Stranger in Paradise (Home Front - Book #2) (23 page)

Her words died in her throat as he pulled her into a deserted corridor and pinned her against the wall with his body. “Tell me you don’t love me,” he demanded, his voice gruff with emotion. “Tell me you’re leaving because you don’t care.”

“Yes,” she whispered. “I don’t care. I don’t—”

“Liar!” He kissed her roughly, harshly, the force of his need breaking through his reserve and hers. “I know why you’re doing this. You’re doing this for me.”

“No, Mac. Let me go. Let me go back where I belong. I never should have left England.” She would go back to her sheltered English life, with her sheltered English heart safely tucked away for good. She would rather die than see the man she loved pay for something he hadn’t done.

“Then I’ll go with you.”

“You can’t. The Committee...”

He drew away from her, brows rushing together. “How did you find out?”

“It doesn’t matter. It’s all my fault that you’re in this difficulty. Had it not been for me, this never would have happened.”

“You don’t understand, Janie. This was happening before I met you. This was happening from the first day I landed in Korea and wrote about what I saw.”

She shook her head, tears blinding her eyes, sorrow tearing at her heart, as she fought for composure. “Nigel,” she said. “His book. If Ginger Higgins hadn’t seen it...” Her voice trailed off. What was the point in belaboring the issue? What was done, was done. Leaving him was her only chance to make things right.

“You’re wrong.”

“Don’t lie to me, Mac. I can take anything but your lies.”

“Look at me.” He demanded her attention and got it. “Don’t leave me, Janie. I can’t live without you.”

She blinked, her body instantly galvanized by those amazing words. “You what?”

“I need you.”

This was the moment, the one single moment that would change all the moments yet to come. She saw herself standing at the foot of a long and winding road; she couldn’t quite see the end of that road, but with Mac’s hand in hers the trip seemed less frightening.

“The baby,” he said, voice breaking on the word. “I...” He cleared his throat again. “I wanted that baby as much as you did, Janie. A little girl with your hair and your eyes and your—”

Her tears flowed freely and he wiped them away with his large and gentle hands. “A boy,” she whispered. “A little boy you could take to baseball games and teach to be as brave as his daddy.”

“I’m not brave, Janie. I’ve never done a brave or noble thing in my life. Not once.”

“You have,” she whispered. “You married me.”

“That wasn’t bravery, Janie. That was love.”

Love. He had said the word
love
. “You’re a wonderful man, Mac. Kind and strong and—”

He shook his head. “I’ve spent my life taking the easy way out. I don’t know how to hang around when the going gets tough. I’m a great one to be telling you to stay...” His words trailed off and she felt his sorrow deep in her soul.

“Oh, Mac.” His name was a whisper.
Say it, Mac. Please say it
.

He met her eyes. ‘It’s all up to you, Janie. You can stay or you can go. I can sweep you off your feet again, but I can’t make you love me the way I love you.”

The last of the bathers around her heart shattered as those beautiful timeless words took root inside her heart. “Too late, Mac,” she said, meeting his gaze. “I already do.”

His face lit with happiness. “You do?”

She nodded. “More than you’ll ever know. I believe I have from that very first moment.”

“Then say it, Janie. Let me hear it.”

“I love you.” Louder still. “I love you, Mac.”

He pulled her into his embrace and kissed away her tears. His lips were warm, tender. The taste of his mouth was sweeter than honey, more potent than the finest wine.

“We can make it work this time, Janie. We won’t make the same mistakes again.”

“No more secrets,” she said between kisses. “We share the bad, as well as the good.”

His face clouded. “The bad might be more than you bargained on. If I take the easy way out, we can save a lot of heartache.” Bangkok or Bermuda, they could run somewhere beyond the reach of Tail Gunner Joe, beyond the reach of real life.

But real life was part of true love. The ability to stand together against outside forces was the litmus test. They either stared down the enemy together or gave up their dreams of forever. It was that simple. He explained that his appearance before the Committee could be only the first step in a long and ugly process that would expose the underbelly of her new country in a way they couldn’t control. Anything could happen. He would be questioned, examined and questioned again. He might not work again for a long time. He might go to jail. Jane’s past would be called into play, too. From her father to her brother to her uncle, everyone would be fair game.

“I just want you to know what you’re getting yourself into.”

“I’m not afraid of a fight,” she said, meaning it. “Not as long as I know you love me. You have to do it, Mac. You must stand up to them.”

