tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-45312753539773197002024-02-07T14:36:51.928-08:00True Love and Romance True Romancehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01047288963020873283noreply@blogger.comBlogger10125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4531275353977319700.post-63806972738949497622014-09-10T14:58:00.000-07:002014-09-10T14:58:07.167-07:00The Rose I Never Gave My Wife<span style="text-decoration: underline;"><strong><img alt="rose I never gave my wife" class="alignleft wp-image-10123" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/rose-I-never-gave-my-wife.jpg" height="297" width="380" /></strong></span>
<span style="text-decoration: underline;"><strong>Dateline: May 1981</strong></span>
As I looked out the window, I noticed that the sky was cloudy. It looked as though it might rain. But it was Mother’s Day and I had promised my mother I’d be over with the kids. I had sent over a dozen red roses that I had bought for my mother—just as I had done every years since I got my first job.<br />
<a name='more'></a>I thought of Diane, my wife. I wondered if I should buy flowers for her grave. But then I had never gotten flowers for her for Mother's Day when she was alive. Somehow the thought of getting flowers for her now seemed...too late.
My mind went back to another Mother's Day. It seemed so very long ago and yet it was just a few short years. I had stopped at the florist after work and ordered one dozen roses for my mother, to be delivered on Mother's Day. Then I got into the car and drove home. Diane had been waiting for me at the front door. That was something she had never done before. Her face was radiant. She had loosened her hair and had brushed it over her shoulders. She was wearing a light blue dress made from some sort of soft material. I could tell at a glance that she had something that she was very anxious to tell me.
I parked the car at the curb in front of the house, then got out and started up the sidewalk. Diane met me about halfway.
"Hi." I smiled, kissed her quickly, then put my arm around her waist, and continued to walk toward the house. I wanted to ask her what she was so happy about, but I didn't want to rush her either. She apparently wanted to wait until we were inside the house to tell me.
We had just stepped into the house when she turned, faced me, then threw her arms around my neck. "Ryan, we did it. After three years we finally did it. We're going to have a baby. Dr. Landers said positively yes and it should be sometime the first week of December.”
I had wanted a son for so long, but Diane just didn't seem to get pregnant. Then I found myself not really caring whether the baby was a boy or a girl, if only we could just have a child.
"Honest?" I yelled as I picked her up and twirled her around in a circle. I wanted to call Mom and Dad right away to tell them the news, but I changed my mind.
Diane had grown up in a children's home and had no relatives at all. I was an only child. Diane and I had wanted a child from the very beginning of our marriage. And Dad and Mom wanted a grandchild almost as much. Now at last we were going to have our baby. I just couldn't tell them over the telephone and miss the expressions on their faces. My parents had asked us over for dinner the next day so I decided to wait until then. Besides it would be like adding an extra present to the roses.
Our baby didn't wait until December to be born. On a sunny day in mid-November, our twin sons were born. I had wanted a son so much, I just couldn't believe that I had two of them.
I loved Diane and I was so happy to have twin sons that I rushed right out and bought a dozen roses for her. I didn't want to wait for the florist to deliver them, so I carried the roses back to the hospital myself. <img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-1337" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/Nice-touch.jpg" height="225" title="Nice touch!" width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em> </em></span>Her eyes lit up when she saw the roses.
"I would have been satisfied with just one rose." She smiled as she held them close to her face and sniffed their fragrance.
Even today, I could still remember the exact look on her face. I was visualizing it when I felt a tug on my pant leg. I looked down.
"Daddy! Daddy!" It was Ryan. Or maybe it was Daniel. Diane could tell them apart easily, but sometimes I still had trouble.
"What is it?" I asked as my thoughts fluttered away.
"Are we going to Grandma and Grandpa's today?"
"Yes," I answered, "a little later, though. After your baby sister wakes up." I tiptoed into the baby's room. She was starting to stir. Her tiny arms and legs flew out suddenly to the sides as though she was trying to break a fall. I guess she was dreaming. I hurried to the kitchen to warm her bottle. I had just taken the bottle from the pan of hot water when I heard the twins arguing in the living room.
"What's going on?" I demanded as I hurried into the living room, just in time to see Ryan shoving Daniel. Both boys stopped and looked up at me. It was Ryan who spoke first.
"Danny turned on the monster movie and you said he can't watch it."
Daniel's eyes widened. "I don't get scared anymore, Daddy. Can I watch it now?"
I think he was trying to convince himself more than me. Right about the time that Diane had died the local television station had decided to run some old monster movies on Sundays at noon. Daniel had started having nightmares about the same time. At first I had thought the nightmares were caused from the trauma of losing his mother. But upon questioning him, he always related that he had been dreaming that a monster was after him. Because of the nightmares, I had put a stop to the boys watching any monster movies. <img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-1331" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/Good-dad.jpg" height="225" title="Good dad!" width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em>
</em></span>
I heard the baby start to cry, so I cautioned the twins about keeping the noise down, then turned the television to another channel that usually had cartoons. I turned right in the middle of a florist's commercial, urging last-minute shoppers to buy their mothers and wives flowers from Albert's Nursery. The speaker was standing near a bouquet of red roses. <img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-1342" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/There’s-a-theme-here..jpg" height="225" title="There’s a theme here." width="236" />
<span style="color: red;"><em>
</em></span>
I began to think about roses again as I walked into the baby's room and picked her up. The twins had been exactly six months old when Mother's Day had come around again. As usual I had bought a dozen roses for my mother and we planned to have dinner there.
That morning Diane had gotten out of bed, had bathed the twins, fed them, and put them in the playpen. Then she started wandering from room to room as though searching for something.
"All right." She smiled. "Where did you hide it?"
"Hide what?" I asked her.
"My Mother's Day present. Where did you hide it?"
I couldn't understand why she thought I would have gotten her something for Mother's Day. Mother's Day was a day to remember one's mother and Diane wasn't my mother—she was my wife. <img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-1343" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/What-He’s-kidding-right.jpg" height="225" title="What He’s kidding right" width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em> </em></span>I remembered Diane's birthday, Christmas, Valentine's Day, and our anniversary, but a man only has one mother and that day should be hers and hers alone.
"I didn't buy you a Mother's Day present," I told her.
Diane just smiled in a disbelieving way and said, "Ryan, don't tease. Where is it?"
"I didn't get one," I said and walked away.
For a moment she had a look of disappointment, but then it disappeared and a look of having an inner knowledge appeared on her face.
When we arrived at my parents' home that Mother's Day, the florist had already been there and Mom had placed the roses I had sent in a vase on top of the television. One rose stood up higher than all the rest. Diane had walked up to the roses, taken the tallest one gently in her fingertips, and sniffed the fragrance.
"They're beautiful," Diane said turning to Mom, "but then roses are my favorite flower anyway."
On the way home that night Diane hadn't talked. She just murmured, "Ummm," now and then to let me know that she was listening to me, but she didn't talk. Something was bothering her, but I didn't know what it was. <img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-1339" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/Oh-really1.jpg" height="225" title="Oh, really" width="236" />Diane and Mom got along well and liked each other immensely. Nothing had happened during the day to upset her that I knew of, yet she seemed bothered. When we went to bed that night, Diane turned away from me. In four and a half years of marriage, she had never done that before.
"What's wrong, honey?" I asked softly as I put my arm around her waist.
"Nothing," she replied.
"Something's wrong," I said, "please tell me."
"You really didn't get me anything for Mother's Day," she said. "I thought maybe you were just teasing and had a gift for me at your parents' home, but you really didn't."
I felt a pang of irritation. She was pouting like a child because I hadn't gotten her a gift that she didn't have any right to. Surely she knew that Mother's Day was a day to honor one's mother. She must have learned that in the children's home.
"Why did you think that I should buy you a gift?" I asked her.<span style="color: red;"> <img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-1335" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/How-dense-is-this-man.jpg" height="225" title="How dense is this man" width="236" /><em> </em></span>Then without giving her a chance to answer I went on. "Mother's Day is a special day to honor mothers."
"But I am a mother," she said, "and I'm your wife."
"But that's just it, Diane. You are my wife. You aren't my mother."
"Well, I'm Daniel and Ryan's mother and they are your children."
"I know that, Diane. And I'm proud that you're the mother of my children, but when they are old enough to buy you a gift, they will. I know they will. And that's because you're their mother. But. . ." and I repeated myself, "you aren't my mother." <img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-1332" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/Ha-Ha2.jpg" height="225" title="Ha! Ha!" width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em>
</em></span>
I don't know why I couldn't make her understand that, but she wasn't willing to understand and I was tired of trying to explain. I had to go to work the next morning, so I had turned over in bed and had gone to sleep.
The baby wriggled in my arms and I could hear the sound of sucking air. I looked down to see that in my memory skipping, I had let the baby's bottle drop. I lifted the bottle so that she could get the formula. I wasn't good at this sort of thing.
Shortly after Diane had died, Mrs. Kramer, an older widowed woman, had moved in as a live-in babysitter and housekeeper. She had every Sunday and sometimes Saturday off, depending on whether or not I worked on Saturdays. I had watched Diane bathe the twins, change their diapers, and make formulas for them, but I had never really paid much attention to how it was done. Mrs. Kramer had shown me how to do all of that, but even so I wasn't very good at it.<span style="color: red;"> <img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-1328" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/Another-thing-he’s-not-good-at.jpg" height="225" title="Another thing he’s not good at!" width="236" /><em>
</em></span>
"Mrs. Kramer doesn't pin Sissy's diaper that way," Daniel remarked as I pinned my daughter's diaper. "She makes the pin go that way," Ryan said, pointing from the front of the diaper toward the back. I had put the pin in so that it ran from the bottom to the top of the diaper.
"All right boys. I know I don't do it as well as Mrs. Kramer, but I'll learn. Now go get dressed." I said.
I wasn't particular about how the kids were dressed. But Mom loved to see them dressed up, so I had laid out their clothes. Although they were not yet three years old, they did pretty well dressing themselves.
They returned a little later, dressed, but not well. Ryan had put his shirt on backwards, and Daniel had put on different clothes than what I had left out for him. Both boys had their shoes on the wrong feet and Ryan didn't have any socks on at all. By this time, the baby had gone back to sleep, so I laid her down in her bed, then set out to redress the boys.
Finally, I had them all in the car heading for my parents' home. One of the boys turned on the car radio. Musical refrains floated throughout the car from the various singers. One song, "Big Bouquet of Roses," sent me back on that trip down memory lane again. Only this time my mind wandered back to the first Father's Day after the twins came.
I had come down to breakfast to find a happy smiling wife, a pair of cereal-faced twins in high chairs, and a large box wrapped in gaily colored paper waiting for me.
"Happy Father's Day," Diane had said as she bent to kiss me. Seated at the breakfast table I had looked up at her. Excitedly she had handed me the package. "Here, open it!" She'd smiled. I remembered my thoughts well. I didn't know whether to accept the gift, or confront her with the thought that she was trying to make me feel guilty for not buying her a gift at Mother's Day. She seemed so happy that I had decided against the accusation and accepted the gift. <img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-1341" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/Sure.jpg" height="225" title="Sure" width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em>
</em></span>
Even though I had never expressed those thoughts in words, I had thought of the incident often over the next year. The more I thought of the gift, the more convinced I was that she had wanted to make me feel guilty with it. And I did at times. But then why should I have felt guilty? My father had never given my mother a Mother's Day present either.<img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-1333" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/He-got-this-ridiculous-idea-from-his-father.jpg" height="225" title="He got this ridiculous idea from his father!" width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em> </em></span>She wasn't his mother. She
was my mother and I'd saved every dime I got from my paper route for over a month to buy her that first dozen roses. I was only eleven and I remembered that she had cried. <img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-1344" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/Wouldn’t-you-if-you-waited-eleven-years-for-a-Mother’s-Day-gift.jpg" height="225" title="Wouldn’t you if you waited eleven years for a Mother’s Day gift" width="236" />
<span style="color: red;"><em>
</em></span>
As my mind wandered, I followed the streets automatically, up to my parents' driveway. I stopped the car and turned off the engine. The twins didn't waste any time. They jumped out of the car and raced up the stairs of the old frame house to the front door. I picked the baby up out of the bassinet that I'd sandwiched between the front and back seats and carried her up to the house. By now the twins had gone inside, and Mom stood at the door with open arms ready to take the baby from me.
The roses I'd ordered had arrived and Mom had placed them in a vase that she put on the buffet in the dining room. One rose stood up higher than all the rest. It reminded me of another Mother's Day and for a moment I could see Diane gently holding the rose as she had done that first Mother's Day after Daniel and Ryan were born. Without thinking about it, I walked over to the rose and took it gently in my fingertips. I rubbed my thumb lightly across the velvety petals, remembering how Diane had held the rose lovingly in her hand and how she had bent to sniff its fragrance. I thought of how much she loved roses. I must have said something aloud, because I heard Mom say, "Yes, she did love them so." <em>Conversation: Hear me talking to you As you lie there in your crib. Bet you didn't know that Your mother was so glib; Spinning off slick stories, Reciting rhymes ad-lib. Now I hear you answer! If I only understood That soft and secret language Only known to babyhood, Which grownups can't remember But wish that they still could.</em>
<em>—Margaret Wiedyke</em>
I hadn't noticed when Mom walked up, so I don't know how long she had stood there while I was off in my own thoughts. The baby was awake in Mom's arms. She looked up and smiled. She had a smile like Diane's. I was thankful for that. Mom spoke softly, but my mind had gone back to the second Mother's Day after Ryan and Daniel were born and all I heard was the murmur of her voice.
I hadn't gotten Diane a gift that time either. <img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-1334" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/He-is-unbelievable-Shouldn’t-this-be-grounds-for-divorce.jpg" height="225" title="He is unbelievable! Shouldn’t this be grounds for divorce" width="236" />She hadn't said anything about not getting a gift that day, but I knew that she was bothered by it. She was moody all day and reminded me of a pouting child again. When she'd turned away from me again that night I felt as though she was trying to punish me. I lost my temper and told her she was acting worse than a child.
"All right. Maybe I am acting like a child, but I don't think I'm being unreasonable. I don't care if you don't buy me a dozen roses like you do for your mom, but couldn't you buy just one rose for me from your sons?" She had started speaking in a loud voice, but her voice had softened as she finished and I heard the sniffle of a tear.
Diane knew that tears got to me and I calmed down a little. <img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-1329" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/At-least-there’s-something-that-gets-to-him.jpg" height="225" title="At least there’s something that gets to him!" width="236" />I was usually a soft touch where my wife and kids were concerned, but this had become a sore subject with me. Why couldn't I make her understand?
"Honey, I love you and I try to show it. Why do you try to make me feel badly about not getting you a gift? When the boys are older they'll realize what a wonderful mother you are and they'll be eager to buy you a gift. And they'll buy you gifts for the rest of your life. Please don't be jealous of the gifts I get my mother."
Diane lay there still and quiet. She didn't say anything more to me about Mother's Day that night.
The following Mother's Day, I overheard her say something to Mom. I'd been in the living room talking with Dad and watching television. I started out to the kitchen to ask Diane something and I heard her say something to Mom about roses. I guess I did the unforgivable. I listened.
"I know you'd love roses, dear, but you'll just have to love him and learn to forgive. He's just like his father. Daniel would never buy me a gift either. He always said I wasn't his mother. My heart used to ache, hoping he would change his mind and at least give Ryan the money to buy me some little gift, but he never did." Mom had sided with Diane. She thought I was wrong, too.<span style="color: red;"><em> <img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-1338" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/No-kidding.jpg" height="225" title="No kidding!" width="236" /></em></span>
I'd forgotten what I was going to ask Diane. I turned and went back to the living room. Dad was still sitting in his easy chair in front of the television. In my absence the twins had crawled up onto Dad's lap. It was apparent that he too had forgotten our earlier conversation. As we watched television my thoughts weren't on the program. I thought about Mom. I'd never known that she'd been hurt each Mother's Day all those years. That must have been why she had cried when I gave her those first roses. The thought of hurting Mom had upset me. Was I hurting Diane the same way that Dad had hurt Mom? Maybe Diane was right and Dad was wrong. After all she wasn't my mother, but she was the mother of my sons. Didn't she deserve some remembrance at Mother's Day? <img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-1330" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/Could-there-really-be-a-man-so-obtuse.jpg" height="225" title="Could there really be a man so obtuse" width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em> </em></span>The day had been almost over. It was too late to do anything about it then, but I swore that I wouldn't let another Mother's Day go by hurting Diane. Only it wasn't to be that way.
In the fall, Diane had learned that she was pregnant again. Something wasn't going right in the pregnancy and she didn't learn of the pregnancy until she was quite far along. In March, Melody Lynn came into the world. Diane lived long enough to hold and name our daughter, then died later that night. <img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-1340" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/She-dies-in-childbirth-–-and-never-got-a-mother’s-day-gift-This-is-too-tragic.jpg" height="225" title="She dies in childbirth – and never got a mother’s day gift This is too tragic!" width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em>
</em></span>
Mom brushed against my shoulder. I looked down at her holding my sleeping daughter. I was still holding the rose gently in my fingertips. Mom looked up into my eyes. She nodded her head as though she could read my mind. I pulled the rose out of the bouquet, kissed Mom on the forehead, took the two boys, and turned, and walked out of the house. I got into the car and drove to the cemetery. Daniel and Ryan seemed to understand and were quiet as we walked slowly to Diane's grave. When we got there I gently laid the rose down.
<img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-1336" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/Is-it-too-little-too-late-or-do-you-think-he’s-redeemed-himself.jpg" height="225" title="Is it too little, too late or do you think he’s redeemed himself" width="236" />
<br />
Copyright © 1981, 2012 by BroadLit
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Read more at <a href="http://www.trulovestories.com/">www.trulovestories.com</a>True Romancehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01047288963020873283noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4531275353977319700.post-6792433984049063712014-07-15T14:19:00.001-07:002014-07-15T14:20:17.413-07:00A Widow’s Summer Romance <em style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="widow's romance" class="alignleft size-medium wp-image-9851" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/widows-romance-300x449.jpg" height="449" width="300" /></em><span style="color: #b02020;"></span>
<strong>Dateline: August 2006</strong>
<em>She assumed it would be a summer fling. But when Daryl gets serious about their future, Deena fears she’ll lose her independence. <span style="color: #b02020;"> </span></em><br />
A widow for just a year, Deena’s finally rebuilding her life. She married Justin, a Navy sailor, and had Ian, when she was still a teenager, accustomed to being the “good girl,” who acquiesced to everyone. She’s grown up and no longer willing to compromise her own desires. Would Daryl accept this new empowered Deena?
When a girl is ready to embrace her own power, she becomes a woman. She answers to herself first. Daryl and Deena are in love. They’d make the perfect family, but since she is unwilling to move to his hometown, it doesn’t seem possible to make it work. <em>Love is never easy when two people live in different cities, and Skyping only goes so far!</em>
I drove across the bridge and onto St. Simons Island on July first, exactly one year after Justin’s death.<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a>We’d planned to come here together—a vacation to celebrate the end of his military career and the beginning of a more normal life.<br />
Being married and a single mom most of my life hadn’t been normal. Having your husband away at sea for months on end wasn’t normal. Neither was becoming a widow at twenty-four.
“Mama, I need to go potty,” Ian piped up from his car seat directly behind me.
“Hang on, sweetheart. We’re almost there.”
“Nooo! Now.”
“Ian Christopher, don’t you <em>dare</em> pee in this car!” My desire to reach our final destination was overridden by the urgent note I’d heard in his voice. I turned into a nearby gas station guarded by twin palm trees and maneuvered around the pumps to an outside door marked “restrooms.” Better safe than sorry.
A hoarse squeal came from Ian’s direction, followed by frustrated sobbing. An unmistakable aroma filled the interior. <em>Too late.</em> At nearly three years old, my little darling still hadn’t quite gotten the hang of reporting his needs before they became an emergency. I touched a button, rolling down the windows. Even a hot breeze wafting in from the ocean was an improvement.
“It’s okay. Mommy will give you a bath at the beach house,” I reassured him even though I felt like screaming with my own frustrations.
Justin and I had married right out of high school. He’d entered the Navy and I’d gone to college on a scholarship. But I’d never traveled this far from home on my own, nor had I ever rented a cottage alone. Well, almost alone.
With my mother’s cautions about sinister strangers, beach bums, and keeping Ian close echoing in my head, I hadn’t gotten much sleep the night before. She seemed to think I was headed to some third world country, not a quiet, sparsely populated barrier island off the coast ofGeorgia.
The hours spent driving made me wish for a bath to sink into—full of hot, fragrant bubbles. Dim lights, glowing candles, and a chilled glass of Chardonnay wouldn’t hurt, either.
<em>Suck it up, Deena. You don’t have time for pity.</em>
Having a responsible conscience sucked. My son depended on me to be the grownup here, regardless of how tired I was.<span style="color: red;"> <img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-1451" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/Being-a-mom-is-a-24.jpg" height="225" title="Being a mom is a 24" width="236" /><em>
</em></span>
Following the directions I’d printed from the Internet, I turned onto a narrow paved road, spied the lighthouse, and took a sharp left. To our right, the ocean lapped at a rocky shoreline. Must be high tide. The woman who’d rented us the house had said there was a beach during low tide.
I stopped directly in front of the first shotgun-style white cottage, as previously instructed. Keeping the car in sight, I signed us in, retrieved the key, and hopped back into the car. Already I could feel a fine sheen of perspiration under my clothes. Ian’s tear-stained face had gotten to me.
“Hey, sweetie, the nice lady inside said there’s a little girl next door to us. You’ll have someone to play with. Isn’t that great?” I tried for an upbeat tone as I drove the last few feet to the third cottage.
In the rearview mirror, I could see Ian nodding his head, eyes drooping.
While unbuckling Ian from his car seat, a male voice hailed me from the adjoining yard. “Hey, there. You must be the new tenants. Need a hand?”
I glanced back over my shoulder and blinked like an owl caught in a flashlight beam. <em>Whoa, Mama.</em> That <em>was our neighbor for the next month? <img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-1465" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/Talk-about-fate-smiling-down-on-her….jpg" height="225" title="Talk about fate smiling down on her…" width="236" /><span style="color: red;">
</span></em>
The tanned, toned, sun-streaked blond waved, his grin framed by dimples. He started forward, bare chest gleaming in the sunlight.
I got a whiff of Ian’s peed-on, sweaty self as he launched himself at me and clamped his legs around my waist.
“No. We’re fine. Really.” <em>Don’t come any closer. Please.</em>
Apparently the man couldn’t hear the panic in my voice, because he kept coming. Suddenly, I was painfully aware of the impression my not-so-straight ponytail and road-crumpled sweaty clothes gave, not to mention the stench rising off the child in my arms. I strode quickly toward the cottage door, cringing as my shirt dampened under Ian’s wet pants.
“Thanks for the offer, though,” I threw over my shoulder as I pulled opened the screen door, unlocked the inner door, and swung it open.
Lowering Ian to his feet inside the living room, I whirled to shut out the world.
“It’s no problem. Where would you like me to put these?” My helpful neighbor smiled from the threshold, our suitcase and duffle bag held easily in either hand.
The air in the room was warm and stale. Ian’s odor intensified, rising between us like a wall.
“Ma’am?”
I closed my eyes for a second, wishing the floor would open up and swallow me. Since that didn’t happen, I forced a return smile. “Anywhere is fine. I’ve got to get Ian into a bath.”
He nodded and sat the luggage beside the sofa. “I’m Daryl. My daughter Emma and I are your neighbors.”
“Deena. And this is my son, Ian.”
“Nice to meet you both.” Daryl winked at Ian and strode across the room to fiddle with the thermostat. “There you go. It should cool off in here pretty quickly.”
“Thanks.” My mouth was as dry as my shirt was wet. What was the matter with me? The guy was vacationing here with his family. I was a recent widow and the mother of a child in dire need of soap and water. This was no time for ogling, no matter how appealing my new neighbor.
Afraid he’d think I was interested in him, I pulled my gaze from his and looked down. At least my feet looked decent. Before we’d left, I’d given myself a pedicure and donned pretty sandals and toe rings in an effort to increase my self-confidence. <img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-1472" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/Toe-rings-for-confidence-Hadn’t-thought-of-that.jpg" height="225" title="Toe rings for confidence Hadn’t thought of that!" width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em>
</em></span>
“Well, I’d better let you get moved in. If you feel like it later, Emma and I would love to treat you to dinner.”
“Thanks, but we’ll manage.” I figured he was just being polite.
“I thought the kids could get acquainted. There’s a place within walking distance—great food, if you’re interested.”
“Won’t we be intruding on your family time?”
Daryl’s smile dimmed and his gaze hovered somewhere over my shoulder. “It’s just me and Emma. To tell you the truth, we’re kind of sick of our own company. But if you’d rather not—”
As his voice trailed off, I recognized the look in his eyes, the inability to meet the gazes of those expected to show pity or ask questions you didn’t want to answer. Suddenly, it was my voice agreeing to the plan. “Could we go early? Say, six-thirty? Ian usually crashes around eight.”
“That works. We’ll stop by and pick you up.” Daryl looked pleased, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes this time.
Maybe my pampered feet had rendered him awestruck, but now he was regretting the impulsive invitation. In any case, we were committed—to dinner, that is.
After he’d gone and I’d managed to get Ian, myself, and his car seat clean again, my mind replayed the conversation. There was nothing to prove my instincts were right, but I’d bet good money on Daryl having recently suffered a great loss. In those brief moments of recognizing “the look,” I couldn’t have turned down his invitation if my life had depended on it.
Also, he did say it was just himself and his daughter. I wasn’t so far out of the dating scene that I’d missed that all-important tidbit of information. <img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-1448" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/And-he-wanted-to-make-sure-she-knew..jpg" height="225" title="And he wanted to make sure she knew." width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em>
</em></span>
At exactly six-thirty a knock sounded on our door. Daryl introduced us to Emma, a tiny blonde of six, and we set off for The Fourth of May, a restaurant owned by a group of women whose birthdays all landed on—you guessed it—the fourth day in May.
Emma skipped along in front of us, holding Ian’s hand. Her lively chatter and energy rendered Ian awestruck. I breathed deeply, enjoying the tang of salt in the air.
Daryl pointed out landmarks along the way, explaining that he’d come here every summer for the last five years. He was quite the gentleman—opening doors, his hand hovering at the small of my back as I preceded him across the threshold, stepping behind me when we encountered others on the sidewalk.
Several heads turned as we entered the restaurant. What did they see—a family, or strangers ill at ease? With Daryl and I both blond, Emma could have easily been mistaken for mine. Ian was the odd one out, with Justin’s dark auburn hair and freckles.<img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-1470" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/They-would-make-a-great-looking-family.jpg" height="225" title="They would make a great looking family!" width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em>
</em></span>
“This okay with you?” Daryl asked, bending toward me to make his voice heard above the enthusiastic patrons. He indicated a table for four nearby.
“Yes, if we can find Ian a booster seat.” His nearness, along with the tantalizing smell of crab cakes bordered on sensory overload.
“Coming right up.”
When we were finally all seated and looking at the menus, Ian cocked his head to the side and squinted at Daryl.
“Are you my new daddy?” he inquired. <img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-1461" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/Oops.jpg" height="225" title="Oops" width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em>
</em></span>
“Ian! Daryl is our neighbor here, remember? He’s Emma’s daddy.” The flush of embarrassment heated my cheeks.
“Jake got one. Why can’t I?”
“Ian, that’s enough.” I ventured a glance at Daryl. “I’m sorry. His friend’s mom recently remarried. Ian doesn’t remember his dad and doesn’t understand why he can’t have one.”
Daryl shrugged off the incident. “No harm done.”
Thank goodness he didn’t seem the curious sort. Then again, he was in the same situation. Our children were bound to have contact for the next month, especially with Daryl being the friendly sort. No doubt we’d get around to our respective stories after we knew each other better.
“Did he die? My mom died.” Emma, who’d been staring at Ian since his outburst, apparently saw a kindred spirit. So much for saving the hard stuff for later.
Ian nodded.
“Sounds like you two have something in common,” Daryl smiled at Emma, but his eyes held a warning. “What are you having tonight, sweetie? Chicken nuggets or shrimp?”
I breathed a sigh of relief and turned my attention to the children’s menu. During dinner, conversation ranged from the menu choices to sightseeing and dining in the area and which restaurant had the best crab cakes. Neither of us, it seemed, were eager to talk about ourselves and the painful truths.
“You’ll have to come with us toNeptuneParkfor the July Fourth celebration.JekyllIslandputs on a spectacular fireworks show we can see from here, but we skip the crowds.”
“That sounds nice.”
“We’ve got some extra lawn chairs. Everyone lines up along the bank with a picnic and makes an evening of it.” Daryl turned to Ian. “What about you, little man? Do you like hot dogs?”
He included the children in the conversation—just enough to make them feel a part of things, but not so much that the evening was all about them. The man had an easy way about him I liked. Maybe too much. I’d definitely have to keep up my guard around him. <img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-1455" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/He’s-too-cute-and-she’s-not-ready-yet..jpg" height="225" title="He’s too cute and she’s not ready yet." width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em>
</em></span>
When the meal ended, Daryl overrode my objections, insisting the meal was his treat. A mini-repeat of that conversation occurred over the ice cream cones we ate on the walk back. Emma skipped ahead, in her own world.
When Ian dropped the last of his cone and began crying, Daryl swung him up onto his shoulders and made him laugh instead.
“You don’t have to carry him. I can do that.” I reached up for Ian.
“Oh, I don’t mind.” Daryl and my traitorous son shared a conspiratorial grin, which fired my anger. <img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-1463" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/She’s-got-a-chip-on-her-shoulder..jpg" height="225" title="She’s got a chip on her shoulder." width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em>
</em></span>
“You know, I can manage just fine on my own. I’m perfectly capable of paying our way and carrying my own child.”
Daryl’s gaze turned wary. “I’m sure that’s true. You haven’t finished your ice cream and I have. How about we switch him over when you’re done?”
His reasoning made sense. Daryl was being polite and generous. I was acting irrational.
“I’m sorry. I just want to get used to doing things on my own.”
Daryl didn’t comment, but he resumed walking. I fell into step beside him. <em>I’d become the poster girl for falling in line, hadn’t I?</em> Going from a good girl who didn’t want to disappoint her parents to an obliging wife. I’d even gone to college close to home because Justin hadn’t wanted to worry about me when he was away. Secretly, I’d always wondered if he hadn’t trusted me to remain faithful away from the watchful eyes of my parents.<span style="color: red;"> <img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-1464" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/She’s-ripe-for-a-rebellion..jpg" height="225" title="She’s ripe for a rebellion." width="236" /></span>For a few years after we married, I’d congratulated myself on not rocking the boat and being the loyal Navy wife. Then, right after I graduated college, Ian had arrived. Justin was at sea.Having had a taste of both off-base housing and hovering parents, I preferred the former. Justin and I had our first real fight about me moving back home before the baby was born.
“But honey, think about me,” he’d pled. “How can I concentrate on work or get any rest if I’m worried about you? Sleep deprivation results in tragic mistakes.”
“Aren’t you being a tad dramatic, Justin? I’m fine. The baby’s fine. Mama will come here when the baby’s born.”
“And what if something goes wrong? I don’t see how you can be so selfish, Deena Rae. If you can’t be considerate of your husband, think of the baby.” He’d continued, outlining his supposed worries over me going into labor alone.
In the end, I did as he wanted. Except for the few weeks preceding Justin’s death, I’d continued to live with my parents. I was sick of it. This trip—this extended vacation Justin had intended as a new start for us—had become a trial period of independence for me. If I could handle being in a new place with my son for an entire month, I could venture out on my own.<img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-1459" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/It’s-time-for-her-to-be-her-own-person..jpg" height="225" title="It’s time for her to be her own person." width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em>
</em></span>
“Emma, go inside. I’ll be there in a minute.” Daryl’s voice broke into my thoughts.
Somehow, we’d ended up in front of my cottage with my son fast asleep on Daryl’s shoulder. He turned to face me.
“For whatever nerve I struck back there, I apologize.”
I shook my head and sighed. “It’s not your fault. I’ve been living with my parents since Justin died. They mean well, and they’re terrific grandparents, but the situation is stifling. They don’t seem to realize that I’ve grown up, experienced marriage and motherhood. Sometimes they treat Ian as if he’s more theirs than mine.” Realizing I’d come close to a rant, I hushed.
“I’m not seeing the connection. What does that have to do with me buying you dinner or carrying Ian?”
I shook my head, feeling foolish and ungrateful. Why had I chosen this moment to vent? “Forget it. I’m tired and overly sensitive right now. But I appreciate you trying to make us feel welcome. It may not seem like it, but I’ve enjoyed the evening.”
Daryl hesitated before smiling. “My pleasure. Believe me, I love my daughter, but after awhile I need adult conversation. Specifically, topics that don’t include acquiring the latest Lil’ Bratz doll or that Yu-Gi-Oh character.”
“Well, you’re safe with me since I’ve never heard of either one.”
“You’re lucky.” Daryl smiled and tilted his head, considering me. “But I think you’re wrong.”
Ian squirmed and rubbed his eyes. I reached out to take him from Daryl. “About what?”
“Safe isn’t what I feel around you.” <img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-1468" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/There-is-electricity-in-the-air..jpg" height="225" title="There is electricity in the air." width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em> </em></span>His words were spoken as we leaned toward each other to transfer Ian. The husky quality of Daryl’s voice raised goose bumps along my arms. For long seconds we froze, so close I could see flecks of navy and turquoise in his irises. A warmth that I wasn’t entirely comfortable with invaded my body. In my haste to create distance between us, I jerked Ian from Daryl’s arms and he awoke with a cry.
“I’d better—”
“Right.” Daryl’s eyes were shuttered now. “See you tomorrow.”
With a quick wave, he turned and walked away toward his own door.
Whew! I’d have to watch myself around our good neighbor. A summer fling wasn’t on the agenda. This vacation was all about establishing my independence and putting a healthy distance between me and my parents. I didn’t need anything else to complicate my life. <img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-1462" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/She’s-establishing-boundaries-–-but-boundaries-are-meant-to-be-broken..jpg" height="225" title="She’s establishing boundaries – but boundaries are meant to be broken." width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em>
</em></span>
As it turns out, I didn’t see my sexy neighbor again until late the next afternoon. Ian and I started out early and drove around the island, taking pictures of stately live oaks draped in Spanish moss, salt marshes, and strangely shaped birds standing at the water’s edge. We ate lunch at the Crab Trap, bought swimsuits at a strip mall, and watched folks pulling in crabs on the pier.
I was reclining on the couch, reading, when Emma knocked on the door.
“Hey, Miss Deena. Can Ian come out and play?”
“He’s taking a nap, Emma.”
“Oh.” She looked wistfully at my glass of lemonade, its sweat running down the glass onto a coaster.
“Come on in. I was thinking about having a cookie with my lemonade. Would you like some?”
We’d made another stop that morning—to a local grocery store. While a lot of this trip had been paid for way in advance, I couldn’t afford to eat out for the whole month.
Emma didn’t need any coaxing. We relocated to the tiny kitchen/dinette area and I heated the cookies in the microwave.
“My dad likes these, too,” Emma mumbled around a bite of a pecan chocolate chip.
Subtlety wasn’t her strong suit, and I wasn’t born yesterday. “I’ll let you take him a couple when you go home, okay?”
“We don’t live here, you know. Just for the summer.”
“The whole summer? Doesn’t your dad have to work?” The questions spilled out before I could harness them.
She gave me a “Duh!” look and giggled. “He brought his computer with him.”
A virtual office? Maybe he designed software or computer games.
“We live inNew York,” she volunteered. “It’s lots different than here.”
“I’ll bet.” I thought I ought to change the subject, but the one we had was more fascinating than it should’ve been. The need to know more about Daryl was strong.
<span style="color: red;"><em><img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-1457" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/I-like-him.jpg" height="225" title="I like him" width="236" /></em></span>
The thought startled me. Justin and I were high school sweethearts. He was my first and only lover, the only guy I’d ever been serious about. But this was different. This wasn’t a schoolgirl crush growing into something else, I realized with sudden clarity. This was a very grown-up, man-woman interest.
Was he interested in me too?
I shook off the thought. It didn’t matter. I needed to stand on my own two feet first. I owed myself that much. My position as a real-estate agent had flexible and sometimes odd hours, but I loved it and was doing well. With the survivor benefits we received monthly and most of Justin’s life insurance money in a trust for Ian’s college education, I’d soon be able to afford a house in the suburbs.
“Miss Deena? Did you hear me?” Emma’s singsong voice brought my mind back into focus.
“I’m sorry, honey. What did you say?”
“I asked where you and Ian live.”
Emma’s impatient answer came at the same time a rap sounded at the door and Ian tottered into the room.
“I’ll get it.” She ran to open the door. I picked up Ian and kissed his cheek with a big smack, making him laugh and wiggle to get down. He more or less slid down my leg and ran toward the cookie jar.
“It’s Daddy!” Emma said as Daryl came through the door.
“So I see.”
“We saved cookies for you, Daddy.” She pulled on his arm toward the kitchen.
“You did? Is that what smells so good in here?” Daryl allowed himself to be drawn forward but stopped when he reached me, his gaze focused on my face. “I thought maybe it was just you.” <img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-1450" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/Another-one-of-those-classy-lines..jpg" height="225" title="Another one of those classy lines." width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em>
</em></span>
Bless his heart. The man was <em>so</em> out of my league.
He continued to regard me steadily, and I practically became a puddle at his feet.
“Did you make them?” he asked.
