More Than Words Can Say (29 page)

“What do you have there?” he asked.

Chelsea finished unwrapping the paper to reveal the two pressed coneflowers that Emily Rousseau had given her the day she and Brandon had visited the Blue Rooster.

“Brooke’s dried flowers?” he asked.

“Yes,” Chelsea answered.

“Why did you bring them along with us?”

“To be honest, I’m not entirely sure,” Chelsea answered. “I was hoping that this field would be filled with the flowers that Greg planted so long ago, and I’m happy that it is. I guess I thought that if there were no flowers here, then I’d scatter these two from Greg and Brooke’s days together, here where they made their fateful pact. But now I’m happy to say that there’s no need. I’m glad, because I’m not sure that I could have parted with them, anyway.”

Just then a thoughtful look overcame Brandon’s face. “May I take one for a few moments?” he asked. “I promise not to harm it.”

“Of course,” she answered.

Brandon gently lifted one of the delicate old flowers from the tissue and he examined it for a time, thinking. To Chelsea’s surprise, he then walked alone to the edge of the cliff and stood there, facing north. Unsure of what to do, Chelsea waited quietly on the grass. After what seemed like an eternity, Brandon finally returned and sat down beside her. Chelsea gently touched him on one arm.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Mallory . . . ,” he answered, his voice a near whisper, his teary eyes staring out over the cliff.

“What about her?” Chelsea asked quietly.

“She’s gone, Chelsea . . . ,” he said, his gaze at last returning to the dried coneflower in his hand.

Still unsure, Chelsea thought for a moment. “Well, yes . . . ,” she answered gently. “And I know how much you loved her. But is there something more that you’re trying to tell me?”

“The old and the new . . . ,” he answered, his voice a new whisper. “Suddenly, after all this time, I’ve finally realized it. My heart has at last come full circle, and I have you to thank for it.”

“What are you saying?” she asked.

“Mallory is gone,” he said, “and she’s never coming back, despite how much I might wish it. She has become like this dried flower, so colorless and fragile, while you and I sit here among all these new ones, so vibrant and full of life. Life is for the living, Chelsea. And until this very moment when you showed me the dead flowers that your grandmother once treasured, I had forgotten that. To me, you are like one of the new flowers in this field. And Mallory, God rest her soul, is like the dead flower that I hold in my hand. I will never forget Mallory, and in my own way I will always love her. And like with this dead flower, I know now that there was nothing that could have been done to save her. It was her time. She’s gone, and like the new flowers surrounding me, you’re in my life now.”

After replacing the precious coneflower on the tissue, he looked into Chelsea’s eyes.

“I love you, Chelsea,” he said at last. “I love you with a passion that I’ve never felt before, even for Mallory. I love you, and I want you to be mine. I can only hope that one day, you’ll feel the same about me.”

Chelsea simply couldn’t help herself. As tears of joy streamed down her cheeks, she reached out and took his face in her hands.

“Yes . . . yes, my darling,” she answered breathlessly. “I do love you. I have for some time now, and I want to be yours, as well . . .”

With that, all of Brandon and Chelsea’s suppressed longings finally slipped their shackles. At once Brandon took her into his arms and he kissed her, long and hard, on her lips. As Chelsea felt the heat rising between them, she slowly reclined atop some of the thousands of violet coneflowers, and he followed her down. And when he took her, she experienced a joy that she had never before known—total, unfettered, and overpowering. In the same place where her grandmother had resisted her lover, Chelsea now willingly joined with hers. As she did, she gently dropped her grandmother’s dead coneflowers to the earth. And when her moment at last arrived fully, she reached out and blindly grabbed some living ones in one hand, crushing them in her grip.

Chapter 26

L
ater that evening, Chelsea smiled across her dining table at Brandon. Because the night was breezy, they could easily hear the waves of Lake Evergreen, rushing the sandy shore.

Things were very different between them now. With this afternoon had come a sense of peace and certainty between them that hadn’t existed before. The pact had at last been sealed and its wonderful possibilities realized. So too had come the sort of joy and contentment that arrives only when two people fully admit their love for one another. After having searched for so long, Chelsea at last believed that she had found the right man, a strong and honorable man who would protect her at all costs and love her in return with equal ardor.

