1022 Evergreen Place (13 page)

Entwined, they fell onto the bed without bothering to pull back the sheets. They made love once, drifted off to sleep, and then again when they woke in the middle of the night. Afterward, he cuddled her spoon-fashion, wrapping the sheet and blanket around her shoulders, placing his arm around her waist.

Gloria woke up at five that morning, feeling sick to her stomach. They'd done it again. She'd spilled her guts to a man she barely knew, revealed her disappointment after finding her family. Even now, she couldn't figure
out what it was about this man that made her forget every scrap of common sense she'd ever possessed.

Chad snored softly close to her ear. Taking care not to wake him, Gloria slid out of bed. Her clothes were scattered across three rooms. She collected everything in the dark and quietly dressed.

She left Chad a note and propped it against his coffeepot, then tiptoed silently out of his apartment and walked back to her own. The early-morning chill seeped into her bones.

This wouldn't happen again. It
couldn't.
They'd been in such a hurry, so hot for each other, they hadn't even taken time to use birth control. They'd behaved with complete irresponsibility. Not once, but twice. They were a doctor and a cop—two people who certainly knew better. Her face burned.

Chad had some mystifying, incomprehensible hold on her that stripped away all logic, all reason. It was this quality of his that frightened her—his ability to leave her powerless, vulnerable. She'd never experienced anything like it with another man.

Not that she didn't blame herself just as much for ceding control to him. When she talked to high school girls, didn't she tell them that was exactly what they
shouldn't
do? Some role model she was! She'd put herself in a situation she couldn't handle, one she
knew
she couldn't handle.

The only option, the only way to make sure this wouldn't be repeated, was to tell Chad she never wanted to see him again. She'd written a note that made it clear once and for all.

M
ary Jo had dinner in the oven when she heard Mack's truck pull into their shared driveway. Despite everything, her heart beat a little faster but she tried to ignore the way he made her feel. Falling in love could be dangerous, as she well knew, and she refused to put Noelle and herself at risk again. As much as possible, she ruthlessly shoved aside every bit of tenderness she felt for Mack. He made that difficult, however, and she'd started to weaken….

As he climbed out, she opened her front door and stood on the small porch.

“Hi,” she called. She couldn't forget the kiss they'd exchanged when he'd found Joan's diary. She tried not to think about it and yet it popped into her mind at the most inopportune times. Like now…

“Hi.” Mack walked over to where she stood. “Something smells good,” he said, attempting to look around her and into the kitchen.

“Is that a hint?” she asked, raising her eyebrows.

“Could be. What's cookin'?”

“I call it Reuben casserole. Linc had me make it at least every other week.”

“What's in it?”

“Sauerkraut and corned beef.”

“Sauerkraut.” Mack wrinkled his nose in distaste.

“You don't like sauerkraut?”

“Not particularly, but if this is Linc's favorite, then I'd be willing to give it a try.” His gaze held hers, and Mary Jo had the impression that even if she'd baked rocks he would've been happy to come for dinner. The thought made her feel light-headed. They'd kissed before, plenty of times. But the night he'd discovered the diary it'd been different, more intense…deeper. It was as though the barriers between them had vanished. Together they'd found a missing piece of the puzzle that intrigued them both. And perhaps a missing part of
their
puzzle, as well, a connecting piece that brought them together.

“You're welcome to join us,” Mary Jo said, and had to admit she hoped he would.

“I'll go clean up and be back in ten minutes,” he said.

Mary Jo watched him walk into his own place and then turned to look at her daughter, who sat in her baby seat, chewing on her tiny fist. Noelle was teething, which made her irritable and a bit feverish. “Mack's coming for dinner,” she announced giddily. She'd fed Noelle earlier and the baby had fussed, not really interested. Mary Jo didn't blame her.

The previous Sunday, Mack and Mary Jo had gone to the movies. It'd felt more like a real date than the other times they'd gone places together, perhaps because they were on their own, without Noelle to consider. Their relationship still seemed casual but was quickly gaining momentum. Noelle had stayed with Roy and Corrie; Corrie said she'd loved having her and seemed to mean it.

Mary Jo had set the table and placed the casserole in the middle, together with a green salad and fresh bread, by the time Mack returned.

“Dinner looks great,” he said, eyeing it appreciatively as they sat down.

She dished up the casserole and passed him the salad. “I've been reading Joan's diary whenever I have a chance,” she said. Actually, she'd done little else during her free time since they'd found the book. She'd started with January 1, 1944, getting to know the intimate thoughts of this woman who'd become so important to her.

