Sentimental Journey (Home Front - Book #1) (15 page)

“Yeah,” he said finally, mustering a smile. “It’s really wonderful.”

She fussed with the dog tags and wallet and other items on the nightstand next to him. “Well, I’ll be...” She shook her head and reached deep into the pocket of her apron. “How could I forget?” She placed a thin envelope next to his St. Christopher medal. “We found this with the letter from Tom. There was no name on it, so we figured...” She let her words drift delicately away.

“Thanks,” Johnny mumbled, cheeks turning bright red. “It’s nothing important.”

You’re as transparent as one of my own children
, she thought, casting a glance at the soldier propped up in bed.
You’re wearing your heart on your sleeve, Johnny Danza, but you’re just too stubborn to admit it
.

She’d bet dollars to doughnuts the letter was meant for Cathy.

December 28, 1944

Dear Gerry,

This is my lunch hour but I thought it would be smarter to write a letter than to eat my peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich. I’m still full from Christmas cookies.

I still can’t get used to writing on these V-Mail sheets but they get to you so quickly it’s worth a try. Isn’t it hard to believe this letter will be put on microfilm and shipped across the Atlantic with a thousand other letters on the same film? I can’t imagine how they turn the film back to letters again. Modern science!

We’ve settled into a nice routine at home. At first I thought having Johnny around would feel strange—it’s been a long time since there’s been a man in the house! But he’s a really great guy and we like taking care of him. After what he did for Daddy, it’s the least we can do.

The whole house seems to revolve around Johnny these days. Mom takes care of him during the day. She and Uncle Les bathe him and do all the things Mom thinks are too “personal” for Cathy and me to do. Of course there’s still plenty for us, although Cathy seems determined to do the lion’s share. I play cards with him and read him the funny papers and I’ve been doing my best to catch him up on all the scuttlebutt about the Yankees and the Dodgers, even though baseball hasn’t been the same since the war started, with Joe DiMaggio and all the other heavy hitters in the army.

Nobody enjoys caring for Johnny the way Cathy does. He’s only been here for four days now and already it’s like she’s become a different person. I can’t tell you how long it’s been since I’ve heard her laugh the way she does when she’s with Johnny. Not that she has as much time as she’d like—there’s some kind of problem at work and she doesn’t get home until way after dinner. I’ve heard some talk along the assembly line that a union organizer is putting pressure on Cathy, but she won’t talk about it with me.

Last night, however, I was stacking sheets and towels in the hallway linen closet and I heard her talking to Johnny. It wasn’t hard to put two and two together and come up with trouble. The men at the plant don’t want to talk to a girl and the fact that she’s the “boss’s daughter” makes it even worse. It hurts so much to see the look in her eyes when she walks into the cafeteria and the men ignore her. The women like her a lot. I guess they feel she’s on their side, and having another girl in charge makes going out to work less scary.

But you know what hurts the most, Gerry? It’s knowing that Cathy’s really good at her job. The accountant told Mom that Wilson Manufacturing has had a banner year. Some of Cathy’s decisions paid off in spades. She even gave everyone a little Christmas bonus, and do you think anybody thanked her?

Well, maybe in a few months this won’t matter anymore. With the big success our troops had in the Ardennes forest, it seems it’s just a matter of time. Daddy will come back home and Cathy can put all of these troubles behind her. Who knows? Maybe one day she’ll even find someone to love.

Whoops! I just looked at my watch. It’s almost twelve-thirty and I have to get back to work or Cathy’ll have my head on a platter. I’ll mail this on my way home and write you another letter tonight.

I love you so much, Gerry.

Nancy

* * *

Catherine wasn’t sure if it was luck, skill or divine intervention, but the production quota of 6,000 units was made before work ended on December 31. Harry Barnes had given her a partial list of grievances, and she had gathered her courage and confronted the workers with her own partial list of remedies. That they hated talking to a mere woman was obvious; but also obvious was that, like it or not, she was the boss.

