Stranger in Paradise (Home Front - Book #2) (12 page)

“What a beautiful room,” she said, pausing in the doorway. “Whose is it?”

He lingered off to the side. “My brother’s.”

Jane nodded but said nothing. She laced her fingers with his in a gesture of compassion that reached down inside his gut to a spot he’d forgotten existed. Taking a deep breath, he looked inside the room. Pale blue walls. Frilly white curtains at the windows. A single bed with a crocheted throw.

He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

“It’s been a very long time, Mac,” said Jane in her soft voice. “Your mother had to change the room some day.”

He knew. He was glad his parents had been able to let Doug go. For a second he wondered if he could have made things easier on them, come back to the United States, been there when they needed him. But the truth was he’d never been much good at being there for people when they were needy. There was something about seeing so much raw human emotion directed right at you that unnerved Mac, made him feel uncomfortable and inadequate and downright itchy to break rank and head for the hills.

The war had given him an excuse to avoid a lot of heavy-duty situations that he had little courage for, or experience in, dealing with. Yeah, he’d been as gung-ho as the next guy about doing his bit for his country, but when push came to shove he was glad to take that oath and board the next troop ship out.

Clearing his throat, he pointed toward the far wall. “He used to pin his Brooklyn Dodger clippings up over there.”

Jane’s lips curved in a smile. “They’re a baseball team, aren’t they?”

He stole a kiss, glad he had her by his side. “They’re a baseball team, all right. I’ll have to take you over to Ebbets Field and introduce you to the great American pastime.”

She wrinkled her nose. “I’m not much of a sportswoman.”

“Don’t worry,” he said with a laugh. “The Dodgers aren’t much of a team.”

She lingered in the doorway to Doug’s room for a few moments, almost as if she was trying to conjure up the boy who used to live there.

“Come on,” he said, taking her hand. “Let me show you where I was born.”

His parents’ room was the same as he remembered it, all heavy mahogany furniture and cabbage roses on the wall.

“This house has a heartbeat,” Jane said, cocking her head to one side.

He listened. “I don’t hear anything.”

She leaned into him, resting her head against his chest. “That’s because it’s part of you.”

“You’re a part of me now,” he said, stroking her hair with the flat of his hand. “I’m going to make sure you have everything you’ve ever wanted.”

“Just you, Mac,” she said as he bent to kiss her again. “You’re all I could possibly want.”

Their lives were going to be special, he vowed as her mouth opened for him like a delicate flower.

He wasn’t much good at dealing with sorrow. His wife had seen too much of it for one lifetime. The only obvious solution was to make sure sorrow never found either one of them again. Their meeting had been touched by magic. Their marriage would be, as well.

By late that evening Jane had met just about everybody on Hansen Street. The Bellamys and three of their grandchildren had popped up on the doorstep to meet the new bride. The Delaneys, the Bowers, and the Hawthornes all showed up bearing gaily wrapped packages with bright pink and white ribbons.

And, of course, the Wilsons. Dot and Tom had waited a respectable thirty minutes after the taxi bearing Jane and Mac had disappeared back toward Continental Avenue before they made their appearance. Dot was beside herself with excitement. The Weavers had had more than their share of hard luck. Lord only knew, they deserved to see their Mac happy and married to such a breathtakingly lovely girl as Jane.

Mac had pumped Johnny Danza’s hand, glad to see the guy from Brooklyn had made such a smashing success of his life—both with Cathy and their son, and with the company. Cathy went out of her way to make Jane feel comfortable, and he was pleased to see that the two of them hit it off. He’d known Cathy all his life; hell, she would’ve been his sister-in-law if Douglas had lived. It was nice to know she was still a part of his life, and now a part of Jane’s life, as well.

The women were bursting with questions about Queen Elizabeth’s coronation, which Jane answered cheerfully and with great patience. He could only imagine how many questions little Nancy Wilson—correct that, Nancy Sturdevant—would have asked if she’d been there. His mother said Nancy was living way out in the potato fields of Long Island and couldn’t make it, but promised to drop in on the weekend and say hello. He couldn’t believe freckle-faced Nancy was married with three kids of her own, and was the same age as the queen they were all so damned interested in.

Mac wasn’t much interested in rehashing the details of the Queen’s gown so he contented himself catching up on the sports news with the other men from the neighborhood. Mostly what he wanted was to be alone with his wife. This was the first time he’d had to share her with anybody since they’d met, and he found he didn’t much care for the feeling.

He had to admit, though, she seemed happy and at ease, almost as if she’d been part of the group on Hansen Street all of her life. He wished it were that easy for him. He felt as if he had stepped out of his body and was watching the whole thing from a point somewhere on the ceiling.

The house was filled with memories. Image after image from his past danced before his eyes. Doug peering down the staircase looking for Santa Claus. His parents thirty years ago, before time and sadness had left their marks. Mac himself at fifteen, looking out his bedroom window and planning his getaway.

Seeing his folks was wonderful. The connection between them was unbreakable. Trouble was, Mac couldn’t pretend to be anything but what he was in the house on Hansen Street, and what he was, wasn’t everything he’d thought he would be.