“Make what?” I said, not thinking.
Daryl suppressed a grin. “The cookies.”
“Oh. Yes. No! I mean. . .I bought them, but we heated them up. They taste more like homemade that way. That’s why you smelled them.” Good Lord, I was babbling like an idiot—something that had become a habit around this man.
Emma folded paper towels in half and placed cookies on them, like she’d seen me do hers. “These are ready to heat, Miss Deena, but I’m not allowed to use the microwave yet.”
“Thanks, honey. You’re a big help. I’ll take it from here.” Thank goodness for distractions. I kept busy for the next few minutes, serving my guests.
Daryl took a bite and groaned, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. I felt the reaction clear to my toes.
All too soon, the kids disappeared into Ian’s room to play, leaving Daryl and me alone.
“Thanks for the snack. It hit the spot.” Daryl slapped a hand to his midsection, reminding me of the washboard abs hidden beneath his Dave Matthew’s Band T-shirt.
“You’re welcome,” I responded.
The silence stretched, becoming almost unbearable.
Daryl cleared his throat. “I hope Emma didn’t talk your ear off. She can be a chatterbox.”
“No. She was fine. We were getting acquainted, talking about—” I thought back to the previous conversation—“where we live when we’re not vacationing.”
“New Yorkfor us,” Daryl volunteered. “But I’m sure you already know that by now.”
“Right. And we’re inAtlanta. I sell real estate.”
With the ice broken, the words came more freely. I learned Daryl wrote novels under a pen name and was becoming fairly well-known. I shared some funny stories about my more colorful clients.
He spoke of Emma’s budding artistic talent, a legacy from her graphic artist mother, and he commiserated with me over the trials of potty training.
“It’s my fault. I just didn’t feel like dealing with it after Justin died, and I put it off for too long.”
“How long has he been gone?”
“One year yesterday.” <img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-1466" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/The-grief-period-is-over-–-thankfully.jpg" height="225" title="The grief period is over – thankfully!" width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em>
</em></span>
“Wow. You should have said something. That’s a tough day to get through.”
“Not exactly something you share with strangers.”
“Is it weird for me to say I don’t feel like you’re a stranger? Too soon?” His words were spoken softly. “I rarely date, Deena, but there’s something about you that I’m drawn to.”
I hesitated, torn between what I felt I should say and the truth.
“I feel the same way. It’s exciting and terrifying at the same time. How can that be?”
“Maybe because we both know what it is to lose someone we love.” Daryl shrugged and closed his hand over mine. “I just know I want to see where this could lead.”
“I’d like that too.” <img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-1449" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/And-so-do-we.jpg" height="225" title="And so do we!" width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em>
</em></span>
That evening, Daryl and I cooked dinner for the four of us—a simple meal of boiled shrimp and crabs with red potatoes and fried okra. Daryl and Emma teased me about the southern fried vegetable, but managed to put away their fair share of it.
Daryl helped me wash up afterwards. Then we all went for a walk along the beach, the water lapping at our toes. In the waning light, Daryl and I walked behind our children, talking as if there was a time limit on getting to know everything about each other.
When our respective spouses entered the conversation again, we hung back, keeping the kids in sight. Daryl’s wife had died in the aftermath of 9/11 when Emma was a baby. An asthmatic working near Ground Zero, Beth had a severe attack from all the dust, smoke, and ash flying through the air. In the confusion of the day, she’d been overlooked, huddled in the doorway of a building three blocks down from where she worked. By the time she’d been found, it was too late. <img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-1454" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/He’d-been-touched-by-the-tragedy.jpg" height="225" title="He’d been touched by the tragedy" width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em>
</em></span>
With the wind blowing our words behind us and away from the children, I told Daryl things I hadn’t told anyone. The argument Justin and I had, the truth becoming more apparent with every sentence spoken. We’d grown in different directions with distance and time spent apart. I was no longer the dependent young bride he’d left behind. Even though he’d changed, he didn’t like the differences in me. We weren’t the same people who’d vowed to love forever. Without asking me, Justin had signed on for another tour of duty. I felt betrayed, as if he didn’t want or need Ian and me. He’d died on the trip back to his base. Doing eighty in a fifty-five stretch of road, his truck had rolled down an embankment when he’d tried to take a curve without slowing down.
When I finished the story, Daryl threaded his fingers through mine. I shivered despite the warm evening, and he drew me into his arms. We held each other, drawing comfort from one another until an excited squeal from Ian pulled us apart. <img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-1467" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/Their-shared-losses-brought-them-even-closer-together..jpg" height="225" title="Their shared losses brought them even closer together." width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em>
</em></span>
The next day I didn’t see Daryl at all, except to wave at him as he ended his early morning run throughNeptunePark. He’d explained that he usually took weekends off while he was here on St. Simons, but that he needed to get ahead on his latest manuscript in order to take the fourth off.
We hadn’t even kissed, and there was nothing formal between us other than the “see where this could lead” conversation, but I felt oddly connected to him. I missed his easy laugh and the unique essence-of-Daryl smell. At odd moments, I found myself remembering his bare toes sinking in the sand beside mine and the feel of his arms around me.
Was I falling back into old habits again? I didn’t think so, but it was too early to tell. Following someone else’s dictates and trying to keep the peace wasn’t how I wanted to live again. Could Daryl handle the Deena I needed to be?
We celebrated Independence Day the old fashioned way. Daryl spread a blanket on the ground and we staked it out as our spot. Lunch was hot dogs and hamburgers. I brought the buns, fixins’, and drinks. Daryl brought the meats and cooked. We ate too much and ended up dozing in the sun while the kids played games nearby. Overhead, seagulls scouted out stray crumbs and swooped in for the bounty. As the day wore on, my comfort level increased. Was this really how it could be: easy camaraderie, helping each other with the kids, sharing in the chores, a feeling of friendship? <img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-1469" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/They-could-be-just-like-the-Brady-Bunch-–-with-a-few-less-kids..jpg" height="225" title="They could be just like the Brady Bunch – with a few less kids." width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em>
</em></span>
I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop. Instead, night fell. And with it, the fireworks lit up the sky. Ian watched with open-mouthed awe, and we all applauded the show’s finale. The day had been idyllic and wonderful.
As we’d prearranged, Daryl and I met in my screened-in porch after the kids were put in their respective beds. From there, he could see his cottage, about twelve feet away, in case Emma needed him. We sipped cold beer and rehashed our kids’ antics throughout the day.
The thought brought me up short. What was I doing here? Daryl and I lived hundreds of miles apart. I could tell he liked living inNew York, and while I wanted some space from my parents, I didn’t want to take Ian so far away that they rarely got to visit. Nor did I want to start over with my career.
“You know what I’ve learned about you already?” Daryl asked.
I shook my head.
“You’re a worrywart.”
“How do you figure?” I wasn’t about to admit it was true, but come on now, I’d had to learn to think ahead with a baby to take care of and an absent husband.
“I can practically see the wheels turning, churning out all the ‘what ifs’. Don’t borrow trouble. Let’s take this one step at a time and see what happens.” <img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-1452" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/He-can-read-her-mind.jpg" height="225" title="He can read her mind!" width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em>
</em></span>
“And what if—”
“Shhh! It’s time for that next step, don’t you think?”
Before I had time to formulate a reply, Daryl covered my mouth with his. The fireworks earlier in the evening paled in comparison to the Technicolor shower of sparks behind my eyelids. There was no coaxing or hesitation. You might say we dove headfirst into sensation. The warmth I’d felt in his arms became a three-alarm fire as we deepened the kiss and opened our hearts. I could hardly breathe.
After an eternity, we eased apart. I’d never experienced such a weak, trembling feeling from a kiss. My first impression of the man had been a bulls-eye. <em>Whoa, Mama</em> was an appropriate, if inadequate, response. For a while we just sat, arms around each other, my head on his shoulder, catching our breath. What exactly do you say after an experience like that?
“I think I’d better ease out of here before. . .” Daryl let his words dangle between us, firing our imaginations as to what would happen if he didn’t go.<img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-1458" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/It’s-so-sweet-and-proper.jpg" height="225" title="It’s so sweet and proper!" width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em>
</em></span>
When I didn’t respond, he rose and pulled me to my feet. I walked him to the door, reluctant to end the evening.
“Deena?” His whisper shivered over my skin as he drew me into his arms once again.
“Yeah?” I whispered back. Our tones were reverent, stunned.
He touched his lips to mine, a feather-soft parting. We didn’t dare do more.
Daryl lifted my chin with one finger. Our gazes met and held. He mouthed a “wow” and grinned. I nodded, trying unsuccessfully to suppress my own ear-to-ear.
He slipped through the screen door, still grinning.
When Daryl wasn’t around, I tried to remember all the reasons we should take things slow. I had a child, as did he. If we screwed this up, they would get hurt. Also, we lived too far apart and were both settled in our separate lives. There were grandparents and careers to consider.
At the same time, I felt a desperate need to see him every chance I could. We spent as much time as possible together after that first kiss. Daryl would race through writing his daily page quota, then head straight for my house. The kids adjusted, going from amicable to squabbling, then settling into a routine after they’d thoroughly tried our patience.
We explored the island and its rich history. Daryl even carried Ian up all one hundred and twenty-nine steps to the top of the St. Simon’s lighthouse so we could take pictures from there. One Sunday we took a drive aroundJekyllIsland, looking in awe at the still-elegant summer homes built for the rich and famous many years ago.
My feelings for Daryl grew. I’d become very fond of Emma as well. So much so, that I couldn’t imagine going home and not seeing them again. Daryl and I managed an hour alone each evening, but it never seemed to be enough. After every encounter, our kisses lasted longer, our hands roamed farther, and it became almost impossible to say goodnight. <img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-1456" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/How-much-longer-could-they-control-themselves.jpg" height="225" title="How much longer could they control themselves" width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em>
</em></span>
Before we knew it, two full weeks had gone by and we were into the third. My day of departure loomed like an expected storm, and a feeling of desperation lodged itself next to my heart. I’d never felt this way before, and it scared me. I couldn’t afford to fall so hard that I’d lose all perspective. When I’d tumbled head over heels for Justin, I was an impressionable young girl, unsure of myself. I’d become a doormat, allowing him to call the shots so we wouldn’t have an argument. But now I was older, more confident. Having Ian had changed everything. I had to keep his best interests in mind. No matter how many scenarios I thought of, nothing seemed fair to all of us. I told myself this was a summer fling; when it was over I had to move on.
On Wednesday of my third week on the island, Daryl told me he wanted to take me on a date that Saturday night—just the two of us. He said he’d made reservations at a nice restaurant and had arranged for a sitter.
“We’ll probably be out late. Why don’t you let Emma sleep over with Ian so we won’t have to rush back?” I asked, my heart pounding as we cuddled in a loveseat on my screened-in porch. <img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-1474" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/You-know-what-this-means-–-he’s-planning-ahead-with-every-detail..jpg" height="225" title="You know what this means – he’s planning ahead with every detail." width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em>
</em></span>
Daryl’s arms tightened around me, understanding my unspoken invitation. “Are you sure?”
“Are you sure we can’t move it up a couple nights?”
He sucked in a deep breath and huffed out a humorless laugh. “I thought maybe you weren’t ready. I didn’t want to push.”
“Are you serious? I’m dying here.” I tilted my head up as Daryl’s descended. Our mouths meshed in a fierce can’t-get-enough kiss. He pulled me up over him and scrunched down in a half-lying position. His right hand closed over my breast as his rigid length pressed into my abdomen,<span style="color: red;"> <img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-1447" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/That’s-a-creative-metaphor.jpg" height="225" title="(That’s a creative metaphor!)" width="236" /></span>and we froze from the overload of sensation, gasping for oxygen.
Slowly, the sound of crickets and surf overpowered the sound of my own heartbeat. “Daryl, the kids. We can’t—”
“I know. I know,” he groaned, tucking my head into the crook of his neck. We lay that way, touching from head to knees, our bodies screaming for a release we couldn’t allow ourselves that night. We murmured apologies and promises to each other, stealing little kisses in between. But the close proximity and our feelings wouldn’t allow our need to subside. Eventually, we had to part.
Neither of us got much sleep that night.
We existed in a haze of sensual need until Saturday evening finally arrived. I was relieved to see our sitter was the nice lady who’d rented us the cottages. With our children in good hands and assurances that we could stay out as long as we liked, we left the shore and headed inland to the Black Water Grill.
Daryl had dressed up for the occasion, wearing crisply pressed khaki slacks and a powder blue shirt that complimented his eyes. To say that he cleaned up nicely would have been an understatement.
Dinner was wonderful. Just spending time alone, being able to have all-adult conversation, was a treat. My feelings were too intense. Things had happened between Daryl and me so fast. Maybe we needed some time and distance for perspective. When I voiced my thoughts, Daryl disagreed.
“Most people who date see each other once or twice a week for months before they get serious. We’ve had three weeks straight of close contact,” he explained.
“So, you’re saying we haven’t known each other long, but we’ve had more contact than most people who’ve known each other for months.” <img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-1460" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/No-wonder-he’s-a-writer-–-he-has-a-way-with-words..jpg" height="225" title="No wonder he’s a writer – he has a way with words." width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em>
</em></span>
“Exactly.” Daryl smiled and took my hand. “I know this—us—has happened fast. I’m not usually impulsive, but I think you’ll agree there’s something special going on here. It’s not every day you meet someone who makes you feel like a missing piece of your life has been returned.”
I squeezed his hand and nodded, unable to speak for the intense feelings clogging my throat.
“Besides,” Daryl continued, “I’ve got everything all worked out. We’ll both have to make a move, but we can be together.” <img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-1453" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/He-has-been-planning-ahead-–-for-the-both-of-them..jpg" height="225" title="He has been planning ahead – for the both of them." width="236" />
I sat back stunned, a chill shivering over me. He’d worked everything out without consulting me? He wanted me to move away from the security of my job? It was Justin all over again, only Daryl wasn’t even proposing marriage—not that I was ready to go there. I couldn’t let myself get trapped into following someone else’s dictates again. I’d never truly be happy like that, no matter how much I loved Daryl. We’d never said the words, but the feelings were there. Or at least I’d thought they were. If you really loved someone, you didn’t try to control that person, did you?
I pulled my hand back, my heart already shattering. “That’s not possible. I know because I’ve tried to think of a way we could have a future too. You can’t just make decisions about my life without consulting me. I won’t let you.”
“What are you talking about? Don’t you want us to be together?” Daryl looked at me like I’d suddenly grown two heads.
“Yes, but we’re just kidding ourselves if we think it could be more. We both have ties to family and community. I’m successful at my job because I know the neighborhoods and school systems of the counties I work in. This summer was wonderful, but we probably let it get out of hand.”
“Now who’s making decisions for the both of us?” Daryl raised his brows. “You said you’d been trying to think of a way for us to be together. Well, that’s all I was doing. Maybe I came on a bit strong, but I’m not Justin, Deena. The subject is open to discussion if you’ll hear me out.”
I could see I’d hurt Daryl deeply, and it made me sad. “I need a partnership, Daryl.”
“I thought we had one. From the moment I offered to help you move in and you refused my help, I knew you were a strong, capable woman. That’s why I had to get to know you better.”
“Really?” Searching Daryl’s face, I found sincerity and hope reflected there. Maybe, just maybe, I’d jumped to the wrong conclusion.
He nodded.
“You’re sure it wasn’t the drooping ponytail or the enticing smell of Ian’s accident?” I asked, trying to lighten the heavy turn the conversation had taken.
Daryl rewarded me with a wry smile. “To be honest, the independence hooked me, but your feet reeled me in. They reflected your soft, feminine side. The combination was irresistible.” <img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-1475" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/guess-those-pedicures.jpg" height="225" title="guess those pedicures" width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em>
</em></span>
“I never knew how powerful a good pedicure could be.”
With an intense look on his face, Daryl said nothing. The waiter delivered the check. <em>Had my flippant remark angered him?</em> Moments later, receipt in hand, Daryl stood and held out his hand. “Let’s blow this joint. I want you all to myself tonight.”
Back at our cottages, I expected we’d go to Daryl’s place, as planned. Instead, we left the car and walked toward the lighthouse in silence. Daryl took my hand and we continued along the water’s edge toward the park. A slight breeze ruffled the hem of my calf-length skirt. Finally, I couldn’t stand the suspense any longer.
“I wasn’t trying to make light of our. . .” <em>What? Affair?</em> That didn’t sound right, but I didn’t want to make assumptions either. “Um, what’s happened between us.” <em>Oh, geez. I was making an even worse mess.</em>
Daryl halted, leaned against a picnic table, and drew me into his arms. The warm night air was perfumed with salt water and a touch of damp earth. “It wasn’t you. I just didn’t want to be in a restaurant for this. I wanted to be here, where <em>we</em> really began.”
I tilted my face up to try and gauge his mood. What did he mean “for this”? I was afraid to ask. With the moonlight peeking through the massive limbs above us, I could see he was serious, contemplative.
“This is where we started getting to know each other, remember? Walking to the restaurant that first night?”
I nodded. The emotion in his gaze had my pulse skipping along, as Emma had been three weeks ago.
“I love you, Deena.”
“Oh, Daryl!” I leaned in, tears welling from a surge of emotion, and I touched my forehead to his.
“I don’t want to lose you and Ian. Can’t we find a way to be together, to make us a family?”
Oh, wow. His inclusion of Ian had really gotten me. My little boy had given Daryl his heart faster than I had. I remembered an old saying—that kids and animals are instinctively accurate judges of character.
“Deena?” Daryl’s voice sounded a little desperate.
I cleared my tear-clogged throat. “Can we discuss the possibilities together? Make decisions based on all our needs?”
“Sure. I thought I <em>was</em> formulating plans based on all our needs. I didn’t mean to make it sound like a done deal. My ideas are open to discussion.”
If Daryl was willing to give me another chance after my outburst, he deserved the same. “So tell me about this plan.”
Arm in arm, we walked back to his place. Daryl outlined his ideas. To my surprise, they involved he and Emma moving to the Atlantaarea. <img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-1473" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/Wow.jpg" height="225" title="Wow" width="236" /> My move would simply be out of my parents’ home.
“What about your career?” I asked.
“I can write anywhere. Your expertise is more area-specific and crucial to advancement.”
“It doesn’t seem fair. What about Emma?”
Daryl shrugged. “Kids are resilient. It’s better to uproot her now than after she’s established long-time school friends. She’ll adjust, especially if she gets you for a new mom.”
My breath caught as Daryl turned to me at the gate to his tiny yard. “You’re already my friend and the woman I love. I want to be your lover, but only if the feelings are there. Only if—”
I silenced him with my fingertips, realizing I’d left him hanging back there in the park.
“Oh, Daryl, the feelings are most definitely there. I love you. Emma, too.” I had more to say but was suddenly too busy being very thoroughly kissed.
Hours passed before we spoke words again. Suffice it to say we made it inside, and they were among the most enjoyable hours of my life. And once we did manage to resurrect the conversation, we agreed on most of the details.
Daryl gave me free rein in finding us a place to live, citing only that he needed a relatively quiet office space, and he trusted that I’d choose an area with a good school district. He cut his vacation short and returned to New York to pack.
As I write this, Daryl and I have been married for six wonderful months. Our son and daughter are chattering excitedly about their plans for summer vacation. We’re packing again, heading toSt.SimonsIslandand a small white cottage on the Atlantic shore—a trip we both agreed should become an annual treat.<br />
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<img alt="August 2006" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-1886" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/August-2006.jpg" height="888" width="683" />Copyright © 2006, 2012 by BroadLit</div>
True Romancehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01047288963020873283noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4531275353977319700.post-32504272642644282152014-07-15T14:17:00.001-07:002014-07-15T14:20:47.665-07:00Bloodlust: A Killer Love Story<h2>
<a href="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/October-2001.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="romance books-love stories-true romance-romance stories-romance ebooks" class="alignleft size-medium wp-image-8160" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/6345900-195x300.jpg" height="300" width="195" /></a><strong><span style="font-size: small;">Dateline: October 2001</span></strong></h2>
“Celene, you’re too sweet, too naïve,” my best friend told me as I dropped a five-dollar bill into the lap of a man who was panhandling on the sidewalk. “One of these days, I won’t be around to protect you from yourself.”
“Why? Where are you going? Seems to me you’ve been around half my life, protecting me from myself.”<br />
“I mean it, Celene! There are two halves in this world: the good and the evil. And it seems that the evil is always looking to harm the good.”<span style="color: red;"> </span><br />
<a name='more'></a><span style="color: red;"><img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-1417" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/Head’s-up.jpg" height="225" title="Head’s up!" width="236" /><em>
</em></span>
“I have no idea what you’re talking about. You’ve been reading too much science fiction.” Really! If nothing else, Jeanette had a vivid imagination. Where did she think these things up?
“You know I get these premonitions from time to time. Just be careful, Celene.”
I sighed, not wanting to get into a discussion about her premonitions right then. <img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-1436" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/She’s-Celene’s-crazy-friend-–-everyone-has-one.jpg" height="225" title="She’s Celene’s crazy friend – everyone has one" width="236" />
With a wave, I took off down the street toward the elementary school where I worked. My days were just too busy to think about good and evil. Besides, I worked with elementary school children. Where was the evil in that?
As I walked into the office, my boss motioned to me. “Celene, I’d like you to meet our new teacher, Leith Carlton,” he said. “He’ll be filling in for Mrs. Hammond for the rest of the year. Leith, this is Celene Assante.”
“Pleased to meet you, Ms. Assante,” the new teacher greeted me. I had to look way up for our eyes to meet because he was so tall.
“Nice to meet you Mr. Carlton. But we’re usually on a first name basis here, unless it’s in front of the children.”
“Then call me Leith.” <img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-1438" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/Strange-name-isn’t-it.jpg" height="225" title="Strange name, isn’t it" width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em> </em></span>He reached down and shook my hand. It was a big hand, strong and warm, and he had the most beautiful, saddest eyes I’d ever seen. I thought how the little kids in the fourth grade would love him.
Then my boss, Principal White, led him away to meet the rest of the staff. Howard White was as proud as a peacock to have gotten someone of Leith’s caliber, especially since the school year had already started and most teachers already had jobs. As the school secretary, I’d handled all the resumes and reviewed them for Howard. Leith Carlton’s appeared to be among the best.
Howard especially liked the fact that Leith had experience with outdoor programs, a kind of wilderness survival training for kids.Leith had excellent letters of reference, and I made sure Howard got the phone list of references to call, too. We wanted to make sure everything checked out okay because we were responsible for the people who worked with the children.
Over the next few weeks, I’d see Leith from time to time as he came in to check his mail, or to ask a question, or just to hang out for a little while. There was something about him that attracted me. Maybe it was his dark good looks, or the sweet sad aura about him. I sensed that he was a good person who’d had a very hard life. <img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-1415" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/Did-you-really.jpg" height="225" title="Did you really" width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em> </em></span>I wanted to ask him about that, but I just didn’t know him well enough yet.
Then one day he asked me out on a date. As excited as I was about it, I managed to calmly accept and asked where we were going.
“I thought a quiet dinner, then maybe a long walk along the lake,” he said.
It took a long time for me to choose an outfit for our date. I wished I could ask Jeanette’s opinion, but she’d been called out of town on business. I also wanted Jeanette to meet Leith to give me her opinion of him. Even though Jeanette’s opinions were sometimes a little “out there,” she was my friend and I knew she had my best interests at heart.
I was nervous when he rang the doorbell, but Leith quickly put me at ease. During dinner, he wanted to know all about my life. Finally, when we’d left the restaurant and started our long walk along the lake, I insisted that he tell me about himself.
“Let’s not talk about me,” he said.
“No fair!” I said. “I’ve been talking about myself all night long.”
“All right, then. What would you like to know?”
“Where you grew up, that sort of thing.”
“I grew up in the city, the inner city.” He clenched his jaw. I could tell it wasn’t a pleasant memory. <img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-1412" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/Clenched-jaw-and-all..jpg" height="225" title="Clenched jaw and all." width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em>
</em></span>
“I’ll understand if you’d rather not talk about it, Leith—”
“There’s not much to tell.” He lightened his tone. “I had a brother, younger than me. He died when he was five.”
“I’m so sorry,” I said, reaching out to touch his arm.
“It wasn’t your fault.” He looked puzzled, as though he’d never been comforted about it before.
“How did—how did he die?”
“He tried to climb out on the fire escape and he fell. We were five floors up.” <img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-1419" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/Hmmm….jpg" height="225" title="Hmmm…" width="236" />
I couldn’t even imagine the horror of that. I wondered where his parents were, who had been looking after that five year old.
“Anyway, that’s enough about me. Your life is so much more interesting,” Then he drew me out about my own family and the good times we had while I was growing up.
It occurred to me later that Leith didn’t want to talk any more about his family, so I was determined not to pry. He would tell me in his own time.
At school, Leith would still visit me on his breaks, often leaving a little gift, like a flower or a wrapped candy, on my desk. Howard noticed and gave me a knowing grin each time. He was a hopeless romantic and would often encourage matches between staff members.
Leith and I continued to date. They were mostly casual: trips to the coffee shop or walks in the park. Slowly, I began to feel something special for this man with the sad past. <img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-1432" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/Sad-past-or-a-secret-past-he’s-hiding.jpg" height="225" title="Sad past or a secret past he’s hiding" width="236" />
Each night, Jeanette and I would talk on the phone, and I would tell her about my feelings for Leith. “I can’t wait for you to meet him,” I said one night.
But Jeanette was slightly suspicious. She thought I was going too fast. “What do you really know about him, Celi? Has he been married? Does he have children? Didn’t you ask?”
“No and no. Jeanette, just be happy for me, please?”
“Sounds like you’re hooked. All right, when do I get to meet this Leith?”
I perked up then. “As soon as you come home! When will that be?”
“I’m not sure yet. Just don’t go getting married without me or anything, you hear?”
“I hear. How on earth could I ever get married without you?” I teased her.
I had Leith over to my place and the strangest thing happened. My cat, Tuggles, shot out of the room as if the devil himself had walked in. <img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-1431" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/Run-now-when-you-still-have-the-chance.jpg" height="225" title="Run now when you still have the chance!" width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em>
</em></span>
“Tuggles, what on earth is the matter with you? Come and meet the nice man,” I told my cat, but she wouldn’t be persuaded.
Leith just gave a quick laugh and shrugged his shoulders.
“Sorry about that,” I said. “I guess she’ll come around eventually.”
But the cat was the last thing on Leith’s mind that night. It was the very first time we made love, and I’d never had such a tender, considerate lover.<span style="color: red;"> <img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-1437" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/She’s-hooked-now..jpg" height="225" title="She’s hooked now." width="236" /><em>
</em></span>
“You’re beautiful,” he told me over and over again. I felt so safe, so secure in his arms.
“Please stay the night,” I whispered.
I loved the idea of sharing my bed with a man again. I’d had a casual relationship about a year before, but we’d decided to break it off. Now I realized how much I’d missed having someone in my life.
By the time Jeanette got back from her business trip, Leith and I were sleeping together on a regular basis. <img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-1435" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/She-wouldn’t-be-able-to-admit-this-if-it-wasn’t-2001.jpg" height="225" title="She wouldn’t be able to admit this if it wasn’t 2001!" width="236" /> It seemed like we couldn’t get enough of each other. He was becoming more and more important to me, and I desperately wanted my best friend to like him.
I made reservations at Jeanette’s favorite restaurant. So she wouldn’t feel like a fifth wheel, she invited her sometimes-boyfriend, Dave, to join us. I told her it wasn’t necessary, that Leith was such a sweet, kind man who’d make her feel at ease.
But something awful happened that night. To this day, I can’t explain it. The moment my best friend met my lover, she despised him.
“Leith, this is Jeanette. We’ve been best friends, oh—forever, haven’t we, Jeanette?” I asked cheerfully. But when I turned to look at her, her face was cold and white, as though she’d just stumbled upon a corpse.<span style="color: red;"><em> <img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-1424" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/Maybe-her-premonitions-are-crazy.jpg" height="225" title="Maybe her premonitions are crazy" width="236" /></em></span>“Jeanette, what’s wrong?” I whispered, but she continued to stare at Leith. Even Dave was confused by her behavior.
“I don’t feel so well,” she announced, suddenly. “Dave, can you take me home? Celene, I’m sorry. I’ll call you later.”
Leith and I stared after them as they left. Leith cleared his voice and said, “Well, let’s not waste those reservations, Celene.”
“I’m so sorry, Leith. She must have taken sick suddenly. Maybe I should go after her.”
“No!” He covered my hand with his. “What I mean is, she looks like she could use some time alone. Don’t let it spoil your evening,” he pleaded.
We stayed at the restaurant and ordered a meal, but the night was ruined for me. Was she really sick, and was she feeling better now? Or had she left for another reason? Either way, I couldn’t stop thinking about her.
“I think I’d better go home now,” I told Leith. I’d barely touched my plate, but he had eaten everything on his.
“What? Without dessert?”
I couldn’t believe that he didn’t see how upset I was. I got up and left the table, and he had to rush to keep up with me. When I was sitting in the car waiting for him to pay the bill, I tried to tell myself that Leith was new to my life and everyone in it. He didn’t know how much I cared for Jeanette. When she was upset, I was upset.
It was a silent drive home. At my door, our goodnight kiss turned into a passionate one on Leith’s part, and he fumbled for my keys to let us into the house.
“Leith, no, please. Not tonight,” I said, putting my hands firmly on his chest.
He looked confused, then angry. “What’s wrong with you tonight, Celene?”
<em>He really doesn’t have a clue, </em>I thought, stunned. <em>Didn’t he see Jeanette’s face? Even the waiter knew something was very wrong and asked if he could help.</em>
It was the first time I had the feeling that Leith just wasn’t in touch with certain human emotions. But at the time, I attributed it to the fact that we didn’t know each other very well. <img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-1413" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/Despite-sleeping-together-regularly.jpg" height="225" title="Despite sleeping together regularly!" width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em>
</em></span>
Of course, I called Jeanette as soon as I got home. Her answering machine kicked in after three rings. “Jeanette, sweets, this is Celene. Are you all right? Okay . . .you must be sick and resting. I’ll call you first thing in the morning okay? Or you call me.”
I didn’t sleep much that night. In the morning, I reached for the phone before even getting out of bed. Jeanette answered at last, telling me she had a very bad migraine the night before and that she was better now. She <em>did</em> get migraines often enough. Jeanette had told me they went hand-in-hand with her premonitions, or at least, the bad ones. I knew that she picked up these bad vibes from people and things now and then—but premonitions? I didn’t really believe in that sort of thing. <img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-1425" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/Maybe-you’ll-be-changing-your-mind.jpg" height="225" title="Maybe you’ll be changing your mind" width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em>
</em></span>
Still, Jeanette was my friend and I loved her. All I knew was that she’d been sick and I wished I could take away the pain. But after that, any time I’d suggest she meet Leith again, she was always too busy. She was clearly avoiding him, and I began to suspect she didn’t like him. But that was crazy; she’d barely met the man.
I stopped pushing for the two of them to get together. When I was with either of them, things went fine until I mentioned the other. Jeanette would be my old friend, her old self, until she heard Leith’s name. And Leith would be my sweet lover until I mentioned Jeanette’s name. Then he’d get moody and withdraw from me. It was so strange.
I was living in a no-man’s land between them both. How could this go on? I wanted both my lover and my best friend in my life. But could she really see something in him that was hidden from my eyes?
One day, I had to drop some papers off in Leith’s classroom. I noticed he’d put one of his students in the time-out corner. When I came back over an hour later to deliver a message from another teacher, the same boy was still sitting in the corner. Our school had a policy that time-out lasted only minutes. Had Bram done something wrong again that required a second session in the corner?
“Is Bram still in time-out?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said matter-of-factly, before returning his attention to his students.
That disturbed me. I wasn’t a teacher, but I cared for those kids. Sitting for over an hour in time-out? I knew of no other teacher in the school who would have allowed that to happen. But Bram hadn’t looked upset, just bored.<img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-1418" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/Here’s-a-clue-she-can’t-ignore..jpg" height="225" title="Here’s a clue she can’t ignore." width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em>
</em></span>
Maybe I was overreacting. Maybe this was what the last school Leith had worked at had required him to do in terms of discipline. I don’t know what made me do it, but I called that other school, telling them I was doing a survey to compare school policies.
“Let me send you our most recent school newsletter,” the school’s secretary offered. “We print our rules and regulations in there to remind students and parents.”
If the secretary had never mailed me that little newsletter, my life would have had a far different outcome. It arrived in the school mail a week later. I slipped it into my purse so that Leith wouldn’t see it on my desk and ask why I had a newsletter from his old school. Once I got home, with Tuggles curled up beside me, I read it. The more time I spent with Leith, the less time I spent with my cat, because she still couldn’t stand to be in the same room with him. <img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-1440" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/The-cat-doesn’t-like-him-either..jpg" height="225" title="The cat doesn’t like him either." width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em>
</em></span>
“If you don’t watch out I’m going to ship you off to Jeanette’s!” I warned Tuggles, then started to read.
Sure enough, the school’s rules were very similar to ours. I browsed through the rest of it quickly until something caught my eye. It was an article about the anniversary of a tragic accident at the school. Three students had drowned when their boat sank on a lake during a school expedition . . . led by a Mr. Carlton. <img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-1429" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/OMG2.jpg" height="225" title="OMG!!!" width="236" />
I sat up. <em>Mr. Carlton!</em> There weren’t many details of the accident, just a profile on each of the students. And there, another article, this one about another tragedy the year before: a child who’d run in front of a car and died. Both incidents had happened on the same date, the fifteenth of June, a year apart. <img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-1442" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/What2.jpg" height="225" title="What" width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em>
</em></span>
Thank goodness there was no mention of Leith in the earlier accident. But if three of his students had died only a year earlier, why had he never mentioned this to me? Perhaps he was in denial; perhaps he blamed himself because he was the leader of the outing. At least it explained the sad look about him. The poor man! <img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-1430" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/Poor-man-indeed…..jpg" height="225" title="Poor man indeed…." width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em>
</em></span>
My heart went out to this man who had suffered so much in his life. No wonder he’d wanted a job in another school. Every day there must have been torture, remembering the kids who’d died and wondering if there was anything he could have done to save them. But an accident was an accident; he shouldn’t have blamed himself.
I wanted to comfort him, but I couldn’t very well do that without confessing to the snooping I’d done. <img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-1445" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/Which-would-say-the-truth.jpg" height="225" title="Which would say the truth" width="236" />I wondered if he would ever bring it up. But considering how close-mouthed he was about his family, something as tragic as the deaths of three students wouldn’t exactly be the first thing he’d talk about. And I surely couldn’t confide about this to Jeanette, who refused outright to speak of him.
But one day, quite by accident, I found out more about the tragedy. Leith and I had exchanged the keys to our apartments. I was dropping off some dry cleaning for him after school. As the monitor for the school chess club, he’d be staying late that afternoon. I’d agreed to pick up his dry cleaning since the place would be closed by the time he left school.
I only intended to drop it off near the front door and then head home. But just as I walked in I bumped into the front closet door where Leith kept his coats and shoes. I pushed the door closed, but heard something fall inside. When I opened it, I saw that it was a photo album. <img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-1420" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/How-convenient..jpg" height="225" title="How convenient." width="236" /><em>
</em>
I should have just pushed it back up on the shelf where it belonged. But I was curious and thought there might be some pictures of Leith’s family, perhaps the little brother who’d died. Hesitantly, I opened it.
There were no photos in it, only pages and pages of news articles. They looked to be school news items from the schools where he’d worked. There was one about a volleyball team he’d coached, a swim team, and a travel club. Nothing very remarkable.
Then I saw it: an article about the boy who had died while wandering across a busy street. And on the next page, the one about the three students who’d drowned. On each of them, the date of the fifteenth of June on which the events had occurred was circled in red ink. <img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-1443" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/What-could-this-mean-–-June-15th.jpg" height="225" title="What could this mean – June 15th" width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em>
</em></span>
Also, pushed at the back of the album was a very old article, crumpled and stained over the years. It was about Leith’s brother, who’d fallen from the fire escape. The two boys had been alone at the time. Leith had been seven and left alone to baby-sit his little brother. The boy had crawled out onto the fire escape and lost his footing, falling five floors to his death. That tragedy, too, had occurred on June fifteenth. <img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-1423" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/Leith’s-brother-died-when-he-was-babysitting-him-–-on-the-15th.jpg" height="225" title="Leith’s brother died when he was babysitting him – on the 15th!!!!" width="236" />
<span style="color: red;"><em>
</em></span>
At first, I didn't know what to make of it all. Was it just an incredible coincidence that all these deaths had happened on the same day of the year?
That night, Leith brought me a huge bouquet of flowers and treated me like a princess all night long. I knew he was tired from a long day at work, as I was—but together, we were magic. We had boundless energy. I forgot all about those newspaper clippings for a while. <img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-1428" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/Of-course-she-did-and-who-could-blame-her.jpg" height="225" title="Of course she did and who could blame her" width="236" />
How could I have doubted such a caring man? <em>Some of Jeanette’s cynicism must be rubbing off on me, </em>I thought. Yet in the back of my mind, I was aware that June fifteenth was again drawing near.
“Let’s do something special this weekend,”Leith suggested when I saw him next. “I’ve made reservations at the Seven Pines Resort in the mountains.”
“The Seven Pines! Oh, Leith, that’s way too expensive!” I protested.
“You deserve it! No arguments. I want you packed and ready to go after school this Friday.”
