Читать книгу Stranger at the Door - Laura Abbot - Страница 12

Springbranch, Louisiana

WHEN I RETURNED FROM Atlanta, Mother was knee-deep in wedding preparations, researching fruit-punch recipes and floral arrangements. On her desk were four boxes of invitations: “Dr. and Mrs. Robert James Ashmore request the honor of your presence at the wedding of their daughter Isabel Irene…” I felt sick. But when, at the end of the first week, I hadn’t heard from Sam, I wondered if I’d dreamed the encounter or, beyond that, made a complete fool of myself.

“Isabel, can’t you demonstrate a little more enthusiasm?” These were Mother’s words after we’d spent an afternoon finalizing the guest list. The wedding plans had taken on a life of their own, and I was powerless to stop them, even as I questioned myself. Then two things happened to make the situation worse. I received my first letter from Sam, and Drew arrived for a visit.

In Sam’s bold handwriting was a note that was just like him—breezily self-confident with a dash of bravado. And unutterably romantic. I blush even now recalling the pure physicality of my reaction when I tore open the envelope and saw the words My Izzy. I soon learned that he, like Twink, could read my mind.

I bet you’re wondering about my intentions. If I’m just a guy who came to Atlanta for a weekend to have a good time. Well, I did have a good time, but it’s more than that. Izzy, you’re the dream I’ve had for a long time. I’m not going away.

The next day Drew pulled into our driveway and bounded from his car, waving a piece of paper over his head. “I nailed it, Isabel,” he said wrapping me in a hug. “The apartment near the law school. This is the lease.”

He stood back, awaiting my ecstatic reaction. Furnished apartments near the campus were rare. “That’s nice,” I murmured, taking the wind out of his sails. The mental picture of us settled on the second floor of a big house surrounded by overstuffed chairs, tables and, worst of all, a double bed, was overwhelming.

Later that night, Drew and I sat in the porch swing watching fireflies gather, smelling the musk of the warm night. He had his arm around me. It felt cozy. When he kissed me, I closed my eyes and really tried to experience the spark that would reassure me. Pleasure, familiarity, yes. No spark. He may as well have been the brother I never had.

Meanwhile the letters from Sam continued, much to my mother’s disgust. “Isabel, who is this person who keeps writing you? It’s not seemly. You’re practically a married woman.”

She was right. I was defying all the norms of both etiquette and morality. I hated my duplicity. It wasn’t fair to Sam and it wasn’t fair to Drew. I had to quit playing games.

Two weeks after Drew returned to Baton Rouge, Sam called. “Isabel, there’s a man on the phone.” My mother’s voice dripped disapproval. “He asked for Izzy, for heaven’s sake.”

I restrained myself from turning cartwheels. Stretching the phone cord around the corner into the dining room hopefully out of Mother’s earshot, I answered. “Sam?”

“Hi, darlin’. Are you missing me the way I’m missing you?”

My knees failed me and I crumpled to the floor “Oh, yes.”

“That was your mother who answered, I bet. Have you told her about me? About us?”

“Um…”

“I take that as a no. Any particular reason you haven’t?”

“It’s kind of complicated.”

“Complicated as in you’re engaged to be married?”

My heart sank. “Did Twink tell you?”

“Yes, thank God. She thinks your wedding would be a mistake. What do you think?”

In that moment I hardly knew my own name. “It’s all set, Sam.”

“You didn’t answer my question. Let me try another. Do you love this guy?”

“Sam, that’s not really any of your business.”

“Answer the question.” The authority in his voice took my breath away.

“He’s a wonderful man.”

“Listen to yourself, Izzy. I’m a big boy. If you love him, just say so.”

I laced the phone cord through my fingers. This was insane. It made no sense to throw over a man like Drew. Not for someone with whom I’d spent less than seventy-two hours. The wedding plans were in the final stages. Drew was the type of man I should marry. Ours would be exactly the kind of life my mother had envisioned for me. “I can’t call this marriage off. It’s too late.”

There was silence on the other end of the line. Finally, with resignation, Sam repeated the question. “Do you love him?”

“Please, Sam, don’t make me say it.”

“Make you? Make you? You don’t say it because you can’t. You love me.”

God help me, it was true, but I was paralyzed by indecision. “Sam, please. We have to stop this.”

