Five Brides (50 page)

“What do you mean?” Joan asked, taking a sip of the strong coffee. “If you didn’t join up, then you were drafted, I take it?”

Robert chuckled. “Yes, ma’am. I managed to avoid the Army as long as I could, but I guess, eventually, my luck just plumb ran out.”

“Well,” Joan retorted, “I suppose that’s all in how you look at it.”

“Meaning?”

“If you weren’t in the Army, you wouldn’t be sitting here. In front of the PX. In Nuremberg, Germany. Having coffee with your friends.” She looked at Robert’s friends, then back to him. “Or me.”

The men laughed as Joan took another swallow of coffee. “So, tell me. Where are
you
from and just how did you manage to avoid the draft for a while?”

“Greensboro.”

“Is that in South Carolina?”

“Ah . . . no. North Carolina.”

“I see.”

“To answer your next question, I managed to avoid the draft because, after high school, I went to Guilford College for two years.”

Joan’s heartbeat raced at the notion of going to college. Of higher learning and growing intellectually—something two parents raising a houseful of children in the middle of a world war could never have afforded. “Is that in Greensboro?”

“It is.”

“What did you study at this Guilford College?”

“Economics and business.”

“And that kept you out of the draft?”

“Well,” Robert said with a wink, “it tried, but not entirely. I worked at night and on the weekends for my father’s business.” He paused. “My father’s business, you see, was significant for the farmers.”

Joan didn’t follow entirely, but the intrigue became too much to interrupt. She encouraged him to continue with a nod as she brought her cup of coffee to her lips.

“So,” he continued, “I got drafted twice, but both times I was deferred.”

“Only son,” Leo supplied. “
And
the work he did with his father was important to the farmers. It served agriculture, you see?”

Not quite, but she wanted Robert to tell the rest of the story. “I see,” she said. “And then the third time?”

Robert laughed. “Well, that’s when my luck ran out.”

And mine came in . . .
The inner thoughts of Joan’s heart caught her off guard.

Harold stood. “I’m going to go inside. Get more coffee. Anyone else?”

Bob shoved his chair back a foot or so. “I’ll go in with you.”

Leo did the same. “Right behind you.”

Joan held up her cup. “I’m good,” she said.

Robert nodded. “Me too.”

They watched in silence as the three men walked into the
coffee shop before Joan turned back to Robert and said, “How did you get here? To Nuremberg, I mean.”

Again he chuckled. “Funny story, really, if you’ve got time for it.”

She had all the time in the world, her previous hunger forgotten. “I have nowhere special to be.” After all, home meant alone, but being here with him, like this—in spite of the temperature dropping significantly—felt warm. Inviting.

“My good friend—my childhood buddy—and I were both drafted at the same time. Phal Hodgin is his name.”

“Phal?”

“Yeah. Phal. Unusual name, great guy.”

“So you and . . . Phal . . . were drafted at the same time.”

“That’s right.” Robert glanced toward the door of the coffee shop, chuckled a little, and said, “I think my friends are giving us our space.”

Joan looked over that way and, seeing nothing of them, agreed. She took another swallow of the now-cold coffee. “Go on . . .”

“Phal had been drafted a couple of times before as well, but he also had been deferred because he was a conscientious objector.”

“A conscientious . . . ?”

“Objector. He’s Quaker. His family is. They don’t believe in war, I guess you could say.”

“Oh.”

Robert started to take a sip of coffee, then placed the cup on the table. “Cold,” he said, his eyes twinkling. “Do you want me to go inside and get us another cup?”

“Not really,” she said. “I’m fine.”

“So, Phal’s luck ran out and mine too, and we were both sent to Fort Jackson for basic.”

“Where’s that?”

“Columbia, South Carolina.”

Joan laughed. “Ah, South Carolina. Where all the girls talk like Brits.”

He chuckled, and his thick, dark brows shot up. “That’s right.”

“And then?”

“About halfway through basic training I came down with a severe case of pneumonia. I’m telling ya, Joan. I was a sick puppy.”

“Were you in hospital?”

