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-One Thing Leads to Another-
Betty stopped on the porch and turned her head to watch Warner hustle away from the gate. She dared not stare too long after him, not under her mother's withering gaze.
Her mother stood in the doorway, arms folded over her bosom, brow creased like a wrinkled shirt. "Mm Hmm." It was the sound Myrtle Carter Daniels made when she'd decided she was on to something.
"Hello, Mama. How was your day?" Betty stood on the porch, her eyes fixed on the doorway.
Myrtle didn't move. "What were you doing with Wilbur Hughes' boy?"
She sighed. Mama has never been one to beat around the bush. "Would you mind letting me come in the house, Mama? It's a little chilly outside."
"Hmph." She stepped aside. "But don't think you ain't gonna answer my question, Missy."
"Of course." Betty sidestepped around her mother and entered the house, inhaling the thick as the scent of cinnamon and apples emanating from the kitchen. "Ooh. You're making apple pie."
"Your daddy asked me to make a couple." She came inside behind her daughter, shutting and locking the door. "Now back to what I asked you before. What were you doing with the Hughes boy?"
It almost amused her the way her mother insisted on referring to Warner as a "boy." She knew it was just something older folks tended to do; think of everyone younger than them as children. But as she pictured him in her mind's eye, the tall, dark, sturdy frame; the handsome face with the chiseled jawline and rich, dark eyes, and the scent of woodsy cologne and a hint of motor oil rolling off his body, she was certain that no matter what her Mama thought, Warner Hughes wasn't anybody's boy. No, honey. That's a man.
"Elizabeth Ann Daniels. Don't you hear me asking you a question?" Her mother's sharp words cut through her musings.
"Sorry, Mama. Warner was eating lunch at the hotel today and he offered to escort me home." That was the quickest way she could think of to answer her mother's question- the truth. She went to the coat closet, opening the door and shrugging out of her wool coat.
"Oh, come now. He eats there all the time and he's never walked you home before."
After hanging her coat and closing the door, Betty looked her mother's way. The white housedress she wore, emblazoned with orange and yellow flowers, was covered by the blue and white checked apron she favored. Her short, graying brown hair was still in the pink curlers she'd been wearing this morning, and a few streaks of flour lined her round face.
Betty leaned down to kiss her mother's flower streaked cheek. "Do you remember Agnes?"
She frowned. "The one who waits tables there? What does she have to do with all this?"
“Well, Agnes was robbed on the way into work today. There's a purse-snatcher out there, and Warner was simply doing the gentlemanly thing by offering to see me home."
"I suppose." The tightness in her face relaxed a bit. "Did Agnes make a police report?"
She nodded. "Ruby took her back to the office so she could call them, so she's at least started the process."
"Good." Myrtle walked toward the kitchen. "Isn't that something? Folks running around in broad daylight, snatching purses. It's a shame and a disgrace, I tell you."
She followed her mother into the kitchen, inhaling the heavenly scent of the baking pies. "How long until they're ready, Mama?"
She leaned down, looking through the glass window in the oven door. "About another ten minutes or so. But don't try to change the subject, Elizabeth."
She frowned. "I wasn't trying to change—"
"At any rate, I don't think I like the idea of you spending time with Warner."
How did we get back to this? They'd gone from discussing Warner, Agnes’ ordeal to the apple pies, and now back to Warner. "He's walked me home one time, Mama. I don't think that qualifies as 'spending time'." She eased into a chair at the kitchen table, careful not to disturb her mother's red tablecloth or the ceramic basket of brightly colored fruit that centered the table.
Myrtle took her usual seat across the table. "I know how it is with you young folks. You start chatting on a regular basis, then you start sparking and courting. After that, well, one thing leads to another, as they say."
She wanted to roll her eyes but knew better than to disrespect her mother. "I hear you, Mama. But there's nothing like that happening between me and Warner."
Leaning back in her chart, Myrtle released a short laugh.
A bit startled, she cocked a brow and waited to see what her mother would say next.
"Oh, for goodness sakes, Elizabeth. I said almost the same words to my father about a boy I was spending time with."
"And what happened to that boy?"
She laughed again. "We got married and had you!"
