Stranger in Paradise (Home Front - Book #2) (5 page)

“So am I. I’ll find out when I get home.” There was an ocean between him and the McCarthy witch-hunt. It was hard to imagine the country he knew and loved looking over its collective shoulder at the shadow of one of its own.

“Your stay in England is at an end?”

Mac nodded. “Afraid so. I sail for New York tomorrow.”

“This is why you’re here.”

“We’re here for your typewriter.”

“You’re here for my niece.”

Mac leaned forward in his chair. “How the hell did you know?”

“You’ve met my Roxie?”

Mac nodded.

“Three days from first meeting to nuptials.” Nigel paused to puff on his pipe. “As you see, hasty decisions run in the family.”

“Any regrets?”

Nigel considered the question. “Not a one. We’re an unlikely couple but a happy one.”

“Did you know the moment you saw Roxie?”

Smoke encircled Nigel’s head as he exhaled. “Even before. The second I heard her sweet voice singing ‘White Cliffs of Dover’ I was a lost man.”

“So you don’t think we’re crazy.”

“Of course I do. Completely daft. The odds are against you, my dear fellow.”

“The odds didn’t stop you,” Mac pointed out.

“When you’re my age, the odds are already against you. Why not tempt fate?”

“So you give us your blessing?”

“I don’t believe in blessings, Mac. Neither does Jane. I did precious little for her when she was younger. I doubt I have the right to tender blessings at this late date.”

“She must have brought me here for a reason.”

“A gesture, perhaps. I wouldn’t presume to guess.”

Mac leaned back in his chair and dragged a hand through his hair. “I’m confused.” It had seemed so clear to him a few minutes ago. They hadn’t really come to Nigel’s flat for the typewriter, had they? Unless he was as crazy as Nigel seemed to think, he was certain they had progressed beyond that stage.

“You’ll learn soon enough. Jane keeps her own counsel. I’ve known her all her life and she’s an abiding mystery to me.”

With one sentence Nigel had summed up Jane’s allure. Mystery. You could sense the darkness about her, an underlying sorrow that tempered her delicate beauty with steel. A man could spend years with a woman like Jane and never come close to understanding what made her tick.

“Ready for a cuppa, gents?” Roxie bustled into the room, carrying a tea tray. Her showgirl bosom jutted forward like the prow of a ship. “Cream. Sugar. The first strawberries of the year.”

Jane glided into the room behind Roxie. He watched as her huge blue eyes went from Nigel to himself then back to Nigel again.

“Well,” said Jane, sitting down next to Mac. She held herself straight as a soldier, hands clasped primly on her lap. Only the faintest trembling of her elegant fingers gave her away. “And how have you gentlemen been getting on?”

Nigel looked over at Mac. The twinkle in his faded blue eyes could have lit half of London. “I would say we have an understanding, wouldn’t you, Mac?”

Mac looked over at Jane. “I would.”

“No difficulties?”

“None that I know of.” Mac turned to Nigel. “How about you?”

“Not a one, my boy.”

She looked so young and hopeful. “Truly?”

He reached for her hand. “Truly.”

“How wonderful,” she said with a gentle sigh. “We can borrow the typewriter.”

Mac threw back his head and laughed. Life with Jane wasn’t going to be dull. That much was certain.

“You changed the wallpaper.” Catherine Wilson Danza ran her hand across the pale yellow and white kitchen walls. “I like it.”

Nancy, who was slicing onions for their cookout, looked up at her sister. “You noticed.” She reached for another onion. “Gerry still doesn’t realize I’ve changed anything.”

Cathy laughed and plucked a tomato from a pile that had already been sliced. “Men don’t notice anything until the bill arrives,” she said, biting into the tomato with her even white teeth. “We had our new living-room suite for three months before Johnny realized he was sitting on a blue sofa instead of a red love seat.”

