The Diary (21 page)

Emily and Sarah exchanged a glance.

“Why don't you have a seat?” offered Sarah. “I'll bet you could use a cup of coffee. I know I sure could.”

The two sisters went to fetch coffee and refreshments, returning a short while later to find Bob Miller standing by the fireplace, holding a framed photo from the mantel—the one of their parents on their wedding day. In it, their mother was dressed not in white but in a pale-pink suit with a fitted skirt and peplum jacket, and a smart little hat with a veil that came down over one eye. Their father looked uncharacteristically sober-sided in a suit and tie. They'd decided against a church wedding, or so the story went, because they'd been in too big a hurry to get married.

“She was so beautiful, your mother.” The old man gazed at the photo a little while longer before returning it to its spot on the mantel. When he turned to face them, his eyes were bright with unshed tears, and he wore an odd, wistful smile. “I loved her very much at one time, you know.”

Emily and Sarah exchanged another look, both wondering the same thing: Was there yet another surprise in store when it came to their mother's love life? Or was this man merely referring to a long-ago crush? “Were you and my mother close?” Emily probed discreetly, placing the tray she was carrying on the coffee table before sinking down next to her sister on the sofa.

“Oh, yes, quite close.” The old man fell silent for a moment, his expression pensive, then shook himself free of his reverie and slowly lowered himself into the easy chair opposite the sofa, gripping its arms to brace himself. “I'll tell you the story if you have the time,” he said once he was comfortably settled. He directed his keen, blue-eyed gaze at the sisters. “But first, there's something I should ask. What did your folks tell you about how they fell in love?”

Sarah poured the coffee and handed him a cup. “I don't know that there was a particular moment when they fell in love. I think it was just something that grew over time. After all, they'd known each other since childhood.” She saw no reason for this man to be told their mother's entire history.

Emily wasn't so circumspect. “They didn't talk much about those days,” she explained, “but we came across Mom's old diary when we were cleaning out her attic, so we were able to piece together some of the story. We know she was involved with someone else before our parents were married. Someone named AJ.”

Bob stared at them, looking perplexed for some reason. “AJ was your father,” he said.

This time the glance that Emily and Sarah exchanged was a knowing one. It was obvious to them now that the old man was missing a few of his marbles. “I'm afraid you're mistaken.” Sarah addressed him as gently as she did old Mr. Maynard next door, the senile World War II veteran who stood outside his house every day in full uniform, saluting passersby. “Our father's name was Bob. Bob Marshall. You must have known him if you all went to school together.”

“Sure, I knew him.”

“Well, then, you must have gotten him mixed up with—” Sarah started to say. Before she could finish, she was jolted into silence by the old man's next words.

“AJ was just what he called himself back then.”

Now Emily and Sarah thought it was they who must be going mad. “I don't understand.” Emily was slow to react, her thought processes dulled by grief and the day's outpouring of sympathy. “Mom wrote in her diary about someone named Bob. We just assumed it was our dad.”

“That would've been me.” The old man went on to explain, “You see, there were three boys named Bobby in our class. I was one—they called me Bobby M. Then there was Bobby Newland … and your dad. Needless to say, our teachers were always getting us mixed up.” He chuckled at the memory. “Used to drive your dad crazy because I got to be ‘Bobby M.' while he was just plain old ‘Bobby.' But it wasn't until after his folks were killed in that car wreck that he took on the nickname of ‘AJ.' A for Adam—that was his father's name—and J for Jeanette, his mom's.”

Sarah and Emily had known that their father had been raised by his grandparents, but they had never met them—their great-grandfather had died before Sarah was born, and their great-grandmother, who'd suffered from dementia, had been confined to a nursing home for years. Now it dawned on them that their great-uncle Cole, of whom they'd only heard occasional mention (their father had always discouraged any suggestion that they invite him to visit by saying he and Cole didn't see eye to eye), was the brutish uncle their mother had referred to in her diary, whose car AJ—their dad—had torched in a fit of temper. And that it had been their
father
who'd done time in juvenile detention. Their heads were reeling with the revelation; it was too much to take in all at once. How could two such different men—the elusive, free-spirited AJ and the stable, down-to-earth Bob Marshall—be one and the same?

