Beguiling Bridget (17 page)

The realization cut through him, and he squeezed his eyes shut to fight against the tears threatening to spill over his cheeks. It was selfish. Selfish of God to take Emily from him and Blaine. What did God want with her? He didn’t
need
her.
They
needed her.

Even as the thought churned in his mind, he knew it was wrong – knew it wasn’t for him to question God – but the anger burned in him nonetheless. God had allowed her to get sick, just as He had allowed her to suffer so long with the debilitating illness. Then He took her, trying to make it seem like He was doing
them
a favor.

Life wasn’t hard enough living through these tough times, but God had to take away love as well. That’s not the kind of God David wanted to follow. The preacher said God was all-powerful; so what was He trying to prove now?

A lump of fury rose in his throat. Why was the preacher taking so long to finish his prayer? A prayer to a God who toyed with the lives and hearts of good men – who took away the mothers of young innocent boys! The anger surged, and that final
amen
couldn’t come soon enough.

David stole another glance at his son. Eyes glistened with sorrow – his frame so frail against the dismal gray. Blaine clenched his small hands into tight fists, and his lips moved almost imperceptibly. David concentrated on them, straining to read what lay there. What would a boy say at his mother’s grave? What could he say to bring himself comfort? David desperately wanted to know. He longed to say those magic words himself. To chant something that would bring her back to them. But nothing could fix it – not a chant, not a song, and not a prayer.

The boy would realize that soon enough.

He looked abruptly away as the preacher drew his futile prayer to a close. The casket rested on the bottom of the grave now. David took his shovelful of dirt and tossed it onto the white pine box. Blaine followed suit, his jaw firm, set in the same stubborn way as Emily would have done if she had made up her mind to do something she hated. He could almost hear her voice:
Sometimes you have to do things you just don’t want to do.

The dirt landed with a spatter, emphasizing the close of this chapter of their lives. She was gone now. Nothing could change that.

David couldn’t change it, but he wished he could dull the pain… somehow.

The procession of mourners offering their condolences to the two of them seemed to drag on eternally. If he heard one more
God bless you both,
he was certain he would lose his temper. If this was God’s blessing, David wanted no part in it.

He quelled the urge to lash out with venom as the preacher shook his hand and offered his encouragement. He smiled and nodded and said, “Thank you, Reverend. It was a beautiful service.” All perfunctory words, because in the deepest part of his soul, David wanted to scream. He wanted to rip a hole in the cloudless sky with his voice and accuse God.
It’s not right! It’s not fair! What happened to your justice? Where is your love?

But he said none of those things. Instead, he swallowed them, turned to Blaine and mumbled coldly, “Let’s go home.” And without looking back he started down the gravel path to where his Model A pickup waited.

He climbed into the cab and rested his head on the steering wheel. Exhaling slowly, he lifted his head and glanced out the passenger window.

Blaine hadn’t followed him. Instead, the boy had gravitated back to his mother’s grave and stood watching the old grave digger as he refilled the six-foot hole with rich dark earth. His small frame dropped to its knees, and even from where David sat he could see his son’s shoulders shuddering with forceful sobs; sobs caused by the same heart-shattering grief threatening to suffocate him now.

David wanted to go to him. He wanted to wrap Blaine up in his arms and hold him like he used to when he was a little boy, when things were simple. Before Emily got sick. Hold him and soothe away his tears. But he couldn’t. No matter how much he wanted to, his own pain paralyzed him. He slumped back against the glass and closed his eyes.

Waiting for Blaine felt like an eternity. David wanted to get home, out of the mocking cheerful weather, and lock himself in his dark room, away from the rest of the world, so he could grieve properly and maybe sleep off his indignation, if it were possible. Somehow he knew it wouldn’t be. Already he could feel the anger making itself at home in his heart, filling the gap left by the loss of his wife.

