Another Homecoming (4 page)

“America’s finest hour,” Harry mumbled, as though the doctor had not spoken at all. “And here I am, trapped in this chair with a gimp leg.”

“You’ve done your part,” Howard insisted stoutly, more because Martha was standing there beside him than because he thought the words might do some good. “Now you’re home, where a lot of our boys wish they could be. And your leg was saved. Count your lucky stars, Harry.”

When Harry did not respond, Howard started down the hall, saying to Martha as he passed, “There’s no need to see me to the door.”

But Martha Grimes pushed one hand into the small of her back, making her belly protrude even further, and moved slowly along behind him. Still a small woman, she was carrying this second baby very low. Two weeks until term, and he wondered if her size indicated twins. Only when the screen door had shut behind them did she speak. “He’s not getting any better.”

“Of course he is.”

“Even when one of his old buddies comes by, all Harry does is sit around. There’s no fire left.”

“Just give it time, Martha.”

“And when he does talk, it’s about the army. How much he misses it. How he hates his leg. How his wound has kept him from staying with the one profession he’d ever like. That’s his name for it, his profession.” She sighed deeply and absently rubbed the curve of her belly with her other hand, as though able to adjust the load she bore. “Talking like the army was a calling, like being a doctor or something important.”

“It is important—or was,” Howard Austin replied quietly. “At least to Harry.”

“He’s been mourning the loss for way too long as it is.” Her hand kept moving, as though she sought comfort from the child she carried. “I just don’t know how much more I can endure, Howard.”

“Be patient,” Howard said, the words coming automatically. He seemed to be saying them a lot these days. “Be strong. He’ll come around.”

Instead of arguing, Martha carefully examined his face. “You’ve changed too, Howard. You look the same as before you left, except for some new lines on your face. But your eyes—they look a hundred years old.”

He did not try to deny it. From somewhere down the street, a radio blared out a marching tune. Another house was full of revelry, and at five o’clock in the afternoon. It seemed as though Baltimore had been one vast party ever since the Germans had surrendered three months earlier. “He’s been through a lot, Martha. It will take him time to come around. The scars on the outside are easy to see. They’ll always be there, I’m sorry to say. The ones on the inside, who knows how long . . .” Howard let his voice trail off. Martha did not need to hear all the details.

Howard found himself recalling the one time Harry had let down his barriers since returning from North Africa. Frustration and anger and bitterness had poured forth from the lips of a broken man. Howard had stood helpless and silent, listening to heartrending accusations directed at Martha for giving away his child. He wanted their daughter, he had shouted over and over. He wanted his baby back. Harry had wept with uncontrollable sobs when Howard had told him firmly that there was no way to undo what had been done. It had been an ugly scene, one that had left Howard with nightmares.

Harry had never spoken of his lost child again.

“He just sits there and stares at nothing,” Martha went on, almost to herself. “For hours on end, he won’t say a word.”

The thousand-yard stare. That was the name Howard had heard. He had seen a lot of that during his time at the military hospital. And a lot of other things he would rather forget. He pushed away the memories that suddenly began crowding forward and produced a tight grin. “This is something, isn’t it, how I’ve gotten back in time to deliver your second baby?”

But Martha did not respond as he had hoped. She brushed away a wisp of hair matted to her forehead, her face flushed from the exertion of bearing such a heavy load. “Tell me the truth, Howard. Will my Harry ever come back to me?”

Howard fought back a sudden longing to reach forward and take her into his arms. He had thought he was over his yearning for her. After all, he had returned to find that Harry Grimes had not been killed. Upon hearing the news about Harry’s return, Howard Austin had stamped down tight on his dismay, locking away his feelings for Martha along with all the other emotions the war had left as a legacy, things he never wanted to think of or feel again.

But here he was, caught flat-footed and openhearted by a single look.

“Martha,” he sighed, wishing for all that was impossible to have. “I can’t lie to you.”

“That’s why I’m asking,” she responded, her tone as quiet as his. “I need somebody I know will always tell me the truth.”

“The truth,” Howard said quietly, his heart aching. Once again he was glad he had not poured out his feelings to Martha before he left, and that he had held to a friendly tone in his few letters. He had wanted to wait and confess his love for her face-to-face. He had owed it to her, if for no other reason than because she had already lost one man to the war, or so he had thought. Now his disappointment was an acrid twisting to his heart, but at least it was private, something he had shared with no one. “The truth is, your husband is home.”

“Is he?”