Wilson Manufacturing was ending 1944 in better fiscal shape than it had started the year, and Catherine Wilson was responsible. Unfortunately that didn’t make facing New Year’s Eve alone any easier.

She got home that evening in time to help Nancy primp for a party at her best friend Elaine’s house; once Nancy was on her way, it was time to curl her mom’s hair. The hospital where Dot volunteered was holding a social and her mother was in charge of entertainment.

“Have a great time,” Catherine said, kissing her mother’s cheek.

“Are you certain you won’t change your mind, honey? We’d love to have you.”

Catherine shook her head. “I’m exhausted, Mom. I think I’ll stay home, listen to the radio, then go to bed early.”

“Don’t forget Johnny’s medicine.”

“I promise.” The truth was, she intended to do everything she had to do as quickly as she could, then call it a night.

After her mother left she went upstairs to check on Johnny. He was sound asleep, still gripping the
Daily News
, and she smiled as she gently pried the newspaper from his hands and tucked the blanket around his torso. She placed the pitcher of water on the nightstand and rested the pill next to it. On a piece of notepaper she scribbled the words “Take this” and balanced it against the glass.

Dinner was soup and a sandwich by the fire. She listened to Edward R. Murrow’s report and smiled at Jack Benny’s New Year’s Eve show. A light snow was falling outside and it was pleasant to sit there, curled up on the couch, watching the world go by.

* * *

“Cathy.”

She burrowed her face more deeply into the sofa cushion.

“You’re going to miss New Year’s.”

Johnny? She opened her eyes and found him sitting on the arm of the sofa. “What on earth...?” She yawned, then quickly ran her hands through her hair.

“Don’t,” he said. “I like it kind of mussed like that.”

She sat up, tugging at the hem of her sweater. “I must have fallen asleep.”

He grinned, his teeth flashing white in the darkened room. “Looks that way.”

She stifled another yawn. “What are you doing up? You should be in bed.”

“Got the all clear from Bernstein. Time I started getting my legs working again. Besides, I wasn’t about to welcome in 1945 by myself.”

“What time is it?”

“Ten to midnight.”

She sank back against the sofa cushions. “This is a far cry from Times Square, isn’t it?”

“Angie and I went there the year we got married. Too crowded, if you ask me.”

“Angie?”

He stood up, tugging the belt on her father’s old bathrobe. “My ex-wife.”

“Oh.” She swung her feet to the floor and felt around for her slippers. It was hard to remember Johnny had once been a married man. She’d never known a divorced person before. The notion of marriage being dissolved in a courtroom was as alien to her as the idea of space travel. “Why don’t I get us some eggnog. I can’t imagine welcoming in the New Year without a toast, can you?”

He rose to his feet and held out his hand to her.

She hesitated, then put her hand in his, rising to stand next to him. Again she was struck by how tall he was. His leanness only served to emphasize the natural power of his frame, the breadth of his shoulders, and she wondered how it was she had managed to forget what now seemed all too apparent.

Motioning for Johnny to follow, she led the way through the dimly lit hall to the kitchen. Why had she picked tonight to wear this foolish blue sweater? It pulled too snugly across her breasts and rode too high on her waist. Her hair spilled over her shoulders, and she wished she had a rubber band to tame it into a ponytail.

“Six minutes,” said Johnny, pointing to the clock over the sink as she flicked on the overhead light.

“Sit down. I’ll have it ready in two shakes.”

Thank heaven for something to do. She found it so easy to talk to Johnny when he was lying beneath the covers in her bedroom, looking vulnerable and needy. These past few days she’d told him more about what was really going on at the plant than she’d told her mother in the past year. So why was she finding it almost impossible to breathe as she poured the eggnog into the heavy goblets? The only difference that she could see was that now Johnny was vertical instead of horizontal. But for some reason, that one little difference changed everything.

