Sentimental Journey (Home Front - Book #1) (12 page)

“Where are my clothes?”

“I told you—we’re cleaning them. Your uniform was a mess, all covered with soot and snow and God knows what else.”

“Who took my clothes off me?”

“Dr. Bernstein.”

“Were you here, too?”

Her face flamed even more. “He needed help with the bandages.”

He thought for a second. “You gave me a bath, didn’t you?”

Some of her embarrassment turned to anger, and she turned the anger on him. “Why are you asking me so many questions? You’re supposed to be sick.”

“Don’t I have a right to know who’s been doing what while I was out cold?”

“You weren’t out cold. You were actually pretty cooperative.”

This time it was his face that reddened.

Her blue eyes narrowed as she looked at him. A smile flickered at the corners of her mouth but refused to commit itself. “Now let me ask you a question—why did you ask me if you were naked when you could have looked for yourself?”

“I figured it would be rude to lift up the blankets and see what was going on.”

“What’s rude is all this conversation about your underwear or the lack thereof.”

“‘Thereof’?” He played with the word, examining it from all angles. “I never met anybody who used a work like ‘thereof.’”

“Stick with me, Private.” Her smile flickered again, then decided to stick around. “I have a whole list of words I can teach you. You’ll be a walking dictionary by the time you head back overseas.”

“No guarantee I’ll be going back. By the time I’m on my feet again, I might have enough time for them to muster me out. Cheaper than keeping me on Uncle Sam’s payroll.”

“Well, don’t you worry.” She was all crisp and businesslike again, the cool blond princess he remembered from that night at the Stage Door Canteen. “We’ll see to it that you have nothing to worry about.”

“I don’t need anybody taking care of things for me. I’ve done all right by myself.”

“Spoken by a man who’s flat on his back and weak as a kitten.”

“The hell I am.” He couldn’t argue the flat-on-his-back part, but he’d never been called weak in his life.

Her laughter was sweeter than the church bells that had tolled the arrival of Christmas. “I can see you’re going to be a difficult patient. Dr. Bernstein said it will be at least two weeks before you’re on your feet again.”

“If you think I’m going to lie here for two weeks causing trouble for your family, you’re—”

“Oh, will you please stop pretending you’re in a John Wayne movie? You’re skinny, you’re feverish, and you’re not going any place until I say you can.”

“I’m not going to sponge off your family.”

“You’re not sponging, Johnny. It would be an honor.”

She looked sincere. Hard to believe, but she did. “I’ll pay my own way.”

She waved a hand in the air. “We’ll talk about it.”

He tried to lift his head off the pillow, but a wave of dizziness swept over him.

“See?” Her voice was triumphant, almost happy. “You’re not well, Johnny.”

The room was spinning and he closed his eyes. “Maybe you’re right.” He also felt hot and cold at the same time, and the shrapnel wounds on his chest were screaming for attention.

“Johnny?” She bent down next to him, and he smelled vanilla and cinnamon. She touched his forehead, his cheek and the base of his throat. “Don’t worry. Dr. Bernstein said it would be like this. You’re due for your medicine and another alcohol rub.”

The thought of alcohol on his chest made him wince. “Just the medicine.”

“The alcohol will help bring down your fever.”

“That’s okay. I don’t mind the fever.”

“Forget it, Private Danza. I’m the one in charge around here.”

Knowing she had given him a rubdown when he was out cold was bad enough. But he couldn’t be expected to lie there, almost naked, and let her trail her hands all over him. He knew he was sick, but
that
sick he wasn’t.

“What about the medicine?” The stuff knocked him out cold. It was the only way he’d make it through the rubdown.

“Do you want that first?”

She disappeared down the hallway. If he wasn’t so damned tired and sick, he’d find his clothes and get the heck out of there. Even though she’d been engaged once, he couldn’t expect her to understand the effect her hands on his body would have. Just thinking about having her so close to him was enough to send his blood rushing to points south.

