June 1, 1942, Umnak Island, Aleutians
The camp slept in an eerie silence as Chet stepped outside his tent into the dull, gray light of the Aleutian summer morning, zipping up his mackinaw. Ducking into the chilly and constant breeze, he trekked toward the tarmac where the new P-40s were tethered.
A group of new recruits to the 11th Pursuit Squadron slept huddled under the belly of the planes with no hope in sight for better quarters. Umnak was a new, ill-supplied post.
Coming to the end of the steel-mat runway, Chet scanned the barren, desolate horizon. Not a tree or shrub to engage his line of sight. Just gray.
The words of Kelly’s latest letter surfaced in his thoughts. He’d memorized every word, every curlicue, dotted i and crossed t of her elegant script. He thought he was a hero until she wrote of her own bravery. Though she’d never call it courage. Only facing her fears.
The lover part of him wanted to climb atop a P-40 and shout it to the fog-laden mountains, “I’m the luckiest man alive.”
Knowing he was bringing a kid into the world, knowing the strength of his future wife changed his heart and how he planned to fight the war.
He’d make it home alive. He’d see the sunrise over the ocean, watch the moon gliding over the marsh grass.
“Out for an early constitution, Captain?” Lieutenant Cimowsky nudged him with a cup of black coffee. “It tastes like cow pies smell back home, but it’s hot and will give you a morning jolt.”
Chet hooked his finger through the handle. “Just what I ordered.”
Cimowsky tipped his face to the fog. “Do you think the sun’s up there? Somewhere?”
“Sun? What’s a sun?”
Cimowsky laughed, spewing a little spray of coffee. “The big yellow ball we used to wake up to back in the lower forty-eight.”
Chet sighed.“It’s been too long. Too long.”
Cimowsky motioned with his mug. “Eerie, isn’t it. Like something’s not right. A silence deeper than the quiet.”
Chet’s gut churned. “Yep, something is up. Can’t see it, but I feel it.”
Cimowsky tapped Chet’s arm. “Let’s grab some chow.”
“Be there in a second.” Chet took Kelly’s letter from his inside pocket. It was wrinkled from his constant refolding.
Darling,
I hope this letter finds you well. I miss you so much. With our baby growing every day, I cannot help but think of you and pray for God to keep you. Are your ears burning? I talked to Him about you a hundred times a day.
Mama and I spoke to Daddy about our situation. He was upset, disappointed, and I cried until my stomach ached. Then he came around to me, Chet, kissed me, prayed for me, for you and our baby.
I asked if I could speak to the congregation. Why let the gossips have one up on me. If I confess and repent, what can they do to me? I’ll trust my reputation to my Savior.
Daddy refused, but I think Mama and Jesus convinced him. So this Sunday I stood up and said what I’d done.
Chet’s belly lurched at the image of Kelly standing alone, exposing her sin. As if she were the only one among them.
“I’m pregnant,” I said. “Yes, I sinned, let my passions take over, but I love my man, and he loves me. We’ll make it right.
But before God and you, I repent.”
Oh, darling, I trembled like a pup during a storm. Judge Brown sat right on the front row with the most sour look of condemnation. Mrs. Parsons shamed me out loud and demanded Daddy put me out of fellowship.
Then, of all things, Carwood Nixon stood up in the back row and said, “I’ve been having an affair for the last six months.”
And his wife sat smack next to him.
Art Samson stood next. “I’m drinking away the family fortunes.”
Ginger Levine got up saying she couldn’t stop gossiping and knew she’d hurt so many people by spreading stories.
We had a revival meeting right then and there, folks weeping at the altar, asking God and each other for forgiveness.
Everyone had forgotten what I’d confessed. Afterward, the love was so thick in the room I could taste it.
I think our child is going to do great things. Not even born and look what he started.
Chet folded the letter and tucked it away. Kelly Carrington, his brave girl. “God,” he whispered,“if You can see fit to forgive Kelly and all those folks, maybe You can see fit to forgive me.”
On the trailing breath of Chet’s prayer, a private busted out the hanger along the tarmac.
“Japs! Japs!” He pulled on his gear and dove into a bunker.
