CHAPTER FIVE

Agnes Ames met with Father Donovan that very evening, even before Moss came to the house. She stretched the truth, just a bit, saying Moss was due to be shipped out any time now, so could the Father please dispense with the banns that should be read three Sundays in a row?

“Dispensation is not given freely, Mrs. Ames,” Father Donovan said with a sigh, “but neither is it unusual during these times of war.” Little Billie Ames was getting married. How could he refuse this child her precious request? He’d baptized her, confirmed her, and after all, Lieutenant Coleman was a Catholic—on his mother’s side, at least. Most unusual for a Texan, the priest thought, but he was naturally pleased. “I’ll make the arrangements, Mrs. Ames. It’s usual in cases where the banns cannot be announced three Sundays in a row to have them announced in three different churches.” He paused a moment. “There will be at least one week before the wedding, won’t there?” he asked sternly. He was willing to go just so far.

“Oh, yes,” Agnes hastily assured him. “Today is Thursday, so this Sunday makes one week. And since the wedding will be next Sunday, that gives us two weeks!” Her mind was clicking with the relentlessness of a metronome. Invitations. Only close friends, of course, and Father Donovan. Caterer. Champagne, something light and elegant. Accommodations . . . the Latham Hotel, downtown. Simple yet elegant. The word that kept coming to Agnes’s mind was “small,” but then she amended it to “hurried.” She wanted this over and done with quickly, before any of the Colemans got the idea of coming up from Texas and talking “sense” to Moss.

The following days were spent on the telephone, readying the house and making arrangements. She explained to friends that “this war” made it impossible to do anything right, but Agnes knew Billie didn’t care a whit if it was a formal wedding at a mass or simply repeating vows in the rectory. All she wanted was the ring on her finger that said she was Mrs. Moss Coleman.

Moss had voiced no objections and silently agreed to Agnes’s little fabrication that he might be shipped out at any moment. Everyone appeared to be happy. Moss and Billie were to have the upstairs to themselves now, taking over Agnes’s room with its big double bed. The roomers were gone, much to Agnes’s relief. Everyone would share the kitchen and bath, but Agnes would move down to Billie’s bedroom study. Moss would contribute to the household expenses, and of course there would be a nice little allotment for Billie once he went away.

 

Agnes was in the kitchen, her mind half on the unfinished letter before her and half on what to have for dinner. Her eye fell on the calendar hanging beside the refrigerator. Billie’s period should have begun two days ago. Billie was pregnant. She had to be. She was going to bear the Coleman heir and secure her own and Agnes’s future.

Billie wandered in and listlessly poured herself a glass of lemonade. She was thirsty yet almost afraid to drink it because her stomach had been so upset these past three or four days. Billie attributed the queasiness to the excitement of the wedding, but when she’d mentioned it to Agnes she’d been shocked to see satisfaction on her mother’s face. Surely her own mother wouldn’t wish this misery upon her.

“What are you doing, Mother?”

“Oh, I thought I’d write to the Colemans. I think it’s about time, don’t you? I discussed it with Moss last night and he gave me the address. It’s such a long trip for them to make that I thought it would be nice to write about a few of the details so they won’t feel left out.”

“You didn’t say anything to me about it, Mother. Neither did Moss. Why do you always confer with Moss and then I find out what you’ve decided after the fact? I’m beginning to feel left out.”

Agnes stared across the table at her daughter. “You’re getting cranky, Billie, and that isn’t good for you or the baby.”

Billie sighed. “You don’t know I’m pregnant. I really wish you wouldn’t talk like that.”

“All right, let’s say you’re on edge—does that make you feel better?”

“No. Let’s just drop it. I think I’ll take a shower and lie down for a while. I feel a headache coming on.”

“Is there anything you want me to say to the Colemans?”

“How can I say anything? I don’t even know them. I’ve never even spoken to them, and neither have you. Since you’re so bent on doing everything exactly right, Mother, don’t you know that it’s the groom’s family who should make the first gesture?”

“Well, I know that, Billie, and you know that, but perhaps they don’t know it,” Agnes replied defensively. She was well aware of her breach of etiquette and admittedly somewhat unnerved by it. Certainly a family as affluent and influential as the Colemans was aware of its duties and obligations. In fact, this was the only fly in Agnes’s ointment: the Colemans might disapprove of Moss’s decision to marry; if so, then either they would convince him that he was acting hastily and should cancel the wedding, or they would ignore the situation entirely and never accept Billie or the baby as one of their own.