It had been a long time since he’d been close to a girl, especially a girl like Catherine Wilson, a girl whose hair sparkled like the ornaments on the tree. There was no telling what would happen when she started rubbing him down. If there was one thing a man learned, it was that his body sometimes had a mind of its own. They could be wheeling you into the operating room, and if a pretty girl walked by, you just couldn’t help doing a double take.

Especially if the girl in question had been on your mind for longer than you cared to admit.

Who’d have thought it? Johnny Danza mooning over a girl he’d met only once. The last time that had happened he’d ended up getting married, and he saw where that had landed him. He wasn’t much good as a husband—at least, Angie sure hadn’t thought so. She’d run off with a guy she worked with not long after Pearl Harbor. Being an army wife didn’t hold much allure for her; looking back over the past few years, he couldn’t say he blamed her.

What kind of life was it for a beautiful young girl—spending her days at work and her nights waiting for her man to come home. Week after week, month after month, year after year. That was more than a man could ask of any woman.

Catherine bustled back into the room carrying a tray loaded with towels, rubbing alcohol and all manner of things. She shook two tablets from a brown pharmacy bottle into the palm of her hand and held out a glass of water. “Sit up and take these,” she ordered, tougher than his drill instructor at boot camp.

The quicker he took them, the quicker he’d be asleep. At least then he wouldn’t have to be witness to his own humiliation. He popped them into his mouth and washed them down with a gulp of water.

She knelt on the floor next to him. “Let me see that bandage.” She reached for the blanket and folded it down, exposing his chest. With gentle hands she lifted the dressing. “Just as I thought. You need more salve.”

He yawned loudly. “Maybe you could wait until tomorrow. I could use some sleep.”

“Once the pills start working, you’ll fall asleep no matter what I’m doing.”

Sorry. He wasn’t buying any of it. No red-blooded American male could fall asleep with someone like her sitting right next to him, no matter how sick he was. She lifted the bandage away then discarded it. The air was cold against his chest and despite himself, he shivered.

“I’ll work quickly. Just let me squeeze some salve onto my hand....” He watched, mesmerized, as a ribbon of beige cream curled into the palm of her hand. “This might hurt, Johnny. I’ll use as light a touch as I can.”

His breath caught sharply as her palm found his chest “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to hurt you.”

He nodded. He didn’t trust his voice. Pain was secondary to his acute awareness of the touch of her fingers against his skin. The shrapnel wounds were red and angry-looking, but she didn’t flinch or look away. The last nurse who’d changed his bandage—could it really be less than seventy-two hours ago?—had turned white when she saw the network of ugly gashes.

Not Catherine. She talked to him about Christmas, about midnight mass with Father O’Herlihy, about how much her father had loved to put on his best bib and tucker and parade to church with his whole family.

“But only twice a year, mind you,” she said, laughing, as she placed a fresh bandage over his chest. “Midnight mass and Easter Sunday. That’s it.”

He yawned again, this time for real. “I made you miss the services, didn’t I?”

“Don’t worry about it,” she said, reaching for the bottle of alcohol. “There’s always next year.”

He’d been worried that his body would do something to embarrass him. He never figured that what it would do was fall asleep. He stifled a third yawn and eyed the bottle. “Isn’t that stuff going to sting?”

“Don’t worry. I won’t let any of it get near your bandage.”

He braced himself for the cold harsh feel of it against his skin, but it didn’t come. His lids lowered and instead of an icy shock, he felt soothed... cared for... as if he were floating in midair with only cotton candy clouds beneath him for support....

“Can you turn over?”

“Mmmph...”

He did his best, but it was like moving through a vat of thick honey. He felt distant from it all, as if his arms and legs belonged to somebody else. Somebody clumsy and slow. Ah... there it was again. Those hands sliding across the muscles of his back, trailing down his spine, spanning his rib cage.... She was talking to him, but she was so far away he couldn’t make out her words.