Leave it to Cathy to come up with a topper. Not that Nancy was jealous or anything. After all these years, Nancy had left jealousy far behind. Plain and simple, awe had taken its place. Her older sister had just turned thirty-one a few days ago and you’d be hard-pressed to believe it. Her hair was the same lustrous honey blond it had always been, although it was now swept off her face into an elegant chignon as befitted her position as president of Wilson Manufacturing. She’d managed to regain her figure almost immediately after giving birth to her and Johnny’s son, and you’d certainly never guess she was four months pregnant right now. Cathy had had a miscarriage two years ago and there’d been concern about whether or not she’d be able to carry another child to term. This time, however, it looked as if little Billy would soon have a baby brother or sister to love. Johnny still looked nervous as a cat, but Cathy positively radiated confidence that all would go as it should.

But then Cathy was always radiant, wasn’t she? She simply had to wash her face in the morning, and the world—or at least the male half of it—was ready to fall at her feet. Nancy had to work at it. She’d long since abandoned her natural red hair color in favor of a variety of rich chestnut shades, and she’d acquired a remarkable expertise with foundation makeup in her eternal battle with her wayward freckles. Everyone laughed at her stacks of magazines piled up in the far corner of the rumpus room, but those magazines had taught Nancy a lot about the two things that were really important in this world: looking pretty and keeping your husband happy.

Cathy sat back down at the kitchen table and lifted the baby from her bassinet. “Is it time for Debbie’s bottle?”

Nancy shook her head. “In forty-five minutes. We have her on a schedule.”

Cathy nodded, but Nancy could see that her sister took exception to Dr. Spock and his methods. When Cathy and Johnny’s son, Billy, was a baby, Cathy had fed the infant on demand. “He’ll be spoiled rotten,” Nancy had said, the voice of experience. “Children thrive on schedules.” Cathy had just nodded and gone about things her own way. Billy was a good-natured, well-adjusted five-year-old who made his cousin Linda seem downright high-strung.

Nancy washed her hands at the sink, then pulled the package of ground beef from the refrigerator. “That was really nice of Johnny to volunteer to go to the train station tonight.”

Cathy kissed the top of her niece’s downy head and looked up at Nancy. “No problem, Nance. He’s going to be at the Levitt office right near the depot. Why should you have to race over there when you have dinner to make?” Cathy’s decision years ago to do business with the firm Levitt & Sons had proven to be the most important deal Wilson Manufacturing had ever made. Bill Levitt had transformed 6,000 acres of barren potato fields into 17,447 houses aimed for the World War II veteran and his growing family. As a subcontractor, Wilson had reaped the rewards of Levitt & Sons’ success.

There it was again, that veiled note of censure in Cathy’s calm voice. Nancy gritted her teeth and concentrated on the task at hand. Cathy had never been terribly good at understanding the way normal marriages worked. Just because she and Johnny had been able to figure out a way to share both a professional and a personal life was no reason to assume the rest of the world could pull off such a difficult stunt. Maybe being a working mother was okay in New York City, where anything goes, but in Levittown, Long Island, heading off to work in some office every day would make you an instant outcast. Not that Nancy wanted to work, mind you. The house and the kids kept her busy, and if she added in her trips to the train station and the kindergarten car pool and all the endless visits to doctors and grocery stores—well, there weren’t enough hours in the day as it was.

It was just that Nancy had never imagined that she would settle down so quickly into a routine so predictable.

Or that life would seem so quiet.

“Nance?”

She started at the sound of her name. Cathy touched her elbow.

“Are you okay?”

Nancy brushed back a lock of hair and flashed her sister what she hoped was a self-confident grin. “Just daydreaming.”

“The coronation?”

Nancy sighed and placed the package of meat down on the countertop. “Mac Weaver has all the luck, hasn’t he? Can you imagine being right there, front row center, for it all?”

“Somehow Mac doesn’t seem the type to enjoy all the pomp and circumstance.”

Nancy pulled the morning paper from the breadbasket where she’d stashed it hours earlier. “Front-page story with his byline.” She spread it out on the kitchen table in front of her older sister. “Five paragraphs about V-E Day and not one single mention of her dress at the pre-coronation ball.”

