Stranger in Paradise (Home Front - Book #2) (13 page)

“Yes,” she breathed. “I mean, no. I can’t, Mac. I simply can’t.”

“That does it.” He sat up and tugged at his trousers. Jane looked away as she bit back a smile. “We move into our own place tomorrow.”

She giggled softly, flattered that she could be the object of such intense desire. “We have no furniture.”

“We’ll get some.”

“We don’t have a car.”

“We’ll buy one.”

“We don’t know where Levittown is.”

He started to laugh. “We’ll get a map.”

“You’re a very determined man, Mr. Weaver.”

He met her eyes. “Just realized that, Mrs. Weaver?”

“There are a number of things I’m just beginning to realize,” she said, leaning back against the pillows. “The neighborhood... this house... I don’t know how to ask you this.”

“Go ahead, Janie. You can ask me anything.”

She hesitated. “It’s simply that it sounds so... so mercenary.” She took a deep breath, then, “Are you rich, Mac?”

His bark of laughter shattered the quiet of the second floor. “I’m not rich, Janie.” He narrowed his eyes, laughter fading. “Does that make a difference?”

She made to leave the bed, but he held her fast. “That’s a terrible question, Mac. Money makes no difference at all.”

His all-American grin returned. “If money makes no difference at all, then why did you ask if I was rich?”

Well, now you’ve done it, Jane Townsend. Asking him about his money as if you’re some brazen gold digger
. She should be ashamed. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean it the way it sounded. I was talking about your parents.”

He looked a trifle puzzled for an instant, then shook his head. “No, they’re not rich.” He paused a moment, lost in thought. “At least, I don’t think they are. I’ve been away a long time. I guess anything’s possible in this day and age.”

“Surely you must know if they’re rich,” Jane persisted, leaping from the bed so she could pace the room, shamelessly delighted by the feel of the handworked carpet beneath her bare feet. “Just look at this home, Mac. It’s splendid.”

Mac shrugged. “It’s not all that different from when I last lived here.”

She stared at him. “Do you mean this is the way the average American family lives?”

“It was when I left. We might have been a little more fortunate than some, but we weren’t rich by any means.”

Jane grew silent. The differences between her old way of life and her new one were overwhelming. Why, everything she owned in the entire world would fit quite nicely in the closet of this one bedroom and there would be room to spare. She wondered why she had bothered to ask Leo Donnelly to forward her belongings. How shabby her mended dresses would seem before the spanking newness of all things American.

I’m not going to look back
, she vowed as Mac drew her into his arms once again. She wouldn’t question her good fortune; she would simply settle down and enjoy it. Already she loved her new country, her new family. She even loved the home she had yet to see in a town newer than some of her dresses. More than anything on earth she wanted to belong, to know there was some place on earth where she mattered. Mac had given her that the moment he’d stepped into her life. When they stood before the priest in Southampton, they had tied the first of the bonds that would unite them for eternity, bonds that encompassed his parents and his friends and—please, God!—the children she hoped to have.

It was hard to imagine Queen Elizabeth was any more blessed than Jane Townsend Weaver that night.

And that was precisely why the dream she had that night, in the guest room of the Weavers’ home, came as such a shock.

It had been months since she’d had the dream. Last time it had taken days to shake the feeling of guilt and sorrow that lingered with her like a fine coating of ash...

“If it isn’t the Princess Jane.” Maud Eakins patted the stone step next to her. “Come to sit out the bombing, have you, dearie?”

Jane, seventeen and terribly self-conscious, contemplated risking the Luftwaffe rather than subjecting herself to the old woman’s relentless teasing. Practicality, however, won out. It was either sit next to Maud or continue wending her way through the winding darkness of the underground station.

She sat down next to Maud.

Maud smelled of cabbage and rosewater and Jane’s stomach lurched. Overhead she heard the whine of German aircraft followed by the shuddering rumble of bombs destroying yet another part of the city she loved.

“And how’s your father?” asked Maud, as prim and proper as a lady in a tea shop. “I’d hoped he would pop ’round the pub and have a pint with me, seeing as how we’re both all alone in the world.” Maud’s husband had been lost in North Africa a few months ago and it hadn’t taken her long to begin her search for a replacement.

Stupid cow, thought Jane, her hands twisting the hem of her cotton skirt as the tunnel shook with vibration. How on earth could you claim to love a man forever and ever, then forget him the moment the first clod of earth hit the lid of the coffin? Why, her father had been widowed these past ten years and still his heart beat only for his late Jenny.