And what about the nickname “AJ”? As the mists began to clear, Sarah recalled that their mother, in moments of affection, would occasionally call their father “Jay.” Sarah had taken it as a reference to an old family joke—their mother used to tease that he must have been a blue jay in another life because of the chattering of power tools forever drifting up from his basement workshop. But now it took on new meaning. If this past week hadn't been such a blur, she might have thought of it sooner.

“When did he go back to being Bob?” she wanted to know.

“In the service,” replied the old man. “Whatever name they called out during roll call, that was what you answered to. I ought to know; I was there. We were in the same company. We fought together in Korea.”

“Wow.” Emily could see now why she'd confused the two men in the diary. They'd
both
served in Korea.

“Your dad was drafted shortly after I enlisted, just after he and your mom eloped,” Bob Miller went on to explain. “I don't mind telling you it was a bad day when he got assigned to my company. We were just getting ready to ship out. I remember thinking that the big guy upstairs must be testing me—not only was I going to get shot at over there, I'd have to rub elbows with the man who'd walked off with my girl.” He smiled ruefully as he spoke, as if at the youthful passions of someone he used to know, saying in a gentler tone, “But while we were overseas, I got to know another side of him. He was a good man, your dad. The plain fact is, I owe him my life.”

The sisters sat riveted, staring at the old man as if he'd pulled a rabbit out of a hat, heedless of the hoots and hollers coming from the next room, where Sarah's teenaged sons were engaged in a spirited game on their Wii, and the clattering from the kitchen as Jeff cleaned up. Was there no end to the twists and turns of this bizarre tale?

“Oh, I know what you're thinking,” Bob Miller went on. “I had every right to hate his guts, and I won't deny that I did. But we were soldiers first, so we had to set aside all that other stuff. Easy to do once we started seeing combat. Over there, all I could think about was staying alive. Your dad ever tell you about the Battle of Hill Eerie?” They shook their heads, and he continued in his rumbling baritone, “It was in March of '52. Orders came down that we were to take the outpost, so they set up a couple of patrol squads around the perimeter and sent in twenty-six of us from the 3rd Platoon—me and your dad, we were in the rifle squad. That, I can tell you, was the longest night of my life. And we were still at it come morning. The Chinese had us outnumbered and were gaining ground. The command post had radioed that reinforcements were on the way, but from where we sat, it didn't look like they'd make it in time. At one point, we were pinned down by machine-gun fire. Four of our men were killed, several more wounded. I caught a bullet in my leg.” He slapped his right thigh. “It was your dad who held them off until the reinforcements arrived. So, yes, I owe him. I wouldn't be alive to tell the tale if it weren't for him.”

Emily and Sarah knew their father had earned an medal for bravery in battle, but the details had been vague until now. What wasn't a surprise was that he'd risked his own neck to save others. On or off the battle field, he'd never been one to take a passive role. Like the time back in the 1960s, before the passage of the Civil Rights Act, when a few racist members of their homeowners' association had tried to keep a black family from moving into the neighborhood. He'd gone door to door, gathering signatures on a petition, as a result of which the Greens had been able to buy the house next door to theirs. Over the years, the two families had become close friends. In fact, Vernon Green had been among those to give a eulogy at their father's funeral. Both Ethel and Vernon, along with their grown children, had attended Elizabeth's funeral as well.

“I lost touch with him after the war,” Bob said with some regret. “He and your mom had moved to California. I stayed in Emory, as you know—that's where I met my wife. Later I heard your dad was working at some computer company. To be honest, I never thought it'd amount to anything. Back then we all thought that was pretty high-tech stuff. I couldn't foresee a day when there'd be a computer on every desk.” He smiled and shook his head. “Funny how things work out.”

