Maxine stood at the top of the stairs on the second floor of Primrose Cottage in Brooklyn. Leaning over the wood banister, her ears caught the sound of Juliana in the kitchen singing along to the record playing in the parlor at the far end of the hallway. Happy for her friend was an understatement. After Juliana’s visit to Long Island three days prior, her young friend had returned feeling elated by the unexpected revelations about her grandmother and her own connections to the mysterious Lizzy. Meeting her great-aunt Kitty, learning she had family who welcomed her and whom she would see again, had filled Julie with renewed spirit. Then there was the matter of Jack; Maxine hoped he would be calling for a date. Lord knows, as much as Juliana resisted, she was interested even if he had been evasive about his affiliation to the Renner family.
The pleasant aroma of percolating coffee overtook the lingering remnant scent of the recently baked chicken. It was the best damned roast Maxine ever ate, succulent inside and golden brown outside, and she made a mental note to look into vintage Roper stoves when she and Andy remodeled their kitchen.
She called down from the top step, “I love what you did with the bedrooms, Julie.”
Juliana poked her head out the open doorway into the hall. “I didn’t do anything apart from cleaning. The house’s interior is just as I found it. Although, I did update the electricity and have someone install the ceiling fans. Did you check out the herringbone floor pattern in the master bedroom?”
“Old world crafted parquet floors like those in the library were reserved for the wealthy. Your uncle certainly spared no expense.”
“It was actually built in 1901 during the Gilded Age, but he must have paid a fortune for the house in 1942.”
Despite the lack of central air conditioning, Maxine had fallen in love with Primrose Cottage. The house felt light and bright, even in the evening hours. Pale colored walls had been washed, and the ambient lighting cast homey shadows from the now squeaky-clean, glass fixtures. This house was nothing as Juliana had described it—death didn’t lurk here—life did. There was nothing remotely eerie about how the vintage knickknacks gleamed, the music floated, or the floors shined. The pervading aura felt like love dwelled here, not dead secrets of a silent generation or an aged couple, just their romantic enchantment. Time capsule, yes, but alive in the here and now. She had felt it even as she drove up, parking her Volvo in the driveway that ran beside the bow window of the library. Every single light burned brightly in the three-story residence when Benny Goodman greeted Maxine with a song her father always loved, “I Thought About You.” There was something magical about Primrose.
She wandered from the master bedroom into the adjoining sitting room where a large bay window offered a clear view into the neighbor’s modernized bathroom. “Julie, you’d better get some window treatments up before you and Jack knock boots in this sitting room.”
“What!”
Maxine laughed. “You heard me.”
“That is so not going to happen. I still stand by my earlier assertion; true love in 1992 just doesn’t exist. I’ll stick with reading letters from 1942, thankyouverymuch.”
Flipping off the light switch controlling the upstairs hall fixture, Maxine made for the stairwell, enjoying the smooth feel of the polished wood banister as she descended. At the end of the stairs, she stopped to admire what looked to be a replica Hendrick Avercamp painting hanging upon the long wall leading toward the kitchen. “Do you know anything about this painting? It’s so detailed.”
Juliana leaned against the frame of the kitchen door, wiping her hands with a rooster dishtowel. “I don’t. Mr. Gardner said that it’s painted by a Dutch Master. I’ve been meaning to look into it, but haven’t had a chance. It’s interesting isn’t it?” She walked closer, black converse sneakers squeaking on the recently waxed wood floor. “The frame alone must be worth a mint.”
Maxine bent toward the painting, adjusting her black-rimmed eyeglasses to examine closely the detail of the antique frame. She pointed to the decorative edge, its intricate carving illuminated by the crystal ceiling fixture.
“See this ornate molding, certainly indicative of Victorian era plaster, or possibly gesso over hand carved poplar, making it much earlier and even more valuable. If I look at the back, I might be able to date it more accurately by examining the mitering on the corners.”
Juliana nodded at the suggestion, but both were perplexed when the painting did not lift from a hook and wire. Instead, the painting had been affixed to the wall by hinges, causing its movement to open outward, as though a door—and a door it was, concealing a niche in the wall, measuring about eighteen inches square. A velvet curtain, as if in a sanctuary, protected the contents within the hidden space.
