Blue Skies Tomorrow (9 page)

Next Easter maybe they’d dine together as a family.

8

Sunday, April 9, 1944

“Egg!” Jay-Jay held his treasure high and ran to Helen.

She held out the basket. “Very good, sweetie. What color?”

“Ello.” He ran off. “More egg.”

Helen inhaled spring air only slightly tainted by the scent of the oleander hedges surrounding the Carlisles’ backyard.

“Look over there,” Mr. Carlisle said to his grandson. “But you’d better hurry. I lo-o-ove Easter eggs.” He rubbed his belly and smacked his lips.

Jay-Jay laughed. “No. Mine.”

Helen wiggled her toes inside her cream pumps. Ray said she’d looked pretty walking down the aisle in church this morning, prettier than ever, but then he thought that every time he saw her. She smoothed the side pocket of her dress containing the note with those words.

How romantic he was, asking if she needed an extra hymnal, then passing one back with the note peeking out the top.

Helen pirouetted in the middle of the lawn, twirling the skirt of her lilac-flowered dress. She laughed. What would everyone think? “Jay-Jay, where are you?” she called to cover up.

He plucked an egg from among the tomato seedlings in the Victory Garden. “Boo egg.”

“You’re so clever.” And so darling in his gray suit with a light blue bow tie. Below his short pants, his round pink knees pumped as he ran the egg to Helen.

“That’s the last one,” she said.

Mr. Carlisle grabbed his head. “Oh no. I didn’t find a single one. Jay-Jay beat me.”

“He’ll have competition next year.” Helen smiled at her sister-in-law, Dorothy Wayne, who sat in a wicker chair with three-week-old Susie nestled under her chin.

Mr. Carlisle picked up Jay-Jay and swung him in a circle. “Oh ho. No one beats my boy.”

“It’s time to go home.” Dorothy stood with a pinched look on her face. “I promised to help Mother Wayne in the kitchen. I’ll say good-bye to Mom on the way out.”

“I’ll go with you. I’m needed on kitchen duty too.” Helen followed her friend in the back door. “Don’t worry, Dorothy. Men are no good with babies, but once Susie starts running around and batting those big brown eyes, watch Grandpa melt.”

Dorothy gave her a thin smile and entered the kitchen. “Bye, Mom. I need to get Susie home.”

Mrs. Carlisle kept mashing potatoes. She wore a blue floral dress in the latest fashion, which contrasted with the outdated way she wore her hair in mousy brown waves close to her head. “Thank you for coming, dear.”

Helen smiled at Dorothy despite the sour feeling in her stomach. “I’ll drop by tomorrow and pick up the sashes for the pageant. I appreciate your help.”

A curt nod made brown curls bob, and Dorothy headed for the front door.

Helen sighed. Although her parents preferred Betty and her bounciness, Helen never felt unloved. Thank goodness the Waynes welcomed Dorothy into their family and their home, since her husband, Art, was bogged down in Italy with the U.S. Fifth Army.

Helen set the basket of eggs in the icebox. “How may I help?”

Mrs. Carlisle stood on tiptoes to get enough force from her tiny body to mash the potatoes. “I don’t need your help.”

Helen shivered from the cool tone. She didn’t need help? The cooked ham sat out, the table hadn’t been set, the cherry pie hadn’t been put in the oven, and the pot of peas boiled over.

She turned off the burner, wrapped a towel around the handle, and lifted the pot until the bubbles died down. “I’m glad to help. I’m family, after all.”

“No, you’re not.” Her voice quivered.

What on earth? Since her wedding day, the Carlisles had insisted she was a Carlisle, and the Jamisons agreed. She was never to come home begging. “Excuse me?”

“Not after what I heard. You’d better pray Mr. Carlisle doesn’t hear.” She mashed so hard, the bowl tipped with a glassy clank on the counter. “Oh dear. Oh dear.”

An old, cold dread squeezed Helen’s chest. “What do you mean?”

“Don’t play innocent. Such carrying on. You ought to be ashamed.”

Ashamed? She couldn’t think of anything to be ashamed of. Unless . . .

Helen grabbed the lid and strode to the sink. “I can’t imagine what you mean.”

