A Distant Melody (43 page)
Why hadn’t she said anything in February? That didn’t make sense. What about the invitation sent in June? Why would they send invitations to a cancelled wedding? That made absolutely no sense.
He had to find out. Walt stood, tightened the belt on his bathrobe, and jammed his feet into his slippers. He had to find Dr. Sutherland and get out of this place—now.
Allie was staying in Antioch for a week. The doc would give him a few days to go home, but he wouldn’t let him take a longer trip to Riverside.
Walt caught a whiff of chipped beef on toast and looked down to the tray on his bedside table. When had that been delivered? He touched the plate and checked his watch. Six o’clock.
His heart went as cold as his dinner. Dr. Sutherland went home at five. He’d be gone for the weekend, leaving only interns who couldn’t discharge him. The doc wouldn’t let him go home during the week when therapy took place.
Walt stormed down the ward and kicked the trash can. “No! I’ve gotta get out of here.”
Antioch
“Tomorrow!” Betty clamped a hand over her mouth when the baby squirmed under her chin. “Tomorrow?” she whispered. “You’ll stay longer, won’t you?”
Allie sent an apologetic smile to Betty over in the rocking chair. “I’m sorry. Tomorrow is best.”
Betty’s lip pushed out in a pout. “I want you to stay longer, but I suppose it’s hard for you to be here.”
“I want a new start.”
“I don’t blame you. I can’t believe Walt acted like such a louse. I have a good mind never to speak to him again.”
“Please don’t say that. He needs his friends now more than ever.”
Betty tapped her fingers on little Judith’s rump. “You’re too good for him.”
Sadness plunged fresh into Allie’s soul. “You have that backward.”
“Ooh, you are in love.”
“Not for long.” Allie headed down the hallway to the nursery. Since the baby still slept in a cradle in her parents’ room, Allie had been sleeping on a cot in the nursery. “Where’s George?”
“Over at Helen’s. Leaky faucet.” Betty turned into her room and laid the baby in her cradle.
Allie opened the trunk and pulled her bridesmaid’s dress out of the closet, a silly, sentimental item to bring. Betty joined her, folded another dress, and set it in the trunk.
“What’s this?” Betty lifted the B-17 model from the trunk. “Oh my goodness. Did Walt make this?”
“Yes. Please don’t tell him. It’s humiliating enough that he’s read my letter and knows I love him. I’d rather he didn’t know I kept every letter, every gift.”
“Don’t worry, darling, I won’t say a thing.” Betty spun a tiny propeller. “Isn’t this something?”
“He does beautiful work, doesn’t he? He made models for all his family and . . .” She stopped with her hand on the next hanger, and turned back.
Betty raised an eyebrow. “Friends? I don’t think so. Not George, not Art. I haven’t seen one at his parents’ either.”
Allie’s hand shook as she slipped the lily dress off the hanger. He must have been too busy to make more, but why would she have been first?
“What else did he give you?” Betty peered into the trunk.
“Well, this necklace.” She fingered the cross around her neck. Regardless of how Walt felt, the cross was a sign of her faith, and she refused to hide it in a drawer. “He also made this music box.” She laid the dress in the trunk and pulled the piano from the sweater in which it was wrapped.
Betty gasped. “It’s beautiful.” She turned it over, read the inscription, and looked at Allie with wide blue eyes. “No wonder you fell in love. This is—I can’t believe I’m saying this about Walt—this is romantic.”
“No, it’s not.” Allie gave her a firm look, took back the gifts, and stashed them in the trunk. “Friendly, not romantic.”
Betty flourished two tall stacks of envelopes tied with ribbons. “This is some friendship.”
“Was.” Allie sighed and took back the letters. “Yes, it was a wonderful friendship. Now would you stop undoing my packing?”
The front door banged open, and laughing voices entered the house.
Betty poked her head into the hallway. “George Anello, you’ll wake the baby.”
“Sorry.” George trotted down the hall, shut the bedroom door, and stepped into the nursery. “Hi, darling. Hi, Allie. You’ve got to hear the news.”
