The Wedding Tree (13 page)

“Nah. The guards don't care who leaves the base, just who gets in.”

I closed my eyes as we passed the guard station, pretending to be asleep. Lord only knew what kind of girl the guards must think I was, being taken home at dawn! On the ride home, I learned that Carl was Joe's best friend, and that his esteem for Joe bordered on hero worship. Carl had some kind of health condition that made him occasionally pass out. He'd hidden it from the authorities so he could join the service, but he'd been discovered. He'd been pulled from active duty and was now a bombardier instructor at the New Orleans lakefront flight facility.

I was polite, but I didn't really want to talk. I just wanted to replay the evening in my mind, to burn it all into my memory.

As we neared Lucille's house, I asked the men to let me off a block away. It was nearly six o'clock in the morning, and there was a real risk someone would see me. I made up my mind to say I'd
awakened early and gone for a walk if I ran into anyone, but I made it back to the house without incident. I let myself in with my key. To my almost unimaginable good luck, both Marge and Lucille were still asleep.

I crept into bed, and although an hour remained before I had to be up for work, I couldn't doze off. The thought that I'd been a mile or more up in the sky chased through my veins. It was a toss-up which thrilled me more: the hour's ride in the B-24, or the fact I'd been with Joe.

hope

E
ddie had arranged for both occupational and physical therapists to work with Gran a few times a week, and the next morning, one of them arrived as Gran and I were finishing breakfast. Gran shooed me out of the house, so I grabbed the sketch of the girls' room I'd stayed up half the night drawing and headed to a coffee shop I'd spotted downtown.

It was located in what had once been the newspaper office on the town square, and it had a green-and-white-striped awning with
The Daily Grind
emblazoned in black script. The rich scent of coffee enveloped me as I opened the door. The interior was rustic and funky, with high ceilings, exposed beams, and a redbrick back wall.

Most of the tables were full, and several people were in line ahead of me. A pretty redhead about my age worked behind the counter. She was petite and slender, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, over which she wore a green restaurant bib apron emblazoned with the cafe's logo. She chatted with the customers as she filled their orders, apparently well acquainted with them all.

She handed a large paper cup in a cardboard sleeve to the man in front of me. “There you go, Mike. Say hello to Joan for me.”

He nodded. “Sure will. Do the same to Sam.”

She turned her attention to me, then broke into a big smile. “Hey, you're Adelaide McCauley's granddaughter, aren't you?”

I nodded, trying to place her. So many people had come by the hospital and the house to visit Gran that it was hard to keep track of them, but surely I'd remember meeting such a striking redhead.

My consternation must have shown on my face, because she gave me a reassuring smile. “We haven't met. I recognized you from all the descriptions. This is a small town, so any new person is a hot topic.” She leaned over the counter and held out her hand. “I'm Kirsten Deval.”

I shook her hand. “Hope Stevens. Nice to meet you.”

“What can I get you?”

I ordered a skinny cappuccino.

“Your grandmother practically saved my life when I was in fourth grade,” she said, pulling a bottle of skim milk from an under-counter fridge.

“Oh?”

Her auburn ponytail bobbed as she nodded. “She took all the class pictures when I was in elementary school. I had the wildest, frizziest red hair you've ever seen, and even though I always wore it in a ponytail or pigtails, it still looked like a hot mess.” She poured a little milk into a metal pitcher. “I lost my mother when I was six, and my father—well, he didn't know much about girls' hair, and after he fell and hurt his back, we didn't have money for extras for beauty salon visits. Your grandmother heard one of the kids call me Cheeto Head—which, believe me, was one of the nicer names I was called.”

She put the milk back in the refrigerator. “Well, Miss Addie made a big deal out of complimenting me in front of everyone, saying how my hair was just like some famous actress's, and she could see that I was going to look just like her when I grew up. It immediately made me feel better. Then that night, she dropped by our house.”

Kirsten scooped espresso grounds out of a can into the metal cappuccino basket, then fitted it onto the machine. “She talked to my dad—said she'd been struck by my similarity to her daughter who'd moved away, and how much she missed her, and that her daughter had left her blow-dryer and brush behind, and would he mind if she gave it to me and showed me how to use it.

“My dad was proud—oh, he wouldn't take any charity from anyone!—but your grandmother made him feel as if he was doing
her
a favor. So she gave me a round brush and a blow-dryer and showed me how to use them—and a few weeks later, she somehow arranged for me to ‘win' a free haircut at the local salon every two months for the next five years through a PTA drawing. I've never forgotten her kindness.”