“With a Novak, no less. And with sweet little Jay-Jay in the next room. Have you no shame?” Mrs. Carlisle splashed milk in the bowl, far too much milk.

“I can’t imagine.” Helen’s hands shook so hard, she spilled peas into the sink.

“Oh! You can’t, can you? Mrs. Llewellyn saw Ray Novak go into your house and leave quite some time later. Quite some time. And you in your nightgown, a slinky thing like the pinup girls wear, kissing him for all the world to see.”

“It wasn’t like that.” Helen walked around with the pan, searching for a bowl.

“What was it like? Tell me.” She scraped potatoes into a bowl and sent pasty blobs onto the table.

Helen wiped steam from her forehead. “After—after you left, I couldn’t sleep so I did some paperwork. He came back to apologize for something he said. We talked—maybe five minutes, right in the doorway. He never . . . we never—”

Mrs. Carlisle spun around, eyes in slits. “Did you seduce him?”

“Heavens, no!”

“Did you kiss him?”

Her mouth flapped open and shut. “Well, yes, but Mr. Carlisle said I could date.”

“Victor! He said you could date Victor Llewellyn.”

“I don’t like Victor. Not that way.”

“You’re not supposed to. You said you loved my Jimmy.”

“Of course I did.” Helen whirled around and grabbed the first bowl she saw.

“If you truly loved Jimmy, you could never love another man. You wouldn’t be in some torrid love affair. You’d marry for support and companionship, nothing more.”

Helen dumped the peas into the bowl, and they turned into a green blur. She hadn’t sought passion with Ray. It had just been a pleasant surprise. Was she supposed to turn down this delicious relationship for appearance’s sake?

“I . . . I . . . ” She turned and startled at the look in her mother-in-law’s eyes—pure grief.

How would Helen feel if Jay-Jay died and his wife moved on? It would be as if her son were dying all over again, as if even his memory were dying.

As long as Helen mourned Jim, a piece of him lived.

Mrs. Carlisle sniffled. “I won’t breathe a word of this to Mr. Carlisle. I told Mrs. Llewellyn she was mistaken. But you—you need to act like a proper widow.”

Helen wiped the back of her hand over her eyes. She’d acted like a proper widow for seventeen months, but now she had a new role, a bright and fresh role that didn’t even require pretending. How long would she be expected to maintain the old role? How long before her mask cracked?

The aroma of roast chicken wrapped steamy tendrils around Ray and drew him to the kitchen, where he found Walt plucking skin from a drumstick.

Ray inspected the second bird and found a morsel in the pan juices.

Mom stepped in from the dining room and gasped. “Go away, you vultures.”

“Can’t leave the kitchen even to set the table, can we?” Allie Miller nudged Walt away from the poultry. “Shoo.”

He pulled her into the dance position and sang out, “ ‘Shoo, shoo, shoo, baby.’ ”

Allie laughed, and her brown curls puffed out as he swung her.

Ray took advantage of the distraction and snagged a piece of chicken thigh.

Mom grabbed his arm and marched him to the doorway. “Out with you, both of you.”

“I don’t know how you manage, Mrs. Novak.” Allie danced her fiancé to the door and pushed him out.

He puckered his lips at her. “Don’t you love me?”

“With all my heart, darling. To show my love, I want to put dinner on the table—unmolested.” She smiled and shut the door.

He frowned. A black curl hung over his forehead. “Almost nabbed a drumstick.”

Ray licked his fingers now that Mom couldn’t see. “You could have had it. We had Mom outnumbered, but then you had to bring in feminine reinforcements.”

Walt grinned. “Isn’t she swell?”

“Yeah, she is.” Ray was amazed at the changes in Walt, partly due to Allie’s love and partly due to—well, his experiences flying a B-17 over Nazi-occupied Europe. “Less than a month until the wedding. How are you holding up?”

“Can’t wait.” Walt headed for the dining room and flashed Ray a smile. “You thinking of joining us in matrimony?”

Ray laughed. “Helen and I have only been seeing each other about a month.”

“Yeah, I guess you need to take things slowly after all she’s been through.”

“Yep.” At the dining room table Ray burrowed in a towel-lined basket. “Hey, look, sourdough rolls. No butter to put on them, of course. Stupid rationing.” He took out two and tossed one to Walt.

