More Than Words Can Say (22 page)

“Réticence entre deux amants peut souvent causer la mort de leur ardeur,”
Brandon said
. “Et donc, mon amour, peut-être cette erreur jamais subir nous. Pour plutôt que s’exprime dans les chuchotements, son amour devrait être cria joyeusement de sommets.”

Although Chelsea couldn’t know what he had just said, it somehow touched her heart, just the same.

“More French . . . ,” she said.

“Yes,” Brandon answered. “It’s something that I heard Jacques Fabienne once say to Margot. I’ve never forgotten it.”

“What does it mean?” Chelsea asked.

Brandon shook his head. “Perhaps someday I’ll be ready to tell you, but not yet.”

When Chelsea started to protest, he gently placed two fingers against her lips, stopping her.

“Now then,” he said, “do you still want to read some more of Brooke’s journal?”

After wiping her eyes again, Chelsea nodded.

Chapter 20

A
s Chelsea crossed the room to retrieve the old journal, she sensed feelings of concern. Not only had Brandon’s story affected her deeply, there was no telling what Brooke’s next entry might also hold for her. It had already been a momentous night, and she couldn’t escape the feeling that there were more revelations to come.

There are so many secrets here at Lake Evergreen,
she thought,
both old and new. Things that I never imagined learning but that keep presenting themselves to me just the same. What will I take from Brooke’s journal this time? Will it be something that I’ll enjoy knowing? Or might it be another upsetting disclosure that makes me wish I’d never begun this journey into her past?

After sitting down beside Brandon, she began reading the next entry aloud.

Monday, July 13, 1942, 8 00
P.M
.

The day was a quiet one. As I sit upon the couch before my fireplace, my dog, Ike, lies asleep alongside me. So far, my days here at Lake Evergreen have been quiet and comforting. The war sometimes seems a million miles away, as if it isn’t happening at all. Much of the time, I relish that sentiment. But then I think about Bill, and I feel guilty about being here in this lovely place where my existence is so peaceful. Sometimes it’s almost as if I’m hiding away, like some fugitive who has committed a crime. For despite how much I love being at Lake Evergreen, I cannot escape the feeling that I should be back in Syracuse, again doing all that I can to support the home front. And that the more I accomplish in that regard, the greater the chance that Bill will survive this war. A silly premise, I know, but there it is . . .

I must also admit that I’ve become hopelessly torn between these two vastly different worlds. My sense of duty now seems a siren’s song, urgently beckoning me homeward. But at the same time, my love for this wonderful place exerts an almost unconquerable hold over me, a grip so tight that it makes me never want to leave. But leave one day I must, no matter how strong the urge to stay. For unlike Lake Evergreen, the real world—the one with bloodied beaches and with far darker waves upon which menacing warships prowl—is being rapidly torn apart by a terrible conflict. And so when I return, I’ll do everything in my power to redouble my previous efforts. Then one day my dearest Bill and I will be together again, and all will be right. But until that time comes, I must hold on as best I can. Just as so many other lonely women are doing, while we collectively long for our men to return. . .

On a less somber note, tonight’s dinner was a simple one. Some escalloped potatoes with a bit of precious ham thrown in, and a few stalks of fresh asparagus from my little victory garden. I finished the meal with another cup of the wonderful coffee that Greg gave me on the first day we met, and I’m rationing it to myself. That’s a strange notion, I suppose. That is, to carefully allot myself bits of something that was supposed to have been rationed in the first place but wasn’t! Maybe there’s some poetic justice in that, I don’t know. But what I do know is that Greg would think me silly, and he would likely laugh at me. Either way, his illicit treats are just too good to turn down. His old Packard is gone most afternoons, and my guess is that he’s usually off somewhere, taking his landscape photos.

One could have a far worse neighbor. Greg is intelligent, gentle, and kind. And there is of course an artistic side to him, which is something that I’ve rarely encountered in the other men I’ve known. That he is one of the handsomest men I have ever seen goes without saying. I still cannot understand why he has never married, because he must have to chase women off with a broom—especially now, when so many of our men are away, fighting the war. I can almost understand how a lonely married woman might become tempted to . . .