“What the …?”
Their interest in the painting was forgotten when both women looked at one another until Juliana elbowed her friend, prompting her. “You go first. I’m afraid of what’s behind the curtain. It’s the attic door all over again. Damn, if this doesn’t seem to be a growing theme lately.”
“Chicken. This isn’t Let’s Make a Deal, and I’m not Monty Hall. You get to keep whatever is behind this curtain, good or bad.”
Juliana twisted the dishtowel and, consequently, the rooster’s neck when Maxine pulled the curtain back as though drum rolls should be playing. Cobwebs spanned from one side to the other, draping eerily over several tall and short items deliberately hidden within the lath and plaster walled cubicle.
“What are they?” she asked with wide eyes, gaping at two items covered with velvet and two others placed alongside, wrapped in silver grey felt.
Maxine removed the smaller of two pouches made from the same burgundy velvet as the curtain. Gold thread embroidered the top as well as the fringed bottom edge. “I don’t know what it is, but this writing is Hebrew.”
She handed it to Juliana who gingerly wiped the offending spider remnants with the dishtowel. Carefully untying the drawstring, she peered in, unfamiliar with the black, leather straps and small boxes nestled against the linen lining within.
The second pouch revealed more elaborate, gold embroidery with the year 1934 stitched below a six pointed Star of David.
Inside the purse-sized bag was a folded, fringed white and blue striped piece of silk fabric. Juliana withdrew a hand crocheted, small yarmulke, and she admired the handiwork and yellowed silk lining. It appeared heirloom.
“Was your uncle Jewish?”
Juliana rested the velvet pouches on the nearby console table. “No. That would mean that my grandfather is Jewish, and I know he’s not. Maybe these were left here by the first owners who built Primrose Cottage. They were Jewish.”
Maxine removed the tall felt bag, untying the ribbon around the center. They both heard a subtle ping and ding when she removed the heavy contents: two ornate sterling candlesticks. The final felt bag revealed an ornate sterling silver goblet. The antique pieces had been protected from the air and kept from tarnishing by their individual soft wool felt wrappings encased within the wall these many years.
“Well, someone was Jewish in 1934. This goblet, I think is a prayer cup—and that christening pillow you found in the attic?—I asked around, it sounds like it’s a bris pillow used for circumcision.”
“Wow. It’s all so beautiful and … and antique. Why hide it in a wall?”
Maxine pointed to an envelope at the bottom of the nearly empty cubby. Its white paper, now turned beige, bore delicate handwriting. “Julie, look …”
Juliana withdrew it, holding it with reverence, recognizing the writing as her great-grandmother’s from the letters she had written William during the war. The still sealed envelope read, “Elizabeth.”
“Well there goes your previous owner theory. Open it!”
“No. I can’t, not now, not knowing that Lizzy is alive. This is written to her from my great-grandmother and not meant for me.”
Another record dropped from the automatic orthophonics and its upbeat tempo broke the seriousness of the moment. Artie Shaw’s “Temptation” seemed prophetic because certainly holding that letter in her hand was tempting to open. It very well could be the answer to what happened to them, what put an end to their romance, but knowing that Lizzy was out there somewhere meant that this letter, no matter how many years later, should be delivered to her.
Maxine nodded, placing the goblet back in the cubby. “I suppose you’re right. Will Kitty introduce you?”
“She said she would; I’ll be patient. Until then …”
Outside the open wood door, just beyond the front porch, the sudden introduction of ramped up contemporary music invaded their 1940s world, colliding with the snappy big band tune inside. Juliana walked to the ugly, modern security door and peered out the screen. In the darkness, the streetlight illuminated one very fine looking man wearing a polo shirt, sitting in the driver seat of a red convertible Alpha Romeo. In that quick glance down the front steps toward the street, she observed Jack tapping on the steering wheel to “Life is a Highway,” and she panicked.
“Oh. My. G-d. It’s Jack!”
Impulse and nerves caused her to panic into an immediate retreat, running into the parlor, pressing her back against the wall beside the open French door so as not to be seen.
“Jack, Jack?”
The music and engine cut off, the driver door slammed, and his continuing whistle drew nearer.
Juliana whispered, “Yes, Jack and he’s headed this way. Why is he here?”