So again, I pushed my doubts aside and eagerly got ready for the trip. I called Jeanette but she wasn’t home, so I left a message that I’d be out of town with Leith for the weekend. I really hoped she’d come around about him, though my hopes were growing dimmer with each passing day.
The weekend trip was heavenly.Leith had booked separate rooms, which I appreciated. It gave me the option to sleep with him or not; as it turned out he didn’t use his room much. We slept in both days and had room service bring us a champagne breakfast. We played tennis, hiked the trails and swam in the huge pool. It was like a page from a fairytale.
And on Sunday, Leith proposed. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. But there was something about the magic of that place that made it all seem right. Leith was my tall, handsome lover, telling me he wanted to share the rest of his life with me. What could be better? <img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-1439" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/That-he’s-not-the-son-of-Satan..jpg" height="225" title="That he’s not the son of Satan." width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em>
</em></span>
So without thinking much about it, I accepted his proposal.Leith was overjoyed! He said that his life would be perfect now, with me to stand by him forever.
Excited, I called Jeanette as soon as I returned home. It was getting late Sunday night, but I insisted that she come over to hear my news.
“Marriage? Oh, Celene—are you sure about this?” Her tone sounded more like I’d announced I had an incurable disease, rather than I’d just received a marriage proposal.
“Yes, I’m sure.” I was angry at her for bringing up those old doubts again. “Jeanette, why don’t you like him? And don’t give me any of your voodoo stuff. I won’t hear it. I want solid reasons why you don’t like him.”
“Have you checked him out, Celene? Why did he apply for a job so late in the school year? Did your school really check his references?”
Her words surprised me. For one it proved she’d been doing a lot of thinking about this. And for another, she just might be right. Did Howard White really check out Leith’s references, or had he relied solely on the letters of reference that Leith had attached to his resume?
I shook my head. No, this was the man I was going to marry. I had to believe him, or what sort of marriage would we have?
“Jeanette, I can see that you’ll never approve of Leith,” I told her. “I think, under the circumstances, that you should leave.” <img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-1433" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/She-can’t-have-traitors-in-her-midst..jpg" height="225" title="She can’t have traitors in her midst." width="236" />
Quietly, she picked up her purse and left my house. Hot tears sprang to my eyes as I heard the door close. Something told me that I was making a terrible mistake . . . and not just about my friendship with Jeanette.
I told Leith about my break-up with my friend. Once again, it seemed like he didn’t know how to console me. The next day, there was a big bouquet of carnations on my desk. That was Leith’s way of trying to make me feel better. That—and sex.<span style="color: red;"> <img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-1426" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/Not-so-bad..jpg" height="225" title="Not so bad." width="236" /><em>
</em></span>
I had no doubt that Leith was a great lover, but it disturbed me that he used it to solve all of life’s emotional ups and downs. That evening he came over to my house and we made love all night long. We didn’t talk about Jeanette or our upcoming wedding. It was like he couldn’t deal with the emotional stuff, as if he was hoping that sex would distract me from my problems. <img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-1422" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/It’s-been-a-winning-strategy-so-far..jpg" height="225" title="It’s been a winning strategy so far." width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em>
</em></span>
Before I knew it, it was the week of June fifteenth.
I was tense all week, trying at all costs to avoid consulting the calendar. Leith and I spent each evening together. When we went for a walk, I held his hand tightly, as though I knew in my heart that something was going to take him away and destroy my happiness. It was so similar to one of Jeanette’s premonitions.
On the fourteenth, I was a nervous wreck. My boss noticed; he even suggested that I take the rest of the day off. I did, leaving Leith a note not to worry, that I’d just come down with the flu. But on the fifteenth, I began feeling a bit silly. I wasn’t sick, and they really needed me at work. I got dressed and went to school.
As the day went by, I began to relax. This whole thing about June fifteenth had just been a tragic coincidence in Leith’s life. There was no way it was going to happen again. When the dismissal bell rang, I breathed a sigh of relief. Because it was Friday, the students were eager to get home, and most of the staff had also left. But I stayed in the office, working on the endless pile of correspondence and requests that were just part of the job. <img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-1414" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/Did-she-really-want-to-be-there-alone-–-on-the-15th.jpg" height="225" title="Did she really want to be there alone – on the 15th" width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em> </em></span>After a while, I lost track of time.
Finally, I looked up from my computer and noticed things seemed very quiet. I wondered why Leith hadn’t stopped in the way he usually did once classes were done for the day. I got up and walked down the long, lonely corridors of the school.
“You still here?” Tom, the janitor, popped his head around the door of the supply room.
“Tom, you nearly scared me to death! I’m just looking for Mr. Carlton. Have you seen him?”
“Haven’t seen anybody except you. I’ll be leaving now. Can you lock the main door for me on your way out?”
“Sure.” I watched as he locked the supply room door and let himself out. I continued wandering the halls, not quite sure what I was looking for.
And then I remembered.Leith thought I was at home, still sick. He hadn’t been in the office all day, so he wouldn’t have known I was there that day. And I’d come in late that morning, so he wouldn’t have seen my car in its regular spot in the faculty parking lot.
Feeling slightly silly, I began walking back to the office so I could get my things and go home. I heard a sound—an old door creaking, perhaps. Tom was probably just leaving through the main doors now.
Still, the sound disturbed me. I turned back and continued down the corridor, stopping at the kindergarten room and finding the door locked. Mrs. Fuentes was very efficient, and she would have never left her classroom unlocked over the weekend.
I looked through the window into the classroom. The little chairs were placed on top of the desks neatly so that the janitors would be able to sweep the entire floor over the weekend. Everything looked neat as a pin.
Then why did it seem like something was terribly wrong?
Then I saw it. A tiny wisp of smoke was coming from beneath the door of the classroom’s washroom. Occasionally a student would get himself locked in there. Howard had just ordered the lock to be removed from the door, but I was sure it hadn’t been done yet.
All this was going through my mind as I watched the smoke rising. Probably nothing to worry about. <img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-1427" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/Nothing-to-worry-about-What-is-she-thinking.jpg" height="225" title="Nothing to worry about What is she thinking" width="236" />Perhaps an older student had sneaked inside to have a smoke and left a cigarette burning in there. I started back to the office to retrieve my keys.
And then, I heard another small sound, like a child in his sleep. My heart almost stopped. A careless cigarette left in the washroom was one thing—but a child trapped in there was another!
I didn’t think. I slammed my hand through the glass of the door and reached around to unlock it. The washroom door was locked, too. I banged on it, hoping the child inside could open it himself.
“Hello! Hello! Who’s in there?” I shouted, hearing little moans from the other side of the door. “Can you hear me?”
I had to get the keys to get him out of there! The rooms in that old building weren’t equipped with phones. I kicked aside my high heels and started running to the office. Along the way, I vaguely noticed that my dress was wet. It was blood, probably from my hands when I broke the window glass. But I didn’t have time to worry about that at the moment!
On the way back, with the keys in hand, I slipped in a pool of my own blood by the classroom door.I scrambled to my feet and saw that the smoke was now quickly filling the classroom. Squeezing myself halfway inside, I felt around on the floor for the child. I felt a hand and grabbed onto it, hauling his tiny body out.
“Baby, baby, are you all right?” I said, carrying him out of the classroom.
“Celene—what are you doing here?”
There in the doorway stood Leith, looking calm and detached, as though he were doing roll call! <img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-1444" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/What’s-he-doing-here.jpg" height="225" title="What’s he doing here" width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em>
</em></span>
“Leith, hurry! Call 911!” I screamed. “We need an ambulance and the fire department! What are you <em>waiting for</em>?”
I watched as he hesitated a moment before leaving. The little boy was breathing but choking from the smoke he’d inhaled as I brought him out into the hallway.
Though it only took minutes, it seemed like an eternity until I heard the sirens. The boy was doing better, but the poor baby was clinging to me in terror. It was only now that I recognized him. He was Jonathan Russett, and he was just five years old.
As the paramedics took him from my arms, I said a silent prayer. They checked him over quickly, glancing a few times at me. That was <em>my </em>blood all over the boy.
“You, too, ma’am,” a woman said, drawing me away from the scene. “Let us take a look at your hands.”
While wrapping my hands to stop the bleeding, she told me I had to go to the hospital right away. As I was leaving, I overheard two of the firefighters talking.
“Someone deliberately set that fire—and it wasn’t the little boy,” one of the men said grimly. <em>Arson???</em>
“But who would do such a thing?” I asked no one in particular.
There was only one person I could think of. <img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-1434" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/She-suspects-her-fiancé.jpg" height="225" title="She suspects her fiancé" width="236" />
As I sat on an emergency room bed in the hospital, I thought about Jonathan and what a close call he’d just had. And I thought about Leith—the man I was about to marry, the man I should have trusted above anyone else. But he had been there at the school. He’d had the opportunity.
And it was the fifteenth of June.
At that moment, I knew it was over between us. I had to confront him with my suspicions before I went to the police. I felt I owed him that much.
It turned out that the police wanted to question him, too. They’d asked me who else was in the building at the time, and I’d given them Leith’s name. When I went to his apartment, they were already there.
“Ms. Assante, how are your hands?” the officer said as I pulled up to Leith’s apartment.
“I think they’ll be all right. No permanent damage. Have you heard any word on Jonathan?”
“Oh, he was released already. Just smoke inhalation. But if it hadn’t been for you . . .”
“Have you spoken with Leith Carlton?” I asked.
The officer stopped, squinting at me. “Is he a personal friend of yours?”
“Yes. We’re—we <em>were </em>engaged.”
“Then I think we’d better talk. Can you come over here to the squad car so I can take some notes?”
I told them everything I knew. I told them about the scrapbook, about all the “accidents” that had just happened to fall on the same day.
“You know, Ms. Assante, since you were his fiancée, we might have even suspected you in this . . . except for the fact that you were injured, trying to rescue the boy.”<span style="color: red;"> <img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-1421" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/If-only-she’d-listened-to-her-crazy-bff.jpg" height="225" title="If only she’d listened to her crazy bff!" width="236" /><em> </em></span>
“Do you know where Leith is now?” I asked.
He shook his head. Apparently, Leith had never returned to his apartment after the fire.
They tried to piece together what had happened that day. A neighbor was supposed to pick up Jonathan, along with her own children, after school. But somehow, he was forgotten and waited alone at the front entrance. That was when they figured someone lured him back into the school and locked him into the washroom.
“The suspect must have drugged the kid or something for him not to scream out while he was being taken,” the officer said. “Or it was someone he knew and trusted.”
I could picture Leith coming up to the boy and talking to him, asking him why he was there all alone. Jonathan would have trusted a teacher.
“In any case, the boy was given a sedative to keep him quiet while the suspect set up the fire in the washroom. Then he locked the boy inside and took off.”<span style="color: red;"> <img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-1416" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/He-is-the-son-of-Satan.jpg" height="225" title="He is the son of Satan!" width="236" /><em>
</em></span>
The fire was set with a lit cigarette in paper towels. The man had wanted the police to believe that Jonathan had been experimenting with cigarettes in the washroom and had somehow been trapped inside. Another tragic accident.
I went home and cried myself to sleep. Later, I was vaguely aware that someone had tried to call me. It was about five in the morning before I picked up my messages. It was Jeanette. She had heard the news and was frantic, worrying about me. She came over right away.
“You <em>did </em>see something the first time you met Leith, didn’t you?” I asked.
“Yes. But I knew you wouldn’t believe me. You never put much faith in my premonitions.”
I hugged her with my bandaged hands. “I promise I will from now on.”
At the school I was hailed as a hero, but I didn’t feel much like one. Why hadn’t I gone to the police <em>before</em> this had happened? A little child wouldn’t have come so close to losing his life.
“But you saved his life,” my boss told me. “And this was partly my fault. I should have called all of Leith’s references. <img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-1411" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/A-school-teacher-gets-hired-without-checking-references.jpg" height="225" title="A school teacher gets hired without checking references" width="236" />Instead I just trusted the letters he sent, letters he must have written himself.”
The police did a thorough search of Leith’s apartment and found the scrapbook. They found him a few days later, trying to leave the country. By then, they had enough evidence to have him convicted on the charge of attempted murder, although I learned that the other cases could take months or even years to prove.
They did have one thing to go on, however: Leith seemed to like drugging children. The boy who had been struck and killed by a car may have been drugged. The kids in the boating accident, too.
I believe in my heart that he did have something to do with the deaths of those children. I can only guess that the death of his little brother—the first tragic fifteen of June—had somehow sparked this yearly killing.
How could I have almost married this man? They say that love is blind, but I never knew how dangerous and easy it could be to fall in love with a man like Leith. The scariest thing is, he can appear to be as normal as the rest of us. He could blend in with any work setting or social gathering. <img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-1441" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/Until-you-have-him-checked-out-by-a-private-eye-–-you’ll-just-never-know-for-sure..jpg" height="225" title="Until you have him checked out by a private eye – you’ll just never know for sure." width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em>
</em></span>
Jeanette and I are closer than ever now. She tries to set me up on blind dates all the time. But a part of me will never be as trusting again. It will take me a long, long time to allow anyone to get that close to me again.
<br />
<br />
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<img alt="October 2001" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-2033" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/October-2001.jpg" height="906" width="670" />Copyright © 2001, 2012 by BroadLitTrue Romancehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01047288963020873283noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4531275353977319700.post-36230807717249960782014-07-10T14:56:00.002-07:002014-07-10T14:56:49.021-07:00A Madman Tried To Replace My Husband!<strong><span style="text-decoration: underline;"><img alt="madman tried to replace my husband" class="alignleft size-medium wp-image-9809" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/madman-tried-to-replace-my-husband-300x199.jpg" height="199" width="300" /></span></strong><br />
<strong><span style="text-decoration: underline;">Dateline: May 1970</span></strong>
After three weeks and four days of no word from my husband, Val, in Vietnam—right on top of the mail in my box was an overseas letter. I unlocked the foyer door and ran headlong up the flight of stairs to my apartment, ecstatic with relief. I dumped my grocery sacks and the rest of the mail every-which-way on the daybed and started to tear open that letter.<br />
<a name='more'></a>That's when I noticed the handwriting on the envelope. All the joy just suddenly whooshed right out of me. The writing was stiff and straight up and down—the very opposite of Val's scrawl. The sensible side of me said if he's wounded or anything, the news wouldn't come in an ordinary letter like this. Then I thought to glance at the left-hand corner; Val's name, rank, serial number, and APO address were there, same as usual.
I read the letter through three times from the Dear Nita down through the unfamiliar way Val's name was signed. I'd expected some clue as to why it wasn't in his handwriting —that he'd hurt his hand, perhaps, and had to dictate the letter to someone else. But no, it didn't seem to have occurred to my husband that I'd even notice that the writing was different.
It wasn't a letter that said very much, but Val's letters had always been brief—not much different from the ones he had started writing to me that summer when we were both sixteen and had just met. That was the summer Val and his folks had come toSanta Monicafor a vacation. At that time my family and I were living in a big old three-story yellow stucco house. The bus stop I used now was right across the street from that house. Every morning while I waited for the bus that took me down the boulevard to the bake shop where I worked, I'd keep looking across at that old house, remembering what good times we Daminos had had there.
Until Daddy bought that house for us, my three brothers and my mother and I traveled back and forth across the country almost as much as Dad did. My father was a fine clarinetist, and at one time or another he played with almost all of the great jazz bands. Mother always seemed to enjoy the packing up and moving on, but once in awhile she would start talking about how nice it would be sometime to stay put in a big, roomy house near the ocean.
One season, west coast TV jobs piled up on Daddy so fast that we did buy this house in Santa Monica. But it didn't take us long to realize that we'd have to rent out our third floor to meet our payments—and it was Val and his parents who moved in. What with all us Daminos—and our friends, too—being musicians, the Hewletts should probably have thought twice before they signed up to take those rooms for the whole month they planned to vacation in California.
Mr. and Mrs. Hewlett took to sleeping mornings, more or less adopting musicians' hours in self-defense. But Val had lived in a little Colorado town all his life, and he didn't want to miss one minute of the ocean. And I didn't want to miss one minute of him. He had reddish-brown hair, was bigger than any of my brothers, and he seemed shy around girls. I'd think nothing of saying to him in an off-handed way something like, "We got an air rifle in trade for some drums. You want to drive out with me and shoot target for awhile?"
When Val and I were alone, everything stayed on that good pal basis. We'd play around, ducking each other in the surf, and on some of the walks we took at night, he did take my hand and swing it along with his. But kiss me? No. I didn't know what to think. <img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-1307" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/Maybe-he’s-just-not-that-into-her.jpg" height="225" title="Maybe he’s just not that into her" width="236" />Finally I had this talk with my older brother, Biff, one night when he was shaving before he went out and I was struggling to put on my mascara at the same mirror.
"Biff," I said, "do you think Val likes me?"
My brother took the towel from around his neck and used a corner of it to wipe a spot of mascara off my cheek. "I guess the boy can stand you around, all right."
"No, answer me, Biff," I pleaded. "Val will be gone pretty soon and I'm scared I'll never see him again. If he really liked me, he'd have said something by now, wouldn't he?"
Biff poured shaving lotion into his palms and sloshed it over his face, giving himself time to think before he told me, "Speaking for myself, I'd say the more I like a girl, the harder it is for me to risk making a fool of myself by telling her so. I just play it by ear till she finds some way to let me know how I rate with her."
"Oh Biff!" I wailed, "I've got too much pride for that!"
"What's it got to do with pride?" he demanded. "It's what works, that's all. We don't read you chicks all that easy. <img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-1314" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/So-that’s-what-they-called-girls-in-the-1970’s..jpg" height="225" title="So that’s what they called girls in the 1970’s." width="236" />You go hiding your feelings from us—and where does that get anybody. You want a guy to level with you, then the first move is up to you."
I sighed. "I just don't know, Biff. It seems like something I'll never be able to do."
But the next evening I was mooning around putting away the dishes after dinner, and this movie score kept going through my head, sad and expressive. The melody just about told the way I felt toward Val, and I thought, that’s it! I'll play that music for him and he'll catch on to how I feel about him. No words, just music.
I changed into a pale green linen dress, and I sat down at the piano and started feeling around for that melody. Just as it was beginning to sound right, Val came downstairs. Wonderful timing—any place but at our house. I might have known. Right behind him came two of my brothers—Tuck lugging drums and Morgan already soloing off a variation on an old tenor sax somebody had left at our place.
A friend of Dad's, a bass player who'd been having seconds on Mom's Boston cream pie out on our front porch, came on inside and got right with us. Daddy himself was in great lip that night. It turned into a jam session that just wouldn't quit.
Of course it wasn't for Val anymore. He did stick around for awhile, but when I'd glance his way I could tell he didn't feel much at ease with this bunch of musicians. When Val started upstairs I called out, "Val—stay!" but I suppose he couldn't even hear me.
Nobody was thinking about Val's folks that night. It came as a surprise when the Hewletts moved out in the morning.
They were polite about it. All Mrs. Hewlett said was that they'd decided to cut their vacation a little short. That was tactful, but not true. What they really did was to move to a hotel inLos Angeles. I know, because the day afterward I got a letter from Val on that hotel's stationery. Just a few scrawled lines—but how completely my world changed then and there. We never stopped writing after that, and after Val went into the service, he began signing his letters "love."
It was awhile before any of my brothers heard from the draft. Morgan, the youngest, kept talking merchant marine, and almost before we knew it, we Daminos were having this great big heartbreak farewell party to see him off.
The house was really full of people that night, and Mom and I kept as busy as we could, circulating around and passing things so we wouldn't catch each other's eyes and think that this starts to break up the family—Morgan going.
I kept laughing, and at the same time, blinking back tears; I didn't clearly see this one very tall boy in uniform until he stood right in front of me and whispered, "Hey, Nita!" I thrust the antipasto tray at him for fear I'd drop it.
"Val!" I cried, "I don't believe it!"
That brought everyone around to us in a hurry. Daddy kept shaking his head and saying, "Val—I never thought it was you. What'd you do, keep on growing?"
I took the antipasto tray out of Val's hands and started to carry it back out to the kitchen. He followed me out there. He'd changed a lot during those three years, filling out that tall form of his, and getting a man's face instead of a boy's.<span style="color: red;"> <img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-1302" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/He’s-still-as-cute-as-ever..jpg" height="225" title="He’s still as cute as ever." width="236" /></span>But a boy's shy tongue—that he still had. We faced each other in that big, party-cluttered kitchen, smiling, but silent.
Had he really come all this way just to see me instead of going home on his furlough? I was more confused about what was going on in his mind than I'd been when we were sixteen. I couldn't decide if I should say, "Let's go back with the others and see what's doing?" Or "Would you like to take a walk along the Palisades and look at the night sky over the ocean the way we used to?" I ached to feel his arms around me, but I finally just looked away and began putting some of the lids back on the olive and anchovy jars.
I felt Val's hands on my shoulders. "Do they need you here? I mean, am I in the way? I could come back, Nita."
"Oh—you don't need to go." The tears that had been threatening all evening because it was Morgan's farewell party started running down my face for no reason at all now.
Val said helplessly, "Hey, Nita!" But at least he did kiss me then. Because he'd wanted to, or because he felt sorry for me? I couldn't tell which.
After that we went for a walk along the beach, and there he kissed me a lot more as if he meant it. Though Val did spend his whole leave in Santa Monica, and we were constantly together, he didn't say a word about getting engaged. It was a sad time in a way, anyhow, with Morgan having left the morning after Val arrived, and Val's Vietnam year looming up ahead of him. When Val took off for camp again, he gave me a hard, wordless hug that I thought meant, this is all. Good-by until I get back.
But within a week I had a letter from him saying he didn't know how I felt—but lots of the fellows did get married before they went overseas. Val's letter took us all by surprise, and Biff and Tuck and my folks stayed up and argued about it practically all night. Not me. I already had two suitcases down out of the attic to start packing to go.<img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-1311" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/She-must-really-love-this-guy.jpg" height="225" title="She must really love this guy!" width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em>
</em></span>
In the morning, I called Biff into my room and told him I was going to Val's army base and be married there. Right away—because we hadn't much time before Val would be shipped overseas.
"I figured that's what you would do," Biff said. "I just hope he won't come home entirely different. A lot of the guys do, Sis, going into battle so young."
"Biff, I won't change toward him ever," I insisted.
When Val and I were saying our wedding vows, I thought to myself, even if Val came back a different person, I pledged my love to him as long as we both should live.
Biff's warning did prey on my mind a lot, though. That's why this stiff, straight handwriting shook me up so terribly. I went over to my bureau and took out my Come-HomeVal box. It was just a satin-wrapped candy box with a year calendar taped to the top so I could keep exact track of how many more days Val had to serve overseas. I marked off the right number of days, leaving 46 to go, but I didn't put this strange letter inside the candy box with the others from Val.
Then I went back and rifled through my unopened mail that I'd thrown down on the daybed when I first got home. There was Mother Hewlett's dutiful letter that came once a week on Thursday. Nothing from my brothers. We were a scattered family now, with Biff and Tuck both in the air force and Morgan still sailing with the merchant marine. There was a bright postcard from my folks though, a flower market scene in Mexico, and a couple of lines in Daddy's big-looped script to let me know that Mom had made a pet of a snapping turtle that lived in a garden back of where they were staying. "Come on down here with us,"his postcard coaxed. "You can feed all the lettuce out of your tacos to Mother's turtle."
How I'd love to go there. But I couldn't, because I was needed in the bake shop where I worked. I couldn't see poor old Mr. Kalonas trying to train another girl to take my place while his wife—who really managed everything—was having to stay home sick so often.
When my folks first talked of going to Mexico, I'd been tempted to go with them, all right. I hadn't felt so attached to the Kalonases then, and my working in their shop was just for the money. My trip to Hawaii to join Val for his rest and recreation leave had cost so much, and every time I would glance at our total, down so much from what it had been, I'd be reminded all over again of how miserable that leave together had turned out to be.
All the other GI wives flying over to Hawaiion that same jet had looked so slim and bride-like. I hadn't felt as though anything about me looked right—certainly not the coral linen maternity suit guaranteed not to muss. <img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-1318" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/That-was-quick.jpg" height="225" title="That was quick!" width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em> </em></span>Every time I'd checked my makeup during the flight, it seemed to have all melted away. When the jet finally touched down and the other wives from my flight were running ahead and flinging themselves gaily into their husband's arms—there was I, lumbering along, half-sick and terribly unsteady, wishing I'd stayed away.
When I saw Val coming toward me, there was one panicky instant; I knew I'd blurt out something dumb, and I did. "Val, you've gotten so thin!"
"You sure haven't," he said.<img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-1297" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/Ha-Ha..jpg" height="225" title="Ha Ha." width="236" /> Did I laugh, the way he must have meant for me to? No—I cried.
So there was Val, leading a mussed, misshapen, sniffling girl through a crowd of laughing, glamorous, sexy people. Even up in our hotel room, away from the other girls showing off in bikinis, away from the syrupy Hawaiian music, away from Val's garnished steak sizzling greasily on an iron platter—even up there, I couldn't seem to give Val the second honeymoon we'd both been dreaming of. <img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-1313" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/She’s-too-hard-on-herself..jpg" height="225" title="She’s too hard on herself." width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em>
</em></span>
There was no getting around it; I still felt achingly responsible for our baby's premature birth. I'd keep wondering, if I hadn't made that exhausting flight, if Val and I hadn't tried so frantically and futilely to make love—then maybe would everything have been all right with my pregnancy?
I'd phoned Mother Hewlett long distance right after I landed back inLos Angeles, because I was scared I'd been in labor the last hour of the flight.
"I don't know what to do, and Mom and Daddy are somewhere on tour and it's way, way too early!" I'd sobbed into the receiver. Mother Hewlett had said to take a taxi right to the hospital and told me they would come right away.
I was still haunted by my memories of my baby in that incubator, letting go bit by bit of his feeble hold on life. And when he died, Mother Hewlett said, "We must all think of William as a small angel in heaven."
I wished I could think of him like that, but to me he'd looked like a tiny, reproachful old man with his whole life lived up in four days, wishing he could curse me forever for not staying home like I should have so I might have carried him the two months more he needed.
Father Hewlett wanted to get Val there for the baby's funeral. The Red Cross would arrange that, he told me. "No —tell Val he mustn't come," I pleaded with Val's father. "Please, please don't get him here now." <img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-1315" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/Strange.jpg" height="225" title="Strange" width="236" /><em><span style="color: red;"><span style="color: red;"> </span></span></em>I was so afraid Val was still upset with me for making his rest and recreation leave so miserable, and he might say that I never should have gone to Hawaii. But Val had been through so much, and what if he were killed and I'd lost the one last chance ever to be with him? I knew my guilt, and I'd accept it. I just couldn't face Val so soon, though. <img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-1320" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/There-may-be-dark-skies-ahead-for-this-marriage..jpg" height="225" title="There may be dark skies ahead for this marriage." width="236" />
<span style="color: red;"><em>
</em></span>
The Hewletts had had the baby's tiny coffin shipped back to Colorado. "So we can put him to rest among his own people in the Hewlett plot," Mother Hewlett had explained to me as I lay there in the hospital room. I didn't thank her for doing that. I didn't want to think of our baby being buried anywhere.
I knew it wasn't any use going over and over what couldn't ever be changed now. I picked up Mother Hewlett's letter and skimmed through it. Toward the bottom of the page, my glance caught on the words, "So please call us if you hear anything at all from Val. We have thought of getting in touch with the Red Cross, but people tell us it makes some trouble for the soldier if you do that."
I called the Hewletts immediately. It was Mother Hewlett who answered, and when I said I'd had a letter from Val, she got so teary with relief that she had to hand the phone over to Val's father.
"Nita," he said, "listen to me. I'm going to pay your fare here. You womenfolk ought to be making the time pass for each other. What do you say?"
Mother Hewlett was back on the phone now, adding her invitation to her husband's. "We'd love to have you, Nita. I've been thinking, you've never even seen where William is laid to rest." <img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-1310" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/She-didn’t-go-to-her-own-baby’s-funeral…..jpg" height="225" title="She didn’t go to her own baby’s funeral…." width="236" />
Her words brought up a sick vision of wandering through a stone-walled graveyard, with dry lilac bushes in the corners and some of the old gravestones from the town's mining days leaning part-way over. I'd seen that cemetery in my nightmares. William's marker, too—polished gray granite, looking just the way Mother Hewlett had described it in her letters.
"I can't come!" I said suddenly into the receiver.
There was a silence. Then Mother Hewlett's voice went gently on, asking if Val had given any reason in his letter for not having written for so long.
I didn't want to talk about Val's letter too much for fear of giving away to his folks how uneasy I was about it myself. I was going to say, "I'll read it over the phone," but somebody pressed the buzzer on my intercom from the apartment foyer downstairs, and I murmured instead, "Somebody's here. I've got to go."
I pushed down the talk switch on the wall. The wiring spluttered and hummed a second before a male voice demanded sharply, "What's the matter? Why don't you open the door down here?" The voice didn't sound familiar—but no one's did over that worn-out intercom.
"Haven't you buzzed the wrong apartment?" I asked.
"Wrong apartment! Don't you know your own husband's voice?" <img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-1305" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/Husband.jpg" height="225" title="Husband" width="236" />
I couldn't seem to focus on the buttons of the intercom in front of me. As if it had a will of its own, I saw my hand go to the release button that unlocked the glass foyer door downstairs. There was a crash somewhere downstairs, and a hoarse, shrieking cry. I raced out of my apartment, running toward the stairs, illogically convinced that my hand on that release button had somehow smashed the glass in that foyer door.<img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-1317" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/That-is-pretty-illogical..jpg" height="225" title="That is pretty illogical." width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em>
</em></span>
From the top of the flight of stairs I could see a man's head and shoulders framed just where the jagged glass still hung in the door-frame. Behind me, other tenants were scrambling out of their apartments. The intruder down there below me was still holding a wrought iron chair hefted chest-high in his hands. My eyes seemed to focus on the one small rivulet of blood running down his temple before any part of my mind grasped that he was a stranger—squat, broad, bald. I stopped short and grabbed for the banister. I saw him turn and put down the chair—then he fled through the front door.
Old Mr. Cullman from the apartment next to mine was steadying himself and me and asking questions.
"I was going to open the door—he said he was my husband!"
"That's Reston come back," old Mr. Cullman said. "The fights him and his wife used to have when they had your apartment! Many's the time I've had to put back the pictures that come crashing down off my walls."
The manager of the apartment house had come up from his basement apartment by then, and said the man had to be Dan Reston, come back to where he used to live, raving and looking for his wife. I started to sob, "Suppose that psycho takes it into his head to come back here again?" <img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-1309" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/Scary-to-think-of-it..jpg" height="225" title="Scary to think of it." width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em>
</em></span>
Old Mr. Cullman patted my shoulder and asked, hadn't I friends I could stay with, at least until the foyer door was replaced? I called the Kalonases, who lived near their bake shop, and they told me to take a cab right over to their house. I didn't write Val what had happened because I didn't want to worry him, and I didn't tell his folks either. At the end of the week I moved back to my apartment. The glass door had been replaced with a solid wood one. The desk captain Mr. Cullman talked to said that the police hadn't picked up Dan Reston, though.
I felt my aloneness more than ever. I didn't sleep so well. There was some nagging little unease in the back of my mind because of that scare I'd had and because Val's handwriting made his letters seem to be coming from a stranger. <img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-1296" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/Could-there-be-a-connection.jpg" height="225" title="Could there be a connection" width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em>
</em></span>
Val never had been too good about answering the questions I asked in my letters, and though I asked a couple of times, "How come the A-plus penmanship all of a sudden?" he never gave me a reply.
Every night, when I’d cross off another square on my Come-Home-Val calendar, I'd get a tight feeling in my stomach. Its closer and closer—am I really ready? I thought his first glimpse of me would be especially important after his last sight of me so miserably pregnant. <img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-1294" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/Aren’t-pregnant-women-at-their-most-beautiful.jpg" height="225" title="Aren’t pregnant women at their most beautiful" width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em> </em></span>At one of the expensive stores I finally found a rich-looking green shift and coat combination that fit me just beautifully after Mrs. Kalonas took it in a bit for me.
I had the new girl who was going to take my place at the bake shop just about trained, and I'd bought paint and wax and shelf paper to get the apartment looking spotless.
With nine days left before Val's homecoming, I was all set to quit work and just happily finish up odds and ends while I waited for him. And then Mrs. Kalonas caught the new girl trying to cheat a customer out of a $10 bill. Mrs. Kalonas got so upset firing the girl that she came down right there in the bake shop with terrible stomach pains and had to be taken to the hospital. She called me from the hospital before I left the bake shop that afternoon.
"One favor, Nita," she pleaded. "Come tonight. Bring the box of icing heads and some squeeze bags for putting on the spun-sugar frosting. My husband, he don't do custom cakes for weddings to suit me. You learn everything quick."
"But Mrs. Kalonas," I protested, "you know I'm leaving—"
"Listen to a poor old woman who has gallstones like goose eggs. The doctor says my X-rays could go in a textbook, my gallbladder looks so terrible. So the wedding cake for my great niece, Thea Pantages, I am not getting out of here to do. Bring what I told you and come!" So while I was practicing squeezing out leaves and rosebuds onto a cardboard for her inspection, Mrs. Kalonas was saying, "Be sure my husband don't forget the eleven silver charms that have to be baked into that cake. Silver ring for the next bride, thimble for old maid. They all tell something!" I went back to the bake shop and it was after nine p.m. when Mr. Kalonas finally walked twice around the cake before giving an approving nod. <img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-1304" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/How-could-she-leave-them-in-their-time-of-need.jpg" height="225" title="How could she leave them in their time of need" width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em>
</em></span>
"Nita, you are a very kind girl," he told me, "and I wish you much happiness with your young husband coming home. Tomorrow morning my wife gets operated on, so I let you open the shop when somebody from Thea's family calls for the cake. It has to go carefully, so you carry it to the car yourself?"
I nodded. He tucked a ten dollar bill into my jacket pocket. "Buy something nice for your second honeymoon."
Val and I already had had our second honeymoon, and it hadn't been much good, I reflected, fitting my key into the lock in the new foyer door at the apartment. My key stuck. The foyer lock hadn't worked right since that intruder had smashed the other door.
I jerked out the key to try again, and caught myself glancing over my shoulder. I wasn't used to coming back to the apartment house as late as this. I didn't like the idea of this stubborn door holding me here in this closed-off entranceway. Any time that front door opened, it could be Restonback again. I tried turning the key again. This time the door did open. <img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-1326" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/Whew.jpg" height="225" title="Whew!" width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em>
</em></span>
Once upstairs and into my apartment, I went around turning on all the lights. I was at the clean-up stage, sorting clothes into piles—one for the cleaner, one to discard, and another to try on and then decide. I was too tired to do any more work, and too jumpy to go to sleep.
I got up twice to make extra certain I had set the alarm clock early enough to get to the bake shop on time. I got up a third time, and decided to wash my hair and set it on rollers. Still I couldn't slow down my mind and sleep. A way-off tug boat began blowing a G—flat blast across the water. I felt myself going under on a wave of weariness.
All of a sudden I was sitting up in bed, shaking all over. That sound. It kept right on. One continuous buzz. My intercom signal! Someone downstairs must be leaning right on it.
The way that buzzer was being pressed made me think—Reston! I stumbled over to the intercom and started to flip up the talk switch, and then I thought, No! What am I doing? Hearing my voice before was surely what made that psycho smash on through the door.
I backed away and sat down suddenly. The buzzing stopped, and I tensed myself for a crashing assault to hit that foyer door. The lock had stuck for me tonight. Maybe it wasn't working well enough to hold firmly either.<span style="color: red;"><em> <img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-1322" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/Things-are-getting-tense..jpg" height="225" title="Things are getting tense." width="236" />
</em></span>
The manager! He'd gotten upstairs fast the other time I'd been in danger. I dialed his number and then began banging on Mr. Cullman's wall while I waited for the manager to answer. When the manager picked up his phone, I could hear his intercom buzzing.
"I'm scared that'sReston," I said. "He hit my buzzer first!"
"Mrs. Hewlett? 209? Don't panic. I'll call the police!"
Mr. Cullman was banging back on the wall between our apartments now, and I called to him, "The crazy man is back. Please, let me into your apartment!"
Looking pitifully fragile without his teeth, Mr. Cullman was holding open his door for me. "Should never have given away my gun," he told me. "Come in and keep still. Reston ain't above rampaging over here if he'd take a notion it's Enid Reston's voice he's hearing."
The two of us crouched by the window, thinking we'd see the police car if it turned the corner. I kept trying to picture Reston, just a man who'd once had my apartment—ordinary, only drunk. But all I could see was an evil head, bloody from flying glass from the door he had just smashed. <img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-1319" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/That-was-traumatic..jpg" height="225" title="That was traumatic." width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em>
</em></span>
My hearing must have been better than Mr. Cullman's. He jumped at the rapping on my door, but I was already standing braced, because I'd heard the footsteps pass Mr. Cullman's apartment and stop in front of mine.
"Any reason to believe your wife would be home, sir?"
"Hear that? Police have got him!" Mr. Cullman, suddenly bold now, opened his door and peered out. A second later I heard his cracked old voice exclaiming fiercely, "What kind of police have we got on the city payroll now? This ain't the man!"
I pulled the robe around me and stepped out behind Mr. Cullman into the hall. And there he was. My husband, Val —disheveled and furious, with a policeman beside him. <img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-1324" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/What-is-Val-doing-home.jpg" height="225" title="What is Val doing home" width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em>
</em></span>
He looked right at me, in rollers and that sagging terrycloth robe. We stared at each other, still wordless, while old Mr. Cullman rattled on about how we'd thought the buzzer meant Dan Reston was back, fighting drunk.
