The Soldier's Bride (6 page)

Frank held up his hands. “Who am I to close my ears to a beautiful voice?” He patted Evelyn’s arm. “Now tell me, will you sing that song next Friday?”

“But, I couldn’t,” Evelyn protested.

“I will pay you an extra two hours wages for that one song,” Frank said.

Evelyn looked at Sterling and back at Frank. She thought about the battered purse in her bureau drawer where she had tucked away her savings along with an advertisement for a music class at the community college. Frank’s offer would make it possible for her to build up her savings and still enroll in the class in the summer.

Her heart quickened when she thought about singing in front of the guests of the Silver Lining. She had always loved to sing but had never performed. Her hands trembled at the thought. “What if I’m too nervous?”

“You won’t be. You’ve met most of the Friday night regulars. They’re nice people and they’d be thrilled to see our pretty little hostess crooning from the stage.” Frank held out a few small bills. “Here are your tips for tonight. People like you, Evelyn. Of course, this would help my business, too.”

She placed a hand on her temple and took a deep breath. “Okay, I’ll do it. But if I mess up, I hope you won’t be mad.”

Frank laughed. “How about I have you sing it to Neal? He can pick out a few chords on the piano to go along with you.”

“Actually I’ve already picked out the melody on my guitar. I’d love to accompany Evelyn.” Sterling said.

“Guitar? Hmm, that might be nice,” Frank replied.

“Sterling, you are a conniver,” Evelyn said. “How long have you been planning this?”

Sterling shrugged. “Not planning. Just hoping for a chance to hear that song—to play for you.”

Frank clapped his hands together. “Next Friday night. Evelyn and Sterling will perform—what do you call your song?”

“‘My Angel,’” she murmured.

Frank wished them good night, and Evelyn stared at Sterling. He continued to smile. “Would it be okay if I brought my guitar by tomorrow to practice with you?”

Evelyn thought about how quickly she had gone from singing to Sterling to performing for a crowd at the lounge. Her heart beat erratically as she wondered if she should trust him. Then she thought of the song—Jim’s music box—what the lyrics meant to her. Glancing down at the faded line on her ring finger, Evelyn blinked back tears.

Sterling touched her cheek and tilted her face toward him. “I’m so sorry for your loss. I did my time in the war—the screams, the explosions, the cold—music is the only way I can escape it. I’m not trying to make you forget him, but maybe we can help each other face another day.”

Evelyn’s lip trembled and she blinked rapidly, but a tear escaped and trailed down her cheek. Sterling knew she was a widow, he knew of the war and how it tore out the good memories and replaced them with death.

A couple walked past them and opened the squeaky door. A warm breeze wafted in and cooled the tears on Evelyn’s cheek. Before the door closed, she felt more than heard the words. Maybe it was just a memory, but the message echoed in her heart,
Don’t die with me
. She wasn’t ready to forget Jim, but maybe Sterling could help her live again.

“When it comes to music, I’m not so nervous.” Sterling stroked the strings on his guitar and the timbre of the chord echoed in the dining area. Evelyn had agreed to meet him to practice on Thursday before the dinner rush when the only people to observe them were those preparing the food and setting the tables. Sterling strummed a few more chords, “I wanted to ask you out the first night I met you, but I was nervous.”

“It’s probably good you were nervous,” Evelyn said. “I would’ve told you no. That’s what I tell everyone.”

Sterling laughed, and she liked the way the husky sound blended with the chords he played. She admired the olive-green dress shirt that set off the deep emerald of his eyes.

“Of course, I wasn’t prepared to be tricked into spending time with you,” Evelyn said.

He winced. “I really wasn’t trying to trick you. If I could have written you a song, I would have. Music always tells it right. My words alone aren’t strong enough.”

She began humming the tune from the music box, blending it with the chords Sterling played on his guitar. His hands flexed and moved rapidly across the strings. While he played, Evelyn allowed herself to observe his rugged good looks.

Sterling was shorter than Jim but still a head taller than her five-foot-five frame. He had broad shoulders and a thick torso. His biceps bulged against the cotton of his dress shirt, and she noticed a bit of dark grease under one of his fingernails. Her initial impression had been right. Sterling Dennison worked in a mechanic’s shop—his own. He became the sole owner after his brother died in France.