But Jane didn’t know that. Beautiful Jane with the Wedgwood-blue eyes and the silken mane thought he was wonderful. She didn’t know that he’d spent the better part of his life looking for escape hatches and exit routes. The only time he believed in taking chances was at the keys of his beat-up old portable typewriter with the missing semicolon key. Who needed a semicolon anyway? You had to get pretty involved in what you were writing to need one. These days Mac rarely let that happen.

Involvement meant trouble. Speak your mind these days and you could find yourself in Washington before the House Un-American Activities Committee. He’d already spoken his mind and lived to tell the tale by the skin of his teeth. He wasn’t about to make that mistake again.

He wasn’t alone any longer. He had Jane to care for. Maybe even a family of his own one day. Sooner or later McCarthy and Cohn and the rest of their paranoid cronies would disappear back into the woodwork and this whole thing would be forgotten. Mac intended to keep his mouth shut until it happened.

Call it getting cynical. Call it getting smart. The Graysons aboard the
Queen Mary
had made a big impression on Mac. It was good to know the face of the enemy, even when the enemy was your next-door neighbor. He wouldn’t forget that silence these days was definitely golden.

Sticking your neck out never made sense, especially not when you had a wife to take care of. Let somebody else play hero. Mac would settle for playing husband.

* * *

By ten that evening Jane had decided that Americans were the tallest, loudest, nicest people on the face of the earth. Men and women alike towered over her as they hugged and kissed her and welcomed her to her adopted country. The excitement of her arrival, coupled with the scores of people she’d met, had drained all her energy. While she loved telling stories about Queen Elizabeth and her royal prince and princess, it was hard to be witty and charming when you were doing your very best to hold back a most unladylike yawn.

Not that any of Edna’s friends would have held that yawn against her. Jane was surprised to find that so many Americans were dyed-in-the-wool Anglophiles, as besotted with the sound of a British accent as Jane was with American slang.

Twice she’d slipped into the kitchen during the party simply to stare at the enormous refrigerator with its shiny white doors and posh freezer compartment. What wouldn’t they think back home in England at the sight of so much food for one small family? She couldn’t imagine that the queen herself had a more impressive stock of food. Steaks were neatly wrapped and stored in the freezer, along with chicken and chopped beef and big yellow ears of corn.

It simply boggled the imagination!

Americans also seemed to have mastered the art of casual dressing. Casual attire back home meant wearing your second-best dress. In New York, it could mean anything from a siren sheath dress to toreador pants to Bermuda shorts. Mr. and Mrs. Bellamy’s daughter Carolann wore her hair in an Italian pixie cut, short and tousled and quite sexy with gold gypsy earrings and lots of mascara and eyeliner. In her pink-and-white halter-neck sundress with the tight waist and flared skirt, Carolann looked young and fresh and so modern that Jane longed to toss her tweeds into the dustbin and take a pair of scissors to her hair.

How stodgy and old she felt, surrounded by all these vibrant Americans! Even her mother-in-law, Edna, looked more fashionable in her morning-glory blouse with pleating across the bodice than Jane did in her best frock. Edna’s “Mamie” bangs were the perfect complement to her simple bob, and the triple strand of pearls at her neck shimmered in the lamplight.

She felt a hand on her shoulder and turned to see Mac smiling down at her. “Tired?” he asked.

She nodded as another yawn threatened. “Overwhelmed.”

“We could slip upstairs to the guest room.” He brushed a kiss against her temple. “No one would notice.”

“Behave yourself,” she chided gently. “Your mother went to a great deal of trouble. We shan’t disappoint her by disappearing.”

“She’d understand,” Mac said, eyes twinkling. “Newlyweds can be forgiven almost anything.”

“Anything except poor manners.” Jane was adamant in her stance. The thought of everyone knowing she and Mac had gone upstairs to their room brought a flush to her cheeks.

Finally, at a little before eleven, the last of the guests said good-night and headed for home. Dot and Tom Wilson, who were obviously considered family, stayed behind. Jane noticed secretive smiles flashing between the two older couples.

“I think something’s afoot,” she said to Mac in the kitchen where she was opening another bottle of cola. “Have you noticed the funny looks your parents are giving the Wilsons?”

“Must be your imagination, Janie.” He smothered a yawn with the back of his hand, then flashed her a wicked grin. “Think we could slip up the backstairs without anyone noticing?”

“‘You’re persistent, Mr. Weaver,” she said as he drew her into his embrace. “I’ll grant you that.”

“All good traits,” he observed, trailing kisses along the side of her throat. “You could do worse in a husband.”

“Perhaps, but I doubt if I could do better.” She tilted her head slightly to the right as his lips pressed against her skin. Warm. Tingly. Promising—

“Mac! Jane! What’s keeping you?”

Mac groaned and straightened his shirt. “Why is it I feel like I’m fifteen years old again?”

Jane simply smiled and wiped a smudge of lipstick from his cheek.

