Calling Me Home (33 page)

Finally, he took my gloved hands between his, rubbing vigorously, ostensibly to warm them—a rare physical contact he could initiate without my awkward rebuke.

He stopped, though, his hands still wrapped over my fingers, and I studied them together. Robert’s hands could completely encase mine. Max’s fingers, even in their bulkier men’s gloves, were hardly larger than mine. Robert’s hands could awe me with their power, make me shiver at their touch. Max’s instilled a simple sense of meeting halfway, stirring nothing in my heart beyond gratitude for our friendship. But for Max, I suspected, the time had come. Friendship no longer sufficed. When I saw how far he’d fallen—in his eyes, in his smile, even in the set of his shoulders—I knew it was unfair to string him along.

“I’ve been patient, Isabelle,” he began. I nodded miserably. “I’m a good man. I’d take the best care of you.”

I could only reply with silence. I knew what would come next. Our quasi-courtship was ages old in the context of our time—some couples we knew of had married overnight. The threat of war sped everything up, even for civilians. But I feared the tentative steps I’d taken back into life were about to be reversed and that I’d sink back into the misery from which I’d risen at least a few feet. I breathed the frigid air, the fragrance of muddy sled blades. The cold breath caught in my chest.

“You’re the girl I’ve waited for. I know it. I want to marry you.”

He released one of my hands and reached his gloved finger to press it to my lips when I began to protest. “Not today,” he said. “When you’re ready. I’m not stupid—I know you don’t feel the same way. But you do care for me. We make a good team. I earn enough to buy us a nice little house—maybe with an extra room to start a family one day.”

He couldn’t know those words were the worst he could say. A tear formed in the corner of my eye. It froze in place and stung my skin.

“Think about it? Please, Isabelle?”

I wanted to explain that marriage between us could never be anything but a mistake. But he was right. His thoughtful proposal deserved my careful consideration.

We walked home in silence, as though it might be the last time we’d walk together.

*   *   *

M
AX WAS STEADY,
dependable. A good man. Handsome in a quiet way.

I had great affection for him. But I didn’t love him. No matter his good points, I didn’t love him.

I had loved Robert with my whole being, and that marriage had ended.

Ultimately, I realized my heart was closed to love or marriage because I’d been tending a glimmer of hope that Robert would return for me. Some way, someday. Seeing Nell should have doused that glimmer. To think he might have fallen for another girl battered me. Like a hard-boiled egg slammed against a countertop on all sides, my heart was cracked and ragged.

I left Mr. Bartel’s lab in early February, wind cracking around my uncovered ears. I’d forgotten to stuff my hat in my handbag that morning. After a few blocks, I ducked into a café. I knew I’d never make it home without filling up on hot coffee. The scent alone warmed me, rushing to greet me when I dragged the heavy door open against the wind.

I waited at the counter, observing those seated at the café’s small tables. One couple shared a newspaper. The young man read over his girl’s shoulder. Occasionally, she’d nudge him away, as though he’d encroached on her space. Good-naturedly, he’d nudge her back but give her room. Eventually, he slid around to face her. A ring sparkled on her finger, but the flames between them seemed more like embers. They seemed content and happy to be embarking on life together. They seemed the best of friends. I saw Max and myself in them.

At another table, a young woman crossed her arms and hugged herself, petulant lips poised to issue a sharp word. Her uniformed fellow leaned past her to chat with a man at an adjoining table. She was jealous. She didn’t want to share her beloved. Yet, when he turned briefly and slid his hand up her arm, she relaxed, dropping her hands into a calm lover’s knot in her lap. Now she watched him with admiration and obvious, fiery passion. I saw Robert and myself in them.

Neither couple seemed right or wrong. They just were.

It had been long months since I’d lost what mattered most—first Robert, and then our baby. I’d made it clear to Nell I was independent now, able to make my own decisions. If Robert had been going to seek me out, he would have done so by now.

The metaphor played out by the couples in the café seemed clear. I could stay frozen in place, grieving my losses forever, or I could take steps to try move on, too. The answer seemed dictated by the signs around me.