Allie didn’t feel like a social gathering, but George grabbed her hand and Betty’s and dragged them to the little living room. Art Wayne and Dorothy Carlisle stood by the fireplace.
Helen Carlisle rummaged in the desk in the corner, while Jay-Jay, her one-year-old son, clung to her leg. “Betty, you are the most disorganized person. Where is your paper?”
Dorothy waved a hand at her sister-in-law. “Not yet. Let me tell the news.”
“If I let you start, I’ll never get a word in.” Art looked down at Dorothy with all the usual adoration but none of the usual fear.
Then Allie noticed Art and Dorothy held hands.
“Oh my goodness.” Betty lowered her plump form into a wingback chair. “Don’t tell me—”
Art grinned. “I got my draft notice this morning.”
“Oh no,” Betty gasped.
“No, I want to go. You know I do. Especially after what happened to Jim and now Walt.”
Allie’s gaze flew to Helen, who intensified her search of the desk. Poor thing. Jim had only been gone eight months or so.
“Besides, it spurred me to action.” Art’s smile lifted his brown mustache even higher. “Went into Della’s Dress Shop today at lunch.”
“Not even a hello, mind you,” Dorothy said. “Just immediately—”
“Hush. My story.” Art pressed a finger to her lips. “I said what I should have said years ago: ‘Dorothy, I love you, I’ve always loved you, and I’ll never love anyone but you. I can’t go to war without knowing whether you love me too.’”
“Arthur Wayne!” Betty said. “All these years—”
Dorothy set her free hand on her hip. “Don’t you want to hear what I said?”
Betty laughed. “We already know.”
Allie nodded, her eyes damp from the sweet knowledge that their story had a happy ending, and the bitterness that hers didn’t.
“You don’t know,” Dorothy said. “Sure, he pulled the rug from under me, but I recovered. I said, ‘You’ve never given me any reason to love you whatsoever.’ So he . . .” Her cheeks flushed in pretty contrast with her dark hair.
Art slipped his arm around her waist and pulled her close to his side. “I grabbed her and kissed her and gave her a reason to love me.”
Dorothy’s face glowed scarlet. “Yes. Yes, he did.”
“Arthur Wayne!” Betty said. “You’re actually a romantic. I can’t believe it. You and—” She shot an alarmed look at Allie. “Well, I can’t believe it.”
Allie gripped the pole of a brass lamp. Betty had almost said, “You and Walt.”
“Wait till you hear this.” George sat on the arm of Betty’s chair until she swatted his backside.
“We’re getting married,” Art said. “Tomorrow.”
Betty squealed and ran over to hug Dorothy, then Art. “But how? It takes time.”
“Helps to know people.” Art pried himself from Betty’s embrace. “Your dad did the blood tests, Judge Llewellyn pulled strings at City Hall, and Pastor Novak said he’d do the ceremony. I have two weeks before I’m inducted, and I want to spend them as a married man.”
“We have work to do.” Helen concentrated on the paper before her on the desk. “Mom will do the cake. I loaned Dorothy my—my dress.”
The waver in her voice shook Allie to the core. Allie understood a fraction of Helen’s pain from her own broken heart and the loss of her family and security. And Allie’s flight to San Francisco promised similar comfort as Helen’s frenzied activity.
“George is best man. Ray Novak said he’d fill in. Art’s cousin too.” Helen wrote at a fast clip. “I have my dress from Betty’s wedding. Betty, Mrs. Carlisle will loan you a dress in the shop that’ll fit. Allie, do you have something to wear?”
“Me?” She stared at the back of Helen’s blonde head.
“Oh, please,” Dorothy said. “The timing of your visit is perfect.”
“You have your dress from my wedding,” Betty said.
An image of the wedding portrait flashed through Allie’s mind—a portrait Walt would see. Would he see her pining over him, trying to insert herself into his group? She managed a smile. “I’m sorry, but I told Louise I’d move in tomorrow.” She immediately saw the hole in her excuse.
“You have to stay anyway to attend the wedding,” Dorothy said.
Betty beckoned, and Allie stooped so Betty could whisper in her ear. “He refuses to leave the hospital. You’re safe.”