“Damn right, we’re going to stop it. I said it before and I’ll say it again, I’m not letting you get away. I love you, Izzy. Please say you love me, too.”

In answer, I could only whimper.

Within two days Sam had applied for emergency leave. When he arrived on our doorstep, I took one look at him and knew I could never marry Drew. That very evening I packed a small bag, left my parents a note and fled with Sam.

We drove through the night to a town in southern Arkansas where a county judge married us the next morning. Lying in Sam’s arms in the lumpy motel bed on our wedding night, I was the happiest, most satisfied woman in the world.

Never mind that I had betrayed Drew, Mother and my Southern upbringing. My father accepted my decision with his usual equanimity, but Mother, furious over my defection and the embarrassment I had caused her, rarely spoke to me until after Jenny was born. As for Drew, when I told him about the elopement, I could have sworn he sounded relieved.

Several weeks later as I packed to join Sam at his new base in Arizona, I tucked the billiken in a corner of my suitcase. “The god of things as they ought to be.” My mother had groomed me for one life. But that was her life, not mine. I had chosen another.

Sam Lambert. Grandmama’s passion. And the way things ought to be for me.

OUR WHIRLWIND COURTSHIP and rash decision to elope was as out of character for me then as it would be now. It’s no secret there was a powerful physical attraction between Sam and me, but that was not sufficient motivation to throw caution to the winds and brave my mother’s ire. What was it about the young Sam Lambert that overcame my inhibitions and upbringing?

Quite simply, from the first he seemed to see the real me. To revel in the Izzy he had discovered—and brought to life. For him, I was never typecast as merely a girl who would make an ideal wife, mother and social asset. Somehow he recognized my need to be rescued from convention. To be sure, Grandmama’s influence played a role. In the deepest part of myself, I’d always believed in the knight in shining armor. Much as I tried to deny it, I had always known that Drew was not that hero. The magic—and mystery—is that just as Sam recognized me immediately as his Izzy, so I knew, with complete confidence, that he was the man destined for me.

Twink made sure Sam and I had plenty of time to ourselves during that Atlanta weekend. He coaxed from me stories about Springbranch, fascinated by the local customs and mores that had shaped me. Sunday afternoon we lay together in a hammock in the Montgomerys’ backyard. He lifted a lock of my hair and grinned that lopsided, charming grin of his. “That Southern belle? She’s not you, Izzy,” he said.

“Oh, no,” I teased. “Then who am I?”

Sobering, he traced a finger down my nose and considered my question. “You are real. Honest, loving and kind. You’re a peacemaker. If you had your way, you’d make everybody happy.”

“Do I make you happy?” I murmured, my daring surprising me.

“You have no idea,” he whispered. Then he leaned forward and kissed me. In that moment the blue sky above faded, the bird calls went silent, and I knew Sam understood me.

“But that’s not all,” he said, leaning on one elbow looking down at me. “You have an adventurous streak you’ve never acted on. So tell me, if you were to follow your instincts, what would you do?”

An intense question. One I’d never really considered, but he was right. I spent most of my time and energy concerned with others’ expectations. What did I really want? The answer came immediately. I wanted to be with Sam Lambert.

“Enough about me,” I said by way of diversion. “How do I know you’re not full of cocky flyboy sweet talk? Maybe I’m the most gullible pushover you’ve come across lately.”

“You’ve seen too many movies. Not all pilots are self-serving bastards.”

“Noted,” I said. “Change of subject. When did you know you wanted to be a pilot?”

“Ever since I was a kid.” His eyes lit up. “The trailer park where we lived was near a small landing strip. I couldn’t stay away. One of the mechanics took an interest in me. I grew up with the smells of aviation gas and oil.”

“Where was that?”

As Sam sketched more of his background, it became clear we came from two different worlds. He’d grown up in a small town in eastern Colorado where his father worked highway construction. When he was ten, his mother died. As he spoke of her, his jaw tensed, and I could tell how difficult it was for him to share her loss. Then his tone turned bitter. “My father soon found another lover. Jim Beam whiskey.”

My throat convulsed as I pictured the motherless boy emotionally abandoned by his father.

“I was angry. At God. At my mother. And especially at my father. If it hadn’t been for Lloyd, I don’t know what I’d have done.”

“Lloyd?”

