More Than Words Can Say (31 page)

As Beauregard’s loomed up ahead, Chelsea cut back on the throttle and began guiding
Beautiful Brooke
alongside one of the docks. Jake Branch, Jenny’s jack-of-all-trades who worked the docks for her, helped to guide the boat closer until
Beautiful Brooke
gently bumped up against the row of old car tires hanging against the side of the dock. Once the boat was tied up, Chelsea cut the engine.

“You’re gettin’ a lot better at this, Miss Enright!” Jake said, a wide grin seeming to split his angular face in two. “A regular mistress of the waves, y’are!”

While Jake tied up the boat, Chelsea clambered up from the driver’s seat and onto the dock. Jake was a man of about fifty, with a ruddy face and bushy eyebrows. He was dressed in greasy coveralls, and his squat, muscular form was solid as a fire hydrant. He had worked for Jenny for a long time. Among his duties as the docks manager, he pumped gas for both the cars and boats. During the wintertime when the docks were closed, he doubled as a short-order cook.

“Thanks, Jake,” Chelsea answered with a smile. “But I’m still glad that you’re always here to help guide me in.”

After tying up the boat, Jake smiled back at her, his wide smile seemingly as bright as the summer day itself. “Shall I top her off?” he asked.

Chelsea nodded. “Might as well,” Chelsea answered. “So tell me, is the boss lady working today?”

While Jake lifted a gas nozzle from one of the pumps, he nodded. “I’ve never known when she wasn’t,” he answered wryly.

“See you later,” Chelsea said laughingly as she began the short walk to the diner.

It was close to noon, and Beauregard’s was about half-full. Buddy Holly was soulfully lamenting something from the jukebox and a handful of regulars were sitting at the booths, tables, and counter. Because Chelsea had visited here several times since her fateful run-in with Pug Jennings, she no longer attracted any undue attention from the patrons. As she approached the counter, she removed her ball cap and freed her hair from its ponytail. When Jenny saw her, she let go a smile nearly as radiant as Jake’s had been.

“Well, well,” she said. “If it ain’t the big-city girl come callin’! What can I getcha?”

Chelsea smiled in return. “A toasted BLT,” she said, “and an iced tea. And if you can spare the time, could you join me in one of the booths for a little girl talk?”

“Sure thing,” Jenny answered.

After repeating Chelsea’s order to the cook—and forcefully adding that it had damned well better be the best BLT he had ever made in his life—Jenny removed her apron and escorted Chelsea to one of the booths that looked out toward the road.

After they got situated, Jenny said, “So what’s the big secret? More to do with your grandmother, I s’pose?”

“Well, yes,” Chelsea answered. “But that’s not the reason I came by.”

Jenny leaned back and grinned. “Okay, then,” she said. “Lay it on me.”

Chelsea had already told Jenny about what had happened at the Jenningses’ trailer and how she and Brandon had fallen in love. She then went on to tell Jenny about the last few journal entries that she and Brandon had read and that save for how Emily Rousseau had come to own Brooke’s copy of
Leaves of Grass
and the two coneflowers so long ago, the old woman had had nothing more to add. And there were only two more entries to read, Chelsea also told Jenny, but she held out little hope that they would provide all the answers for which she was looking.

Just then the cook brought Chelsea’s order. As Chelsea bit into her sandwich, Jenny smiled. “Good?” she asked.

“For sure,” Chelsea answered.

“Call it female intuition,” Jenny said, “but I think you still ain’t gotten around to it. So out with it, girl.”

In between bites of her sandwich and sips of iced tea, Chelsea explained her secret idea to Jenny. The more Chelsea talked, the more intrigued Jenny became. When at last Chelsea finished, Jenny leaned back in the booth, thinking. As she did, Chelsea thought she could almost see the wheels turning inside Jenny’s head.

“So . . . does Brandon have any idea that you’re gonna ask him?” Jenny asked at last.

Chelsea shook her head. “No,” she answered. “And until I fully decide one way or the other, that’s how it’s going to stay.”

Jenny nodded thoughtfully. “Can’t blame you there,” she said. “But are you sure about this?”

