Stranger in Paradise (Home Front - Book #2) (19 page)

Something was wrong.

She knew it in the deepest part of her soul, the part that never lied or looked the other way. The moment she told him about the baby, she’d known something was terribly wrong. Oh, she didn’t doubt he was happy over their expected child—although for a moment she had held her breath in fear—but there was something else afoot. Something that Mac obviously didn’t trust her enough to share with her.

“He was always a rolling stone,” Edna had said, “never content to stay in one place any longer than he had to.”

She’d heard Nancy and the other neighbors talk frequently about men and their quirks when it came to raising a family. Women carried the children for nine months, but a man carried the family forever. The burden of keeping a roof over their heads and food on the table rested squarely on the husband’s shoulders, and Jane had no doubt the burden at times must seem overwhelming.

But babies also bound a husband and wife together in the most permanent of ways. That little life growing inside her womb was the key to their future, the visible proof that Jane had a place in this world. That she belonged.

She lay still, as if she could will him back to her side.
You can get up and go to him
, a little voice whispered.
Tell him you understand how he feels
. But that would be intruding upon his private self, something Jane had no experience in doing, and so she lay there quietly, listening to the steady heartbeat of the clock on the nightstand as the minutes passed.

Finally, a little before two, she heard the sound of his step in the hallway. The door creaked open, followed by the scrape of fabric as he yanked off his pants and tossed them onto the chaise longue near the window.

Please say something, Mac
, she prayed.
Touch me, kiss me... Oh, God, let me know you love me... Let me know you want this baby as much as I do
....

The bed dipped with his weight and she slid a few inches across the mattress. He moved behind her spoon fashion, and the weight of his arm about her was a benediction.

“Mac?” Her voice broke the stillness of the bedroom. “Is it all right now?”
Please say it is. Dear God, how could I ever live without you?

His embrace tightened. “It’s all right,” he said, his own voice low. “Everything’s going to be all right.”

And because they wanted to so very much, they both believed everything really would.

With the official announcement of her pregnancy, Jane was ushered into the secret society of women. Like contestants on
You Bet Your Life
, Jane said the secret word and was awarded the prize: acceptance. Oh, there were still a few—like Ginger Higgins—who weren’t too sure what they thought about an expectant mother with a newspaper column, but by the time she moved into maternity tops, most had forgiven her the aberration. Although she continued to write a weekly column, the women of Robin Hood Lane knew it was only a matter of time. Motherhood was an all-encompassing job, and before long Jane Weaver would put away her typewriter and accept her lot as a woman.

And it wasn’t a bad lot. Pat had dropped out of the weekly bridge game because of back spasms, and Nancy had invited Jane to take her place. “On one condition,” Jane had said. “Allow me to hostess my first card party.” No one argued. What overburdened housewife-mother would ever refuse the opportunity to mess up someone else’s kitchen for an afternoon?

“You’re getting crazy,” Mac said as she commandeered him into scrubbing out the refrigerator. “What’re they gonna do, Janie? Give the house the white-glove treatment?”

Jane, dressed in a shapeless red smock, white ankle socks, a plaid bandanna tied about her head, simply nodded and continued cleaning the stove top. “This is important,” she said, rubbing at a particularly nasty spill. “This is the first time I’ve been asked to be part of the crowd and I must be certain everything is absolutely spotless.”

“They’ll love you no matter what, Janie, once they get to know you.”

She leaned forward and continued rubbing at the spill. “Well, they’ll never have that chance if I don’t—darn!” A pain, quick and sharp, pierced her middle, then disappeared. Mac was at her side in an instant.

“Are you okay?”

She nodded, daring to take a deep breath. “I’m fine.”

“Sit down,” he said, leading her to a kitchen chair. “I’ll call the doctor.”

She grabbed his wrist. “Don’t do that. Dr. Burns said it was nothing.”

His vivid green eyes narrowed dangerously. “It’s happened before?”

She nodded. “Twice.”

“And he says it’s nothing?”

She nodded again. “Absolutely normal.” Dr. Burns had given her a very technical explanation of the pelvic cradle and how the bones needed to move in order to create ample space for the growing baby, and she did her best to reconstruct that explanation for her husband. Mac, however, continued to look skeptical and she struggled to reassure him. “Please believe me, Mac,” she said earnestly. “The baby and I are perfectly fine.”

“I’ll finish cleaning the stove,” he said, grabbing the sponge from her hand. “You stay off your feet for a while.”

“But I can’t! I have to fold the laundry and mop the bathroom floor and—”

“I said I’d do it.”

“But it’s Sunday! You can’t—”

His response was earthy and pungent; it left no room for discussion.

In truth, Jane was glad to sit down. The pain in her belly had disappeared as swiftly as it had come, leaving behind a dull ache—more a stretching sensation, really, than anything else—and a niggling fear that perhaps all was not as it should be. Nancy swore by Dr. Burns, saying he was the greatest thing since TV dinners, but Jane’s misgivings refused to go away.