When Mr. Cullman finally ran down, the policeman said patiently, "But, Ma'am, this man here is your husband?"
"Oh yes, yes!" I cried. It wasn't the policeman's fault he had to ask. Val and I hadn't yet given any indication that we did belong together. The two of us were paralyzed by the sheer awfulness of the way this homecoming was working out. The manager of the apartment had come upstairs, too, by then, and the policeman went off with him to fill in their report sheet. I told Mr. Cullman firmly that we'd talk about all this in the morning. While Val was downstairs fetching the duffle bag he'd left in the foyer, I fled to the bathroom and began pulling the rollers out of my wet hair. I got out the special new makeup I hadn't even opened yet because I'd been saving it to use when I met Val's plane. <img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-1303" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/Hoping-she-has-a-5-makeup-strategy..jpg" height="225" title="Hoping she has a 5 makeup strategy." width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em> </em></span>My hair went flat and blah when I tried to comb it, and the new powder base turned orange on my face. I heard Val come back inside the apartment, but I went ahead and gave my eyelashes a swipe of mascara anyhow, getting a smudge on my cheek in my haste.
I snatched up a towel and dabbed at the smear, and a remembrance of my brother, Biff, doing just that for me was suddenly vivid in my mind. When I walked out and saw Val slumped down on the daybed, his expression cold and sullen, my heart began to beat a fast, sick way. <img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-1325" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/What’s-happened-to-Val.jpg" height="225" title="What’s happened to Val" width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em>
</em></span>
"You through in there?" Val asked me. "I want to get out of these clothes I've been living in, and stand an hour under the hottest water I can run."
I thought of the way I'd scattered everything left and right in the bathroom, and I murmured, "Just be careful—with your feet, I mean."
"Don't worry," he snapped back at me. "You can't catch GI feet without standing in a rice paddy."
Did he have to misunderstand me? "Oh no," I told him. "What I'm trying to say is, don't step on those rollers I just now yanked out of my hair."
His gaze flicked around that incredibly piled-up living room. "I can learn to step around things, I guess." He opened his duffle bag and took out a shaving kit.
"Val, you see, I was getting things organized for your coming back—"
"Sure. Well, we're not going to stick around here anyhow."
Not stick around here? Nothing he was saying was like the old Val. He took an envelope out of his overseas jacket. "Flight reservations forLas Vegas. Morning flight. We're going to meet a buddy of mine, Tony Greco."
"You mean—fly right away toLas Vegas?"
"Tomorrow," he said impatiently.
"Tony's going to see to getting us the best accommodations. He and I got to feeling lucky, there in Tan Son Nhut, waiting for our plane to be called. Tony'd pulled a 7-day drop-off on his overseas year and I got replaced 11 days early myself. Seven-eleven. We want to see those dice roll."
I looked at him, dumbfounded. The boy I'd married—Las Vegas would have been just about the last place on earth he would have suggested we spend our money. What good was all the scrimping I'd done if we were just going to throw away our savings?
Val didn't even seem to be aware of my consternation. The last thing he called out to me, before the shower started full force was, "Throw a few things in your suitcase tonight so we can sleep later in the morning." <img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-1301" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/He’s-being-so-pushy..jpg" height="225" title="He’s being so pushy." width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em>
</em></span>
I stared in disbelief at that closed bathroom door. Who was this man? He had Val's voice, Val's body—but he certainly wasn't the man I'd been waiting this whole long, lonely year to have back with me. He hadn't said a single gentle word or kissed me or held me. What was I going to do when that door opened again and that stranger came out, expecting to go to bed with me? <img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-1312" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/She’s-going-to-need-romancing-–-for-sure..jpg" height="225" title="She’s going to need romancing – for sure." width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em>
</em></span>
I heard the shower go off. Couldn't he realize how I'd feel, with his army buddy standing smugly by while I agonized over Val throwing away the money we'd need if I followed him on to his next post?
He came into the kitchen, wearing shirt and trousers, I was relieved to see. "I thought you'd be packing!"
"I'm thinking what to take. I'll have to get right busy putting in the hems in the coat and the dress I was going to wear to meet you in."
He strode out into the living room. "You mean to say, with all this clothing around here, you haven't anything else? Here!" He snatched up a coral-colored suit from one of the piles. "This looks okay."
"Val, that's my maternity suit. The one I wore toHawaii."
"Oh." There was this ghastly silence. "Hawaii!" he snapped out suddenly. There was another silence. <img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-1299" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/He’s-angry-about-Hawaii.jpg" height="225" title="He’s angry about Hawaii" width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em>
</em></span>
"You know, you don't even look at me since we were there," he complained. "I get the idea you're cringing."
I gasped. "Oh Val—you're wrong!"
"No, I don't think I am. The truth is, you've hated me since then. In your eyes I'm nothing but the brute who killed our baby trying to make love to you."
He turned away abruptly and grabbed up his coat from the back of a chair, paying no attention to the frantic protests I was murmuring. "You couldn't bear the sight of me enough to even have me at the baby's funeral!" <img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-1321" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/These-two-need-to-communicate-better..jpg" height="225" title="These two need to communicate better." width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em>
</em></span>
I was trying to say, "Val, listen to me," but he pulled away from me, and I burst into sobs. He walked out the door, leaving me alone in the wreckage of our reunion that was to have been so wonderful.
For awhile I wandered around the apartment in a daze. Finally I went to bed and let two sleeping capsules take over. When the alarm clock went off, I turned off the sound and slipped back into deep, black sleep. The buzzing was strange and faint. I sat up suddenly in bed. That must be the intercom, out-of-order and acting up! I raced to flip open the talk switch.
"Val?" I shouted, "Val?"
There was a crackling, static sound—then silence. The whole system seemed to have given out entirely.
"Oh, Val, don't leave, don't leave," I prayed, running down the hall for the stairs. When I got to the foyer door, it wouldn't push open. The electronic lock release seemed to have jammed when the rest of the system went dead.
I hammered on that door with both my fists, "Val! Can you hear me?" No answer. Had he already turned away and gone on out the front door?
There was another way to get to him. I tore back upstairs and down the hall to the back exit stairway that led down to the laundry room. <img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-1323" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/This-woman’s-a-super-heroine..jpg" height="225" title="This woman’s a super heroine." width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em>
</em></span>
The first door I tried out of that empty, echoing space opened on the honeycomb of wire storage lockers. My second try got me into the furnace room. I ran headlong through there and yanked open the door into the corridor beyond. I looked down that hall one way, then whirled to start left instead. That's when I collided hard with a man I hadn't seen there. I fell, sprawling. He grabbed my arm and pulled me to my feet.
Dan Reston! <img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-1300" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/He’s-back.jpg" height="225" title="He’s back!!!!" width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em>
</em></span>
I could feel a scream gathering inside me, but something sterner in me blocked it. Tears, sobs—the frantic, feminine reactions with which I'd met crisis after crisis before were there, just under the surface, but for once I was so scared that the instinct for self-preservation rose up in me, stronger than habit.
Talk! I commanded. Say something, even if it's not the right thing.
"Did you buzz 209 just now, Mr. Reston?" I asked him.
"Me? No." He let go my arm and bent down to gather together the mass of papers and clothing I could see now I had jolted out of his arms. He seemed sober. What I'm here for," he said, "are my old tax records and my good suit the manager locked away down here for me when Enidleft." <img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-1316" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/Tax-records-Why-didn’t-he-say-so-in-the-first-place.jpg" height="225" title="Tax records Why didn’t he say so in the first place" width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em>
</em></span>
"Then it was my husband!" I started on. "I've got to catch him."
"Wait!" Dan Reston called after me. "You can't go out in that—nightgown!" <em>Good point. </em> In my rush I hadn't even thought of that. "Anyhow," Dan Reston added, catching up with me, "I guarantee he ain't left the building. Corporal come barging in the manager's apartment while I was there getting the locker key. Buzzer don't work. Door don't work. I'm the one who should holler. I sign to pay three hundred bucks so the owner don't press property damage charges for that glass door. What'd the man really spend to fix it—fifty?"
A banging in the foyer upstairs was drowning out Dan Reston's words, and sure enough, from the basement stairs I could see Val and the manager both up there, working on that stuck door.
"Val!" I called. "Here!"
Val came bounding down the stairs and caught me into his arms. "We got cut off, Nita," he said, holding me desperately tight.<img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-1306" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/Is-he-back-to-normal.jpg" height="225" title="Is he back to normal" width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em>
</em></span>
We walked hand-in-hand down that basement corridor and through the doorway where I'd crashed into Dan Reston and learned that I could—when I had to —come up with talk instead of tears.
The phone was ringing when we walked into our apartment. Mr. Kalonas! Thea's cake!
I looked at Val in consternation. He had been living a life-and-death existence where everything was so harsh and elemental. How could I tell him that something as frivolous as a three-tiered wedding cake loaded with sugar rosebuds stood in the way of our catching the plane forLas Vegas?
"Val," I said, "that must be my boss. You answer and tell him who you are and that I'm delivering the cake!"
I tore around the apartment getting dressed, catching glimpses of Val's expressions each time I hurried past him. I was sure of one thing. He was getting the most heartrending explanation imaginable of gallstones like goose eggs and Thea's big event. When Val hung up he dialed another number right away.
"Ready?" he called over his shoulder to me. "Got the bakery keys? We'll go by cab. It's too late to slip up anywhere now."
"Oh Val, I do love you!"<em><span style="color: red;"> <img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-1298" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/Hang-on-to-your-seat.-Things-are-happening-fast..jpg" height="225" title="Hang on to your seat. Things are happening fast." width="236" /></span> </em>I tried to tell him while we paced back and forth in front of the apartment house, waiting for the cab. "You don't mind me putting Thea and Mr. Kalonas first right now?"
"Where I've been, you don't let down somebody who's depending on you, Nita. That old guy is in a real bind. It wouldn't do for us to go off somewhere if you ought to be running things awhile."
"You wouldn't want to stick around here when you could be inLas Vegas, would you, Val?"
"Las Vegas was for you. To make up for the fun you missed in Hawaii."
"Val," I said, "If I didn't act right in Hawaii, it was because I knew it was so wrong of me to go there. The doctor told me traveling wasn't safe for the baby. I was just foolish—do you understand? I went anyway, because I wanted so much to be with you. I never dreamed you were feeling guilt yourself. Val—that's not what changed your handwriting. is it?"
"My handwriting? No."
"Something bad happened, didn't it?"
I could sense his hesitation, but he pressed my hand and said, "Actually, Nita, a lot of bad things. Not one incident that was any worse than the others. For awhile there wasn't a man in our outfit who wasn't close to a breaking point. I thought it was great I didn't go around talking to myself like a couple of my buddies were doing. They'd look at me and be grateful that their hands weren't shaking like mine were. I had to use a piece of cardboard under the line to keep my writing on a level at all." <img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-1308" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/No-wonder-she-didn’t-recognize-his-handwriting.jpg" height="225" title="No wonder she didn’t recognize his handwriting," width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em>
</em></span>
"I'm so ashamed," I said. "It's frightening I could get so weepy over my own miseries that I'd send you back into all that horror feeling that my love wasn't with you anymore. It always was with you. It always will be. You do know that now?"
"Well, I know it right at this moment," he said, "and you can keep telling me."
I caught his hand in mine. "Val—bat me one if I ever start to cry when we aren't understanding each other. I don't have to cry." <img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-1295" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/Bat-me-one.jpg" height="225" title="Bat me one" width="236" />
"I guess there's no harm in tears," he said, "as long as you calm down later and tell me what they're all about."
So I cried to my heart's content at Thea's wedding. The family was so delighted to get the cake in time that they insisted we stay for all the festivities. I'm glad we did, because that way I could tell Mr. and Mrs. Kalonas all about Thea getting the silver four-leaf clover in her piece of cake—and me getting the silver baby bootees in mine.
I cried over that, too. But in the cab on the way back to our apartment I snuggled against Val and told him all about those being happy tears, because I thought the silver charm might be a good omen. We might be able to have a baby.
"Of course we'll have a baby!" he said. "We don't need any omens to tell us that!"
I know I will be able to go and see William's grave when we visit Val's folks in a little while. The bad feeling and the guilt—that's talked away and done with for us both. Anyhow, there's this happy news we'll be sharing with his family then. I just hope Thea's silver four-leaf clover worked well!<br />
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<img alt="TRmay1970reduced" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-1589" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/TRmay1970reduced.jpg" height="634" width="480" />Copyright © 1970, 2012 by BroadLitTrue Romancehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01047288963020873283noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4531275353977319700.post-36458138058926353952014-06-13T10:53:00.003-07:002014-06-13T10:53:29.524-07:00The Road To Madness<h6>
<strong><em><a href="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/may1933-Sally-Blanc-and-Randolph-Scott-reduced.jpg" style="color: maroon;"><img alt="The Road To Madness" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-9649" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/The-Road-To-Madness.jpg" height="380" width="252" /></a></em></strong></h6>
<h6>
<strong><em><span style="font-size: large;">Her dreadful secret was out! Even the man she loved knew – and knowing, despised her. What could she possibly do?</span></em></strong></h6>
<strong><span style="text-decoration: underline;">Dateline:</span></strong><strong><span style="text-decoration: underline;">May 1933</span></strong>
<strong>She had a terrible, dark secret -- she was a prescription drug addict. It was a long time ago and she has completely turned </strong><strong>her life around, but her past threatens to ruin her future. In love and engaged to be married to a wonderful man, Margerie struggles with her conscience. Should she tell her fiance the truth? What if he rejects her as all the others did? How can she risk losing everything?</strong>
<strong>This story from the 1930’s is remarkably current and universal in so many ways. Problems with addiction, secrets that can’t be buried. Who doesn’t have a secret or two? And, who doesn’t yearn to be loved for who they truly are -- flaws and all. </strong> <b>The suddenness of the question threw me off my guard. I began to lie shamelessly
</b><strong>Her dreadful secret was out!</strong> <strong>Even the man she loved knew—</strong> <strong>and knowing, despised her.</strong> <strong>What could she possibly do?</strong><br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
My father is a good-natured, absent-minded teacher of mathematics. He favors the great Einstein a little, and my mother has always looked after his comfort just as Mrs. Einstein looks after the comfort of her famous husband. I have known mother to follow father clear to the classroom with his collar and tie! He taught for twenty years in a small college in a town of thirty thousand people, the town where I was born. He is not a rich man, and never will be, but we always had most of the comforts of life, with a few of its luxuries.
My two sisters and I were given thorough musical educations. My oldest sister, Eileen, is a really fine pianist; Doris plays the violin quite well, and I began taking lessons on the cello when I was six years old. We were always a happy, congenial family, and although my sisters and I had our little spats now and then, we got along together much better than the majority of sisters do. When I was ten years old we began to play as a trio; and I think this made us feel a little nearer to each other than we might have felt otherwise—without this common bond.
I graduated from high school when I was sixteen. Father had decided that my sisters had entered college too young, and he said that I must not enter until I was eighteen. This suited me very well, for I didn't really care to go to college. I wanted to do things with my hands, to sew and cook, and I wanted to devote a great deal of time to studying the cello. Remaining at home for two years would give me the opportunity to do this.
When the fall of that year came I begged to be allowed to spend a few months in Chicago with my aunt and cousin, the Gilmours. Aunt Clara Gilmour was my father's sister-in-law, and we had never seen a great deal of her and Cousin Jane. It seemed to me it would be wonderful to take a short course in cello at one of the big conservatories. Then, too, I had never been in a really large city for any length of time, and I wanted to attend opera, to take in the theaters, and really to feel the hustle and bustle of a great city. <img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-1021" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/Sounds-fun.jpg" height="225" title="Sounds fun!" width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em>
</em></span>
After a long family discussion and an exchange of letters with my aunt, father and mother decided that I might go to Chicago for three months. I went the last of October, with permission to remain until the middle of February.
Most of the incidents of that visit have become blurred in my memory. As I recall it now, we were to have six weeks of opera, and my cousin and I were to, attend it at least once each week, although we really went oftener than that.
I shall always look upon my first opera with bitter sorrow; for, as it turned out, that day was truly an evil day in my life. It was a Friday, and we had tickets to hear Mary Garden in <em>Thais</em>. To see <em>Thais,</em> and to hear Mary Garden would be, it seemed to me, the very peak of enjoyment.
The Gilmours' social life was far more strenuous and gay than the life I had been used to living. There were dinners and teas and dances. There were late hours constantly, followed by morning drives through the parks.<img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-1031" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/Morning-drives-in-the-park.jpg" height="225" title="Morning drives in the park" width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em> </em></span>Even though everything was covered with snow and ice, and there was really no pleasure in driving, the Gilmours had to go, for they were keyed up to such a high pitch that they didn't seem to be able to stay in the house long at a time during their waking hours. I couldn't take a nap after luncheon, as my aunt and cousin did, for that was the only time in the twenty-four hours I could find to practice on my cello.
I was eating food that was different from the plain food I had been used to, and I was eating it at any and all hours. Even now, when I think of the quantities of meat and rich pastries that were put on my aunt's table every day, I shudder. The result of all this, to me, was an upset stomach, and on the day of this first opera I was really quite ill. I didn't want to tell my aunt that I was ill, for fear she might say I couldn't go to hear Garden. It was my Cousin Jane who suggested that I take a dose of paregoric.
"You simply mustn't miss Garden," she exclaimed sympathetically. "Dr. Van Meter gave paregoric to Josie, to take when she has pains in her stomach, and it's really amazing how it helps her." Josie was the parlor maid.
"I've never taken any," went on Jane, "because I've got a stomach that can digest nails. But if I ever do have a pain, I know what to do. Josie keeps it on hand all the time."
Under Josie's direction, I took paregoric every few hours that day, and went to the opera that night in comfort. <img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-1032" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/Medical-advice-from-the-parlor-maid.jpg" height="225" title="Medical advice from the parlor maid" width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em> </em></span>The next morning, however, I awoke in pain and started with the paregoric again, for there was the drive in the park, a half hour of shopping just before luncheon, and a hard lesson to practice on the cello afterward.
I had never heard that paregoric was a habit-forming drug and, as I learned afterward, my family was just as ignorant as I. In fact, my father and mother had always tried to keep us away from drugs as much as possible, and with the outdoor life that we led and the plain, wholesome food that my mother served us, we had little or no occasion for medicine of any kind.
The pains that I thought came from a stomach disorder I —and which, no doubt, did, at first—soon showed themselves to be intestinal pains. As I learned later, what I really had was an attack of colitis, acute at first, but which became chronic. The probabilities are that if I had gone to a reputable doctor for treatment, one who would have put me on a routine of proper diet, exercise and rest, I should have got over the trouble very quickly.
Being only a child in years, with very little experience in life, and dazed with the social life of a big city, I hugged my pains, took paregoric until the middle of the following February, thus building, unconsciously but none the less surely, the foundation for that most terrible of all scourges, the dope habit!
When I returned home in February, my family was appalled at the change in my appearance.
"Little mouse," cried my father, "what has happened to you?"
I knew that I had lost fourteen pounds, but I didn't realize how bad I looked. Hadn't Aunt Clara and Cousin Jane both said the loss of weight was becoming —that I really had been too fat? <img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-1035" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/In-the-big-city-you-can-never-be-too-rich-or-too-thin.jpg" height="225" title="In the big city you can never be too rich or too thin!" width="236" />
Mother took me to a physician immediately. Dr. Wells gave me a rigid diet list that I was to follow, prescribed long hours of rest each day, and gave me two prescriptions to have filled. I said nothing to Dr. Wells about my having taken paregoric for the past three months or more. Something told me not to.
Even at that early period I was so much under the influence of the narcotic that I was developing a cunning subtlety that was totally foreign to my disposition. When I say that I had always been considered truthful and kind, I am only recording what all my close friends and my family had always said.<img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-1027" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/Oops-She’s-going-down-a-slippery-slope….jpg" height="225" title="Oops! She’s going down a slippery slope…" width="236" />
I had the two prescriptions that Dr. Wells gave me filled immediately. One was a white powder, bismuth, that I was to take after meals, and the other was a liquid, the directions for which were, "A teaspoonful every four hours when necessary." When I opened the bottle I knew, from the odor, that it was paregoric! <img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-1028" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/Oh-No-Not-paregoric.jpg" height="225" title="Oh No! Not paregoric!" width="236" />
"When necessary," meant, of course, when I was in pain. But already, the paregoric was making its own pains!
Under the proper diet and the forced rest I improved, although secretly I was taking more and more of the paregoric. Many days I took it every few hours. For a long time I didn't realize that I was craving paregoric in the sense that I couldn't let it alone; I didn't know that I was becoming a dope addict. I positively did not know, until I was told long afterward, that paregoric was camphorated tincture of opium. I had persuaded myself that only paregoric would stop the pain, and that I was the only one who knew how often the pain came. But there came a day, by and by, when I was terror-stricken by the knowledge that I could no longer do without paregoric, that I must have it—or die!
By this time I was using it secretly. From now on, I exercised every precaution to keep the bottle hidden, so that none of my family would suspect that I was taking it too much. In fact, I seemed no longer a single individual. There seemed to be two persons occupying my body; one a very much frightened girl who wanted to be happy and to make others happy, the other a scheming creature who really cared nothing about anybody's happiness. I soon learned to call this second creature, in my prayers, the "devil," and I prayed to be delivered from this devil.
And this was not all. I had come to the shocking realization that not only was I steadily losing my self-control, but my memory as well. Sometimes, before I could complete a sentence, I would forget what I had started out to say.
It was toward the middle of the second winter that I began to see that my family suspected that something was wrong with me. I could see their looks of puzzled astonishment at first, and later on, of open embarrassment. I became so unreliable in temperament that my sisters would no longer practice with me, and the trio, which I had enjoyed so much, ceased to exist. The specific thing that caused the trio to be disbanded was the fact that I had made some devastating mistakes in the score of a "Venetian Trio" one Saturday afternoon when we were playing at Dean Morgan's tea. I had known the piece for several years, but my memory failed me that day in the middle of it.
I began to realize now that my girlfriends no longer came to see me. I was no longer invited to places. Many times, when I crossed the campus, I noticed that both girls and boys changed their routes, as if to avoid meeting me. As so often happens, our neighbors and friends suspected the truth long before my family did. <img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-1036" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/Her-secret-is-out..jpg" height="225" title="Her secret is out." width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em>
</em></span>
The bitterest experience of all was John's reaction. This happened in the late spring of that year. John Tarbull and I had been friends since our first year in high school, now more than five years before. John was a big, strapping boy, with sandy hair and fine blue eyes.
Our love, of course, was only "puppy love," as father called it. But it didn't seem so at the time. It seemed terribly serious. We had graduated together and John was at the train to tell me good-by when I left forChicagothat fateful October. We had written to each other several times a week, and he had met me at the train upon my arrival home. It was all very thrilling at the time. During my long rest period that Dr. Wells had prescribed, I used to lie on the lounge in the music room, and John would read to me, or sing, for he had a very beautiful tenor voice.
Suddenly his calls stopped—dead! He came one day as usual, and then he didn't come again. I waited, in fear and trembling, for two weeks. I knew that he had a ten o'clock class and one morning I went over to the campus and sat on a bench where I could watch the door of Miles Hall. I sat there until I saw him come out. Then I got up and went over to meet him. I could see that he was startled when he saw me. There was something in his eyes as he looked at me that made my heart leap painfully.
"Where have you been, John?" I said, trying to smile my prettiest smile. "I've missed you terribly."
"Oh, I—" he began, then broke off, biting his lip. Then his eyes dilated, and catching his breath, he demanded, "Look here, what's this I hear about your being a dope fiend?" He looked at my face, scarlet with shame, for a long moment. Then he added, with a short laugh, "You ought to be ashamed of yourself!"
I forgot myself for a moment and tried to catch hold of his hand. But he shrank back, raised his cap and walked away. <img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-1026" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/Ouch-That-hurts..jpg" height="225" title="Ouch! That hurts." width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em>
</em></span>
So, that was it, I thought, my heart pounding and throbbing as I stumbled along the path alone. So that was what I was—a dope fiend! And John despised me! John was right, of course. I acknowledged it freely, even then. What boy would want to love a creature who drank paregoric every day? I still didn't know that paregoric was opium. <img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-1030" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/Nothing-is-more-painful-than-feeling-unloved..jpg" height="225" title="Nothing is more painful than feeling unloved." width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em>
</em></span>
I have never seen John since that day. If, by one of those strange tricks of Fate, John should read this story, I hope that he will realize that I never blamed him for his actions, either then or now. While I didn't blame him, it seemed to me that the end of the world had come; there was no use trying to go on. I must give up
There was an old private Chautauqua site just south of town, that had been abandoned some years before. The gates were kept closed. That afternoon I rode to the end of the south bound carline, and walking the remaining mile to the old grounds, I pried the gates open and slipped in. On the grounds was a long, deep lake. I had made up my mind to drown myself!
It was a beautiful day, with the bluest skies I had ever seen. Trees lined the shores of the lake, and the twigs shook and swayed and rustled as birds hopped about, singing gayly. Misty blue violets were blooming in clumps about the trees. The world about me seemed very lovely as I stood on the banks looking down at the murky waters. I was terribly afraid, not only of the feel of the water and of the physical aspect of death, but I was afraid of what might happen to me after death if I took my own life. But I was terribly serious, and felt that, I must go on with it, at all costs, so I took, off my shoes and stockings, for I had an idea that I must partially disrobe. Just as I took off my second shoe, a voice called behind me.
"Hey, Missy, what's you gwine do?" said the voice. "You ain't gwine try to swim, is you? Ain't no swimmin’ lowed here, Missy."
It was a Negro caretaker, a tall, thin old man with white temple locks and long, slim, black hands—kind hands, I found them to be now—for when I burst into tears he came over to me and drew on my stockings and shoes for me.
"Now, you fasten dem stockin's up, little missy," he said kindly. "I'll fasten de shoes. Den you go over dere and sit on de rock by de cabin, an' I'll fetch you some tea I done got some hot tea in de cabin, already steepin'. You gotta have something hot, for you shore is cold!"
I was in the throes of a nervous chill, as the old Negro knew. <img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-1044" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/And-why-exactly-would-the.jpg" height="225" title="And why exactly would the" width="236" />I drank the cup of hot tea he brought me, and went home, sadder and wiser, for I knew then that I could never take my own life, no matter what came. It was too dreadful ever again to contemplate!
Then came a morning when my mother came into my room and took me seriously to task This morning I felt more than usually tired—tired of my struggle, my cello, my life, myself. So tired was I that I was thinking again of the murky waters in the old Chautauqua grounds.
There was a little baby living next door to us who I loved; a fat little fellow with such a friendly smile. Eddie had always loved me, but twice lately, when I had stopped to play with him, the nurse had looked at me queerly and had made an excuse to take Eddie into the house. It had cut me to the quick! I was thinking of Eddie when mother came in that morning.
<span style="color: red;"><em><img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-1020" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/The-intervention-begins..jpg" height="225" title="The intervention begins." width="236" /></em></span>"Margerie, I've been terribly worried about you for sometime," she began in her sweet, gentle way. "You seem to he entirely well in some ways, yet something seems wrong. I know something is worrying you now, darling, I want you to forget you are a big girl, ready for college, and I want you to tell mother what is wrong, just as you used to do when you were a little girl."
For an instant a great pang shot through my heart. That blessed time—when I was a little girl! Then my hand slipped under my pillow and closed over the bottle of
paregoric that was hidden there. I laughed now, or rather the devil-creature in my body laughed, for it was not I.
"Don't be absurd!" said this devil-creature. "I'm not only perfectly well, but I'm quite old enough to take care of myself. What do you think is wrong? Think I'm going to have a baby or something?"
If I live to be a thousand, I shall never forget poor mother's face. The memory of it stings like fire, even now. Mother was a wonderfully pretty woman then—she is pretty yet, for that matter. Her creamy white skin, her big brown eyes and lovely, tawny hair made people turn to look at her a second time.
She cried with sudden passion now. "Margerie, don't ever speak to me like that again, please!" She was struggling to keep from weeping, but two big tears welled from the corners of her eyes and ran down her cheeks.
"Won't you talk to me now like a good girl, dear?"
"What do you want me to say, mother?" I cried, tortured, wishing that she would take me in her arms and hold me. "What seems to be wrong?"
She said quickly, dabbing freely at her tears now, "These terrible spells of depression that everybody is noticing, my darling. You won't talk for hours. Then, suddenly, you go to the very opposite extreme. You chatter and laugh as if you were—drunk!"
Ah, I thought, perhaps that was what had happened to Josie; for Aunt Clara had written that Josie, whom she had had for so many years, had been discharged because the girl was drunk half the time!
“Last night you embarrassed us all terribly when Dean and Mrs. Morgan were here," mother went on. "And Dean Morgan is the head of your father's department! Your poor father was hurt cruelly. Eileen and Doris cried themselves to sleep over it. You see, you laughed so much when there was nothing to laugh about, that it was frightful!" <img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-1034" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/Margerie’s-in-denial—big-time..jpg" height="225" title="Margerie’s in denial—big time." width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em>
</em></span>
"If I don't laugh there's a row," said the devil-creature that was in me. "And if I do laugh there's a row! You can see how impossible things are for me here. You and the girls are simply driving me insane. You are enough to drive anybody insane!"
"How can you say that, when you are the one!" exclaimed my mother. "You humiliate the girls terribly!"
I started to say something, and lost it.
"I suppose there's no use to try to talk to you," said poor mother, at her wits' end. "Your father has decided that I must take you to a specialist. You know how your father is when he makes up his mind. He has already telephoned Dr. Strong, atFairfield. He will cut his afternoon classes and take us down. He is coming home at eleven so jump into your bath and get ready."
"Oh, but I'll not go," I cried. "I simply will not go!"
There was a scene that lasted an hour, but finally I took my bath and dressed After all, I thought, perhaps the doctor would help me.
Our appointment was for four o'clock. It seemed an eternity before the hour came. Father did not go to the doctor's office with me, as mother had asked him not to. And not even mother went with me into the doctor's private office She pressed my hand, though, as I left her side.
Dr. Strong was a thin, tall man with snow-white hair and the keenest gray eyes I have ever seen in any man's head. He asked me to tell him about all the illnesses I had ever had, from childhood up.
Then he talked to me a little about my work during the four years of high school. Then about my cello playing, and asked about my trip to Chicago. Finally he flung a question at me with startling suddenness: "What drug is it that you are using?"
The suddenness of the question threw me off my guard for a moment, and stammering, I began to lie shamelessly, or rather the devil-creature that was inside my body did. But Dr. Strong held up his hand.
"It is utterly futile for you to deny it," he said quietly. "I am a physician, remember. The signs are infallible to one who knows them. And I know every sign."
He walked over to the window and stood with his back to me, as if to give me time to collect myself. When he turned round, he began where he had left off.
"Please don't think I blame you. I blame the prescription that put you where you are! I know without being told that, in some way, it came through a prescription. Now if you will tell me, as your friend and physician, what the drug is, it will expedite my work in diagnosing and prescribing for your case. Of course, I can find out what drug it is without your telling me. But it would take a little time, and I prefer to have you tell me."
"I will tell you," I said, with despair in my heart, "but don't tell mother!" And bursting into tears, I told him the whole miserable tale of the paregoric "It sounds terrible to say it," I sobbed "but I don't seem able to do without it." <img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-1039" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/Finally-she-can-tell-someone-the-truth.jpg" height="225" title="Finally she can tell someone the truth!" width="236" />
Dr. Strong sat with his temple resting on one hand, and he sat like this, in silence, for a long moment after I had said all that I could say.
"I am sure you can be cured," he said at last. "You must take regular exercise in the air, and you must eat plenty of wholesome food. I will have the nurse give you a diet and exercise list before you leave the office. I will also give you a prescription that will help kill the desire for the narcotic. But the main thing will have to be your own will power. You must overcome the temptation to swallow even one drop of paregoric except the little bit that I shall permit you to have each day, for a few weeks. And your mother must be the one to give you that. You are not, under any circumstances, to touch the bottle.
"Now, don't think of paregoric as medicine that will ease pain. Think of it as poison that has caused you more pain and sorrow already than the normal person should have in a lifetime. I blush with shame at the thought that there are men in my profession who will expose innocent and ignorant persons to such frightful danger!"
He disregarded my pleadings and called mother into the room to tell her the sad, miserable truth. I had wept until my eyes were red, and once when I stole a glance at mother's face, I saw the tears streaming down her cheeks.
"Her father said it was a narcotic," she sobbed. "But I couldn't believe it, for we have never given our children such things. I went into her room last night after she was asleep and looked at her arms to see if there were needle pricks. There weren't any, so I thought father was mistaken. I didn't know about paregoric! I hadn't thought of such a thing!"
If the devil-creature that seemed to be in my body had been a real entity and had actually battered my body against the walls of my room, or had beaten me with sticks, I could not have been more tortured or sick than I was for the next few weeks. In the end I lost all sense of compassion for myself or for my family. I became wholly a cunning, scheming creature whose only object in life, seemingly, was to get possession of paregoric. A shadow seemed to rest on the entire household. <img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-1019" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/Things-are-not-going-so-well..jpg" height="225" title="Things are not going so well." width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em>
</em></span>
There is no use to give the details of how many times I climbed out of my window, by means of the kitchen roof and the elm tree that grew at the south end of the house, after the others thought I had retired for the night. Once out, I could always get what I wanted. Neither is it any use to tell of the innumerable lies I told, or the subterfuges I resorted to in order to gain the thing I craved. I seemed to have lost all sense of honor, although this was not wholly true, for the knowledge that I was deceiving those I loved best on earth made me suffer untold tortures. The life I was leading was a veritable hell on earth.
At the end of two months Dr. Strong sized up the situation correctly. He didn't mince words.
"She is getting the dope in large amounts," he told father in my presence. "As long as the law is as it is, and as long as there are unethical druggists and doctors—and all professions have their unethical followers—you cannot control her in your own home. She cannot control herself. And I can do nothing for her. You must send her to Green Valley for the cure." <img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-1046" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/A-1930’s-Betty-Ford-clinic..jpg" height="225" title="A 1930’s Betty Ford clinic." width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em>
</em></span>
Sobbing, I threw myself into my father's arms, my better nature asserting itself for the moment, and begged him to do anything that he thought would save me. My father took me toGreenValleythe next day. I couldn't have felt more wretched and shamed if he had been taking me to the state penitentiary!
When I came home, many months later, it was believed that I was cured. Dr. Thorndyke's parting words, however, warned me never to take a drop of paregoric as long as I lived. He said if I did, I would be as bad as, if not worse than I had been in the beginning. He warned me against even the odor of it, which, he said, had often awakened all the old cravings in apparently cured patients.
"Remember," he said, "paregoric is camphorated tincture of opium. Don't think of it as a medicine that mitigates pain. Think of it as deadly poison!"
I was twenty years old now, and four years of my life, at its most beautiful period, had been wasted and embittered. I had lost any little desire I might once have had for college. My high school classmates had graduated and had gone on their way. A new class was in college.
Above all, I faced life in secret humiliation, for I knew that I was scorned by my old friends almost as an outcast. I knew quite well that everybody in the town was aware of the fact that I had been a dope addict; although everybody, including the members of my own family, avoided the subject as carefully as if it had been the plague. My family life was not what it had been in the old days. Either I wasn't able to pick life up now, or life was not able to pick me up. I was oppressed constantly with a feeling that I didn't belong.
Then, quite unexpectedly one day, father announced that he had accepted a position for the next year at theUniversityofIllinois. The next fall he went toUrbanato teach. I knew, secretly, that he had brought about this change on my account, and I was deeply grateful. Eileen and Doris were to be married in late October with a double wedding, and for this reason mother and I didn't join father until after the Christmas holidays.
I seemed so well that father wished me to enter college the coming fall, and I agreed.<span style="color: red;"> <img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-1045" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/A-fresh-start-at-last..jpg" height="225" title="A fresh start at last." width="236" /></span> There was nobody here who knew of my unhappy past, and I felt I must do something to while away the hours, for I still became terribly nervous and depressed at times.
In late April of that year I met Tom. Tom is an architect, and he was atUrbanaat the time to get his Master's degree. We came face to face one day as I was walking along the campus. Tom says, and I believe him, that it was a case of love at first sight with both of us. I shall never forget that day, for I was looking at Tom so hard, and he was looking at me so hard, that we both blushed and smiled.
Then Tom said, "Hello," and we stopped and began to talk about something trivial. A red bird—a cardinal with a cunning topknot—was whistling gayly in a maple tree. An omen of happiness! A month later, Tom and I were engaged. <img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-1029" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/Now-we’re-talking..jpg" height="225" title="Now we’re talking." width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em>
</em></span>
"I really don't want to go to college," I said. "Maybe I'll take a lecture course now and then, but I don't care anything about a degree. I've been out of school too long, I suppose. Anyhow, I've always loved to do things with my hands, and I love my cello too well to give up four years to the hard grind of college."
"Suits me, Margerie," said Tom. "When can we be married? How about June? Isn't that the month of brides and roses? I'll have my Master's degree by then, and we can start real life together. I have three thousand dollars in bonds, and a good job waiting for me. <img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-1037" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/He’s-quite-a-catch..jpg" height="225" title="He’s quite a catch." width="236" /> I worked four years before coming here. And I thought I was having a great time, too. But, gosh, I've never lived until now!"