“Mom wrote in her diary that he used to make a living doing caricatures at county fairs,” Emily said. “Do you know anything about that?”

Bob Miller took a sip of his coffee, the tremor in his hand causing the cup to rattle in its saucer before he raised it to his lips. “Sure, I remember. He was pretty good at it, too, from what I heard.”

“I wonder why he never said anything to us.” Emily glanced at Sarah, frowning.

“Oh, he never thought much of that,” Bob said. “A cheap parlor trick was what he called it. I imagine he figured that if the people he worked with knew about it, they wouldn't take him seriously.”

Sarah turned to Emily. “Remember those little cartoons Dad used to draw on napkins to keep us entertained in restaurants? And the posters?” She brought her gaze back to their guest, explaining, “Every year he'd design the poster for the community center's Christmas fair. People couldn't get over how professional-looking they were, but my sister and I just took it for granted that everyone's father could draw that well.” She realized now that their father must have channeled most of his creative energy into his job as head of R&D at Hewitt, where he'd been in charge of implementing new ideas that required complex designs.

Emily nodded slowly. She was remembering things, too. Like how her parents had been a closed corporation in some respects. They'd loved her and her sister, of course, but their focus had always been on each other. She recalled the looks they would exchange across the dinner table, as though sharing some private joke. And the way their mom would drop whatever she was doing when their father arrived home from work each night and run to meet his car as it pulled into the garage. She thought of the jewelry box her father had made Elizabeth for Christmas one year, the hours he must have spent in his basement shop fashioning all its little drawers, sanding and varnishing it, and how her mother had treasured that box more than any of the jewels it contained.

He'd been the love of her life. How could Emily have doubted that for a second?

“Did Mom ever send you that ‘Dear John' letter?” she asked.

Bob Miller's face creased once more in a rueful smile. “No, as a matter of fact, she didn't. She kept her word. She came to see me instead—rode the bus all the way down to Fort Riley to tell me in person. It was a gutsy thing for her to do. I knew that even then, though I'm afraid I didn't take it so well at the time. I didn't think I'd ever get over it, but eventually I did. In the end, she did me a favor. Otherwise I never would have met Maggie.” His eyes misted over at the mention of his dead wife. “I wish your mother could've known my Maggie. She'd have liked her.”

They chatted a while longer over coffee and cake. Sarah invited him to stay for supper, and Emily offered to put him up at her place for the night. Bob thanked them warmly but declined both invitations. He was scheduled to fly home that evening, he told them, and had arranged for a car to take him to the airport. When the car arrived, the sisters were sorry to see him go. They understood why their mother had been so fond of him. They also understood why she'd chosen their father. Bob Miller was a nice man, but he wasn't a patch on their dad.

“Can you believe it?” declared Emily as they shut the door behind him. “Imagine if he hadn't shown up. We'd have spent the rest of our lives wondering if Mom married the wrong guy!”

“Which, as it turns out, wasn't the case,” Sarah said with some relief.

“What if it wasn't a coincidence, his showing up like that?” Emily said as they gathered up coffee cups and crumb-littered plates. She paused to direct her gaze at her sister. “What if it was all part of some cosmic plan? I mean, do you really think our finding the diary was an accident? Because I'm not so sure it was.” Her more practical-minded sister might scoff at the idea, but she believed there were things that were beyond their ken.

Her sister wasn't scoffing, though. Sarah's expression was serious, even thoughtful, as she considered the possibility that fate had played a hand in their discoveries. At last she exhaled deeply and said, “Who knows? Maybe it is some sort of divine plan. The important thing is, we know what to do now.”

“About what?”

“I think we need to take a trip—to Emory.”

Emily picked up at once on her train of thought. “Does this have something to do with Mom's and Dad's ashes?”

As soon as Sarah described what she had in mind, Emily realized it made perfect sense. In fact, she wondered why she hadn't thought of it herself. The only thing that came as a surprise was that it had been her sister—sensible, down-to-earth Sarah—who'd come up with such a wonderfully grand and romantic scheme.