Billie rubbed her temples and relented, too queasy and achy to argue. “All right, Mother, you take care of it. You usually do. As long as Moss approves, it’s all right.” It wasn’t all right. Why hadn’t Moss said something to her? But if he had, it would have been one of those little “don’t worry your pretty little head about things like that” speeches. She was being cranky, but it was only because she wouldn’t be seeing Moss tonight. He had to attend a social function with Admiral McCarter, meeting and dancing with other women. She remembered how Moss had been the focus of female attention at the graduation dance, and even at the USO he’d attracted women like bees to honey. She tried to reason with herself that Moss loved her, that he’d asked her to marry him, but jealous fear bit into her like the teeth of a dragon.

She felt better after her shower, more relaxed. Curling herself onto the window seat, she rested her head on her knees and gazed out at the green lawn and summer flowers through the dark rusty screen, thinking about Moss. She always thought about him; even when she was doing other things, thinking other things, he was always there, like a friendly shadow, smiling down at her. How she loved him! It came from somewhere deep within her, welling, rising like a mountain river during spring thaw, rushing and turbulent until it found its own level. She knew Moss loved her; otherwise he’d never have asked her to marry him, but she guessed it wasn’t with the overwhelming, consuming love she felt for him. To Billie, Moss was all that was exciting and beautiful. He was the focus of her passions and the man of her dreams. He was love. If he didn’t love with the same devotion and depth, it was all right, she thought. Someday he would. He would grow to love her and she would become his world just as he was already hers. Somewhere in her heart, though, Billie was aware that Moss loved her as much as he could love anyone. It would have to be enough.

A delicious feeling of wickedness rushed through Billie. She dreamed of sleeping in the same bed all night with Moss. She wanted to reach out and touch him, warm with sleep, feel herself turning into his arms and resting her head on his chest. She wanted to awaken in the morning and see him before she saw anyone else, hear the sound of her name on his lips, have him crush her against him, have him make love to her. She hugged her knees to her chest. Life couldn’t be more wonderful or perfect if God had stepped down from the heavens and personally handed Moss to her, to keep and to love. If she really was pregnant, it would be wonderful. Moss’s baby. Their child. How she would love it. Moss would adore her because she’d given him a child.

A frown puckered Billie’s brow. She wasn’t certain how Agnes would react to a baby in the house. Babies meant work and confusion, Agnes always said. They demanded and needed attention. Yet whenever Agnes alluded to the possibility of pregnancy, there was something smug and satisfied about her.

Billie was so caught up in her daydreams she almost missed hearing the jangling phone in the front hall. When she realized it wasn’t the church bells ringing in the noon Angelus, she scurried to the phone and lifted the receiver. She was breathless.

“Billie?”

“Yes, Moss.” He’d called. He wanted to talk to her. How wonderful it was to hear him say her name.

“I can’t talk for long. We’ve got a lot of visiting brass here today. I’m behind in my work and the admiral is edgy. He gets nervous when too many stars are around, especially when they’ve got more brass than he does.”

“Maybe you’ll be more sympathetic when you’re an admiral,” Billie teased.

“Billie, I don’t want to be an admiral. All I want is to fly. I want to take my place up there with the rest of the guys.”

Billie’s heart flopped over. Every day, it seemed, the news was filled with stories of downed pilots. She childishly crossed her fingers to wish that Moss would spend the war with Admiral McCarter. She knew it was selfish of her, but she loved him and wanted to keep him safe. What was wrong with that? “I know. I didn’t mean to upset you. I was only teasing.”

“I know, honey, but I want you to understand that I could never be happy unless I’m flying. I’ve told you that all along.”

It sounded like a warning to Billie. She’d ignore it. “Yes, you did, and I’m sure you’ll get your wish when it’s time.”

“Hey, Billie, do you still pray for me?” he asked, his voice warm and intimate, sending shivers up her spine.

“You know I do,” she whispered. She prayed. She prayed he’d always be safe and never taken from her.

“Good girl. What are you doing today?” he asked. “Will you think of me?”