It is impossible to tell how happy I was. I had thought, in those miserable days now past, that love and marriage and children and home were never to be mine. And now I loved, and was loved!<span style="color: red;"> <img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-1024" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/Pure-bliss.jpg" height="225" title="Pure bliss!" width="236" /></span> I was to have a home—and children, maybe! Tom was not only young and handsome, but he was clearly a man of brains and talent. My father thought so, and all our new campus friends thought he was wonderful.
And above all, I thought I was normal. But now I know that a person who would walk any number of blocks just to keep from passing a drugstore wasn't quite normal, and I did that nearly every day. The very sight of a drugstore made me tremble.
The next morning after my engagement to Tom was announced to the family, mother came into my room for a private talk.
"Margerie dear," she said, "I wouldn't mention this very painful subject to you if I didn't feel compelled to do so." My heart began to pound. "Your father and I both feel that it would be very wrong for you to marry Tom unless he is first told that you went toSpring Valleyfor the cure. Tom has a right to know that. Your father thinks that I have more tact for things of that sort, and that I should be the one to tell him.
But I wanted to speak to you first. You must look at this courageously. If
Tom doesn't love you well enough to forgive and overlook that sad experience, then he doesn't love you well enough to marry you. If he does love you that well, then he will not blame you at all, but will be all the more tender and careful of you."
For a moment I felt as if death had struck me. It had never occurred to me that I should have to tell Torn of the dreadful experience. How could I have thought so with the memory of John's cruel words—just but terribly cruel? It seemed to be the one thing in life that I should keep from Tom's knowledge. In the shock of the moment, the old cunning and deceit seized me again and I lied to my mother, not glibly, I am sure, but at least cleverly enough to deceive her. At the time the lie seemed to be the straw that would save me from sinking under the waves of despair. <img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-1018" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/This-is-going-to-come-back-and-bite-you..jpg" height="225" title="This is going to come back and bite you." width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em>
</em></span>
"I've told Tom," I said. "He understands. But he doesn't want it ever mentioned again. He doesn't want to talk about it to anybody."
"Good!" exclaimed my mother, plainly relieved. "I'll see, my dear, that no one ever mentions it to him."
I wept over that lie until I fell asleep from sheer exhaustion that night, but for all my tears, I let the lie stand. I prayed for courage to tell Tom the truth, to justify the lie I had told; but the days went by and I lacked the courage to say anything.<span style="color: red;"> <img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-1041" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/Could-you-muster-the-courage-to-tell-the-truth.jpg" height="225" title="Could you muster the courage to tell the truth" width="236" /></span> By the time the wedding day came, I had persuaded myself that I had done the wisest thing under the circumstances, and that there was really no more necessity for telling Tom of that experience than there was for telling him about John, or about a dozen other foolish little things I might have done in my early girlhood days.<img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-1022" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/She’s-got-the-rationalizing-down-pat..jpg" height="225" title="She’s got the rationalizing down pat." width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em>
</em></span>
Tom and I were married in the quietest way possible. Secretly I yearned to wear white satin and a bridal veil, and go down a church aisle garlanded with flowers, as Eileen and Doris had done, but mother thought I should be married quietly at home—because of the past! My sisters did not come to the wedding, which showed me how wide the breach in our lives really was.<img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-1033" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/Mean-sisters.jpg" height="225" title="Mean sisters!" width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em>
</em></span>
Tom's position was waiting for him with a firm of architects in a city of some eighty thousand, and we went there immediately after our wedding. We felt that the happy experience of finding and furnishing an apartment in a strange, new city would be enough of a honeymoon for us, as we were both thrifty young souls. We really considered ourselves the two happiest persons on earth.
I remember that it had been a very dry spring and early summer, and about the time we got settled in our apartment, it began to rain. It rained for the greater part of ten days, and everybody said it was the rain that drove ants into the houses. I found them in our refrigerator one morning when I was preparing breakfast.
Neither Tom nor I knew what to do to get rid of ants. Somebody told him to find the place where they came in and to draw a chalk circle round the place. He spent about an hour one evening tracing the ants up the pantry wall into the ceiling. He drew his chalk mark round the place, but the next day the ants were crawling round in the refrigerator.
"Gosh, I forgot!" said Tom that night when I mentioned they were in again. "One of the fellows in the office told me what to get. Said to pour some of the stuff in a saucer and they'd hump out in a hurry."
At the moment I was putting the dishes on the table in the breakfast nook so that everything would be ready for a quick breakfast the next morning. I had just laid the silver when I heard Tom get a saucer out of the cupboard, and heard him run some water from the faucet. Suddenly an odor reached me, bringing a fear that made me tremble from head to foot. For a moment I stood rooted to the spot; then I managed to look around. Tom was putting the saucer on the top shelf in the refrigerator. Then he put the bottle containing the "stuff" on top of the refrigerator. It was a bottle of paregoric! <em>This is bad luck. Paregoric used to kill ants?!</em>
I seemed completely paralyzed for the moment. I, who had avoided passing drugstores so long, so that I would not be tempted, to find the stuff here before me! In my own kitchen! I couldn't speak, but a groan forced itself out of my lips—and heart. Tom looked round with a startled face.
"What's the matter, Margerie?" he cried, springing to my side. "You are white as a ghost! Are you ill?"
I nodded helplessly, and let him lead me from the room. To all his questions I could only say that I had a pain—and I did have one, the old pain that called for paregoric, which was neither a stomach nor an intestinal pain in its true sense, but a sort of reflex pain.
Once in bed, although I assured Tom that I was better, I was beset with a
thousand emotions, for I realized now that the desire for paregoric was still in me. Perhaps the desire would never die, I thought, and this filled me with terror at the thought of what it meant to my life and to Tom's, if I yielded to the craving again.<img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-1025" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/Poor-thing-She-just-can’t-escape-her-past..jpg" height="225" title="Poor thing! She just can’t escape her past." width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em>
</em></span>
All my dreams fell with a crash! Then, too, I was in an agony of fear now as to what Tom would think of me if he found that I had married him, refusing deliberately to let him know the truth. I realized now that mother and father had been right. He should have been told! Now he would find it out, sooner or later, and he would consider that he had been tricked, deceived.
I could not go to sleep, but lay with my nerves as taut as if they were tied in a knot. After the clock struck one I decided to sneak out to the kitchen and throw the paregoric bottle out of the window. I planned in detail, each move to make. I must first open the screen in the kitchen window. Then I must, take the bottle, hold it as far away from my face as possible and remove the cork, so that in case the bottle didn't break when it landed in the laundry yard, the liquid would spill anyway. For it was quite possible that I would go out into the laundry yard the next morning and get the bottle.
There was a street light on the corner that lighted the whole of our apartment, and I was able to get out of my bed, which was only about a foot from Tom's bed, <img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-1023" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/Separate-beds.jpg" height="225" title="Separate beds" width="236" /> without making the slightest noise. I went through the dining room and into the kitchen so quietly that I thought he had not heard. It was a warm August night, but I was so cold that I shook from head to foot. Just as I removed the cork from the bottle I heard Tom coming through the dining room, calling me.
I think if nothing had happened to distract me at that moment, I might have been able to carry out my intention of throwing the bottle out the window. But I was ten feet from the window and when I heard Tom coming I instinctively did the thing that I had always done when mother or the girls had come upon me suddenly in the dark; a reflex action, I suppose. I swallowed some of the stuff. <img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-1017" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/What-How-did-she-do-that.jpg" height="225" title="What How did she do that" width="236" /> Then, appalled by what I had done, I ran to the window and threw the bottle as far out the window as I could throw it.
Tom opened the door. "What's the matter, darling?" he asked, a worried look on his face.
"I had a pain and came in to get something for it," I answered. "I'm better now. Let's go back."
"I won't wake you when I get up in the morning," said Tom, as he drew the sheet up round me. "I'll telephone about eleven to see how you are. If you're not better I'll send a doctor out."
I went to sleep at once now, for I had swallowed a big dose of the paregoric, and I slept like a log. I heard not a sound when Tom got up and left the house at breakfast time.
It was fifteen minutes to eleven when I finally awoke, and with the awakening came the horror of the paregoric, and what I had done. When Tom telephoned, I told him I was much better, but asked him to stay downtown for luncheon. I felt as if I could not face Tom just yet.
I would like to draw a veil over the mental and physical agony of that morning. Never had I felt more the need of outside help.
Tom and I had been going to church regularly, and I wished now that .I might go to the minister of the church we had been attending and ask his advice, for somehow it came to me that my hope lay in spiritual help rather than in medicine and doctors. But, I didn't know the minister personally and I shrank from taking such a step.
Shortly after the luncheon hour I put on my hat and went down to the little church where Tom and I had been going. But the church doors were locked. Dazed and miserable, I walked about for an hour. On my way back home I passed another church. The doors of this church were open, and, although I was of a different denomination, I wanted to be in a church of some sort, to be as near to God as possible, and I went in to pray. My one prayer was, "God, save me from this terrible curse!"
I think I must have knelt on the little kneeling bench in the pew for nearly an hour, praying as I had never prayed before. I thought I was alone in the church, but when at last I stumbled out through the middle vestibule someone spoke to me. I looked round, startled. It was the minister, an elderly man with a shock of white hair that framed a kind, shrewd face.
"You are weeping, my child,” the minister said. "Is there anything I can do for you?"
Weeping? I hadn't known I was weeping. I remember I put up my hand and felt my wet face, much as a child might have done. Then I shook my head, but a moment later I was sitting on a bench in a secluded corner of the west vestibule, sobbing out my miserable story to Reverend Lavere.
"God has sent you here," the kind old minister said. "There is but one thing to do, and you will do it because you want to do what is right. You must tell your husband the whole truth at once. You must tell him this very evening when he comes home to dinner. It will not be nearly so hard as you think, once you get started. If you had consciously done evil, then you might shrink. Now go home and rest. Your husband will help you. I feel it. And God will help you. Will you promise to tell him?"
I promised, with all the fullness and sincerity of my heart, for, somehow the way Reverend Lavere put it made it seem much, much easier than it had ever seemed before. I went home feeling infinitely better, but Tom would not be home for two hours and two hours is a long time to wait when one is in a state of nervous collapse. As the hour neared for his return, my courage failed utterly. I roughed my cheeks heavily and put on a gay dress, so that he might not see how pale I was.
He came; the dinner hour passed and I said nothing. Whenever I tried to open the subject, my tongue became glued to the roof of my mouth. I simply could not get it out, and by the time we got up from the table I had made the cowardly decision to try to fight the thing out alone. <img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-1042" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/Can-you-blame-her.jpg" height="225" title="Can you blame her" width="236" /> And at the same moment, something was urging me to go out into the laundry yard and get the bottle I had thrown out as there might be enough unspilled to stop my pounding nerves. It was the old, old argument!
As I wheeled my little tea wagon back to the kitchen with its load of dishes, struggling against that vision of the bottle in the laundry yard, the door bell rang. Tom went to the door. I hastily threw a tea cloth over the wagon of dishes and hurried back, for I thought it was the Calhouns, some very pleasant new friends we had made, who lived in the apartment above ours. But when I came in, Reverend Lavere was entering the room with Tom.
"I was just telling your husband that you and I met this afternoon," the minister said, holding out his hand to me. "I was out for my little after-dinner walk, and I just dropped by, Mrs. Dearman, to see if you had succeeded in telling your good husband the secret trouble that you wish so much to tell him?"
The only reason I didn't die on the spot at that moment is because it is not easy to die; not nearly so easy, I had found, as people believe. But I did go as blind and as deaf for a moment as if a bomb had exploded at my feet. At last, it seemed, Fate had utterly broken me. Something was being said, but I couldn't hear what it was. Then, my vision clearing, I could see Tom's pale face. He was looking at me in open-mouthed astonishment, in complete bewilderment.
"What does he mean, Margerie?" he was repeating. "What trouble is it that you haven't told me? You needn't be afraid—nothing could come between us!"
I still couldn't speak, and sinking down in a chair by the table, I buried my face on my arms. It was Reverend Lavere--kind, good Reverend Lavere--who had known quite well that my courage would die before dinner—who told Tom the story. He repeated, almost word for word, the story that I had told him in the afternoon.
"She is an innocent victim of circumstances," he said finally.
A moment later I heard the front door close behind him.
Then Tom picked me up, sat down in the big wing chair and rocked me as gently and as tenderly as if I had been a baby. He was silent for a long while. By and by he suddenly ceased to rock.
"It's the unscrupulous idiots they let hang out doctors' shingles and the secrecy of the thing that makes it a losing fight!" he exploded. "Nobody to talk it over with. Shut up tight! Honey, from now on you and I are going to fight this thing out in the open! I can just see you, poor little thing, trying to do it all by yourself! After those two idiots' prescriptions got you started —for the maid wasn't to blame, in the first place. It was the doctor who got her started. And that Dr. Wells! And society in general. Scorned and afraid!" <img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-1038" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/He’s-amazing-don’t-you-think.jpg" height="225" title="He’s amazing, don’t you think" width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em>
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He was silent again for a long moment.
"There's nothing to be ashamed of," he began again "This thing's a disease that you took as innocently as a child takes whooping cough. Yes, sir, next to doctors who prescribe such stuff with a free hand, it's society that's to blame —making it impossible for you to talk it over with others. That's the trouble. Of course, I understand why you didn't tell me! You thought you were cured, and dollars to doughnuts you will be cured before we're through with it. And honey, it wouldn't have made any difference if you had told me. I'd have married you just the same." <img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-1043" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/Can-we-clone-him.jpg" height="225" title="Can we clone him" width="236" />
I tried to speak, but my heart was too full.
"Yes, it's the darn secrecy that kills," he went on, as if talking to himself. "Remember what I told you about the awful time I had a few years back with those carbuncles on my neck? What if I couldn't have told everybody I met about the things? Why, I'd have gone batty, of course. People have just got to tell what hurts 'em, or they'll die. It's human nature.
"Well, we're going to reform our immediate little society right here. You're not going to be afraid to look a drugstore window in the face any more. We'll go by the drugstores every day, and you're going to talk about this thing to me, and I'm going to talk about it to you as freely as if it were a splinter in your finger or a sore tonsil. From now on, there's nothing to hide. Nothing to worry about. We're going to open the windows and let the sunshine in. How about it?"
How about it! It seemed to me that I must slip down on my knees, but as Tom's arms were holding me, I put mine about his neck and almost choked him with the hug of gratitude that I gave him, I was so encouraged and hopeful, so happy to find at last a refuge! Millstones by the score seemed to roll off my neck at that moment, for here was not only proof that I would have understood. Getting help from the dearest person on earth, but proof that my husband loved me with a great love, and that he was as wise as he was loving. I was still little more than a girl, but I believe if I had been wrinkled with age this love of Tom's would have given me back my youth, just as it now gave me back my hope in life, my courage, my strength.
Tom talked a long time that evening about our plans, immediate and for the future. We had already decided that we would have four children, and even more if the first four didn't bring a boy. But Tom said now that the children must wait until we had proved the thing thoroughly, and knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that I would never be tempted again.
The immediate plans, of course, occupied our minds for the moment. Tom made the plans, and together, the next day, we began carrying them out. He telephoned his office that he was taking a day off, and we went to every drugstore in the city. At each place Tom introduced himself and me to the proprietor, and asked to meet all the clerks. Then he told them, briefly, that I had taken too much paregoric during a long illness and was fighting the habit, and asked them to promise not to sell me paregoric under any circumstances if, in a moment of weakness, I came to them for it. All but one promised readily. Nobody could have been kinder than were those druggists and their clerks, with the exception of this one.
“We always have anybody who asks for paregoric without a prescription sign our books kept for that purpose, Mr. Dearman," this man said suavely, He was an over-fat, porcine creature, and seemed to be puffing with vexation at the idea of Tom's audacity in asking a favor of him.
"Beyond that," he added, "we cannot take responsibility. We will, of course, not give it if we can remember Mrs. Dearman. But there are a number of Dearmans in the city, and thousands of women come in here during the course of a few weeks and we may not remember her."
"I'd advise you to make it a point to remember her, Mr. Hubert," Tom replied. "For if my wife ever does get paregoric here—mind what I’m telling you—you'll be given the nicest pair of black eyes any man ever carried round. Besides that, I'll tell the story from one end of the town to the other. Don't think there's any secrecy here, for there isn't. We're out in the sunshine with this thing. We don't care who knows it. And it'll be to your interest to see that neither you nor your clerks forget her!"
That afternoon we began the round of the doctors' offices. This was a somewhat longer and more embarrassing task. And now began our fight in earnest. Tom wrote to Dr. Thorndyke, atGreenValley, who gave us directions for the medical and dietary program. That and Tom's love for me, and mine for him, brought us through the ordeal successfully.
There were a few times when I canvassed the drugstores for the poison that would, in time, have killed me; but I got it only twice. Even then I did not succeed in taking it all, for Tom, seeing the bright glitter of my eyes, suspected, asked for the bottle and got it. Nothing could escape him. He sold our roadster because I used it once to get the dope in a nearby town.
"We don't need a car while we're fighting this thing anyway, honey," he said.
"It really costs a lot to run a car. We'll save the money for that house we're going to build some day. I'm going to bring the plans home some bright day! "It's going to be a hillside house, with vistas and things like that from the windows. And don't worry—you're doing fine! I got a letter from Dr. Thorndyke today. He says in a few months you'll forget the thing.
"He's a prince of a man, and a good doctor, but his psychology is all wrong. He thinks you can never safely look paregoric in the face again, but I say you can. The day will come when we can park a bottle on our ice box and you won't care a hang how long it stays there. That's got to be the test, honey. As long as you can't stand to see or to smell the stuff, you're not entirely cured."
It was two years before that day came; before I could rid myself of fear enough
to let Tom leave me and the stuff alone in the house. The first day that I actually did this was a day of jubilation!
Then one day Tom came home with good news.
"I've had an offer from one of the biggest architects on thePacificCoast," he
said. "He saw my Western home design and liked it. He offers an interest in the firm after one year, if everything works out agreeably. I've wired him we would come!"
It has been five years since I tasted paregoric. I have no more fear of it now than I have of water, but of course I shall never taste it again.
And here I am, at the little house that seems to have grown out of the hill like a tree. We are working on the attic now, every day it’s flooded with light from six dormer windows, and there's a place for a sandbox for rainy winter days, and Mother Goose paper is plastered on the sloping walls. The little furniture isn't in yet, but it is planned—for the baby is coming in June. By then the trailing roses that have already reached the high end windows will be blooming. <img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-1040" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/Don’t-you-just-love-happy-endings.jpg" height="225" title="Don’t you just love happy endings" width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em>
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So this is the end of my bitterly true story of bondage to dope. In the state in which I now live one cannot get paregoric without a doctor's prescription. That should be the law in every state. But one has only to look in the newspapers to see that the bondage to opium, in some form, goes on. Even in states where laws are strict, lovely, talented girls get habit-forming drugs in some way. Let this true story be a warning to them! I took a trip East eight months ago, for a short visit, and on the way home there was a woman on the train from a Southeastern state. She had a tiny tot of four years, and she was dosing the child with paregoric. I could not help suggesting, almost begging her, not to give the little thing remedies of that type. The woman looked at me in polite surprise.
"Why, how foolish!" she said. "It is perfectly harmless."
"It's camphorated tincture of opium," I replied.
"Well, maybe," the woman said indifferently. "But my doctor said that one would have to swallow about an ounce to get much opium. I guess there's not nearly so much harm from medicines of this sort, as some people think."
I went back to my seat, wondering what I could do to let others know what a "perfectly harmless" remedy had done to me. And as I sat gazing out the window at the flying landscape, the way came—to tell the true, unvarnished story!
<img alt="may1933 Sally Blanc and Randolph Scott reduced" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-1573" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/may1933-Sally-Blanc-and-Randolph-Scott-reduced.jpg" height="2100" width="1500" />Copyright © 1933, 2012 by BroadLit<br />
True Romancehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01047288963020873283noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4531275353977319700.post-58373921189260844492014-06-13T10:37:00.005-07:002014-06-13T10:45:09.544-07:00That Crazy Girl<h6>
<span style="color: maroon;"><strong><em><span style="color: #b02020;"><img alt="that crazy girl" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-9644" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/that-crazy-girl.jpg" height="400" width="267" /></span></em></strong></span></h6>
<h6>
<strong><em><span style="font-size: large;">Love is so beautiful—so terrible—so awesome a thing. It came to her like a tropical dawn—in a matchless sweep of breathless beauty and wonder, yet. . .</span></em></strong></h6>
<strong><span style="text-decoration: underline;">Dateline: April 1937 </span></strong><br />
<strong><span style="text-decoration: underline;"><br /></span></strong>
<a href="http://trulovestories.com/uncategorized/radio-drama-2/" target="_blank">Hear The Audio Version of This Story!</a><br />
<br />
<strong>They were falling deeply in love, but she held a secret: Myra was the cause of all his bitterness. She caused his plane to crash during the town air-derby, forever </strong><strong>destroying his ability to fly. He knew the name, but had never seen the face of the woman responsible. Destiny (with a little help from Myra) brings them together again, and they are immediately love-struck. Myra never reveals her true identity. Who could blame her?When Dick proposes, she fears it’s the end.</strong>
<strong>Is it a tragic love story, or, a triumph of the human spirit? Would love be enough to forgive the guilty -- who managed to deliver two blows to the heart by not only causingthe accident, but also lying about who she was? </strong><br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
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It was during the summer of 1930 that Grangeville's business men built a new landing field. They were justly proud of their achievement and to boost the town, it was finally decided to have a grand celebration in the form of an air-derby. There were to be races and stunting, and a couple of hired planes to take up curious passengers.
I was the first girl from Grangeville to secure a pilot's license, and I looked forward to the air-derby with the keenest zest. I was still enough of a little girl to relish a chance to show off before the home town folks. My father, who firmly believed that a girl had as much right to wings as a boy, had purchased me a second hand-monoplane for a birthday present and, after I had it repainted, I was as proud as the captain of a fleet.
After weeks of excited preparation, the great day finally arrived. I was entered in nearly every event of the day and, if thrills were fatal, I would have been prostrated! I was on the field almost before sun-up, testing the plane for the hundredth time, peering under the hood for trouble that was non-existent.
By ten o'clock the field was swarming with visiting pilots and their small, busy planes.
It was just before the second event that I noticed a pilot sitting on an overturned nail keg outside the hangar. I don't know why I noticed him particularly, except that he was strangely still while everything about him was in nervous motion. He was watching the colorful scene with a detached interest that was queer, considering his flying togs. They were worn, too, and looked as though they belonged to him. I took time for a second glance and liked what I saw—clear brown skin beneath a wind-rumpled thatch of dark hair, dark hazel eyes, the color of a stormy horizon, a lean hard jaw, a mouth that held the crinkles of past laughter—I turned hastily away as my steady regard drew his gaze. Yes, I liked what I saw! <img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-1010" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/This-could-get-interesting..jpg" height="225" title="This could get interesting." width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em>
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The next event was stunting, and I watched him go up with two others. He brought my heart into my throat and kept it there, with his cool daring, his expert handling of his plane, his dare-devil twists and turns. And when at last he came down he returned to the keg with as much placid indifference as before, only this time his eyes were leaping with excitement, and he walked with the proud, unconscious joy of a young eagle.
Just after dinner was the open free-for-all. I don't believe the master of ceremonies knew exactly what was meant by that, nor did we. All planes were to take to the air, circle the field three times, dip in salute as the flag was run up, and then land again. Everything went fine, until the second time around the field. Out of the side of my eye I saw a red plane creeping up on me, and I didn't intend to let it pass, so I turned sharply around the goal post for the return trip. I thought the other plane had plenty of room. But I misjudged the distance. In order not to hit my left wing, the other plane dipped too low and caught the tip of its left wing on the goal post. There was a strange ripping sound, and the visiting plane sagged crazily. An instant later it crashed into the dust of the field, nose first, like a broken toy.
I never could quite remember how I landed my plane. My hands and feet were icy on the controls, and there was a deadly sickness in the pit of my stomach. I got there in time to see who they were lifting into the ambulance. It was the man with the hazel eyes and laughter warm against his mouth. Now his face was rigid and white, except for the scarlet stream that oozed from his mouth and threaded its terrifying way down the strong column of his throat. <img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-1004" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/Oh-no-This-was-not-the-way-she-wanted-to-meet-him.jpg" height="225" title="Oh no! This was not the way she wanted to meet him!" width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em>
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Everybody was trying to explain the accident, but I knew whose fault it was. Mine! Mine! I had cut in on him too quickly. I wanted to be smart and show off. Dear God, what a fool I was! I found my own car in the parking lot and followed the ambulance into the city hospital. Several friends wanted to go with me, but I shook them off. I alone should bear this. Somehow, I felt that way.
They took him into the emergency operating-room and I sat down in the hall. A kindly nurse told me there were more comfortable chairs in the waiting-room. More comfortable chairs! I should have been sitting on spikes! I sat still, dulled with agony, watching the dark panels of the door—hearing faint movement—smelling the thick, sweet odor of ether. And then, after years and years of almost unendurable suffering, the door opened and a rubber-tired stretcher was pushed out. I caught one glimpse of his face, paste-white, like a plant grown without sun, and his head covered with bandages. His body was covered with a blanket. I couldn't see how badly it was hurt. But when the elevator doors had clanged to, I turned to the doctor who had worked on him.
"Just how bad is it?" I asked.
He looked at me with professional indifference. He did not know that I was the cause of that pitifully wrecked body.
It’s hard to say yet. He has a fracture of the skull, but I hardly think that will prove serious. But his back is hurt. That may cause trouble. Are you a relative?" “No," I said thickly. "I'm—I'm not even a friend!"
It wasn't hard to learn that the man's name was Dick Doane, that he lived in a place called Haines, with his mother. She was bedridden and couldn't come to him. <img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-997" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/He-lives-with-his-bedridden-mother-–-OMG-What-has-she-done.jpg" height="225" title="He lives with his bedridden mother – OMG! What has she done" width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em>
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Of course, everybody said it was just an accident and that I shouldn't blame myself. They didn't know. I sent flowers and more flowers, until one day they were refused. The nurse explained firmly, but kindly that her patient had regained consciousness and learned who sent the flowers.
He didn't want any more from me. Well, I couldn't blame him. He knew what a dirty trick I had played. How he must hate me! I wanted to sell my plane, but Dad wouldn't let me. He said I was just being morbid, and that I would get over it! Get over it—with that still, white face haunting my every dream!
It was six months before Dick Doane could leave the hospital and then he left on crutches. I knew the day he was leaving and watched him from across the street. He put his crutches down so carefully, and their padded ends sank deep into my heart! A young eagle, crushed and broken! I was so blinded by tears that I couldn't see his face clearly. Perhaps it was best I didn't.
It was three weeks later that I drove over to the Haines airport to see a new type of plane they were exhibiting there. I wouldn't have gone except for the hope of seeing Dick—and I wasn't disappointed. <img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-1015" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/What-is-she-hoping-to-accomplish-–-stalking-him-like-this.jpg" height="225" title="What is she hoping to accomplish – stalking him like this" width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em> </em></span>He was standing a little back in the crowd, without his crutches now, but limping noticeably when he walked. I suppose it was the intensity of my gaze that finally brought his eyes to my face. I felt myself grow pale, and wondered if guilt were written all over my face. You see Dick had never seen me to know who I was, but I was so conscious of my secret that I thought it must show. In that brief glance I had seen the look in his eyes and it wrenched my heart—such a sick look, so hopeless and defeated. His body might be limp, but his spirit was limping even more pitifully! <img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-998" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/He’s-a-broken-man-–-and-she’s-responsible.jpg" height="225" title="He’s a broken man – and she’s responsible!" width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em>
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I managed to edge toward him slowly until I finally stood next to him. I felt like a prattling child, as I inquired purposefully "Pardon me, but could you tell me what they call the funny dial in front?"
Dick brought his gaze down to me with an effort, as though in thought he had been far away.
"I beg your pardon," he said remotely. "I didn't get your question."
It was the first time I had ever heard him speak, and his voice gave me a kind of electric thrill. It was so deep and vibrant, yet it slurred a little as though it were very tired.
I repeated my question with a smile that trembled at the corners. It was then that he appeared really to see me for the first time. His eyes caught at the contour of my face with a sort of eager hunger. He had been a long time alone in the still room of his pain, and his youth was beginning to reach out demanding hands toward life. <img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-1011" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/Translation.jpg" height="225" title="Translation" width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em>
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He seemed more than willing to explain the fine points of the new plane to me, and finally he remarked comfortably "You don't know a whole lot about flying, do you?"
"Not a great deal," I lied steadily, catching my breath a little because the
unexpected question frightened me. <img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-1013" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/Watch-it-One-lie-begets-another..jpg" height="225" title="Watch it! One lie begets another." width="236" />
"It's a good thing you don't," he said, and his mouth settled to grim lines. "Flying is no field for a woman."
That was all he said, but it was the things he didn't say that hurt—the massed bitterness behind that single grim statement.
When the crowd broke up I asked if I couldn't give him a lift to the car line, and he accepted after a moment's hesitation. I ignored his limp, and gave him all the admiration that his sore heart was craving. I pretended to be awe-struck because he had a pilot's license and got him to talk about flights he had made. <img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-1014" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/What-is-she-going-to-do-when-the-truth-comes-out.jpg" height="225" title="What is she going to do when the truth comes out" width="236" />Gradually his eyes lost that bleak, sick look, and lit up with eager memories. I drove slowly and let him talk. I asked just enough questions to keep him going. But suddenly the fire went out of his eyes and his mouth was wiped clean of laughter.
"I'm going on like an idiot. All that's past. I'm through flying, I guess. Had an accident over at Grangeville that grounded me for good. Sorry to have bored you."
Nor could I get him to talk any more about himself that day. But before we parted at the car line, he had told me his name and I had told him my first two names—Myra Starr, leaving off the Garry, for I knew he'd recognize that in a minute. Just as he was stepping painfully out of the car, I got up the courage to ask him if he wouldn't like to go to Douglasto see the air exhibition the following week-end. <img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-1012" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/Was-she-being-incredibly-forward-for-1937.jpg" height="225" title="Was she being incredibly forward for 1937" width="236" /> He said he would. And thus we began our strange meetings.
Six weeks later I was forced to face the devastating misery that I had deliberately brought upon myself. I was madly, head-over heels in love with Dick Doane, and he didn't even know who I was. He had confessed to me, however, his agony of bitterness toward the thoughtless girl who had crowded him out of the air and out of his place in life. <img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-1006" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/OMG-This-can-only-end-in-disaster.jpg" height="225" title="OMG!! This can only end in disaster!" width="236" /> In the six weeks that I had come to know Dick I had had occasion to look deep into his soul, and I cringed before the hopeless tragedy that I found there. For Dick Doane was born to fly. It was life and breath to him. He was as miserable on the ground as a chained eagle. And I had done this to him! He was trying to learn another trade, but he went at it gropingly, like a blinded child. I was torn with pity before I fell in love with him. After that I can't describe how I suffered.
Love is such a beautiful—such a terrible—such an awesome thing! It came to me like a tropical dawn—in one matchless sweep of indescribable beauty and breathless wonder.
We had met as usual at the airport. I had made up some flimsy excuse about a stepmother, and not wanting to have company at my home, so we always met some place else.<span style="color: red;"> <img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-1001" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/How-long-can-she-keep-up-these-excuses.jpg" height="225" title="How long can she keep up these excuses" width="236" /><em> </em></span>We parked my car and took Dick's little two-seater. Spring was in the air, warm, and pulsing, and tender. The apple trees were showing faint pink edges and the creek bottoms were rich with willow-green.
We parked the car finally in a grass-grown lane and began to talk as we always did about planes and flying. I knew it eased the ache in Dick's soul to talk about the thing he could never do.
Suddenly he said—"Why is it I talk like this to you? I never mention it to anybody else. But you're different. It's almost like talking to myself to talk to you."<span style="color: red;"> <img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-1002" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/Huh1.jpg" height="225" title="Huh" width="236" /><em>
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I laughed a little. "I like the way you say that. I think that's quite the nicest compliment I've ever had."
"Myra—you're sweet!" he said, suddenly serious, a new vibrant tone in his voice.
"You're not so bad yourself," I countered, feeling the rush of blood to my cheeks.
"Do you mean that?" he demanded.
"Yes," I whispered, half afraid, half exulting, not understanding myself—not wanting to. I leaned closer to him, drawn by the strength and appeal of his clean youth. And suddenly I was in his arms and his face was buried in my hair. I was amazed by the wild, sweet thrill that pulsed through my body like old wine. My fingers strayed unbidden to his hair, close-clipped and crisp. And all of a sudden his lips were groping downward across my temple, seeking my lips and with a half sob I turned my face and met his kiss. Never before had I known such a moment. I was blinded—shaken by the untamed tumult that swept across my soul. His lips were gentle, yet they compelled my complete submission. They demanded and I gave—gave blindly until I lay exhausted and trembling against his breast. He released me with an abruptness that wrung a smothered cry from my quivering lips. <img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-1009" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/They-had-sex.jpg" height="225" title="They had sex" width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em>
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"Forgive me!" he muttered thickly. "I must be mad. What right have I to make love to a girl like you—I, a miserable wreck?”
"Stop it," I cried desperately. "You shan't talk about yourself like that, Dick Doane! To me you're the finest man in the world. Do you think I see your limp? That's such a little thing. It's your soul limping that hurts my heart. If you can get the kinks out of your soul and face the world again—if you can make a success in some other field—"
"Yes—then what?" Dick asked tensely, catching my face between his shaking hands.
"Then I'll help you," I whispered. "And be so proud to do it!"
"You mean you'd be willing to marry a wreck like me?" <img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-996" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/He-does-need-a-reassuring-woman.jpg" height="225" title="He does need a reassuring woman" width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em>
</em></span>
"I mean I'd be proud to take the name of the grandest man I know," I answered and broke into weeping.
Well, Dick Doane went to work at his new trade with such will that his mother talked about it with tears in her eyes.
Dick demanded the chance to talk to my father, but I kept putting him off. I lived from one day to the next, torn by my own folly. I had grounded Dick Doane once and now, just as his soul was testing its wings again, it looked as though I would forever ground him in hopeless, soul-destroying bitterness. I had won his love under false pretenses. I was a cheat and a coward. Oh, I hated myself those days! <img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-1003" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/Little-wonder.jpg" height="225" title="Little wonder" width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em>
</em></span>
And then came a Sunday that I shall never forget. It is etched in flaming red against the wall of my memory. Dick and I drove out to the airport as usual. He loved to hang around and watch the in-coming and out-going planes. There was a big cabin plane there that day taking up passengers. It could carry ten passengers and was there really to advertise the air-transport companies. After a few minutes Dick surprised me by suggesting that we go up. I hadn't been in the air since his accident, but I wouldn't have refused him anything he asked for. So we went.
There were six other passengers in the plane, and one man had been drinking heavily. He was a big fellow, with a large florid face and bulgy eyes. He talked and laughed a lot, but no one paid any real attention to him, until we were well in the air. He sat ahead of me, across the aisle, and I could see only the bulge of his purple neck.
The pilot was in the same cabin with us, as this was one of the old model planes, without a partition between pilot and passengers. We had circled the field and were heading off for our little trip, when all of a sudden this man jumped up and let out a scream that curdled my blood. He was stark, raving scared, and I've never seen a living face turn such a ghastly green. He staggered forward toward the pilot and fell across the back of the seat, but not before his big arms had a strangle grip of the pilot's throat. <img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-1005" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/OMG-Are-they-all-going-to-die.jpg" height="225" title="OMG! Are they all going to die" width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em>
</em></span>
The plane tilted dizzily and two women screamed in mortal terror. One slumped sidewise in a dead faint. A man cursed thinly. The pilot was fighting for his life. He struck upward and grazed the drunken man's cheek. The drunk struck back blindly and the pilot went limp.
I can't tell you just what happened after that. It doesn't seem real. It was a ghastly, unbelievable nightmare of sound and terror. A passenger tried to drag the now sobbing drunk away from the struggling pilot. But the plane had gone into a dangerous side slip and we weren't very high up.
I had never piloted a cabin plane, but there were other hands than mine on the controls that day. You no doubt read about it in your Monday’s newspaper—how a slip of a girl saved several persons from death. Don't you believe it! A power greater than mine
righted that plane to make a safe, though exceedingly uneven landing. I don't remember clearly until we were back in Dick's little car and the noise and excitement had subsided to a murmur. Then suddenly my brain cleared and I could think again.
I had given myself away. I had flown a ship. Dick! What had he thought? What was he thinking now?
I dared look at his face. It was still ghastly white, with streaks where tears had passed. His jaw might have been cut stone. Not a muscle moved. We drove in silence to our little lane where lilacs were making purple mists against the delicate green of maples. There Dick stopped the car.
"You're Myra Starr Garry," he said thickly. <img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-1000" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/He’s-a-little-slow-–-Myra-Starr-is-no-common-name.-Maybe-it-was-the-accident..jpg" height="225" title="He’s a little slow – Myra Starr is no common name. Maybe it was the accident." width="236" />
"Yes." How I longed to fling myself into his arms and plead for forgiveness, but my whole body felt as though it were locked in ice!