Chet’s gaze shot to the gray soup over head. He saw nothing, but heard the hum of the enemy. Tossing his coffee to the ground, he raced toward his aircraft as Rufe float planes cut through the clouds and descended over the base.
A car door slammed. Heath lifted his head, listening, half his brain stuck in the scene he’d just rewritten. Did he like the revival interlude? Too preachy? Maybe, but certainly authentic for the forties healing-and-revival era.
Rufe float planes. Did the Japanese fly them in the Aleutians? He’d dropped the term in from memory, so he’d better Google it.
A second car door slammed. Voices. Heath shoved his laptop to the club chair’s ottoman and stood. Ten fifteen. The house had been quiet except for the tap-tap-tapping of his fingers on the keyboard.
Heath had tucked Tracey-Love into bed an hour ago, and so far she remained there. Rock retired to Heath’s room a little before ten. His flight back to NewYork left Charleston at nine a.m., so he planned to rise early.
Muffled yelling.
The noise came from the kitchen side of the house so Heath strolled to the fridge without turning on extra lights.
He craved something cold and fizzy to drink, warm from writing with the laptop on his legs, but if he drank caffeine now he’d never go to sleep. He opted for water.
Chugging down half the bottle, Heath peered out the window, above the edge of Ava’s letter. Elle? The studio’s stairway light haloed her silhouette. A broader, darker shadow followed. Must be Jeremiah.
Their voices rose, then fell. She angled toward him, then turned away. He grabbed her arm.
Fight for yourself, Elle. Don’t let him manipulate you. Heath had half a mind to open the door and cheer her on. But he knew . . . it was none of his business.
But if he were Jeremiah, he’d fight for Elle. She’d be worth every emotion, every act of love.
The silhouettes stood apart for a long moment, then Elle pressed her hand against Jeremiah’s arm. She pointed to the studio and started up the stairs. It took a few seconds, but he trailed behind her.
Years of trial law had trained Heath in body language, but tonight, peering through the darkness wearing the spectacles of his own emotions, he was clueless.
Are they taking the argument inside? Making up?
When his cell rang, he jumped and darted for the living room, snatching the phone from the end table.
“McCord.”
“Did I call too late?” Nate. Couldn’t think to check the time before he dialed. Ambient noise filled the background—laughter, clicking glass, and clashing plates.
“You always call late.” Heath straddled the ottoman, easing into the club chair.
“Yeah, that’s because I’m out here stumping for you.” The voices dimmed.
“Stumping for me? At a party?”
“Some swanky dinner where I met up with some old editor pals of mine.”
“Yeah?” Heath gripped the water bottle. Face a difficult judge? No problem. Persuade a jury? Piece of cake. Hear his book was rejected? Nervous water-bottle crusher.
“Seems they’re interested in war novels, think they’ll make a comeback in a few years and are scouting for good manuscripts.”
“No word from the small press, Poplar?”
A second, then two ticked off before Nate said, “They passed, Heath.”
“I figured.” Heath scooted to the edge of the chair.
“They loved the concept, so much they just bought a war book and are putting a lot behind it. But they loved your writing. So, while I shmoozed with my editor friends tonight, I dropped this little tidbit and got the conversation rolling. Heath, we’ll find a place for this story. But if you want to work on a legal thriller—”
His posture slumped as he fell against the back of the chair. “Rock came down for a surprise visit this weekend, Nate.”
“Can’t live without you?”
“Something like that. Wanted to make sure I remembered my six-month deadline. I’ll be back in the city by the middle of September.” His decision came swift, without contemplation. “Guess I got this novelist thing worked out of my system.”
“Heath, don’t give up. We’ve gotten close. Your talent will make a way. Keep sending me what you’ve got, I’ll pitch it. Shoot, I’m doing this as much for Ava as you.”
Heath said good-bye, tossed his phone to the table, and shut down his laptop. Clicking off the lamp, he stretched out on the couch and tugged the afghan over him. For a long time, he stared into the darkness, praying, seeking the wisdom of heaven.
Light footfalls echoed down the hall and a warm little body shoved in next to him. Rolling over on his side, Heath smoothed her rough hair with his palm and kissed her moist cheek.