She handed him his goblet. “Three minutes,” she said with a nod toward the clock. “Here or in the living room?”

“Living room.”

Once again she led him through the hallway, conscious of the sway of her hips, the soft brush of her hair against her cheek, the idiotic way her heart was thudding in her chest. She switched on the table lamp in the far corner of the room, then tuned in the radio to a live report from Times Square. Johnny sat down on the sofa and motioned for her to join him. She felt as if she had lead inside her slippers; each step required an act of will.

She sat down on the cushion next to him. Her right knee brushed against the hem of his bathrobe and she blushed like a schoolgirl.

The radio announcer’s voice filled the room: “... and as the clock approaches midnight, the world eagerly awaits the year of our Lord nineteen hundred and forty-five—a year we hope will bring an end to war...”

She lifted her glass. “To peace.”

He lifted his glass in answer. “To your dad’s safe return home.”

“... eight... seven... six...”

“To your health,” she said.

“To you.”

“... three... two... one... Ha-a-ppy New Year, everybody!”

They clicked glasses. She raised the glass to her lips, but before she could take a sip, he took it from her and placed it with his on the coffee table.

“Johnny.” Her voice was tremulous, low with both surprise and anticipation.

He took her hand. “Happy New Year, Cathy.”

She looked down at their fingers, laced together. “Happy New Year,” she whispered as the bittersweet strains of “Auld Lang Syne” crept into her heart.

He cupped her chin with his other hand and tilted her head slightly. Later on she marveled that she had recognized the inevitability of that kiss from the very beginning, yet when it happened it took her genuinely by surprise. He moved closer, closer, until his features blurred in front of her eyes. His lips against hers were tentative, his touch no more than a gentle sliding motion, but that gentle touch registered itself from her head to her feet.

And she knew it had to stop now, before everything changed and there could be no turning back. She placed her hand against his chest then remembered the shrapnel wounds and moved her hand to his shoulder.

But it felt so wonderful to be there in his arms, to feel his lips, to smell his scent.
Stop this now!
the logical side of her mind warned.
There’s no point to this, no future in it. Don’t start believing you can have the life you’d dreamed of when you were a girl
....

His eyes held hers, and for an instant she wished time would stop and she could sit there like that, with her hand in his, forever.

Johnny recognized the change in Catherine the moment it happened. Her lids lowered, her lashes casting smoky shadows on her flushed cheeks. Her lips curved upward into a shy smile that found its target deep inside his chest. And he couldn’t help but notice the way her breasts rose and fell with the rapid tempo of her breathing.

He’d dreamed about this moment, wished for it a million times the past year and a half, but never for a minute had he believed he’d ever live it. But there she was, not more than a heartbeat away from him, beautiful and trembling and ready for his kiss.

He lowered his mouth firmly on hers. Her lips were soft as angel wings, her breath sweet as rose petals. Desire rose inside him, overriding injury and fatigue, and it took a heavy dose of conscience to keep from claiming more than he had a right to claim—except in his dreams.

Saint or sinner. Wise man or fool. Johnny didn’t want to know. It took every ounce of willpower at his command to break the kiss.

Catherine didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed. “We should drink the eggnog,” she said once she found her voice.

“Yeah,” he said. “We probably should.”

Once again they raised their glasses in a toast. “To 1945,” she said, meeting his gaze.

He nodded. “To 1945.”

It was as good a place as any to begin.

The good news was, Johnny was getting better every day. The bad news was, getting better meant he would have to say goodbye.

By the end of the second week in January, he knew that the time was almost there. He took long walks during the day, sometimes with Mrs. Wilson, sometimes on his own, as he tried to figure out what he would do with the rest of his life.

Today he was alone.

The morning mail had brought the news he’d been expecting. As of February 1, 1945, Private Johnny Danza would be a civilian. Any day now he’d be well enough to leave the shelter of the Wilson home and head out on his own again. What was that old saying? Oh yeah. The more things change, the more they stay the same.