But then words didn’t really matter. All that mattered was the way she touched him. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been touched like that—with kindness or compassion or friendship. This couldn’t be happening. Not three weeks ago he’d been crouched in a foxhole, praying he’d have a chance to shoot before an enemy bullet found him.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this, with him lying there on her couch, sick as a dog, the most pathetic war hero you could possibly imagine.

“Sorry...” he mumbled as the medicine kicked in. “Sorry...”

He fell asleep.

* * *

The glorious voices of the St. Mary’s choir rose toward heaven, carried upon the beautiful notes of “Ave Maria.” Dot clutched her missal as her heart soared right along with them.

Tom was alive! She was sure her smile could light up the entire church. Tucked inside her prayer book was that precious letter from her husband. Not that she needed to look at it again—she had every single precious word memorized. She squeezed Nancy’s hand and her daughter looked over at her, a grin on her sweet face.

What a wonderful Christmas! Although she wished with all her heart that her husband could be with them tonight, it was enough to know he was safe and sound somewhere across the ocean. How little it took to change the way you looked at the world. That morning she had awakened with the same heavy sense of dread that had dogged her these past few months. Each day without word from Tom had seemed a lifetime. She’d wondered how she would manage to keep up a happy front during the holiday.

But now her prayers had been answered!

Her husband was safe and sound. Nancy was home to stay. And Catherine...

Catherine was coming to life right before her mother’s delighted eyes. There was no mistaking the way she’d thrown herself heart and soul into caring for Johnny. That stone wall she’d built around herself after Douglas died was crumbling at last, and Dot offered a prayer of thanks—and another one that Johnny would stay around long enough for one more miracle.

December 25, 1944

Merry Christmas, Gerry!

I have the best news in the whole world. Daddy is fine! Mom had a letter from him tonight. Remember I told you about Johnny Danza, the kid from Brooklyn who’s become my dad’s friend? Well, Johnny saved Dad’s life and got himself injured in the bargain. They sent Johnny home to recuperate and he carried a letter from Daddy, since the mails hadn’t been going in and out of their position.

An uncensored letter! Can you imagine a letter without holes cut into it and words missing and a hundred other people poking their noses into really personal things?

You should have seen Mom’s face when she read it. Her eyes were all wet with tears and a smile lit up her face.

And as if that isn’t wonderful enough, there’s even more. When we came into the house tonight after mass, Johnny was sound asleep on the living-room sofa right where we’d left him. And curled up on the floor next to him was Cathy. Her head was resting on his shoulder, and she looked so young. I know she’s only twenty-two, but losing Douglas the way she did made her grow up quicker than she should have.

Mom and I just stood there in the doorway. All we did was look at Cathy and Johnny and I think I’m pretty safe saying that Mom and I were making the same wish.

I miss you so much, Gerry. The locket you gave me for my birthday never comes off. I keep all your letters tied up together with ribbon and tucked away in my sweater drawer. Everyone says the war is winding down, that Hitler can’t run forever, that the Japanese are running out of steam, that the day is going to come when everything is back to the way it’s supposed to be.

Only thing is, I don’t know if anybody remembers exactly how that is.

I love you very much, Gerry.

Nancy

Sometimes a guy just got lucky.

You could go your whole life looking for the reasons some men got all the breaks while others came up empty and never come close to understanding why God made the choices He did.

When Johnny woke up a little after dawn on Christmas morning, it took him a full minute to realize he wasn’t dead and gone to heaven. In all of his twenty years he’d never known a moment as completely happy as the moment he opened his eyes and saw Catherine Wilson asleep in the armchair beside him. A bright blue blanket covered her from ankle to chin. Only the cuff of her yellow pajamas peeked out at the bottom—along with her delicate feet.