Heavens. I walked right into that trap. Shaking her head, she released a little chuckle in response to her mother's story. "Point taken, Mama." What could she say? She was just grateful her mother hadn't asked her any really probing questions about how she felt about Warner. She wasn't one to lie, least of all to her parents, and she was certain her mother would not approve of her answers to such queries.
Finally getting over her mirth, Myrtle stifled a yawn with her hand. "All I'm saying is, watch yourself when it comes to Warner. He's been over there, fighting in a war. No telling what horrible things he's seen and experienced."
"I can't even imagine."
"If you don't take my advice and stay away from him, you won't have to imagine." She leaned in. "When a man comes back from a war, having seen all the awful things men will do to each other in the name of victory, it changes him. All that gore and death can rot a man's mind. Eat him alive, from the inside out. You stay up under him, and you're going to find out."
She bristled at her mother's words, and the ominous tone. "Mama."
"Don't 'Mama' me. I know what I'm talking about. There's a psychiatrists office not too far from your father, and he and that doctor have lunch together sometimes. The stories that shrink has heard from those boys would turn you white as these kitchen walls."
Betty glanced around, swallowed the lump in her throat.
"Goodness, I'm tired. Elizabeth, be a dear and watch over the pies for me. Take them out in about five minutes." She rose from her seat, stretching her arms above her head. "I'm going to lay down for a bit."
"I'll take care of it, Mama."
"Thank you." She stifled another yawn as she shuffled out of the room, calling back, "Save some pie for your father."
"Yes, ma'am." She shifted her gaze to the oven, already anticipating the taste of the homemade pies.
Later, after she'd taken the two pies out and set them on the counter to cool, she helped herself to a nice big slice. Seated at the table in the silence of the kitchen, she thought back to her conversation with Warner. He seemed fine to her, despite other people's insistence that he was somehow "broken."
He hadn't spoken about his military service, but she'd assumed it was because they'd reached her house before they could get around to it. But was it some other reason?
Could the handsome man who'd offered her safety be in need of rescue himself?
***
-Bitter Memories-
THE FOLLOWING DAY, Warner returned to the Cashwell to eat lunch in the dining room. While he treated his palate to the delights of the chef's delicious cuisine, his ears savored the soft, lilting melodies drifting from the piano. Between bites of savory garlic and rosemary infused chicken, he stole glances at Betty. Her graceful fingertips flowed effortlessly over the keys as she played. Her eyes were shut, her full lips slightly parted, and her upper body swayed as she moved in time with the music.
It was apparent that the music had a hold on her, and he felt much the same way. Everything about her body language conveyed her love of playing piano, and she infused that love into every piece she played. He didn't know how the other people who patronized the dining room felt. But when he heard Betty play, he felt light and free. Her music brought him a sense of peace, one he thought had abandoned him during the dark days of the Ardennes campaign.
Once his plate had been cleared away and he'd paid his bill, he lingered at his table. He knew the busboy would be along to clean up, but he didn't want to miss a single note of Betty's playing. He'd embarrassed himself by sweeping her onto the ground yesterday, but she'd been gracious enough not to bring it up during their walk.
Her shift ended at two. He knew this because he rarely had lunch before one. Mornings were long for him, especially on days when Darnell, his assistant, didn't come in. He glanced at his watch. Five minutes till two. He stood, brushed the front of his work shirt to ensure there were no crumbs there, and walked to the piano.
She looked up as he approached, a soft smile on her face. "Hello, Warner."
"Hello." He tucked his hands into his pockets. "Has the purse snatcher been caught yet?"
She shook her head. "Agnes says the police promised to look into it, but nothing so far."
"I see." He scratched his chin. "Would you let me escort you home again, then?"
She looked thoughtful for a moment. "I see no harm in that."
He smiled at her affirmative, yet non-committal answer. "Good. I'll wait for you by the door again."
He watched her rise from the bench and walk down the corridor to the back room. As he'd promised, he waited as he’d done the previous day.
Minutes later, she was walking toward him again. Today's ensemble, a fitted black skirt with a lace-trimmed white blouse, made her look as demure as a librarian. Yet nothing could detract from the shapely figure beneath. He gave her his arm and led her outside.