He’d spent his entire life on the outside looking in. For a little while he’d glimpsed something different, something better, but the glimpse had been fleeting. He’d been born alone and alone he was going to stay.

There was no place for him in that strange new world called the American home front. It was a world inhabited by women and children and weak sisters like that Eddie Martin. Guys who were too soft or too scared to do their duty for their country.

But then again, how in hell was Johnny any better? Thanks to his injuries, he was about to become a civilian in a world where to be a civilian was to be less than a man.

He strolled the snow-covered streets, looking for answers in every street sign and shopkeeper’s face. Did he stay in New York? Did he head out west to the wide-open spaces? Did he throw himself on Uncle Sam’s mercy and beg his way back into the army, the only home he’d ever known?

Or would he stay right there in Forest Hills? The idea had its charm. The town was every bit as beautiful as Tom had told him during those dark nights of waiting for the enemy to strike. But the most beautiful thing of all about Forest Hills was Tom Wilson’s daughter Catherine.

She had become a part of him, although he had yet to admit to himself, much less to her, how much he cared. During those long days and nights when he was coming back to the land of the living, it was Catherine’s face he remembered, Catherine’s voice that lingered in his head, Catherine’s touch that made him burn.

“Damn,” he muttered, his breath visible in curls of frost. He had no business thinking like this. The Wilsons had opened their home to him out of the goodness of their hearts. They talked endlessly of the unselfish act of courage that had saved their Tom’s life, but to Johnny his act of courage paled by comparison to all they had done for him.

He’d made a hash out of his marriage, just as he’d made a hash out of his childhood and his teen years. He thought he’d found a home in the army, but that idea had gone the way of so many others dreams he’d had along the way. In these past few weeks with the Wilsons he’d found himself wanting things that were way beyond his grasp, things he had no experience dealing with. Home. Family. Permanence.

Catherine. Twice he’d almost given her the letter he’d carried with him all the way from that English hospital, but both times he’d plain lost his nerve. That brief New Year’s Eve kiss had shaken him to his roots. The way she looked, the sound of her voice, the sweet smell of her hair—

“Forget it, Danza,” he said into the wind as he turned back onto Hansen Street. “Just forget it.”

* * *

“No!” The word burst from Catherine’s lips before she had a chance to think. “I mean, you’re not well enough to leave yet, are you?”
Get a grip on yourself girl! You sound like an idiot
.

Johnny looked at her across the dinner table. “I can’t stay here forever.”

“Now don’t talk like that!” God bless her mother for adding her own two cents. “You know you’re welcome to stay here for as long as you want.”

“I appreciate that, Mrs. Wilson, but it’s about time I got out of your hair.”

Catherine found it impossible to keep her own counsel. “What about the army? Surely you’ll be back with another squad or platoon or—”

“Forget it,” said Johnny. “February first I’m a free man.”

“Do you have a job yet?” Leave it to Nancy to jump right in with both feet.

Johnny shifted in his seat. “I, uh, haven’t started to look yet, Nance.”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” Catherine glared at her younger sister. “The man is barely out of his sickbed. He has plenty of time.”

“You’ll need it,” said Nancy with a knowing nod of her head. “Jobs are pretty easy to find but housing isn’t. Believe me, I know. That boardinghouse I lived in this summer was awful.”

“She’s right,” said Catherine, suddenly siding with her sister. “People are doubling and tripling up, and there still aren’t enough apartments to go around.” After Pearl Harbor, war-production plants had sprung up almost overnight, bringing large influxes of workers into areas ill prepared to house them.

Johnny stared down at his mashed potatoes and gravy. Nancy launched into a convoluted story about the assorted types she’d roomed with out in Long Island. Dot, oblivious to the undercurrent of tension in the room, bustled into the kitchen for more green beans and carrots to go with the roast chicken.

