[Desert Roses 02] - Across the Years (11 page)

“But I want them to love you, Lord,” he whispered.

Weary from the battle, Russell drew a ragged breath. “I want them to love me again as well. Is that so wrong?”

He remembered a time when the girls had been very small. They were such giggle boxes, as he affectionately called them. Work kept him away from home much of the time, but when he could, he arranged picnics or outings to show them how much he loved them.

“Ah, Peg, do you remember it?” He spoke to his dead wife as though she might answer. “You would dress in those lovely silk gowns. You always looked like a billowing cloud. The girls would wear pink ribbons in their hair, and you would don one of those extravagant hats that had become so fashionable.”

He smiled at the memory. In his mind he could see his little girls playing ball or hopscotch. Once he had made them a kite and they’d gone to the beach to fly it. It had crashed after only a few short tours in the air, but they’d had a marvelous time.

What had happened to change all of that?

Russell knew he’d taken up with the wrong people and had worried about the wrong things. Money had become
increasingly important, and the more he made, the more he needed. It was a vicious circle that robbed him of time and of his children.

I can’t change that now,
he reasoned,
but if only they’ll come and see me, then maybe I can die in peace.

But there was always the chance they wouldn’t come. Streaks of pain shot out across his body, but the pain in his heart was still more intense. If they wouldn’t come—wouldn’t even acknowledge his need—it would surely kill him quicker than the cancer.

****

E. J. Carson sat across from Mary Colter at the impeccably dressed dinner table in the Winslow Harvey House. Fine linen tablecloths and napkins lent elegance to the patterned china and silver. The traditional settings of the Fred Harvey table were not to be ignored. Coming into the room, E. J. had immediately been transported from the tiny desert town to one of the better East Coast supper clubs. And that was just as Fred Harvey, the creator of this experience, would have had it. It was good to see that in spite of the man having died over twenty years earlier, his sons were still looking to fulfill and carry out their father’s dream.

E. J. glanced to Mary’s right, where Earl Altaire, an artist who’d been hired to do paintings on the stucco walls, sat trying to explain a pattern he intended to use. He was sketching on a torn scrap of paper with a piece of charcoal he’d taken from his pocket. Mary nodded and from time to time commented, although E. J. couldn’t tell what was being said. To Mary’s left was E. V. Birt, master carpenter, who would take Mary’s furnishing ideas and recreate an antique look. The man had a true gift for working with his hands, and E. J. had thought to question him about some benches that were being designed for the lobby when the man on his right began to tap on his water glass.

“I’d like to make an introduction.”

E. J. recognized the man who spoke. He held some sort of position with the Winslow Chamber of Commerce. However, the man’s name totally eluded him.

E. J. paid attention as the older man motioned to a tall, lanky fellow on his right. The man had a good-natured look about him, rather casual and almost out of place at the elegantly set table.

“This man is responsible for designing our airport. Of course, that is but one of his many accomplishments. He was the first to cross the Atlantic, and he sealed Winslow’s prosperity when he made her a part of the new Transcontinental Air Transport service. I give you Charles Lindbergh.”

E. J. nodded in acknowledgment but said nothing. He didn’t really have a chance. Other people began to talk around him, asking Lindbergh questions and listening to the somewhat shy man speak about his exploits.

“What was it like to fly across the Atlantic?” one rather enthusiastic man questioned. E. J. recognized the man as one who assisted Mary in her scheduling.

“It was long,” Lindbergh replied with a grin.

The conversation went on, but E. J. found himself bored. Flying was a fascinating thing but much too expensive for the common man to really take note of. There was discussion of how flying would soon put train service out of business, but E. J. found that hard to believe. Trains were more accessible. Trains could be routed via spurs to every city in America—even very small towns could have train service. Planes would never have that kind of accessibility. Besides, he didn’t know many people who would trust themselves to such contraptions. Hanging high above the ground was hardly his idea of sensible.

As the conversation at the opposite end of the table continued in the direction of flight, Mary Colter focused on the hotel. “I’m wondering if you found those swatches of material for me to examine, Mr. Birt.”