He bobbled it and trapped it against his chest.

Ray’s stomach contracted. “Sorry about that.”

“Don’t be. I’m still learning to be a southpaw.” He took a bite of the roll. “Was Helen okay last night? She seemed . . . high-strung.”

Ray shrugged and pulled up a chair next to the basket. “Doesn’t like nights on the town.” He also spoke with his mouth full. Mom’s sourdough rolls were the best, hot and chewy inside a crispy crust. And, oh, the tang of them.

“Mom had better teach Allie to make these.” Walt used his prosthesis to pull out a chair, sat down, and tipped the chair back. “That sounds right.”

“The rolls?”

“No, Helen. She and Jim kept to themselves. They’d get together with the gang, but not often. They preferred privacy.”

Ray chewed the last bite, and his chest felt as light as the roll. A love of privacy? Was that all it was? Seemed odd for an energetic young woman, but if she wanted privacy with Ray, he wouldn’t argue.

Thank goodness last night’s apology worked. Helen seemed relaxed at church. Those looks she gave him—boy, oh boy. And that note she returned with the hymnal, the note now tucked in his Bible: “How am I, you ask? I’m torn between the Pastors Novak. My mind tells me to watch the elder, but my heart longs to watch the younger. If only you were in the pulpit, both would be satisfied.” To be back in the pulpit with that lovely face adoring him from the pews—what could be better?

Walt held up his hand. “Toss me another roll.”

Ray coiled for the pitch. “Watch out. You know I’ve got a mean curve ball.”

“Raymond Novak!” Mom stood in the doorway with a platter, Allie right behind her.

He twisted to face them. “Want one? Catch.”

Mom’s eyelashes fluttered. “Allie, dear, pray for daughters.”

She laughed. “I do.”

Mom set the platter of chicken on the table. “Boys, please call your father for dinner.”

Ray and Walt grinned at each other and called out, “Your father for dinner!”

“For heaven’s sake,” Mom said. “Really, Allie, I did raise them with manners.”

“I know. More importantly, you raised them with love.” She blinked her large green eyes and arranged the serving bowls at the head of the table.

Walt patted her lower back.

Ray sighed. If only he could sit down with Allie’s parents and persuade them not to boycott the wedding because Walt wasn’t the society gentleman they desired for their only child. Walt was a fine man. What could they have against him?

“The Distinguished Unit Citation,” Dad said to Grandpa Novak as they entered the dining room. “And Jack flew the lead ship.”

“A big honor.” Grandpa held out a chair for Grandma.

“He won’t take credit for the DUC, but it was his doing.”

Walt chuckled. “The air exec flew with him. Jack didn’t make the decisions.”

Dad lifted the carving knife to punctuate his sentence. “If he was there, he had a say.”

Ray nodded and stroked the glossy crust of the roll. Jack’s pride would make sure he did.

Mom set a bowl of steamed asparagus on the table. “I wish he wasn’t there. A second combat tour in England? After all those missions in the Pacific?”

“What was he supposed to do, Edie? Take a desk job?” Dad sank the knife into the first chicken.

Ray felt as if the knife plunged into him instead. Desk jobs were for men of no consequence.

Grandpa shook out his napkin. “A desk job would kill Jack faster than the Huns.”

“Sap his vitality.” Dad carved, and piece after piece dropped off, revealing pale bones.

The roll’s crust cracked in Ray’s grip. He identified with Gideon when he told the Lord, “I am the least in my father’s house.”

“It was more than that.” Walt passed a full plate to Mom. “He wanted to make up for his mistakes, make it up to the people he hurt.”

“Make it up to himself also,” Ray said. “Sometimes the hardest person to forgive is yourself.”

“That’s the truth, boy,” Grandpa said. “No one can beat up a man harder than the man himself.”

“Yep. Jack didn’t like what he saw inside.” Ray dug his fingers into the cracked golden sphere and ripped it open. “He wanted to make himself a better man, prove himself a better man.”

Comments volleyed and plates passed, but Ray stared at the peaks of flavorful dough and the gaping holes.

What lay inside Ray Novak? Towering peaks of strength or gaping holes of cowardice? A tangy aroma or bland nothingness?

“Amen” sounded around the table.