A Midnight Clear (3 page)

The next time she saw him was at the market. She was buying Fig Newtons, which Colleen had forgotten and Father could not live without. During the war, they’d sent Fig Newtons in every care package. Weeks before her mother had died, one of the last things she’d done before her illness had confined her to bed was to buy and mail Fig Newtons to the South Pacific.

The true symbol of her mother’s devotion to her father wasn’t a ring or the parties she’d hostessed or the many cross-country moves she’d made. It was a cookie. Even now, they reminded Frances of her mother’s love for Father, and her absence. Frances pushed the grief rising in her gut away.

She was standing there, a box under each arm, pondering whether two was enough when he came in: the boy from the bookstore and the reception. Instantly, she felt on display, as if she’d been waiting for him. She wasn’t able to shake the feeling when he crossed to her with the determination of a man on the final stage of a quest.

He stopped three feet from her. “Frances. That is Miss Dumfries.” He couldn’t decide what to call her and the choice appeared to physically pain him. “
Frances
.” He threw his weight behind the more intimate form, which was probably the right move when he was buttering her up to get in good with her father. It helped imply that their acquaintance was more advanced than it was.

She responded no further than cocking her head, so he made his offer: “May I help you home?”

This was a hitherto unknown level of pursuit. He’d sought her out, apparently several times, and had not been scared off by her implied rejections. She was impressed and horrified in equal measure, and once again, her body was popping and shimmering because he was near. Silly body.

“I don’t need any help. I have two boxes—” She grabbed a third box from the shelf. She never could be too careful when her father’s cookie supply was in question. “Three boxes of cookies. I’m certain I can manage.”

“But it would be my pleasure.”

Oh, he was good. He hadn’t taken his eyes from hers during this entire exchange. His brow was furrowed and his hands knit into fists. His every cell was trained on her, strained toward her. It was very… affecting. She knew better, but she was moved. She believed he was yearning; she didn’t believe he was yearning for
her
.

“You do realize I don’t know your name.”

At this, his expression lightened somewhat, as if it had never occurred to him they didn’t know one another. “It’s Joe, Joe Reynolds. Joseph, really, but everyone calls me Joe. I’m a firstie. We met at a reception with the Superintendent.” How sweet that he used her father’s title and didn’t refer to his relationship with her. “We met fifteen days ago. I’ve been looking for you around town ever since.”

His words reminded her of something:
No sooner met but they looked…
Because of her obligations to Suzanne and her father, she was only taking a few classes at the University of Maryland. She was limited to what was offered in the morning hours, so Shakespeare’s comedies it was. She’d been reading
As You Like It
just before she ran to the market.

But this was real life, not the Forest of Arden.

From the look on his face, Joe didn’t seem to realize that. He positively smoldered as he said, “Let me walk you home.”

The correct line for this moment wasn’t Shakespeare, however—it was Aesop: Out of the frying pan and into the fire.

So what if her body did notice his? So what if her heartbeat raced and her breathing went shallow when she was close to him? He wanted what they all did. Or maybe he was also infatuated, but it wasn’t like that was any good for her either. She didn’t want to get involved with a Navy man. Not now and not ever.

“Joe,” she said gently, “you seem… nice. Persistent, but nice.”

“I’m both of those. I’m also very good at carrying cookies.”

He held out his hands, but she set nothing in them.

“I don’t go out with members of the Brigade.”

He nodded. This neither surprised nor troubled him. “Make an exception.”

It was ridiculous that she felt any hesitation about turning him down, but she did. He was a midshipman who reminded her of a Shakespeare character. He was extremely good looking: tall and broad shouldered but still boyish. And those eyes! Expressive, thoughtful, and absolutely focused on her. As if he could discern the meaning of the stars by staring at her hard enough.

She looked down at the cookies in her hand. For twenty years, her mother had made sure the pantry was stocked with them because it would make Father happy. Her mother’s entire life had been structured around supporting and pleasing him. And when she’d died, those functions had fallen to Frances.

She didn’t know what Joe wanted. His attentions could be about her father. But he seemed… he seemed earnest. He could have all the good intentions in the world, however, that didn’t mean what
he
wanted was what
she
wanted. And what she wanted was not to be her mother.

“I’m sorry, Joe. I am. But no.”

For the second time in as many days, she walked away from him.

When she arrived home, she was surprised to find Father sitting in his study. His pipe was in his hand and his nose was buried in the afternoon papers. She passed the cookies to Betsy and then went in.

“What are you doing here?”

He gestured absently with his pipe. “Oh, you know, Godfrey canceled his meeting with me and I’d finished some other things earlier. And well, I haven’t been home much lately.”

At this, he glanced at her, but with his reading glasses on, she knew he couldn’t see her clearly.

Her father resembled nothing so much as an eagle, with his bald pate, his thick-framed glasses, and his great hulking beak of a nose—which she and Suzanne were daily grateful they hadn’t been saddled with. What little hair he had left had gone white and bushy over the war. When he’d come home, she’d scarcely recognized him and she’d never truly adjusted to the change in his appearance.

His bird-like looks weren’t comic, though. Quite the contrary. The boys in the Brigade were all afraid of him—they found him imposing. She, of course, understood. It was the brows and the character writ on his forehead. He was a brilliant tactician and, though he tried to hide it from his daughters, he could swear a blue streak.

But he forgot to eat if she didn’t remind him. His favorite things in the world were cigars, Fig Newtons, and scotch—and he had utterly no idea how to procure them, let alone how to get his suits cleaned or what it took to organize those “little dinners.”

He was endearing and frustrating all at once.

“We’re glad to have you,” she told him honestly. “When do we need to return you?”