“Duh? Looks like you may christen that room after all.”
He stood at the opened door, holding a pie, sheepishly grinning at Maxine on the other side of the mesh and wrought iron. “Maxine! I didn’t expect you here?”
She unlocked the door and swung it wide to bid him entrance. “Of course you didn’t, darling. You brought a pie, oh you charmer.”
“I … um … it’s homemade cherry … from the Island.”
“A peace offering of apology?”
“Yes.”
Maxine’s tease did little to ease his nerves, and he faltered where he stood until Juliana peeked her head around the French door.
Juliana could feel the flush expanding, growing hotter on her cheeks by the second and hated that her heartbeat was now doing some funky dance at the sight of his windblown hair and sincere smile. Her eyes made a quick up and down scan from the piqué Nautica polo to brown Sperry boat shoes, and she liked what she saw.
She stepped hesitantly back into the entry hall. “Hi, Jack.”
Suddenly shy and feeling uncomfortable Jack simply replied, “Hi.”
An awkward silence ensued between them until he jutted out the pie in her direction. “Er, this is for you. My aunt made it from the cherry tree harvest at Evermore, my grandmother’s estate.”
She couldn’t help the accusing remark that sprang from her lips, having yet to release her displeasure at his previous stonewalling. Her visit to Glen Cove could have been so much easier had he only told her the truth. She took the pie from his hands, their fingers brushing when she did so, sending sparks up her double crossing arms. “Your Robertsen grandmother? The one who probably knew Lizzy.”
“I’m sorry, Juliana.”
“Cherry tree … I cannot tell a lie. Clever, though not very applicable to you.”
Maxine clapped her hands together, disrupting the suddenly caustic atmosphere. “Well, kids, this is where I bid you goodnight and take my leave.” She walked to the console table, grabbed her purse, then kissed both her friends’ cheeks. “Thanks for a wonderful evening, Julie. Dinner was excellent.” Her eyes bore into cool blue ones. “Now play nice and I’ll call you next week.”
“But … but, Max, you’re supposed to be going with me to the National Archives by Battery Park the day after tomorrow.”
“Nope.” Her eyes met Jack’s. “I think you have another research buddy now.”
Juliana sighed. “Fine. I’ll call you. Thanks for driving down to Brooklyn.”
More awkward silence ensued after the screen door slammed behind Maxine. Juliana noted how Jack’s eyes were drawn to the opened painting, and he furrowed his brow.
“Won’t you come in? I’m sorry about the heat, but I haven’t gotten estimates for the central air conditioning yet.”
She watched how he took in every detail of the hallway, from the antique bronze, converted gas chandelier, the hand tooled crown molding, the inlaid star design in the wood flooring, to the magnificent fireplace in the parlor. He seemed to take it all in with wonder and awe. And she loved his spontaneous appreciation.
“This house is incredible. I feel something here.”
“Now do you understand? Come, why don’t we sit in the kitchen and have some pie.” She tilted her head to catch his eyes wandering into the parlor.
It was clear to her that he was resisting the pull to enter the room where William’s Artie Shaw record continued to play. “Yes, that mantel is the shrine to Lizzy that I told you about. I have added some other items I found over the last two weeks. In fact, Maxine and I just discovered some other things right before you arrived.”
“I … um … hope I didn’t come at an inconvenient time then. I’m sorry to have run Maxine off.”
“It’s okay. I am glad you came. I think we have some things to discuss.”
“We do, and I hope you’re not too mad at me to understand how difficult a position I found myself in. The coincidence was a total shock to the ticker.”
She smiled warmly. “I don’t completely understand your subterfuge, but, like my Aunt Kitty explained, I have to have faith in fate and let the truth come to light in due time, with patience. As you once said, everyone has things to hide.” G-d, it feels good to say Aunt Kitty!
Juliana closed the painting back against the wall, and again his eyes were drawn to the details of it. The ice skating, the windmill, and the community scene were the signature subject depictions by the well-known Dutch artist Hendrick Avercamp.
Together they walked down the hall into the white and red kitchen, where little, vintage rooster details caused him to smile, not to mention the appealing shape of Juliana’s backside in those denim shorts that made him feel downright excited.