“That’s a man for you,” said Cathy with a shake of her head. “I can’t imagine why they’d send a war correspondent to cover a glamorous event like this.”

Nancy glanced at the clock on the wall over the kitchen window. “Two o’clock.” She thought for a second. “Elizabeth is back in the palace, about to address her loyal subjects.”

Cathy chuckled. “Always the romantic, aren’t you, Nance? I’m surprised you didn’t stow away on the
Queen Mary
and sail to England for the festivities.”

“I thought about it.” But with a husband and a house and three little girls all under six, Nancy wasn’t going anywhere.

“Do you and Gerry still think about seeing the world?”

Nancy thought for a moment. “I do. Gerry’s too busy to think about much of anything.”

Cathy’s brow furrowed as she gently massaged her belly. “It seems to me Gerry’s been doing a great deal of thinking lately.”

An alarm went off in Nancy’s chest as she tried to remain cool and collected. “What do you mean?”

Cathy shifted in her chair, visibly uncomfortable. “He’s been a little... well, Nance, he’s been pretty short-tempered lately. Argumentative almost. He and Johnny had a shouting match last week about some illegible order numbers. Gerry almost dared John to fire him.”

She could barely control the trembling of her hands. The thought of Gerry’s being unemployed struck terror in her heart. “You know Johnny,” she said in what she hoped was a light and breezy tone. “He’s a little hotheaded, isn’t he?”

Cathy didn’t rise to the bait and that worried Nancy all the more. “Yes, he is, but that’s not the trouble, Nance.” She leaned forward and rested her hand on her sister’s forearm. “Is something wrong, honey? You can tell me.”

“Good Lord, you sound just like Mom.” She turned toward the sink and busied herself rinsing out a juice glass. “Nothing’s wrong. We couldn’t be happier.” Who wouldn’t be happy in a such a wonderful house? You’d have to be greedy to want anything more from life, wouldn’t you?

Cathy rose from her chair and stood behind Nancy. “I’m here if you need me,” she said, voice soft. “All you have to do is call.”

“I know,” said Nancy, “but everything’s fine. You don’t have to worry about us.”

They chatted as Nancy formed the hamburger patties and wrapped them in waxed paper for later on. Cathy picked up the baby and followed Nancy out into the small backyard where Linda and Billy were playing hide-and-seek with little Kathy as “it.” Gerry had built a brick barbecue near the end of the cement patio and it was Nancy’s job to make certain the charcoal briquettes were neatly arranged and ready for him to start cooking when he got home.

“An awful lot of trouble to make hamburgers, isn’t it?” Cathy observed as Nancy arranged the little squares of black charcoal. “Seems to me it would be easier to light the oven and use the broiler.”

“They taste better this way,” Nancy said, her voice tight. “They have cookouts in California all the time.” She’d read all about it in last week’s
Look
magazine. They’d said Dinah Shore and George Montgomery had the fanciest cookouts in town.

Cathy glanced up at the overcast sky. “It doesn’t rain in California.”

“Oh, no!” Nancy looked up at the gathering clouds. “It wouldn’t dare!”

“We can cook inside,” Cathy reminded her again.

“I promised you a barbecue and you’re going to have a barbecue.”

“Is this the why-you-should-move-to-the-suburbs treatment you’re giving me?”

Nancy grinned. “I thought I was being subtle.”

Cathy’s laughter rang out through the small backyard. “Nancy, if there’s anything you aren’t, it’s subtle.”

“Just wait until your second baby comes,” said Nancy. “You won’t have time for subtlety, either.”

They settled into conversation about babies and childbirth, which came as an enormous relief to Nancy. She’d known where Cathy was heading before, with all those questions. Given the least bit of encouragement, her sister would raise Gerry’s salary and shorten his hours and generally embarrass the daylights out of him. There were definite drawbacks to having your husband work for your family, especially with a husband as pigheaded as Gerry. Why, he hadn’t even wanted to buy a house in Levittown, and only because Wilson Manufacturing had been an important contractor for the Levitt firm.