“My brother used to make fun of me,” Sterling said as if reading her thoughts. “He’d say, ‘there goes the mechanic with his guitar. Don’t get your strings all greasy.’” He laughed, and Evelyn noticed how much more relaxed he looked tonight. He was at ease with his music.

“I was pretty surprised when you told Frank you played,” she said. “I thought you might show up with a wrench tonight instead of a guitar pick.”

They both laughed, and Sterling stopped playing for a moment. “Thanks for doing this, Evelyn. I think it’ll sound great.”

She nodded. “Shall I sing now?”

Sterling strummed the beginning chords of the song. They practiced for forty-five minutes until Evelyn’s shift was about to begin. As she stood, Sterling grabbed her hand.

“Do you think you could go out with me sometime—maybe try a different restaurant for a change?”

Evelyn hesitated and noticed how tight Sterling gripped his guitar with his other hand. She wanted to say no, the same way she always did, but her heart fluttered, and she felt something she hadn’t in a long time. “I’m surprised you were able to ask me a cappella.”

For a moment Sterling didn’t say anything, and then he released her hand and began playing his guitar. He sang, his voice rich and warm, “Evelyn, will you please have dinner with me tomorrow night?”

She giggled and then she clapped her hands. “I’d be delighted.”

He continued strumming the chords. The polished wood of the guitar caught the light and reflected the flecks of gold interspersed with the green of his eyes. “Can I pick you up at six?” he sang.

Evelyn sang back to him, “But you don’t know where I live.”

“Can I walk you home tonight?” Sterling sang each word accompanied by a loud strum of his guitar.

She hummed and then whispered, “I think that would be fine.”

Sterling left the Silver Lining after their practice and promised to be back by nine o’clock to walk her home. Evelyn’s insides felt jittery all evening. When the clock chimed the ninth hour, she gathered up the menus and stacked them in a neat pile before retrieving her purse from the employees’ room.

Sterling was waiting for her out front. He had changed, and his dark brown shirt seemed to accentuate the thickness of his chest. “I’ve been working on a car tonight, trying to get it fixed by the weekend.” He motioned to his shirt. “I didn’t want to get my nice clothes dirty.”

“You didn’t have to interrupt your work to walk me home,” Evelyn said.

“This doesn’t count as an interruption.” He held the door open for her. “I don’t usually work this late, unless it’s an emergency for the customer.”

After adjusting her scarf against the cold, Evelyn took Sterling’s proffered arm, and they walked through the wintry night, their breath billowing out in soft clouds behind them. Her heels scraped against the crusty snow on the sidewalk, and for a few moments their footsteps were the predominant sound. A few teenagers roamed the streets, their laughter echoing against the pavement. A bottle shattered a few feet in front of them and Sterling jumped back with a gasp, and pulled Evelyn behind him. One of the kids shrieked, and they took off running down the street.

Sterling’s hands shook. He winced and held very still for a moment. He shivered and released Evelyn’s hands. “I’m sorry.”

Evelyn glanced down the street and back at Sterling. “It’s no problem. It startled me, too.”

“Not like me.” Sterling’s breath hung in a cloud in front of him. He closed his eyes and she heard him sigh.

She reached out and tucked her hand in his arm, gently squeezing his bicep. “It’s okay.”

Sterling ran his tongue over his teeth and cleared his throat. “I’ve been home for eight months now.” He motioned to his leg, “The tanks were firing everywhere, and all I could see was dirt, then it felt like my whole lower body exploded.”

He hesitated and Evelyn whispered, “You don’t have to, Sterling.”

“I want you to know,” he said. “They thought I was dead—but I wasn’t. At first, when they patched me back together, I thought maybe it would have been better.” He rolled his shoulders back and his eyes held a faraway look. “The burns—the pain—it was excruciating.”

She covered his hand with hers. “I’m sorry you had to go through that.”

“I shouldn’t complain. At least I’m alive,” Sterling’s voice turned sharp. “I made it out when so many others didn’t. My brother didn’t. Your husband didn’t. Why did I?” He took hold of her hand. His voice lowered. “I’m sorry.”

Evelyn swallowed, trying to digest the arc of emotions she’d just witnessed. She wanted to agree—why did he and so many others live while Jim had died? She heard the skittering of broken ice as they stepped off the sidewalk. Sterling’s leg trailed behind him, and she felt a pang of sorrow for his loss.