While they walked, he kept an eye out for speeding cars and anything else that might endanger her. After all, that was why he'd been escorting her; to keep her safe. He cared about her, and if he were honest with himself, his growing feelings for her were the motivation behind his need to protect her.
"You never told me about your service?" Her words cut into his thoughts.
He shrugged. "I didn't think you'd be interested."
"Of course, I am. What was your training like?"
He scratched his chin with his free hand, delving into his memories. "Let's see. I did my basic training at Fort Jackson, South Carolina in the fall of '41. As a matter of fact, I was getting ready to complete basic when Pearl Harbor happened."
"Heavens." She cringed. "What was that like?"
"It didn't have any immediate effect on our training. But I think as soon as the news reports came in, all of us new recruits knew it wasn't peacetime anymore."
She glanced at him, her eyes wide. "What happened after that?"
"We all got to come home for two weeks for Exodus, the Christmas holiday, after finishing basic. Then, I went back to Jackson in January '42 for thirteen weeks of training to become a wheeled vehicle mechanic. Military Occupational Specialty 91 Bravo."
"Hmm. I suppose that came naturally, didn't it?"
He nodded. "Yep. After all those years working on cars with my father, I had no problem with the training. I'd already cut my teeth on cars of every make and model, and there's not a whole lot of difference between that and working on jeeps and tanks."
"Your training sounds like it was quite interesting."
"It was."
"Did you put it to good use?"
They were coming onto Royal Lane then, and the question made him stop in his tracks.
He was back on that hill in France, watching the remnants of a battered tank being towed toward him. The outer shell, pierced through by a German panzer anti-tank gun, was splattered with the blood and innards of what had previously been a fellow soldier. As the cadre approached, another soldier spoke.
"The inside is much worse."
His vision swam, his head throbbed. His heart pounded in his chest like Art Blakely on the drums.
He struggled to get his breath.
The whole world began to sway, and he leaned against a poplar tree for support.
"Goodness, Warner. Are you alright?" She placed a cool hand alongside his suddenly feverish jaw.
He lay his hand over hers, managed a nod. Somehow, the comfort of her touch drew him away from the carnage in his mind, back to the present. He shut his eyes against the painful memories, then opened them again.
"I'm here. Everything is fine."
Her voice soothed him almost as much as her touch. He glanced around, let his senses remind him of where he was. He saw the nearly empty street, the houses with their tidy lawns and low slung fences. He felt the cool autumn air pass over his skin, smelled the scent of loamy earth it carried with it. He heard the calls of the birds, high up in the branches of the poplar he leaned against.
Taking a deep breath, he straightened. "I'm alright."
She looked into his eyes, her hand still against his jaw. "Are you sure?"
He nodded, gently reaching up to ease her hand away. "Yes. Thank you, Betty."
She looked confused. "For what?"
"For your compassion." He kissed her hand, as he had the day before, then released it. "Let's get you home before we draw your mother's ire again."
A small giggle escaped her throat. "We certainly don't want that."
They walked the rest of the way in silence. Inside, he cursed the memories of the horror he'd seen overseas. More than that, he cursed his own weakness when it came to dealing with them. He was a man, damn it all. He had to learn to control his reactions, had to get a grip on his feelings. He couldn't bear the idea of going the rest of his life being ensnared by the pain of the past. He had to move forward. He only wished he knew how.
Something told him that Betty could play a role in his healing. She'd already shown herself intuitive, compassionate, and willing to listen. But how could he be with her and not inflict his pain on her? Was it really fair to expect her to care about him, considering how damaged he was on the inside?
Logic told him to put aside such thoughts. But logic rarely won when in situations like this, and his desire to be in her company could not be denied.
When he left Betty at the gate, he looked into her eyes. He didn't dare lean in, despite the burning urge to taste her lips. She was special, and he would treat her with the respect she deserved.
As their gazes locked, he saw the emotion swimming in the liquid pools of her eyes. God, she's so beautiful.
Aware that her mother was probably watching from inside, he executed a crisp bow. "I'll see you around, Betty."
She smiled. "Yes. Goodbye, Warner. And thank you for walking with me."
"The pleasure was all mine." He touched his temple in salute.
He stood by the gate, watched a few moments to see her enter the house. Then he turned and walked away.
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