CHAPTER 22

They returned on the same side of the street as the cottage. The methodical thump of Carlton’s cane kept its rhythm, but everything else in Alice-Ann’s world seemed out of whack.

Carlton Hillis had brushed her cheek with his lips, his touch sending shivers along her skin, and his whisper in her ear igniting something she could no longer deny.

Carlton had become more than a friend. He’d become what she’d hoped and prayed Mack would one day be —someone she could not imagine another day without.

The previous week had been difficult —torturous, somehow —and now she understood why. She’d missed him more than she’d been willing to admit, least of all to herself. And only minutes before, standing on the front porch, peering through the windows of the house, she’d gotten a sense that they’d done more than look at molding and dust as they discussed home repairs and restorations.

Had they gotten a glimpse into their future?

“You’re awfully quiet,” he said, drawing her back to the sidewalk. As before —as always —her arm was looped with his, her hand resting on his warm skin. “Still thinking about your daddy being an anomaly?”

“No,” she said, keeping her eyes forward, not daring to look at him. To do so would reveal everything to him all at once, and she knew it. He’d learned to read her so easily, even when she tried to keep her emotions and expressions at bay. But now . . .

“Did I —did I cross a line back there?” The words were strung with tension. “Because if I did —”

“No,” she answered quickly. Maybe too quickly.

Carlton’s hand found hers, their fingers linking awkwardly. “I’m not going to lie.”

She looked at him. “About what?”

“How I feel.”

“About what?” she repeated, knowing full well the answer.

“You.”

Alice-Ann swallowed. “How do you feel? About me?”

“I’ve come to treasure you, Alice-Ann.” He stopped walking as they neared the curb on the edge of town. A few men gathered across the street in front of the feed and seed store. They wore wide-brimmed straw hats and dug their hands into the side pockets of their bib overalls. A few of them glanced their way, waved, and Carlton waved back.

“Good to see you out and about,” Chuck Eastman, an onion farmer who raised his primary crop on the other side of the county from Alice-Ann’s family farm, called out.

“Thank you, sir,” Carlton called back.

“Alice-Ann, how’s your daddy?”

“He’s fine, Mister Chuck.”

“Good. Good. Tell ’im I said hey.”

He turned and the men resumed their conversation.

Carlton looked at her and smiled reassuringly. “Thing is, I know you still care for Mack.” His eyes traveled the length of her left arm and rested on the charm bracelet, which still wrapped her wrist with an unfulfilled promise. “And that you probably never think about me the same way you thought about him.”

Alice-Ann blinked as she crossed her arms, as if doing so would hide the past and the gift to a sixteen-year-old on her special night. She looked down and studied the shine of his shoes and the light dust covering hers. She could wipe them down every day, but with the windows perpetually open and the sand and dirt stirred up by life on a farm, she could never really keep them clean. “I —” she started.

“Don’t say anything, Alice-Ann. I don’t expect you to say anything.” He turned, drew her hand back into the crook of his arm, and said, “Let’s cross.”

She followed along beside him, her emotions as jumbled as she’d ever known them. When they reached the other side and had passed the men outside the feed and seed, Carlton cleared his throat and said, “Did I ever tell you about Berry Gentry?”

She shook her head. “No, you never told me.”

“Well, I met Berry in school. He came from a farm over in Tattnall County.”

Alice-Ann glanced up. “Oh?”

“He told me that back in May of ’40, the Savannah Evening Press casually informed everyone within a five-county radius that the government would be taking their land ‘by purchase or condemnation’ —a vast area of —and I quote —‘crackerland.’ Next thing they knew, the United States purchased —and he told that with his tongue in his cheek —such a chunk of his daddy’s land that the old gentleman farmer had a stroke and died.”

Alice-Ann stopped. They’d come to a shaded park bench near the town’s courthouse. The need to sit nearly overwhelmed her. “Can we?” she asked, pointing to it.

“Of course,” he said.

Once they’d settled and a few more people had spoken to them, a midafternoon breeze managed to find them. Alice-Ann encouraged him to continue. “So his daddy died?”

“You can imagine, right?” He leaned over, resting his elbows on his knees and linking his fingers. “All these people —Berry said over fifteen hundred families and more than six thousand people —lost their land before they had a chance to say boo. Their homes. Everything they’d worked so hard for. Gone.” He snapped his fingers. “Just like that. Houses demolished and crops plowed under. And all for much less than the land was worth. Berry said his daddy had just built a tenant house on their farm that cost him more than Washington gave him for the whole kit and caboodle.”

She shifted to face him. “But why? I don’t understand.”

“The government took the land so they could build Camp Stewart, which became one of the most vital facilities we have when it comes to this war, even though right now it’s pretty much emptied out with nearly all the boys off in Europe.”