Out of desperation, David fired up the pickup and laid his fist on the horn. The familiar
uh-ooga
pierced through the quiet and brought Blaine back to his feet as if the weight of his grief was fighting his every effort to rise. David watched him turn and shuffle blindly toward the truck. Despair was evident in the boy’s sagging shoulders, and his head hung low. Again, David’s heart went out to his son, but he said nothing as the boy pulled the heavy door open and crawled into the cab beside him. The words weren’t there, and silence seemed the only respectful choice.

The truck jolted forward as he shifted it into gear and rumbled down the road toward home, unutterable anguish hanging in the stifling hot air between them.

The long drive home in silence left time for the memories to stream through David’s mind. He remembered the first day he drove home in the brand new Model A. He had used the inheritance from his grandfather to purchase the pickup, a gift for their fourteenth anniversary. He had sounded the horn as he pulled up in front of their little house, bringing Emily running out to find him waving at her from the shiny green cab. She had laughed and clapped her hands with joy at his suggestion to go for a ride.

The sparkle in her green eyes and her wavy golden hair was as bright and true as the day they’d met. He had known even in that first moment that she was meant for him. Her crystal laugh and carefree love for life had drawn him immediately in and his bachelor’s resolve evaporated into thin air.

David had proposed to her on a warm fall day under a tall maple whose leaves had only begun to change. Emily had cried tears of happiness and had thrown her arms around his neck. The following spring they were married in the small country church Emily’s father had pastored her entire life. She carried a bouquet of her favorite spring lilies and her green eyes danced with the bliss they shared. He could still hear her whispering
I love you
into his ear as he lifted her into the rented carriage for their wedding trip.

He could still feel her warm tears on his neck when they lost their first child – a baby girl, little Naomi Grace; she had lived only two days.

He could still see her worried gaze when he brought her his conscription notice in trembling hands. “I’ll wait for you, Davey,” she had whispered at the train station and had stood waving on the platform until she was a tiny dot to him as the train rattled down the tracks toward New York and the ships that would take him to the war across the Atlantic. Those cursed Europeans and their irreconcilable conflicts had stolen two years with his beloved Emily.

He could still hear her laughter as she played with newborn Blaine. After five years of trying, he had come along to fill their hearts with joy unspeakable. How Emily had loved him.

Now here he was slumped against the door, the light gone. God, you’ve let us down, David thought, and the fury tightened in his chest again, taking a deep root there.

The truck squealed unhappily as it turned down the street toward the little house. David brought it grumbling to a stop in front of the fenced yard and killed the engine. He released a heavy sigh and looked at the forlorn house. Not a home anymore.

“Come on then,” he muttered. David stepped out of the truck and slammed the heavy door. Then he strode to the passenger side and opened the door for his son. Blaine didn’t move right away. He seemed so small and frail there all alone in the truck. Instinctively, David reached in and lifted him into his arms then carried the boy to the house, up the narrow stairwell and into his dark room.

He laid his son on the bed and sat beside him for a moment, stroking his golden hair. Something needed to be said. Some words to comfort him, to let him know his father understood his pain, but none came to mind. When David opened his mouth to speak, the words caught dry in his throat, choking him. He coughed and stood to leave.

As he walked to the door, the one thing he could manage to say was, “Get a good rest, son. School tomorrow.” Then he turned and stalked back down the stairs cursing himself.

David couldn’t even convince himself they were going to be okay. How was he going to convince his eleven-year-old son?

****

Detroit, June 1940

“Blaine!” David pounded on the door. “Come on, Blaine! You’ll be late for school!”

There was silence on the other side of the door. A frigid silence, like the kind that haunted David at night when he was alone. A sudden fear shot through him, and he grasped the knob and forced the door open. “Blaine?” he pleaded with his heart in his throat. The lump under the quilt shifted slightly. David exhaled in relief at first, but his confrontation with the fear catapulted him into a rage.

“Boy! If your dogs don’t hit the kitchen floor in one minute, I’m going to take the belt to you!”

A groan floated out in answer. David grabbed all the bedding and his son together in one fell swoop and delivered him blankets and all to the cold wood floor.

