Stranger in Paradise (Home Front - Book #2) (11 page)

He’d noticed it the instant the ship docked at Pier 90. Instead of the two smiling bobbies who had waved goodbye to the
Queen Mary
dockside in Southampton, a phalanx of unsmiling men in blue uniforms greeted the good ship in New York.

And there it is
, he thought as he watched three little girls playing jump rope at the corner of Burns Street. America’s innocence was gone. Before the war, America had been like a friendly puppy, eager to be loved. Even as late as the end of 1945, she’d still managed to retain that eagerness to please.

Apparently it had taken another, and dirtier, war to wipe away that glow of innocence forever. You could see it in the faces of the people at dockside. In the glowers of the policemen, the frenzied bluster of the cabdrivers jockeying for fares. New York City had never been a gentle or contemplative place to live, but there’d been a combination of old-world charm and new-world vitality that had found its equal nowhere else on earth.

The vitality was still there but that old-world charm had vanished and prosperity had taken its place. You’d never know that twenty years ago the nation had been brought to its knees by the Great Depression. Cars were everywhere. Restaurants thrived. In some ways the war was the best thing that had ever happened to the country. Mac Weaver was the last guy to bitch about prosperity. Money was important. You only had to be without it for any length of time to know exactly how important it really was.

The broad street he knew so well was choked with cars, all parked against the curbs on both sides of the roadway. Made him feel claustrophobic just looking at them. What was wrong with the subway? he wondered as the cabbie turned onto Hansen Street. Didn’t people walk anyplace these days?

And the trees. They couldn’t have gotten shorter in the past seven and a half years, could they? He’d remembered them as towering over the roofs of the houses, lacing their branches over the center of the street, providing shade for everyone during the dog days of summer. Today they looked as if they’d barely make the second-floor windows.

It only proved that his thesis on growing older was right on the money. Gray hair and wrinkles weren’t the hard part; watching your illusions being stripped away, one by one—now
that
was tough to take. He reached for his wife’s hand, glad he had Jane with him. Someone who would understand. He’d been away so long that he wondered if there was even a place for him anymore. Truth was he understood Jane and her world a hell of a lot better than he understood the world where he’d grown up.

* * *

At that moment Jane was so petrified with fear that she could scarcely swallow, much less tender a smile to her husband. She was vaguely aware of her hand in his, but she was infinitely more aware of the way her heart was thudding crazily at the base of her throat and in her ears. It was hard to believe a heart could beat so violently—or so loudly.

The cab came to a stop in front of a big house with what seemed to be scores of rosebushes, scarlet and fuchsia and pale pink, each more beautiful than the last. The house was built along the lines of an English Tudor, all cream stucco and dark wood, and the sight of those familiar features helped ease her nerves.

She’d always heard New York was all concrete and noise, yet this neighborhood where Mac had grown up was lined with graceful trees, and the only sound was the chirp of the birds and the laughter of a child somewhere in the distance.

“This is it,” said Mac.

She nodded, staring out at the profusion of roses lining the walkway up to the front door. It was hard to imagine Mac as a little boy, climbing the five brick steps to the door, then rising on tiptoe to reach the knob. “Do you think your parents are home?”

“They’re home, all right. I can hear the radio in the front room.”

She tilted her head and caught the faint sounds of music. “‘Stranger In Paradise,’” she said, giving him a shaky smile. “Rather fitting, don’t you think?”

He leaned over and kissed her on the lips. “Come on, Janie. They’re going to love you.”

Oh, Mac
, she thought as he went around the cab to open her door.
From your mouth to God’s ear
...

The sun was warm on her shoulders as she stepped out onto the sidewalk, warmer than she could remember it feeling in London. The sun here was more a separate presence, a distinct entity, rather than an impression of one. Back home her coworkers had spent endless hours daydreaming about trips to the Costa del Sol, spinning tales about sunburns and sun-bleached hair and other oddities. She’d never understood the appeal until now.

She breathed deeply, taking in the smell of roses and freshly mown grass and the familiar sting of petrol. This was the smell of home now, her new home. There would come a day when she wouldn’t even notice the aching blue of the clear sky overhead, the gentle wisp of clouds feathering that blue, or the lemon-yellow light that gilded everything it touched.