Stop worrying, you goose
, she thought as she watched her husband finish with the ice box and move to the stove.
Perhaps if you’d stop hanging curtains and beating blankets, you wouldn’t be feeling so under the weather
.

The thing was to take her own advice and slow down. The first pregnancy was a luxury—all of the women said so. The one time a woman could pamper herself and simply enjoy the experience. Once there were toddlers underfoot, pregnancy became as run-of-the-mill as going to the dentist or having your tonsils out. What did it matter if the floor wasn’t as shiny as Nancy’s or the living room wasn’t as artistically decorated as Pat’s? The important thing was to take good care of herself and the baby. Everything else would simply have to fall into place behind.

* * *

Ginger Higgins was the first to arrive the next afternoon for the bridge game. “Hope I’m not too early,” she chirped brightly, her cheerful demeanor at odds with her sharp and quick eyes. “My sister took the kids out to the park and...” She shrugged broadly. “Well, here I am.”

Jane called upon her best British smile and ushered the woman inside. “I’m glad to see you,” she said, leading Ginger into the den where she’d set up a table and chairs for the card game. “May I get you something from the kitchen?”

Ginger’s gaze skittered over each object in the room. Curiosity was certainly part of the human condition, but Jane was surprised that Ginger did little to mask it. “Do you have coffee?”

Jane nodded. “Cream and sugar?”

“Cream, no sugar.” Ginger patted her hips. “Have to watch my figure or my hubby will watch someone else’s.”

Jane’s smile faded the moment she entered the relative safety of her kitchen. “Cow,” she mumbled under her breath as she poured a steaming cup of coffee for her guest. There was no misreading Ginger’s intent with that last remark. Jane was growing big with child. It would be a long time before anyone admired her figure again, and Ginger Higgins was making certain Jane was fully aware of that fact. As if she could forget, when her waistbands were impossible to fasten and her breasts ached all the time and it seemed she spent the better part of each night stumbling down the hallway to the bathroom.

She arranged the cup and saucer on a tray along with the sugar bowl, creamer and a platter of fancy cookies she’d bought at the Italian bakery near the newspaper office. She glanced at the clock over the sink. Two minutes past the hour.
Where are you, Nancy?
she thought.
If you pick today to be late I’ll
... She didn’t dare finish the thought.

“Here we are,” she called out as she entered the den with the refreshments. “I hope I haven’t kept you waiting too long.”

Ginger turned away from the bookshelf, a wide smile on her face. “You have a fascinating collection of books,” she said, approaching the table.

Bloody hell!
Uncle Nigel’s book was in Ginger’s clutches. She took a deep breath. In for a penny, in for a pound. “I see you’ve found my uncle’s tome,” she said easily as she set the tray down on the card table. “He’s a trifle eccentric, but most harmless.”

Ginger inspected the back cover of the book as if she hadn’t already memorized its contents. “I suppose this sort of thing is common in your country.”

“Nigel has a great deal of intellectual curiosity about the world around him. It extends to different political philosophies.”

Ginger put the book down on the table, her slightly pug nose wrinkling. “Is he a communist?”

Lie, Jane! You’re not on the witness stand.
“He believes in free expression.”

“Right,” said Ginger, “but what I want to know is—”

The doorbell pealed.

“That must be Nancy and Margie,” said Jane, hoping her relief wasn’t as evident as she feared it must be. “Excuse me.”

She had to restrain herself from flinging her arms about Nancy’s slim frame as she ushered Nancy and her three girls into the house.

“Wait! Here I am!” Margie called out, hurrying up the walkway with her own kids in tow. “The sink backed up and I had to call the plumber.”

“Don’t tell me about sinks,” said Nancy with a groan. “Why, last week I...”

They were off and running. Jane, for one, was inordinately pleased to see the conversation take such a mundane comforting turn. Not even Ginger Higgins, skilled though she was at shooting verbal barbs, could find a way to bring the talk back to juicier topics.

Everyone complimented Jane on her coffee, which pleased her no end. “I’m afraid I still don’t understand the affection you have for the brew,” she said, sipping her cup of tea, “but Mac said the ability to make a good cup of coffee was an all-American skill I could ill afford to neglect.”

Nancy started shuffling the cards for the next hand. “Speaking of all-American, did you hear the latest scuttlebutt from the school board in the next town?” She paused dramatically, executing a perfect waterfall with the cards. Jane was duly impressed. “Can you believe they’re banning
Robin Hood
from the library?”

Margie groaned. “Why on earth would they do that? Did you see Errol Flynn in the movie years ago? I saw it when I was in high school and I—”

“Forget it,” said Nancy, beginning to deal out the hands. “The school board said Robin Hood perpetuates a dangerous myth.”

“Oh, come on,” said Margie. “They can’t be serious.” Jane had only to look at the expression on Ginger Higgins’s face to know how serious it was.

“Think about the concept of Robin Hood,” said Ginger, leaning forward in her seat. “Stealing from people who’ve worked hard to make a living and giving it all away to bums.”