Catherine pretended to concentrate on her own dinner, but her mind was scattered in a million directions. Johnny was a grown man. He had the right to go wherever he wanted, whenever he wanted. Just because they owed him an enormous debt of gratitude was no reason to force the poor man to stay put while they paid off that debt.

And just because she could still feel the touch of his lips against hers was no reason to wish him anything but the best life had to offer, even if it meant moving on.

* * *

A few hours later Catherine knocked on the door to her room. “It’s me,” she called out, her voice deceptively bright and easy. “I need a few things from my closet.”

Johnny swung open the door. He was dressed in a pair of army-issue trousers and a white cotton undershirt that emphasized the contours of his chest. Not that she was interested, of course, but it was difficult to concentrate on a man’s eyes when there were other more fascinating places to look.

He stepped aside so she could enter the room.

“I’ll get out of your way.” He grabbed a shirt from the foot of the bed and slid his arms into it. “Promised your mom I’d take a look at the kitchen sink.”

She positioned herself between Johnny and the bedroom door. “Mom went over to play bridge at the Weavers’. She won’t be back until later.”

“The sink’s still there.”

“Filled with dishes, Johnny. I’m afraid we’re a sloppy group.”

“Okay,” he said, leaning against the chifforobe, “what’s up?”

“You’re very suspicious tonight.” Casually she strolled over to her closet and flipped through the dresses hanging in neat rows inside. The sight of his trousers and shirts hanging side by side with her jumpers and frilly blouses affected her like a blow to the stomach.

“Do I have reason to be suspicious?”

She withdrew a navy wool jumper and a plain white cotton blouse with Joan Crawford shoulder pads to give it authority. “I’m not being very subtle, am I?”

He shook his head. “Not very.”

“Okay,” she said, draping the clothes over the back of a chair. “I’ll give it to you straight.” He folded his arms across his chest and looked her straight in the eye as she gathered both her courage and her words. “Now that you’re going to be a civilian again it occurred to me... What I mean is, it seems you’ll have a lot of time on your... The point is—”

“Are you offering me a job?”

Her breath rushed out in one relieved whoosh. “Yes!”

“At Wilson Manufacturing?”

“Of course.”

“No, thanks.”

“I haven’t told you about the position.” It had taken her two hours to work out a description enticing enough to mask the fact that her motives were less than pure.

“Doesn’t matter. I don’t take charity.”

“Then you have nothing to worry about. I’m not in the habit of offering charity.”

“Tell it to the marines, Cathy.”

“Very original,” she said, her tone frosty. “I’ll have to remember that.”

“Am I wrong?”

She hesitated a beat too long.

“That’s what I thought. Nice idea but forget it. I’ll find my own job.”

“That might be harder than you realize, Johnny.”

“I’ll manage.”

She took a step toward him. “We’d like to help.”

“You’ve helped enough.”

“Why don’t you let me explain the job to you?”

“Why don’t you give up?”

“Because I care about you.”

Dear God, had she really said that? Her words echoed inside her head and she wished she could call them back, but it was too late. He turned away so she couldn’t see his face.
Oh, yes
, she thought,
it was definitely too late for that now.

“I can make it on my own,” he said, his voice low and menacing. “I’ve never asked for anyone’s help before and I’m not about to start now.”

“Johnny, please listen to me.” She crossed the room to where he stood with his back to her. Gently she placed her hand against his forearm. He remained still as a statue. She increased the pressure of her fingers against his arm. Still nothing. A chill began at the base of her spine, then worked its way upward to her scalp.
No... please, no
... she swallowed hard. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because it’s none of your business.”

She trailed her forefinger along the ridge of muscle that was as beautifully sculpted as marble—and as unfeeling. Her heart went out to him. “I’m so sorry.”

He spun around, all rage and hurt. “Don’t say that.”

“But I mean it, Johnny. I wish you’d shared it with me—with us.” She didn’t have to ask how it had happened; she was certain it was a result of the heroic action that had saved her father’s life. “I should have... I mean, I don’t understand why we didn’t notice—” She stopped cold at the look of anger on his face.