I'd always known Gran was thoughtful and generous, but the tale touched my heart. Especially considering that my mother's hair was fine, straight, and light brown—not at all like Kirsten's. “Gran's pretty amazing, all right.”

“She sure is. I was so sorry to hear about her fall. I visited her while she was in the hospital, but I don't think she knew who I was.” She frothed the milk, raising her voice to be heard over the noise of the espresso machine. “How's she doing? Is she still planning to move to California?”

I filled her in on Gran's progress as she poured the espresso into a cup, then scooped milk foam on top. “At the rate we're going through her things, though, it'll take a year or more.”

She handed me the steaming mug. “Maybe that's her plan. I'm sure she enjoys your company.”

“And I enjoy hers—but she's actually eager to move. She talks to Eddie every night, and she's excited about living by the ocean.” I took a sip of foam. “That's one of the wonderful things about Gran. She's always so enthusiastic about whatever's happening next.”

Kirsten nodded. “Her enthusiasm's motivated a lot of good in this community.” She lifted up a pamphlet from a stack on the counter. “She was one of the founders of this.”

I read the title. “‘Friends of the Forest?'”

She nodded. “It's a reforestation program to help save the wetlands. It started with Miss Addie getting the city to collect used Christmas trees and use them to stop coastal erosion along Lake Pontchartrain. She'd read about the state doing that along the Gulf, and saw no reason why it couldn't work along the lake, as well.”

I knew Gran had started the Christmas tree project, but I didn't know her efforts had spawned a whole year-round organization. I glanced over the brochure. “You plant trees in the wetlands?”

She nodded. “Once a month during the spring and fall. We're going out this Saturday. You should join us.”

“Where is it?”

“The nature preserve just outside of town. We'll meet here at seven and drive out together. We'll be done by nine or nine thirty. Your grandmother always used to go. I'm sure she'd love for you to participate.”

She was right—and I loved the idea of supporting a cause Gran had originated. I nodded. “I'll try to make it.”

“Great!” Leaning her hip against the counter, she cocked her head and looked at me quizzically. “So what's happening with the mural at Matt's place?”

“You know about that?”

She nodded.

Once again, I'd underestimated the power of the Wedding Tree grapevine. “I just looked at the room last night.” I held up my sketchbook. “I'm working up some ideas.”

Her eyes lit up. “Can I see what you've got so far?”

“Well, it's still rough, but . . .” I opened the sketchbook and showed her.

She drew in an admiring breath. “Oh, that's wonderful!”

“Everything the girls showed me was Disney, and this is a completely different style,” I said. “I hope they'll like it.”

“They'll love it! You did all this last night?”

I nodded. “I work fast.” Embarrassingly fast, my ex used to say. Real art, he'd repeatedly told me, took time.

“This is fabulous!” She looked up from the sketch. “Do you have any interest in painting a mural in here? I'm opening the back room, and I'd love to have a historical drawing of the town square on one of the walls. It would be so great to have the faces of local people in it, maybe wearing old-timey clothing like their ancestors wore. I'm sure the stores that you'd draw would sponsor it.”

Potential angles and images immediately popped into my head. A wave of excitement surged through me. I tamped it down. “I don't know how long the one at Matt's house will take, and I've barely gotten started on going through my grandmother's things.”

“Well, think about it. If you have time and you're interested, I would love it. I'm sure the merchants on the square would, too. I'd make sure you were very well compensated.”

The bells over the door jangled. I turned to see Jillian walk in. I lifted my hand in a wave, and she froze just inside the doorway.

“Hey there, Jill,” called Kirsten.

She smiled and moved stiffly toward the counter. “Hi, Kirsten.” She nodded at me. “Hope.”

“Want your usual?” Kirsten asked.

“No, thanks. Just black coffee today.”

“Wow, you're really sticking to your diet,” Kirsten observed.

“Yes, well . . .” She nodded, her hands smoothing her skirt. “I'm trying.”

“Whatever you're doing sure is working.” Kirsten poured a large paper cup, put on a lid, and handed it to Jillian. “You look wonderful.”

“Thanks.”

“Hope was just showing me a sketch of the mural for Sophie and Zoey's room.”

“Is that a fact.” I expected Jillian to ask to see it, but she just dug in her purse and paid for her coffee. “I've got to run or I'll be late for school. Nice seeing you both.” She gathered up her drink and turned to leave.