Love lasted forever. Real love did, at least, the kind her parents had known. She glanced at Maud Eakins with her crimsoned mouth and hennaed hair and that dreadful blue velvet ribbon pinned in her graying curls. She doubted if Maud had ever loved anything but the sound of her own voice in her entire life.

Jane’s mood improved considerably as she thought about the wonderful stories she could tell her father after the air raid was over. Her father had still been at work when the siren sounded. Jane had left him a note on the oilcloth-covered kitchen table. “North Station,” it said in her schoolgirl’s hand. “Shall I give Maudie your love?”

How her father would laugh when he got home and found that message! Since her brother’s death two years ago, Jane and her father had only each other to turn to for comfort. It saddened her to think that in the whole wide world only one other person cared whether she lived or died, but she didn’t linger on her sadness for very long. She was lucky—truly lucky!—to have such a wonderful father. His son’s death had come close to breaking his spirit and it had taken all of Jane’s strength to keep him from giving up.

“That’s what they want,” she had said, trying to shake some sense into her parent. “If we become disheartened, the enemy has won the war just as if we laid down our arms and surrendered.”

She didn’t let him know that her heart was pounding in her throat with fear or that the thought of life without him hardly seemed worth living.

And so Ben Townsend had gathered strength from his steel-willed daughter and faced life again head-on, even if a part of his heart had been buried with his only son.

“Would you listen to that, dearie?” Maud Eakins tilted her head to the right. “I think they’re done for the night.”

Jane listened and heard only silence. “So soon? We couldn’t have been down here more than an hour at best.”

Maud was right, however, and the all-clear sounded a few minutes later. “Toasted cheese and poached eggs,” said Maud, her rouged cheeks plumping with her coy smile. “You and your father are welcome to join me.”

Jane wondered what Maud would say if she told the woman that her father was busy but that she’d be glad to come for supper without him. Maud Eakins would probably drop her upper plate in surprise! As it was, Jane merely thanked her and disappeared up the stairs and out onto the street.

Except for the stench of sulfur in the air, all was as it had been before the air raid. Human nature was an amazing thing, Jane thought, as she started for home. Londoners were scurrying about their tasks as if nothing untoward had happened. After years of war, a bombing was only an interruption to their day. With time, it seemed, one could adapt to anything at all.

She dashed to the other side of the road, then darted up the alley that led to her neighborhood. A few bricks and building stones littered the road, and idly she wondered where exactly the German bombs had hit. They rarely targeted this part of the city, and Jane, ever the pragmatist, had found relief in the fact that her own neighborhood was too unimportant for the enemy to bother with.

But tonight something was different. Instead of dissipating, the stench of sulfur grew stronger as she walked. Her stomach muscles clenched like a fist. Goose, she chided herself. You’re letting your imagination run away with you.

Everything was fine, she thought as she sidestepped a huge chunk of plaster and metal fragment from God-knew-what. No reason for this sudden and nameless dread burning at the edges of her mind. Her heart beat against her ribs as she tried not to notice the shattered windows and crying children. A cat, fur singed by fire, darted past her as if Nicodemus were on his heels.

“Father,” she called out as she rounded the curve that led to their cottage. “Father, are you there?”

Don’t look... you don’t want to look...

Instead of their house, there was destruction. Instead of their tiny garden, there was rubble.

Instead of her father there was nothing.

Only the cheery red sweater she had knitted for his birthday and the certainty that her life was over as surely as if the bombers had found its target right inside her soul....

Mac had been deeply asleep. Dark dreamless sleep in a bed that, for the first time in a week, didn’t move with the rhythm of the ocean. It was the kind of sleep that pulled you under and held you there captive, until it was ready to give you up, so it took him a while to realize the sounds he was hearing were real.

They weren’t cries exactly. More like moans, low and anguished, from a part of the human heart he’d had no experience with. His eyes opened slowly as he struggled to remember where he was and why.

Hansen Street. His boyhood home. The guest room at the end of the hall.

Janie.

Her eyes were closed but her cheeks glistened with tears. He touched one cheek with his forefinger.

“Janie.” Gently he placed a hand on her shoulder. “It’s okay. Wake up, Janie.”

She stirred, the moan escaping almost against her will. He cocked his head and listened. But it wasn’t a moan, was it? She was saying something. A name, maybe? He lowered his head and pressed his ear near her mouth.