Hand in hand, looking for all the world like two guilty youngsters, they strolled back into the living room. The atmosphere buzzed with tension. Not a bad sort of tension, mind you, but more a deep sense of anticipation. Jane looked at the faces of the people before her. What kind of wonderful country made it possible for men and women to reach their fifties and sixties and still seem so optimistic, so certain that good things happened to good people?

Les motioned for them to sit on the piano bench. “As you may have noticed, we haven’t given you two lovebirds your wedding present yet.”

Jane made noises about the party being present enough, but her father-in-law silenced her by raising his hand in the air.

“No blenders,” said Mac, with a wink for Jane. “If you want to give us a gift, you can tell us where we can find a decent apartment to rent.”

The Weavers and the Wilsons seemed to find that innocent statement rather amusing.

“I think I can do better than that,” said Les.

“Much better,” said Edna.

Dot and Tom exchanged glances.

“The basement apartment,” said Mac, looking from his parents to the Wilsons and back again. “Johnny’s old place. You’re offering it to us for the interim.”

Mac quickly explained how Cathy’s husband had lived in the basement of the Wilson house across the street during the months he was courting Cathy.

“Sounds lovely,” said Jane politely, a tad disappointed that they would be living below the ground. She had done more than enough of that during the war.

“Sounds terrible,” said Dot Wilson with a laugh. “We’ve turned the basement apartment into a den for Tom.”

Mac’s brows slid into a frown. “Then what’s all of this about? Are you kicking us out?”

“Yes,” said Les.

“Definitely,” said Edna.

Mac and Jane looked at each other. Her confusion was mirrored in his eyes. “Is this a joke?” asked Mac.

His father’s face creased with an ear-to-ear grin. “Only if you think owning your own house is funny.”

“What?” Mac’s jaw sagged.

So did Jane’s. “What on earth—?”

“Your own home,” Les repeated, “275 Robin Hood Lane.”

“Robin Hood Lane?” Mac asked. “I don’t know Robin Hood Lane. Is it near Continental Avenue?”

“Not too far away,” said Tom Wilson. “About thirty miles.”

“On the Island?”

“Smart boy,” said Les. “Now you’re catching on.”

Jane listened, spellbound, as Les and Edna told them about the three-bedroom ranch house in a place called Levittown that was theirs if they wanted it. America was more wonderful than even she had imagined.

As for Mac, he was beyond coherent thought. He’d heard about the prosperity running rampant in his home country, but this was way beyond anything he’d envisioned. Cars. Radios. Televisions. Houses. “My God,” he said, dragging his hand through his hair. “You’re giving us a
house
?” Houses were what you worked twenty years to buy, then worked another twenty years to keep. People gave you blenders and toasters and blankets. They didn’t give you houses, for God’s sake.

“It’s not a palace, mind you,” said his father. “But it seems to me you two need a home and this one was available and so...” His words trailed off and Mac noticed, to his amazement, that his unflappable father looked decidedly flapped.

You shouldn’t take it
, he thought as Jane leapt to her feet and hugged everybody once, then twice for good measure. The women started yapping about draperies and wallpaper, and he broke out in a cold sweat when his father and Tom compared notes on plumbing.
Tell him to keep it, stupid. You’re not the house type. You’re lucky if you can remember to wind your wristwatch every morning.
Houses were for other people, people like his parents and the Wilsons. Couples who had dogs and kids and station wagons and the desire to tie themselves down with mortgages and property taxes.

They sure as hell weren’t for men like Mac.

“Isn’t it wonderful?” Jane threw herself into his arms and plastered his face with kisses. “A house! Our very own house!” Her soft blue eyes were aglow with pleasure; that hint of sadness he’d first noticed was nowhere to be seen. “I’ve always wanted a home of my own to care for and—” She stopped abruptly. “Is something wrong?” The glow of pleasure dimmed a degree. “Have I said something I oughtn’t?”

He looked at his parents. At Tom and Dot Wilson. At the face of his beautiful young wife. He wanted her to be as happy tomorrow as she was today, and if that meant he became a home owner in Levittown, Long Island, then so be it.

“Well,” he said, shaking his father’s hand, “it looks like we’ve got ourselves a house.”

* * *

Jane was unpacking her suitcase later that night when Mac unceremoniously swept her off her feet and deposited her on the soft mattress of the double bed. “First things first, wife.” He reached for the buttons on her pale yellow blouse, but she batted his fingers away.

“No, Mac!” Her voice was an urgent whisper. “Your parents—”

“My parents understand perfectly,” he said, once again addressing those buttons with the utmost concentration. “Why do you think they gave us the room with a double bed?”

Jane didn’t want to think about their reasons. All she knew was the thought of making love with Mac—such a personal intimate act!—with his parents two rooms away was more than she could contemplate.

“I can’t,” she said, struggling to sit up. “What if they hear us?”

“Then we’ll be quiet.”

Jane wasn’t certain that was possible. Last night on shipboard their lovemaking had been rather abandoned. “I think not.”

He pressed her back against the mattress and kissed her. A plundering, intoxicating kiss that sent shivers of sensation rushing outward from the center of her being. His hands lingered against the curve of her breasts. “Still say no, Janie?”