"All this time you've lied to me. Why?" It was a piteous query, wrung from his heart. And suddenly the ice melted and I began to cry—to cry brokenly and wildly, without hope—
"Oh, Dick—Dick—can't you understand why I've lied to you? Can't you see that I was afraid to tell you—afraid, because I love you so much? Oh, I've lived a thousand agonies because of my moment of thoughtlessness that day! I've never been in the air myself again until this day. I made up my mind, if you couldn't fly, I wouldn't either. I sold my plane, against my father's wishes. I hated myself. And then I met you and fell in love with you, and I've never been so unhappy in all my life. I couldn't bear the thought of giving you up—of having you hate me!<img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-1007" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/She’s-convincing-But-will-he-buy-it.jpg" height="225" title="She’s convincing! But will he buy it" width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em> </em></span>Oh, Dick—Dick—Dick! I grounded you once—don't let hate of me ground you again. I'll go away, if you want me to, but you keep on facing the world with courage. I can't bear to think of your soul limping again. Hate me if you must, but don't be bitter toward life any more—"
He stopped me with a cry that will ring in my memory forever. It was a wild, exultant cry—a cry of victory and glorious happiness, infinite happiness. "Myra!”
He gathered me into his arms then and his lips touched my temple and rumpled my hair, and I knew he was trying to steady his voice enough to speak. I felt his heart pounding with the mighty surge of blood. And after a long time his husky whisper came through the gathering twilight—
"Hate you! You, who have brought me new life when I thought I was through living—you who have opened the door in a blank wall, and led me through to a joy I never guessed possible. Hate you! Didn't I have to get knocked out of the sky in order to find you? We might never have met if that accident hadn't happened. <img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-1008" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/That’s-a-stretch-but-if-it-makes-him-feel-better-no-harm..jpg" height="225" title="That’s a stretch, but if it makes him feel better, no harm." width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em> </em></span>Why, for weeks I've been blessing the crazy girl that crowded me out of the air! Blessing her, I tell you! And now today I find you are that girl. I watched you coolly save a lot of people from certain death. Oh,Myra, what can I do to deserve a girl like you?"
My heart was caught up in an ecstasy it had never experienced before. Dick kissed me then—kissed me with a fire that welded our hearts into one, and left me filled with a happiness that was lasting and complete.
<img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-999" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/He’s-a-forgiving-man-and-Myra-is-very-lucky.jpg" height="225" title="He’s a forgiving man and Myra is very lucky!" width="236" />
Copyright © 1937, 2012 by BroadLit
<span style="color: red;"><em><img alt="TRApril1937reduced" class="alignleft size-medium wp-image-1571" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/TRApril1937reduced-222x300.jpg" height="300" width="222" /></em></span>True Romancehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01047288963020873283noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4531275353977319700.post-56699882916611727832014-05-30T13:16:00.003-07:002014-05-30T13:16:36.794-07:00My Heart Is A Living Tomb<h6>
<em><span style="color: maroon;"><img alt="my heart is a living tombcrop" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-9575" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/my-heart-is-a-living-tombcrop.jpg" height="292" width="268" /></span><span style="font-size: small;">War had robbed her of her lover—another war gave him back to her. But now she was the wife of another. Her lover had been faithful all these years. Should she now go back to her first love?</span></em></h6>
<strong><span style="text-decoration: underline;">Dateline: April 1925</span></strong>
<strong>Her life seemed perfect, but no one knew the heartache she suffered. She had experienced an extraordinary love, but </strong><strong>it was stolen from her when her lover died in battle.</strong><br />
<strong><a name='more'></a> Their best friend, Ben, fulfilled his promise. He married her and they created a happy life together -- though they both knew she had settled for second best. When her lover re-appears many years later (<em>He’s still alive!),</em> Alice must decide -- <em>once she recovers from her shock</em> -- whether to forsake all for a chance at true love. </strong>
<strong>Their passions are ignited, and Alice carries an incredible love inside -- even if no one else has a clue. In this classic love story of missed opportunities, who will Alice choose -- her first true love or her husband? [[<em>It’s nice to have some secrets -– like wearing beautiful lingerie under your suit -- no one knows, but it makes you feel extraordinary.]]</em></strong>
<em>I held out my arms to him, but he shook his head and gazed into space.</em>
<em>War had robbed her of her lover—another war gave him back to her. But now she was the wife of another. Her lover had been faithful all those years. Should she now go back to her first love?</em>
My dear mother used to have an odd saying: "What folks do not know can never hurt them." That bit of philosophy always amused me when a child. It amuses me much more since I have become a woman and know the aptness and truth of it. How very little we do know about the person next to us. I mean about the real, inner person, the man and woman as God sees them. Experience has taught me that it is well for us and well for them that we take them at their face value and probe no deeper to find out what lies hidden in the secret recesses of heart and brain.
For many years the story I am about to relate has been a sealed book, locked in with the memories it awakens. Why I am telling it now is sometimes a puzzle to me, and still I am urged by a power stronger than my own will to give it to the world for what it is worth, and to perhaps help, just a little, someone else who has a hidden story in their life. Also it may be a warning to someone not to judge the other fellow too harshly. He may have a sorrow that accounts for his eccentricities. <img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-971" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/This-is-a-great-attitude.jpg" height="225" title="This is a great attitude" width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em>
</em></span>
I am a woman of middle age, I have grown children and one grandchild. I have a good, honest, faithful husband, a comfortable home and a few of the luxuries of life, I do not look my years, and am often taken for the sister of my daughters. I am considered striking looking—and by a few am spoken of as charming. My abundant brown hair has not one thread of white in its natural waves, my eyes are the clear, level gray that sometimes are
spoken of as being able to read the soul. My features are irregular, and my mouth is rather large and smiley but I am still healthy and strong. <img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-990" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/She’s-the-beneficiary-of-a-good-set-of-genes1.jpg" height="225" title="She’s the beneficiary of a good set of genes!" width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em>
</em></span>
I am favorably known in the state where I live, holding a public position that enables me to travel and meet with people of all classes. People speak of me as a woman who has forgotten self in her work for others, and some few envy me—me!
The thought of that possible envy is what prompts me to set down this story —this hidden chapter in my life. So many of my friends remark that it is because I have never known sorrow or suffering or despair that I have retained my girlish looks. When these remarks come to my ears I seem to see again the girl from which the woman that I am today has emerged. I smile, because they do not know, and again comes to my mind the old saying of my mother. <img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-967" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/What-is-this-secret-life-she-refers-to.jpg" height="225" title="What is this secret life she refers to" width="236" />
As a girl, I was willful and impulsive, full of fun and mischief, and sang and flirted and laughed through the days. I had many admirers, as most happy, laughing girls do, but I laughed at them all and flirted outrageously. <img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-975" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/Quite-the-party-girl-wasn’t-she.jpg" height="225" title="Quite the party girl- wasn’t she" width="236" />
Until the man I was to love came and then I gave him my whole heart—I loved him with all the abandon of a passionate willful heart. And how he loved me in return! Never was there such an earnest, serious, tender love as ours. I shall not give his name, for to call him by any but the dear name enshrined in my heart would crucify me, and so he will just be called My Lover.<img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-980" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/It-may-be-a-wee-bit-pretentious-and-remind-you-of.jpg" height="225" title="It may be a wee bit pretentious (and remind you of" width="236" />
My other admirers stepped out when he came, and sought solace elsewhere, all but one, that was the particular friend of My Lover. He came to my home as usual, and he was the friend of both of us, the loving, tender friend of My Lover and I. <img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-978" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/It’s-a-cozy-threesome.jpg" height="225" title="It’s a cozy threesome" width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em>
</em></span>
My Lover was so different from me, so different in all ways. He was dark as night with black eyes that held all the love and tenderness of the world in their depths. His was a noble nature, and to have been loved by such a man is what has made me the woman that folks think I am today. <img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-992" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/Wow-He-must-be-special..jpg" height="225" title="Wow! He must be special." width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em>
</em></span>
When the Spanish-American War broke out My Lover was among the first to enlist. Ben, his friend, could not go because his gun hand was crippled, and he laughingly hid his disappointment and said that he would look after My Lover's interest while he was away upholding the honor of their country.<span style="color: red;"> <img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-986" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/Bet-he-will.jpg" height="225" title="Bet he will!" width="236" /><em> </em></span>How well he kept his trust! Ah, those last few days before My Lover had to leave—how filled with sweet sorrow they were for us.
The last day at the station I was a little annoyed because My Lover came for me in the carriage of his friend. Ben drove us to the station. With kindly forethought, Ben had left us to ourselves in the back seat, and had drawn the curtains so that no prying eyes might see. Again I wondered when the moment for the last good-bye came and Ben made to leave his place in the carriage so that we might have that last moment to ourselves, I wondered why My Lover stayed him, and said quietly; "Stay where you are Ben, remember!" I wondered what he meant. <img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-994" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/What-does-he-mean.jpg" height="225" title="What does he mean" width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em>
</em></span>
Ah, that last good-bye! Regardless of Ben, who sat looking straight ahead like stone images, My Lover gave way to his love and his grief, and showered kisses over me. He held up my hand on which sparkled the tiny diamond that pledged our troth and prayed to God that he would come back to claim me. I was half frightened at his mood, and knew that the thought of going had shaken him dreadfully.
The whistle blew. The time had come. My Lover placed me back on the carriage seat, sprang out and then, stooping, kissed my feet as they rested on the floor of the carriage. <img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-977" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/Men-were-so-chivalrous-in-the-20’s.jpg" height="225" title="Men were so chivalrous in the 20’s" width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em> </em></span>Then with his hat pulled low over his eyes and without one word to Ben, he rushed for the already moving train. Ben reached over the back of the seat where he sat-and stroked my trembling hands as together we watched the train disappear from sight.
The time was long and lonely, but the sweetness of his letters kept me alive and I found work to do that helped me to forget. Soon he signed himself sergeant, and how proud I was, and how proud Ben was. We grinned at each other joyfully at My Lover's promotion—My Lover's friend and I.
Then suddenly My Lover's letters ceased, and we heard no word. I was wild with anxiety and grief. Ben packed a suitcase and left for the front to find out what had become of our loved one. He came back in a month, haggard and worn, and tenderly, lovingly, told me that My Lover was dead. He gave me a few of his belongings that they had found at the enemy's prison where My Lover had been a prisoner and a letter he had written to be sent to me on the day he was to be shot. They had taken him to a prison in Spain. There he was to pay the penalty of loyalty to his government. I read the letter; the sweetest, bravest letter a man ever wrote, and with a wild look at Ben I fell unconscious to the floor.<img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-979" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/It-would-be-too-much-for-any-woman.jpg" height="225" title="It would be too much for any woman!" width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em>
</em></span>
Several weeks later I came to myself in my little white room, and saw my dear mother and Ben, watching over me. <img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-988" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/A-coma-for-several-weeks.jpg" height="225" title="A coma for several weeks" width="236" />They were white and worn with watching, and Ben's hair was quite grey. Mother told me that it had turned gray in a night—the night the doctor said I would die. Ben said not a word. I was the sweetheart of his friend and sacred in his eyes.
When I was again able to face the world, my mouth had lost some of its smiley curves, and my gray eyes were shadowed. That was all the world saw of the grief that had changed me from a girl to a woman—and folks say I know not suffering!
Two years passed, and then because Ben was so gentle and so patient, and because I felt that it was what My Lover would wish, and I knew it was what Ben and my mother wished, I became the wife of My Lover's friend. <img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-974" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/She-waited-a-respectful-amount-of-time..jpg" height="225" title="She waited a respectful amount of time." width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em>
</em></span>
The years passed on and I was content. I had all that life held for me. I loved Ben in a quiet way, and I loved my children passionately. I was happy, too, and yet always my heart was crying for the love denied its consummation. <img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-987" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/Aha.-So-this-was-the-secret..jpg" height="225" title="Aha. So this was the secret." width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em>
</em></span>
Then, when my children were partly grown, came rumors of another war. The great World War. I awoke from my pleasant lethargy, and offered my services and was accepted. I worked as secretary in the camp near our home town, and hundreds of boys soon were bringing their joys and sorrows to me to be righted. I was happy then, because I thought that maybe I was doing what I hoped some one had done for My Lover when he sent me that last letter.
I was often sent for to come to the hospital to see some of the sick boys, and it finally became quite a common thing for the doctor in charge to send for me when some boy was going over and in his last anguish called for "mother." I became "little mother" to the hospital staff and my real name was rarely used. It was sad work and grueling, but it gave me great comfort.
One day I had been for many hours with a very sad case. When it was all over I was about to leave the hospital for my little office when the corridor orderly asked me if I would go for a moment to the office of the dead boy’s Captain. He said the Captain wanted to thank me for my kindness to the boy. This was a new regiment that had come to the camp, and thinking that it was rather strange to be sent for, I slowly followed the orderly. I did not care much for the officers. They had all the friends and comforts they needed. It was to the boys away from home that my time was dedicated.
When the orderly announced me the man at the desk turned quickly and stood staring at me with distended eyes. Then I recognized him, and with a wild cry threw myself across the room and into his arms. The Captain was My Lover!<img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-976" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/OMG-How-could-this-be.jpg" height="225" title="OMG!!! How could this be" width="236" />
I kissed him as he had kissed me on that last day; I wept over him with wild abandon, and all the while he stood stiff and straight, with arms hanging stiffly at his sides and his face like marble. At last he gently, very gently, loosed my clinging arms from his neck and seated me in the desk chair. He spoke then for the first time.
"You are Ben's wife, Alice. Let us still keep loyal and true!"<span style="color: red;"> <img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-983" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/How-could-he-be-so-cold.jpg" height="225" title="How could he be so cold" width="236" /><em>
</em></span>
I was ashamed of my wild outburst. I was overwhelmed and wounded at what seemed his heartlessness. He moved a few steps away from me, far enough that he could not touch me and knelt down, then he allowed his dear, true black eyes to tell me the love he would not speak. His face was still like marble, and great drops of sweat stood out upon his white brow. His lips were closed so firmly that they made a blue line across his face.
I held out my arms to him, but he shook his head and still gazed until I thought I must scream aloud. I pleaded with him to speak to me, to just once take my trembling hands in his own. He shook his head.<span style="color: red;"> <img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-981" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/Is-he-angry.jpg" height="225" title="Is he angry" width="236" /><em>
</em></span>
Suddenly his rigid form relaxed, his true face broke through its marble mask, and he moaned softly and fell with his face resting on my feet. Sobs that tore my heart and echoed through the corridor came from his lips. He writhed like one in mortal agony. The nurse of the ward came and looked in at the door with a white, scared face. The corridor orderly came and looked in with great distended eyes of surprise, and then I could have blessed him aloud as the orderly gently drew the door shut and I heard his boyish voice saying rather loudly:
"Leave them alone, nurse, I think the Captain is the 'little mother's' long missing brother. I guess they are some upset!"
God bless that boy. He lied and he knew he was lying, and he did it to save me. God bless him!
My Lover had not seen or known that we were observed. He sobbed on and on and I dared not comfort him ; I dared not touch him. I could only stare down at his writhing form and listen to the terrible sobs. I was turning to stone with agony. <img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-970" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/This-is-heartbreaking.jpg" height="225" title="This is heartbreaking!" width="236" /> I know not how long he lay thus, but at last he did get up, slowly and feebly as a man of seventy might have risen. I noticed then that he looked old and worn. His hair was white at the temples, and his face was lined. But his eyes were the same. He drew up a chair and seated himself across the desk from me, and then he reached for my hands and held them in his own icy ones while he told me his story.
He had been taken prisoner while out on reconnoitering duty, and had been sentenced to be shot at sunrise. He had written the letter Ben brought back to me when they took him out, as he thought, to be shot. They had not shot him, but had taken him away down into the interior of Spain and kept him there as a prisoner for three years. At last a raid had been made upon the prison when a Spanish bandit had been released, and the guards had fled and left the way clear. He got out and after many weeks of hiding, had finally made his way to American lines and been taken care of. He asked that his identity be kept secret until he returned home. <img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-966" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/Why-would-he-do-that.jpg" height="225" title="Why would he do that" width="236" /> He came home, he told me, the happiest man in the world, and at the station he was met by an old acquaintance, who, after his surprise was over, told him the news, that, after waiting a long long time, I had finally married his old friend Ben. My Lover had at that point broken away from the man and gone to my old home only to find it closed and a "For Sale" sign on the door. By inquiries he learned where we were living. That night, like Enoch Arden, he crept to our window and looked in at the home scene, while he was watching I had risen and taken my first baby from its crib. He staggered away. He told me that if there had been no baby there that night he would have made himself known, but the baby had been sacred in his eyes. <img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-984" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/He’s-a-decent-man.jpg" height="225" title="He’s a decent man!" width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em>
</em></span>
That boy bears his name. He went back and offered himself once more to his government under an assumed name,<img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-982" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/Huh.jpg" height="225" title="Huh" width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em> </em></span>
<span style="color: red;"><em> </em></span>
and so the years had passed.
"Have you never married?" I asked stupidly.
He laughed then and the laugh was worse than the sobs had been. At last he spoke:
"Oh, yes, I am married, soul and body to a memory. You are that memory. I know that you are mine! I know that your soul and all of you that feels is mine! Mine! But you belong to Ben now and Ben was my soul friend." <img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-969" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/This-is-so-CASABLANCA-and-so-romantic.jpg" height="225" title="This is so CASABLANCA and so romantic!!" width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em>
</em></span>
I hid my face upon the desk, and his tender hands caressed my hair. He said just a few more words: "Alice, go on with your work and smile and make Ben and your children happy. God always rewards, and in the story of a heaven He will know that you are mine, and Ben will know and give you to me, for Ben is generous and he will want me to have my share of the joy. Go home, Alice, and live your life. I will be waiting when you come." He took me to the door and before he opened it for me to pass out of his life, he stooped and kissed the finger on which shone Ben's wedding ring. <img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-972" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/They’ll-always-have-heaven….jpg" height="225" title="They’ll always have heaven…" width="236" />
That is my story. I am doing as he said and living my life. I even smile and go about as though my heart were not a living tomb. The kind deeds I do come not because of my own goodness; they are the monument I have placed to My Lover's memory.
I hear of him doing wonderful things, and rejoice in my heart that he is mine—all mine! <div>
<br /></div>
<div>
So life
goes on to its final close.
</div>
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True Romancehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01047288963020873283noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4531275353977319700.post-18227480463172994142014-05-30T13:12:00.003-07:002014-05-30T13:13:29.334-07:00Why He Married Her<h6>
<em><span style="color: maroon;"><img alt="why he married her" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-9570" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/why-he-married-her.jpg" height="400" width="267" /></span></em></h6>
<h6>
<em><span style="font-size: small;">She longed for her husband's love, but lived always in the knowledge that one had been there before her.</span></em></h6>
<strong><span style="text-decoration: underline;">Dateline: February 1929</span></strong>
I never saw Lila Lane. I first heard of her when I came to Lanesville to teach school. She had passed away the spring before, leaving a disconsolate husband and four babies. The sad event had been the occasion of much discussion, and expressions of sympathy in the community.<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
Henry Dunne, the bereft one, was a cashier in the Lanesville bank. He was plodding along; had maintained his house and slept there, while Lila's mother cared for the children in her home.
Beautiful Lila Lane! I do not recall ever hearing her spoken of as Lila Dunne although she had been married for over five years when she died.
Lila Lane—a lovely name—it reminded one of Annabel Lee. But had I dreamed of the shadow that name was to cast over at least six years of my life, I should never have thought it beautiful.
My second school year in Lanesville was well under way when Henry Dunne began paying attention to me. I had never been a popular girl with men; was always a bookworm and, at twenty-four, had come to consider myself a settled school ma'am with slight hope of winning a husband. I was flattered by his attentions, and the fact that they were not over-ardent was lost on me because of my inexperience.<img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-955" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/Do-you-see-a-red-flag.jpg" height="225" title="Do you see a red flag" width="236" />
He proposed in March, and we planned to marry the last of May, when school closed.
I admit that real love did not come, but I had high hopes of what I would mean to his lonely heart and his motherless boys.
They were dear children. I love them still: Junior six, Wayne and Lane, twins, four and Jack Dimples, two, were when I came into their lives. To them I gave ungrudgingly six years of my precious twenties—and giving begets love.
Lila's lilacs were blooming the second time since her going when Henry took me to his home. Not my home, but his—and Lila's! The house was complete; only my personal effects were taken there with me. Even my piano was left at mother's home in Arco, ten miles from Lanesville. Lila's piano was there and, of course, her sons would use it.
I was not long in realizing my status. I was married, but could never hope to mean much to my husband. Henry the plodder, quiet and utterly respectable, was capable of a great love—but I was not its star! <img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-930" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/this-is-very-sad.jpg" height="225" title="this is very sad" width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em> </em></span>It had already been bestowed, and could not be duplicated. The children were brought home immediately, and I came to know that the father had chosen an educated, fairly well-cultured woman as a homemaker for his sons, but not as a mate for himself. He lived for and through his boys. They were Lila's gift; parts of her very self left for him to rear and love.
As I look back now, my bewilderment was pitiful. Such loneliness—marriage such a disappointment! I felt that I must win a place in his life—I must know companionship. The key, it seemed to me, was the boys. I would devote myself to them and surely, through them, I could reach his soul. He was kind, considerate and a gentleman; but above all he was a father to Lila's sons. He would never consider our having a child—Lila had died when jack was three days old. And he was right. A cashier's salary in a small bank does not run to large families.
I could confide in no one. Mother and Dad would never know from me. Sometimes I felt that Henry's mother understood my difficult position. We never discussed the matter, but her quiet sympathy drew me very near to Mother Dunne. She knew that no woman could take Lila's place in Henry's affections. Five years passed—busy years. Not positively unhappy, but not glorious as the first years of marriage should be. There was the portrait of Lila in the living room. Almost life-size, radiant, and glowing with youth.<img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-934" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/The-woman-stays-eternally-young.jpg" height="225" title="The woman stays eternally young" width="236" />
Her parents had had it done, and it was a beautiful likeness to be kept before her sons. I wished it had been hung somewhere else. I never thought of asking Henry to remove it—it was there before I was. I came to hate the name and face of the woman who had left such an indelible mark on a man's life, who had presented her gifts and taken her flight, leaving the cares of a family but none of its possessive joy, to her successor.
At twenty-eight, I awoke to the fact that I was not keeping up with the times, I had neglected study and outside interests, becoming absorbed in household routine. The boys were growing up a bit, and were a little less care to me. Junior's broken arm and the twins' tonsil operations had limited any expenditure for dress. I had really forgotten the lure of clothes for a time. Meeting a friend of my own age, I envied her bobbed hair, short skirts and neat ankles. I became painfully aware that I needed the assurance that good appearance brings to a woman.<img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-929" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/Translation-I-need.jpg" height="225" title="Translation I need" width="236" />
All I can say is that I awoke. I did not even ask Henry's opinion, as to bobbing my hair; I went to the barber shop and had it done. I shortened my dresses and bought new slippers and hosiery on Henry's charge account. <img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-936" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/That-Will-teach-him.jpg" height="225" title="That Will teach him" width="236" /> It was a belated blooming; but at twenty-eight I looked younger than I had at nineteen. Good teeth and black hair that curled of itself after being cut were my best points. Rumors flew among the kinsfolk. Lilas as well as Henry's.
"Catherine was looking so well. Do you, suppose—" Dear old Aunt Jenny Lee called and asked if it was so. I laughed at her, and reassured her that Lila would care for their interests. Indeed, I became a bit bitter on the subject.
I interested myself in sewing; an art I had never before bothered about. The simple styles were a boon to a beginner and with the small means available I made quite a showing. Even Henry took notice and on our fifth wedding anniversary raised me to the heights by surprising me with a lovely set of table silver.<img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-954" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/Gifts-in-small.jpg" height="225" title="Gifts in small" width="236" /> How pleased I was with it; almost the only thing in the whole establishment that was really mine.
I had missed so much, coming into a complete household—all the dear doing without things that is the right of every bride, and that wonderful sense of accomplishment when love can provide the extras. The table just for two. Every girl looks forward to that! Ours was set for six, and always in the dining room.<img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-951" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/Hard-to-be.jpg" height="225" title="Hard to be" width="236" />
I had dreamed of an intimate breakfast, perhaps in the kitchen, but Henry did not go to work early, and he called the boys while breakfast was being prepared. I had hinted that we might have our evening meal alone if I served the boys early, but he saw no particular use in it. He enjoyed having the boys about him, and surely it was easier on me to serve the meals once for all. The appeal for intimacy simply did not register. He had lived all that with Lila in their precious year while waiting for Junior. I would press the matter no further and dropped it as I had so many of my pet ideas.
As a bride I had never felt free to do my work in my own way. Relatives, both Lanes and Dunnes, were prone to drop in any time--to see the boys, of course—and how could they help noticing the housekeeper? (Sometimes a teacher isn't much of a housekeeper--she has a lot to learn.) <img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-932" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/This-is-dreadful.jpg" height="225" title="This is dreadful" width="236" /> I could read their glances like a book. I was kept in a mental strain and at high tension. By effort and will I learned to drive my work instead of being driven by it.
I drilled good manners and regular habits into the boys from the first, with Henry's hearty approval. They must be well-bred. I had given up hopes of winning the father and absorbed myself in the children. How interested I was in their schoolwork! Even baby Jack was in school now, and insisted on being called Jacks Demps, rather than Dimples.
Then, all unexpected, the gift! What might it not portend? Perhaps time had helped, and my untiring service to him and his had found a response. My heart was light, I might know true marriage yet, out of all this groping. But disillusion followed fast, so cruel after raised hopes! I hardly know how to tell it.
Just a few nights after our anniversary I was wakened from deep sleep by Henry's folding me in his arms, oh so tenderly, so lovingly. I lay quiet, fearing it was a dream. But no, I was surely awake and it was true! Only love could embrace me so! Happiness at last! Then, from heaven itself, I was dashed into the depths of hell and hate, for Henry murmured his dream, "Lila, Lila!" <img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-944" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/Oh-no-Not-that.jpg" height="225" title="Oh no Not that" width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em> </em></span>Instantly I became furiously angry. I almost struck him as he lay asleep, but controlled the impulse.All my hope of winning his love died that night.
I was only Hagar, handmaiden to Lila's Sarah, the beloved wife. The gift was but an acknowledgment of faithful service, from the master to his servant. A just God would deliver me. At least I would suffer no longer. I swept my heart clean, and actually felt a relief to be rid of the bitter taste of ruined hopes. I never told Henry of the incident. He probably cherished that dream for days, and I was really indifferent toward him now. My new attitude was apparently unnoticed and I fully understood, at last, that he was simply oblivious of me. But all trials have their compensations. When hope leaves, fear goes along. Henceforth, I would live my own life.
And love came, that very June, less than a month after my resignation. On a Friday I had washed my hair and was resting after lunch. Someone knocked at the back door. I rose and went to the kitchen. On the porch stood a neatly dressed man.
"Could I have a cup of coffee?" he asked politely.
I hesitated a second. Then saying, "I will have to heat it," I went to the stove, lighted it, and put on the percolator. I recall a moment of confusion as I realized that he had opened the screen door and had come in.<img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-958" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/And-you’re-making-coffee-for-a-total-stranger.jpg" height="225" title="And you’re making coffee for a total stranger" width="236" />
I turned from the stove to hear him say, "Never mind now, Catherine."
I was amazed. It was some one who knew me! "Who is it?" I cried.
"PageTyler."
"Page! Page!" I grabbed both his hands and shook them heartily. "Why, you haven't changed a bit and yet I didn't know you. When did you come? It's fifteen years since I saw you." And dear old Page stood, holding my hands until I had recovered somewhat and offered to retrieve them. But, our eyes had met; our hearts had spoken. I had marked him for my own.<img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-960" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/Ah-love-at-first-site.jpg" height="225" title="Ah love at first site" width="236" />
My father came in, with Henry's boys about him and found us there by the kitchen table. He had a big laugh over the joke he had played on me. Page had arrived in Arco the evening before, unexpectedly. Dad had brought him to Lanesville and, parking the car down the street, sent him in to see if I would recognize him.
Page Tyler was not a cousin at all. <img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-937" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/Thank-goodness.jpg" height="225" title="Thank goodness" width="236" />
His mother had married Uncle Frederick Wilson when Page was three. Their daughter, Elizabeth, was my cousin. In the family correspondence, carried on chiefly by the wives, Page had been regarded as a cousin also. We used to exchange cards and enclose notes in our mothers' letters. I had always hoped to visit them in Philadelphia. My history lessons were made wonderful by postcards from Aunt Kate, showing Independence Hall, the Liberty Bell, the home of Betsy Ross and other historic views.
The summer I was fifteen, Dad went east to visit his brother and took me with him. How I enjoyed the trip, meeting my uncle, aunt and cousin Elizabeth who was my own age. Page was twenty. Of course I met him, too, but he didn't see me. He was working days and spent most of his evenings with a divinity named Helen, in the next block.
Elizabeth knew her way about, and chaperoned Dad and me on our sightseeing. I really became acquainted with her. She visited us the next year, but after Uncle Fred's death, family letters had been few and far between. We knew Page had been with the Army inFrance, and his mother had passed away soon after his return. Since then, we had heard nothing. I thought of them once in a while; had supposed he and Elizabeth were both married.
Since my marriage, I had not expected ever to see them again. Here he was, out in the Middle West, thirty-five, and still unmarried.<span style="color: red;"><em> <img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-939" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/Should-we-wonder-why-he’s-still-unmarried-or-just-assume-it’s-fate.jpg" height="225" title="Should we wonder why he’s still unmarried or just assume it’s fate" width="236" /></em></span> He and Elizabeth were making a home together in the very house in which we had visited. How we chatted and laughed and exclaimed. I introduced him to the boys, but they were more interested in "Dad" as they always called my father. He made much of them, having no grandchildren of his own. A shower was threatening, and Dad must needs start home. He never got that car wet!
"You must come over while Page is here. Can't you all come Sunday?" father asked as he was leaving.
Then answered my new self, "I'd go home with you now if there was room, and stay till Sunday."
"We've ridden three in the roadster many a time. Plenty-of room, if you can get away."
"Well, I can be ready in a few minutes," I answer promptly.
I did not stop to bother about what Henry would think or say. <img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-956" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/Catherine-is-a-new-woman.jpg" height="225" title="Catherine is a new woman" width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em> </em></span>I called Aunt Jenny Lee on the phone, and made her promise to come over right away to look after the house for me. I dressed, packed a bag for two days, and announced myself ready.
"Junior, tell your father that I have gone to visit with my cousin, at mother's, till Sunday. You may come with him and spend the day."
The car moved away as it began to sprinkle. I had not waited for Jenny Lee to arrive, and only now thought that I should have called Henry at the bank .<img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-948" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/It-would-have-been-a-nice-gesture.jpg" height="225" title="It would have been a nice gesture" width="236" /> Indeed, I was far gone!
What is more chummy than three in a roadster? Page's arm along the back of the seat. I felt like Cinderella herself, going so suddenly on a holiday. A vacation not waited for, or planned for, jlust dropped into my lap!
I felt a load lifted. It was magic! I was going home with Dad, a daughter once more in mother's home, and Page as a house guest! I would enjoy every minute of it refusing to look ahead. No dreary future was going to mar this perfect present.
We arrived at Arco as it began to rain in earnest. Mother was quite surprised to see me.
"I am so glad you came. You ought to get away oftener," she told me.
Strawberries for supper! I refused to wonder what Jenny Lee was serving, or what Henry had thought when he came home. The unusual was quite upsetting to him.
Cloudy and dark early for June, we turned on the radio, and settled to talk. The static was bad, but no one listened anyway. Page was a good talker. He spoke of the East—of changes since we were there. He had come West in his car for his vacation. He had not heard from us for years, but had always wanted to see our Mississippi Riverand had decided the trip was worth while in itself. He had been delighted to find Uncle Cal(as he called Dad) in good health, with me living near. He had not met mother before. He talked, Mother and Dad listened, but I sat across the library table from him and simply loved him with my eyes! <img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-927" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/Who-cares-what-he’s-saying.jpg" height="225" title="Who cares what he’s saying" width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em> </em></span>At ten, the folks were yawning and began to close up the house for the night. We were left alone—I must go. He rose and as I passed him at the foot of the stairs, was suddenly in his arms. Our lips met.
Catherine, I think the world of you." A quick response, and I was gone; speeding up the stairs as if pursued by furies.
"Page, Page Tyler," abrupt, individual name. No oily alliteration like Lila Lane. Cuddled in my bed, I did not attempt to sleep, but lay there communing with my loved one downstairs.
Conscience came to question. "You? A married woman? Guilty of loving another than your husband?
I smothered it down and defended myself. But convictions are strong, and I knew I would never let my heart have its way. After all, one cannot live her own life! <img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-945" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/Of-course-not.jpg" height="225" title="Of course not" width="236" />I compromised. I must have these few hours till Sunday. Then I would go back to Lanesville to serve my term. My marriage ceremony had become a prison sentence. "As long as ye both shall live!"
Sleep came. It was morning; I could scarcely wait to get downstairs to see Page. It had cleared beautifully, and we planned a morning drive to the great river in Page's car.
Such a drive. Our love was reflected in everything—the raindrops on the trees, the sun shining through them—all indelibly stamped on my memory!
A wonderful talk we had, down beside my old friend, the Father of Waters. We stopped the car and, for an hour or more told and retold old stories.
You know as well as I do, I was storing away each precious minute to carry back with me; what he said, how he looked, that trick of the eyebrow when speaking.
He declared his love. He had met his dream girl. Our questioning hearts demanded an answer.
"Why didn't I come sooner? Oh, Catherine, must we meet and love only to pass on?" he asked, while my heart cried out in real anguish: "Why didn't I stay free till love came?"
Bitterly I blamed myself for this. I knew of love; believed in it; hoped for it, but had married without it.<img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-949" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/If-only-she-hadn’t-been-so-desperate-to-get-married.jpg" height="225" title="If only she hadn’t been so desperate to get married" width="236" />
Home for lunch. Could it be only twenty-four hours since I sat at Henry's table, a drab, person with no premonition of the thrills, the joy, and the pain I had experienced since?
Dad was going to the farm. He dragged Page along. Mother was calling on several sick friends and drafted me to accompany her. Such a long afternoon! Months have seemed shorter. But, at last, mother's list was ended, and we started home. I was ashamed of myself for walking so fast and slackened my pace several times for mother to keep up with me.
The men were back. I went flat, as we set about preparing supper. How could Page sit so calmly talking to Dad? He certainly seemed casual, compared with the turmoil inside me. But, the evening work finished, I hurried out to the porch. I must see him alone once more, if only for a moment. He made room for me on the swing. Then I knew what he was going through, too. Oh, the comfort of love's arms about one, when the heart is torn with parting. Dad and mother did not come out; they looked at the paper and went to bed.
We sat late—I could no longer refuse to look ahead.
"Dearest—what can we do?" begged Page.
“Do? I see nothing to do. We would never be happy with a divorce. Besides, what grounds could I get a divorce on? In the eyes of the world, Henry is a model husband, and one cannot name a deceased wife as co-respondent." <img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-946" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/LOL.-Catherine-has-a-sense-of-humor-after-all..jpg" height="225" title="LOL. Catherine has a sense of humor after all." width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em>
</em></span>
"But, Catherine! I'm going Tuesday, and how can I leave you here?”
"You must, Page. We have found the treasure, but we can only look upon it and leave it. I pray that some day we may share it together. I have made an awful mess of life, but it could be worse. I am thankful I have no child, that is one less complication. Oh, Page, help me to do what I know is right."
"And I cannot even write you words of comfort and hope—and assure you that I am true?" he asked.
"No, no, I have no privacy of mail, whatever. <img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-940" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/She-is-a-prisoner..jpg" height="225" title="She is a prisoner." width="236" />Most wives do not have; they only write what anyone may read, but I shall read between the lines. "Now let's forget tomorrow, for this evening is our own, and into it we must crowd leaven for a lifetime of love."
Another night passed, uneasy with conscience and conflict. Too many others were concerned. Mother and Dad would be mortally hurt. And Mother Dunne? The Lanes? The boys? No, I must carry on.
Sunday we would attend church. Henry would be here in time to go also.
The boys were happy to stick around with Dad. I was dressed when they came.
For me the hour had struck; the ball was over. Church service would pass the time without conversation. I'd get through dinner some way, and leave as early as possible—back to the cinders!
Tuesday morning, Page started east. Mother and Dad came along in their car, as far as Lanesville, just to say goodbye one more time to Page. I made coffee and we sat about, pretending to drink it, and teasing Page about his cup of coffee begged at the back door. He declared he must go. It was getting ghastly for both of us. The boys took mother and Dad out to see their new rabbits, and Page and I had a few priceless seconds alone in the dining room.
No embrace, no kisses. He simply took both my hands and looked deep into my eyes, as he said:
"I'll be waiting. If you change your mind, let me know. If you are ever free, you'll find me there. This is my promise." <img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-935" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/That’s-one-big-promise.jpg" height="225" title="That’s one big promise!" width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em>
</em></span>
I could not answer; I must control myself till the folks had gone. Alone at last, I went to bed to regain my composure.
The next few days I lived solely for the cards that drifted back from along his route- then a letter came, saying that he was at home and at work. I went about the house wondering how I could appear at all natural with such a fierce fire burning inside me. I was almost ill and spent my spare time in bed. But the burning eased the conflagration settled to a steady flame to light my life. Henry no longer irritated me. Let him live in his memories! I had memories too! <img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-938" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/So-there.jpg" height="225" title="So there" width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em>
</em></span>
Our bodies may be prisoners, but our thoughts are free: no walls can keep them in or out. I always spoke to Page as if he were near, and many times I was sure that my thoughts, flying east, met his, winging westward through the night.