“All day, every day,” she told him, her pulses quickening. She imagined she could see his smile, his thick dark hair brushing his tanned brow, and those summer blue eyes that winked out from under thick black brows. Smiling eyes in an otherwise serious face. “I guess I’ll weed the garden and then I’ll move some of my things upstairs.” She felt herself flush, remembering that just minutes before she had been daydreaming about sharing a room and a bed with him.

As though reading her thoughts, Moss whispered huskily, an intimate sound that made her blood sing, “Will you be moving them up to our room? I like having your little-girl things around me, Billie. And then what will you do? I want to know so I can think about you.”

“Then I suppose I’ll have to help Mother with the arrangements for the wedding.” She laughed, gloriously happy. “If she’ll let me, that is. She seems to be enjoying each little agonizing detail. Right now she’s writing to your parents and seems to think I should do the same. What do you think, Moss?”

“Don’t you worry your pretty little head about that. Just let your mother handle it. There’ll be plenty of time for you to think about other things besides me.” The old girl wasn’t letting any grass grow under her feet, Moss thought. Pap, you’re gonna whizz in your pants when you get that letter. He hoped Billie wouldn’t think to ask him if he’d called his folks. Amusing. It was all so damned amusing.

“Did you know Mother was writing to your parents?” Billie asked hesitantly.

Injured feelings here, Moss concluded. How often he’d dealt with them where Amelia was concerned. Play the game. Lie if you must. “Not actually, but it’s not such a bad idea, don’t you agree?”

“I suppose so. But Moss, shouldn’t you be the one writing to them? You’ve never said if you called them or what they said about our getting married. Aren’t they even curious?”

“Billie, don’t worry. Everything is fine. Trust me, won’t you?”

“I do, Moss. I feel guilty, I guess, because I told Mother I didn’t want to add a note. Lord, she even wants to send a picture of me.”

Trust Agnes to come up with that idea. He smiled. Seth would study the photo with a magnifying glass. “A looker” is what he’d call Billie. “We’ll call them the day we get married. That way they’ll be talking to their new daughter. Tell me you love me, Billie.”

“I love you, Moss. I’m miserable when I’m not with you. Tomorrow seems like forever away. I dream about us all the time and what it’s going to be like when we’re married.”

“Good” was all he said. Hell, he had dreams, too. Of taking off from the deck of a carrier and soaring upward into blue Pacific skies. Wing pilot. Squadron commander. Pap, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet! I’ve got me a war to fight and you’re gonna take care of my wife and baby. Moss knew there was a baby. Even Billie had confessed she was late. It was just a matter of time until a doctor verified the fact. Pap, you’re getting a bonus and you don’t even know it. Another Coleman. Carry the name, continue the line. It dmn well better be a boy—Pap would never settle for less. Moss brought his attention back to Billie. “Tomorrow isn’t so far away. Look, honey, I’ve gotta go now. The admiral is coming up the walk. I’ll call you tomorrow and come by for dinner.”

“Good-bye, Moss. Think about me?”

“I will, Billie. Now, don’t you do anything too strenuous. If you’re going outside, wear a hat. The heat is brutal.”

The lilt in Billie’s voice was like a birdsong. He’d made her happy and that was good. When she was happy she didn’t think a lot and if she didn’t think a lot, Agnes didn’t look for problems.

“I’ll do that, Moss. I love you.”

Moss leaned back in his swivel chair. Admiral McCarter was nowhere in sight. He wondered how the admiral’s golf game was going. If nothing else, he could write some letters. The kind Pap wrote when he wanted something from someone. In this case, Moss was applying for a transfer, listing his first preference as the USS Enterprise. He’d get what he wanted; he knew it. He’d graduated top of his class and was known as a good pilot.

Before he’d had a chance to begin, the phone rang four times in rapid succession. He doodled on the blotter in front of him, drawing a sleek plane. His pencil slid over the blotter, honing its lines.

 

Agnes licked the envelope flap and sealed it. There, it was done. She did not plan to send the letter air mail. The Colemans would receive it after the wedding. Even if they managed to work in a phone call, it would be too late.