“Will I see you at Matt's later?” I called after her.

“I—I'm not sure. I have a parent meeting after school.” She tossed out a quick “good-bye” over her shoulder and scurried out of the coffee shop.

“I don't think she much likes me,” I said as the door closed behind her.

“Oh, that's just Jillian. She's a little socially awkward—the exact opposite of her sister that way.”

“Oh yeah?” I was curious about Matt's late wife.

Kirsten nodded and wiped down the counter. “Christine never met a stranger. She was one of those people that others just gravitate to, you know? And Jillian—well, she just doesn't have the gift of gab.”

“What's the story with her and Matt?”

“She's his sister-in-law.”

“I got the impression there was something more.”

“Really?” She considered it for a moment. “Nah. I just don't see it. Although I'm pretty sure Jillian would be open to the idea. What single girl wouldn't be, right?”

I lifted my shoulders and took a sip of cappuccino.

“What about you?” she asked. “Are you single?”

“Divorced.” It still felt like a failure, saying it. “You?”

“I'm married, though you wouldn't know it from the amount of time my husband and I are together.” She grabbed a white bar towel and wiped down the counter. “Right now he's in the North Sea. Before that, he was off the coast of Africa.”

“Is he in the service?”

“He was, but not anymore. Now he's the captain of a supply ship that largely works on military contracts. Did you see that movie
Captain Phillips
? Well, that's him—except his boat has guns.”

“Wow. Do you ever go with him?”

“No passengers allowed.” Her face grew tight. “He keeps saying he's going to quit, but then he always signs up for another voyage.”

Uh-oh. Sounded like trouble in paradise.

The door jangled and three chattering middle-aged women came in, followed by two men in ball caps advertising the local feedstore. I picked up my coffee and sketchbook. “I'd better let you get to work—and I'd better do that myself.”

Kirsten smiled. “So nice to meet you. And please try to join us on Saturday! It'll be a good time. The carpool group is a bunch of women about our age.”

“I'll try to make it,” I said. I carried my cappuccino to a table in the corner, got out my pencils, and started detailing stones on an ivory tower.

adelaide

I
hated the idea of someone bathing me. I needed help stepping over the side of the tub and getting seated in that shower chair from the medical equipment store, though, and I could no longer reach my back or my feet. Thank heavens the aide lets me wash my personal parts myself so I can cling to a shred of dignity.

By the time she'd helped me dry off and dress, Hope was back. Through the window, I watched her lug a trash can full of flattened empty boxes and garbage bags to the curb. At my request, the aide settled me in my bedroom rocker, then left the room.

“Let's go through my closet,” I said when Hope came back inside and stuck her head in my room.

“Oh boy!” She pulled out her little portable phone—they call them cell phones, though I don't know why. I think they should call them camera phones because they can take pictures.“I've been looking forward to this. If it's okay with you, I'll take pictures of your clothes as we bring them out. Then I can send an e-mail to a vintage store in Chicago or upload them on eBay.”

I had no idea what she was talking about, but I loved the idea of taking photos of my clothes. I should have done that years ago myself.

“Whatever you want to do is fine, dear. I thought that going
through my closet would help me remember the things I need to tell you, because I can recall what I was wearing when special things happened.” I gave her a sheepish grin. “Although I'm afraid I can't remember what we were talking about when we left off.”

“You'd just told me about the night Joe took you up in the bomber.”

“Oh yes. Yes, indeed! Oh, that was quite an experience. Pull out that green plaid skirt at the back.”

She dug around in my closet. “This one?”

“Yes. That's what I was wearing that night.”

She took a picture of it with her phone camera, then did something with her thumbs.

“There's a blue-and-white polka-dot dress in there, with a fabric-covered belt. Do you see it?”

She rooted around and pulled it out. It had a V-neck, short sleeves, and navy buttons down the front. She hung it on the door and took a photo.

“Did you ever get your camera back?” Hope asked.

“What?”

She pulled the dress off the door and handed it to me. “You said you gave your camera to Kevin or Carl that night.”

“Oh!” A scrap of the past floated by like flotsam. “Yes. Yes, I did. He gave it back to me when he let me out of the car that morning.”

“Do you have any pictures of Joe?”

I nodded. “Not taken that night, but yes, I have a few.”

“I'd love to see them. Where are they?”