Once they’d returned from Red Rock Mountain, they had again perused Brooke’s old recipe book, choosing a dish for which Chelsea already had all of the needed ingredients. Brooke had named it Bogart’s Baked Beans, and it had been delicious. Using barbecued baked beans, chopped bacon, red onion, and cut-up hot dogs, Brooke had succeeded in turning a normally pedestrian side dish into something rather special.

Smiling, Brandon finished the last of his dinner and put down his fork. Doing his best imitation of Humphrey Bogart, he gazed at Chelsea and said, “Here’s looking at you, kid.”

Chelsea gave him a confused look. “Huh?” she asked. “Why are you talking that way?”

Brandon raised an eyebrow. “You’re kidding, right?” he answered. “Bogart’s Baked Beans; get it?”

“Get what?” Chelsea asked.

“That was a line from
Casablanca,
” Brandon answered. “You know—Humphrey Bogart, Ingrid Bergman, and Peter Lorre . . . You’ve seen
Casablanca,
right? It’s only the most romantic movie of all time.”

“Well, yes,” Chelsea admitted. “But I don’t think I’ve ever seen any of his other movies.”

Brandon shook his head with mischievous disbelief. “Are you kidding?” he asked her. “
To Have and Have Not, The Big Sleep,
or
The Maltese Falcon,
for heaven’s sake? Are you actually telling me that none of those ring any bells?”

“Not really,” Chelsea admitted with a little laugh.

Brandon shook his head and cast his gaze toward the ceiling. “Dear Lord, I’ve fallen in love with an uncultured heathen!” he exclaimed. “Well, my dear, we’ll just have to remedy your lack of cinematic education over the course of time.”

“Okay,” Chelsea said with a laugh. “You’ve got a deal.”

For the next few moments they regarded each other happily, each of them knowing that they were just as comfortable with one another during the quiet times, too. It should be like that in a good relationship, Chelsea had always believed. But until now, she had never experienced it. When silence prevailed between two lovers because of contentment, it was a sure sign of happiness. But when it reigned due to tension, it was an omen not to be ignored. And just now, contentment was the order of the day.

Brooke’s journal sat on the table near Brandon’s elbow. He picked it up and casually thumbed through it before again looking into Chelsea’s eyes.

“The stuff that dreams are made of . . . ,” he said.

Chelsea smiled. “More Bogart?” she asked.

“Yes,” he answered. “But there isn’t much left here to read. In fact, it looks like there’s only three more entries. Shall we read the next one tonight?”

Chelsea nodded. “Let’s take the wine and the journal out onto the porch.”

After letting the dogs back in, Brandon joined Chelsea on the porch. He then turned to the next entry and handed the journal to her, whereupon Chelsea began reading aloud:

Tuesday, August 11, 1942, 4:00
P.M.

As I write these words, I can control neither my worry nor my excitement. The two conflicting emotions are running through my veins like adrenaline and tearing my heart in two. As if it might somehow provide an answer to my dilemma, I keep rereading the telegram that arrived a few hours ago. When I first saw it in the dock mailbox I nearly fainted, fearing the worst. But then I realized that anything untoward happening to Bill during his stateside officer’s training was unlikely, and I tore open the telegram with abandon and read it. Afterward, I pasted it into this journal as a keepsake.

Chelsea turned the page and saw the World War II–era telegram that Brooke had in fact included. Before attaching it, Brooke had folded it so that it would fit within the confines of the journal. As Chelsea gently unfolded it, she saw that it was heavily wrinkled in its center, where the paste secured it to the page. After gazing at it for a few moments more, she began reading aloud again:

WESTERN UNION:

FRIDAY AUGUST 10 1942 STOP MRS. BROOKE BARTLETT, 18 SCHULYER LANE, SERENDIPITY, NEW YORK:

OFFICERS TRANING ENDED STOP HAVE LEFT FORT BENNING FOR SYRACUSE BY TRAIN VIA DELAYING ROUTE STOP WILL JOIN YOU AT LAKE EVERGREEN FOR ONE NIGHT ON AUGUST 11 STOP THEN MUST RETURN TO SYRACUSE NEXT DAY AND BOARD TRAIN TO NYC FOR TROOPSHIP PASSAGE TO ENGLAND STOP ALL LOVE STOP BILL

I can’t begin to describe how I feel! At last Bill and I will be together again, even if it is for just one night. But despite my happiness, I also worry about what will happen when he arrives. With Greg still in my heart, how will I react when I see my husband? Will my love for Bill be so strong and sure as always? Or will my heart shrivel at the mere sight of him, telling me once and for all that it is now Greg whom I truly love? Will Bill’s impending visit be the test that finally answers all my burning questions, the trial by fire that will forever define what’s really in my heart? And if so, what will the verdict be?