Time has a trick of slipping by quickly when we are not anticipating some event. Nearly a year had passed. I heard from Page only at infrequent intervals, through his letters to Dad. I was glad of it; it made my part much easier. Not that it was easy at that. Many a night I stared into the dark, racked by forebodings. Suppose Page should marry! I had no right to expect him to stay free. I was purely selfish. Why, why must I grow old giving my youth to one who did not even care for it, and denying the one who promised to wait? It was not easy. <img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-933" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/This-is-a-dilemma..jpg" height="225" title="This is a dilemma." width="236" /><em>
</em>
June again—Henry was going to the county seat on some business for the bank and I went along to do some shopping. It was a lovely day. We left the house at one o'clock; left so casually the house that neither of us would see again. I cannot tell you how it happened—there are so many motor accidents on our hard roads. I recall screaming as the big bus bore down upon us.
I came to in the hospital. Dad was beside me. I knew where I was. I do not think I asked, "Where am I?" and I did not ask, Where is Henry?" I believe I knew before Dad told me a few days later. At least, I felt no surprise, no grief, no relief—just nothing at all.
Mother would be there, and then Dad. I also recall Mother Dunne sitting by me. They came and went, and went and came. It didn't matter. It must have been weeks before I asked for a mirror. But mother was there when I asked. I caught the look passing over her face, and promptly insisted that the mirror be brought. She tried to prepare me a trifle. I imagined scars and bruises. My face had been spared, but it looked so strange, framed in -white hair instead of black! <img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-928" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/What.jpg" height="225" title="What" width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em>
</em></span>
I could not grasp it—this white-haired stranger! I held the glass and stared at her till they took the mirror from me.
As I got lots better; things began to clear up. I tried to think it all out, but was too weary to go far at it. By degrees I pieced together that I had my freedom—I had mercifully been spared. The details through my illness—but I was a white-haired woman at thirty-one.<img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-950" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/Her-dreams-came-true-–-except-for-this-one-detail..jpg" height="225" title="Her dreams came true – except for this one detail." width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em>
</em></span>
I, who had repressed so much in my life, actually began to babble. I asked mother, I asked the nurses, I even asked the doctor, "Do I look old?" Their reassurances did little good. It only mattered what Page would think!
I went from the hospital to mother. They were so kind. Dad looked after everything for me. Henry's boys had gone to live with their grandmother Lane. The house was sold, also the furnishings.
When I was asked what I wished to have from the house, I cried out in my weakness, "Nothing! I can think of nothing there that I ever want to see again." It was not mentioned afterward.
There was money placed in my account at the Arco bank. Some of it was life insurance. I accepted what was given, as back wages for six years' housekeeping services, but I asked no particulars. <img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-957" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/At-least-she-was-compensated-for-her-misery..jpg" height="225" title="At least she was compensated for her misery." width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em>
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By Christmas I was myself again, in health and spirits. My parents were more than content to have me at home. I had not written to Page of the turn affairs had taken and I knew Dad had probably never thought of doing so either. I was quite sensitive about my hair—but most of the curious of our town had called and gaped—as I drove myself to attend the Christmas service at the church. Modern hats pull low, thank goodness!
I must begin to look ahead. One cannot drift always. How I had longed to be free, and how I had imagined my flight to Page if ever freedom came! But it had come at a price. My black hair had taken my self-confidence with it, when it went. As long as I kept silent, I still had Page. If he knew it—what then? His caring had come to be so much a part of me. How could I face the empty years if deprived of it? Again in my musings I would consider myself fortunate. <img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-947" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/It’s-the-power-of-positive-thinking..jpg" height="225" title="It’s the power of positive thinking." width="236" /> How many women burdened with family cares, would be glad of the opportunity to cut loose from it all and start anew in their early thirties.
And love drew me like a magnet. I could not plan my life until I knew. An idea formed itself and I carried it out. It was not fair to Page to wait longer. I expressed a wish to go east and my parents were only too pleased to have me wish for anything, once more. They supposed I was going straight to Elizabeth's home, but I knew better. I went to Philadelphia the first week in April.
After resting from the ride, I went apartment hunting. I must have a home---a retreat to live or die in. I must feel established before letting Page know I was near, <img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-959" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/And-this-is-because.jpg" height="225" title="And this is because" width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em> </em></span>and he should do the wooing. If this meant marriage, he must be sure about wanting me. After all, I had only been with him two days—a small foundation for the hopes I was building. He might be married even now!
I set June first for the date to announce myself. In the meantime, the apartment must fill my time and thoughts. Afterward, I would look for employment if---
Those three rooms meant a chance, to express my pent-up urge for nesting. There was a flurry of shopping and an orgy of paint and enamel. <img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-962" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/she-has-been-repressed.jpg" height="225" title="she has been repressed" width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em> </em></span> I bought only essentials, and everything secondhand, that I might scrub and paint to my heart's content. Every piece in the place was mine, which meant so much to me. I made curtains and bought barely enough dishes to serve three on a painted breakfast table. Neat and plain, but bare: that was as I wanted it, room for more as I added it.
But stretch it out as I might, time began to seem slow. The control it took to keep away from a telephone! According to Arco and Lanesville standards, a widow is not a free woman for at least a year. I had set June first, and I would wait.<img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-942" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/Propriety-rules..jpg" height="225" title="Propriety rules." width="236" />
At last it came and I dated the note composed weeks before:
DEAR PAGE :
I am living alone at —Pearl Street. I shall he delighted to have you and Elizabeth take dinner with me Saturday, June fourth, at seven.
A motor accident last summer resulted fatally for Henry Dunne, and the shock and illness following is responsible for the turning of my hair from black to white. The price perhaps!
If your plans are already made for this weekend, let me know when you can come, as ever,
CATHERINE WILSON DUNNE.
I mailed it early; I knew he would receive it that evening. How would he react? I had to tell him about my hair at once. I could not let him come to me without some warning. I must not look for a reply before Friday evening or Saturday morning—a century to wait!
I would be very formal, even distant, until I saw his attitude. If he showed the least hesitation— <img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-952" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/Good-thinking-–-best-to-play-it-cool..jpg" height="225" title="Good thinking – best to play it cool." width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em>
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And what do you know about it? Thursday morning, a night letter came:
Saturday too far off. Thursday at six-thirty, alone—Must see you.
PAGE TYLER.
Today—this very day. Well, I must not expect too much! I must remember—
Bless his heart, two days are too long! What would he say when he learned I had been two months in his own city? And six-thirty! That meant coming straight from his work, for they lived well out of the business section. I must have supper ready. Such happiness! I read it again, it seemed eager. Surely he read all my note?
Well, all days come to an end, no matter how endless they promise to be. The house and supper were ready. I was aquiver with suppressed excitement. My hair was dressed—it was still curly—but how I wished it were black, as Page had loved it!
He was coming—he was at the door! I must he calm—and formal. Then he was inside, and I was in his arms. My heart was bursting.
"Catherine, Catherine, my dear girl! Have you really come to me at last?" Thrills, thrills, thrills!
I drew back in his arms. "So glad to see you, Page! But aren't you hungry?”
Only hungry for you, darling. I've starved so long." At last we came to enough to take a chair (not chairs).<img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-953" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/Go-girl..jpg" height="225" title="Go girl." width="236" /> His manner had satisfied me that he surely did care for me, but I must ask, still sheltered in his arms, if it didn't really matter.
"Don’t you mind at all, Page, about my hair?"
You little goose! You called it the price—well, I call it a bargain. Last night, after I read your letter, I was full of thoughts of how it might have been your sight, your hearing or even your life itself. I loved the black hair, but I coveted my neighbor's wife—so God is good, after all!
"Now we must do some deciding right here tonight. How soon can you be legally mine, dear lady?"
“I am yours and have been for two years, but what aboutElizabeth? She has kept your home so long—and, Page, I just can't go into another woman's house. If you would come here—"
"Elizabethis going to marry Sid this fall anyway. <img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-943" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/Perfect-timing.jpg" height="225" title="Perfect timing!" width="236" />They are building now. I'll get Aunt Jane to stay withElizabeth till her wedding, and we'll camp right here. The house belongs to me, and we will move in when they go to their new place. How about it? Say when—is it Saturday?”
And if you knew Page you would know that it was Saturday. Aunt Jane did not have to stay with Elizabeth, after all; for Sid stayed. They did some quick deciding, too, and we had a double ceremony at the rectory.
We are still here in the nest, but the new house is completed.
Sid and Elizabeth are moving next week, and we cannot find an excuse for lingering.
I cannot picture to you the glory of these months, love interchanging, our thoughts in common, our table for two—sharing our lives.
Was it worth waiting for? We agree that it was.
Oh, darling nest, I shall cherish your memory always! But we shall be needing the yard
<img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-931" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/This-is-one-lucky-girl.jpg" height="225" style="color: #333333; font-style: normal; line-height: 24px; margin-top: 0.4em;" title="This is one lucky girl!" width="236" />and trees next summer; for babies demand fresh air and sunshine, and ours must have the best!<br />
Visit<a href="http://trulovestories.com/"> www.trulovestories.com</a> for more!<br />
Copyright © 1929, 2012 by BroadLit
True Romancehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01047288963020873283noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4531275353977319700.post-78382503322656040342014-05-16T10:52:00.003-07:002014-06-13T10:46:09.696-07:00Forbidden DreamsFrom the January 1949 issue of True Romance Magazine:
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<em><span style="font-size: small;">Laurie agreed with Bill -- they were meant for each other. But would he still think so when he knew the secret she kept locked in her heart?</span></em></h6>
<strong><span style="text-decoration: underline;">Dateline: January 1949</span></strong>
<strong>She had a secret that made her different from other girls. Rightly or wrongly, she believed it made her unlovable. </strong><br />
<strong> Laurie was never a “party girl.” She was quiet, sensitive, unassuming. Was there a man who would find her attractive? He was vivid in her dreams, but did he really exist? When she meets Bill, she recognizes her soul mate, but fears he’s too good to be true.</strong>
<strong>Why do we focus on what we’re not and let our insecurities run us ragged? Laurie was a gentle soul who required an equally gentle man. It was all about finding the right fit (isn’t it always?)<em> </em>and believing we are perfect just as we are. Are Laurie and Bill truly matched for each other? Are they destined to live happily ever after? </strong><br />
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Miracles are out of date; dreams don't come true, people say in discouraged voices. But I can tell you that isn't so. Something unbelievable happened to me, one December evening, something I'd dreamed about for years, something so beautiful I'd told myself it must always be—just a dream, never reality. Yet it did become real, in those few hours, and no one can ever take away the memory, or tell me that such things don't happen.
It was a perfect time for a miracle —one of those rare winter nights when new snow lies deep on the city, hushing its cries, quieting its restless movement. And in the strange sweet stillness, people realize the meaning, of Christmas, the goodness, in things, and in each other.
But as I left the small hotel where I lived and worked, and headed down the short block to the park, I wasn't expecting any miracles. I was simply happy, loving the sharp, crystal air, and the music I could hear floating out over the pond from the Skate House. In a moment I'd be there, and then, in the spell of the dark and the music, I'd let myself dream again, for a little while, that my fantastic wish could come true.
All girls have dreams, but I was aware I shouldn't expect to find mine. Something had happened to me, three years before, that made me different from other girls. I can't tell you what it was, just yet, if my story is to mean everything to you that I want it to. But I can tell you that it made me know, much too exactly, what the only man I could love must be like.
He'd be nice looking, of course, but that was only a minor item. Besides that, he had to be gentle and understanding and strong—the kind of man I could share all my thoughts with and trust with my fears; the kind of man who wouldn't want his girl to be the life of the party, because I could never be that kind of girl. I played the piano for a living, quiet music in the hotel dining room; but at parties, I'd rather sit a little apart and let other people make the fun. And the man in my dream was the man who would rather sit with me.
It was too large an order, all detailed like that, I knew; men don't grow, custom-made, to fit a girl's needs. So I'd steeled myself not to expect to find him.<img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-1105" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/At-least-she’s-being-realistic..jpg" height="225" title="At least she’s being realistic." width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em> </em></span>And when I left my home town in the summer, to come to the city, my grandmother had warned me, too.
You’re a pretty girl, Laurie, with your spun-gold hair and spindle waist," she said. "If you must go off on your own, remember—don't let yourself dream that each man you meet is the man you wish you'd meet. You don't know city men, child, and besides—you must be more careful than other girls—"<span style="color: red;"> <img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-1107" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/Dying-to-know-her-secret..jpg" height="225" title="Dying to know her secret." width="236" /><em>
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Through the months that followed, when I was introduced to people at the hotel, I faithfully kept my hopes from clouding my common sense. But a girl just past twenty can't quite shut her dreams away in a box and lock it.
So when winter came and I found the skating pond in the park, with its hours of lilting waltzes, and its snug Skate House offering steaming-hot coffee and a crackling fire—I couldn't resist temptation. I went every night that skating was permitted, and when I'd swing out on the ice, with the crisp bright air swirling around me, I'd let my hopes out of the box of my caution.
It could happen, I'd let myself think at last. He could be one of the other skaters. I might just bump into him.<img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-1103" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/A-girl-can-dream..jpg" height="225" title="A girl can dream." width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em>
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That night in early December, I checked my coat and shoes in the Skate House, and when I came out into the music-spun dark, the familiar excitement caught me. Ice was snapping and dropping from the trees around the edge of the lake, lending a delicate, wild accompaniment to the Strauss waltz lifting gently over the rhythmic grating of skates. I stood still above the pond a moment, glad to be there in my secretly enchanted world, glad that my black-velvet skating dress fitted me trimly. Now—now for a little time, I could forget common sense, and let myself dream. <img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-1121" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/Sounds-so-romantic..jpg" height="225" title="Sounds so romantic." width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em>
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"Evening, Miss James." The rink attendant's voice came up to me from the wooden terrace where he always stood, right there where you stepped down onto the ice.
"Hello, Joe," I said, going down carefully on my narrow blades.
"Fine crowd, tonight," he remarked, as I stood alongside of him. "Must be the moonlight.” All the regulars, doing their figures there in the middle, and a few new ones. But if you don't mind my saying so, Miss James—always, you're the prettiest."
I grinned at him. It was nice to hear a compliment from a sweet old soul who wouldn't lie if you gave him five dollars. I must have been at the pond thirty nights by now—it had been an early, cold winter and I'd heard Joe talking to dozens of skaters, and he'd never once said the same things to any of them that he said to me. <img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-1119" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/She-must-be-special..jpg" height="225" title="She must be special." width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em>
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He held my elbow in his funny little gallant way, as I stepped down from the wooden platform onto the ice, and I patted his arm appreciatively and then glided off.
Cutting around the oval I knew so well, the dark came alive for me; as it always did. The lifting, easy grace of the waltz seemed to swing the fresh night breeze with it, and the breeze and the night and I were partners, sailing serenely together past the bordering trees, full circle back to the house, and then around and around again.<img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-1129" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/Who-feels-this-comfortable-on-ice-skates.jpg" height="225" title="Who feels this comfortable on ice skates" width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em>
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For a while, I needed no person for a companion. The night was my escort, and the magical moonlit world was all mine, glistening around me. At last, slowly, I let myself look into the box of my dreams and imagine how it would be if the man I loved were there with me, sharing the magic. And I knew it would be better—so very much better.
Perhaps it was thinking of him that made me aware, quite abruptly, on my fifth or sixth time around, that someone was skating behind me, steadily keeping pace with me, never gaining, never falling back. I realized, then, that I'd known for some time that someone was there, but I'd been too bewitched with the night to notice. Now that I had become aware of him, however, I couldn't think of anything else. <img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-1128" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/Who-could-it-be.jpg" height="225" title="Who could it be" width="236" />
Here, on the edge of the rink where I always stayed, there was rarely another skater. I liked to circle by myself, away from the crowd. Closer in, I'd be gripped by my constant fear of crashing with someone, perhaps falling and making an exhibition of myself; and besides, it was only alone, on the outer rim, that I could feel the presence of the night, and dream my forbidden dream—that my hopes might come true.
Odd as it was, however, the blades behind me kept stroking on smoothly, precisely the same distance away. My breath quickened, and I told myself sharply to be sensible. It meant nothing. People had skated close to me for a while before, and all that had ever happened was that presently they whisked off into the dark and were gone forever. It could never actually be—he!
Yet I went twice more around the pond, changing my rhythm now and then, a little faster, a little slower, and never lost him. I was sure, by then, that it was a man. I didn't turn to look, of course, but I could tell by his long easy strokes.
As we passed the Skate House the next time, Joe called out, "How's the ice, Miss James?"
"Never better," I called back, a warm feeling of pleasure running through me. It made me feel safe to have Joe there —one friendly voice in the vast, dark city.
I was sweeping on toward the further end of the pond again, when I knew with shock that the person behind me was finally closing the distance between us. He was coming up beside me. My breath jammed foolishly, and my heart pounded in my ears.
"Forgive me, Miss James," said a deep, quiet voice with a gentle inflection.
He had actually spoken my name. My heart seemed to quit on me entirely, and I couldn't say a word. I couldn't even turn. I only knew that he was tall, and there was something—a quality of repose in him—that I sensed instinctively.
I made myself go on skating, as though I were unconcerned, but the voice began going on, evenly. "You seem to he alone, and I'm alone, and skating is better in two's, Miss James. <img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-1113" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/Is-that-the-best-line-he-can-come-up-with.jpg" height="225" title="Is that the best line he can come up with" width="236" /> I've been wondering—would you consider going along with me? The name's Bill Coles—" <em></em>
Just an ordinary pick-up, I warned myself fiercely.
"I like to skate by myself," I said with determination, and swung on a little faster.
He held his position beside me. "Don't you ever skate with anyone else?" he asked gently.
"Certainly not with people I haven't met," I replied, and was proud of my air of dismissing him though I didn't want to dismiss him at all. I was sure, somehow, that this man was nice—not cheap or rude. His tone was so gentle. <img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-1118" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/Playing-hard-to-get-–-always-a-good-strategy..jpg" height="225" title="Playing hard to get – always a good strategy." width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em> </em></span>Yet my mind made me keep skating on in rigid silence.<em></em>
"Very well," he said calmly, after a moment. And to my amazement, I thought he finished with a chuckle.
And then it happened—just as it had happened so often before. Abruptly, he picked up speed and sprinted away. He was gone. It was all over. Other times, there'd been no words, so I'd had no cause to feel disappointed. But this time—well, there had been a few words, nice words, all polite and soft-spoken. And I'd sent him away, not wanting to. <img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-1114" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/It-didn’t-work.jpg" height="225" title="It didn’t work" width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em> </em></span>My heart cursed my common sense and, more slowly, now, I went on by myself around the rim toward the Skate House, feeling chilled and curiously alone. The next thing I knew, Joe caught my arm.
"Miss James—please—would you stop a moment?" he asked, and there was urgency in his voice I'd never heard before.
I cut into the railing. "What is it, Joe?" I said, not sorry to have my rueful mood broken.
"There’s a young feller here, Miss James," he went on quickly. "He wants to meet you. He's one of our regulars. I know him, like a son. <img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-1116" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/Like-a-son.jpg" height="225" title="Like a son" width="236" /> Like I know you. D'you mind?" Fast then, before I could object, he hurried on. "Miss James, this here is the finest young man on the rink—Mr. Bill Coles."
Bill Coles did chuckle that time. And my heart sneered triumphantly at my common sense. A person with a chuckle like that had to be nice—it was such a dry, wise, friendly chuckle. Suddenly, my happiness came flooding back. I reached out my hand, and the hand that grasped mine was cool and slim and strong.
"You're a man who gets what he wants, aren't you, Bill Coles?" I said with a grin I couldn't hold back.
"Am I?" He let his question trail off. "That depends on you, still. You said you skated only with people you'd met, but you didn't say you skated with all of them. Do I qualify?"
It was my turn to chuckle. "I guess Joe's recommendation is good—for once around the pond, anyway," I told him.
"Joe's a 'good Joe,' " Bill Coles said, with a smile in his words for the old man, as he took my arm and we struck out together down the long, smooth surface.
He held me close to him, politely but firmly, <img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-1125" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/This-guy’s-smooth..jpg" height="225" title="This guy’s smooth." width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em> </em></span>and as we swept along together, the touch of his arm and the feel of swinging along with him, as one, sent strange little shivers of delight running through me. He was so tall, my shoulder rested just above his elbow, but he cut down his stroke to match mine. Once more I was sailing through the soft, waltz-filled dark—only this time my partner was real, and the night now was sparkling with a surprising new magic.
We must have gone nearly the length of the pond without saying a word, yet I'd never known such a sweet, peaceful silence. There was something in the gentle strength of Bill Coles, and something in the very fact that he didn't rush into any let's-get-acquainted remarks, that made me feel as though we were old friends, and made me—despite knowing that I shouldn't—trust him. <img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-1126" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/Very-smooth.-Watch-out..jpg" height="225" title="Very smooth. Watch out." width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em>
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We were rounding the turn, when he broke the silence.
"You like music, don't you?" he said in that rich, low voice of his. "Every movement you make is rhythmic, as though you felt every single slight change in the tempo, and melody, too."
"I do," I said, amazed that the very first thing he said should strike so close to home. "You see a lot in a short time."
He chuckled again. "It wasn't so short. I've followed you around the lake for nights, and tonight for so many rounds I lost count, before I decided I couldn't go on any longer without speaking to you," he confessed.
Then his tone sobered. "You won't hold it against me, will you? I didn't mean to be fresh. But I just had to speak to a girl who skated so exactly the way I like to skate—free and easy and happily, as though she and the music and the night were all one." <img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-1131" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/You-have-to-admit-he-has-a-way-with-words..jpg" height="225" title="You have to admit he has a way with words." width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em>
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The words were so right, they stopped my breath again. But I fought to be sensible. City men often had very smooth lines of talk, I understood. And Bill Coles was undoubtedly a city man.
"That's a pretty speech," I told him.
"No speech at all—" he contradicted. "You know you move beautifully—"
"What do I say to that?" I retorted, my determination to be cautious weakening under his sharp honesty, but my mind forcing me to fend off my trust in this man who was so incredibly like—him.
"Just admit the truth," he answered, and his fingers tightened briefly on mine. "Doesn't it mean anything to you that I didn't say the obvious thing—that you're the prettiest girl on the pond—though you are? Doesn't it mean anything when a guy tells you, instead, a basic truth about yourself that you can't deny? Don't you like being honest?"
"Of course it means something to me," I answered, my guard slipping perilously. <img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-1106" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/Careful….jpg" height="225" title="Careful…" width="236" />"I don't know how you understand so much. I left home so that I could play the piano all the time—and so I could be—on my own. But I don't know you, Bill Coles. Maybe your guesses are just clever and glib?"
He drew my arm a little tighter into his. "Oh, Lord," he said. "Do you have to be so skeptical—such a lone-wolf? Do you have to be so proud and independent?" He dropped his voice a little, and I knew he was looking at me hard. "Do you have to enjoy your solitude quite so much?" <img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-1130" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/Who-is-this-guy-and-how-does-he-know-so-much-about-her.jpg" height="225" title="Who is this guy and how does he know so much about her" width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em>
</em></span>
For a moment I couldn't answer. He knew me better than people who'd known me all my life, I realized dazedly. No one else, ever, had understood that I did enjoy my solitude. People back home were always feeling sorry for me at times when I was happiest—off by myself. And now this stranger had put his finger squarely on that intimate fact about me. He was too right. All my stored-up caution screamed at me to beware.
"What about you?" I said at last, veering off from his question and his dizzying insight. "Who are you?”
He drew me fractionally toward the center of the rink as we swung past the Skate House again, to make sure, I felt certain, that we wouldn't be interrupted by Joe. Other skaters cut past us, and darted closer around, but I didn't mind, now that I was with him.
"All right," he said finally, when the blare of music softened behind us. "I don't blame you for dodging me. I'm sorry if I was probing too deep, too fast. I'll tell you about me—though there's not much to tell."
His quick shift to what I wanted made me instantly want to be honest with him. But now he was going on, doing as I had asked.
"Well," he said slowly, "maybe you should know that my hair isn't really blond, the way people think at first. It's gray. But I'm not really old—twenty-six. Let's see now, what else? I was in the war, like everybody. But not glamorously. I wanted to be a fighter pilot. Stars and spaces and stuff, solo, appeal to kids, I guess. But they wouldn't take me. Too tall. Six feet three. So I got to be a radio operator on a B-29. Then there was a gap, after the war, when I—didn't do anything much. Now I work for a company that makes radios, and I study nights so that I can be an electronics engineer, some day. See—no glamour. But you—you're something special. A musician—<img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-1112" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/He-sounds-swell-–-and-handsome..jpg" height="225" title="He sounds swell – and handsome." width="236" />
"Not a real musician," I said quickly. "I'm not anything extra. I just love it, that's all. I play piano in a hotel. A quiet hotel—decent music."
His hand closed hard on mine, and my heart raced; bewilderedly, I wanted him never to let go. <img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-1108" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/Electricity-is-in-the-air..jpg" height="225" title="Electricity is in the air." width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em> </em></span>
My caution died then, and I couldn't care. He was so right, so modest, so—dear.<em></em>
"You have a musician's hands yourself," I told him softly, feeling the long, sensitive strength of his fingers.
The waltz that was filling the air lifted, just then, into a whipping, intoxicating lilt. Bill didn't answer me, but reached for my other hand, and tightening his hold, swung me deftly into a series of lovely, looping turns, and my heart spun inside me with a joy I'd never known before.
"Funny, your saying that," he said, when we eased into straight skating again. "They say doctors have hands like musicians—that music is close to science. I once wanted to be a surgeon, but Dad died when I was in high school, so I went to work instead of going to college." <img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-1111" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/He-may-just-be-the-real-deal..jpg" height="225" title="He may just be the real deal." width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em>
</em></span>
Suddenly, the lean, firm hands holding mine had meaning, as well as strength, gentleness, and warmth. I wanted this stranger, Bill Coles, to stay with me, to go on skating with me—forever. An ache of needing to know more about him, to prove all that I felt, or have it disproved, rose demandingly in me till I had to obey it.
"Why are you alone?" I asked abruptly.
He hesitated only a moment. "Choosy, I guess," he said. "Sounds awful, doesn't it? But I have to tell you the truth."
He paused, then went on, lowering his voice to a new softness. "Just as I want the whole truth about you, Miss James. Oh, damn—" He broke off again, but only for an instant. "You do have a first name, don't you?"
My fingers tightened on his, before I knew what I was doing. "It's Laurie, Bill," I said, happiness welling up in me.
"I knew you'd have a lovely name," he said in a tone that made me see the grin spreading across his face, though I didn't so much as turn.
"It had to be something cool and sweet—and wholly desirable. You see—I haven't been quite honest with you, after all. It wasn't just your skating, or your beautiful bright hair, or your lovely face that made me speak to you, Laurie. <img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-1123" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/There-he-goes-with-all-those-smooth-lines-again..jpg" height="225" title="There he goes with all those smooth lines again." width="236" /> It was more than all those things."
He stopped, as we swung around the curve at the Skate House end, and I held my breath until beyond, in the relative quiet once more, he resumed.
"You—you have a look about you. It's hard to describe. But I only know that it's the look I've been wanting to find—for so long—ever since way back there in the B-29. Laurie, you asked me why I was alone, and I said I was choosy. Well, that's true. But the real answer is—I had an experience that taught me a lot. I found out I didn't want the kind of girl that kids sometimes think they want, all fluff and gay chatter and nonsense. I wanted to find me a girl who'd like to walk by a quiet stream, a girl who'd be warm and companionable and understanding. A girl, Laurie, a man could sit by the fire with, and tell the things he wants and believes; a girl who'd share his dreams, and his hard times with the good. And a girl a guy could read aloud to, Laurie—the books he loved. And who'd like to sit and listen to music with him." <img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-1110" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/He-is-definitely-too-good-to-be-true..jpg" height="225" title="He is definitely too good to be true." width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em>
</em></span>
It struck me so hard—the rightness of every word he said—that I felt as though my heart would burst with the magical joy of it. This was—the man. The man I'd dreamed of all through the years. There was no denying it. My happiness was so violent, I felt a little faint. I drew away from him, because I had to face this thing by myself. All my years of caution, all the wise things my grandmother had drilled into me, were vanishing under the spell of his deep, quiet voice, his matchless words.
Detached from him, I moved sharply off, not knowing or caring in what direction. I simply had to be away from him, not touching him, so I could think. But I never got a chance to think. In the instant of separation, I lost my way and, sickeningly, I crashed into another skater and fell headlong.
"Can't you look where you're going?" someone barked, dimly above me. I realized through my stunned horror.
But then Bill's voice struck back. "Shut up, you fool!" And the next moment he was lifting me gently, setting me on my feet.
"You all right, Laurie? Are you hurt, my sweet?"
"No," I said vaguely, still sick with the shock of having made a display of myself, as I'd always feared I might do, and just at the time when I most wanted to be independent. But Bill gave me no time to suffer pangs of chagrin. His arm was around me, and he was propelling me, without another word, toward the Skate House. Inside, he led me past the fire to a secluded corner. Then he quietly sat me down.
"You stay still for a minute," he commanded. "I'll be right back with some coffee."
It was then, as he left me, that I knew I loved him. <img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-1122" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/That-love-at-first-sight-thing-is-powerful..jpg" height="225" title="That love at first sight thing is powerful." width="236" /> Everything he did was so completely as I'd dreamed it might be—gentle, thoughtful, and unbelievably understanding. And I knew he was fine. He'd given up his own dream of becoming a surgeon in order to take care of his family, hadn't he? And he cared about music. And beyond all that, he'd said he wanted a girl who "would like to walk by a quiet stream"—"a girl a guy could read to." That was the most fantastic part of it all.
It just couldn't be true, I tried to tell myself. And yet, I hadn't dreamed—this. A breathless tension mounted in me as I waited for him to come back. And then he was back. He handed me a mug of wonderful, fragrant coffee, and sat down close beside me, and there was no distance between us—at last. Just having him there, his fine tall body lightly touching mine, set enchantment to burning inside me.
"Laurie," he said, "if you'll put that fierce pride of yours down, and skate with me, after this—instead of cutting off by yourself—you'll never get hurt again, I promise you."
For the first time in a long while, I felt protected, almost safe. I shut my eyes tight, pressing back the tears. I wanted to skate with Bill Coles always, to be with him always. And I wanted to tell him that he was the man I'd been looking for. But he'd only just met me. He didn't know anything about me. <img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-1109" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/He-doesn’t-know-her-secret-–-but-neither-do-we..jpg" height="225" title="He doesn’t know her secret – but neither do we." width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em><span style="color: red;"> </span></em></span>
“You will skate with me tomorrow night, won't you?" he asked and tilted up my chin with one finger.
I turned my face away. "I don't make plans ahead," I said, rallying all the strength I could. "You don't know me, Bill. It's no good making plans—with people you don't know."
"I do know you, Laurie, believe me," he came back instantly, "as I know my own self."
"You mustn't say things that aren't true," I protested. "It doesn't go with your character."
"I'll never tell you things that aren't true," he replied steadily. "I do know you, my darling. I can prove it. You see, that 'experience' I told you I had, at the end of the war, taught me to understand things I'd never understood before. Laurie, I was blind for a while." <img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-1115" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/Just-a-while.jpg" height="225" title="Just a while" width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em>
</em></span>
There was a moment of vibrant silence, as I struggled with my overwhelming amazement. Then he set my coffee cup down and took both my hands hard in his; and as I sat listening to his story, every right thing he'd said before, paled in the miraculous rightness of what he was saying now.
"I learned about people, my sweet," he went on. "About what really counts. About the unimportance of a gay manner, and the importance of strength inside—the kind of strength, Laurie, I know you've got. I learned, too, about the beauty of give and take, and the joy of two people understanding each other. I saw how the foolish, bright things we go for when we're very young don't stack up, <img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-1117" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/Party-girls-get-boring..jpg" height="225" title="Party girls get boring." width="236" />and how it's the deep, still things that count. When you can't see with your eyes, Laurie, you see so much more with your heart. I learned that those were the things I wanted of life. But I despaired of finding a girl who would understand all that—until I saw you."
Slowly, he drew my hands against him, as I sat there hardly able to breathe. "Laurie," he went on in a tone so low I could barely hear him. "It's soon, by other people's standards, to say this. But you and I don't have to live at other people's dull, slow pace, do we? Laurie, you and I are—falling in love." <span style="color: red;"><em>
</em></span>
The wild happiness that surged through me was almost more than I could bear. But even in the dazzling white light of the miracle, I knew one thing—I had to tell him about myself before he went any further. It was the only honest thing to do.
For the first time, I turned my eyes full on him, and reached up and touched his face.
"When you understand so much, Bill Coles," I said with a steadiness I was proud of, "how is it that you don't understand the most outstanding thing about me?"
He cupped my face in his hands, and for an instant I could feel his eyes going over me, inch by inch. All life stopped for me, as I waited for his reply.
"Do you think, Laurie," he said with a deep, ringing certainty in his voice, "that a man who's been blind doesn't recognize it in someone else?"<img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-1120" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/She’s-blindAnd-she-didn’t-think-he’d-notice.jpg" height="225" title="She’s blind!!!!And she didn’t think he’d notice" width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em>
</em></span>
"You've known—all along?" I asked, half whispering, almost afraid that if I spoke I'd break the spell and wake up. "Is that why you told me what you looked like? Is that how you knew how ashamed I was to have fallen, why you brought me here without a word and then told me about the time—you were unable to see?"
"I wanted you to know that I knew, my darling," he said softly, "without speaking of it directly—until you wanted to mention it yourself."
"Oh, Bill," I said at last, under my breath, "you are my dream. Better than all my dreams." And I let my fingers go where they'd been wanting to go since the very first moment he'd spoken to me—up over the firm line of his jaw, along the lean planes of his cheeks to his eyes, where I found, as I'd known I'd find, that they were wide and long-lashed, and meshed with grin-wrinkles.
"Bill Coles—you're very good looking," I said, translating what my fingers felt with the confidence of having known it in my heart, all along.
"Not nearly so pretty as you, my sweet," he said, the grin-wrinkles deepening; but there was a thickness in his voice that gave me the reassurance I needed—that he understood how crazily beautiful the moment was, for me. Then suddenly his arms went around me, and his lips were on mine.<span style="color: red;"><em>
</em></span>
"Bill—" I whispered, when we broke off our kiss. "Bill, I want you to know it isn't as though I'd never been able to see, as though I didn't know what things look like. I do. It's only come on me lately, these last three years. <em>Like an allergy?!</em> Before then, I could see as well as anyone else. So if you'll just tell me of the things you care about—in the sky, in the hearth-fire, in people's faces—I'll always understand."
He pulled me hard against him, and his words burned against my cheek.
"There aren't many men lucky enough—to be so intimately one with the girl they love--to be able to see for her, as well as love her," he said.<br />
<br />
<span style="color: red;"><em>
</em></span>Copyright © 1949, 2014 by BroadLit
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True Romancehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01047288963020873283noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4531275353977319700.post-44662537517465524452014-04-29T14:50:00.001-07:002014-04-29T14:51:15.485-07:00My Mother's Lover is My HusbandFrom the pages of True Love Magazine:
Dateline: May 1970
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJswF5Jgr1hW8334-gM1IuUHJUBZSkuZD1VKN2B_VCII00i0d7zA6lqOl4g66s3gs_3W0C-A2U3GULGhwMpHT18LtGhGpJRWhyphenhyphennLXytcLKfRlC_1O5Uh4SsL0LfFBpBYlf-dzZlhQ6bq9H/s1600/1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJswF5Jgr1hW8334-gM1IuUHJUBZSkuZD1VKN2B_VCII00i0d7zA6lqOl4g66s3gs_3W0C-A2U3GULGhwMpHT18LtGhGpJRWhyphenhyphennLXytcLKfRlC_1O5Uh4SsL0LfFBpBYlf-dzZlhQ6bq9H/s400/1.jpg" /></a></div><strong>Beth’s father (who is separated from her mother) likes to think of Mom as “overflowing with love.” Beth feels a mixture of anger, pity and, occasionally, love – <em>she is her mother after all.</em></strong><br />
<a name='more'></a><strong><em> </em> As newlyweds, Beth and Les are struggling financially, so they leap at Mom’s offer to hire Les to remodel her home. Unfortunately, close proximity leads to the inevitable (at least with this woman!) Could anyone but a saint forgive this mother and husband???</strong>
<strong>Beth also wonders if her nagging drove Les into Mom’s arms. <em>She’s being way too hard on herself! </em>Beth’s father encourages tolerance and forgiveness, reminding her that no one is perfect. [[<em>That’s an understatement!</em>]]<em></em></strong>
I don't know just when I first realized the kind of woman my mother was. I do know that when I was sixteen, and Ann and Dorothea took me aside, ever so kindly, and told me that I should tell Mom to stop messing around with the captain of the Easton High football team, what I felt was plain and simple anger. It never occurred to me to doubt their word. It was only too possible that they were right. A lot of people in Easton thought that Daddy left Mom because of her "cheating ways." It was the other way around. It wasn't that Daddy was angry or jealous, exactly. He just loved Mom very much and was terribly hurt that she wasn't spending more time with <em>him</em>. His sorrowful, patient ways were more than Mom could bear.
<img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-601" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/looking-back3.jpg" height="225" title="looking back3" width="236" />She was a big, unaffected woman who laughed when she was happy and cried when she was sad, and didn't mind a good fight now and then to clear the air. She could be sarcastic, but she never lied. And now that I'm older, I see that in her way, she loved Daddy. He was the one great love of her life. But she loved other men, too. (She needed a lot of male companionship, if you know what I mean, and Daddy couldn't always give that to her.) She loved bright lights and parties and New Year's Eve. Daddy was like me, shy, uncomfortable with more than one or two people, not a good mixer. I guess she married him because she felt sorry for him, and thought she could cheer him up.