He felt funny watching her sleep. Sleep was a private thing, and he knew she probably wouldn’t like knowing he was looking at her, but he couldn’t help it. It had been a long time since he’d seen anything as beautiful as the sight of her long honey-colored hair drifting across her shoulders. He couldn’t have turned away from that sight if General Eisenhower himself had issued the command.

Especially since for the past year and a half he’d carried around another, more painful, image of the girl now asleep in the chair...

* * *

“A dozen roses?” The cab driver whistled low and long. “Who’s the lucky gal?”

Johnny Danza laughed as he climbed into the taxi and gave the Wilsons’ address. “Would you believe ‘lucky gals’? I’m having breakfast today with three beautiful ladies.”

The cab driver shook his head and headed toward the Queensboro Bridge. “You soldiers got all the luck. Dames are suckers for guys in uniform.”

Johnny wasn’t about to deny it. For the first time in his life he had stature, a place in the world, and he had the army to thank for it. With that uniform on, it didn’t matter that he was a nobody with no home or family to call his own. That uniform made him special. Important. Someone worth knowing.

He leaned his head back against the seat and closed his eyes. Last night, after leaving the Wilsons, he and the guys had hit all the night spots New York City had to offer. The Folies Bergères had been a real eye-opener. Not only were the costumes even skimpier than he’d figured, but after the show was over the dancing girls had applauded all the soldiers in the audience for going out there and defending their country. Drinks were on the house everywhere they went and it wasn’t hard to figure some of the girls wouldn’t have minded spending the night with a soldier on his way to war.

But wouldn’t you know it? Damned if he could get Catherine Wilson off his mind. He’d be talking to some glamorous redhead with a dress cut down to there and his thoughts would wander back to the way Catherine had felt in his arms as they danced. A whole night to raise hell, with everyone’s blessing, and he spent most of it mooning over another man’s girl.

Big man, Danza, he thought as the taxi jounced its way across the bridge. Like she’d give him a tumble even if she didn’t belong to somebody else. Catherine wasn’t like anybody he’d ever known. You didn’t meet girls like that where he came from. Orphanages were places where you grew tough and lonely, where you learned how to make your way in the world without extras like affection and warmth and trust.

She’d cut her teeth on all of those. You could see it in the way she moved, all confidence and grace, and in the way she met your eyes when you talked as if what you said really mattered.

So who could blame him for wanting to spend a few more hours believing in miracles? Besides, if he was being really honest with himself, it was more than Catherine that drew him to the Wilsons’ home for breakfast. Although he couldn’t put words to the emotions churning in his heart, he understood that he needed to belong somewhere, even for an hour, before he headed overseas to the unknown. He wanted Mrs. Wilson fussing over him with French toast and fried eggs; he wanted Nancy to make him laugh with her
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gossip. For months he’d listened to Tom’s stories about his wonderful family, and the moment he’d met them, he knew they were all true.

Tom Wilson was one hell of a lucky man.

“Mind if I let you off here?” asked the cabbie as he stopped at the corner of Hansen Street. “I’m trying to keep my tank full for as long as I can.” Gasoline was getting harder and harder to come by for civilians, even those who needed it to make a living.

Johnny paid him and added a healthy tip. Might as well spread it around where he could. He didn’t have anybody to save it for and he doubted there’d be much use for American dollars where he was going.

“Enjoy yourself, soldier!” The cabbie pocketed the money as Johnny climbed out of the back seat and closed the door behind him.

Hansen Street was a broad, tree-lined avenue with maples and oaks towering over the roofs of the houses, dappling the morning sunlight with a green and golden glow. An old couple in their Sunday best strolled past and Johnny tipped his cap. The old guy saluted while his wife smiled at Johnny and wished him well. Up ahead of him a kid on a rusty Schwinn tossed rolled-up newspapers toward the front doors. He’d already seen the headlines. The Fifth Army was moving toward Rome. Any day now the Allies would converge on the Eternal City. For a change, however, the war didn’t matter. All he could think about was the blue of Catherine’s eyes.