The man perked up at the sound of his name. “I have the
silk velour in mulberry, mauve, and plum. Each varies a little from the other, but I think it will give you a nice selection to choose from.”

Mary nodded. “I want it for seat padding on the horseshoe chairs,” she said, looking to E. J. as if he’d asked a question. “The wood is a lovely walnut, and I believe the cushions will be just as vital as the rest of the chair.” She turned to Birt. “I’ll see them in the morning.”

“I’ll have them ready. Also . . .” He hesitated momentarily. “I have some questions regarding the chandeliers you wanted carved. The wood isn’t the quality I’d like to see.”

They continued to talk about the light fixtures while E. J.’s thoughts wandered back to his own dilemma. Ashley and Natalie were never far from his mind. He toyed with the prime rib he’d ordered for dinner, pushing the pink meat around his plate to give the appearance of actually eating. From time to time he put a piece of the tender beef in his mouth, grateful it wasn’t tough like some meat he’d endured. Ever since his jaw had been damaged in the war, his ability to chew had suffered. Funny how something so simple and commonplace could sometimes cause him great pain.

“Mr. Carson, you’ve not said more than two words this evening. Is there a problem?” Mary Colter demanded.

E. J. smiled. Mary brooked no nonsense from “her boys.” “No, ma’am. I’m just reflecting on personal matters.”

She nodded, her probing gaze bringing him a moment of discomfort. “Are you able to come with me to that old Mormon fort tomorrow? I want to bring in more of that stone for the west wall. It’s perfect for landscaping and giving the grounds an antique appearance. The more we utilize the natural resources at hand, the better off we are.”

E. J. had heard it all before. “I can come with you if you need me to. There is still the matter of seeing to that list of issues you had with the west wing.”

Mary considered this for a moment then waved her fork at him. “Stay here. I need those things taken care of. I’ll take
a couple of my boys to help me. If you talk to any of the locals, see if you can round up some old relics that might make pleasant
objets d’art.
” She didn’t even wait for E. J.’s reply but turned to the man beside her. “Now, Mr. Altaire, we need to discuss the designs for the hall. I have in mind a vining leaf and flower.”

E. J. let his thoughts recede to Ashley and Natalie. It felt strange to realize and truly accept that he had a wife and child to consider. Even if he couldn’t be sure Natalie was his child, he knew if he took Ashley back into his life, Natalie would naturally come along too.

Memories of his short whirlwind romance with Ashley Murphy came to mind. He’d first set his gaze upon her in the park. She was there with friends, laughing as she seemed wont to do. She appealed to him because of her vivacious spirit and her simplistic elegance. She’d worn a plain white muslin dress, pleated in the bodice and layered in the skirt. The sunlight gave her face a delightful glow, but her eyes seemed to sparkle with a light all their own. Ethan had been mesmerized.

He’d spied a couple of his college classmates talking with Ashley and her girlfriends. They seemed to be enjoying a leisurely game of croquet and the afternoon air. Ethan knew their social circles separated them, but as a college student he felt he could cross some barriers better than others. He longed to be included in that group, and barrier or no, the next time he saw them gathered, he made certain someone introduced him to the young beauty.

The opportunity came at a war-relief rally. Americans were doing their part to aid their European brothers, and if it presented a reason to have a celebration at the same time, people seemed all in favor of that. Ethan worried that the war would soon spread to engulf the Americans, and he wondered if he would go and fight or avoid taking up arms. He was still contemplating this matter when his classmate introduced him to Ashley Murphy.

He could still picture her warm chocolate brown eyes. She looked at him with such intensity, almost as if he were a piece of art she would study in detail.

“Ethan is an architect,” his friend announced.

“Well, at least I’m in training to be one,” Ethan corrected. “So far, no one’s hired me on.”

“It’s just a matter of time,” his friend interjected. “Ethan is top in the class.”

“I’m glad to meet you,” Ashley said, reaching out to shake Ethan’s hand.

The moment their hands touched, Ethan felt the overwhelming sensation of electricity that moved between them. He wouldn’t say it was exactly love at first sight, but it was certainly fascination at first sight.

From that point on, they began a conversation that didn’t seem to end until three weeks later, when they agreed on a whim to get married.