“Anything interesting so far?”

“It's
all
interesting. She refers a lot to how she didn't get along with her sister. Apparently Elaine wanted her to date Marvin's brother Earl.”

“And Marvin is?”

“Oh, that's Elaine's husband.”

“Was Earl in the service?”

Mary Jo shrugged. “She doesn't say. It's sort of hard to follow because each entry is only three or four lines. Joan writes in this shorthand way. ‘Busy today,' ‘no letter from Jacob,' that kind of thing.”

“Can I see the diary when we're finished eating?”

“Oh, sure.” They continued their meal, with Noelle—finally content—in her baby seat. Mack had obviously changed his views on sauerkraut, since he had two helpings. They cleared the table and Mary Jo made coffee, then retrieved the journal from her room. The night before, she'd read until the words had started to blur.

“Did you get to June 6, 1944?” he asked.

“No, just to the first part of May.” Perhaps because she was afraid of what she might learn or because she was so involved in Joan's day-to-day life, Mary Jo hadn't skipped ahead.

“I wonder if she mentions D-day,” he said, opening the clasp and flipping through the pages. “‘June 6, 1944. Did my washing. No mail from Jacob. Worked hard all day on troop transports.'”

“Troop transports? What does that mean?” Mary Jo asked.

Mack shook his head. “I don't know.”

“What about June 7?” she asked, resisting the urge to read over his shoulder.

Mack turned the page. “‘No mail from Jacob. My heart is broken. Had to tack on 3. Got some 200 w lightbulbs. Wrote letters and emb.'” He looked up. “I see what you mean about the shorthand. I wonder why she's talking about lightbulbs.”

“They were probably being rationed.” Mary Jo had only recently learned about ration books. “Did you know it was because of rations that the recipe for red velvet cake was developed?”

Mack looked up from the diary and stared at her blankly. “Red velvet cake? What's that?”

“It's my brother Ned's favorite. I bake it for his birthday every year with cream-cheese frosting.”

“What makes it red? Strawberries?”

“No.” She took a sip of her coffee. “I've been reading about domestic life during the war. You're not the only one with a library card,” she told him primly. “I checked out a couple of history books, but they weren't about battles.” She set down her cup. “Like I said, they focused more on the home front and how families coped with their men being away, women working in large numbers, rationing. Stuff like that.” She paused. “Cocoa's one thing that was rationed.”

“Cocoa,” Mack repeated. “So?”

“So there was a scarcity of cocoa, and women couldn't make chocolate cakes. Oh, and sugar was rationed, too.”

“Which means…” He gestured with his hand, urging her to continue.

“Which means,” she said, thinking it should be
obvious, “that women came up with the idea of substituting red food coloring for chocolate. You mean to say you've never had red velvet cake?”

“Can't say I have.”

“I'll bake you one.”

“Will I have to share it with your brother?” he teased.

“Probably.”

He smiled and she smiled back, and for a moment they seemed to be lost in each other. Mary Jo looked away first, but her entire body remained aware of the man sitting across from her.

Mack returned to the diary. “June 8, 1944, says, ‘Jacob, oh, Jacob, why don't you write. I'm losing my mind.'”

A sick feeling assailed Mary Jo's stomach. “What about June 9?”

Mack turned the page, silently read the entry, then glanced up. “‘I scrubbed the house. No letter from Jacob. I'm so afraid….'”

“Keep reading,” Mary Jo whispered. She had to know, and yet, at the same time, she didn't think she could bear it if this man had died.

“For June 10 and 11, 1944, all it says is, ‘No letter.'” He flipped over the page.

“What about June 12?” she asked.

“Nothing.”

“Where does it pick up again?”

Mack started flipping pages again and then set the diary aside. “The rest of the book is blank,” he said.

“She wrote nothing more?” Mary Jo murmured. “He died, then. Jacob must've been killed on D-day.”

“We don't know that for sure. Maybe we can access military records.”

“Maybe. Or what about looking for Elaine Manry?”
she suggested. They might not find Joan, but they might be able to locate her sister.

“Did she mention Elaine's married name?” Mack asked.

Mary Jo exhaled in frustration. “No, but then there wouldn't be any reason to in her journal, would there?”

She knew she was overreacting, but she couldn't help it. After reading Jacob's beautiful love letters and Joan's diary so full of longing and angst, she'd come to care deeply about these people. They weren't just names on a page; they were real people who'd lived through a hellish time.