Agnes shrugged. Moss was expendable. Once he’d pronounced his vows—she was counting on his sense of duty—and the marriage certificate was in Billie’s hands, he could fly off directly to Tokyo as far as she was concerned. It was Billie who was important. Billie and the baby. Of course she was pregnant; she already had the symptoms. And if by some strange chance of fate she wasn’t, Agnes would be sure to give them lots of time alone. There would be a baby within the month.

Would Billie make a good mother? She was very young. Agnes didn’t know. Agnes didn’t care. The Colemans could afford nursemaids and nannies.

Little bumps like those on a fresh-plucked chicken rose on Agnes’s arms. She swore she could feel the weight of the Coleman money. First she’d smelled it. Now she could feel it. The heavier it felt, the better she liked it. Billie Ames Coleman. Billie Coleman’s mother.

 

Billie and Moss were married and the day of their wedding was perfect. The sun shone. The garden bloomed. Billie was radiant. Moss was handsome and dashing in his navy whites. Agnes was victorious.

The entire party, including Father Donovan, numbered thirty-five, and the reception was held at the Latham Hotel in downtown Philadelphia. Every time a champagne cork popped Agnes cringed. It was so expensive, even the house brand they were serving. Moss had offered to pay for the wedding but she’d refused. There were some things she had to do. This was one of them.

Moss found a quiet corner and for company had taken half a bottle of bubbly and a glass. He watched his beautiful bride as she laughed with her friends and danced with his from the Navy Yard. Thad Kingsley seemed especially attentive to Billie, and Moss was enjoying it. Now that Billie was his, all his, he could afford to be generous. He snickered as he remembered his own jealousy that night at the USO. What he’d said was true. He didn’t want to share her with anyone and he’d never taken her there again.

Married. Good God, he was married and had a wife. Moss guzzled the champagne and had to fight to keep from standing on the table and making a toast. Not to his bride, but to his old man. Pap, it was a hell of a wedding. We all got drunk, all but the bride and her mother. We nibbled on strawberries and scrambled eggs and something called crepes. I’ve got me a wife, you old bastard, and I got her by myself. No picking and choosing. No running her past the Coleman receiving line. His eyes went to his radiant bride. A new Coleman. He held his glass aloft and winked at Billie.

Agnes’s party was over. This was his time now.

 

The Hotel Latham was one of the best. The dining rooms were opulent; the little bistro at ground level fashionable and intimate. The service was discreet; carpeted halls muffled footsteps. This was where Billie would spend her wedding night. It could have been a soddy hut and she wouldn’t have noticed, not if Moss was with her.

Outside their room, Moss swept Billie into his arms and carried her over the threshold, his mouth warm and exciting against her ear. “You’re mine now, Billie Coleman, all mine!” His arms were strong and she felt small and vulnerable in them, clinging to his neck. He echoed her own thoughts: he belonged to her now, and nothing would ever take him from her.

Their overnight cases had been placed near the bed and roses filled the room. Billie gasped her delight, knowing they were from Moss. A bucket of champagne and two glasses had been placed on the bedstand. Suddenly Billie was shy. It was still daylight. Going to bed was expected. On graduation night the lights had been turned off; their lovemaking had just happened, her passions rising to the surface. Hectic color bloomed on her cheeks.

Moss removed his white tunic. His undershirt emphasized his burnished, tanned skin and snugly fit the contours of his broad chest and manly arms. Peeking above the V neck was a dark curling of chest hairs. His waist was slim, his hips flat, his thighs filled the legs of his trousers. He was beautiful, and Billie felt pale and dun-colored beside him. Why would this beautiful man have wanted to marry her? she wondered. Yet it seemed right that she should find him more physically striking than herself; in nature the male of the species was more colorful and beautiful than the female.

Moss pulled the shades, dimming the room, casting Billie into half shadow. When he turned to look at her he saw the radiance that had surrounded her downstairs in the ballroom had flickered and died. She sat on the edge of the bed, watching him, her chin lifted and her mouth was set as though to keep from crying. He understood and a wave of pity washed over him. She was probably overexcited by the wedding, exhausted by the preparations, and overwhelmed with her new role as his wife. “Let me help you with your dress, Billie,” he offered quietly, waiting for her to accept before moving toward her. Ordinarily, Moss was an impatient lover, but with Billie he wanted to take his time; he wanted to arouse her and have her come to him in the wild abandon she had shown in her own little room.