“Father,” she said. “Daddy.” Such a simple word. Such pain and loss in her tone.

He gathered her into his arms and held her close. “You’re safe, baby,” he whispered into the darkness. “You’ve got me now.”

And he would never let her go.

Nancy Sturdevant stood in the middle of her rumpus room and faced her three little girls. Her hands were on her narrow hips. Her dark hair was in pin curls. Her freckles gleamed like copper pennies.

“Now, listen to me,” she said, her voice stern. “We’re having company this afternoon.”

“Aunt Cathy?” asked Linda, who was enamored of her glamorous aunt.

“Someone you’ve never met,” said Nancy, wishing her palms weren’t sweating so with nervousness at the prospect. “Uncle Mac and Aunt Jane.” Jane Townsend Weaver. Mac’s wife! She still couldn’t believe it was real.

“Who’s Uncle Mac?” asked Linda. “Do you have a brother?” Linda saw the world clearly in black and white. No shades of gray in her six-year-old world.

“I don’t have a brother,” said Nancy, praying her hair would dry in time. “This is Aunt Edna’s son. He’s going to move into the house down the street.”

“Is he a little boy?”

“Afraid not,” said Nancy. “He’s thirty-five years old and he has a brand-new wife.”

Linda, although a dyed-in-the-wool romantic like her mother, wrinkled her pert nose. “That’s old.”

A few years ago Nancy would have agreed with her daughter. Now she wasn’t so sure. “You won’t say anything like that to Uncle Mac, will you?”

Linda shook her head. “No.” She brightened. “Does he have a little girl we can play with?”

“He only just got married, sweetie. It takes a while to have babies.”

Linda digested all that thoughtfully, then turned and skipped out to the swing set with Kathy, the toddler, stumbling behind her.

“No trouble from you, is there?” Nancy scooped up the baby and ruffled her strawberry blond curls. “You’re the only one I can count on to cooperate with me today.”

Debbie beamed, then wet her diaper.

One hour later the baby was clean and neat, Linda and Kathy were moderately well behaved, and Nancy had curled and hairsprayed and painted herself into the picture of the perfect Levittown matron. She wore her very best ice-blue summer sheath, the one with the crisscrossed straps in the back, a pair of Italian high-heeled mules just like the ones Carolann Bellamy had worn the other day at Billy’s birthday party. It hadn’t been easy to find such exciting shoes in Levittown, but she’d made an absolute pest of herself until the shoe salesman pointed her in the direction of the Miracle Mile of shops in Manhasset.

“What do you think?” she’d asked last night as she modeled the unbearably sexy shoes for Gerry.

“Wow!” His eyes had widened appreciably as he looked at her feet, then her legs, then the curve of her hips and breasts. Nancy swore she could actually feel the way his eyes burned her flesh, the way they used to before they were married. He cleared his throat. “How’re you going to chase after the kids in those?”

“Silly!” she said with an embarrassed, yet pleased, giggle. “I bought these to impress Mac’s new wife. She’s English, you know. Probably from some wealthy family with a title and a castle and everything.”

“How about your husband?” he asked. “Don’t you want to impress me, too?”

She shot him a coy flirtatious look. “Are you impressed?”

The warmth in his eyes—so unexpected and yet so welcome—made her glow inside. “That Weaver guy’d better keep his distance or he’ll know the reason why.”

“Don’t worry,” she said, slipping out of her shoes. “To Mac I’ll always be a scabby-kneed little girl.”

Mac, of course, had always been the most glamorous, talked-about boy on the block, the one everyone knew would really go places. And now he was not only coming home with a beautiful British bride in tow, he’d be living right here in Levittown.

She thought of her husband and smiled. No, Mac wouldn’t even notice that she’d grown up and become a woman, but it was awfully nice to be reminded that her husband hadn’t forgotten that fact.

* * *

At that particular moment all Mac noticed was the curving road of the Southern State Parkway, which wound its way from Brooklyn to Queens to Nassau County on Long Island. Jane had been agog when they’d stopped to pay a nickel toll to a man in a glass-enclosed booth near the Queens-Nassau border, and Mac had to admit the notion of paying to drive from one place to another was pretty mind-boggling.

“Are we getting closer?” she asked as they passed Lynbrook and Valley Stream.

Mac glanced down at the map resting on the dashboard. “I think so. Watch for Levittown.”

She took a deep breath. “We’re near the seaside, aren’t we? I can smell the salt air.”

“Jones Beach isn’t far from here. Best saltwater taffy this side of Atlantic City.”