“My brother. Four years younger than me. I, uh, kinda took care of him. For sure, nobody else did.”

Nothing in my experience had prepared me to imagine a ten-year-old burdened by such adult responsibilities.

“I’m sorry,” was the best I could muster.

“Hell.” He gathered me close, his blue eyes fastened on mine. “Maybe you’re my reward. In that case, it was worth every minute.”

Sam had touched my heart in a way I hadn’t thought possible. From that moment I understood Grandmama’s advice in a whole new way. By passion, she had meant so much more than physical attraction. She’d meant the mysterious, inexplicable connection that binds two people together despite their differences.

There were two Sams I came to know that weekend in Atlanta. The self-assured young man doing what he loved—flying planes—and the vulnerable little boy whose devotion to his brother tugged at my heartstrings.

How could I not love them both?

Breckenridge, Colorado

IT’S TIME TO PUT down the journal for the night. Indulging in memories, I’m surprised to realize it’s past my bedtime. Clouds are gathering, and when I close the deck door off the bedroom, I smell hints of winter in the crisp air. Almost without thinking, I pull one of Sam’s faded chamois shirts from the closet, cloaking myself in the softness of the fabric, his familiar scent bringing him close. Sam. I can’t wrap my mind around his unfaithfulness or his out-of-hand rejection of his son. But, despite everything, I miss him.

In bed, Orville nestles beside me, purring contentedly, and my thoughts drift as I feel my eyes close. A shrill ringing drags me back to full consciousness. Groggy, I glance at the clock: 1:10 a.m. I grab the phone. “Hello?”

“It’s me, Iz.”

“Sam, are you all right?”

“I knew I’d wake you. But—” and here I sense his internal struggle “—I needed to hear your voice.”

Irritation and relief war within me. He could’ve stayed home and listened to anything I might have said. Or maybe that was the problem—he would’ve heard more than he was ready to handle.

“Sam, I don’t know what to say. Unless you’re ready to talk about all of this.”

“I can’t.”

So here we are again. Sam stonewalling, not willing to share his emotions. I clutch the phone and sink back against the pillow. No words come to me.

“I shouldn’t have called. It’s late.”

“It’s okay.” Then in a halfhearted attempt to lighten the mood, I say, “What’s a wife for, anyway?”

Silence hums through the phone line.

I gather my courage. “Have you decided what you’re going to do?”

He waits a beat. “It’s not that easy.”

I want to scream across the miles. Instead I swallow my hurt and disappointment.

“Izzy…I’m so sorry. I don’t deserve you.”

My baser nature tends to agree with him, but that’s the part of me that fails to understand Sam is my world.

“The girls?”

I’m not up for casual conversation. “Both okay.”

“And you? How are you really?”

I bite my lip in irritation. “How do you think?”

“I’m sorry,” he says again.

In any marriage, there are the inevitable regrets, some more damaging than others. “I suppose you are,” is the best I can offer.

I’m only now aware of how much has been left unsaid between us through the years. It had become a habit to skate over the surface of our relationship rather than tend to the brittle hairline cracks.

“I’ll let you go now,” he says wearily. “But I couldn’t sleep without telling you one thing. No matter what, Izzy, I love you. I always have.” His voice breaks. “I always will.”

The phone goes dead before I can respond. Truthfully, I’m relieved. I wouldn’t have known what to say, but Sam’s final words remind me why I’m still here. Why I’m willing to wait for him.

Springbranch, Louisiana

1961

THE MORNING CAME FOR me to take the bus from Springbranch to join Sam in Tucson where he’d been assigned for advanced flight training. Mother fixed a big breakfast, slamming about the kitchen, banging pots and pans in thin-lipped disapproval. I was too young, then, to read hurt rather than anger in her jerky movements, too self-absorbed to put myself in her place and understand her worry. I don’t recall what, if anything, we said to one another, only that our communication was hopelessly strained.

I do, however, remember what my father said. Before he drove me to the bus station, he invited me into his study. Taking his customary place behind the desk, he gestured me to the armchair at his side. Before speaking, he removed his spectacles, cleaned the lenses with a crisply ironed white handkerchief and settled them back on his nose. “We don’t know your Sam,” he began. “Or his people. And that is upsetting to your mother.”

I waited, mute with the dread of disappointing him.