“Sure was. By the time I got out, the Army pulled me from basic and then, a couple months later, sent me back. By that time, Phal and all my new buddies had been deployed in different directions.” He shook his head. “It’s my last week of basic—the second go-round—and I’m wondering where in the world I’m going to end up. The whole company was lined up on the street one morning when the sergeant came by and said, ‘Any of you men know how to type?’” Robert grinned. “My first thought was, ‘I can.’ I’d had two years of typing in high school. On a mechanical typewriter I could type about ninety words a minute.”

“Impressive.”

“My second thought was that if I could type, I would get an office job somewhere, maybe in the captain’s office typing memos or something. And I figured this was just for
that
day. I knew the day was going to be a scorcher, and I figured anything was better than being out there in the hot sun, you know?” He laughed again and Joan laughed with him. “I hadn’t heard yet that you
never
volunteer in the Army, so I raised my hand and said, ‘I can type, sir.’ So the sergeant looks at me and says, ‘Report to the commander.’ So I did.”

“And then what happened?”

“I’ll never forget it, Joan. I walked in and the captain said, ‘I understand you can type.’ I said, ‘Yes, sir.’ He says, ‘Get your bags and go on over to headquarters.’ I said, ‘My bags, sir?’ and
he said, ‘Zimmerman, get everything you own in your duffel bag and report to headquarters.’ Well, sir . . . That’s what I did. I went and packed everything I owned that was there in the barracks—including my boots—shoved it all into my duffel bag, and reported to headquarters. Next thing I know, twenty-four hours have passed and I’m in New York heading for Germany.” He burst out laughing.

In spite of trying not to, Joan belly-laughed with him. “Did they ever give you a typing test?”

He leaned sideways in his mirth.
“No.”

Robert’s three friends rejoined them in time to see them sobering from their laughter. “He must have told you about the typing,” Harold said. He carried two cups of steaming coffee—one in each hand. He placed one in front of Joan; the other he kept for himself. “We figured you two could use another cup.”

“And he really can type,” Bob added. He handed Robert a fresh cup and then sat with his own.

Leo returned to his seat. “He has long fingers, you know.”

Robert wiggled all ten of his fingers as Joan wrapped both gloved hands around the warm cup of fresh coffee, held it close to her chin, and breathed in the scent of it. “A delightful story,” she said. “Imagine if none of that had happened. Imagine that you hadn’t been deferred twice before or that you hadn’t gotten sick. You wouldn’t have been on the street with your company that morning. You wouldn’t have heard the sergeant ask if anyone could type.” She took a slow sip. “It’s like me, I suppose. If I hadn’t taken a walk one afternoon around the Loop in Chicago during my lunch break, I wouldn’t have seen the sign about working in Europe. And, if I hadn’t seen the sign, I wouldn’t be here now. Talking to the lot of you. It’s the way God leads us, don’t you think?”

Robert clapped his hands together and looked upward. “By
golly, boys,” he exclaimed, looking at his chums. “I believe I’m going to marry this girl!”

“Well,” Joan shot back with a grin, “I’m not spoken for.” She wondered, albeit briefly, if on a second meeting she should tame her usual spunk.

The four men, eyes bright with surprise, laughed.

“And,” she added, deciding against it, “As it turns out, I happen to have a dress . . .”

Savannah, Georgia

Evelyn descended the left side of the split staircase leading to the wide foyer of her aunt’s home. She grabbed the curve of the banister and swung herself toward the back of the house, where the aroma of homemade vegetable soup became more prominent. She peeked into the formal dining room on her way to the kitchen, pausing long enough to admire the elegance of a room never used.

Her breath caught in her throat and she entered the long, narrow room, momentarily imagining herself to be her grandmother, remembering the stories her mother had told her so long ago about the dinner parties given in that very room. Evelyn ran her fingertips along the arched and polished wood of one of the side chairs as she walked around the expansive table where—she couldn’t help but notice—not a single fleck of dust had dared to land, not even along the intricate details of the antique porcelain vases her aunt used as centerpieces.