34

Dorrie, Present Day

M
ISS
I
SABELLE HAD
awakened from her nap in the chair in an unusual mood—
pensive,
said the puzzle book. We were going to a funeral, so who wouldn’t be pensive? But this was something extra. I’d wanted her to let things rest for a bit, but she seemed driven now to finish her story, so I’d finished touching up her hair while she talked.

I struggled to imagine Miss Isabelle giving up on her forever love. Hadn’t there been any other way she could have found Robert? How could she have given up on him? Given up on
them
? Had Max really been the best answer?

But I knew how this turned out. I’d seen the photos at her house. It was kind of like a sad movie: You’d heard what happened—maybe you’d already watched it five times, so you
knew
what happened—but you kept hoping the end would be different.

After I finished with Miss Isabelle’s hair, I changed clothes. I’d brought two nice outfits—one for the funeral service, and a pair of dress pants and a silky top Miss Isabelle had said would do for the visitation. I dressed, then fussed with the little fuzzies springing up all over my hair. It was time to see my own stylist, but obviously there wasn’t much I could do about this in Cincinnati.

“Dorrie?” Miss Isabelle called across the room. “I haven’t been forthcoming about the details for this funeral.”

No, she hadn’t. We’d established that. I kept going about my business, doing my best to make my fingers work the microscopic clasp on my necklace. I never wore much jewelry, but this was a special occasion—even if it wasn’t mine. I didn’t want her friends or family assuming I was some low-class companion she’d hired to drive her out to this funeral.

“I’m nervous. And I don’t want you to think badly of me, but I have to tell you—”

“What? You nervous? No way, young lady.” I squinted at her, trying to beam a little light into the conversation. She was making me nervous, too.

“I’m serious now, Dorrie. You’re going to think I’m a horrible old lady.”

“I’d never think you were a horrible old lady,” I said. “Well, maybe there was that one time, back when we met.” I chuckled. “But we got that straightened out.”

“I may be the only white person at this funeral.”

So. She’d finally spit it out. I can’t say I was shocked. I’d figured that all this remembering had to be going somewhere. In fact, I had a pretty good idea whose funeral we were attending, and I completely understood it was going to be difficult all around—for me, too, now that I knew the story. I hated how things had turned out for her and Robert.

But nervous because she might be the only white person? I couldn’t help it. I snorted a little. Which I regretted when her face crumpled in on itself like I’d poked her with a sharp needle and let all the air out. She was serious.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to laugh.” I hurried over and squatted down next to the chair. I grabbed her hand and squeezed it. “Thank you for being honest with me, Miss Isabelle. I always appreciate that about you. But what are you afraid of? I mean, all anybody will think is how nice it is you’ve come for this funeral.”

“I know, Dorrie. I just had to say it. I don’t want anyone to believe I’m some uppity white woman riding in on her white horse. I know it sounds ridiculous.”

“But you were invited. Your friend knows you’re coming, right?” This worried me. I could see her point. If she showed up at this funeral unannounced, some people might be curious about her presence. And was she right? Might they even be offended?

“Yes,” she said. I released my breath.

“Well, that’s settled, then. Don’t worry.” I patted her hand and stretched up, groaning when my back muscles clenched into a little knot halfway up. All the standing I did every day wasn’t just hard on my feet; it killed my back, too. One of those massages the brochure on the nightstand mentioned sounded very tempting. But who was I kidding? Massages were on my to-do list for when I was rich and famous. Or maybe married again.

Teague. I hadn’t thought of him for at least an hour. In fact, I’d only thought of him in snatches between worrying about my kid’s foolishness and Miss Isabelle’s sad history. But hearing that she’d likely given up on her one true love sent me into action. “Miss Isabelle. It’ll be fine. You’ll see. Do I have time for a phone call before we leave?”

A tiny bloom of hope transformed her face. Maybe she saw something in mine that made her optimistic about my own seemingly hopeless situation. Who knew? Maybe she had a reason for telling me her story, besides explaining this funeral.

