Defiant Heart (45 page)

“No, sir,” Mary said. “The day’s not over.”

Then she noticed the look of worry on the general’s face, and she smiled weakly. “Sir, I appreciate your concern. I just need this to occupy my mind. Otherwise…”

The general nodded. “I understand.”

Mary carried the notes out to her desk. She fit some paper into her typewriter, then paused, taking a deep breath. She looked down the hall in front of her. Late afternoon sun streamed in from the windows to her right, and the bustling crowd before her moved in and out of the light and shadows.

The work was helping, though, try as she might, she could not banish Jon’s image from her thoughts. For example, just now, as she had gazed down the teeming mass of people in front of her, she could have sworn that, for the briefest of moments, Jon’s face was there, at the far end of the hall.

Of course, when she blinked, it was gone.

She took another steadying breath. Get hold of yourself, Mary, she thought. You can’t keep doing this.

And then it happened again. For a just a fleeting instant, a gap in the crowd, and Jon’s face appeared, a little closer this time. She closed her eyes and squeezed them tight. When she opened them, all she could see were strangers coming and going up and down the hall, darting left and right.

How long, she wondered, would this go on?

She looked down and put her fingers to the keys. She was just about to begin typing when something compelled her to look up again. All she could see before her were uniformed personnel moving through the hallway, scurrying to and fro.

But then, as though it were the Red Sea being commanded by Moses, the crowd in front of her suddenly parted, and there, striding purposefully down the hall, his hazel eyes locked on hers, was Jon.

Mary was standing, though she had no idea how that had occurred. Then she was around her desk and running toward him. And, then, with an ecstatic leap, she was in his arms, and he was drawing her close. She clung to him fiercely.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said softly.

Through her tears, her face burrowed into his chest, she laughed and squeezed tighter.

The door to the general’s office opened, and General Kimbrough stepped out, speaking as he did. “Mary, I’ve just gotten some…” and he paused at the sight of the empty desk. Then he saw Mary in Jon’s arms, and he finished with a broad smile, “wonderful news.”

Mary turned her head and placed it against Jon’s chest. She could hear his heart beating. “Promise me one thing, Jon,” she said. “Promise me we’ll always be together.”

He lay his head on top of hers. “I promise.”

Around them, the crowd continued to swirl, people as they passed looking curiously at the young couple locked in passionate embrace. Jon and Mary neither noticed nor cared.

#

A distant whistle sounded, and Marvella Wilson stood. That will be the 3:20 crossing the gorge at Middleburg, she thought. It won’t be long now.

A noise from behind caught her attention. She turned just as Tom Anderson stepped out onto the platform. He tipped his head amiably and said, “I heard there might be a couple of special people on this train. If it’s ok, I thought I’d join you.”

She nodded. “You’re quite welcome, Tom.”

The sight of Anderson reminded her of the day the previous November when the lawyer had come to see her with an intriguing business proposition. Jim Dahlgren, he’d explained, had borrowed a lot of money for his failed campaign, and the bank needed a substantial payment that the man simply couldn’t make. As a result, Dahlgren was facing imminent foreclosure of his home and his hardware store. He would be completely wiped out. Anderson had cast about for a solution that would keep his friend from losing everything. He’d convinced the bank to accept the payment they were demanding as full satisfaction for the debt, noting they’d likely not do better if they had to take the assets and try to re-sell them.

Walt Gallagher, who had worked for Dahlgren for almost two decades and had essentially been running the hardware store for the past several years, had saved almost every penny he’d earned. It was a good sum of money, but it still wasn’t enough to cover the amount the bank needed. Anderson suggested to Marvella that she might consider the investment. Walt, it turned out, had become quite close to Jonathon, and Jonathon was familiar with the store, having worked there for a time. If Marvella was of a mind, Anderson explained, she could, on Jonathon’s behalf, put up half of the investment. Jonathon and Walt would be equal partners. Walt was delighted with the prospect. And, to sweeten the arrangement, Anderson was prepared to offer his services to the new venture for a modest two percent share. They struck the deal. Though Jonathon didn’t yet know it, he owned essentially half of Dahlgren’s Hardware.

Marvella’s thoughts were interrupted by another noise, and, when she looked, she saw Ben and Tommie Wheeler step onto the platform. They both nodded pleasantly. Tommie had arrived home two weeks earlier, and he and his father had visited Marvella shortly thereafter. Tommie told her the breathtaking story of how he and Jonathon and two of their comrades had managed to make their escape from Germany after the harrowing loss of their airplane. Marvella had been relieved to hear of it well after the fact. She was not sure how she would have dealt with the knowledge that Jonathon was in such grave peril.

Tommie also told her about Jonathon’s wild business scheme. Apparently, Jonathon had decided there was a big future in travel by airplane, and he intended, with the assistance of Ben and Tommie Wheeler, to pursue the establishment of a venture that would offer flights from city to city and across the country. Marvella could not imagine anyone would prefer traveling in the tiny space of an airplane when they could just as easily travel by train, but she had long ago learned not to underestimate her grandson.

A young dark-haired woman followed the Wheelers onto the platform, and it took Marvella a moment to realize it was Samantha Parker. She hadn’t seen the girl in a long time. Samantha, she noticed, had filled out quite nicely. The young woman gave a friendly nod to each of the gathered group. When her eyes met Tommie Wheeler’s, he gave her a broad smile in return, and Marvella saw the girl’s face flush. Tommie’s smile widened and, after a second, so did hers. Oh, my, Marvella thought. I know that look.