“He has returned with his body relatively intact. His mind is okay, as far as I can tell.”

“It doesn’t seem that way to me.”

I care too much
. The accusation had been leveled at him time after time on the front. Other doctors had taken him aside and told him repeatedly that if he did not grow a tougher hide around his heart, he would not survive. Howard drew himself up. “Martha, Harry was a man made for soldiering. You’ve told me that yourself. And now he’s got to learn to accept that there are other occupations for him than the army. He needs to count his blessings, find a job, raise his family. Having a new baby will help bring him around.”

The dark brown eyes did not waver in their careful inspection of his face. Martha asked quietly, “What about my needs, Howard? I lost my husband and then my baby. I spent almost a year mourning the pair of them, thinking my husband was lying dead some place with a strange-sounding name.”

“El Alamein,” Howard said quietly. “A lot of good men didn’t come back from there, Martha. You should count your blessings.”

“Blessings.” Her mouth pinched down, as though she had tasted something bitter. “What about my baby girl? I dream about her, you know. After all this time, I wake up and wonder where she is, and I feel like my heart is going to break.”

“Blessings, like the child you’re bearing,” Howard plowed on determinedly. He fought down the urge to tell her about Harry’s bitterness over losing the baby girl. It would serve no purpose, other than perhaps ease his own nights. “Blessings, like having your husband home from the war.”

She stared hard at him, the gaze carrying the force her words did not. “Tell me where my baby is, Howard. I’m begging you.”

“For the last time, Martha, I can’t. And even if I could, it wouldn’t do you any good. The child is theirs. And that’s final.” He tipped his hat to her and turned for the steps. “I’ll see you in a day or so. Call me if anything changes.”

Briskly Howard started down the sidewalk, pausing for a final wave before turning the corner. Up where the street joined a main thoroughfare, a young man hawked papers, shouting more news about the war. Howard tuned him out, the action having become automatic.

I care too much
, Howard repeated to himself as his shoulders slumped in defeat. It was a flaw he really had to overcome.

3
 

Kyle raced around the corner,
one hand holding her leather satchel, the other her hat. Her long dark blond hair and the cap’s blue ribbons flew out behind her as she hurried toward the car. Her brown eyes sparkled with anticipation.

The chauffeur stood stiffly at attention as he waited for her, his face set in downward sloping lines. “I’m sorry, Bertie,” she said breathlessly, “but Miss Pincushion made me stay after class again.”

Bertrand opened the front passenger door. He could not keep an aggrieved tone from his voice as he said, “I do wish you would permit me to wait for you in front of the school, Miss Kyle.”

At the sight of the front door open and waiting, Kyle gave off a little exclamation of delight, swiftly stifled. She gave the empty rear seat a quick glance, then asked, “Where’s Mother?”

“Mrs. Rothmore felt it necessary to remain behind and prepare for her charity function this afternoon,” Bertrand replied stiffly.

“Oh, Bertie, don’t be like that.” Kyle slid into the seat and straightened the blue skirt of her school uniform. When Bertrand shut her door and started around the car, she allowed herself a smile. Mother couldn’t come after all. The day was already wonderful and would soon be even better. A lunch with her father, all to herself, was one of her favorite things in the world.

When the chauffeur opened his door and climbed in, Kyle gave him a look of utter appeal. “Bertie, I’ve told you how the other girls make fun of me when they see you waiting out front.” Further protest was diverted when she glanced at the little round clock set in the burl dash. “Oh, look. You’ll have to hurry. Daddy doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

“I am well aware of your father’s attitude toward time,” Bertrand replied. “And I am certain that the young ladies of St. Albans have seen a chauffeur before.”

“Now you sound just like Miss Pincushion.” Miss Pincus taught eighth-grade math at the exclusive St. Albans Preparatory School, and she was the bane of Kyle’s existence. “Not in a
Rolls
. And not the way you wait for me.”

“And just what, pray tell,” Bertrand demanded, “is the matter with the way in which I wait for you?”

“Oh, you know. Standing there by the door with your gloves and hat and everything. You look like a soldier at attention.”

“I merely intend to show proper respect.”

“You look like you’re waiting for . . . for a princess.” Kyle laughed, a musical sound. Then she confessed, “I don’t like the other girls to know, that’s all.”

“There are many wealthy young ladies at St. Albans, Miss Kyle. And if memory serves me correctly, young Miss Emily Crawley is collected in a Rolls.”