I glanced around outside our room. A door led to a long, deep porch with lots of comfy chairs. I felt funny checking the door to see if it was unlocked, as if I were in someone else’s house, doing things I wasn’t supposed to, but the innkeeper had told us to make ourselves at home. On the porch, I paced before hitting the speed dial code I’d set up for Teague a few weeks before.

Voice mail.

That was fine. More than fine, actually.

“Hey, Teague. It’s me, Dorrie.” I paused, already feeling silly. “I just want to say I’ve been doing it all wrong. I don’t know if we can work this thing out, whatever it is, but I want you to know how much I appreciate you. I assumed you’d think the worst when you found out my kid went and did something dumb. In fact, maybe you’re freaking out right this minute, putting two and two together—and, yes, you’re getting the correct answer. But I didn’t even give you a chance. For that, I am truly sorry. I don’t have time for the whole story right now. I’m kind of getting on my knees here—even though I’m actually standing on a porch at a bed-and-breakfast—and begging for your patience. The next few days are about Miss Isabelle, about finishing this journey. Then, when I get home, it has to be about me dealing with my kid and figuring out whether we can salvage his life, clean up this mess, and move forward. But there’s something else … I really dig you. I really, really do. So. Will you be patient with me? Will you let me play this by ear for a while? I realized all this a few minutes ago—though I think it’s been in the back of my mind all along. Teague, I don’t want to lose you, whatever it is we—”

Teague’s message system cut me off with another beep and I slapped the porch railing. I’d used up my allotted time. And that never happened unless you had something important to say.

But I’d said what I needed to. For that moment. He’d get the gist, and hopefully … well, hopefully, he’d give me another chance.

I said a silent thank-you to Miss Isabelle. Her story couldn’t have the ending I’d hoped it would, but if nothing else, it had shown me something important.

When the right guy comes along? Don’t blow it.

35

Isabelle, 1941–1943

I
GAVE
M
AX
an out. I told him he would not be my first, that I was not a virgin. He was not put off. He said I wouldn’t be his first, either, and it seemed fair and reasonable that we begin on level ground.

Both my weddings were simple, quiet ceremonies. At the second, like the first, only four people were present. This time, it was me, Max, the justice of the peace, and my friend Charlotte, who took full credit—she’d invited me to the dances where we met. In the photos, she and Max beamed, as if they were the happy couple, whereas my face appeared pasted into a half smile.

In the second, as with the first, I didn’t notify my parents. I’d proved I could live without their approval. Max’s parents lived hundreds of miles away. He telegrammed the news, saying he’d understand if they couldn’t attend.

My attire was simple again, but the good dress I’d worn for my first wedding remained in my closet, the bittersweet dust of memory settling on the fabric, for I never brought myself to wear it again—nor to discard it.

One wedding was in bitter January. The second was in late, bright spring.

My mood had been spring the previous January, and was January that spring.

Max brought me a plain gold band—though I thought of nothing but the symbolic thimble Sarah Day had provided. I still wondered what had become of it. Had Robert retrieved it, or in my haste to leave, had it been knocked under the bed and rolled into a crevice, where it still remained? Or perhaps the landlady used it now for sewing and mending, unaware of its significance.

No warnings were spoken before Max and I exchanged vows. The justice glanced at our paperwork and pronounced us married. He’d wed countless couples by then who had met only weeks or even days before, but he was one of few who didn’t question why Max wasn’t shipping out, and he didn’t seem to care.

As we left city hall, the crowd flowed around us without a glance. Nothing set us apart.

Max had mortgaged a small house in a newer section of Cincy. One trip had transferred my still-meager possessions there before our wedding night.

And that, our wedding night, was altogether different.

I didn’t enter the house with anything like the fear I’d experienced the night Robert and I climbed the stairs toward our wedding chamber. I wasn’t afraid anyone might chase us down or deem the union unfit or illegal. I wasn’t afraid as Max took me gently in the modest bed he’d installed in our tiny master bedroom. I can’t say I was an enthusiastic bride. I was resigned to the act, and over time, I even enjoyed its mindless, numbing pleasure.