Stranger in Paradise (Home Front - Book #2) (18 page)

July drifted lazily into August, but the Americanization of Jane continued full speed ahead.

As Mac settled into the city hall beat his hours grew more irregular, and it seemed she had more time on her hands than ever before. Her column for Luke Fenelli took no time at all each week, and she found herself seeking other avenues for her work. Luke suggested she might like to try her hand at writing for the magazine section, and before she knew it, Jane had a contract for a feature story commemorating the tenth anniversary of the Battle of the Bulge.

Her possessions had arrived safe and sound, thanks to Leo Donnelly, and along with her clothing and books had been a letter telling her that her old job was there and waiting if her impulsive marriage didn’t work out. “Not that I’m wishing that on you,” Leo explained in his letter, “but it’s depressing looking at your empty desk. Drop us a line now and again, luv. Maybe we’ll even print it up and give you a byline—Jane Townsend Weaver, American Correspondent.”

She had laughed when she saw the title, but her laughter died on the way to the typewriter. Wouldn’t Leo be surprised when both a newsy letter and an article on her first Independence Day popped up in the return post?

To her surprise, Uncle Nigel had taken to posting weekly letters to her—and springing for pricey air-mail postage. His letters were chatty and filled with London gossip. Nigel knew who was doing what to whom for blocks around his flat, and he didn’t hesitate to disseminate the information. Roxie took it upon herself to add a page or two of helpful hints on how to keep a husband happy, and Jane felt as if she was reading a condensed version of the advice Nancy devoured in
Good Housekeeping
and
Woman’s Home Companion
.

To her dismay, Uncle Nigel had also taken to enclosing political tracts with his letters. Some she tossed into the trash; others she set aside to read so she could refute his politics with detailed arguments. He sent Mac proofs of his book on Trotsky, and she admired her husband all the more for not setting fire to the material without giving it a glance. Mac skimmed the pages, then set them aside on the bookshelf in the rumpus room. His thank-you note to Nigel was sincere—if a bit bemused.

Of course, she also kept up with her journal. She’d jotted scores of notes during the coronation and even during the voyage on the
Queen Mary
, and now she had the time to explore her thoughts in a way she’d never had before. After she returned from the railway station each morning, she would take her cup of tea and notebook and sit in the backyard, listening to the sounds of her neighborhood as it awakened. She knew she wasn’t quite a part of the whole yet; indeed, she wondered if she would ever be. People spoke faster, moved faster, lived faster than she’d ever imagined possible. Sometimes she felt as if she were moving through quicksand in her struggle to catch up.

Television was both friend and teacher, opening up a window to the new world she lived in. Even the silliest shows,
My Little Margie
or
The Adventures of Ozzie and Harriet
provided food for reflection. Little Ricky Nelson and his big brother, David, spent an inordinate amount of time at a place called the malt shop, while Mom bustled around the kitchen making meat loaf. Dad, however, was another story. Jane wasn’t exactly clear on what it was he did. In fact, it seemed as if Ozzie Nelson spent as much time at the malt shop as his sons did. All of the Nelsons loved tutti-frutti ice cream, but how they were able to afford it was beyond Jane, since no one in the family appeared to be gainfully employed.

But then another thing Jane learned was not to ask questions like that. You didn’t think about television shows; you enjoyed them. It didn’t matter if Ozzie had a job or if Margie Albright seemed a bit long in the tooth to be pulling childish pranks on her playboy father. Television was there to entertain and it did that in grand style.

With the possible exception of the mystery of Uncle Miltie, where otherwise perfectly intelligent adults went into fits of laughter at the sight of a grown man in a bad dress, Jane was as entranced by the sights on her nine-inch Admiral television as everyone else in the country. In that way Jane felt as American as the next guy.

She and Nancy continued to enjoy each other’s company. One afternoon Nancy splurged and hired a baby-sitter and, dressed in their best summer frocks and spotless white gloves, they took the railroad into Manhattan where they ate lunch at Schrafft’s and went to see
From Here to Eternity
. The love affair between Burt Lancaster and Deborah Kerr was both scandalous and thrilling and Jane could tell by Nancy’s sharp intake of breath that the scene on the beach with the waves crashing about the two lovers affected Nancy as much as it did her.

