The Soldier's Bride (5 page)

“No, I uh, ju—”

“Right this way then,” Evelyn cut off his awkward explanation. If the man wanted to dine alone, she didn’t want to know why.

“I like to listen to music,” Sterling said as he followed her into the dining area.

“I think you’ll enjoy the pianist tonight then,” she replied. “Your waitress will be right with you.” She hurried out to the front to resume her post.

During the course of the next hour, Evelyn had to help LaRue several times as the dinner rush was heavier than anticipated.

Sterling smiled and touched her hand when she brought him a slice of pie. “I like the music, but tell your manager he needs to add some singing.”

Her fingers tingled where he had touched them. “Frank has different singers come and go, mostly on the weekends.”

“But do they sing as well as the hostess?”

Evelyn smiled. “You’re sweet, but I’m not a singer.”

Sterling stared at her a moment before answering, “Are you sure?”

She laughed and continued on to the next table.

After that night, Sterling came into the Silver Lining twice a week on Tuesday and Thursday—the same nights Evelyn worked.

One night, LaRue saw Sterling talking to Evelyn and told her, “He’s got it bad for you.”

“Who?” Evelyn opened her purse and fumbled for her ring. She’d forgotten to take it off that night until she walked in the door of the Silver Lining. It was folded inside a hankie next to her house key.

“Sterling Dennison, who else?” LaRue said. “Haven’t you noticed the way he looks at you? What a regular customer he’s become? And he never has a date.”

Evelyn paused and looked at the wedding ring she held in her hand. She thought about Sterling. He often visited with her for a few minutes before he left the restaurant. He exuded a quiet strength and she had noticed how he looked at her. Not in the leering, lustful way some men did but with a sincere appreciation. Her ring felt heavy in her hand, so she slipped it back on her finger and watched the gold glint in the overhead light.

Sterling was timid, never so bold as some of the men who asked Evelyn for a date as soon as she’d checked their reservation. He walked tentatively, trying to hide his limp. Evelyn supposed it was caused by a war injury and wondered why he didn’t flaunt it like some of the young soldiers who frequented the lounge.

During the walk home that night, she twisted the ring around and around as she hummed the song from the music box. The wind gusted and blew her skirt out in front of her as if pushing her back home to Danny and the memory of Jim.

Two months after he awoke from his drunken state, Leland cleaned out Jessie’s room. Beer bottles and shards of glass clanked and pinged against the metal bucket as Leland swept and emptied the dustpan over and over again. A crisp autumn breeze filtered through the window and into the room that was permeated with the smell of alcohol. The sounds of children playing trickled in from across the street.

Leland ran his hand over his clean-shaven face and freshly trimmed hair. He had washed and scrubbed until his skin nearly matched his red curls. His nose couldn’t get used to the smell of something other than liquor emanating from his body.

Once the room was cleared, he heated water on the stove and took a sprig of lavender from the bottle by the kitchen sink. He crushed the fragrant pods into the water. He’d seen Rhonda do this many times when she cleaned Jessie’s room.

“The lavender is good for babies. It’s soothing—reminds them they want to sleep instead of fuss,” she’d said as she mopped the floor with the scented water.

Leland hadn’t heard a word from Rhonda since she left. He figured he probably never would. The day he stopped drinking, he’d held her note and read between the lines that she wouldn’t be back to check on him.

At first he felt so sick he wanted to die. He would wake up in the middle of the night with a throat so parched and begging for alcohol he wondered if he could make it. His body still craved the tang of hard liquor, but Leland had determined he would never drink again.

He’d waited a whole week after Rhonda left before he wound the music box to hear the tormenting lullaby and think of her. That day the tune had sounded different. Maybe because it was the first time he’d heard it outside of a drunken haze, or maybe it was because of the words he’d found pasted into the side compartment under the peeling velvet-lined paper.