T
HE SUDDEN KNOCKING
on Brooke’s kitchen door came loudly. When she went to answer it, she saw Greg standing there in the moonlight, a great smile beaming across his handsome face. In one hand he held a cold bottle of champagne, a highly precious commodity these days. Brooke couldn’t remember the last time she had tasted some.

“Have you heard the news?” Greg asked her.

“War news?” Brooke asked as she opened the door and let him inside.

“We sank a German submarine today,” Greg said. “She was the U-153, the radio said. After she was damaged by one of our submarine chasers, one of our destroyers sank her off the coast of Panama. That might not be huge news, Brooke. But at least it’s
good
news for a change. Is seems that the Nazis aren’t the ‘supermen’ they claim to be!”

On an impulse, Greg put down the champagne and then suddenly took Brooke into his arms, his lips accidentally brushing hers. To her astonishment, Brooke felt a sudden, indescribable torrent of conflicting emotions rush through her. They held one another that way for some time, while gazing silently into each other’s eyes. At long last Greg finally let her go, and he stepped back a bit.

“I’m sorry, Brooke,” he said apologetically. “I guess I just got carried away. Do you forgive me?”

While trying to comprehend the emotional storm that had overcome her, at first Brooke found no answer. She was trembling a bit, and she guiltily realized that it was not the war news that was causing it but having again been in Greg’s arms, instead.
A man who is not your husband,
her heart called out accusingly.

As all these thoughts and more rushed through her mind, she found that her legs were shaking. Not knowing what else to do, out of habit she nervously smoothed the bodice of her dress. To her added surprise, her palms had gone clammy.

“Yes . . . ,” she finally said. “Yes, of course I forgive you. After all, it’s good news, isn’t it . . . ?”

Relieved that she had accepted his apology, Greg smiled again. “Thank you, Brooke,” he said. “I promise that sort of thing will never happen again. I guess that not being out there with them makes me more of a newshound than most.”

To her continued astonishment, Brooke found herself desperately wanting to again be held in Greg’s strong arms. To help hide her feelings, she stared down at the floor. Her breathing had deepened, her heart was hammering, and she felt helpless to control them.

My God,
she found herself wondering as she continued to avoid his entrancing gaze,
what is happening to me?
When she at last looked at him, she found it impossible to take her eyes from his.

Smiling again, Greg happily lifted the sweating champagne bottle high. “And besides,” he said, “I’ve been looking for a decent excuse to crack this open. Will you join me?”

Brooke’s first impulse was to ask him to leave. But at the same time, the physical and emotional memories of having just been in his arms dictated the opposite. Although she fought the feeling, in the end it was simply too strong to overcome.

“Yes,” she finally answered. “That would be nice. We can sit by the fire.”

“Do you have any ice and champagne flutes?” Greg asked, smiling. “It would be a shame to drink this wonderful stuff from coffee mugs.”

“Sure,” she answered.

Greg walked into the living room and sat down on the couch, causing Ike to find a new resting place atop the floor. When Brooke returned with an ice-filled bucket and a pair of leaded flutes, Greg popped and poured the champagne.

With a well-practiced touch, he gently clinked his glass against hers. “Here’s to sunken German submarines!” he said. “May there be many more.”

Brooke smiled a little. “Yes,” she answered softly.

The champagne was excellent, and this time she knew better than to ask how he had acquired it. After taking another sip, she said, “Thank you for this, Greg. It’s so good . . . I can’t remember when last I had any.”

After taking another sip, he smiled back. “It is good, isn’t it?” he asked. “There’s nothing in the world that dances upon the tongue so enticingly or so ephemerally.”

“Are those your words?” she asked.

Greg shook his head. “No,” he answered. “They’re courtesy of my late father.”

They then sat quietly for a time and enjoyed their champagne, the only sounds the crackling fire and the rhythmic ticking of the mantel clock. After a time, Greg lit a Chesterfield. When he finished it, he casually tossed the butt into the fire. He then regarded Brooke strangely, almost as if he were assessing her rather than admiring her. The change in his attitude was obvious, and it piqued her curiosity.