In the morning, he’d confirm with Rock—the September return date worked well for him.
The prayer chapel was hallowed and quiet when Elle entered Monday morning, sitting in her usual place, second row, right side.
Miss Anna knelt in front by the altar, her hands lifted in silent worship.
Opening her Bible, Elle tried to read the words written in red, but tears interfered.
She sniffled and prayed for a long while, struggling to find contentment in God despite the weekend’s events.
“Want to tell me about it?” Miss Anna shoved Elle aside so she could sit.
Elle wiped her cheek with her fingers, wiped her nose with a very weary tissue. “Jeremiah and me . . . it’s over.”
“And you regret it?”
“No.” Lifting her head, Elle stiffened against her rolling emotions. “Not really, but I sure as shootin’ didn’t want to go through it twice.”
“Well, now you know. He’s not the one for you.”
Elle’s laugh lightened her own sadness. “I wanted him to be, but when I looked close, Miss Anna, I saw the truth.”
“One doesn’t sit before the Lord long without learning to hear the unspoken.”
“The New York gallery owner called too. The one Heath McCord put me in touch with and—”
“Heath McCord. Reminds me of my Lem. Now he’s one to mourn losing.”
Elle laughed over her tears. “Are you turning matchmaker on me?”
“No, no, just saying, you know, in case you wondered about my opinion.”
“We’re only friends.” Great friends, if she thought about it.
“I suppose it’s wise not to jump into another emotional dance just yet.”
Elle grinned at Miss Anna’s choice of words, suddenly warm with the memory of dancing with Heath.
“Tell me about this art woman.”
“Mitzy Canon. She’s a voice in the art world and called me to say clearly I was an amateur and to assure me of her opinion. She sent my work to other gallery owners and critics who agreed with her.”
Miss Anna laughed. “I see. God is making it hard on Himself. Upping the ante so He can prove Himself to you.”
“Doesn’t feel like He’s on my side at all right now.”
“Oh, oh, my dear friend, how will you ever learn of His goodness and faithfulness if you never slay a Goliath? Nothing is impossible with Him.”
Miss Anna grabbed the back of the pew, pulling herself to her feet, and gathered her Bible, pocketbook, and old sweater. “See you in the morning.”
Elle decided to pray awhile longer. “I’ll be here.”
Miss Anna paused in the open doorway, her face sweet and cherubic, her eyes almost glowing. “Yes, I know, you will.”
“Wally. Hey, it’s Elle Garvey . . . I’m good. Listen, I was wondering . . .” She paced the studio, feeling silly now that she’d called him, but she wanted something to do with her days. Add a little cash to her flow, avoid draining all her savings until she earned a living in art again. “Do you have any openings on your lawn crews?”
He guffawed. Loud, in her ear, slapping his palm against the steering wheel, repeating her story to whoever sat next to him. “It’s Elle Garvey, wanting a job . . .”
“Wally, I’m serious. I’m sort of in a setback here and thought I could use a job to get me out of the studio . . . I can’t understand why you’re . . . Wally, stop laughing . . .”
Elle pressed End. Okay, maybe it was a crazy idea, but, aurgh, couldn’t she have control over some element of her life? She kicked a leg of her easel. It teetered and swayed. Her reaction was emotional, even after a night’s sleep and a morning of prayer, but she’d decided to slay her Goliath by giving up on painting and men for a while.
The idea of sweating in the hot sun, challenging her muscles, letting the lowcountry sun brown her skin appealed to her. For now.
The studio stairs rattled and Elle looked toward the door. She recognized the distinct sound of someone taking two steps at a time. When he landed on the top step, she called, “Come in, Heath. The door’s open.”
He breezed in. “How’d you know it was me?”
“The rhythm of your step, running up, two at a time.”
“So, you’re on to me.” He smiled, white against brownish red.
“Yeah, McCord, I’m on to you.” Elle gathered the papers on her work table—bills, printed e-mails, notes she’d jotted during prayer, mostly painting ideas—and stacked them in a neat pile.
“Are you okay?”
Elle dusted the table with her hand. “Yeah, I’m fine. Why?”