Leland had looked inside the music box to see what Rhonda meant and found the scrap of blue paper embossed with a silver bird. It was glued inside the lid of the compartment and the bold script read, “Don’t die with me.” Next to it, Rhonda had pasted a scrap of her green stationery on which she had written: “Forgive yourself—allow God to forgive.”

The words spoke to a place in his heart that had been drowned in liquor for too long. The brass crank turned slowly under his tentative fingers, and Leland hesitated before opening the center compartment and allowing the ballerina to dance again. Glancing at the two phrases, he sighed and then opened the music box. The ballerina sprang to life and twirled to the tune.

Leland gritted his teeth in anticipation of the haunting melody, but when he heard the first strains of music, he relaxed. Breathing came in an unexpected rhythm with the music. As he listened to the tune, he thought of Jessie, and for the first time his heart didn’t feel like a solid rock in his chest. His heart had finally risen to the surface above years of pain and grief. He shuddered, flinging off the first layer of his protective shell—an armor made of sheet after thin sheet of guilt, a substance far stronger than any hardwood tree.

That was seven weeks ago. He had struggled through the burning desire of an alcoholic’s thirst and tried not to dwell on the past. But he could no longer ignore the scent of lavender from his memory, Jessie’s singing, the wind howling through the trees. He didn’t want to dwell on the past, but he had to make peace with it so he could live in the present.

Through those crippling days, he listened to the music box again and again. He let the tune caress his wounded heart, and though he wasn’t sure he could ever forgive himself for what he had done, he could at least live outside the bottom of a beer bottle.

With rhythmic strokes he scrubbed the floor of all traces of those days when he had hidden, invisible underneath his armor of guilt. He thought again of the melody the music box played, the way the tune reminded him that life was worth living. The music box had acted as a catalyst, and now that Rhonda had left, things would never be the same.

Leland absorbed the reality of his situation and embraced the chance he had to change. It helped to break down a few more layers of guilt, and his heart swelled as if beating for the first time.

Leland walked without the weight of crushing grief. One step away from blame. One step toward hope. He finished cleaning Jessie’s room and left the window ajar so the scent of lavender from freshly mopped floors would spread through the house.

He poured the bucket of murky water off the front porch and watched it drip into the dirt and accumulate on the first leaves of autumn lining the flower beds. The oak tree loomed above the house, but it didn’t bother him anymore to hear the wind whistle through the branches.

Steady steps now took him to his workshop. A little time spent each day cleaning had the shop in working order again. The first day he stepped inside his shop, his throat burned with desire for liquor, and he wanted to turn and run. Instead, he opened the music box he’d carried with him and let the melody move through the air, dancing with sawdust particles and diminishing the fear that seemed to cling to the tools Leland needed to use to get back to work.

With the first order finished, word trickled out that Leland was shaping wood into beautiful pieces of furniture again. People had heard about the alcoholic—the heartbroken father—and they stepped lightly when they came near the shop. But they couldn’t deny Leland’s ability to uncover treasures from a knotted piece of cherry wood, so they placed their orders.

During the last few months of 1944, Leland worked until his fingers were raw. The music box accumulated layers of fine sawdust, but he still played it whenever he felt thirsty and needed a reminder.

On a particularly slow Tuesday night in February 1945, Evelyn polished the desk and chair rail while humming her song. Four months of working at the lounge had been good for her. Life had settled into a pleasant pattern. She still felt the pain of Jim’s absence, but Danny was growing and requiring more time and energy, and that kept her mind busy.

She had plenty of time to think during the lulls at the Silver Lining, and more lyrics had fallen into the rhythm of the song. Evelyn had been singing it every afternoon when she put Danny down for his nap. Rubbing vigorously with the dust cloth, she glanced around at the empty waiting area and began singing softly.

There’s an angel on my shoulder.

There’s an angel by my side.

And he leads me and he guides me

through the trials in my life.

She hesitated and glanced around before she continued.

There’s an angel by the river,

where you left me with good-bye.

There’s an angel, you’re that angel.