“Still have a job for me, Cathy? A little manual labor, maybe, something just right for a big strong guy like me?”

“Don’t talk like that. Of course, I still have a job for you. This doesn’t change anything.” The loading dock. Assembly line. Everything she had thought of had been ruled out in that single instant of comprehension. But she’d come up with something else. She had to.

“You don’t sound so sure of yourself, Cathy. Not so easy to find a job for a guy like me, is it?”

“It’s not your arm that worries me, it’s your attitude.”

“Not grateful enough?”

Anger, towering and pure, soared through her and she lifted her hand to slap his face. “Damn you,” she whispered as reason got the better of her. She had never cursed another person in her life, but her emotions were running so hot and fast that she couldn’t control her tongue. “Don’t you know when someone’s trying to help?”

“Don’t you know when it’s not wanted?”

He pushed past her, and before she could say another word, he was down the stairs and gone.

* * *

“Bad night?” Eddie asked the next morning as Catherine slogged away at her desk.

She looked up from her latest stack of employee grievances, straight from the pen of Harry Barnes. “It shows?”

“It shows.” Eddie sat on the edge of her desk. “Bad news from the front?”

“Bad news at home.”

“Anything you feel like talking about?”

She shook her head. “Not this time, but thanks.”

“I kind of miss our talks,” he said, tapping a pencil against her desk. “Doesn’t seem to be so much time since the war hero moved into your house.”

She massaged her temples in an attempt to stave off the gathering headache. “Not today, Eddie. I’m not in the mood.” She shifted her attention from the personal to the professional. “We have a new batch of complaints from Barnes.”

“That’s not the half of it. They’re talking about a walkout day after tomorrow.”

Her mouth dropped open in shock. “Are you certain?”

“Certain as an outcast can get.” Eddie’s situation had been deteriorating in the past few weeks. When he wasn’t fighting with some of his older coworkers, he was taking time off to visit draft boards from there to Boston and back.

She scribbled some thoughts down on a lined yellow pad. “Do me a favor. Go downstairs and make these proposals to Harry.”

“Talk to those goons?” Eddie’s laugh was short, bitter. “They’d have me for lunch.”

“I need help, Eddie. This isn’t something they want to hear from a woman.”

“Yeah? Well, they’d rather hear it from a woman than a 4-F, I’ll tell you that.”

She started to tell him he was being oversensitive, but the memory of the latest in a series of black eyes gave her pause. “Don’t worry about it,” she said finally. “It’s my problem.”

Eddie stood up and went back to work, leaving Catherine with the nagging question: what on earth
wasn’t
her problem these days? Everything from Eddie’s situation to the stopped-up kitchen drain ended up on her shoulders. Something wrong? Call Catherine. She had all the answers. All you had to do was ask.

Trouble was, when it came to her own problems the answers weren’t so easy to find. Eddie would probably never find his way into the army, no matter how she wished she could make it right for him. Harry Barnes would never listen to a word she had to say. The workers would stage the walkout they’d threatened and Wilson’s productivity would stop cold. And, worst of all, Johnny would pack his duffel bag and disappear from her life forever.

“We’ve gotta talk.”

Her head jerked up and she stared at the man in the doorway to her office. “Johnny’?” It didn’t seem possible. He’d disappeared last night after their argument and, as far as she knew, hadn’t come back home.

He motioned toward the chair adjacent to her desk. “Can I come in?”

“Of course.” She swept the stack of grievances off to one side, then folded her hands primly atop her desk blotter. No more begging him to let her do him a favor. If he wanted to be a tough guy, the kind who needed nobody’s help, she’d just let him stew alone. It would serve him right. “What can I do for you?”

“I’m sorry.”

She blinked. “What was that?”

“I said, I’m sorry.”

“You’re kidding.” She narrowed her eyes and looked at him. “You’re
not
kidding.”