In the kitchen, still warm despite large open casement windows above the porcelain sink that allowed the delightful, summer evening breeze in, the lingering scent of a home-cooked meal welcomed him.
Juliana stood on tiptoes to remove two cups and saucers from an upper cabinet, and he couldn’t resist his eyes once again fixating and scanning up and down her trim form. Deliberately attempting to distract the direction of his stare, Jack pointed to the Frigidaire refrigerator.
“Does that work?”
“It all works. None of it was hardly used. I figure my uncle probably lived here for four years at the most. Four bedrooms, an empty basement, and an empty attic—hardly a house that was ‘lived in’. I learned from the Brooklyn Historical Society that Primrose Cottage was a honeymoon residence built for a Guggenheim daughter in 1901. I’m guessing it was barely used by them as well.”
“Hmm … the Guggenheims. My grandmother knew the family. They had a few houses on the Gold Coast. In fact, the late Harry Guggenheim, whose Falaise mansion is on the Gold Coast, founded Newsday.”
She placed two distinctly Delft dessert plates upon the kitchen table pressed against the wall beneath another set of open windows. The details of the Palladian stained glass arch above them and the overgrown rosebush outside were both obscured by the darkness.
“So many Guggenheim connections. Would this be your cherry-tree-owning, sky-diving, seventy-year-old-who-adopted-your-father-as-a-toddler grandmother?”
When he chuckled, she knew that he knew she was fishing for any other connection. Damn, if that smile of his wasn’t warm, self-effacing, and so perfect.
“Yes, she’s the one.”
Juliana poured their coffee and sat catty-cornered from him, cutting into the pie, which was still slightly warm. “Your aunt made this? It looks delicious. Please thank her for me.”
“I will. I spoke to her about you. The day after you and I met, I went to visit her at the museum to discuss your curiosity over the Renners and the secrets, many of which I think you may know by now. We saw you that day with Kitty, and I knew she was sharing with you the story of your grandmother and how it relates to my dad.”
Juliana closed her eyes at the sublime first taste of cherry pie in years. “You could have told me.”
“No. I couldn’t then, but I will now. I don’t know how much Kitty explained but I know I owe you reasons for my evasion and my silence. Do you want to hear them? Is it too late to offer my explanation and tell you what I failed to do on Friday?”
“I’m not afraid of the truth, Jack. Kitty alluded to many things, and she did tell me that Lizzy is still alive—and I still feel the same way about protecting her. Mostly we talked about my grandmother’s courage, and frankly, at that moment that was more important to me then learning about her and Lizzy’s parents.”
“Rightfully so and astute of Kitty to see that. Lillian was an extraordinary woman in her youth and without her, I have to admit, I would not be here today. Hopefully, after my explanation you will understand more clearly why Lizzy, Kitty, and Lillian remained silent about their past.”
He uncomfortably cleared his throat. “This might come as a shock to you, but your grandmother’s father was a virulent Nazi who orchestrated and financed enemy saboteurs to come ashore in America. Frederick Renner worked with Nazi Intelligence and their Marines in coordinating the placement of mines along the Atlantic seaboard, some even here in New York Harbor.”
Flushed ivory skin from the warmth of the kitchen turned ashen, as her eyes grew wide, and her mouth fell slack. Forcibly swallowing, she responded, “My G-d. No wonder no one wanted to admit the Renners even existed. I would deny my family too. Who … how did they find out?”
Jack played with his fork for several long moments waiting for the constriction in his throat to subside, until finally he said, “Lizzy made an anonymous tip to the FBI.”
Juliana gasped. “You’re kidding?”
“I don’t kid about this and under any other circumstance than this … I don’t talk about it either.
“You might think that’s the worst of it, but it isn’t. His most heinous crime was that he funneled money to companies who had a hand in Hitler’s final solution. IG Farben being the worst of them. Along with every explosive and synthetic gasoline made by this company for purposeful use by the Wehrmacht, they created Zyklon-B, which was used to gas millions of Jews in concentration camps as well as those others the Nazis considered unfit—people like Kitty or the mentally challenged.”
Nauseated, Juliana dropped her fork and pushed the pie plate away from her. She stood and walked to the stove, pacing until turning to face him. She leaned her back against the counter, and folded her arms across her chest. “My great-grandfather did this?”