He chuckled and turned back to his paper. “I’m supposed to stop by the Lassiters for dinner.”

Frances made a face, knowing he was deep in the sports section and would never see it. “Do we need to have them over soon?”

“Well, he’s very ambitious.”

Is that a yes or a no?
But of course it was a yes—even if she disliked how Mrs. Lassiter laughed. “I’ll arrange it.”

He grunted in agreement.

A few pleasant minutes passed. Frances imagined he might ask about her day, or her sister. He didn’t, but he also didn’t ask her to leave, and his pipe smelled comforting. He’d smoked the same kind of tobacco since she was a kid, a burley and Virginia blend only one store in town carried anymore. He said he wasn’t particular, and she knew this was true, but she kept buying it because she knew he liked it. Oh how many things in her life this applied to!

Finally he finished with the sports and took off his glasses.

“Can I get you some tea?” she asked.

“No, no. I’m fine.” He rubbed his eyes. Then he smiled mischievously. “I saw all those flowers on the hall table.”

She rolled her eyes. “Is this my cue to leave?”

“Any of them serious?”

She thought about Joe. It was strange to have a name to put with the face—and the look. She’d been thinking of him as
the dreamy one
, which was quite silly. She shook her head firmly. Now he was just Joe, though still dreamy.

“There’s no one you need to worry about.”

Father apprised her.

“There’s
not
,” she insisted again. “Now I need to check about dinner.”

She didn’t spare a second look for the flowers, but she shouldn’t have been surprised when, the next day, Mr. Ossing delivered a box. Inside were two nosegays, each attached to a book:
As You Like It
and
Regency Buck
. The card had only his first name—Joe—scrawled in a decisive, if sloppy, hand. She removed the flowers and gave them to the maid and the cook. She couldn’t very well send them back; what would he do with flowers?
 

The books she should have returned. She should have. But… oh, they were lovely editions. The Shakespeare had a stunning frontispiece of Rosalind and Orlando in the Forest of Arden. How had he known? And she’d lost her old dog-eared
Regency Buck
on a bus and she wanted another one.

As long as she was keeping the flowers—not for herself, mind you, but as something nice for Colleen and Betsy—she could keep the books.

It didn’t mean anything. It wasn’t going to change her answer.

Two days later, she was walking home after dropping lunch by her father’s office, when Joe came barreling across the parade ground toward her.

“Did you come to bring me a thank you note?” he asked as he fell into step next to her. His cheeks were ruddy, but he wasn’t breathing hard. The exercise had brightened his eyes and the smile he flashed at her was delighted.

She focused her eyes ahead and picked up her pace. “I seem to have left it at home.”

“Too bad. I’ll come and retrieve it with you.”

She made a face and ignored him. This didn’t seem to displease him in the least. On the contrary, when she sneaked a peek, he looked like the cat that got the cream—and she, of course, was the cream.

“How did you know I was here?” she asked as she darted across the street.

“My roommate saw you. He reported it to me.”

She whirled around to face him. “He’s reporting on my movements now?”

“Not all the time.” Joe shook his head vigorously. “It was serendipity.”

“And the book shop? And the market?”

“The bookseller’s was luck. The market was, well, a tip from another midshipmen.”

She made a noise of incoherent frustration and kept walking down the street. “I’ve given you my answer. Please stop pursuing me.”

“You’ve given me an answer, but I don’t think it’s
the
answer.” Joe was the most unperturbed person she’d ever met. No matter how firm and infuriating she tried to be, he simply wouldn’t fall for it.
 

She gave him a sidelong look. Maybe she could negotiate her way out of this. “So the only valid answer is yes?”

“No.” He seemed aghast at this suggestion. “That is, no is a valid answer… if it’s informed.”

“And my no was uninformed?”

“Yes.”

She snorted. “This conversation is why I don’t go out with Navy men.”

“I’m generally supportive of your policy.”

Of course he would be. Whatever he wanted from her, he didn’t want competition for it. “Except with regard to you?”

“Naturally.”

She buried her face in her hands, but she didn’t let her pace flag. She’d be home soon and that would bring this charade to an end. She crossed her arms over her chest. “I didn’t say yes to walking out with you.”

“And yet you’re doing it.”

Lord, he had one thick skull. “But now having done it, I can present you with an informed no.”

He made a face. “We’ve walked two blocks, and you haven’t asked me anything about myself.” He began ticking off on his fingers. “My birthday is May 22. My platform is aviation. I like green and blue. And my favorite kind of cake is chocolate. But I’d rather talk about
you
.”

“I’m an admiral’s daughter, and I don’t date midshipmen.”

“See, we’re learning about one another.” He gave her another one of those delighted smiles.

“And with that, I’m giving you an informed no.” Melting smile or not. “Good-bye, Joe.”

He stopped walking and slammed a hand over his heart. “You’ve wounded me.”

But she suspected she’d neither hurt him nor settled matters.

Joe decided it was time to call in an ally.

The books had been received and kept. As she’d promised, a thank you note had appeared in his mailbox: polite, correct—distant.

With Shakespeare and Heyer, he’d taken steps in the right direction, but he needed more. Something more personal. He knew she spent a lot of her day running about town—and there was something going on with those Fig Newtons, although he had the sense she wasn’t buying all those boxes for herself. He also had the sense she didn’t spend much of her day doing things for herself.

He needed to determine what she did just for her.

So he was lying in wait for the sister, outside her high school as the last bell rang, skulking beneath a nearly bare elm tree. Guilt burned quietly in his gut—waiting to catch a sixteen year old to speak with her alone was not his finest moment—but he held himself still and loose.