70-33 Hansen Street. 70-27. 70-21.

There it was. 70-15.

He squared his shoulders and smoothed the crisp green florist’s paper that hugged the roses. He mounted the stairs, pressed the doorbell and heard Westminster chimes sound inside the house. Smoothing his hair, he cleared his throat and swallowed his nerves.

Nothing.

He rang the bell again.

“You lookin’ for the Wilsons?”

He turned in the direction of the voice and saw a man of medium build looking up at him from the foot of the steps.

“Yeah. I’m invited for breakfast.”

“Won’t be having any breakfasts at the Wilsons’ today, soldier. Not after what happened.”

He was down the steps in a flash. “What do you mean, ‘after what happened’?”

“You don’t know about Douglas?”

Johnny shrugged. “I don’t even know who Douglas is.” As far as he knew, Tom didn’t have any sons.

“Cathy’s beau. Got himself killed in the Aleutians a week ago. The Weavers just got word last night. Tom and the family have been across the street since midnight.” The man motioned toward the only house where the porch lights still blazed. “Guess the best way to get through it is together.”

“Thanks,” Johnny mumbled, looking at the garish red roses tucked under his arm. “Thanks for telling me.”

The man moved off down the street. Johnny looked across at the Weavers’ house. The curtains were open wide and he saw figures moving back and forth in front of the big window. He started toward the house, then stopped. What right did he have to knock on the door and say he was sorry? He sat down on the bottom step. He was a stranger to all of them except Tom. His condolences wouldn’t matter a damn. They sure wouldn’t bring Cathy’s boyfriend back.

Nothing could do that.

At least she wasn’t alone. It would be rough, but she had her family and her friends to hold her hand and ease her through the worst of it. Her heart was broken but it would mend one day. God wouldn’t let a girl like Cathy shrivel into an old maid. There’d be another guy, one just like Douglas, from a happy family who would love her the way she was meant to be loved. She’d never forget Weaver but she’d go on.

That’s the way life was.

He stood up. There were only a few hours left until he and Tom were due to report at the pier. He’d grab himself some breakfast at a diner then come back around noon to try to catch up with Tom. He turned to go and as he did his eye caught the flash of something at an upstairs window.

Catherine stood there, arms folded across her chest, gazing off across the street. A world of sorrow was in her eyes.
I understand
, he thought. He knew all about loneliness.

He ducked behind a maple. The last thing she needed was to see him hanging around with those stupid roses in his arms. He watched as she pressed her forehead against the windowpane and looked as if her heart was breaking.

It occurred to him that in his entire life no one had ever cried for him and it was unlikely that anyone ever would. Even in death, Douglas Weaver was luckier than Johnny would ever be.

* * *

The memory of that morning was as fresh now eighteen months later as it had ever been. The look of sorrow on Catherine’s lovely face had never left him. In his darkest moments he thought about how it would feel to have someone who cared, someone who would stand by him through the good and the bad, and each time the face he saw was hers.

Which was why he had no business seeing her face first thing Christmas morning.

This was dangerous. Probably more dangerous in some ways than squatting in a foxhole fighting the Nazis. He knew about guns and rifles and bombs. He didn’t know a damn thing about families and Christmas and girls with hair like molten honey. The blankets were wound tightly around his body and he struggled to kick his way free. If he had half a brain he’d find his clothes and get out before the rest of them woke up. With a little luck he’d find himself a cab, and head for the nearest hospital where he could heal his body among strangers, the same way he had done most things in his life.

She was still asleep, her breathing soft and sweet in the quiet room. Gingerly he sat up, shivering in the cold morning air. The wounds on his chest burned and it took all of his strength to sit up straight, what with the way the room was spinning.

So how could it hurt, staying there one more day? By tomorrow he’d be back on his feet and he could find himself a place to finish getting well. Besides, this was Christmas, and for once in his life he was going to spend Christmas with a real family—even if that family didn’t belong to him.