“I…I have to believe Jacob was killed,” she murmured, hardly able to say the words aloud. “It makes sense that if Joan didn't hear anything after June 6, 1944, something happened to him. Why else would she leave the pages blank?”

“I still don't think we should make that assumption,” Mack said.

“Jacob was a paratrooper,” she went on.

Mack nodded.

“The airborne units suffered tremendous losses.” She'd read about troops who parachuted behind enemy lines. One entire unit was mowed down when they landed in a town swarming with German troops. The thought of Jacob's death felt like a personal loss.

“True, but—”

“I think I made the right assumption,” she said, close to tears. That was why she hadn't read ahead in the diary. Because she knew. Deep down, she knew. This must be why Joan had hidden his love letters. It was too painful for her to see them.

“We're just guessing here,” Mack reminded her.

“But how can we find out?” she asked.

Mack looked perplexed. “I don't know, but I'll work on it.”

“Maybe there's a record of all the men buried in France.” Mary Jo had seen pictures of acre upon acre of white crosses on the rolling hills of Normandy. If Jacob had died in France, there was a good chance he'd been buried there.

“I'll try to get that information,” Mack said. “We might also discover he's
not
there.”

He seemed so optimistic, so eager to believe Jacob had survived the invasion.

“He might've been wounded,” Mary Jo said.

“Yeah. We wondered about that earlier, remember?”

She nodded. “Communication took a long time, so it could've been weeks before Joan learned what had happened to him.”

“Exactly,” Mack said.

She nodded, but the possibility that Jacob had never come back from the war was still very real to her.

Noelle began to cry, and before Mary Jo could reach for her, Mack stood and took her out of the infant seat.

“She's teething,” Mary Jo said. “That's why she's been fussing lately. Plus it's seven-thirty—time for bed.”

Mack rocked Noelle in his arms and soon the baby girl was smiling, drool dripping off her chin and onto her pink sleeper. “I should get her into her crib,” she said, feeling slightly guilty that she'd ignored her daughter this long, caught up in the drama of World War II.

“I'll take care of the dishes,” he told her. They'd piled everything in the sink and on the counters.

Getting her brothers to help in the kitchen had always been a struggle, although they paid lip service to the concept of doing their share. Mack's volunteering was a pleasant surprise.

“You don't need to do that,” she said.

“Sure I do. My mom said if she cooked, she shouldn't have to do the dishes. Dad agreed, so Linnette and I had kitchen duty every night.” He grinned wickedly. “Then Linnette and I left home, and Mom pointed out that the dishes had now become my dad's responsibility.”

“Does he do them?”

“Every night,” Mack said. “In fact, I think he and Mom have fun doing them together. I've caught them more than once dancing to old rock 'n' roll tunes.”

Mary Jo smiled. “Do you want me to put on some music?”

Mack smiled back. “Maybe later.”

By the time she'd finished getting Noelle changed and ready for bed, Mack had cleaned up the kitchen. He turned on the television to the nightly news, keeping the volume low, while she fed Noelle. Then he sat down next to her and, after a moment, put his arm around her shoulders. Mary Jo felt the warmth of his affection and she was convinced Noelle did, as well.

Her daughter fell asleep in her arms and Mary Jo was far too comfortable to move. She rested her head against Mack and sighed deeply. “I so badly want Jacob to have survived the war,” she whispered.

Mack kissed the top of her head. “Me, too.”

They sat there, quietly watching television for the next hour. When he left, Mary Jo settled Noelle carefully in her crib. She almost didn't hear the gentle tap on her front door ten minutes later. When she opened it, Mack stood on the other side, the look on his face exultant.

“I went online as soon as I got home.”

Mary Jo's heart leaped. “Jacob Dennison made it?”

“I can't say for sure, but I do know he didn't die in France. His name isn't on the list of Americans buried there.”

“Then maybe he was injured, after all, and sent
stateside,” Mary Jo said. That, too, might explain why Joan had ceased writing immediately after the Normandy invasion. Somehow, Mary Jo conjectured, she'd made her way to the hospital where Jacob was sent. She'd left everything behind and didn't want her sister finding her diary. Then, after Jacob had healed, they'd gotten married and Joan had never gone back to retrieve her diary and the letters.

Mary Jo felt giddy with relief.

“There,” Mack said. “Aren't you happy?”

“I'm ecstatic!”

“The last time you were this happy it was because I found the diary—and you kissed me.”

Mary Jo laughed at his broad hint, then leaned forward and threw her arms around his neck.

“That's more like it,” Mack said just before he lowered his mouth to hers.