But that day was still in her future. Today everything was new, from the dissonant play of consonants and vowels as the cabdriver thanked Mac for his tip to the high-pitched wail of an ambulance in the distance.

Their valises were lined up on the sidewalk at the foot of the walkway, with their twin typewriters perched on top of the pile.

“Ready?” asked Mac, taking her hand.

She nodded. “I think so.”

They climbed the brick steps. Mac raised his hand to ring the doorbell when the cream-colored door swung open and she found herself swept up in an exuberant embrace.

“You’re as pretty as I knew you’d be,” said Mac’s mother, holding Jane at arm’s length for an instant before hugging her again. “We’re so happy to have you in our family, Jane.”

Jane was suddenly overcome with emotion as she looked into the vivid green eyes of Edna Weaver, eyes so like Mac’s that Jane loved the woman instantly. “I—I couldn’t be happier, Mrs. Weaver.”

The green eyes glistened with tears that matched those in Jane’s own eyes. “Call me Edna, honey.” The woman hesitated a moment. “Or Mom, if you’d care to.”

Years of loneliness, of longing for a mother to lean on, flooded over Jane like the wave that had buffeted the
Queen Mary
. “Mom,” she said, her voice soft with memories. “I’d like that very much.”

Les Weaver was built much along the same lines as his son. Wide shoulders, broad chest, same all-American grin. “Let me meet our new daughter,” he said, stepping up to Jane with his arms open wide. “We’re mighty glad to welcome you home, honey.”

That endearment was Jane’s undoing. She lowered her head and started to cry. “I—I’m tired,” she said, gratefully accepting the lace-trimmed handkerchief proffered by Edna. “Normally I never cry.”

Poor Mac. He looked as addled as Jane felt. His mother noticed and, laughing, pointed toward the profusion of valises at the bottom of the steps. “You two bring in the luggage,” she said to her husband and son in a voice that brooked no disagreement, “while Jane and I get settled.”

Before Jane had a chance to dry her tears, Edna put a hand on her waist and led her into the parlor in the front of the house.

“What a lovely room!” Jane drank in the huge leaded windows, the soft white walls, the profusion of soft chintz-covered pillows strewn across the divan. A hooked rug in shades of slate blue and rose rested before the wing chair in the far corner, and the same soft colors were picked up in the painted china lamps on the end tables. She pointed toward a needlepoint pillow gracing the rocking chair adjacent to the hearth. “‘May the road rise up to meet you,’” she read from the saying embroidered in shades of mauve. “Did you work the pillow yourself?”

Edna’s laugh was full-bodied and infectious. “Lord, no, honey. I’ve never been much with a needle and thread. My dear friend Dot worked it for me.” She held out her hand and Jane noted the multitude of scratches and cuts on her long and capable fingers. “These hands are made to prune rosebushes. I’m afraid that fancy stuff is beyond me.”

“My mother had rosebushes,” Jane said, amazed as the old memory rose to the surface. “I was only a little girl when she died, but I remember how much she loved to tend the garden behind our house.”

They’d had a house in those days, tiny and sweet and safe. That house hadn’t survived the first year of the war.

“Do you garden?”

“I did,” said Jane. “I hadn’t my mother’s touch but did my best.” She smiled at the memory of sweet-smelling earth wet with rain and the nascent beauty of the new roses. She peered out the front window at the rosebushes framing the sill. “I must say, you put the best of English gardeners to shame.”

“I’m more stubborn than the weeds, that’s all it is.” Edna fluffed up one of the pillows on the divan. “You’re welcome to try your hand in my garden anytime, Jane.”

“I should love to, Mom.”

Edna’s lined face lit with pleasure.

The front door swung open and the two women laughed at the grunts and groans from the men as they lugged the suitcases into the hallway then upstairs to where Jane supposed the sleeping quarters were.

“I should love to see the rest of the house,” Jane said.

Edna put her arm about Jane’s waist. “Come in the kitchen and have some lemonade, then I’ll give you the grand tour.” Edna led her into the narrow hallway, which was papered in a tiny pattern of fleur-de-lis on a bone-colored background. “Although I’m sure it’s not half as grand as the houses in London.”