“Oh, there you are,” Aunt Dovalou said from the doorway. “What in the world are you doing in here?”

Evelyn smiled. “Admiring.” She pointed to one of the vases. “Did you buy the Limoges or did my grandmother?”

Aunt Dovalou crossed her arms. “Buy the what?”

“The Lim—” Evelyn reached across the table, grabbing one of the vases with both hands. “Wait a minute . . . in case I’m wrong.” She carefully turned the heavy piece to look at the bottom of it. “Yeah, it’s Limoges. In fact, look at this—it not only has the
J. P. L.
stamped on it, but the name of the artist as well. And the date, 1906.”

Aunt Dovalou came around the table and peeked at the underside of the vase. “Gracious. I guess Mama bought that. I have no idea. I never cared for stuff like this, but I haven’t dared get rid of it.”

“I hope not. These are valuable, Aunt Dovalou.”

Her aunt rested a narrow hip against one of the sturdy armchairs. “Now how do you know that? Because I know your mama didn’t teach you . . .”

Evelyn shook her head. “My—
friend
—George. He was very knowledgeable about things like this and I . . . I guess I—” She chuckled. “I guess I picked up more than I realized.” She studied her aunt for a minute. “Aunt Dovalou, why didn’t you or Mama—?” She stopped herself from going any further.

Aunt Dovalou, however, oozed wisdom. “Why weren’t your mama and I more like
our
mother?”

Evelyn nodded. “From all the stories I’ve heard, she was a woman of such graciousness and refinement.”

“Mama always said that we girls took after her people.” She jerked her head toward the wide doorway leading back into the hallway. “Come on to the kitchen with me so I can check on my corn bread.”

They exited the room and entered the kitchen without a word. Evelyn sat on a backless stool as her aunt peeked inside the oven. “Looking good,” she commented, then turned back to Evelyn. “Hop down from there and come with me a minute.”

Evelyn followed her aunt up the back staircase leading to the second floor, then down a long hallway to the master bedroom, rich in white eyelet and chintz rose patterns. “Mama and Daddy’s room,” Aunt Dovalou announced, as if Evelyn were on a tour of old Southern homes. “I rarely come in here.” She sighed. “I just tell Sarah Beth to dust it once a month.” She crooked her finger. “Come look over here at this wall.”

Evelyn stepped up to a display of family portraits of various sizes, all in gilded frames. “Now, this bearded old cuss was your great-grandfather Zachariah Doyle.”

“The preacher.”

“Mmm-hmm. Not two pennies to rub together but a fine man.” Her finger slipped to the expressionless face of the woman sitting next to him. “His wife, Rebekah Matthews. Doesn’t seem too happy, does she?”

Evelyn snickered. “Not really.”

“Over here—” she pointed—“that’s their daughter Eloise and her husband, Thomas Hinton.”

“Your parents. Yours and Mama’s.”

“That’s right.”

Evelyn leaned in to examine the portrait. “She was magnificent, wasn’t she?”

“My mother was one of a kind. As gracious as she was beautiful. She lit up every room she ever entered.” The hint of reverence was unmistakable. “And Daddy—what a charmer.”

Evelyn smiled. “I can see that. Look at the mischief in his eyes.”

“Cutting-edge business savvy is what he had,” Aunt Dovalou said with a nod.

“Which is why they lived in this grand house.”

“Nearly killed Mama when your daddy came into our lives.” She walked over to a boudoir chair and sat, crossing her legs. “Not
that
I
didn’t come to think the world of him, but Mama always wanted us to marry well. But—” she sighed— “Judith met Colton at a dance one Saturday while she was visiting some of the Doyles over in Portal.”

“And they fell in love . . .”

“That they did,” she said. “Poor Mama. Sometimes I think your parents’ marriage is what sent her into an early grave, not that I would ever say that to Judith’s face.” She popped up, eyes wide open. “Gracious, get me back downstairs before the corn bread burns.” They hurried together down the servants’ staircase to the sweet fragrance of freshly baked corn bread. “Hon, set the table, will you?” she called over her shoulder as the front doorbell rang.