“Isn’t he absolutely the
most
!” sighed a teenage girl in the row ahead of them. “Just the dreamiest, the absolute living end!”

Jane and Nancy looked at each other and dissolved into girlish giggles, for the teenager was one hundred percent right.

“I wish you had seen it,” she said to Mac later that night as she tried to describe the movie. “The sand, the waves, the way he held her...” Her sigh was theatrical and heartfelt. “It was the
most
!”

Mac looked up from his supper of cold cuts and iced tea. “The most?”

She gave a wave of her hand. “You know, Mac, the living end.”

“What ever happened to ‘splendid’ and ‘superb’?”

“I’m an American now,” she said, perching on his lap and running her fingers through his thick shiny hair. “It’s time I spoke like one.”

His gaze lingered on her breasts, She could scarcely blame him. With each day that passed, it seemed to Jane her breasts grew rounder and fuller, pushing against the thin fabric of her cotton blouse. Proclaiming the fact that she was pregnant.

Every morning she glanced at the calendar in the kitchen, mentally crossing off another day without a sign of her cycle. Not that she had any doubts about her condition; Jane finally believed what every other woman on the block accepted as documented truth. Casually she had asked Nancy for the name of her gynecologist. Nancy, God bless her soul, had handed over the name and number immediately.

And so on September 15, 1953, Jane found herself sitting by the telephone, awaiting the results of her rabbit test. “Mrs. Weaver?”

“Y-yes?” She clutched the telephone so tightly her fingertips went white.

“Congratulations!”

“Really?”

“Really.”

The nurse went on about proper nutrition and getting enough rest, then set up a series of appointments that would take Jane right up to her due date in March. She felt as if she were floating somewhere up near the ceiling, watching herself go through the motions, while her heart threatened to burst with joy.

A baby. Mac’s child! They had cast a line out into the future, bound their destinies in the most primal of ways. She would be part of a family this time, a family that would be strong and healthy A family that would last forever. She knew the Weavers felt affection for her, but now they would all be bound together in the body and soul of the baby she carried beneath her heart.

“Sit down,” said Mac when they were outside after dinner, sipping iced tea. “You’re nervous as a cat.”

She forced herself to stop pacing and sat down on the beach chair next to her husband. He’d seemed distant these past few days, preoccupied almost, and she felt suddenly shy and awkward. “We... Mac, we need to talk.”

His eyes narrowed. “Something wrong?”

She bit back a smile. “No, I wouldn’t say that.”

“Fenelli giving you a problem?”

“Luke is treating me wonderfully.”

“If Nancy is pestering you, I’ll—”

She placed her hand on his forearm. “We’re going to have a baby.”

The look of surprise on his face was comical. “What did you say?”

She took a deep breath, the smile she’d been trying to hide breaking through. “We’re going to have a baby.”

“You’re kidding.”

She touched the slight swelling of her belly. “I think I’m beginning to show.”

“I thought that was all those desserts you’ve been eating.”

She shook her head, words trapped behind a growing bulge of fear rising in her throat. She struggled to maintain her composure—and her hope—but her emotions were too close to the surface to control. “I know we haven’t been married long and—”

He drew her from her chair and onto his lap. Wordlessly he placed his hand flat against her belly, his large fingers gently caressing the place where their child was growing. “A baby.” His voice was low, reverential, as filled with amazement and wonder as Jane was filled with relief.

“Oh, God,” she whispered, resting her forehead against the side of his neck. “I was so afraid you didn’t—that you weren’t pleased.”

He cradled her face between his hands and kissed her with a sweetness she felt deep inside her heart. “When?” he asked between kisses.

“March.”

“That’s a long time away.”

She laughed at the look of disappointment on his beloved face. “We have a lot to do before then, Mac. We have to decorate the nursery and buy baby clothes and think of names...” She wanted to enjoy every month, every week, every minute of her pregnancy, savor the miracle of life.

“James Douglas if it’s a boy,” said Mac.

Her eyes filled with tears as she nodded. Her father and her husband’s brother brought forward into a new generation. “Elizabeth Mary, if it’s a girl.”

