Stranger in Paradise (Home Front - Book #2) (9 page)

Jane tilted her head in the direction of the portly American couple doing the cha-cha across the ballroom. “Are all Americans like them?”

Mac fed his wife the maraschino cherry that adorned her Tom Collins. “I don’t think so.”

“The Graysons are from I-o-wa,” she said, pronouncing the odd word with careful precision. “Is that near new York?”

“New Jersey’s near New York,” Mac said. His grin widened. “Unless they’ve moved it while I’ve been gone.” Anything was possible. The last time he was in the Stales, sixty-year-old couples didn’t dominate a dance floor as if they were Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers. Sixty-year-old couples were like his parents, nice staid men and women with grown families and bad backs and rheumatism that acted up in the mornings. They sure as hell didn’t act like Harland and Marie Grayson.

“So where is Iowa?”

“It’s, uh, somewhere out there... near Illinois.”
I think
. Geography had never been his strong suit. He could name all the towns and hamlets around London, but ask him where Iowa was and he was treading water. He really had been away too long.

“The Graysons don’t sound the way you sound,” Jane continued, stirring her drink with the spangly red swizzle stick imprinted with the name
Queen Mary
. “Their vowels are different.”

“Yeah?”

She tapped him on the wrist with the swizzle stick. “Yeah,” she said, mimicking his accent perfectly. “During the war, I met a young man from Georgia and he sounded like no one I’ve ever heard before.”

“That’s how I felt the first time I heard a Cockney accent. I knew it was English but I could only understand every third word.”

“Now the Durkins are another story.” She smiled at the white-haired couple seated two tables away. “They say ‘dem’ and ‘dese’ and ‘dose,’ and ‘berl’ for boil and ‘Milton Boil’ for Milton Berle. Is this usual?”

“In Brooklyn it is.”

“Brooklyn, New York City?”

“The one and only.”

“Will we be living in Brooklyn?”

Mac started with surprise. “What?”

She leaned closer. “I asked if we’ll live in Brooklyn. I’ve always loved the name Brooklyn. The Brooklyn Dodgers. The Brooklyn Bridge. It sounds so American.”

He stared at her, mind blank. “I, uh, don’t know.”

It was Jane’s turn to look confused. “You don’t know?”

“I hadn’t thought about it.” He lifted her hand to his mouth and pressed a kiss in the palm. “Same as I hadn’t thought about taking a wife.”

“Will we be staying in a hotel?” She couldn’t keep the disappointment from her voice.

“A friend has a sublet in Manhattan that I was going to take a look at.” He explained that sometimes a renter turned around and rented out his apartment to a third party, rather than break a lease and lose his security deposit.

It was a fascinating concept for Jane, proof positive that America was a land of the most amazing opportunities.

“So we’ll live in Manhattan then?” She couldn’t imagine that anyone but movie stars and heiresses lived in the skyscrapers she’d seen in the movies and in the glossy magazines sold at the corner kiosk.

“Janie, I don’t know where we’re gonna live.”
Great husband you’re turning out to be
, he thought. “I’d figured to stay with my folks a day or two then see what I could find.”

Her face lit up as if he’d told her he had a penthouse suite at the Plaza reserved in their name. “Do you think they’d mind?”

He thought of his mother’s voice, distorted by the scratchy transatlantic connection, when he’d called to tell her he was moving back to the States. If that news made Edna Weaver happy, this news would make her downright ecstatic. “No, I kind of doubt they’d mind.”

“I mean, do you think they’ll mind having a daughter-in-law show up unannounced?”

“They’re going to love you, Janie.” He was sure they would, but he owed it to Jane to make her introduction to her in-laws as perfect as he possibly could. Sending a cable home might not be a bad idea.

The music finished. Jane applauded politely and Mac followed suit.

“You’re missing out on a great band,” said Harland Grayson as he held out a chair for his wife. “Really jumping.”

Mac and Jane exchanged glances and it took all of Jane’s self-possession to keep from smiling.

“They’re honeymooners, darlin’,” said Marie. “They’ve got better things to do than the cha-cha.”

Mac lit up a cigarette and winked at Jane. “I’ve been trying to explain American accents.”

Harland hooted with laughter. “Might as well try to explain creation, Weaver. Got more accents in the U.S. of A. than you got stars in the sky.”

“Got more problems, too,” said Marie, sipping at her champagne. “The Rosenbergs and Charlie Chaplin and those other damn communists.”