“But that’s not so important for me, because I do know you. You are kind and would not willingly inflict hurt. I have strived to teach you the importance of being true to yourself.” He looked intently at me. “Does this young man complete you?”

I managed a teary smile. “Yes, Daddy.”

“Love.” He said the word as if it were an enigma. “I believe it’s the most important thing in life.”

An overwhelming sadness crept over me. Had he ever known love in his own life?

In an apparent non sequitur, he continued. “How baffled Mr. Barrett must’ve been by the romance between his invalid daughter Elizabeth and the poet Robert Browning.” My father smiled wistfully. “But see how that turned out.”

He reached in a desk drawer and pulled out a small leather-bound volume. “May this gift be a constant reminder of the beauty and power of love.”

I took the book into my hands, caressing the soft brown leather as I read the title. Sonnets from the Portuguese. Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

“‘How do I love thee? Let me count the ways,’” my father began.

I joined him, a solemn promise passing between us. “‘I love thee to the depth and breadth and height my soul can reach…and, if God choose, I shall but love thee better after death.’”

My father nodded in satisfaction. “I’m proud of you, Isabel, and wish you much happiness.”

My wonderful, quiet, unassuming father, unlike my mother, could let me go.

Davis-Monthan Air Force Base, Tucson, Arizona

Fall 1961

NAIVE? IDEALISTIC? BESOTTED? I was all of that the day I stepped off the bus and into the arms of my handsome, young husband and buried myself in his suntanned arms. Ever after, I’ve always found home in Sam’s sheltering embrace. That morning Sam had only enough time before reporting back to base to settle me in our one-bedroom, unair-conditioned apartment. And to make love to me in a brief, ecstatic reunion. Afterward, rolling onto his back, he pulled me close and whispered, “Until I met you, I never believed in happy endings, never thought I deserved one. But, God, I do now.” Those words bound him to me in a new and wonderful way.

Showering quickly, Sam put on his uniform, and with a lingering kiss, left me alone in the apartment in a place where I knew no one. Still flushed from our lovemaking, I explored my surroundings. The bathroom, tiled in mustard-gas green, was tiny. The west-facing kitchen boasted a small refrigerator, an ancient oven and a two-burner electric cooktop. The living room furnishings consisted of a vinyl couch, a two-person dinette set and one scuffed armchair. Sam had, however, added two large fans and a small black-and-white TV.

I peered into the refrigerator, wondering if I was expected to cook dinner. Then I unpacked, and was overcome with shyness when I discovered drawers filled with Sam’s undershirts and briefs, a razor and shaving cream on a bathroom shelf and a pair of dirty jeans in the clothes hamper. Somehow I was to make this drab box a home for both of us, preparing appetizing meals, laundering military uniforms, keeping house. I lay across the utilitarian tan bedspread, immobilized by the enormity of my new role.

Until I heard a knock. I smelled the cigarette before I opened the door. There, one eyebrow cocked in assessment, stood the woman who was to become my chain-smoking, dyed-blond guardian angel.

Flicking her ash, she sized me up. “Honey, you look like you’re straight off the banana boat.” She moved past me into the living room and only then stuck out her hand. “I’m your next-door-neighbor, Marge DeVere. And I’ll lay odds, you need help.” She took a drag from her cigarette. “Am I right, sugar cakes?”

All I could do was nod. Marge was as unlike my sorority sisters or the matrons of Springbranch, Louisiana, as anyone could imagine, but I couldn’t have been more pleased to see her. “I’m Izzy,” I said, surprising myself. I had always referred to myself as Isabel. “And to tell you the truth, I don’t have a clue.” I shrugged, then grinned. “About anything.”

Marge’s laugh rolled up from her belly and filled the room. I joined in until tears ran down my face. Finally, catching my breath, I remembered my manners. “Please sit down. I have more questions than you can imagine.”

“I’ve got plenty of time. Why don’t you check the fridge and let’s have us a beer and some girl talk.”

Until then I had never guessed beer could substitute for an afternoon glass of tea. I pulled out two bottles, snatched up a bag of chips and settled on the sofa. In a few short hours she gave me a tutorial on the intricacies of being a military wife, reminding me to wear a hat and gloves when Sam and I called on his commanding officer and his wife, and cautioning me about speeding on base, an infraction for which Sam could be reprimanded. Never, before or since, have I been so grateful to a teacher.