Chelsea smiled again. “I’m pretty sure, but I don’t know how he’ll react,” she answered. “That’s why I came to see you first. You’ve known him far longer than I have.”

Jenny laughed. “Yeah,” she said, “but how do you know that—”

“I don’t,” Chelsea interjected.

“Well,” Jenny said, “I think it’s a great idea! Are congratulations in order?”

“Not yet,” Chelsea answered as she finished the last of her sandwich. “I’ve still got a lot of thinking to do.”

Nodding thoughtfully, Jenny took a deep breath. “If I were you, I’d think long and hard about this,” she said. “This would be a life changer, and you’d be giving up a lot. That’s often not a such a great idea, even during the best of times. But I must also say that given everything you’ve told me over the last few weeks, the more I think about it, the more I realize that it’s not such a big surprise, after all. If you do it, I wish you luck.”

“Thanks, Jenny,” Chelsea answered. “I knew that I could count on you.”

Jenny snickered a little, then she shook her head.

“The plot thickens . . . ,” she answered.

Chapter 29

L
ater that night, Chelsea and Brandon sat on Chelsea’s couch, talking. A fire burned in the hearth, and after dinner Chelsea had made some warmed cider laced with blackstrap rum. Brooke’s journal lay on the coffee table before them, the flickering firelight dancing prettily across its old cover and binding. As Chelsea sipped her cider, she couldn’t help but think about her talk with Jenny that day.

Jenny had been right, Chelsea knew. What she was considering would indeed be a life changer. And that, more than anything else, was why she would wait awhile before approaching Brandon about it. Given his difficult past, she couldn’t be sure about how he would react, and the last thing she desired was to scare him away. And so she would wait and think about it a bit more before asking him. But given their deepening love for each other, she knew that this was something that she wanted, despite how huge a step it would be.

Brandon reached out and picked up the journal. “Are you ready for another excerpt?” he asked, unintentionally breaking Chelsea’s train of thought. “Only two more left to go, you know. Only two more chances to solve the riddle of Brooke’s last visit here.”

As he thought quietly for a time, his expression became more sober. “Will you be all right if we don’t?” he asked.

“If we don’t . . . what?” Chelsea asked back.

“If we never find the answers that you’re looking for,” he answered. “Can you live with that?”

Sighing, Chelsea tucked her legs up under herself. “I won’t have much choice, will I?” she said. “And maybe that would be for the best, anyway.”

“How so?” Brandon asked.

“It depends on what those answers might be,” she said. “I don’t want to judge Brooke, because whatever happened to her was a long time ago. And for all the time I knew her, she always treated me with the greatest of kindness. That’s just the sort of person she was. So I’m having a hard time believing that anything scandalous occurred between her and Greg. But then again, she did seem to leave in a terrible hurry, never to return.”

Brandon picked up the old journal. “Only one way to find out,” he said.

Chelsea nodded. “Go ahead,” she said. “But promise me something first.”

“Anything,” Brandon answered.

“When you finish reading, be prepared to hold me,” Chelsea said with a rather sad smile. “I may end up needing to cry on your shoulder all night.”

“My pleasure,” Brandon answered.

He then opened the old book, found the appropriate page, and started reading:

Wednesday, August 12, 1942, 2:00
P.M
.

Of all the journal entries I have made, I suspect that his one will be the hardest. Bill was here last night; he left just hours ago for Syracuse, to meet the train that will take him to New York City. There, he will board a troopship that will carry him to England. He told me that he believes once the Allies are ready, we will invade France in an attempt to wrest Europe from Nazi domination. Bill still does not know what part he is to play as this most massive and deadly drama in all of human history unfolds. All I know for certain is that I will probably not see him again until the war is over, which will likely be years from now. And that of course assumes not only that he will survive, but that we will also win—two things about which we have no assurances whatsoever. . .

Seeing Bill again was heaven on earth. He looked so handsome in his uniform, with the second lieutenant insignia upon his chest and shoulders. The time passed so quickly that it seemed no sooner had he arrived than he had to leave again. That’s just one of the awful things that this war has done to us, I’ve come to realize. It seems to compress time during those rare instances when we can be together and somehow lengthens it when we are apart. And now, I fear, the time until I see him again will be very long indeed.