She tried to imagine it —having the government knock on their door, offer them a piddling amount of money, and then ordering them off their land whether they took the money or not. She pictured Papa, gun in hand, screaming at the men from Washington. Nelson beside him. Aunt Bess, Irene and the baby, and herself, all standing behind the men. Yet, in the end, they would have been forced off, probably carried off in handcuffs had they argued too long —like the families from those counties closer to Savannah. “And so why is it that you’re telling me this story now?”

Carlton reached for her hand, then sandwiched it between his. “Since this war came to our soil, everyone in this country has lost something dear to them, Alice-Ann. Families have lost loved ones. Farmers in five counties not a stone’s throw from here have lost their livelihood, their land, their homes —some of them never fully recovering. Or like Berry’s daddy, just up and dying.” He shook his head like an old dog. “And to some degree, I think we’ve all lost our innocence.” His eyes found hers and he gave her a half smile. “The things I saw. The things I photographed. I know I have.”

“Me too,” she said. Because it was true. Every bit of it. Since that day in December —the day that should have been the most special for her, and the subsequent night when she told Mack how she really felt about him —nothing in life had been the same.

“And some folks,” he continued, his voice filled with understanding, “some folks like yourself have lost dreams.”

She blinked, willing the tears that wanted to surface to stay at bay.

“Dreams of what could have been and should have been and might have been . . . all that.”

Alice-Ann swallowed. Her throat had become parched and she wished, more than anything, that they could somehow find their way to the soda shop and she could drown her sorrows and her thirst in a tall glass of Coke. “I know,” she managed to say. “I know what you’re saying.” She glanced over his shoulder. The Saturday afternoon matinee had finished and a steady stream of moviegoers exited into the sunlight, their eyes blinking furiously as they shielded them with their hands.

He followed her gaze, then turned back. “I’m sure Maeve and Ernie will spot us soon.”

“They went to see the show?”

“Didn’t you know?”

She shook her head and realization struck. How odd that she’d gone to the Hillises’ home and not even asked about Maeve. Where she was or what she was doing. In fact, in the past few weeks, she and Maeve had hardly exchanged more than a few kind words. Nothing more. No secrets. No giggles. No lunches.

“Before they find us,” he added quickly, “them or anyone else for that matter, let me say —let me ask you —for one simple favor.”

Alice-Ann nodded. “Okay. Sure.”

Their eyes locked. “Give me a chance, Alice-Ann.”

Her heartbeat quickened. “A chance?”

“Mmm. Will you allow me to be your escort to the wedding next month?”

Her escort. Did he mean . . . “A date?” This was a first, being asked out by a man.

“If you want to call it that.” He smiled. “I’d like to call it that.”

She raised her chin. “You’re right.”

Now his brow furrowed and she leaned back, pressing herself against the warmth of the bench. “About what?”

“Here come Maeve and Ernie.” Alice-Ann grinned at him.

He hunched his shoulders. “Then answer me quick,” he said, returning her smile.

Alice-Ann leaned forward, hoping Maeve couldn’t read her lips, which quivered as she smiled more broadly. “Yes-you-can-be-my-escort.”

After dinner —after Irene and Aunt Bess and Alice-Ann had finished washing the dishes and putting them away, and Papa and Nelson had pulled down the blackout shades around the house —Alice-Ann said her good nights and then trudged up the stairs.

A strange sort of exhaustion threatened to overtake her, and she feared if she did not make it to bed soon, it would succeed. Hearing footsteps behind her, she turned to see Aunt Bess only a few stairs below her. “Going off to bed so soon?”

Alice-Ann forced a smile. “Tomorrow is church. And I’m a little tired.”

Aunt Bess took another step and Alice-Ann turned, continued upward, then stepped over the threshold of her bedroom. Aunt Bess followed her in. “Tell me something, Alice,” she said, crossing the room to the bed. She reached for the embroidered throw pillow that rested in the center, tossed it to a nearby chair and then pulled the quilt back, folding it neatly as she went.

Alice-Ann moved to the vanity, picked up her brush, and worked her mass of hair into a ponytail. Her eyes met Aunt Bess’s in the mirror’s reflection. “What’s that, Aunt Bess?”

The older woman sighed as she sat on the end of the bed. “Tell me what’s on your mind this evening.”

Alice-Ann turned. “What do you mean?”

“Now listen, because I don’t have a lot of time to play games. I know you. And I know when you’ve got something going on up there in that head of yours. Something’s changed since earlier today.”

Alice-Ann frowned as she laid the brush back on the vanity. Talking to Aunt Bess about things would be nice, she knew. But once the cat was out of the bag —as the old saying went —there would be no putting it back in. To explain, to truly explain, how she felt about Carlton’s question earlier that day —not to mention her answer —would also mean opening up about how she had felt about Mack.