Jack felt a semblance of guilt, his forthright explanation having caused the shocked expression on her pretty face.
“Yes, your great-grandfather. Hardly an appropriate adjective for the man, wouldn’t you say? I’m sorry, I’m truly sorry, but my aunt explained to me why she believes you needed to know. I can’t understand what good it does but perhaps it helps to put your grandmother’s silence into perspective. Kitty’s testimony of her mistreatment and fears for her life gives even more credence to Lillian’s reasoning for hiding the truth about their father, mother, and eldest sister.”
“As horrific as this is, I agree with your aunt. I do need to hear this. From what I’ve surmised already, and if for no other reason, I truly want to better understand how his evil activities changed the lives of three of his daughters, my family, for the good.”
He nodded. “In 1946, our government stated that ‘without IG Farben the Second World War would simply not have been possible’. After Farben’s liquidation following their trial, one of their four chemical companies survived, a well-known aspirin brand today, even though they had actively engaged in drug experimentation on Auschwitz prisoners.”
He watched as Juliana opened the pantry door, removed a bottle of aspirin, then, assuming it was the brand of which he spoke, vehemently tossed it into the trash with a curled lip. Her expression was unlike any he had seen on her in their brief acquaintance, but it didn’t stop his explanation. He had come this far. At her prompting with a wave as though saying, “Bring it on. I need to hear it all,” he would finish.
“Later, the family learned that his payment from the Reich was a rare manufactured automobile as well as a few paintings, considered to be masterpieces that the Nazis had looted from homes and private collections of European Jews deported to ghettos and death camps.”
“What happened to that evil scumbag? I hope they fried his ass in the electric chair.”
“They never had the chance. He committed suicide before his arrest, but his lawyer was arrested and executed in 1947.”
“What happened to Lizzy?”
“Years later, Lizzy and Kitty, with the agreement of Lillian, created The Phoenix Foundation through which every dollar of the Renner fortune has been spent making personal restitution for the acts committed by their father. Since 1945, Lizzy has dedicated her life to atonement for his acts against humanity. Currently, she is dealing with the French Culture Minister to return two paintings to the families of the original owners and she’s also negotiating to recoup a painting currently held by the French government. I think she’s trying to see to its return to its rightful family. For years, she has obsessively tried to determine the origin and owners of the two paintings—a Monet and Degas—which hung in Meercrest. The foundation will also be erecting a veteran’s home in Glen Cove.
“On Meercrest’s property?” Juliana asked recalling the sign on the estate grounds.
“Yes. They also constructed the museum this past year, and the donation of the Renner family’s Manhattan mansion, Greystone, to the Polish Consulate in 1976 are some other projects. She sold her father’s yacht, the Odin, for almost a million dollars, splitting the money in donations to several organizations responsible for relocation of displaced survivors as late as 1957. A team within the foundation works diligently to keep the Renner name removed from any and all reference that might appear, especially, as a benevolent gesture. It’s all done as anonymously as possible, and even after fifty years, there is still a significant amount of money that she pours into education, remembrance, and restoration.”
Juliana sat back down in her chair, clasping her hands tightly before her. “Now I understand why you didn’t want me to print an article. The press could slander and misconstrue the efforts of the foundation and the Renner sisters, exploiting the fact that everything was done using Nazi money. I suppose critics would fail to report the irony that Nazi booty was restoring lives not taking them.”
“Yes, particularly since we are leaving for Paris in three weeks to take part in the memorial as well as a restitution ceremony for the paintings.”
Jack reached his hand out to hers and grasped over her fingers. “Juliana … Lizzy’s first act of reparation was to adopt my father. Lizzy is my grandmother. Your great-uncle was in love with my grandmother.”
She sighed; all the pieces were falling into place as to why Jack hadn’t been forthcoming. “Your grandfather was the John Robertsen in the photograph I found at the library, a man she married while William was still at war.” The letter … the R on the letter in the fireplace stood for Robertsen not Renner. Did she and William have an affair in ’49? She thought of the letter’s words she had memorized. “You know that what we did …”
“Yes, John Robertsen was my grandfather.”