I drew a blank. I frowned and tried to think. Nope. Nothing came. “I can't seem to recall at the moment. I'm sure it will come to me later.” At least, I hoped it would. I knew I'd put them somewhere Charlie couldn't find them, but since my fall, I can't recollect exactly where.

I leaned back and closed my eyes, letting the past swirl and thicken around me like smoke, until it was something I seemed to breathe. Once again, I heard myself talking.

1943

I had the hardest time keeping quiet about that plane ride the next day—especially around Marge. I didn't think I could keep my mouth shut—and I was totally exhausted anyway, so I pretended to be sick on Tuesday and spent the day in bed.

By Wednesday, it all seemed like a dream. I was beginning to doubt my sanity. Had it really happened, or had I made it all up? Why hadn't I heard from Joe?

I dressed in that polka-dot dress and went to work, and that made it seem more unreal—going on as before, as though nothing as life changing as flying through the sky had occurred. I was assigned to the darkroom that morning, and it only added to my gloom. I was gathering up the police beat photographer's film from the night before when the senior editor, a roly-poly man named Thomas Coppler, called my name.

I turned and looked at him, startled, as he waddled toward me. He was three layers of management above my supervisor; I didn't think he even knew who I was. He had wavy gray hair, a coarse salt-and-pepper mustache, and a big belly. He liked to wear knitted sweater-vests, and the one he wore on that particular day was brown and covered with what looked like cake crumbs. “You've got a phone call,” he said.

I must have looked surprised. I'd never received a call at work.

“From your cousin.” His eyes were soft and sympathetic, in a way that conveyed bad news. “You can take it at my desk.”

I followed him across the newsroom, my heart racing, my mind scanning through my cousins. I had five of them, but I wasn't particularly close to any of them. If something had happened to a member of my family, my parents would call—unless something happened to my parents. In that case, though, my grandmother or Aunt Beula would have called. Unless something had happened to them, as well, and then . . .

The phone was lying on his desk, off the hook. He handed it to me. My hand shook as I lifted it to my ear. “Hello?”

“Pretend I'm giving you bad news,” said a deep, smooth baritone.
Joe
. My heart stopped for a second, then beat double time.

“What?”

“Look shocked. Pretend I'm telling you that dear old Uncle Leo bit the dust. That's what I just told your boss.”

“But . . .”

“Just listen to me. I know you don't want to lie, so I did it for you. All you need to do is gather up your stuff and leave. He'll let you off for the rest of the week.”

“But . . .”

“He's standing there listening, isn't he? So don't say a word. I already told him your uncle in Mississippi died and we need you here to help with arrangements. I've got leave until Sunday. If you're asked specifics, say you're going to Coldwater, just outside of Jackson. It won't be a lie. I'll take you to Mississippi.”

“I—I don't . . .”

“Just look shocked. From the way you sound, I imagine that's how you look anyway, so you won't even have to do any acting. Just grab your purse and leave. If anyone asks for an explanation, just say you have a family situation—which, of course, you do. Having a family is a situation in and of itself. Then take the trolley . . .”

“Streetcar,” I automatically corrected.

“. . . streetcar to Jackson Avenue. I'll meet you there in half an hour.”

“I—I don't know.”

“Let me talk to Thomas again.”

I was acutely aware that Mr. Coppler was watching me. I numbly I held out the phone. “He—he wants to talk to you.”

Mr. Coppler gave me a sympathetic smile and took the receiver. He listened for a moment. “Of course. I understand completely. I'll take care of it.”

He cast me a kindly look—his eyes were big and brown and expressive like Charlie Chaplin's—and set the phone in its cradle. “I'm so sorry.”

I nodded. I had the strongest urge to laugh, but fear kept me from it.

“Now, don't you worry about a thing. Take the rest of the week off. And don't concern yourself about money. I'll see to it that you get hardship pay.”

“Oh! I couldn't. I mean, that—that's not necessary.”

He patted my shoulder, then pulled his hand back, as if he was unsure if he should touch me. He was endearingly awkward. “That's all right. We take care of our own around here.”

Guilt stabbed me. “Really, you don't need . . .”

“It's our policy.” He made a shooing motion with his hands. “Now go. And don't worry about a thing here.”

I nodded, gathered up my coat and purse, and left the building in a numb daze. As I climbed on the streetcar, the numbness gave way to a bizarre combination of delight and outrage. I'd never known a man like Joe—so take-charge, so willful, so forceful. How masculine, how movie-star-ish, how thrilling!