“I heard you coming home the other night with Jeremiah.”
Hmm, right. “I gave him his ring back. It’s over.”
“I’m sorry, Elle.” He bent to see her face.
She swatted in the air in front of him. “No, you’re not. Say it: you were right. He’s a self-focused egomaniac. Should’ve known when he stumbled over how to spell renaissance.”
Heath wrinkled his expression. “Renaissance?”
“Long story, but I used to say the man I married had to spell renaissance. Sort of my litmus test, after finding out if he loved Jesus, naturally.”
Staring across the studio, Heath moved his lips, the letters tumbling off his breath. “R-e-n-a-i-s-s-a-n-c-e. Renaissance.”
Elle rang an imaginary bell. “Ding-ding. We have a winner, Johnny. Tell the man what he’s won. Okay, I’ll tell you, Bob. A grand, fun-filled life married to Elle Garvey. Just say . . .”—she slowed— “. . . I do and . . .” She stopped. He was looking at her. Warm, she felt really warm. “Shew, what is up with this old AC?”
Heath billowed his T-shirt. “Is it on the fritz? It’s roasting in here.”
Elle clicked the knob up one, then glanced back at Heath. “Better?”
“Much.” He picked at a thick drop of paint on the table. “It’s good you tried with Jeremiah, Elle. Really. Now you know.”
Elle paced the studio, starting to feel the clutter.
“I didn’t see Jer was wrong for me because I didn’t want to see. Me, a college-educated woman, head in the sand.”
“Don’t put yourself down, Elle. It took a lot of courage to walk away from a successful, good-looking man offering you love, commitment, and marriage.”
“Like you were his biggest fan.”
“But I’m yours. And I didn’t want to see you with a phony like him.”
She snatched the broom from the corner. “I used to think women who stayed with cheating or abusive men were crazy and stupid. Now I understand a little bit why they do it.” Her eyes watered. “What if I didn’t have a good family, friends, a mentor like Miss Anna? What if I didn’t know Jesus? How can they walk away from the one bit of security being offered, even if it meant enduring some pain?”
“You’re right, Elle. Makes me grateful.”
“Look at me whining. You lost your wife. I can’t imagine, Heath.” Elle pointed to him with the tip of the broom handle.
“Elle, I’m going back to New York in September.”
She stopped with the broom. “I see.”
“Rock needs me and Nate’s not having much success with my book. Another publisher turned me down.”
“Mitzy Canon turned me down.”
His torso collapsed with disappointment. “What’d she say?”
“Blah, blah, immature, blah, blah, no good, blah, blah, second opinion of critics and gallery owners, blah, blah, you should do something else with your life, blah, blah.”
“Forget her. She’s a New York art scene snob.”
“Then why’d you drag my name past her? She told me to go back to my hole in the wall.”
“But you won’t.” Heath hopped off the stool and walked over to the wall of paintings. “Elle, every time I see your work, I feel something.”
“Like you’re going to be sick?”
“Stop, no. I feel hope, inspiration.” He shrugged. “Makes me want to go write something, create with words what you create with colors.”
“Then be my guest, take the paintings. Give them to friends and family for Christmas.”
He exhaled. Elle almost felt his wind on her side of the studio. “You’re showing these in the Summer Art Walk.”
“I called Darcy today and canceled. She’s ticked, but she’ll get over it. Jeremiah was dead on about one thing: if your work isn’t excellent, don’t go trying out for the A-team.”
“He’s your number one fan, is he?” Heath set the feather painting down, picking up another one. Downtown Beaufort.
“I threw his phone in the river and—” Elle snorted, leaning on the broom.
Heath snapped his gaze to her. “You didn’t.”
“Called him a phone whore.”
“Bold.” He smirked.
“I thought so.” Three days later, it was still funny.
“Why’d you throw his phone in the river?”
“Because I was trying to talk to him and he kept taking calls about football players and, yo, how cool was his team. It was stupid and I shouldn’t have done it, but it brought our relationship to center stage.”
Elle leaned the broom against the table and straightened the paintbrush carousal. Huckleberry was coming by for a lesson. “So, New York. Are you taking Tracey-Love?”