He reached into his pocket and withdrew a folded piece of paper. The days of the easy way out were over. Taking the easy way out avoided heartache, but it bypassed the deeper joys of life, joys like the expression in your wife’s eyes when you decided to stand up and be counted on the side of what was right.

Slowly, carefully, he tore the paper into tiny pieces and let those tiny pieces drop to the ground. “There goes my easy way out,” he said, a note of pride in his voice. An odd emotion, pride. He had long forgotten how it felt to make the difficult choice and stand by it.

And the pride on his wife’s face would linger with him for a long time to come, warming him through the dark days of the fight ahead.

“No turning back,” said Mac. He was through with taking the easy way out, with avoiding involvement, leaving real commitment for the other guy.

“No turning back,” said Jane. She’d rather risk a broken heart than risk never knowing the deeper joys to be found when you love someone, body and soul.

“I love you, Janie,” he said, and she knew she’d finally found the place where she belonged: in her husband’s arms.

And so, six months after the wedding, Mac Weaver kissed his bride and their marriage truly began.

Christmas Night, 1990

Liz Weaver looked at the dear and familiar faces around the dining-room table and wished she could stop time.

Each Christmas of her life had found her in this house, at this table, with these people who were so dear to her.

Cathy and Johnny had grown quieter as the day grew longer; everyone knew it had been Christmas forty-six years ago when they’d fallen in love in this very house. “Don’t be so glum,” Uncle Gerry had boomed as Cathy moaned the passing of time. “Next Christmas you’ll be at our place in Connecticut.”

“We’ll be together,” said Aunt Nancy, her red hair toned down but still untamed. “That’s the important thing.”

Children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren crowded that narrow dining room, making the walls of the old house echo with laughter as it had down through the years. If Liz closed her eyes she could still hear Tom booming a rousing chorus of “Jingle Bells,” while Grandma Edna and Grandpa Les played a duet at the piano in the front room. Gone now, all three of them, but never forgotten.

Her mother patted her hand beneath the lacy tablecloth. “Are you all right, love? You seem rather sad.”

There was no point in pretense. From the first, Liz and her mother, Jane, had been kindred spirits; her mother had only to look at her to know everything Liz was thinking. Family lore said Liz had been conceived that snowy night in December 1953, the night her parents had thrown their lot in together and decided to face the world as a team.

Old Tail Gunner Joe McCarthy hadn’t had a prayer.

Mac had appeared before the House Un-American Activities Committee and stood up to the questioning with more dignity and grace and honor than anyone since Lillian Hellman and her famous statement, “I cannot and will not cut my conscience to fit this year’s fashions.” And Jane had been there every step of the way for him, staring down injustice while she learned from her husband what it really meant to be an American. There had been lean years toward the end of the modern-day inquisition, but Liz’s parents had withstood the tough times together, and their marriage had been better for it.

Was it any wonder their daughter was a dyed-in-the-wool romantic?

“I can’t believe this is our last Christmas together,” she said. She met her mother’s Wedgwood-blue eyes, etched with lines but still beautiful, and forced a smile. “Am I the only sentimental fool in the room?”

“This isn’t our last Christmas together, love. It’s just our last Christmas in this house. Next year we’ll be up in Connecticut with Nancy and Dot.”

“It won’t be the same.”

“No, it won’t,” her mother admitted, “but life goes on. Change is good for the soul.”

“Maybe it’s good for your soul...” Liz mumbled, feeling like a twelve-year-old kid. Her father sat down opposite them, his broad frame relatively untouched by time and gravity.

“Not fair to expect the rest of us to remain static while you go gallivanting all around the world, kiddo,” Mac Weaver said. “If you’re looking for roots, you have to plant yourself long enough to give ’em a chance to grow.”

“Don’t tell me,” she said, laughing. “That’s from your latest collection of columns, isn’t it?”

“It’s from your mother’s latest collection. I haven’t made my deadline yet.”

She shook her head, amazed at the vitality and enthusiasm her parents still radiated.
I must be a changeling
, she thought.
Why on earth can’t I let go?
Everyone else had accepted the inevitable. Even her godmother, Dot, who had lived most of her life in this very house had bowed to progress and made her peace with it.

For months now, ever since Aunt Dot had made her decision, Liz had had the strong feeling that the house on Hansen Street wasn’t quite finished with her yet, that there was one more secret—or one more miracle—it had yet to give up.