“But the other girls are nicer, the ones that aren’t so, you know, well off.” She avoided the additional point, which was that Emily Crawley and her cold, aloof ways frightened her. “If they see you . . . well, I’m afraid they won’t like me.”

“Anyone in her right mind would like you,” Bertrand responded reverently.

“The others don’t. The ones Mother says I need to socialize with. They don’t like how I talk to . . . to everyone.” The tone dropped as she added the word Emily Crawley used most often to describe her. “They call me
common
.”

“They wouldn’t dare,” Bertrand said hotly. “Not if you allowed me to meet you out front like you should.”

She gave him a smile that carried warmth and appreciation, then changed the conversation by reaching into her satchel. “Look what I made for Maggie’s birthday.”

Bertrand slowed long enough to glance over. What he saw caused him to turn the car to the side of the road and stop. “Kyle, what can I say? It’s lovely.”

Neither of them noted that he had not included “miss” with her name, a misdemeanor that would have brought Kyle’s mother to the point of banishing him forever. “It’s a watercolor of ‘The Praying Hands,’ ” Kyle explained. “It’s Maggie’s favorite.”

“Twelve years old, and already you’re a marvel.” Bertrand’s heart nearly burst with pride. “Maggie is going to love this.”

“I’m thirteen—remember?” The young girl’s face shone with delight. “You really think she will?”

“I know so. I’ve been wondering what to get her myself, and now I know. I will arrange to have this framed.”

Kyle drew up her shoulders in pleasure. “We’ll be giving her something together.”

“Indeed we will.” They shared a smile until Bertrand glanced at the clock and jerked upright. “I’ve forgotten the time. We’re already late.”

But Kyle did not look worried. Carefully she replaced the painting into her satchel, then leaned back with another smile. “Lunch with Daddy, all by myself. Then I can be in his office all afternoon. And guess what?
I Love Lucy
comes on tonight.”

Her sigh of pleasure warmed Bertrand’s heart. “I’m certain your favorite program does not come on until tomorrow,” he said as he watched her from the corner of his eye.

Kyle frowned, ran through the days of the week on her fingers, then caught sight of Bertrand’s teasing glance. “Oh, you.”

“Here’s your father’s street, Miss Kyle,” Bertrand said, returning to formality. “Perhaps you should think about—”

But before he finished, Kyle took a quick glance around, then in a flash was over the seat into the rear. She settled back, then leaned forward to snatch up her hat. A few seconds of straightening her clothes and hair, putting the hat on and her face into proper lines, and the car slowed to a halt.

As Kyle waited calmly as Bertrand cut the motor and came around to open her door, she caught sight of her father. He was standing just inside the Rothmore building’s brass-lined glass doors, talking to someone she vaguely recognized. Then she saw what he was holding as he stood grinning and waiting for her to alight. Kyle’s breath came out in a gasp, and she scrambled out the door Bertrand held for her, positively at odds with what her mother would have called ladylike behavior.

She ran to her father. “You got it! Oh, Daddy, it’s
beautiful
!” she exclaimed.

“A Schwinn,” Lawrence Rothmore declared proudly. “Won’t be released until next summer, but a buddy in their head office wrangled this one for me. Get a load of those white sidewalls, will you.”

“And colored tassels, and I love the silver and blue,” she enthused. “Oh, Daddy, can we take it for a ride?”

“Later, my daughter,” he said, putting his arm around her shoulder as he motioned Bertrand forward. “Put this in the trunk, will you?”

“Very good, sir.”

Kyle watched as the bicycle was wheeled away. “Promise you’ll ride with me, Daddy?”

“Soon as I get home.” He waved forward a young man who hovered just out of range. “You remember Randolf Crawley, don’t you?”

Kyle stopped watching intently as Bertrand maneuvered the bicycle around to the back of the car and turned back to her father. As she had been taught, she lifted her skirt lightly and gave a graceful curtsey. “Good day, Mr. Crawley.”

“Call me Randolf, please.” Her father’s associate sounded surprisingly friendly to Kyle’s way of thinking. “There’s not that much difference in age between us.”

She looked curiously at him. His hair was a shiny blond, combed up and back in careful folds. His chin was cleft, his nose straight and long, his teeth perfect. Randolf Crawley was ancient as far as Kyle was concerned. At least twenty-four or five. “There isn’t?” she asked frankly.

Her father patted the younger man on the shoulder. “Randolf’s going to become my protégé. It’s your mother’s idea. He’s got a law degree from Yale, and insurance law’s becoming trickier by the minute. Besides that, I’m not getting any younger, and I need a pair of strong shoulders and a good mind to carry some of the load. Abigail thinks he’s perfect for the position.”