Billie stood and turned her back, letting him work the tiny buttons of her gown. But first he removed her veil and Juliet cap, his fingers smoothing her sleek ash-blond hair, lifting it off her neck to place a kiss that reverberated through her. Tender fingers and loving hands helped her out of her gown, leaving her in her slip. Moss’s hands ached with the need to caress her and his body ached with a stronger need as he gazed at her. She was lovely, his Billie, built on delicate, slender lines, her breasts round and perfect for her figure. Her waist was slim above the gentle slope of her hips and soft curve of her thighs. He felt her shiver beneath his touch.

Moss wrapped his arms around her waist, standing behind her, pressing his lips into the hollow between her shoulder and neck. “Don’t be afraid of me, Billie. Don’t ever be afraid.” His voice was warm and loving, cracking the veneer of her shyness. She leaned back against his lean, hard body. “I’ll pour us some champagne and you slip into something comfortable,” he murmured.

When Billie stepped out of the bathroom into the cool, shade-darkened room, the radio was playing softly and Moss was waiting for her on the bed. She drew in her breath apprehensively, knowing she was being silly; but the sight of his naked chest both excited and intimidated her, until she saw that he was reclining on top of the covers, still wearing his white trousers.

“You’re beautiful.” He smiled up at her, his intense blue eyes skimming over her nightie. “Come and lie down here beside me. I want to hold you.”

Billie crept into his embrace, resting her head against his shoulder. His arms brought her close, warming her skin, giving her solace, demanding nothing. From time to time his lips caressed her brow and he inhaled the fragrance of her hair. He was gentleness. He was understanding. And she loved him.

Street sounds wafted through the windows and seemed in harmony with the music on the radio. The bed seemed strange, longer than her own and wider, alien. The furnishings of the room were impersonal, used by hundreds of other people. Everything was strange, everything was unfamiliar, except the touch of Moss’s hand stroking her hair and the clean masculine scent of him and the heat of his body beside hers. Billie turned to that familiarity, seeking reassurance from it, hoping to find the security she did not feel.

He took her hand in his and brought it to his lips, caressing her fingertips, nibbling, tickling her palm with the tip of his tongue. Shyly, she withdrew her hand.

“What’s my Billie thinking?” he asked softly.

After a long moment: “I’m afraid. I’m silly, I know, but I’m afraid. You cause such feelings in me, Moss, and they scare me.”

“Would it help you to know that you cause the same feelings in me? The very same, Billie.”

“I do?” She turned her head, looking up into his face, and saw the truth of his words, in his eyes.

“You do. I’ve never been a husband before, either. I want things to be exactly right. I don’t want to disappoint you, Billie. We’ve been together before, but it was different then, wasn’t it? I was Moss Coleman. You were Billie Ames. Now we’re married, Mr. and Mrs., and there’s a whole life ahead of us. But we’re still the same people, Billie. And we can grow together, can’t we?”

His words released her fears. He understood. Billie felt such a rush of love for him that she wound her arms around his neck and kissed him, pouring out her emotions in the sweet contact between them. His hand caressed her shoulder; his arm tightened about her waist. “Oh, yes, Billie,” he murmured against her mouth, “I want everything to be perfect for you. You do things to me, Billie, in here.” He pressed the flat of her hand against his heart.

Billie melted against him, giving herself up to him, rejoicing in the feel of his lips brushing against hers so gently, so very gently. He kissed the curve of her chin, traced the length of her throat and the cleft between her breasts. The ribbons at the bodice of her nightie gave way to his fingers, baring her for his kisses and the easy caress of his hand.

She shuddered with the first wave of passion, closing her eyes and welcoming the sensation. He left her for a moment and when he returned he was naked, the strength of his long legs and firm thighs pressing against hers. He helped her remove her nightie, seeing how she kept her eyes lowered and averted. Tenderly, he lifted her chin, willing her to look into his eyes, to see him, to find what she most wanted to see. He smiled, that slightly askew grin that could turn her heart over in her chest. “My Billie,” he whispered, “my beautiful, adorable Billie.”