Nancy and Margie sputtered into their coffee, but Jane couldn’t restrain herself from speaking up.

“I hardly think that’s the story of Robin Hood,” she said, struggling to maintain her composure. “It’s a medieval tale of life in England, certainly not applicable to modern-day America.”

“There’s a moral in it for everyone,” said Ginger, meeting Jane’s eyes. “I don’t think it’s right to instill that type of thinking in the minds of young children.”

“It’s a fable,” Jane pressed. “An adventure. Surely you can see that.”

Ginger was implacable. “Of course you wouldn’t understand, Jane, being English and all. I’m afraid we don’t take much stock in the caste system.” Her gaze drifted toward the end table where Jane had placed Uncle Nigel’s book. “We don’t find socialism amusing.”

Jane started as she felt a sharp kick in the ankle. Nancy’s face was impassive, but the high spots of red on her cheeks gave her away. Jane closed her mouth and directed her attention to the bridge game.

“Where are your brains, girl?” Nancy demanded after Margie and Ginger had left. “Don’t you know when you’re being baited?”

Jane arranged the coffee cups in the top rack of her dishwasher. “Of course I do, but that doesn’t mean I can’t express an opinion, does it?”

Nancy sighed and kissed the top of her youngest daughter’s head. “Sometimes it makes more sense to keep your mouth shut.”

Jane slammed shut the door to the dishwasher and leaned against it. “What on earth is it with all of you, anyway? Why is an opinion such a dangerous thing?”

“Opinions are great, Jane, but you don’t have to spread ’em around to everyone, do you?” Nancy countered. “Ginger is a pain in the neck. Just let her talk and forget it. That’s the best way to handle her if you want to blend in around here.”

“Funny,” said Jane, looking at her friend. “Mac told me you were a real fighter.”

Nancy shifted her position, her gaze darting toward the back door as if she wished she could make a run for it. “Wait until the baby comes,” she said at last. “Then you’ll understand.”

Blend in. Don’t make waves. Be like everybody else
. A few months ago Jane had believed that becoming an American would be as easy as learning her ABC’s. Now she marveled at how very wrong she’d been.

After Nancy left, Jane stretched out on the divan to rest until it was time to fetch Mac from the station. Even Mac was different now that he was on his home soil. In the past few weeks he’d grown quieter, more cautious in his speech, less inclined to be the outrageous, free-spirited Yank who’d swept her off her feet and into a marriage as wonderful as it was impetuous. The to-hell-with-’em attitude that had so intrigued her had been replaced by a reserve that worried her.

Perhaps it was the baby, she thought, moving restlessly against a tugging deep in her belly. Impending fatherhood brought out a man’s more circumspect tendencies and that was a good thing. But she missed the Mac she had fallen in love with on that rainy June morning, and for the life of her she couldn’t think of a way to bring him back.

* * *

“Wan-tagh... Next stop!”

The familiar call of the conductor roused Mac from his thoughts, and reflexively, he began to collect his belongings and get ready to leave the train. Sometimes he and Gerry Sturdevant caught the same train out of Penn Station and they passed the time talking about the pitfalls of opening your own business—and the very real benefits. Gerry was ripe for a change. Mac only wished he had some money to kick in so he could be a silent partner. Gerry’s notion about drive-in movies was right on the mark; you could smell success in the air every time the guy talked about it. The only things between Sturdevant and the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow were money and his wife.

You could beg, borrow or steal money, but convincing a wife to put that money in a speculative venture was something else entirely.

Even though he and his dad and Tom Wilson were seriously interested in becoming part of Gerry’s scheme, Mac didn’t hold out a lot of hope, and that saddened him. He hated to see wasted potential in anybody, but he especially hated to see it in somebody he liked. That was one of the reasons Doug’s death had hit him as hard as it had. All those hopes and dreams gone up in smoke. The analogy wasn’t lost on Mac. It had been months since he’d had the chance to write anything that mattered, and from the looks of it, before long he’d be reduced to taking help-wanted ads for the classifieds.

Last week two of his colleagues had gotten their walking papers. Rumor had it another two were destined to take a hike before this week was out. He’d been keeping his head down, his eyes open and his mouth shut for the past couple of weeks in an attempt to delay the inevitable, but McTiernan had made it clear his days were numbered.

That in itself wouldn’t have been so terrible if it wasn’t for the fact nobody else in town was willing to touch him.

And he’d tried.

God knew, he’d tried.

The Herald-Tribune, Daily News, Journal-American.

Even the lowly
Long Island Press
. No room at the inn anywhere.

He was even tempted to try Jane’s
Long Island Daily
, but pride, the nemesis of the American male, held him back. He wouldn’t work with his wife. Besides, why should the
Daily
be any different? The cloud hanging over his head had a red lining and nothing he said or did would make any difference. A simple statement about the efficacy of the war effort in Korea had somehow mushroomed into something out of his control. For a man who’d spent most of his life ducking entanglements, he was about as entangled as it was possible for a man to get.