Kyle had not understood all of what was just said. But she did not like any suggestion that her father was not well. And she
really
did not like the way that man was smiling at her. “You’re fit as a fiddle, Daddy. That’s what you’re always saying.”

Lawrence Rothmore’s laugh was as big as the rest of him. But nothing could disguise the sudden flush that crept into his face as he stopped and the heavy breaths that followed. “My little lady. Loyal to the end,” he puffed.

“I am pleased to see my young sister becoming friends with you, Kyle,” Randolf commented. “She talks about you quite a bit.”

“How nice.” Kyle used the phrase she heard her mother say whenever she was displeased but didn’t wish to show it. In truth, Kyle was uncomfortable around Emily Crawley. She was as beautiful as her older brother was handsome. Emily was leader of the group of wealthier girls at St. Albans, and this group was the biggest reason Kyle did not feel like she belonged. The Crawleys were her mother’s distant relatives, and Emily seemed to have Abigail’s ability to make Kyle feel as though she did not measure up, could never be as correct and superior as she was supposed to be.

Kyle felt she had been polite to Randolf Crawley long enough. “Where are we having lunch, Daddy?”

“The boardroom, where else?” Dining in the boardroom was one of their little rituals, whenever they had a time alone. “I believe I heard the chef say he had managed to make your favorite dessert.”

“I bet it’s banana cream pie!”

Lawrence squeezed his daughter’s shoulder and said to Randolf Crawley, “You’ve never seen anything like it,” he boasted. “All my little lady has to do is smile, and she could get the Statue of Liberty to lend her the torch.”

“I don’t doubt it for a minute,” Randolf agreed. “I’ve heard Emily say something about Kyle’s friendliness.”

But Lawrence had already turned away. “Come on, princess. On to the top.”

He handed over a key to Kyle, a ritual they had played out from when she was a tiny girl. There was a private elevator for members of the board. Her father had let her operate it since she had been old enough to reach up on her tiptoes and fit the key into the special hole. Kyle stepped into the wood-paneled elevator, and as the polished doors closed she caught a final glimpse of Randolf’s smile directed at her. She wondered why it made her uneasy.

As though reading her mind, Lawrence asked, “So what do you think of my new protégé?”

“I think he’s—well, he reminds me of his sister,” she said, speaking her mind as was only possible when she and her father were alone.

Lawrence chuckled fondly. “He’s going to be the youngest member of our board before long, taking over the seat from his father. When I was just starting out, old Crawley helped bankroll me. His father and your mother’s grandfather were brothers, but I suppose you know that. He probably did it out of family loyalty, but he’s done well by it. Very well. He has ten percent of the company stock and a permanent seat on our board.”

Kyle did not ask him to explain what all that meant. She had no interest in Randolf Crawley. Instead she announced, “Maggie’s kitty had six babies.”

“Is that a fact.” He regarded her fondly. “Don’t I recall your naming that cat Benjamin?”

She nodded. “Yes, that was back when I was too young to know better. So now she’s called Ben-Hur.” When her father laughed again, she worked up nerve to ask, “Daddy, do you think I could have one of the kitties?”

“No pets, my love. We’ve already been through that with your mother when Jim’s golden retriever had puppies.”

“Oh, Daddy,
please
. They’re such precious little white fluffballs.”

“No pets,” he repeated, his tone regretful but firm. “Your mother’s really put her foot down on that. I’m sorry, princess.” He steered the subject back around with, “She thinks very highly of young Randolf.” He hesitated a moment, then added, “She says it would be a good idea if you were to get to know him.”

Kyle looked up at her father in utter bafflement. “But why, Daddy?”

For some reason, the question made him laugh a third time. He stroked her fine silky hair once more as the elevator doors opened before them. “Why indeed, my princess. Why indeed.”

Joel Grimes sat on the parlor floor, his birthday present opened in front of him. Light from the setting sun spilled through the louvered windows, framing him in sharp lines of gold and shadow. He unfolded the large page of plans, being as careful as he could. It was important not to grow impatient, even now when he was so excited he could hardly sit still. Experience had taught him that the plans would be opened time and time again, and the crease-lines needed to be followed very carefully, because when the paper became old it would easily tear. And it was always in the creases that there was some important connection he couldn’t figure out without the plans. So he unfolded the white paper, big as a road map, very carefully, noting how the folds went so he would know how to put it back later.