<img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-604" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/or-change-him1.jpg" height="225" title="or change him" width="236" />It didn't work, and Mom started developing "friendships," which Daddy didn't like, but didn't object to, because Mom was the one great love of <em>his</em> life. I found out most of this years later. The first thing I knew about it was when 1 was eight, and Mom met me at school one day with the car full of luggage, announcing that we weren't going to live with Daddy any more. We drove to a city I forget and spent two weeks in a two-room hotel suite. We slept late every morning, and went to the movies a lot. And every night one of Mom's "friends" would take us out to a glorious restaurant for dinner. I grew fat and spoiled, and had a nice time, but I missed my quiet daddy and his neat accountant's hands.
Then one day we drove back home to our house in Easton, hung all our clothes back in the closets. and Mom wrote an excuse for me to take to my teacher. The only thing that was different was that Daddy had moved into a rooming house on the other side of town. They never did get a divorce.
I understand now that Mom was a rare and wonderful woman in her way, simply overflowing with love for everybody. The trouble was that she was not always very wise about whom she loved and how she loved them.
<img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-599" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/thats-charitable1.jpg" height="225" title="that's charitable" width="236" />A month or so after we moved back into the house, she decided it would be a nice idea to run a nursery during the day, It was a big, old-fashioned house with a huge yard, ideal for children. So she ran an ad in the <em>Easton Chronicle</em>, saying she'd be delighted to care for children by the day. The phone immediately began to ring, and the house began to resound to the noises of little girls and boys. Mom had just naturally assumed that the nursery ought to be free, since she loved kids so much, had so much time on her hands, and that big house. So every harassed housewife and working mother in town obliged by sending their kids.<span style="color: red;"><em>
</em></span>
<img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-606" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/she-may-be2.jpg" height="225" title="she may be" width="236" />There were thirty kids the first day, all running up and down stairs, skinning their knees, falling out of trees, spilling paint, and having the time of their lives because Mom never scolded anybody. To cut the numbers down after that, and she started charging, though I'm sure she never felt quite right about it.
Her men, what I know about them, were something like those kids. They, too, needed love, and a good time, and the knowledge that they wouldn't be scolded. She kept me pretty much in the dark about her "friends," though of course I could sense something was going on.
I remember that Mr. Ferguson, the druggist, came to dinner once a week for a couple of months after his wife died, and on those nights I had to go to bed early. I remember when Doug Davis, the judge's son, came back from the war with a strange new face that a land mine and plastic surgery had created for him, and Mom had him come over twice a week to give her lessons on the guitar. There were nights I'd wake up, in my little room way to the back of the big house, thinking I heard a man's voice in Mom's bedroom.
By the time I was a teenager, I was certain that Mom wasn't leading an ordinary sort of life. Yet neither Daddy nor anybody else in the town had an unkind word to say about her. The mothers continued to send their kids to Mom's day nursery.<img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-826" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/Interesting-she-must-be.jpg" height="225" title="Interesting, she must be" width="236" />
And the only time a policeman ever came to our house was with a small boy who had run away from home, asking Mom politely if the child could stay with the nursery school kids until his mother could be found. In her way, Mom was a respected citizen of Easton. And Daddy probably respected her more than anyone.
And maybe that is why I went to Daddy the two times in my life when it seemed that Mom's unconventional ways had made life unbearable for me. The first time was after Ann and Dorothea, two of the prettiest, most popular girls in the school, had told me in ugly Anglo-Saxon terms what my mother was. I don't know what malice prompted them, Maybe they just felt like being mean.<img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-827" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/what-is-it-that.jpg" height="225" title="what is it that" width="236" /> It was after archery practice, on a sunny late-spring afternoon. It only took a few moments for them to smash my world as the three of us walked across the field to the girls' locker room. By the time we got to the locker room, I was too upset even to button a button, so I just grabbed my raincoat, threw it over my gym suit, and ran all the way to Daddy's boarding house. His landlady let me wait in the downstairs living room till Daddy got back from work.
"Your mother isn't a bad woman, Beth," my father told me. "She's just so full of life, and full of love, that she can't give herself to just one person."
"How can you say that, Daddy, after what she did to you? And to me?"
It sickened me to hear him defend her, as he sat on the bed in his dingy boarding house room. It was on account of her that Daddy had to live in this place, not much better than a slum. It was thanks to my mother and her incorrigible ways that we weren't a family any longer. How could a man stick up for a wife like that? <img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-829" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/How-could-he.jpg" height="225" title="How could he" width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em>
</em></span>
"I know, baby doll, I know," he said, soothingly. "I know how terribly she's hurt you. She hurt me, too, remember. When she left me, I just didn't want to live any more. Walking through that house, knowing she was gone, it took all the light out of my life. Oh, that hurt me, her leaving like that."
"A woman like Mom ought to be—"
"Hush, Beth," said Daddy with a harshness I had never heard in his voice before. I looked at him, hard, and I saw that there were tears glistening in his faded blue eyes. Wildly, I said the first thing that came into my head.
"You—you still love her!"
Daddy nodded slowly, and bit his lip. "I never loved any woman, before or since, the way I love your mother."
"But Daddy, she's no good. Everybody in town knows that. She doesn't have the morals of an alley cat. She---"
He slapped me. It didn't hurt, but the shock of it stunned me. It was the only time I'd ever known my weak, ineffective, lovable daddy to stand up to anyone for any reason. He stood up, with something akin to anger in his face, and he started to talk. I didn't dare interrupt.
"Now you just listen, Miss Beth. You're young, and you think you know enough about life to sit in judgment about your mother. Well, let me tell you, there isn't anybody in this world that has a right to say what's right or what's wrong for somebody else. What's right for you isn't right for her. Every person is a special case. Just so long's they don't hurt anybody else, what a person does with their own life is their business." <img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-830" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/hes-saintly.jpg" height="225" title="he's saintly" width="236" />
"But she has hurt somebody else," I protested quietly. "That's why I came to you."
"She didn't hurt you, Beth, it was those kids with their gossiping tongues," he insisted. "If you hadn't been told, you wouldn't have found out. You were happy up till then—it was the kids' fault, don't you see?"
"I haven't been happy since you and Mom split up," I said miserably.
He was silent a long moment, then sat down again. "That—that couldn't be helped, Beth," he sighed. "I just wasn't—man enough, for her. It was better this way. Believe me."
"I don't believe that, Daddy," I told him. "I know how badly it hurt you when she left."
"The truth hurts," he said firmly. He was trying as much to convince himself as he was me. It was for the best."
"Weren't you even angry?" I demanded, wanted him to be angry at her.
"No, not angry," he said, shaking his head resignedly. "Sad, yes. Sad that it didn't work out. She's a wonderful woman. Those were the happiest years of my life. I hated to see them end. But your mother wasn't happy with me. She wanted more out of life than I could give and she had more to give than I could take. I could see that. So when the time came, and I knew it was going to come, sooner or later, I just let it happen."
"You didn't even try to stop her?"
"What would have been the use? I didn't want to punish her. Wouldn't have done any good. She couldn't do any different."
"You just sat there and took it," I said, trying to keep my voice under control, "and then you forgave her!"
"That's right. Why make bad feelings?"
"Bad feelings!" I exploded. "Your wife walks out on you, breaks up your home, carries on with every man in town, and you don't want to make bad feelings—" by now I was as angry at my weak-willed father as I was at my sinful, headstrong mother.
"Ah, now, honey, don't you get mad at me," said Daddy, almost whining. "I never was much of a fighter I accepted what was going to happen. I let her do what she had to do. It's better that way—we're still friends." Then he added slyly, "Even at my age, a man's got to have a lady friend."
I felt another piece of my world crumble away. I didn't want to believe it. "Do you mean you still see each other—that way?" I gasped.<img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-831" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/OMG.jpg" height="225" title="OMG" width="236" />
Daddy must have realized that he'd gone too far, for he suddenly stood up and snapped,
"That's none of your business. Now I think it's time you got along home. Get your coat on and I'll walk you back."
I couldn't bear to spend another minute with him. I grabbed my coat, muttered a quick good night, and dashed down the stairs. I didn't hear him following me, but I ran the first couple of blocks anyway. It helped me work off some of my sense of anger and outrage.
Not all of it, though. I was still fuming by the time I got home. Mom was sitting in the living room, alone, watching television as she painted some new building blocks for the nursery. I made a big point of slamming the door as I came in, and standing there rigid with anger. I was all set for a showdown. But she didn't even look up.
"There are some brownies in the breadbox," she said. "you can have a couple before going to bed, if you like."
"No, thank you," I said, but she didn't notice the coldness in my voice.
"All right. Sweet dreams," She turned and smiled, making a good-night kiss in the air as I started up the stairs. I didn't return the kiss or the good night, but she overlooked that, too. She just went on spreading the paint on the blocks, setting them carefully, dry side down, on the newspaper-covered floor.<img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-832" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/Her-mom-is.jpg" height="225" title="Her mom is" width="236" /> It was still early, but I felt an overwhelming exhaustion. The day had been just too much. I showered quickly, brushed my hair, and flopped into bed, waiting for sleep to come over me like a cleansing flood to wash away all the ugliness of the day.<em> </em>But sleep wouldn't come, and it wasn't just because the clock said nine-thirty. I had a lot of left-over anger in me with no way to let it out. Daddy was partly right, of course. I was angry at Dorothea and Ann for shattering the last little fragments of happiness that were left to me. It was the cruelest thing I'd ever experienced, in a way, because it was kids that had done it and somehow I expected my own generation to be more understanding. I had already learned that grown-ups are cruel. Now I'd learned that kids are, too.<em></em>
But I was angry at Mom, more than ever. I had hated her, I realized, ever since she left Daddy. She left him. Our broken home was her doing. She'd taken my father away from me. And she had done it in order to indulge her own lustful appetites. It made me sick to think of it. <img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-833" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/who-can-blame-her.jpg" height="225" title="who can blame her" width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em>
</em></span>
She hadn't even been discreet about it. She didn't care what people said about her. She must have known that stories would get back to me, sooner or later. She could have tried to protect me, at least, even if she didn't care about her own reputation. She didn't love me, obviously. She never had. What a fool I was not to realize it until now!
And what a fool I'd been to think that Daddy could be any help. After all these years of separation, she still had him brainwashed. He still loved her. He knew all about her, and he still needed her. I had always thought of Daddy as a gentle, innocent victim of circumstances. Now I saw that he had invited his own downfall, and had perhaps even welcomed it. He was a fool and a weakling and I felt my jaw tighten with hatred when I thought of him.
And he was, still and all, my father, and I loved him.<img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-834" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/she-loved-her-father.jpg" height="225" title="she loved her father" width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em> </em></span>And I cried. It seemed as if this torment went on for hours. And yet, when my mother knocked softly and opened the door, I saw that my clock said it was only about ten-thirty.
"Beth, there's someone to see you downstairs," she told me.
"Who is it?" I asked, keeping my face toward the wall so she couldn't see my tears. "It's Les Black."
I sat bolt upright in bed. "Les!'
Then Mom saw that I'd been crying. "Why, what's the matter, dear?"
I groped in my mind for a plausible explanation. 'The—the kids at school gave me a hard time today," I stammered. "I don't want to talk about it."
"Do you want me to tell Les to come back some other time?"
"No!" I practically leaped out of bed, ran to the bathroom to put some cold water on my face, dressed in a flash and, pausing at the top of the stairs to catch my breath, went slowly down to the living room.
When I met Les, he lived in Mercersberg, about ten miles away from us, and went to Mercersberg High School. He was one of the outstanding boys in his school, sports editor of the newspaper, member of just about every honorary society in the school, and a star in its debating team. That was how I met him.
At that time I was trying desperately to overcome my feelings of shyness and inferiority. Some friendly teacher had suggested that I join the debating club. I was petrified at the thought of getting up to speak about anything at all in front of any kind of audience, and the very idea of having to present a case arguing in favor of something scared me beyond words. I knew I never could, and yet I knew I had to try. There had to be some way out of my cage of self-consciousness.
When, after only two or three meetings, Mr. Hendrickson, the faculty adviser of the debating club, told me that I was to go along with the three seniors who were to debate the Mercersberg team, I thought it was a miracle. Later on, bitterly, I realized that he was only trying to be kind.
"I couldn't, Mr. Hendrickson," I protested. "I don't know enough about it."
"Don't worry about it, Beth," he reassured me. "There are three very experienced kids doing this debate with you. You won't be alone. But it'll be good experience for you, and I believe you'll do well. Give it a chance."
I wonder, now, how things would have turned out, if I had listened to my inner panicky fear, if I had stayed home from the Mercersberg debate. I thought of it—I even tried to fake a sore throat the morning of the debate so that I could stay home from school. But Mom, with her incessant energy and good cheer, bustled me out of the house without even listening to my complaints.
"Just some butterflies before the performance, Bethie," she chuckled. "You'll be fine. Now, good luck." She kissed me lightly on the forehead. "And Mr. Hendrickson will drive you home about six, right dear?"
I nodded dumbly and obediently hastened off to school. I felt those butterflies orbiting in my stomach all through classes, and by the time school was over and it was time for the four students to pile into Mr. Hendrickson's car for the drive to Mercersberg, I was a silent, shaking mass of nerves.
It didn't help any that the first person I saw as we entered the auditorium of Mercersberg High was a tall, dark young man with an open, boyish face that looked like all my schoolgirl dreams of Sir Galahad. I couldn't take my eyes off him.<span style="color: red;"><img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-835" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/How-will-she-concentrate.jpg" height="225" title="How will she concentrate" width="236" /><em> </em></span>But when he noticed me staring at him and smiled a greeting, I felt my face flush with embarrassment and turned away.
As I remember, the debate had to do with whether theUnited Statesshould abolish the electoral college and elect the president directly—and it went much, much better than I could have hoped. Mr. Hendrickson had prepared us carefully. As the Mercersberg team brought up their arguments, we were ready to meet them. It was almost as if the two teams were reading from the same script.
Three speakers from my school, and three from Mercersberg squared off against each other, and with growing anxiety I realized that I would have to answer the dark-haired Galahad who I'd been staring at earlier. I didn't know how I could. As he rose to speak, I sank deeper in my chair, and I don't believe I heard a word he said.
Then it was my turn. Consumed with nervousness, I stood and walked to the speaker's stand without looking at anyone. I began speaking and noticed my voice was several tones higher and thinner than usual. But I couldn't do anything about it. I recited my well-rehearsed facts and figures, almost as if in a hypnotic trance. Somehow, I got back to my seat.
When the results were announced, I nearly fainted. We'd won! And the judges commended our side for its excellent preparation and clear presentation!<img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-836" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/nicely-done.jpg" height="225" title="nicely done" width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em>
</em></span>
"That's you, honey," said the sleek blonde senior girl who sat beside me. "We couldn't have made it without you. And the fact that that gorgeous Les Black of theirs obviously hadn't studied up on the topic."
So that was his name. And my teammate knew him. "Who is he?" I asked.
"Oh, he's been on their debating team a couple of years," she answered with a little smile that may have been condescending. "They made it to the state semi-finals last year. Les used to be their boy wonder, but it looks like he's running out of gas."
Afterward, in the cafeteria, the audience and the two teams gathered for cokes and cookies. I stuck close to Mr. Hendrickson, feeling closer to him than even my own schoolmates. I was terrified that Les Black would recognize me and speak to me. At least I thought I was terrified. Maybe I was hoping that he would. But he wasn't there, and as Mr. Hendrickson drove us home, I wasn't sure whether I was disappointed or relieved.
The next month. Mercersberg visited our school for a return match. I begged Mr. Hendrickson not to schedule me to debate them.
"But that doesn't make sense, Beth," he protested. "You balance the rest of our team. You're careful with facts and you organize them well, better than some of the seniors. We need you."
"I'm sorry, I just can't," I mumbled.
Mr. Hendrickson patted my hand and said in a quiet, fatherly voice, "It's all right, Beth. I understand. Shyness isn't something you can overcome all at once. I won't force you. But I would like you at least to come, and sit in the audience. Will you do that for me?"
How could I refuse? I went to the debate, I sat in the audience, and this time I listened while Les Black spoke. He was better prepared this time, and this time Mercersberg won. Afterward, he came up to me.
"Why weren't you debating today?" he asked. "Actually, I'm glad you weren't up there," he grinned. "You gave me a hard time last month. Remember?"
"I didn't mean to," I insisted truthfully.
"Well, it was my own fault. I didn't know what the opposition would be like, and I got lazy. This time, I was all set, loaded for bear, and the bear was sitting in the audience."
I laughed. "Nobody ever called me a bear before," I told him.
And that was how we met. Somehow, it was easy to be with Les from the very beginning. Maybe it was because he wasn't from Easton, didn't know the Beth Newman that the kids at school knew, didn't know about Mom.<img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-837" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/at-least-for-now.jpg" height="225" title="at least for now" width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em> </em></span>To him, I guess, she was just a nice, normal mother, who greeted him at the door the evenings he came over from Mercersberg to take me to the movies.
I don't want you to think that Les and I had a great flaming affair at this point. We actually didn't see much of each other, because it was hard for him to borrow his parents' car on weekends, and during the week, he kept close to his books. It was his senior year, and he was looking forward to college.
But yes, he did take me out sometimes. We'd drive downtown to the movies, have a pizza or an ice cream, and come back. When the weather got warmer, we'd sit on the front porch and talk. Les would tell me about his ambitions, about the great plans he had for himself.<img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-838" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/sounds-like-sweet.jpg" height="225" title="sounds like sweet" width="236" />
He wanted to be an architect, and had been accepted at a good college. He knew it would be tough, and long, not very rewarding, financially, at first. But he had great ideas about buildings he wanted to design, not just individual buildings or houses, but whole complicated groups of them. Communities—acres of houses, clustered around shopping facilities, churches, schools. Roads and sidewalks planned so that children could walk to school without once crossing a street. Factories built underground.
I realize now that Les was not much of an original thinker, that these ideas which sounded so startling and exciting were already commonplace among professionals, even five years ago. But to me they sounded as advanced as a moon walk. I was really impressed by Les' notions. And by Les himself.
He needed money for college, and took a summer job as a paste-up artist in a small advertising agency in Mercersberg. It didn't pay as much as he needed, so he took a second job, assisting the printer of the Mercersberg Herald at night. I didn't see much of him that summer. In the fall, after school had started for me, Les came over once or twice before leaving for college, but his mind was only half on me. He was preoccupied with his plans.
"It'll take me five years to get my degree," he told me. "Then there's a sort of apprenticeship period before an architect is certified. And I thought it'd be fun to go to Europe, and study. I can probably get a fellowship.'"
"I've always wanted to go to Europe," I said, more to myself than to him.
But it brought him back to earth, momentarily. "Ah, Bethie, you're a good kid," he said ruffling my hair. "If I was going to stay in this nothing part of the country—" he didn't finish. Then, a moment later, he turned to me and said, "I've got a future, don't you see? I can't even think about getting serious about any girl for years."
We said good night and for the first time, he kissed me, chastely, on the cheek. So I was pleasantly surprised when he began to write me from college. Not regularly, of course—why are men such awful letter-writers?—but then, l hadn't expected him to write at all. The first letter, about a month after he left for college, was full of new slang I didn't understand, great enthusiasm about college life, and nothing at all about what it was like to be finally studying to become what he ‘wanted to be.
The second letter came in the middle of December. He said he'd call when he was home on vacation. He did call, to invite me to a party in Mercersberg, but he couldn't borrow his family's car to pick me up, and I had no way of getting there.
I heard from him again in February, a long unhappy letter saying that it was impossible to learn about building a building in a classroom, the professors didn't dig a creative student, the courses were too rigid, and he was seriously considering not becoming an architect. I answered his letters in a friendly way and then more or less forgot Les Black.
Les hadn't changed much. The hair was a bit longer, and that was all. Outside of that. he was still the Les I'd known last year; he was even wearing clothes that I recalled.
"Hello, Beth," he said with that knockout smile of his. "I should've called, but I didn't get the car till the last minute, and I didn't want to waste time. Want to go for a pizza?'
At that moment, pizza was the last thing I wanted. But I did want to be with Les.
"How late do you think you'll be?" asked Mom. For the first time, I grasped the significance of that question. She wanted to know how long she'd have the house to herself. <img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-839" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/her-mom-is-incorrigible.jpg" height="225" title="her mom is incorrigible" width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em>
</em></span>
"Oh, don't wait up for me, Morn," I said airily. "We'll probably bring the morning home with us. We have a lot to talk about, don't we, Les?"
Les laughed, and Mom laughed, and I felt my face freeze into a tight smile.
We decided against the pizza almost immediately. We drove, instead, to a quiet, high-class cafe down by the river, where they had tiny tables with softly glowing candles.
I expected him to tell me more about his dreams of designing great buildings, of planning cities, but instead he talked about the educational system, and how it seemed almost set up to drive the really creative students out. Les went on and on about this, with an edge of self-pity that I almost disliked. Still, I sat and listened, spellbound.
"So you can see I'm really glad to be back, Beth. I'm inclined to work myself too hard at school. I can use the relaxation."
I thought you were Mr. Go-Getter back in high school," I teased gently. An unexpected flash of resentment shot across his face, and I tried hastily to cover my blunder. "Anyway, it's awfully nice that you're back."
Then he smiled, and that made everything all right. Calm down, girl, I told myself, you're too nervous.<img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-840" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/dont-want-to-say-anything.jpg" height="225" title="don't want to say anything" width="236" />
And afterward, we drove up along the river road. I had a pretty good idea of what was going to happen. And I wanted very much for it to happen.
He stopped the car on a dark turn-off, and drew me close to him. For the first time, we kissed like grownups. I felt his strong arms around me, his long hands caressing me, his body close to mine, and a powerful tide of passion rose up in me. When Les reached into the back seat and took out a blanket, when he opened the door of the car and led me to a grassy clearing surrounded by sheltering trees, I was not a bit hesitant. My body and my emotions had taken over and they knew what to do. <img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-841" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/yes-they-do.jpg" height="225" title="yes they do" width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em>
</em></span>
He spread the blanket on the ground, tenderly and carefully. Then he reached out his hand and I took it. We stood there silently for a moment, looking into each others eyes. Les' look was like a lost little boy who had finally come home, and at the same time like a proud and passionate young prince who had come to claim his own. Then Les looked straight into my eyes and said quietly, "I love you, Beth." <img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-842" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/part-of-the-script.jpg" height="225" title="part of the script" width="236" />My heart was pounding wildly, the blood was roaring in my ears. We melted together, into the fire, into the rush and thrust of love. When finally we lay back I felt tears streaming down my cheeks, but they were tears of fulfillment and joy.
By the time Les brought me home, the eastern sky was turning blue. I had no idea what time it was and I didn't care. It was three weeks till the end of school, and I could afford to miss a day. Last night was worth it. He kissed me lightly on the tip of my nose. "I'll call this afternoon," he promised, and I tiptoed inside the house.
I remember thinking that it didn't matter so much now, whatever Mom had been doing while I was gone. But even so, I was startled and disgusted to see a stale cigar butt in an ashtray.
Mom tried to wake me for school, but it was hopeless. I slept all morning, the sound of the children's laughter downstairs mingling with my dreams. By lunchtime, I was up and around, but still floating on air. I wandered into the kitchen while Mom was serving sandwiches to the kids. It was a beautiful day.
"Good evening, Beth," said Mom. The kids giggled.
I reached for one of the sandwiches.
"Those are for the kids," she said, pushing my hand away. "You're a big girl, you can make your own."
"Is Bethie just getting up?" piped a small voice. "It's way late. It's afternoon."
"Bethie was out late last night, Peter," said Mom. "She needed to sleep."
"I couldn't tell whether she put a knowing emphasis on those words or not. I held my peace, and poured myself a glass of milk.
"Where did you go last night, Bethie?" persisted Peter.
"None of your business," I snapped. "Gladys, use your napkin," said my mother, drawing attention away from me.
"Bethie isn't using a napkin," protested Gladys.
"Bethie is a grownup," Mom said, giving me a peculiar look. "Bethie, why don't you have your lunch in the living room," she went on. "Things are getting a little hectic here." Obligingly, I went into the living room. I noticed that the cigar butt was gone. A few minutes later, I went into the kitchen to make another sandwich. I was ravenously hungry this morning. The kids were settling down for their nap in the nursery, while Mom was clearing up.
"Is there any more tuna fish?" I asked.
"No, there isn't. I didn't plan on your being here. You'll have to have something else."
"Okay," I said, as agreeably as I could.
"And you better do your own dishes, miss, I haven't got time to wash up after two sittings," she snarled. "I don't care what you do at night, but you're not going to come in here and disrupt my nursery kids."<span style="color: red;"> <img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-843" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/shes-one-to-talk.jpg" height="225" title="she's one to talk" width="236" /><em>
</em></span>
She was spoiling for a fight, and I resolved not to give her that satisfaction.
"Okay, Mom," I said. Les came over right after dinner that night, and we stayed out until almost one. The next night was the same. I didn't miss any more school that week, but by Friday, my history teacher remarked that I'd better quit studying till all hours and get some sleep. But since Les came back, it seemed that nothing else mattered much. School didn't matter, the kids didn't matter, Mom didn't matter. Nothing mattered except Les and me and the little world we made when we were together. My grades took a nose dive at the end of the term, but that didn't matter either. Because Les and I were married that summer. <img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-844" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/what-throwing.jpg" height="225" title="what throwing" width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em>
</em></span>
He had taken a job as a draughtsman in a firm of architects in Mercersberg, making good money for a summer job. After a week or two he told me, "College is a waste of time. It took me a year to find that out, and one week on this job. This is the best preparation for what I want to do."
So we found a good apartment in Mercersberg, bought some Salvation Army furniture, and one Saturday drove to the Justice of the Peace and were married. Afterward, we went to his parents and told them. They were surprised but not unhappy. I thought I saw a look of relief on Mrs. Black's face. Then we called Daddy and Mom.
The summer passed in a golden blur. Les worked, I kept house, and we both lived for the moment we'd be together at the end of the day. We never even went to the movies. Our greatest form of entertainment was being with each other. Occasionally, we'd see some of Les' old classmates, home from college on summer vacation themselves. They seemed to like me for myself, and, of course, they had never heard the stories about my mother.
At the end of the summer, Les' old friends started going back to college. I was surprised when Les began to get moody and depressed, and I asked him about it.
"I guess it hurts to see them going back."
"But you could have gone back, and you decided not to," I reminded him.
"I decided to marry you," he said.
"Oh, Les, you didn't have to choose between me and college—we could have worked something out!"
"No, we couldn't, and I don't want to hear any more about it!"
It was weeks before I learned the truth—not from Les, but from his mother. Les, it seemed, had not decided to leave college. The college had decided that Les' grades weren't good enough for him to stay. <img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-845" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/Ah-ha.jpg" height="225" title="Ah ha" width="236" /> It bothered me that he'd begun our marriage with a lie.
A little later in the fall, we found that Les' salary wasn't enough for us to do all the things we wanted to do, so I got a job as assistant to the society editor of the Mercersberg Herald. It didn't pay much, but it was fun, and it was the only job I could find that didn't require a high school diploma. <img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-846" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/She-didnt-finish.jpg" height="225" title="She didn't finish" width="236" />
Then came that horrible day when I arrived home from work with a bundle of groceries to find Les waiting for me. The look on his face meant bad news.
"What's the matter?" I asked.
"I've been fired," Les told me.
"What for? What did you do?"
"What do you mean, what did I do? Why does it always have to be my fault? I was fired." "Well, they don't just fire people for no reason. Didn't they say why you were fired?"
"Well, in case you haven't noticed, there's a slight slump in the building business in this part of the state. The firm just doesn't have enough work for me to do. They gave me two weeks' severance pay, so I guess that should prove it wasn't my fault."
I fell into his arms, covering him with kisses, telling him it was going to be all right.
It turned out that the "slight slump" in the building business wasn't slight at all. It was a major recession. Les couldn't find a job of any sort. We bickered about money constantly, I'm ashamed to say. We could have borrowed from our parents, but it was a matter of pride for both of us. One Sunday, we drove to Easton to have Sunday dinner at Mom's. I hadn't seen her very often since we were married, which was fine with me. But I wanted to keep up appearances so Les' family wouldn't start asking questions I'd be embarrassed to answer.
Mom greeted us at the door with smiles, hugs, and kisses. Good smells emanated from the kitchen. She'd gone all out to make it a festive occasion. And I must admit that it was good to see her again.
"How's the nursery going?" Les asked her.
"Oh, I can't complain," said Mom. "I have twenty kids now, and an assistant—really too many for the space I've got, but it seems there are so many working mothers now. I've been thinking that I really ought to go at this thing seriously, now that Bethie is settled in a home of her own."
"What do you mean, seriously?"
"Well, this house is built as a home, not as a nursery school. I have more rooms than I need, and not enough for the kids. All I really need is an upstairs, and then I can turn the whole downstairs into a nursery school."
"It'd be easy," said Les enthusiastically. "Look, you can knock this wall right down, open up that wall with a big picture window, overlooking the garden—"
"Maybe make some bunk beds in the dining room so the kids won't have to sleep on the floor?"
"Simple!"
I watched the two of them moving about the house, interrupting each other with ideas, and for the first time in months I saw Les' eyes sparkle with excitement. <img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-847" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/maybe-talent.jpg" height="225" title="maybe talent" width="236" />
"Isn't that great?" Les exclaimed to me, and I realized I'd been lost in my own thoughts. "Your Mom wants me to redesign the downstairs of the house—and do the remodeling!"
"That's wonderful, Les," I said. Mom was willing to pay him regular architect's fees, plus expenses. The nursery school, apparently, had been doing very well indeed. We could certainly use the money, and even more important, I was happy that Les would be working at something instead of moping around the apartment while I worked.<img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-848" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/well-see-how-wonderful.jpg" height="225" title="we'll see how wonderful" width="236" />
Les drove over the next evening with measuring equipment, pads of paper, and a sheaf of bright, newly sharpened pencils. He returned about eleven, and sat at the dining table until the wee hours, ruling lines and writing numbers. I finally went to bed alone, a bit frustrated, but happy nonetheless.
At breakfast, he was annoyed with himself. "I had this idea, Bethie, to build a little sort of art room in the corner of the kitchen, but I have to know whether that's a supporting wall there or not. I should have found that out last night." So he spent that evening at Mom's, and the next.
He couldn't do his preliminary work there during the day because of the children of course. I wondered what his presence was doing to Mom's evening "social life."<img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-850" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/or-maybe-Lee1.jpg" height="225" title="or maybe Lee" width="236" />
It turned out that our dining table was inadequate to use for anything but the most crude sketches, and we couldn't afford to buy a professional drawing board. So Les had to spend Saturday and Sunday at the home of an artist friend in Mercersberg, using his drawing board to prepare the plans for Mom's remodeling job. I'm afraid I nagged him incessantly about it when he was around.
“Maybe it's a good thing I never got to be an architect, if this is the way you treat me when I'm working on an important assignment," he said sulkily. It was so childish of him, so pompous and silly, that I laughed out loud. He stormed out of the house and I saw the car zoom past the window. I cried myself to sleep that night and vowed that I'd control my tongue. Les came home late. He kissed me softly on the forehead.
“Shhh, Bethie,” he said, "Go back to sleep.”
The next day, the society editor of the Herald went on vacation, which meant that I inherited, temporarily, her responsibilities, her long hours, and the use of her car. It seemed like perfect timing, for Les was finally ready to begin work on remodeling Mom's house.
For the next two weeks, we hardly saw each other. Every minute the kids were not at Mom's, Les was there working on the project. It went slowly, because after each night's work everything had to be put away completely. So Les left our house before I got home, and I was usually so exhausted from my own work at the paper that I was sound asleep by the time he returned. On weekends, when the kids were out of the nursery for two days, Les spent eighteen hours a day working at Mom's. <img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-851" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/Hmmm.jpg" height="225" title="Hmmm" width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em> </em></span>
We had become almost strangers. We saw so little of each other during this time that I'm really not surprised, looking back, that I didn't tell him I'd be in Easton for the countywide P.T.A. fashion show on Friday. I had it all worked out in my mind. Why not meet somewhere in Easton at four-thirty or five, and have an early dinner together? It would be our first dinner together in ages. It was one of those days. The fashion show ran beyond schedule, and by the time I phoned Les, he had already left.
I shrugged, cursed my own stupidity in not arranging things better, and decided to drive over to Mom's to meet him there. It'd be better than nothing. Sure enough, his car was in the driveway. The house was oddly silent. I was struck, momentarily, by the vast amount of work that hadn't been done. <img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-852" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/what-was-he-doing.jpg" height="225" title="what was he doing" width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em>
</em></span>
Then I heard a noise upstairs, and in a flash, I understood why.<em></em>
It was one of those ghastly moments when you wish your life would end, just stop, then and there. From Mom's room, I heard a man's voice—muffled, but unmistakably Les'—and then I heard Morn call out, "Who's there?" <img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-853" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/she-cant-trust.jpg" height="225" title="she can't trust" width="236" />I couldn't answer. She called, "Who's there?" again, and I tiptoed toward the door. I drove to Daddy's rooming house and waited in the car until I saw him walking toward me down the sidewalk. He recognized me and came immediately to the car window.
"What's the matter, honey?" The love and concern on his face made me feel better.
"It's too terrible," I said.
Come on inside and we'll talk about it."
"No, you come inside the car, I don't want anyone to hear this. It's too terrible," I said, and he got in. I broke down completely—I must have cried for ten minutes straight without uttering a word. Daddy, bless his kind soul, just held me tight, patted me on the back, and said, "There, there." Finally, I told him the whole sordid little story.
Daddy shook his head when I finished. He asked no questions, he gave no advice. Just shook his head. <img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-854" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/what-is-the-matter.jpg" height="225" title="what is the matter" width="236" />That made me angry—he could at least say it was too bad.
"Well, don't you have anything to say?" I demanded through my tears.
"I don't have anything to say, no, I'm sorry," he said, sadly. "It won't do any good."<img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-855" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/he-is-a-wimp.jpg" height="225" title="he is a wimp" width="236" />
"What should I do, Daddy? I never want to see him again in my life!"
"If that's what you want, then you shouldn't."
It was exasperating. I was beginning to transfer some of my anger to Daddy. After all, in a sense, he was an injured party, too.
"Beth, I wish I could help you, but there's nothing I can do. I haven't lived with your mother for eight years. I hardly know Les. I haven't seen you but once or twice since you moved to Mercersberg. I don't know whose fault it is." <em></em>
"Whose fault!" I exclaimed. "Why, it was hers! She seduced my husband!"
"I'm sure she didn't hold a gun to his head," said Daddy mildly. "Why do you suppose a man would want to do a thing like that?"
"Daddy!"
"No, I mean it. Your mother's a fine figure of a woman, but you're a lot prettier. Seems a funny thing for a young fellow like Les." <img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-856" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/maybe-les.jpg" height="225" title="maybe les" width="236" /><span style="color: red;"><em>
</em></span>
Daddy looked at me soberly and I realized I'd known about Mom and her ways. But I deliberately ignored the risks so that Les would have something to do.<img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-857" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/Risk.jpg" height="225" title="Risk" width="236" />
"Maybe he just needed comforting, Beth," said Daddy. It seemed like a strange thing to say until I thought about it for a while. Les did need comforting. And he went to my mother for the comfort I wasn't providing.
And it was all so useless and foolish, because, underneath the mingled misery, shame, disgust, anger, and all the other mixed-up emotions I was going through, I still felt a glow of love for Les. Maybe he was immature —after all, he was only nineteen. Maybe he was weak, and foolish, and even lazy. There are worse flaws a man can have. And Les was my man, and I loved him.
"Daddy, I'm going to try to work it out with Les," I said. "I don't know if it's possible—but I don't believe this has got to be the end of the world—even though it feels like it is."
"That's the most grown-up thing I've ever heard you say," said Daddy. He got out of the car, and I drove back past Mom's house. All the lights were on. Les' car was no longer in the driveway. I didn't stop, but drove straight back to Mercersberg and our apartment. Les was waiting. He took me in his arms, and I could feel wetness on his cheek. At that moment, Daddy called on the phone. "Just checking to see you got back all right."
"Yes, thanks, Daddy," I said. "I think it's going to be okay."
"Good," said Daddy. "Well, I think it's time I went to see your mother. I think I'm going to move back in." <img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-858" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/what-her-fathers.jpg" height="225" title="what her fathers" width="236" />
Thank heavens it all happened on a Friday. Les and I stayed home together for the entire weekend, which was the best thing we ever did for our marriage. We didn't even go outside to get the paper. On Monday, two things happened. While I was at work, Les received a check from my mother in payment for the work he had done on the house. There was also a brief note, saying that she wouldn't need him any more because Daddy had moved back into the house and was planning to finish the job himself. While Les was at home reading the letter, I was telling the society editor I had to quit my job immediately.
Within a week, we'd packed up the few things that we cared about, gave the furniture back to the Salvation Army, and set out in the car for a brief vacation of our own. After that, Les is going back to college, and I'm going to help out by working part-time. Les' parents are lending us the money we'll need.
Someday, I can't say when, we will see my parents again. We just aren't ready to, and won't be for a while. They have some things to work out themselves.
<img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-859" src="http://trulovestories.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/they-certainly-do.jpg" height="225" title="they certainly do" width="236" />
Copyright © 1970, 2012 by BroadLit
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