around and around, aching in her loss and her parents’ betrayal. The light turned to orange, to red, to purple gray.

“What now, Lord? What can I do?”

Allie paused in front of her desk, in front of Walt’s portrait. She longed for his insight, his humor, his comfort, his advice. Her face puckered up.

“Oh, Walt,” she whispered. “You may not need my friendship, but I certainly need yours.”

42

2nd General Hospital, Oxford
May 9, 1943

Walt labored over each stroke of his pen. Sloppy. A six-year-old could do better.

He crumpled the paper, which wasn’t easy with his left hand, and lobbed it at the trash can. Missed. He huffed and raked the curl off his forehead. Even that took two tries.

More to add to his list of things he couldn’t do well—eat with a fork, brush his teeth, dress himself. Buttons and buckles and socks made him want to break something.

Never mind the list of things he’d never do again—fly a plane, play the piano, carve wood, drive a car, tie his shoes, cut meat.

Sure, the therapists said be patient, keep trying, chin up, smile, and everything would come together in time. Easy for them to say. They didn’t have to live with one lousy, stinking, useless left hand.

Over Bremen he’d prayed to stay alive. He might have reworded his prayer if he’d spent some time in this hospital beforehand. Maybe Frank didn’t have it so bad.

Walt groaned at his line of thought. Frank wouldn’t agree. Eileen and the kids would rather have Frank alive in any condition, and so would he.

Walt sighed. The letter would have to wait until Jack came today after church. He could transcribe.

No, Walt needed to try. He had one lousy, stinking, useless left hand, and he had to learn to live with it. Dad and Mom would worry less if they read something cheerful in Walt’s own handwriting—if they could read it. Too bad he couldn’t write Allie and tell her his frustrations without having to sound cheerful. He pulled out a new sheet of paper.

Dear Dad and Mom,

I’m getting better, and I’m not in pain
anymore. They let me walk the halls every day
now. Everything’s hard, but I’ll learn. I should
be going to a stateside hospital by the end of the
month. They’ll put me as close to Antioch as—

“Hiya, Wally. Brought a letter from your girlfriend.”

Walt groaned at his brother’s teasing. “Don’t call me Wally, and she’s not my—J.P.! What are you doing here?” He hadn’t seen J.P. since Bremen.

Jack sat on the edge of the bed. “It’s a long train ride. I wanted company, ordered him to join me. One of the advantages of being an officer, which J.P. can experience firsthand now.”

For the first time, Walt noticed J.P. wore the darker olive drab trousers of an officer and gold second lieutenant’s bars on his flight jacket. “It went through?”

J.P. settled into the chair beside the bed. “You’re talking to Thurleigh’s newest gunnery officer. You should warn a man when you recommend him for a commission.”

“How could he?” Jack said. “You weren’t speaking to him.”

J.P. made a face. “Listen, Novak, I’m sorry—”

“Don’t. It’s all right.”

“No, it’s not. I—well, you earned my respect back over Bremen, and then some. Now I find out you recommended my commission while I was giving you the cold shoulder.”

Walt shrugged. “You deserve the commission, and I deserved the cold shoulder.”

“Still can’t believe you told that load of baloney. Liar, liar, pants on fire.” Jack reached over and ruffled Walt’s hair.

“Yeah, you taught me how to lie so
you
wouldn’t get in trouble.” He laughed and batted away Jack’s hand. Nope, wrong arm again.

Jack’s smile flickered, and he lowered his hand. He motioned to the bedside table. “Say, who sent candy?”

Walt glanced at J.P., who was trying not to stare at his empty pajama sleeve. His stomach twisted up. Every day for the rest of his life, people would try not to stare, and then when they thought he wasn’t looking, they would stare. Even the prostheses the doctors showed him wouldn’t help. If anything they were worse—shiny, pinching metal hooks with cables and buckles and straps. As an engineer, he admired the machinery, but he didn’t want it on his body.

“Who’s the candy from?” Jack repeated.

“Emily. Want some? I don’t like it.” As sickly sweet as Emily’s tearful visit. Good thing she only came once. He didn’t want to know how much of her family’s sugar ration she wasted on him.

“Brought a letter from her and the rest of your mail.” Jack popped a red hard candy in his mouth and pulled envelopes from his jacket.

“Thanks.” Walt set the pile in his lap and flipped through. Emily, George Anello, Grandpa Novak—Allie. Hadn’t she received that letter yet?

“What’d she say?” Jack asked, the candy jutting his cheek out. “Haven’t seen her.”

How could he see Allie? Oh—Emily. “Um, I don’t know.” He opened her letter.

Dear Wally,

I hear you’ll be going home soon. I do so
wish I could follow you, but my father says I
mustn’t be daft. I’ve had a simply smashing
time with you, and I’ll miss you dreadfully.
Perhaps later you can send for me. California
sounds like a smashing place. I’d love to meet
some movie stars.

Walt ran his hand down over his face. “Wow, that girl scares me.”

“Why? What’d she say?”

“She thinks I’m her ticket to Hollywood.”

Jack laughed. “Antioch’s a good four hundred miles from Hollywood.”

“I doubt she can count that high.”