* * *

Catherine awoke with a start a little after seven. For a few seconds she couldn’t place her surroundings or remember why she was sleeping curled up on the armchair in the living room. The tree loomed in the half-light filtering through the draperies, and the gaily wrapped packages stacked beneath the boughs reminded her it was Christmas morning.

The events of the previous day rushed back at her. The knock at the door... Johnny sprawled across the welcome mat... the miraculous letter from her father. She would almost believe it had been a dream if it wasn’t for the fact that Johnny was sound asleep on the sofa a few feet away from where she sat. She smiled at the way his covers were tangled around his legs and torso. She padded over to where he lay and smoothed the blanket and quilt back into order. His breathing was even; that labored sound of the night before was gone, and his forehead was cool to the touch.

“You’re going to be just fine,” she whispered. He was young and strong and she was determined enough for both of them.

* * *

Eight o’clock mass was crowded with familiar faces—the Dustins, the O’Learys, Rose and Agnes Schellenbarger from the newspaper store at the corner. Everyone offered a smile and a holiday greeting.

Rose cocked her head to one side and looked closely at Catherine. “Is there a reason for that smile on your face, or is it just the holiday spirit? I do hope it means you’ve heard from your dear father.”

Catherine felt her smile widen. “Not only have we heard from him, but his letter was delivered by special messenger.” She told them the story about finding Johnny on her doorstep and finished with a rousing version of his heroism.

The two sisters crossed themselves. “Saints be praised,” said Agnes. “It’s good to hear some happy news.”

Before Catherine had a chance to think, she found herself inviting the elderly women to the house for eggnog later on. And as if that wasn’t enough, she invited Father O’Herlihy, the Dustin family, the O’Learys, and everyone within earshot.

What was the point of having wonderful news if there was no one to share it with? It had been years since the house had been filled with friends and family, singing carols and sipping eggnog and arguing over the turkey roasting in the oven. That was exactly what they needed: a real old-fashioned celebration.

She flew home, scarcely noticing the cold winds and the snowy streets. A lovely rich bread pudding—just the thing to tempt Johnny’s appetite and fill out the hollows in his cheeks. Of course her mother was probably already up and, if she knew her, scrambling some eggs for their unexpected guest.

As she turned onto Hansen Street, clear winter sunlight sparkled against the crusty snow, crisply outlining walkways and steps and the bare branches of oak trees spreading their limbs toward the sky. Why hadn’t she noticed lately how beautiful this street was? She felt as if she’d been walking through fog, and now that fog had lifted and she was able to see—really see—for the first time.

The storm had passed during the night and the sky was a clear deep blue frosted with wisps of pink-tinged clouds. Peals of laughter rang out from down the block as the Bellamys’ four grandchildren piled onto their new bright red sled and skimmed down the quiet street.

She waited, expecting that old familiar ache to clutch at her heart, and when it didn’t, her own laughter rang out into the morning air.

“Hey, Cathy!” The oldest Bellamy grandchild waved a mittened hand. “Merry Christmas!”

“Merry Christmas, Frankie!” She smiled at the kids as they skidded to a stop at her feet. “Looks like Santa was good to you.”

“You bet!” The boy yelped as his younger brother pelted him with a snowball. “Want us to give you a ride?”

“Maybe this afternoon,” she said, wrapping her scarf more tightly about her throat. “My mom’s making breakfast. I’d better get inside.” She escaped just as the Bellamy grandchildren launched the first full-fledged snowball attack of the season.

Even their front door looked wonderful and she gave the brass lion’s head door knocker a playful tweak on the nose as she entered the house. Christmas carols sounded from the radio in the living room, and she slipped out of her coat and was about to yank off her boots when she heard a commotion upstairs. Quickly she tugged off her overshoes, then dashed barefoot up the wide wooden steps.