Still felt about Mack.

But would Aunt Bess offer a sympathetic ear, or would she toss back her gray-haired head and laugh at her?

Alice-Ann pulled her nightgown from under the pillow. “I —uh . . .”

Aunt Bess swiveled to look at her. “My guess is that it has something to do with the Hillis boy.”

“He’s hardly a boy.”

“Aha.”

Alice-Ann sat near the bed pillow, crumpled her gown in her hands as though it were an unnecessary piece of paper, and sighed. “Oh, Aunt Bess . . .” She shook her head. “I honestly don’t know what to do.”

Aunt Bess pressed her palm into the mattress and leaned over. “Do you have feelings for him?”

Alice-Ann nodded. Oh yes. She did. But there was Mack to think of . . . How could she possibly have been in love with Mack as much as she’d thought if Carlton had so easily turned her heart toward him? Not fully, of course, but the shifting had clearly begun.

“I do,” she admitted, “but there’s —there’s an issue.”

“Mm-hmm.” Aunt Bess leaned back and raised a brow. “And does this issue have anything to do with a certain young man who was shot down in the Pacific?”

Alice-Ann’s breath caught in her throat as her fingers relaxed around the cotton gown. “How did you —? Did Irene say something?” Or had Aunt Bess read her expression earlier in the week?

“Irene didn’t have to, darlin’. I don’t think you’ve removed that bracelet once in all these years. Why, even your daddy’s recognized that it’s some sort of window into your heart.”

“Papa?” Blood rushed from Alice-Ann’s head all the way to her toes. She pressed the gown into her face and moaned. “I’m never going downstairs again as long as I live.”

Aunt Bess chuckled as she stood, walked around the foot of the bed, and then sat again in front of her niece. “You think you know my brother, but believe me, I know him a tad better than you.”

Alice-Ann looked up. “I can’t believe he’s never said anything. After all, Mack was so much older.”

“No more so than this boy Carlton.” She winked.

“True.”

“I think,” Aunt Bess added, patting Alice-Ann’s hand, “he figured that by the time the war was over, Boyd MacKay would either no longer occupy your thoughts or —” She stopped short.

“Or he’d be dead?” The question came as a whisper.

“No,” Aunt Bess answered matter-of-factly. “Not at all. None of us wanted that, even if we didn’t think Mack would be the best choice for you in the long run.”

“But I don’t understand. Why not?”

“He was a good boy —I’m not saying he wasn’t —but he had no gumption.” Aunt Bess nodded once. “And gumption is what the man who carries you away from all this is going to need, I’d say. At least, that’s what your papa wants.”

“Papa wants me to leave?”

“Hardly. But if he thought you’d be happy as a farmer’s wife, he’d’ve mentioned that poor ole Pete James more often. Your daddy knows, Alice —” Aunt Bess cupped Alice-Ann’s cheek with her hand —“he knows you’re a smart one. Too smart for picking peas and canning vegetables the rest of your life. Why, just look how well you’ve done at the bank since high school.”

Alice-Ann chuckled. “It’s not that hard. And there’s nothing wrong with being a farmer’s wife. I’d be proud as punch.”

Aunt Bess stood and the bed jiggled as her weight left it. “Don’t sell yourself short, Miss Priss.” She leaned over and offered a gentle hug. “And don’t,” she continued as she straightened, “sell that young Mr. Hillis short either. That’s all I came up here to say.”

Alice-Ann smiled. “Carlton wants to escort me to the wedding.”

Aunt Bess walked to the door, then turned and looked back at Alice-Ann. “If you’ve got the good sense God gave your daddy’s best mule out there in the barn, you said yes.”

“I said yes.”

Aunt Bess slapped the doorframe. “Good enough, then. Get some sleep. Tomorrow’s a new day.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Aunt Bess closed the door behind herself. After a few moments, Alice-Ann stood, walked to the closet, and retrieved the box of letters she’d kept hidden.

Though now she couldn’t quite understand why. If everyone had known —if everyone had read her emotions like yesterday’s Savannah Morning News —she might as well have declared her feelings in a loud voice. Loud enough for the whole world to hear.

But she hadn’t. She and Mack had written to each other in secrecy and she’d worn the bracelet like a blouse, as though not wearing it was odd rather than vice versa.

Now, however. Now she knew they knew. And now Mack was dead and Carlton was alive and he grew in her heart. Now . . .

Alice-Ann unclasped the bracelet. Her heart clenched as the cold weight of it slipped away. She thought to put it on again, then stopped herself. No. The time had come.

The time had come.

She laid Mack’s gift next to his letters, then returned them all to the hiding place on the shelf.