And yes, we made love last night. It was a joyous, wonderful union that we both wished could have gone on forever. When at last the dawn light began creeping through the bedroom window we were both still awake, as if a single moment given over to sleep might have somehow robbed us of the brief happiness we were being allowed to share.

I considered going to New York City with him to see him off, but then I decided that the sight of him climbing the gangplank to the ship with all the other men—many of whom will never return—would be more than I could bear. Better to give him one last kiss here in this beautiful place, I decided, before watching him get into his car and drive away.

But as much as I loved seeing Bill again, I must admit that my passion for Greg has already begun bleeding through my façade of faithfulness. I know that Greg was home last night, despite his well-intentioned attempts to make me believe otherwise. I thank God that Greg was somehow able to resist what must have been an almost unconquerable urge to come by and size Bill up. Men are like that, that’s the just the nature of things . . .

So in the end, Bill and Greg never came face-to-face. And yet again I thank God because if they had, I’m not sure that I could have borne it. I was desperately hoping that seeing Bill again would settle my heart once and for all, but it did not. Instead, puzzlement seems to rage within my soul more hotly than ever. And so today I find myself only more confused, more torn, and more in love with each of them. Because I will not see Bill again for perhaps as long as several years, I fear that my emotional needs, my physical yearnings, and my wanting to be held in Greg’s arms again will do nothing but grow, perhaps even to the point that I will no longer be able to control them. Greg and I will see each other soon enough. But I will not go to him. There will be no need, for as sure as I know the sun will rise tomorrow, I know it will be he who comes to me . . .

W
HEN THE LIGHT
knock came upon her kitchen door, Brooke instinctively knew that it was Greg. She had been sitting on her porch, reading and wondering when he would arrive. As she stood from her chair and walked into the kitchen, her throat seemed to dry up and her hands became damp with perspiration.

When she looked through the screen at Greg, she was taken aback by what she saw. He was disheveled and unshaven. His clothes looked as if he had slept in them all night, if he had indeed slept at all. A lit cigarette dangled between his lips. Before speaking, he spat out the cigarette and crushed it beneath one shoe.

“Do you have any coffee made?” he asked tentatively. “I don’t know about you, but I could surely use it.”

Brooke nodded. “I’ll make some,” she said as she opened the door for him.

As if it were for the first time, Greg walked into her kitchen and looked oddly around. It was like everything seemed different to him now, as if Bill being in this little house last night had irreparably adulterated the sacred place where he had fallen in love with Brooke. As he sat at the dining table, Brooke began brewing the last of the coffee he had given to her.

As the percolator began burbling, Brooke sat down beside Greg. When he looked into her eyes, for the first time ever she saw a sense of pain there that she was quite unable to describe. It was a hurt, a longing to somehow go back in time and erase what had happened here last night. But such pining was of no use, and they both knew it.

“That was him, yesterday, wasn’t it?” Greg asked, his voice shaking a bit. “That was Bill.”

Brooke closed her eyes and nodded. “Yes,” she answered quietly. “His officer’s training is over, and he’s on his way to Europe.”

“Do you still love him?” Greg asked. “Or has your time apart from him changed your heart?”

Brooke wiped away a tear. “I still love him,” she answered. “I know that’s hard for you to hear, and I’m sorry.”

“And you made love . . . ,” he said quietly.

Brooke looked down at her hands. “Yes . . . ,” she answered.

Greg closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, they too had become shiny with tears.

“Did you look upon him last night the same as you do me?” he asked.

Unsure of Greg’s meaning, Brooke shook her head. “What . . . what are you talking about?” she asked.

“When you looked at him, was it the same as when you look at me?” Greg repeated. “Or did it feel different?”

As Brooke considered Greg’s question, her expression saddened. “It was different . . . ,” she finally answered.

“How so?” he asked.

“I looked upon him with more love than passion,” she answered, her own words surprising her. “But I look upon you with more passion than love. God forgive me, but I do.”