To Marvella’s surprise, Walt Gallagher arrived. Walt, she knew, was supposed to be on his honeymoon. He and his new bride, Agnes, had been married a few days earlier at St. Luke’s. After the ceremony, they had traveled to Chicago, the first time in Walt’s life that he’d ever been out of the state of Indiana. When she saw him, Marvella raised an inquiring eyebrow. Walt said, “There wasn’t no way I was gonna miss this.” Agnes, who had her arm linked in Walt’s, smiled and patted her husband’s shoulder tolerantly.

Marvella turned and looked down the tracks. She had a sudden flash of déjà vu. No, not déjà vu, she realized. It had been almost exactly two years before that she had stood on this very platform waiting for her grandson to arrive. How extraordinary life could be. How wonderful it could be. She wished dearly that Ernest could be here now.

There was another loud whistle, and suddenly the 3:20 emerged from between the trees lining the tracks, and, amid a cloud of steam, rolled into the station. As it came to a stop, there was an expectant hush on the platform. Then, in the doorway of one of the cars, Mary Dahlgren Meyer appeared, her brilliant blue eyes shimmering in the June sunlight, a radiant smile on her face. She stepped down lightly, and then, behind her, Jonathon filled the doorway.

Marvella’s breath caught. Her grandson had grown at least two inches since she’d last seen him. His face bore a more angular and mature look. But what had captured her attention was the mischievous twinkle in his eyes. He looked just like Ernest.

She closed her eyes for a moment and said a silent prayer. Then she stepped forward. Mary reached out her arms and gathered her in a wonderful embrace. “Oh, Mrs. Wilson, it’s so good to be home.” They hugged for a long moment. Then Mary released Marvella and turned to Jonathon. Marvella looked at her grandson. He gave her a solemn look in return.

“Ma’am,” he said.

Marvella gathered herself. “You will address me as Grandma Wilson. Understood?”

He gave her a broad grin and nodded.

“Now,” she said, “are you ready to go home?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

A Note from the Author

Though this story is one I’ve had rattling around in my head for quite some time, I was reluctant to try to tell it, for fear I’d fail to do it justice. Whether I ultimately succeeded or not will be up to you, my reader. But this I can say with confidence: My attempt would certainly have fallen short if not for the assistance of a number of others.

Please allow me a moment to acknowledge them.

First, my profound thanks to renowned editor and publishing executive, Hillel Black. I’m extremely fortunate to have had the opportunity to work with such a consummate professional‌—‌and a nice guy to boot. In his over forty-year publishing career, Hillel has, among other things, edited best-selling books that I count among my personal favorites. After I’d completed my initial draft (and realized it might be just a tad too long), I reached out to Hillel for guidance. He read the book, enjoyed the story, and encouraged me to pursue its publication. More importantly, he offered to edit it. How great was that! Being no dummy, I immediately took him up on his offer. Starting with a (perhaps slightly bloated) 600+ page manuscript, Hillel brought to bear his considerable skill, and, after what amounted to a number of (admittedly painful) cuts, what emerged was a much leaner, smoother and compelling novel. I am, and will forever be, grateful for his assistance.

But Hillel was not the only professional editor to work on this book. Before I finally let it loose on the public, I reached out to Kathryn Johnson, who, in addition to being a talented novelist in her own right, operates an editorial service for writers. I knew from past experience that she would bring to bear exactly what I needed: A disciplined eye that would catch those unintended‌—‌but inevitable‌—‌variances from smooth story-telling that tend to infect even the most heavily-scrutinized draft. She helped me clean up what stubbornly remained after countless read-throughs. I not only thank her, but heartily recommend her to other writers who are serious about taking their manuscripts to the next level.

Of course, I needed the feedback (and support) of my early readers. They’re the ones who slogged through the initial drafts, putting up with the typos, the well-intentioned (but sometimes badly executed) segues, and the ill-conceived focus on minor characters. And yet they still found merit in the manuscript. God bless them. My sincere thanks to Cathryn Cormier, Damon Jespersen, Geri Hunter, Seth Pierce, Reuben Mack and Hal Light.

And last, but by no means least, allow me to acknowledge my wife, Martha. I honestly don’t know where to begin to explain how important she has been, not only to the development of this book, but to everything else in my life. She is, at once, my audience, my champion, and my prize.

So, back to you, dear reader. I sincerely hope you enjoyed the telling of this story. If I brought some enjoyment, I’m happy. And I’m grateful for the fact that you indulged me, not only through the book, but the acknowledgements! To be honest, you are the reason I took the time to write all of this. Thank you, and I look forward to the next one!

Also by Marty Steere

Sea of Crises

What really happened to the crew of Apollo 18 in the Mare Crisium, the Sea of Crises? The last of America’s manned lunar forays, the mission was conducted in eerie silence following the inexplicable loss of all communication during the astronauts’ first moonwalk, and it ended in tragedy when the heat shield on the command capsule failed during re-entry, leaving the dead bodies of three astronauts inside burned beyond recognition. With them died the answer to a great mystery: What was the meaning of mission commander Bob Cartwright’s last words, “That shouldn’t be here,” uttered just before the loss of communication? Thirty-six years later, Cartwright’s sons make a shocking discovery: The capsule that came down in the Pacific Ocean with three charred remains was
not
their father’s capsule. And the body they buried all those years before was
not
their father.

Get your copy here…

Praise for Sea of Crises:

“Steere’s high-octane suspense tale takes off with all the intrigue and honor of the best Space-Age Westerns and political thrillers... A stellar thriller that handily juggles its formulaic elements to achieve near-perfect liftoff.” — 
Kirkus Reviews (starred review)

“Author Marty Steere is brilliant!… The action is non-stop and fast-paced and is mixed with just the right amount of mystery to make a perfect thriller… [The] plot is plausible, the characters are realistic, and the writing is superb…so stunning a read that you will be unable to stop reading until the very end.” — 
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