The mere thought of such concerns has quickly tempered my joy, and in its place has again risen the terrible sense of guilt that I carry. What will happen when Bill appears here only hours from now? Greg will undoubtedly know without my telling him, because from his cottage he will surely see Bill arrive. My God, what will Greg then do? Will he actually come over, asking to be introduced? Or will he stay at arm’s length and not intrude? This scenario hadn’t occurred to me, although I now realize that it should have. As a testament to my anguish, my hands are shaking even now, as I write these words. . .

Perhaps I should go to Greg and tell him what is about to happen. But what could I say to him that wouldn’t hurt him even more? That Bill is coming tonight, and that I wish Greg to stay away? Is he to be banished like some pariah, even though he has done nothing more sinful than I? I can easily envision the pain in his eyes, should I tell him that. And like the pain I saw there when I rejected him atop Red Rock Mountain, that is something I never again wish to experience. And so I have resolved to say nothing to him of Bill’s impending visit, in hopes that he will be gentleman enough to understand and not come to us. And yet, despite our promise to each other, I still adore him. Can a woman love two men at the same time and not go mad?

S
EVERAL HOURS LATER,
while sitting alone in the dark on his porch, Gregory Butler nervously lit his fortieth cigarette of the day. They usually calmed him, but not tonight. He was also rather drunk.

Reaching out, he poured another two fingers of straight gin and then clumsily tossed it back. He needed the alcohol to dull his pain, and he knew that he would need even more of it later, as both the night and his sense of despair deepened.

As twilight had fallen, he heard the unexpected sound of a car approaching Brooke’s cottage. When he saw a tall, young army second lieutenant exit the black Lincoln, it was as if someone had poured ice water into his veins. There could be no mistake, he knew. Brooke’s husband, Bill, had come to Lake Evergreen.

It all made sense, he realized, and he castigated himself for not having predicted this possibility before now. On the first day they met, Brooke had told him that Bill’s officer’s training was nearly done. And although Greg understood little about military protocol, he knew that at the end of such training the newly minted “ninety-day wonders,” as they were being called, were granted either a furlough or to take their time reporting to active duty by what the army called “a delaying route.” Greg couldn’t know which option had been granted to Bill, but none of that mattered to him right now.

More than once, he had nearly left his cottage and walked over to meet Brooke’s husband. It was more than mere curiosity that tempted him, he knew. Rather, it was an odd, almost macabre wish to put the three of them in the same room, to size up the other man, and perhaps most important of all, to try to gauge Brooke’s feelings. But in the end he would not go, because he knew that she would not want it. Despite how much he loved her, this night belonged to Brooke and Bill. If there remained a single shred of decency in him, Greg decided, he would summon the will to stay away, no matter how much it hurt him to do so.

But he also knew that the moment of his greatest anguish was still to come. And that, more than any other reason, was why he sat waiting on his porch. The night was still, the moon was full, and the waves brushed the sandy shore ever so lightly. As Greg took another drag on his cigarette, its lit end glowed brightly for a moment, then faded again.

In an attempt to put Brooke more at ease this night, Greg had purposely left all of his cottage lights off and parked his old Packard on the opposite side of the cottage, to make it appear as if he wasn’t home. He couldn’t know whether Brooke believed it, but he hoped so. For if Brooke thought he was away, she would have fewer worries this night.

But the worst of it was yet to come, he knew. For when the lights went out in Brooke’s cottage, it could mean only one thing. Brooke and Bill were at last in each other’s arms, lying on the great sleigh bed in Brooke’s bedroom, enjoying each other, wanting each other, and pleasing each other in ways that they had not done for many months. Whereas Brooke had rejected Gregory Butler that day atop Red Rock, she would joyfully take William Bartlett to her bed.