A frisson of alarm rippled up Jane’s spine. Charlie Chaplin had recently left the United States, a victim of “vicious propaganda,” directed at him from the right-wing elements. “I’m afraid I don’t follow.” She glanced toward Mac for guidance but his face was impassive. “I had believed it was Senator McCartney who was the problem.”

Marie Grayson’s face darkened. “McCarthy, honey, and Senator Joe is the best thing to happen to our country in a whale of a long time.”

“I was under the impression most of your citizens were rather offended by his methods.”

“Only the guilty,” said Harland with a sidelong glance at Mac. “If you have nothing to hide, you have nothing to worry about.” His glance sharpened. “Right, Weaver?”

Jane waited for a ringing argument from her husband but none was forthcoming.

“You tell me,” said Mac after another drag on his cigarette. “I haven’t been back in a long time.”

“Lucky thing. Seems like you journalist types get yourselves into a peck of trouble these days.”

Mac’s face remained impassive, but his tension was obvious to Jane by the way he stabbed his cigarette into the bow of the
Queen Mary
ashtray on the tabletop. “I knew my expense account problems were legendary, but I didn’t think they’d become common knowledge.” Cool, self-deprecating words that held a vein of steel.

The Graysons looked at each other, then Harland broke out into peals of hearty laughter. Jane’s relief was acute.

“I do believe I remember you from your war days,” said Marie with a coy batting of her eyelashes. “Wonderful stories.”

The orchestra struck up the opening notes of a polka. Harland rose and extended his hand to his wife. “C’mon, Marie. Let’s leave the honeymooners alone for a couple of minutes.”

Mac rose from his chair as Marie took her husband’s hand, then marched onto the dance floor.

“What on earth was all that about?” Jane asked as he reclaimed his seat next to her. “That sounded like an accusation, Mac, almost as if they thought you a communist sympathizer.”

“‘Are you now or have you ever been...’” Mac offered her a cigarette. She shook her head. “That’s known as being a good American these days, Janie,” he said as he lit a match. The gesture was sharp, almost angry. “Still sure you want to move to the States?”

“Still sure I want to be with you.”

Mac shook out the match, then took Jane’s hands in his. “Hell of a conversation for a honeymoon, isn’t it?” His eyes were dark, almost jade in color, infinitely seductive and appealing. The Graysons bounced by in a cloud of taffeta and hair tonic. “We could always do the bunny hop,” said Mac, his expression deadpan.

“I think not,” said Jane, matching him in tone. The queen would’ve been quite proud of her.

“How about a walk on deck? I hear there’s nothing more romantic than moonlight and high seas.”

Jane nodded. “I’ve heard the same thing.” The memory of how he’d held her in his arms as the sea crashed wildly all around them thrilled her soul.

His beautiful eyes danced with mischief. “Why don’t we see if the rumors are true?”

“Why don’t we indeed?”

Mac took her hand and swept her onto the dance floor. He whirled her toward the exit and before the Graysons had a chance to block their escape, Mac and Jane were on their way toward freedom.

“The ugly American,” Mac said with a shake of his head as they headed for the sweeping staircase. “Makes me wonder why I’m going back there.”

Jane laughed and did a wicked imitation of Marie Grayson’s bulldog pout. “You did say all Yanks weren’t like the Graysons,” she reminded him.

“What if I’m wrong?” He shuddered as they bypassed the Promenade and headed for the Sun Deck. “What if everyone back home has turned into twins of Harland and Marie?” He pretended to contemplate jumping overboard. “We may end up living in England yet, Janie.”

“Oh, no,” said Jane, her tone firm. “I’ve left the past behind. I intend to be the perfect American wife.”

Mac had no idea what the perfect American wife of 1953 was like. All he knew was that he’d found the woman of his dreams. His mirror image in matters of the heart. His perfect complement in matters of the flesh.

The wind howled like a banshee. Rain beat relentlessly on the painted deck. None of it registered on him. Mac pulled his wife close. The rail pressed against his back; his wife pressed against his front.

“You are perfect,” he said against the curve of her elegant throat. “Perfect for me.”

It was a long time before either of them spoke again.

* * *

It seemed to Nancy that the world changed every time she blinked her eyes. MacArthur was out; Ridgway was in. Air force pilots reported seeing flying saucers while here on earth a nice young man had become a nice young woman named Christine Jorgensen. You could even watch nuclear explosions on television right from the comfort of your own rumpus room. Skirts were longer; hair was shorter. Jazz was cool; Monroe was hot. People said one day jet planes would whisk you from New York to Paris in less time than it took to drive to Washington, D.C.