“Did they … um … have other children?”
“My Aunt Annette, born I think in ’43, and my Uncle Dan born maybe around ’48.”
His thumb brushed hers, and their eyes locked, both feeling contrite for their earlier discourse, both feeling an intimate connection of something deeper. In spite of the darkness of the secrets shared over pie and coffee, the magic of Primrose Cottage, as it was always intended, began to cast its spell upon them, and both felt it acutely.
Reading his expression and the intent written all over his face, Juliana withdrew her hands from his. “Jack … I hate to state the obvious but you are my cousin. Our grandmothers were sisters.” She chortled. “I can’t believe I just said that … I have family!”
“You do, you absolutely do. Seven first cousins, but I’m only related to you by adoption, not blood, and we are second cousins.”
She wondered if she was looking for any excuse to pull back, but when the music ended down the hall, it seemed to amplify the sound of the beat of her heart against her chest wall. When Jack took her hand again, she bit her lip unsure of herself and the warning bells going off in her head.
He had unexpectedly been honest, and she wondered if she should be as well. A battle within her ensued on whether to share the contents of the letter she found in the fire grate. No, the only thing that letter proved was that her great-uncle and his grandmother communicated in 1949. Nothing more, nothing less, and whatever was meant wasn’t anyone else’s business. She agreed with Jack that this noble woman should never have her reputation tarnished—even if, especially if, it concerned an affair of the heart. It was clear that the man beside her idolized Lizzy, so Juliana swore to herself she would protect her, too. Lizzy was her great-aunt and someone she felt she had come to know intimately. She was a woman whose life story deserved protection. Now she fully understood Jack’s discretion. No, if there had been an affair, she’d keep that a secret.
His thumb brushed against the pad of her hand. “Will you show me the mantel? Because I have something to share with you.”
“Sure, of course.” Their eyes remained engaged as they exited the kitchen.
Nearing the parlor, Jack stopped at the console table in the hall. The velvet pouches still sat where Juliana had placed them, and he picked up the smaller of the two, his index finger lightly stroking over the raised embroidered Hebrew lettering.
“We found those along with candlesticks and a goblet behind that painting. Do you know what it reads?” she asked.
He smiled thoughtfully trying to remember where he had placed his own twenty years earlier. “For the life of me, I can’t remember my Hebrew, but I can tell you what it is. I received mine at my Bar Mitzvah, every young man does. They’re called Tefillin and verses from the Torah, written on parchment, are placed inside the leather boxes. They’re used for prayer. I imagine the other is the Tallit, the fringed, silk, prayer shawl. The embroidered date is most likely the date of your great-uncle’s Bar Mitzvah.”
“And the goblet?”
“Ah, well if it is sterling, it’s one that might be used during the Shabbat for the Kiddush prayer. The candlesticks would be intended for the woman of the house to light the candles and recite the blessing every Friday night.”
“But, my uncle wasn’t Jewish.”
He made a speculative noise from the side of his mouth, “Maybe he was, and maybe that was why he never married my grandmother. Think about it. Nazi father, Jewish boyfriend, maybe one or the other backed out—or worse yet—was made to. Maybe others had a hand in their separation.”
“How sad. I don’t think he broke it off. I found an engagement ring beside her photograph in what was supposed to be the master bedroom. Was she … happy with your grandfather?”
“They seemed happy, sort of like the best of friends. He spoiled her to no end, and she took such good care of him.”
“Hmm …” As though a thought burst into the forefront of her mind, she dashed to the painting, swinging it outward and removing the letter. “This is to Lizzy. I found it with the other items in the wall. Will you see that she gets it?”
He sighed. “Oh, Juliana, what have we stumbled upon?”
“I don’t know, but in spite of the revelations about my great-grandfather, it’s damn exciting, and I suspect you’re coming around to understanding my intrigue.”
Jack placed the Tefillin bag back on the table and walked to the mantle in the silent front room, admiring his grandmother’s image and the snapshots of her and this man she obviously loved. The grandfather clock in the corner chimed ten, while Juliana busied herself turning the record over to the second side. He wondered how on earth he was going to bring up the subject of Juliana with Lizzy. Would she welcome this living, breathing, tangible reminder of her romantic past? Would she deny this romance, or worse yet would it open a door that he himself wasn’t yet prepared for her to enter?