Jane thought of her uncle’s threadbare flat and chuckled. “I’m afraid much of London is less than grand. There’s still a great deal of rebuilding to do. The war took quite a toll.”

Edna’s cheeks flooded with color, “And I have a great deal of apologizing to do. How spoiled we must seem to you. It’s hard to imagine what it must have been like to live through the horrors you must have seen.”

Jane thought of the son Edna Weaver had lost during the war, and of the loss of her own father and brother. “I think we both understand better than most,” she said softly.

Edna led her into a large and airy kitchen, bright with sunlight. Dark thoughts seemed almost sacrilegious. “You know about Douglas?”

Jane nodded, a lump forming in her throat. “Mac told me.”

The older woman took four large glasses down from the cabinet over the sink then met Jane’s eyes.

She instantly understood. “My brother and my father.” The words seemed to float in the air between them.

“You must have been very young.”

“Seventeen when my father was killed.”

“And you’ve gone on to become a reporter in Liverpool.” Edna poured lemonade from a big glass pitcher. “You must be very proud of yourself.”

Jane gratefully accepted the cool drink. “I’m afraid I’ve never thought much about it.” She had no education, no background, no skills other than the ability to tell a coherent story. “It was either that or work in a shop, and since I’m hopeless with numbers...” She shrugged and took a long sip. “This is superb.”

“Thank you, Jane.” Edna poured three more glasses of lemonade as she watched her new daughter walk over to the back door and look out at the postage-stamp yard. Her movements were painfully lovely, a combination of grace and confidence that belied the haunted look in her blue eyes. Edna’s generous heart went out to the tiny young woman. She couldn’t be a minute over twenty-five or -six and it didn’t take much figuring to realize she’d been on her own for at least eight years.

Edna longed to put her arms about Jane and stroke her hair and tell her everything would be okay from that moment on, but she felt she would be overstepping her boundaries. Mothers-in-law had to be so careful. She’d never understood the popularity of mother-in-law jokes. You had only to turn on the radio or tune in the television to know that mothers-in-law were the butt of every comedian’s jokes, from Milton Berle to Jack Benny to George Burns. Why, she’d loved Les’s mother, Sara, from the first moment they’d met, and she knew her relationship with Cathy would have been just as wonderful had fate not intervened.

Edna was a smart and sensitive woman and it didn’t take X-ray vision to see there was a lot of sadness in the lovely young Englishwoman Mac had taken to wife. She prayed there’d come a day when she could put her arms around the girl and help her forget the past.
Just make my boy happy
, she thought as the men came down the hall to the kitchen.
I’ll never ask anything else of you
.

Jane turned at the sound of Mac’s footsteps. He looked from his mother to his wife. “Any lemonade for us?” he asked as his father joined him in the doorway.

Edna handed each of the men a glass of lemonade. “Hand-squeezed,” she said proudly. “The way your father likes it.”

Mac crossed the room to stand near Jane. “How’re you doing?” he asked under his breath.

“Your mother is a wonderful woman,” she said honestly. “You’re a very lucky man.”

“Why don’t you show your bride the rest of the house?” Les suggested, sitting down at the kitchen table. “I have the feeling the neighbors will be swooping down on us any minute. You might not have another chance.”

* * *

The house where he grew up felt both strange and familiar to Mac as he led his new wife up the staircase to the second floor. He knew every creaking step, every squeaky floorboard, and yet the changes brought by the years disoriented him. The paper in the hallway was different, for one thing. A small matter, but Mac kind of missed the striped pattern he’d seen every day of his life until he’d left home.

And then there was the larger matter of his brother’s room. It was hard to avoid it. On his fourth birthday, Doug had chosen the bedroom at the top of the staircase so he’d be able to see and hear everything that went on in the house.

The last time Mac had been home, he’d done his damnedest to avoid looking into Doug’s room. It had been late 1945. Doug had been dead two years, but still their mother had been unable to strip the room of the Brooklyn Dodger pennants and schoolbooks and all the other paraphernalia that had been Doug’s and Doug’s alone.

He tried not to look into the room, but Jane, with unerring accuracy, headed directly for it.