But Gerry had finally given in. He took the job with Wilson and then he bought their house on Robin Hood Lane. And like thousands of other young husbands on Long Island, he settled into the life of the suburban commuter—a brand-new phenomenon.

She cast a sidelong glance at her sister, who was cradling the baby in her arms and whispering advice only an aunt could give. Maybe Cathy didn’t realize it, but the world was changing. Not everybody thought the city was the best place to raise a family. Kids needed sunshine and fresh air and lots of room to grow. Cathy might not want that for her Billy, but Nancy would settle for nothing less for her girls.

* * *

Furrawn.

Jane couldn’t remember where she’d learned the Welsh word, but its meaning had never left her.
Talk leading to intimacy
. She hadn’t understood everything that implied until now. Of all the weapons in the arsenal of the war between the sexes, was there anything more potent than conversation?

They’d finished their respective stories on her uncle’s weathered old green typewriter, then filed them with their respective bureaus.
Sorry, Leo
, she thought as she handed in her four pages of commentary.
Suddenly this doesn’t seem so important any longer
. There was a lull in the festivities and the celebrants swarmed up and down the byways of London, searching for food and drink and good cheer.

Once again she and Mac found themselves in the romantic pub where they had spent the earlier part of the afternoon. This time, however, the pub was crowded with revelers.

“It’s been hours,” she said, glancing at Mac’s watch. “The queen will be addressing the Empire in forty-five minutes.”

Mac, who was tracing the curve of her jaw with a fingertip, grinned. “What queen?”

‘Have you no appreciation for history, Mac?” she countered. “File your story and forget it—is that your motto?” She tapped him playfully on the wrist.

“Is this how you’re going to be after we’re married?”

She slipped her arms into the sleeves of her raincoat, which had been draped over the back of her chair. “It hasn’t been determined if we’ll indeed get married, Mac.”

“Haven’t you been listening?” He drew her up and into his embrace. “That’s exactly what we’ve been talking about all this time.”

She couldn’t argue with him. Although the word “marriage” hadn’t come up again as they’d sat in the pub, it had been clear it was the subtext of every sentence they uttered. Marriage. Future. Love. Shadows behind shadows, the real conversation beneath shifted and deepened with each minute that passed.

He backed her up against the table, bodies closer than a wiser woman would have allowed. Even through the layers of clothing, the heat was undeniable. “We’ve had our first date,” he said, his voice rough and sweet in her ear. “I walked you home. I met your folks. We’re on your front porch.”

She’d seen enough American films to know exactly what he was leading up to. “I should go in,” she said, playing along. “My father will have my head on a platter if I’m not upstairs before ten.”

She lifted her chin. He ducked his head. The vast difference in their heights made things a trifle inconvenient, but American men turned out to be as ingenious as rumored. She smelled the faint spicy aroma of his shaving soap, the warm scent of desire, the dark essence of ale as he came closer. The faint scar on his cheek begged for the touch of her mouth. Desire rose inside her. She could almost taste him, feel the texture of his lips and tongue, hear the slow rush as their breaths mingled.

Like the heroine in
Sleeping Beauty
she came alive at the touch of his mouth on hers. His kiss was hungry, possessive. The kiss of a man claiming what already belonged to him in thought and word and intent. It left her breathless and aching for more.

“I think it’s time for our second date,” she whispered as they moved apart once again.

It was his turn to look at his watch. “You’re right.” He kissed her quick and hard, then reached for his battered trench coat. “And in an hour it will be time for our third.”

She nodded. Somehow it all seemed perfectly logical in a dotty kind of way. It was a day of magic and splendor, a day when anything at all could happen and probably would. They stepped out of the pub and instantly found themselves swept up in a throng of revelers on their way to Buckingham Palace to see the queen. Confetti dotted Whitehall Street, and red and blue streamers drifted lazily along the rainswept sidewalks.