“I thought I might.”
“Rio will bawl her eyes out.”
“TL too. She loves Rio. And you.”
“She’s very special, Heath. Ava would be proud.” Elle opened the turpentine jar, dipped in a paper towel, and wiped down her already cleaned palette. “Did you read the letter yet?”
“I’ve tried, keep getting interrupted. Visitors, phone calls. But I’ll make my summer-end deadline. It’s time, I know it.”
“You’ll get your book published, Heath.”
“You’ll show your paintings around the world.”
“Ha, not if I don’t paint them.”
“If I promise to keep writing, will you promise to keep painting?”
She tossed the paper towels in the garbage, then knotted the white bag. “Maybe. Maybe.”
When she walked around the table, the trash bag dangling from her fist, Heath reached out and molded her into his embrace, his cheek firm against her hair.
Dropping the trash, Elle gripped him, burying her face into the soapy fragrance of his shirt.
To: Elle Garvey
From: CSweeney
Subject: Coming home
Elle,
Mitch and I decided today to be in Beaufort for Christmas. I cannot wait. Let’s take out my old boat and drift on the Coosaw.
I’d write more, but Carlos and I are off to Thailand for a meeting.
Love you, Caroline
Lights turned low. A quiet calm in the cottage. Heath roamed down to Tracey-Love’s room, the bare floor cold against his bare Fred Flintstones.
It’d been several nights since he woke up with her curled against his back. He prayed the returned to New York wouldn’t set her back but add to the strength of her lowcountry victory.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, careful not to wake her, Heath pondered his decision. Not that he could change his mind, but once a child was involved, the ramifications were greater.
“I’ve been meaning to tell you, we’re going back to New York,TL,” he whispered into the dark. “No, not right away, but in a few weeks, after Labor Day. I talked to Granddad. We’ll spend Thanksgiving with him and Uncle Mark, Aunt Linda, and the cousins.”
He shoved aside the emotion of missing Elle.
Straightening her covers, Heath wandered into the living room, then the kitchen. Without pausing to think about it, he reached for the letter, flipped it over, and tore open the envelope. Two pages fell out and he carried them to the living room.
Heath,
Babe, I’m in a hurry, but I have to write my thoughts before we move out. I hated getting cut off in the middle of our discussion. You were angry with me, and it’s unsettling to be at odds. Especially when I’m thousands of miles away. Lately it seems we are trying to fight for control. control. And, Heath, I don’t want that. Neither do you, I imagine.
Don’t be angry with me for being on this assignment. It’s just something I have to do, and I believe God is with me. Pray to Him for your peace and mine.
I wanted to tell you this news in person, but I can’t wait. Besides, a man has a right to know he’s going to become a father, doesn’t he? How and when he hears the news isn’t as important as the news itself, right?
I’m pregnant, Heath. I wasn’t feeling well and just thought it was fatigue from the hectic summer schedule, but then I got to thinking . . .
A test confirmed it. I should’ve told you first thing when I called tonight. Maybe we wouldn’t have argued. Maybe we would’ve argued more. I’m sorry, babe.
I’m about eight weeks now, give or take. The last few months have been so busy I’ve hardly noticed anything about myself.
Surprise, right? First we didn’t want any and now we have two.
Maybe this one will have my feet since our dear girl has your boxy ones.
I’ll be home before the end of the first trimester. I know it’s hard to believe, but this pregnancy only fuels my passion to raise awareness for the medical conditions for women here in Iraq. Their hospitals and clinics are raided. The villages are subject to attacks, abductions, and intimidations. We are so free, Heath, and they are still wanting and waiting.
I was thinking of a little brother for Tracey-Love? We could name him Ben-Love. Ha-ha, get it? Been love . . . okay, I know, too corny for a woman of my education and sophistication.
In three weeks, I’ll be home and celebrating our new child with you. I hope he has your eyes, nose, and mouth—because they are so perfect—and your athletic ability. But my brains.
Kiss TL for me. Tell her I love her and miss her terribly. I’ll call you the first moment I can.
I love you, as you know I do, so very much.
Your girl, Ava
The pages fluttered from his fingers to the floor.