“Elizabeth Mary?”

“Elizabeth Mary.”

He started to laugh. “A queen and an ocean liner?”

She nodded, laughing with him. “Fitting, wouldn’t you say?”

“I’d say it’s perfect.”

* * *

But it wasn’t perfect.

It was far from it.

Mac tossed and turned in bed that night, then finally abandoned the pursuit of sleep. Jane mumbled softly as he rose from their bed; he kissed her forehead and smoothed the sheet over her slender form. He had a hard time imagining how she would look in a few months. The thought of Jane big with child—
his
child—filled him with a sense of awe that made most else in life pale by comparison.

It should have been the single most wonderful moment of his life; instead, it was one of the most difficult.

He pulled on a pair of pants, then padded quietly from the room, closing the door behind him. The house was silent and dark. He made his way into the kitchen where he grabbed a pack of cigarettes and some matches, then headed out into the backyard. The night was cool and starry, a refreshing contrast to the Indian summer days. He sank into a beach chair and lit up a cigarette, his mind as scattered as the wispy clouds overhead.

It’s not just the two of you anymore
, he thought, gazing blankly into the darkness. In less than six months the baby would be there, innocent and helpless, needy and deserving.

He drew deeply on his cigarette. At the rate things were going on the job he might not have a job in six months.

“Hell,” he said out loud, tossing his cigarette down on the flagstone patio. In six months he knew damn well he wouldn’t have a job. The signs were all there, whether or not he’d chosen to acknowledge them before this moment.

Last week’s meeting with McTiernan should have made that fact crystal clear. His boss had called him into his office.

“You wanted to see me?” Mac had asked.

“Take a seat,” McTiernan grunted out, not looking up from his sheaf of papers. “I’ll be with you in a minute.”

Not a good sign. Mac lowered himself into a beat-up metal chair and waited. McTiernan took his time, muttering over his papers, scratching out a line here and there, generally letting Mac know whose time was important and whose wasn’t.

Finally McTiernan put down his pencil. “We’ve got a problem,” he said without preamble. “I’m taking you off city hall.”

Mac jumped from his chair as if a hand grenade and gone off beneath it. “What!”

McTiernan didn’t blink. “You’re off city hall. It’s getting too hot over there for comfort.”

“What’re you talking about? There hasn’t been a hot story over there in weeks.”

“Yeah, and I wanna keep it that way.”

Mac frowned. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“You,” said McTiernan flatly. “Your reputation precedes you.”

“I’m flattered.”

“Don’t be, kid. That big mouth of yours is going to land you in front of McCarthy and his pals if you don’t watch it.”

Mac threw his hands in the air. “I haven’t said a damn thing and you know it.”

He’d had to hand it to the older man. McTiernan hadn’t flinched under Mac’s less-than-friendly scrutiny. “Doesn’t much matter what you say today,” said McTiernan. “There’s no statute of limitations on witch-hunting.”

A few months ago Mac would’ve told McTiernan to stuff it and stormed from the office. If McTiernan didn’t want him, six other editors would.

But things were different now. He couldn’t take that chance that those six other editors would be willing to take on someone with a red cloud over his head. He owed Jane better than that. He’d made promises to her, promises he had every intention of keeping, come hell or high water. He’d swept her off her feet and across the ocean to a new life, a new world, and there was no way he was going to give her any reason to regret her decision.

What he wanted to do was throw her over his shoulder and spirit her away to Tahiti or Honolulu—someplace faraway where the problems of everyday people couldn’t touch them. Janie was everything good in life and she deserved the best he could possibly give her. Excitement. Glamour. Romance.

A
baby
.

He knew what he had to do.

Tomorrow he’d bite the bullet and take whatever stinking assignment McTiernan had for him, and Jane would never know how bad things really were. He’d keep his nose clean and his mouth shut and do his damnedest to forget there was something wrong with being presumed guilty when you were anything but.

* * *

The double bed seemed terribly large without Mac in it.

Jane had awakened the moment his feet touched the floor. She’d lain there, eyes squeezed shut, as he pulled on his pants. The feel of his hand against her shoulder as he rearranged the coverlet had filled her with a bittersweet longing that she couldn’t quite identify.