Allie smiled at her friend, grateful for her discretion. She went to Dorothy and gave her a hug. “How could I turn down such an honor?”
Antioch
Saturday, July 3, 1943
Not exactly the homecoming Walt dreamed about.
Dr. Sutherland had been delayed by an emergency surgery the night before, but by the time Walt tracked him down, convinced him he wasn’t crazy, and persuaded him to write the order, it was too late to call his parents. When he called that morning, no one answered, and now the house was deserted.
Walt dropped his duffel on his bed and glanced around the room he hadn’t seen in a year. Model planes dangled from the ceiling, including a Sopwith Camel and a Fokker Triplane. How often had he imagined their glamorous duel? Now he’d been in real air battles. Nothing glamorous about terror and death.
Silence hummed in his ears. Just as well. He needed to find Allie, and his family would slow him down.
He headed downstairs and straightened his service cap. Full dress uniform felt strange after two and a half months in pajamas. Felt heavier too, with the rows of ribbons on his chest—the European Theater ribbon, the air medal with three oak leaf clusters for more than twenty missions, and the Distinguished Flying Cross he received after Romilly. After Bremen he added the Purple Heart and the most prestigious, the Silver Star.
What good would medals do when Allie heard what he’d done? He swung open the front door and crossed the street toward George and Betty’s house in the next block. No matter what, he had to put that last lie behind him forever.
And what was her story? All he knew was something had happened with Baxter, and Allie cared enough for Walt to visit him in the hospital. Beyond that, the possibilities were endless.
What if she was available? What if she could forgive him? What if she could fall in love with him? Walt grumbled and rang George’s doorbell. What if he
was
flak-happy?
He waited. His blood pulsed in his neck. No answer. Where on earth was Allie?
Walt scanned the houses behind giant sycamores and oaks and maples, a familiar scene, yet details popped out at him—a bird twittering in the plum tree, the Anellos’ red mailbox by the curb, the new roof on the Jamisons’ house.
Where would George and Betty go on a Saturday afternoon? He jogged across the street, but the Jamisons weren’t home. Across the street, no Carlisles. Down a few houses—no sign of George’s parents. Kitty-corner and no Waynes.
“Where is everybody?” Walt clenched his fist. “Okay, Lord, how can I talk to Allie if I can’t find her?”
When Allie met Ray Novak the night before, she wouldn’t have known he was Walt’s brother except for the gentleness of his smile, but now as she stood at the front of the church and observed him from the corner of her eye, she saw a resemblance in Ray’s solid build in the Army Air Force uniform and the way he stood and moved, and a longing like homesickness swirled in her heart. It was best if she never saw Walt again, yet she yearned for his smile and laugh. At the hospital, he did neither.
Allie sighed and turned her attention to Walt’s father, who had the same curly black hair, although less of it and peppered with gray, the same unusual nose, and the same vocal tones. Monday—on Monday she could get away from Antioch and the Novaks.
A year ago she’d stood in a wedding in the same building in the same dress. That time Walt couldn’t take his eyes off her, but now he couldn’t even be polite.
Next to her, Betty turned toward a creak in the back of the sanctuary. “Allie . . .”
She lifted a finger to her lips. Betty couldn’t ever be silent, in class, during Sunday services, even during the wedding of two dear friends.
Betty faced front. “Allie,” she hissed. “Slowly, very slowly, look toward the door. Oh no.”
Dread flowed cold in Allie’s veins. No. He was in the hospital.
In the light of the open church doors, a man stood silhouetted, a man with one hand. The light flashed to a slit and vanished. Walt stood, mouth agape, eyes on Allie.
“Oh no.” She whipped her head forward and hoped her hair concealed her face. “What’s he doing here?” she whispered.
“The wedding. Oh my goodness. His parents—his parents must have called him. Oh, Allie, I’m so sorry. If I’d known—”
“Betty, the letter. He read my letter.” Her stomach coiled in dismay. “He knows.”
“Oh no.” She didn’t turn, but Allie read the concern in the set of her cheeks. “All right, darling, I’ll see you through.”