“I’d love to see it.”

He groaned. “I’ve seen enough of the Atlantic to last me the rest of my life.”

She laughed and tapped him lightly on the forearm with her white cotton gloves. “You seemed to enjoy yourself on board ship,” she pointed out.

“That had nothing to do with the ocean, Janie.”

His words made Jane tingle from head to foot. “You’re a wicked man, Mr. Weaver.”

The huge car seemed too small to contain the current of electricity and emotion flowing between them, the same as the guest bedroom had seemed last night. Mac had been both passionate and persuasive, making love to her right there in his parents’ house. She could still feel his mouth against hers, absorbing the soft cries of passion she couldn’t hold back, despite her best intentions.

Their lovemaking had been urgent, incendiary. It was a wonder the house hadn’t gone up in flames. At the very least, Jane had thought the fierce heat generated between them would have burned all of her old fears and demons from her mind.

However, not even the dream had been enough to shake the feeling of optimism, of joy, from her heart.

“Do you think Levittown will be as lovely as Forest Hills?” she asked. “All those beautiful houses with the sloping roofs and gardens...”

“Probably be modern and fancy as hell,” he said as he followed his father’s directions. “Lots of trees and flowers.” He was whistling in the dark. The only neighborhood he knew was the one where he’d grown up. “How much different can it be, Janie?”

Five minutes later they discovered exactly how different.

“Do they do it with mirrors?” asked Jane as they stood at the foot of Robin Hood Lane and stared at the cookie-cutter display of houses arranged up and down the length of the sharply curved street.

“I don’t know,” said Mac, leaning against the hood of the car. “They should’ve run up a flag. We’ll never find it.”

“There must be thousands of houses,” said Jane, “and they all look alike! I can’t believe it.”

“Neither can I,” said her husband. They climbed back into the car.

They rode in silence down the narrow street. If you looked closely, you could distinguish differences that went beyond trim and shutters. Some residents had planted rosebushes, while others had added shrubbery beneath the windows and along the walkways. Tricycles littered the sidewalk, punctuated here and there by a silvery roller skate or plastic beach ball.

“We’re supposed to stop at Nancy’s house,” said Mac, squinting through the sunlight at the numbers on the doors. “The realtor left the key with her this morning.”

“Is Nancy a great deal like her sister?” Catherine had both intrigued and intimidated Jane with her particular brand of sophisticated friendliness.

“Nancy’s nothing like her sister,” said Mac with a chuckle. “Last time I saw her was just before she got married, and she was still a freckle-faced girl with a yen for Clark Gable and Errol Flynn.”

Some of Jane’s apprehension lifted as she imagined a lanky teenager straight out of the Andy Hardy movies she’d seen during the war.

Mac turned left into an asphalt driveway leading up to 255 Robin Hood Lane. A wrought iron sign, The Sturdevants, hung just to the left of the front door, right above the mailbox. A pram rested near a big hydrangea bush, and a little girl’s sunsuit was draped over the handrail.

Mac beeped the horn twice, then bounded from the car to open the door for Jane. She took his hand and was about to swing her legs out when a little girl with strawberry blond hair raced out from the backyard with a toddler behind her. Swallowing hard, Jane exited the car, aware of the sharp scrutiny of the two little girls.

Mac bent down and looked at them eye to eye. “I’m Mac,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone of voice. “You must be Linda and you must be Kathy.”

Kathy, the smaller of the two girls stuck her thumb in her mouth and stared at him wide-eyed, while her older sister looked from Mac to Jane then back to Mac again. “Who’re you?” she asked.

“I’m Mac, Aunt Edna’s son.”

The two girls giggled. “You’re old,” said Linda. She stared at Jane, openly curious. “Is that your wife?”

“Yep.” Mac reached for Jane’s hand and drew her forward. “This is Jane.”

Jane bent down and solemnly shook hands with each of the little girls. “I’m very pleased to meet you, Linda and Kathy.”

Kathy giggled and sucked all the harder at her thumb, while Linda’s scrutiny intensified. “You talk funny. I heard someone talk like that on television.”

“Jane is from England,” said Mac, with a wink for his wife. “She speaks the way we should speak but don’t.”

“You’re pretty,” Linda said, reaching for Jane’s hand. “My mommy said you would be. My Mommy said that Uncle Mac would never many a girl who wasn’t.”

Jane’s cheeks flamed and she looked over at her husband. “Oh, really?” she asked, arching a brow. “And I suppose there have been a great number of candidates?”