“Dad! Come on! I’m joed. Let a fella sleep, would ya?”

“No, sir! School!”

“School!” he flared, jumping to his feet. “School! Are you kidding me? Nobody cares about school, Dad! Most of the guys my age have left to work at the plant. The only people left are the dames and the brains.”

“I don’t care about what anybody else does. You ain’t quitting school! Now get going. You’re wasting time, and I’m not listening to your trash! You’re making us both late!” The situation was teetering off the edge of control. If he didn’t defuse, this would be another blow out. Something he had noticed was occurring more often the last few weeks. “Let’s just calm down…”

But his efforts were already too late.

A hot fire leaped into Blaine’s steel gray eyes, and his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down in his neck with thick emotion, like he was swallowing back his fury. His hands were balled into tight fists, the knuckles whitening before David’s eyes.

“No!” Blaine exploded. “No, Dad! I’m done
calming down
! You don’t ever listen to me! And now I don’t need you to tell me what to do either. I’ve been taking care of myself for five years! Ever since Mom died.

“You do remember Mom, don’t you? The woman you buried one day and forgot about the next? You didn’t give two cents then; you don’t give two cents now… other than whether or not I’m late for school! Hang school! – And hang you!” With that he grabbed his blue jeans off the edge of the bed and stalked out of his room slamming the door. On the other side of the door, he could hear Blaine hopping around on one leg, struggling to pull on his blue jeans. He heard the clomp of his boots and the screen door slam. David was left alone in the sudden quiet.

Quiet. But not peaceful.

His heart wrenched inside him, and he slumped to the floor under the weight of his anguish.
Oh, Emily. Emily, if you were here…
His heart wept. But she wasn’t, and he had made a mess of this by himself. The old indignation threatened to swallow him again.
See, God? You don’t do nothing but take from me!

It was the last time he saw his son.

When David arrived home that night, Blaine was gone, and the note said, “Now you don’t have to worry about me being late to school.”

CHAPTER ONE

Boston, November 1950

“Logan Tower, flight one-seven-November-two-Bravo requesting permission to land.”

“This is Logan Tower, Captain. You are clear to land.”

Captain Blaine Graham banked to the left and brought the plane around into position to bring her safely onto the landing strip. The sun filtered over the eastern horizon, reflecting off the water surrounding most of the Logan International Airport.

It was good to be home again. Blaine had been out on a week long flight schedule and this last flight was an all-nighter. He did love to fly, but after a week of it, he was ready for a rest. Of course, as a pilot, he was “home” so seldom, he used the term loosely.
Home
was wherever he was sleeping that night. Today it happened to be Boston.

Within minutes, the plane pulled up to the terminal and Blaine cut the engines. As the passengers disembarked, he and his co-pilot went through the terminating protocol quickly.

“Long night. Be glad to get home to the wife,” his co-pilot muttered behind a yawn. Blaine stretched his arms over his head then stood, still stooped over a bit, because his full six-foot-three frame didn’t quite fit in the cramped plane.

“I’ll just be glad to get back to my own bed.” The exhaustion started to set in as he unrolled his white shirt sleeves and buttoned them, then lifted his blazer from its hook and slipped it on. Grabbing his overnight case, he turned again to the other man. “Sounds like it’s empty out there. You ready?”

“Just let me grab my cap.”

A light knock on the cockpit door told them the cabin was clear. Blaine ducked out through the little door and came face to face with the stewardess. She smiled sweetly, looking straight into his gray eyes. “It was a smooth flight, Captain.”

“Thank you.” She was still gazing at him, as if she expected him to say something more. Nothing was coming to mind. Not that he was much of one for talking, but exhaustion made small talk next to impossible for him, and conversing with women had never been one of his strong suits.

Behind him, the co-pilot seemed to understand his loss for words. “Yeah, ‘Old Cool Hand’ we call him. Smoothest pilot I’ve ever flown with.” He slapped Blaine on the back and a broad grin swept across his face.

Blaine breathed a sigh of relief and laughed softly with him.