Ridiculous, she thought, smiling politely at the chatter all around her. Their time there was no longer counted in months or weeks; it was down to a matter of days.

“So where’s the dinner guest you invited?” Linda asked Christine. Their rivalry had not diminished with the years.

Christine shrugged, casting a quick glance at Liz’s mother. “He should have been here an hour ago.”

Liz had the feeling the two women had been matchmaking again, and she simply smiled into her plate and continued eating. After the meal the men retired to the front room to smoke their cigars, despite the protests of the more health-conscious women. “Times may be changing,” said Johnny, “but nobody’s taking away my cigars.” Liz’s father echoed the sentiments, while the younger women’s husbands made a game show of puffing on the big brown stogies.

Dishes had been cleared and stacked in the dishwasher. Her mother and aunt and cousins were clustered in the kitchen, laughing over the latest adorable things the younger generation of Wilsons and Weavers had done. It seemed to Liz there was no place at all for her. She didn’t fit in with the men and their cigars. She didn’t fit in with the women and their talk of formulas and families.

Grabbing her coat from the hall closet, she slipped outside for some fresh December air. Maybe that would clear the cobwebs from her mind and help her get a better focus on things. A brisk wind blew down the street, fluttering the hem of her coat. She strolled slowly down the walkway, stopping to gaze at the Weaver’s old house across the street. It looked sad now, abandoned and lonely; the only sign of life was one lone December rose blossoming on the trellis near the front walk.

She paused, her fingers touching the silky petals. Oh, why not? This was the last rose that would ever grow here, the last note of beauty in a steel-and-concrete world. Besides, Grandma Edna would have wanted it this way. She plucked the blossom and slid it behind her ear. Turning, she gazed at the Wilsons’ house, trying to memorize every angle, every line, before it was no more.

She crossed the street, head bent against the wind, and was about to go back inside when a voice stopped her.

“I missed dinner, didn’t I?”

She hesitated, the city dweller’s instinct for survival kicking in while she judged him friend or foe. Tall, high intelligent forehead, vivid blue eyes, a generous mouth and easy smile. An odd tingly feeling began at her toes and moved upward. “You’re Chris’s friend?”

He nodded, extending a brawny right hand. “Sam Bennett.” His smile broadened. “You must be Liz.”

And you must be my future
. She swallowed hard as her hand disappeared in his. Was this how her mother felt that rainy London morning so long ago? “Elizabeth Mary Weaver.”

“Named after a queen and an ocean liner.”

“Did Chris also give you my social security number?”

“She didn’t need to. I’ve been following your career for years.”

“I’m at a loss for words.”

“Good,” he said, still holding her hand. “That gives me the advantage.”

“Only momentarily,” she said. “I recover fast.”

They laughed, their breath frosty, shimmering in the air between them. Did destiny have a sound? A scent like that of a rose in winter?

“It’s cold out here,” said Sam Bennett.

Liz swung open the door to the house on Hansen Street as she had thousands of times before. “Welcome,” she said, ushering him into the foyer. “The fire’s burning and there’s coffee in the kitchen. If you’re hungry, I can put together a plate of leftovers.”

“Sounds great,” he said. “And then we can talk. Chris told me this house has one hell of a history.”

She looked at him and for a moment she saw her mother getting out of a taxi as a new bride, all nerves and excitement, while Grandma Edna hurried down the walkway across the street to greet her new daughter-in-law. She saw Nancy running toward her future, the skirts of her blue dress flying, as Gerry put down his duffel bag and opened his arms wide. She saw Johnny sprawled across the welcome mat, snow on his face, the injured soldier home from the war as Cathy struggled to bring him in from the cold. Weddings and funerals. First communions and first babies. The endless parade of human experience, of love and fear, happiness and sorrow, all played out on this one very average stage.

A house was all it was. Just wood and nails and brick, like a thousand others. It was the people that had made it special; the people and the story of their lives. The house might vanish but those stories never would.

Liz would make certain of it.

“Oh, yes,” she said, leading him into the kitchen, aware of the smugly satisfied look on the faces of her mother and Christine, “this house has quite a history. Did you know that...”

And as she spoke, weaving the tales she had grown up with, it occurred to her that the house on Hansen Street may have worked one final miracle after all.

Well, honey, I met your daddy on Christmas night. We’d already finished dinner and your Grandpa Mac and your uncles had gone into the front room to smoke their cigars. I went outside to get some fresh air and had just plucked the lone winter rose when...