“High standards,” said Mac, not missing a beat. “Always had ’em, always will.”

“My mommy is inside cleaning up after Bingo,” said Linda, her round face serious. “Bingo ate a package of bologna, then threw up on the kitchen floor.”

Jane, who was having a difficult time maintaining her poise, looked toward Mac for guidance. He, too, appeared on the verge of laughter. “I hope Bingo is their dog,” Jane said sotto voce.

Mac cleared his throat and addressed the little girl. “Do you think you could go tell her we’re here?”

Linda shook her head. “Mommy said we can’t come back in the house until after you leave. Only Debbie can stay in there with her.”

“Debbie?” asked Jane.

“My baby sister. She wears diapers.”

“Oh.” Nancy Wilson Sturdevant certainly hadn’t let any grass grow under her feet. Mac may remember her as a giggly kid, but that giggly kid had given birth to three little girls in seven years.

Mac motioned for Jane to follow him. “I’m sure your mom won’t mind if we surprise her.”

“Maybe we should wait outside,” Jane said, swallowing against a sudden burst of anxiety. “I mean, Bingo... the bologna...”

“This is Nancy we’re talking about,” said Mac, oblivious to the fact that she was now a grown woman with a home and family. “She won’t mind a bit.”

He pushed open the door and they found themselves in a tiny anteroom. Two pairs of children’s muddy boots rested on a straw mat, and an umbrella leaned against the far wall.

“We should knock, Mac,” she said as he plunged forward like an explorer in the Amazon. “We should—”

But it was too late. The next second they were standing in the doorway to a sunny yellow kitchen and in the center of that sunny kitchen was a slender young woman in a slinky pale blue dress and high heels. There was a name for shoes like that...

Mac stopped short. Jane’s nose bumped into his shoulder blade.

“Nancy?” He sounded as if he couldn’t believe his eyes.

“Mac!” The veneer of sophistication dropped away as the attractive woman flung herself at Mac with the speed and subtlety of a cannonball. “Oh, my God, Mac! It’s been years and years!”

He swung her up off her feet and spun her around. Jane had to dart out of the way. It would have been an adorable sight if the female in question had been the cute freckle-faced red-haired kid Mac had described to her, and not this auburn-haired seductress.

“You’ve grown up, kiddo!” Mac swung her around one more time, then set her on her feet right in front of Jane. “You’re some eyeful.”

Nancy laughed in obvious delight as she put her hands on her slender hips and gave Mac the once-over. “So are you. The life of the foreign correspondent sure seems to agree with you.”

“Marriage agrees with me.” Mac drew Jane forward. “Meet my wife, Janie.”

Jane’s blue eyes met Nancy’s. It was the kind of moment all women recognized immediately: that silent battle for territorial possession when the territory in question was a handsome man.

He’s mine
, said Jane with a look.

I understand
, said Nancy with a glance.
But I’ve known him longer
.

Nancy stepped forward and embraced Jane warmly. “Congratulations, Jane.” She kissed her on the cheek. “Mac’s a lucky guy.”

Jane inclined her head slightly and reached for her husband’s hand. Might as well make the message clear as crystal. “I’m the lucky one,” she said, smiling up at the man she married. “He’s changed my life.”

Nancy’s eyes flickered with admiration. “You have a great speaking voice.” The woman was as direct as her daughter. “Makes me sound all ‘dems’ and ‘dese’ and ‘dose.’”

Nancy’s self-deprecating laugh disarmed Jane and she smiled her first real smile of the day. “Your accent would make you the toast of the town in London. I hope to sound like you and Mac before too long.”

Nancy shuddered theatrically. “Heaven forbid!”

“Speak for yourself,” said Mac. “I think I sound pretty damn good.”

“You sound wonderful,” said Jane, planting a quick kiss on his chin.

“Newlyweds,” Nancy said with a sigh. “I’d forgotten what it was like.”

“You haven’t been married
that
long, Nance. What is it, six, seven years?”

“Almost seven,” said Nancy, turning from Mac to Jane. “Just you wait until you have three little ones underfoot. There won’t be time enough for talking to your husband, much less anything else.”

Mac and Jane exchanged glances. Children. The idea made them both smile.

“Oh, yes,” said Nancy. “I remember that look.” She shook her head and sighed. “That look is what got me into this predicament.”

Next to him Jane laughed, but Mac was taken aback by Nancy’s slightly risqué humor.