I can feel you in my heart.

The door hadn’t made its usual squeaking noise when it opened, but Evelyn felt someone watching her and whirled around. “Oh!” she said when she recognized Sterling standing just inside the doorway.

His cheeks went crimson and he brushed a hand over his black hair. “Please don’t stop singing. I’m sorry I scared you. I didn’t want you to stop.” He walked forward so quickly that his right leg snagged on the carpet. He stumbled forward and caught himself on the desk. Evelyn was afraid the desk would collapse under his weight, but it held as he righted himself and stood still, the muscles in his brawny arms tensing.

“Are you okay?” Evelyn hated to ask but felt torn between the duties of a hostess and the desire to give Sterling his privacy.

She noticed the muscle in his jaw tighten and relax. “I’m fine.” He straightened his suit and wiped a hand across his face. Evelyn could see the shadow of coarse whiskers and wondered if he had shaved before coming to the lounge. He grunted and clenched his hand into a fist then released it at the same time he blew out a breath of air. “Why is this so hard for me?” he mumbled.

Unsure of how to respond, she said, “Your regular table tonight?”

Sterling’s shoulders drooped and he nodded. Confused as to the inner turmoil he seemed to be facing, Evelyn led the way with a menu in hand. It was obvious Sterling cared for her, and at times she thought he was working up the courage to ask her out, but then he would retreat back into his shell. It was probably for the best, she thought. Maybe he had noticed how standoffish she acted toward all the men who offered her attention.

Later that night when Evelyn escorted another guest into the dining area, she noticed Sterling talking to Frank at the bar. She caught herself thinking of him again as she scheduled reservations, and shook her head.

Close to the end of her shift, someone humming her song entered the waiting area. Evelyn’s eyes widened, but she relaxed when she saw it was only Sterling. “Evelyn, I’ve got that tune stuck in my head. Will you sing more of it for me?” Sterling said.

“I’ve never sung the whole song to anyone before, except Danny.”

Sterling leaned against the reception desk, and she caught the unmistakable whiff of motor oil mixed with cologne. “Your voice is beautiful and so is the song. You should share it.”

“I don’t know if I’m comfortable singing in front of people.”

“How about just me for starters?” Sterling asked.

His face was open, and he seemed sincerely interested. She bit back her refusal. What would it hurt to sing a little of the song to him? He had already heard the first verse. She glanced at the clock. It was almost nine thirty and she doubted anyone else would need to be seated tonight. “Okay.”

Sterling gave her such an eager smile that some of her hesitancy melted away. She began singing the first verse.

There’s an angel on my shoulder.

There’s an angel by my side.

Sterling watched her as she sang. Heat crept up her neck, making the collar of her dress itch. Her voice cracked, and she faltered. He reached out his hand and grasped hers.

“Keep going. It’s perfect.”

With the warmth of his hand emanating up her arm, she continued.

There’s an angel by the river,

where you left me with good-bye.

There’s an angel, you’re that angel.

I can feel you in my heart.

She took a breath. Sterling squeezed her hand and looked at her expectantly. She swallowed and continued singing.

And I wonder as I wander

through the forest that I’ve made,

full of trees that grow with sorrow

on the steps that I must take.

Evelyn paused before the chorus she had written. “I’m still working on the chorus.” He lifted her other hand in his and his green eyes sparkled. “Evelyn, that was magnificent. You have a real talent.”

“Yes, she does,” Frank said as he stepped from the shadows of the lounge. She jumped, pulling her hands from Sterling’s grasp and holding them behind her back.

“Evelyn, why have you never told me you can sing?” Frank asked. “You know I’ve been looking for someone to fill in my weekend schedule.”

Evelyn narrowed her eyes at Sterling. “You tricked me. You wanted Frank to hear my song.”

“In part, I did want him to hear. I told him of your singing, but I didn’t know he was going to follow me and eavesdrop.” Sterling looked at Frank and raised his eyebrows.