Artie Shaw’s “Stardust” broke into the quiet when the trumpet began the romantic piece. Their eyes slowly drifted toward one another across the space of the room as the music wrapped them in the magic of Primrose Cottage. In that moment, there were only two people in that room; gone were the specters and speculations surrounding Lizzy and William of fifty years ago.
Jack couldn’t deny Juliana’s allure, every smile and giggle; each furrowed brow and determined set of her jaw enchanted him. Those clear, blue eyes of hers were a sea of tranquility—and boy did he love the sea.
As though prompted by an unseen force, he walked to her, holding out his arm. “Will you dance with me?”
“Here? Now?”
“Yes, Juliana. Here and now.”
“But I don’t know how.”
“Please.”
Tentatively she took his hand, stepping into his embrace. He hoped his hand splayed firmly against her back would relax her apparent hesitance. Certainly, just the nearness of her caused him to calm and muse that romance was possible.
The persistent tugging in Jack’s heart and a shiver in his soul made him imagine the chiming of the clock had transported them both to an era of romance and innocence. He was Juliana’s GI and she was his sweetheart and, suddenly, it was 1942.
They swayed closely to the romantic tune because neither knew the proper dance steps. The fox trot was something he had only heard about or seen done in old black and white films; but this house made him brave, made him feel unusually romantic, and this woman was opening his heart to possibilities, even if she was afraid.
As the clarinet played, Jack surprisingly envisioned his grandmother dancing in William’s arms in this very parlor, maybe to this very song, and he felt guilty over the thought that it wasn’t his own Granpops he imagined holding her.
He breathed deeply, lightly resting his cheek against Juliana’s soft, golden locks. She smelled like sweet citrus blossoms on a sunny morning. The overwhelming combination of intoxicating music, the feel of her against him and the scent of her hair caused a bead of perspiration to form upon his temple. It wasn’t the hot summer night—it was the woman in his arms whose delicate hand was currently clasped around his bare bicep.
For a playboy bachelor, this experience with Juliana was new. This intense emotion and connection was driving his impulse and desire rather than impulse and desire driving his libido.
When his hand left her back, his index finger caressed her delicate neck, moving forward to tilt her chin upward. Their eyes locked, their lips parted, and he felt the tickle of her cherry-infused breath upon his mouth. She was so close, and all he desired was a taste of her then to consume her body and soul.
Slowly his lips descended to her waiting ones, and he closed his eyes in sweet anticipation, but it was not to be. Unfulfilled, disappointed lips met the soft flesh of her cheek when Juliana abruptly turned her face from his, left his embrace, retreating toward the fireplace.
“I’m sorry, Jack. I just …”
“It’s okay, Juliana. I’m the one who should be sorry … I didn’t mean to rush you. You’re a attractive woman, and I just couldn’t help myself.”
She smiled shyly. “It’s the house.”
He walked toward her and took her hand. “No, it’s Juliana.”
Slowly, she slid her hand from his and took a step backward. “What did you want to tell me earlier?”
Shaking off the disappointment for the moment, he refocused. “Well, I have good news. I heard from one of my contacts, and it turns out that your great-uncle is alive.”
“I knew it!”
“He’s living in Sitka.”
Shocked, her eyes widened with incredulity. “As in Alaska?”
“That’s the place.”
“Wow … well, I’ve never been to Alaska before.”
“You’re kidding right? You’re not really considering going to get him, are you?”
“Oh, I’m dead serious. Is there any chance that you might know of a good hotel?” She grinned and raised her eyebrows in expectation, nodding optimistically. “Maybe you can hook me up with some travel deals?”
The song changed to an upbeat “Begin the Beguine,” and Jack held out his hand again, mischievously grinning. “Only if you dance with me one more time. Maybe we can try to swing dance.”
“Are you bribing me, Mr. Robertsen?”
“Absolutely.”
“I expect Michelin, five-star rated.”
“Not in Sitka. But will you settle for a nice bed and breakfast with a view of Mt. Edgecumbe, amicable hosts and the best damn smoked salmon you’ve ever had?”
Juliana stepped into his embrace. “Deal.”
~~*~~