He lay down beside her, drawing her into his arms, kissing her again and again with a passion that was answered by her own. He traced delicate patterns over her face and brow, nibbled at her ears and lowered to the hollow of her throat and across the fullness of her breasts, circling but not touching the taut rosy crests, before returning again to her mouth. He savored the young clean scent of her and sampled the sweet taste of her skin. His hands stroked the velvet of her thighs and belly but refrained from going further.

Moss sensed that he was breaking through the barrier of Billie’s insecurity. It would be so easy to sweep her over the edge with him, but somehow he knew it wouldn’t be enough. Passion was never enough. It was hollow and meaningless unless it was accompanied by some deeper emotion, a lasting commitment, a joining of hands before taking that leap together. He almost laughed at himself; with other women passion had always been its own reward, but not with Billie. He wanted, no, needed her to love him. “Do you want me, Billie? Do you love me?”

He waited for her answer, wanting to hear her commit herself to him. He hadn’t wanted to rush her; he didn’t want to reveal his own burning need for her that could leave him feeling vulnerable and uncertain. But a deeper need made him insist. “Tell me, Billie,” he whispered against the beating pulse of her throat, sending little tremors vibrating. through her.

“Yes, I want you. Yes, yes, I love you. I’ll always love you,” she told him, her gaze melting into his, willing him to know how much she loved him, how much she needed him. “I want you to make love to me,” she said in a hungry, husky voice she hardly recognized as her own. “I want you to teach me to make love to you.”

Moss was excited by her admission, all sensation heightened. He captured her mouth with his own, evoking a low, sensual groan. He placed her hand on his body, teaching her the rhythm, and he became helpless beneath her touch, awarding to her the power and the control over his desire. He invited her caresses, inspired them. He wanted to please her, to have her find him pleasing.

Billie’s eyes shone victorious at this new conquest. His tremors and shudders echoed her own. She smoothed the flat of her palms over his body, delighting in the comparison between the silky thicket of hairs on his chest and the rougher coat surrounding his sex. Her mouth found the pulse at the base of his neck and the ruddy flesh of his nipples that responded just like her own, forming into hard little nubs that teased the tongue and invited her suckling. She tasted and licked, following her whims, excited by her explorations of the flatness of his belly and the firmness of his thighs. He gave himself over to her, reveling in the feel of her mouth on his body and rejoicing in the fire that burned in her eyes.

Billie exulted in the power of her sensuality, delighted in the dominion of her femininity. She sought him with fevered lips, possessed him with seeking hands, her own passions erupting and overflowing with the realization that she could give him this pleasure. The unfamiliarity of his sex intoxicated her, beckoning her caress, revealing its strength and yet evoking tenderness with its vulnerability. She wanted to find each hollow of his body, trace every line with her fingers and lips. She wanted to possess him, to make his body as familiar to her as her own.

Moss gritted his teeth to retain control of himself. It would be so easy to give in to this driving need for release. But he wanted to make love to her, to prompt her own driving ambitions for satisfaction. With a groan of regret, he seized her haunches and brought himself on top of her. He returned her caress, answered her hungry kisses. His hands never left her body, smoothing, tempering, yielding, following her sensations and silent demands.

He kissed her eyes, her nose, her mouth, before pulling himself from her embrace to position himself between her parted thighs. His eyes devoured her as she waited for him. Her tumble of soft golden hair shone against the pillow; her skin was bathed in a sleek sheen that silkened the contact between them. She trembled uncontrollably. Fire flickered through her as his mouth moved down her body, and then the fire raged from the most intimate of kisses. Billie felt herself flying upward, like a cinder in an autumn breeze, floating toward the sun. Suddenly the sun was within her, bright and glowing, consuming her reserve and making her part of the universe.

Her body opened to him, needing him, knowing that only he could fill this vast space within her that had once been the sun. His body became a part of her own, completing her.

He watched her face as he moved within her, seeing the passions that he had ignited and that were now consuming him. Sheath and shaft embraced as he drove himself deep within her, thrusting harder, faster, blindly seeking the far side of passion and holding her fast as he tumbled them over the edge.

Billie fell asleep in her husband’s arms. The last vestiges of girlhood had been shattered and broken and she had been afraid she would never be whole again. But the fragments had fallen away to reveal the warm, loving woman who lived beneath. This, then, had been her first step into womanhood and Moss had led her to victory.