“What is it?” she asked.

“You know,” he answered, “I never did repay you for that wonderful whatchamacallit pie that you gave me the other day.”

Brooke shook her head. “Don’t be silly,” she answered. “The coffee and sugar you gave me were far more valuable. Then there was the dance, and now you bring me champagne, too? It seems to me that
I’m
still in
your
debt.”

“Well,” he said, “I want to give you something more, anyway. And I know the perfect thing. It will be my honor.”

Brooke was puzzled. “What are you talking about?” she asked.

To her surprise, Greg stood up in that torturous way of his and began limping toward the porch. “You’ll see,” he answered over one shoulder. “I’ll be right back.” Soon he was out the door and headed back toward his cottage.

While he was gone, Brooke tried to grasp what had just happened to her, but no ready answers came. She was shocked by how her heart had been so swiftly and raggedly torn in two, one part wishing that Greg would never return, and the other desperately wanting to be near him again.

Before she could make any sense of things, he returned bearing a sketch pad and a small cardboard box. He sat beside her again, then opened the box. Inside were some pieces of colored chalk. He then again regarded Brooke in the same odd way as before, his gaze piercing, almost analytic in nature.

“Don’t move,” he ordered her. “This won’t take long, I promise.”

As he sketched her, he positioned the pad so that she could watch him work. It began as only a rough outline, but as time went by and his fingers danced lightly over the paper, Brooke could almost feel her form taking shape there. While his talented hand continued to craft her likeness, it was as if he were literally caressing the same parts of her slightly trembling body. She could almost feel his deft fingers upon her as he re-created her lips, her breasts, her thighs. As the sensation grew stronger, she had no choice but to close her eyes and surrender to it completely. To both her fear and her delight, she now shamelessly wanted this man’s hands upon her for real. There was no escaping her newfound desires now, despite how much her other half wanted to fight them. Her breathing soon became labored, and she felt a sudden and overpowering need to be taken by him, and by him alone . . .

“Brooke . . . ,” she at last heard someone say. “Brooke, I’m done.”

At first she found the struggle to return nearly impossible. But then her eyes opened, and she came back to reality. She looked admiringly at the sketch to find that Greg had not only captured her likeness but somehow the very nature of her illicit desire, as well. It was as if he too had fully undergone all that she had experienced, and he wanted her to know it.

“My God . . . ,” she breathed. “It’s wonderful . . .”

“Thank you,” he answered as he gently set the sketch pad on the coffee table. “Creating a lovely portrait is an easy thing when the subject is so beautiful.”

Suddenly more overcome than ever, Brooke again did her best to defeat the new and burgeoning emotions swirling within her. She urgently wanted Greg to leave, yet she also desperately wanted him to stay. As the flickering firelight highlighted his chiseled features, she again found herself wanting to be utterly consumed by this amazing man—this artist, this powerful male presence that had so suddenly and unexpectedly entered her life.

On seeing the change in her, Greg gave Brooke a compassionate look. “Are you all right?” he asked. “You seem a bit pale.”

With a rather unsteady hand, Brooke set her glass on the table. “I’m just tired,” she answered. “And I’m not used to champagne. I thank you so much for bringing it, and for creating such a lovely likeness of me. But if you don’t mind, I need to call it a night.”

When Greg innocently patted her on one knee, his touch felt electric. She tried to hide the welcome sensation but wasn’t at all certain whether she had succeeded.

“Sure,” he said. “Do you mind if I take the rest of the champagne home? That stuff’s hard to get, even for a scrounger like me.”

“Of course not,” Brooke answered.

When Greg smiled again it was as if she were seeing him for the very first time, for the man sitting before her had suddenly become a far different Gregory Butler than the one she had previously known. She now wanted him, and trying to deny it would be a pointless lie.

“Then I’ll be going,” he said as he stood and picked up the champagne bottle. He then also collected his drawing things, leaving the new sketch on the table for her. “But first,” he added, “I’d like to ask you something.”