Yet, on the other hand, how
dare
he? He was playing fast and loose with my career, making decisions that weren't his to make.

It was as if he'd staked a claim on me. As if I belonged to him.

A shiver of excitement spun up my spine. The idea of belonging to Joe, of Joe belonging to me . . . well, it positively bewitched me. At the same time, it scared me to death.

Which took me back full circle to outrage. How
dare
he? Just who did he think he was?

Joe was leaning on the lamppost at the intersection of St. Charles Avenue and Jackson when the streetcar clanged to a stop. I climbed down the wooden stairs behind a matron with a cane, my heart pounding so hard I could feel it in my throat, attraction buzzing through me like a hive of bees. He stepped toward me as if he was going to hug me, but his smile punched my anger button. I pushed
him hard on the chest with both hands. “That was awfully presumptuous of you.”

He gave me a crooked grin. “I wanted to see you.”

“So you concocted a cockamamie story and lied to my boss?”

He lifted his shoulders. “You could have told him I wasn't your cousin—that I was just a cheeky soldier trying to get you to play hooky with him.”

Oh Lordy—he was right. I stared at him, mentally smacking my palm to my forehead, feeling like the worst kind of fool. I had to turn away from him to collect myself.

The thought of not playing along hadn't even occurred to me. I'd been over my head before I even knew I was in hot water. I whipped back around. “I can't believe I let you put me in this situation! I've not only misled my boss and skipped work, but there will be unending repercussions to this. I'm going to have to tell all kinds of lies and answer all kinds of questions when I go back, and—”

“No, you won't,” he cut in. “I told Thomas you're a very private person and you won't want to talk about it, and that no one should send sympathy cards or flowers.”

“Still, I'll have to say something. People will ask about me about the funeral.”

“So we'll attend one.” He pulled a newspaper clipping out of his pocket. It was the obituary of an elderly man in Mississippi who would be buried this afternoon.

“Who's this?”

“Uncle Leo, of course.”

“Your uncle?”

“No, but you can bet he's somebody's.” He grinned. “We'll go to his funeral—it's on the way to my friend's fishing camp—and then you'll be absolutely honest in talking about it.”

I put my hands on my hips and glared at him. This was beyond presumptuous. It was flat-out insane. “Are you out of your
mind
?”

“No. I'm completely in it. I happen to be one of the few people in this world who is.”

“Now you're not even making sense.”

“Most folks don't have a clue what they really want. I do.”

And, apparently, he wanted me. The thought sent chill bumps coursing down my arm.

“I can't just go away to a fishing camp in Mississippi with you.”

“Sure you can.”

I pulled myself to my tallest posture, but I still only came up to his shoulder. “Look, I don't know what impression you have of me, but I'm not that kind of girl.”

“I didn't think you were. But I also didn't think you were the kind to let a bunch of archaic social conventions keep you from having an adventure, either.”

“An adventure is one thing; ruining my reputation is quite another.”

“It won't be ruined if nobody knows about it.” He put his hands on my shoulders. “Here's the plan: You'll pack a bag while your friend and your landlady are at work. Leave a note just stating the facts: that you got a phone call at work telling you that Uncle Leo had passed away, and you've gone to Mississippi to his funeral. You'll be back Saturday.”

“Saturday! That's three nights from now.”

“Yeah.”

“I'm
not
sharing a room with you.”

“I don't expect you to. You'll have your own bedroom. And I promise to treat you with the greatest dignity and respect.”

“Will there be a chaperone?”

He looked me straight in the eye. “No.”

“So it'll be just you and me out in the woods?”

“That's right. But I give you my word I will be a total gentleman. Your virtue will remain intact.”

I knew better. I knew it wasn't prudent. I knew my parents would have a stroke if they ever found out. But I wanted to go so badly that I convinced myself it would be all right. I told myself that he was an honorable man—after all, he was an Army Air Force officer,
wasn't he? Surely I could trust the word of a man that the government entrusted with an enormous bomber, thousands of pounds of explosives, and the lives of other crewmen.

In retrospect, I was overlooking one important fact: the person I couldn't trust was myself.

Looking back on it now, it's hard to explain exactly what it was about Joe that affected me like catnip affects a cat. It wasn't just his appearance, although—Lordy, oh Lordy!—he was one good-looking man. Joe just had something extra. He was more alive than most people, as if God had packed an extra dose of vitality into him, or maybe a double soul. He radiated something—heat or light or magnetism or some such. He sparkled and shone and shot off electric sparks.