“None of it’s fair,” she said. “Dead or alive. Wounded or wearing medals. We didn’t ask for any of it.” Evelyn squeezed his hand. “Be proud, Sterling. Don’t hide your limp. You earned it keeping America free—that’s what matters.”

He stopped and reached for her other hand. She could feel the slight tremor of his fingers as he gripped hers. “I’ve stayed away from people for too long now. I’ve been afraid. The memories . . .” His voice cracked, and the moonlight caught the moisture in his eyes. “Evelyn, I don’t know how to hide from them any longer.”

Biting her lip, she rocked back on her heels and recognized the fear in his eyes.

“Then don’t hide. My husband, Jim, left me a note. He said, ‘don’t die with me.’” Evelyn’s chin wobbled. “I think it could be true for you, too. The war is behind us now. We can’t change it, and we can’t trade places with anyone. We’re here—living, breathing—and whether we like it or not, right now we’re making new memories to replace the old.”

They stood beneath a giant willow tree, scattered branches crunching under their feet. “Thank you for sharing that,” Sterling said, gazing down at her. He released her hand and cupped her chin, tipping it slightly. The moonlight filtered through the tree, casting shadows on Sterling’s face.

He leaned toward her, lowering his head and Evelyn tensed as memories of kissing Jim flashed through her mind. The fibers of her neck stiffened, and although part of her wanted to kiss him, she couldn’t relax the tightness creeping into her shoulders at the thought of Sterling betraying her memories of Jim.

A half-second pause and Sterling tilted his head and kissed her cheek. He drew her toward him, wrapping his strong arms around her. “This is enough,” he whispered.

She sighed and relaxed into his arms. She would allow herself this feeling of closeness for a moment. Listening to the soft thrum of Sterling’s heartbeat, Evelyn paused and breathed in the scent of dusky engine oil mixed with a splash of sandalwood and pine. It was the smell of hard work, an honest man trying to rebuild his life.

The long arms of the willow tree dangled in the shadows of the evening, swaying left and right with an unseen gust of wind, like a ghost slipping through the night.

Late in the month of February 1945, someone knocked on the door of Leland’s shop. He opened it and a whoosh of air blew the curls back from his brow. A man dressed in a worn suit and tie stood in the doorway with a little girl. He held out his hand.

“I’ve heard about your work,” he said. “My name is Shunsaku Tanaka. I would like you to build a desk for me.”

He spoke with a clipped accent, and Leland could see the man was of Japanese descent. Leland shook his hand. “Come in, Mr. Tanaka, and let’s see what I can do for you.”

He moved aside and allowed Mr. Tanaka and his young daughter inside the shop. Leland chewed on his bottom lip and gave a subtle shake of his head. Was this man another survivor of the Japanese internment camps? Leland had heard that some of the Japanese families were released early when their loyalty to America was proven. Had Mr. Tanaka come back to a vacant home looted of the fine furniture and other possessions he’d worked for, destitute like so many others?

The music box played behind him, and the little girl peeked around her father’s legs. She inched closer and stood on tiptoes to watch the graceful ballerina.

“Daddy, look at the lady dance!” she squealed and did a shaky pirouette, mimicking the twirl of the ballerina. The sunlight reflected off the ebony sheath of hair falling halfway down the girl’s back. Her smile faltered when the music stopped.

“I can wind it up again for you while I take your dad’s order,” Leland said. He leaned over the box. “How old are you?”

The child stepped back and grasped her father’s hand. She looked at him and he nodded. “Tell him, Emika.”

“I’m six,” she whispered.

“Really? That’s the perfect age to be.” Leland hesitated only a half second to think of how Jessie would’ve been the same age as little Emika before he finished turning the crank and stood back. “There, she’s dancing again.” Fighting against gravity pulling at the muscles around his mouth, Leland smiled. It was like flexing a finger that had once been broken. He still remembered how. “Now let’s see what kind of desk your father wants me to build.” He pulled out a notepad and pencil.

Mr. Tanaka pulled a piece of paper from the inner pocket of his suit, and Leland saw that one of the sleeves of the suit had been patched and was missing a button. “It was my wife’s desk, given to her by her mother.” He held out a sketch of a secretary with pigeonholes and three drawers on each side.