It was nice to know one thing never changed: the neighborhood where Nancy grew up.

Hansen Street was still lined with maples and oaks, taller now and more stately than when she was a girl. The houses were older, a bit more weathered perhaps, but they’d withstood the ravages of time with dignity and grace, the same as the families who lived in them. The Bellamy house still echoed with laughter after every visit from the grandchildren—and one of the granddaughters was about to introduce a new generation into the fold. Aunt Edna and Uncle Les Weaver’s house still boasted the best rosebushes for miles around, although Edna occasionally tore herself away from her garden for jaunts down to Florida in their brand-new house trailer.

Nancy’s parents had been thinking about buying a trailer themselves. “Maybe that’s the way to go,” her father, Tom, had said the last time her parents had come to Levittown for a visit. “Become vagabonds. Really see the United States the way she was meant to be seen.”

Dot Wilson had just rolled her eyes. She was accustomed to her husband’s bursts of inspiration. In the eight years since the end of the war, they’d traveled the length and breadth of the United States by plane, train and bus. Tom had never returned to work at Wilson Manufacturing, but had thrown himself full tilt into the all-American pursuit of happiness. Nancy’s mother was sometimes amused, sometimes bemused, but she believed her place was at her husband’s side. If it wasn’t quite the life Dot had wished for, she wasn’t complaining. Her husband had come home from the war in one piece. Many other wives hadn’t been so lucky.

No matter how much traveling Dot and Tom did, the house at 70-15 never changed. Nancy knew she could walk blindfolded through the living room and not bump into a single stick of furniture. Everything was exactly as it had always been, from the chintz-covered sofas to the mahogany end tables, to the wing chair near the window.

Nancy, who spent the better part of her days dreaming up new arrangements for her own furniture, took great comfort from the fact that her children could sit and dream at the window seat in her second-floor bedroom, much as their mother had years ago.

Of course she would never admit that to a living soul. Nancy prided herself on being the perfect modem woman, eager to keep up with the latest trends in home care and child rearing and the fine art of keeping a husband happy. These were exciting times she lived in. The future was bright and cheery, even if the specter of the Bomb clouded many a sunny day. No one wanted to waste time thinking about the past. Nostalgia was for old folks with nothing better to do than sit on the porch and dream about days gone by. Nancy was part of a new generation of Americans for whom the sky was the limit.

Unfortunately, one thing different about her old neighborhood was the volume of traffic. Cars, it seemed, were everywhere and parking spots were at a premium.

“Damn traffic,” muttered Gerry as they turned off Continental Avenue. “Where in hell are we going to park?”

She gave him a sharp elbow in the ribs. “Little pitchers have big ears,” she said reflexively, motioning toward their children asleep in the back seat. “Why don’t we park in the driveway? Mom and Daddy won’t mind.”

Gerry gave her a look that could only be described as pure husband. “You know your sister. They were probably here an hour early so they could grab the spot.”

Nancy giggled. “Cathy is a stickler for being on time, isn’t she?”

“You don’t know the half of it. I swear she has a stopwatch on all of us at the plant.”

“No talking about the plant today, okay? It’s our nephew’s birthday. Let’s make it nice for him.”

Gerry muttered something under his breath that Nancy chose to ignore. Lately Gerry’s expressions of dissatisfaction with his job had grown almost unbearable. Not that her family seemed to notice it. She had to hand it to her husband; somehow he managed to keep himself under control when they were around, exploding once the Wilsons and the Danzas were safely out of hearing range. She supposed it wasn’t easy working for your in-laws; and God only knew Cathy could be difficult when it came to business. Nancy had worked for her sister the last year of the war and so had firsthand knowledge of what a taskmaster the beautiful Mrs. Danza could be.

Gerry talked about opening his own business, about being his own boss, but Nancy was certain the reason for his dissatisfaction was much simpler. Last month’s issue of
Woman’s Day
had said men often grew cranky and irritable as their thirtieth birthday approached. Gerry seemed to have all the symptoms mentioned in the article. Restlessness. Lack of interest in household chores. A sudden fascination with road maps and travel brochures. Only it wasn’t road maps for Gerry; it was how-to books. And not just your garden variety how-to-repair-the-car type of book. Gerry was devouring books on how to open your own business.