E. J. shook the memories from his mind.
I was a different man then. She barely knew me, and what little she knew was completely lost in the trenches of France.

He nodded as a Harvey waitress in her pristine black and white offered him coffee. The hot liquid helped warm the chill left by the memories of what had been.

Glancing across the room, E. J. noticed a man watching him most intently. The man was just a bit stocky in build, with a head full of curly brown hair. He wasn’t at all familiar to E. J., but he stared in his direction as if he knew him. An uneasiness crept along E. J.’s spine. What did the man want? Who was he?

You’re just being paranoid,
he told himself. He drank from the cup and tried to steady his nerves long enough to take a second glance. The man was still watching.

Then it dawned on E. J. Charles Lindbergh sat at their table. The man was a notable public figure. No doubt the watcher had in mind that he might meet the famous flyer.

E. J. stole another glance and felt his heart pick up its pace.
He’d so long hidden himself away from the press and anyone at all who knew him for who he’d been when he called himself Ethan Reynolds. He’d grown weary of his hero status, feeling that people were always trying to claim a piece of him. One woman had even snipped his hair, proclaiming she would have good fortune for the rest of her life because she had a locket of Ethan Reynolds’s hair. Now there were Ashley and Natalie to consider, and until he was ready to let them know his identity, he certainly didn’t need someone else spilling the news.

E. J. forced himself to go through the motions of drinking his coffee and eating his peach shortcake. It had to be Lindbergh the man was watching. No one knew he was really Ethan Reynolds. Even his wife didn’t know, and she’d spoken to him twice now.

He’d convinced himself that his identity was safe, until the man got up from his table and moved across the room. E. J. tensed, fighting the urge to flee.
This is stupid,
he told himself.
It’s been ten years. No one knows what I look like or where I’ve gone.

“I wonder if I might be so bold as to introduce myself,” the man said, standing just to the right of E. J. “I’m Marcus Greeley. I’m a journalist and author by trade. I saw Mr. Lindbergh here and I couldn’t help myself.”

E. J. breathed a sigh of relief. He didn’t even bother to look up as the conversation continued at the other end of the table and introductions were made.

“Miss Colter,” E. J. said, putting his fork aside, “I’m afraid a headache is keeping me from being any real use to you. I’m going to make it an early night.”

Mary Colter nodded. “I’ll speak to you in the morning before I head out. Why don’t we meet here and talk over breakfast?”

“I’ll be here,” E. J. promised.

He moved past Mr. Greeley, only to have the man extend his hand. “The name’s Greeley. Marcus Greeley.”

E. J. didn’t look up but nodded. “E. J. Carson.” He shook the man’s hand rather abruptly, then turned without another word. The man might think him rude, but he’d never guess his true identity if E. J. had anything to say about it.

The last thing I need,
E. J. thought,
is for someone to declare that the famous Hun killer, Ethan Reynolds, is in town.

CHAPTER EIGHT

I need to send two telegrams,” Ashley announced as she approached the telegraph operator’s counter. She’d only learned a few minutes ago that the wires were finally up and running. Grandpa was fading fast, and she knew that time was of the essence.

“What do you want to say?” the man asked, taking up a pencil and pad.

Ashley opened the first of the two missives. “This goes to Mrs. Lavelle Guzman. ‘Please come to Winslow, Arizona, immediately. I am dying and wish to see you. If money is a concern, please advise. Father.’ ”

Ashley gave the man the Los Angeles address for her aunt, then folded the piece of paper away and opened the second. “The other telegram is for Mrs. Leticia Murphy.” The message read the same, but Ashley added, “ ‘Please be aware I currently reside with Ashley and her daughter.’ ” She again had him sign the missive, “Father.”

“These are urgent,” she told the man. “My grandfather hasn’t got long to live, and he wants to see his daughters before he dies.”

“I’ll do what I can from this end,” the man assured her. He figured the cost and Ashley paid him before he asked, “If there’s a reply, where should it be delivered?”

Ashley hadn’t thought of a reply. She wrote her address down for the man and pushed it across the highly polished counter. “Just bring any response here.”