The Wedding Chapel (11 page)

“We watch the reruns every Christmas as a family. My mom worked her fingers to the bone to keep us safe and happy, giving us our own version of
Mulberry Street
.” Justine ran her fingers through her hair, ruining the style and making it stand on end. “What a loss to entertainment when Spice Keating died.”

“Yes, too young. Only fifty-two.”

“He lived large, from what I read. Were you in love with him?”

“In love?” Colette fiddled with the lighter, turning it in her hands. “No, no, we were friends. I’m not sure I even knew what love meant in 1951.” The words twisted around her heart and dug in.
Lie
. She knew love, and its name was Jimmy Westbrook.

“How did you meet Spice?”

“High school. Then we seemed to be ready to change at the same time. I wanted to go places and Spice was offering a ride.”

“How did your first soap opera,
Love of Life,
audition come about?” Justine appeared to pull the question from her notes.

“Spice’s cousin worked on the show. She managed to get auditions for both of us.”

“Did you always want to be an actress?”

“Mercy, no. I’d never acted in my life, but I had a lot of pent-up emotion to draw upon. I’d lived through a war and a ship ride to America, and moved to small-town Tennessee to live with relatives I’d never met. I was terrified but excited, afraid yet hopeful.”

“What were you afraid of? Death? Being alone?”

“Life.”

“Just life?”

“War paints life in very frightening colors.”

“I imagine so.” Justine scanned her notes while typing something on her computer. “You and your sister were sent out of the city during the London bombings.”

“In August of 1939. I was barely seven years old. Peg was eight. We were put on a train and sent to live with a family in the country. My father was a pilot in the RAF and my mother worked with the signal corp. I was terrified to leave them. Convinced I’d never see them again.”

“And did you?”

“Not my mother, no. Because Peg and I were so young, Papá thought it best we not attend her funeral. He came after the fact to tell us Mamá was safe in heaven and when he flew through the clouds, she’d be with him.”

Justine glanced up, regarding Colette, then whispered, “I can’t imagine.”

“No, it’s nothing to imagine.”

“So you stayed on with your host family?”

“Papá didn’t want to disrupt our life. And there was really nowhere else to go. Our grandparents were not able and Mamá’s sister lived here, in America. We did get to see Papá over the years. He came out to the farm whenever possible.” Colette smiled. “Oh, those were happy times.”

“And when did he die?” Justine tapped on her computer.

“The Battle of Berlin. In ’44. Shot down.”

Justine shook her head, then stared toward the window. “You hear history, you read history, you watch it in movies or on TV, but you never understand how it impacts people until you encounter someone who was there.” She returned her attention to Colette. “How did you find out? I mean, that your father had died? A telegram? And how did you feel? Scared? Alone?”

“Our host family told us. And yes, we, I, felt very much alone. Terrified.”

“Who was your host family?”

“The Morleys. Farmers in Carmarthenshire.”

“They were childless?”

“They had a son. Nigel.” Colette shifted in her chair. She never cared for him.

Justine smiled. “This is good stuff, but we’re just scratching the surface, getting into the life of the great Colette Greer.”

“The great Colette Greer was nothing more than a silly girl who became a silly actress, playing the same silly woman on TV for sixty years.”
Sixty years.
Was she more Vivica than Colette? Or was Vivica simply the light side of Colette?

If Justine was smart—Colette suspected she was—she’d eventually see the truth. Colette hadn’t been a girl looking for adventure or for her name to be in white lights. She’d been a girl looking for a place to hide.

“What about boyfriends, lovers? You said nothing happened between you and Spice, but you were,
are
, a beautiful woman. You must’ve had your share of suitors.”

“Are you married, Justine?”

She sighed. “No, I’m not.”

“What happened to the boy you moved here for?”

“We broke up.”

“Do you have a boyfriend now?”

She rubbed her forehead with the edge of her thumb. “I work too much.”

“So you understand, then. Sometimes life takes you on a path that never leads to love.”

“That’s a morbid thought. I want to get married, maybe move to Long Island and have a couple of kids.”

“Sometimes it’s not in the cards,” Colette said, straightening her stiff back and motioning to her penthouse walls. “This is where my life took me and I’m quite pleased with it.”

“But you had lovers, right? Just not husbands.”

Colette pressed her finger to her lips. “Shh, darling. A lady never tells.”

“Really? ’Cause I got a contract that tells me I’m to get your entire life story.” Justine narrowed her gaze at Colette. “What are you not telling me? Being evasive speaks to me of ‘the one that got away.’ ”

Colette squeezed the silver lighter into her palm.

“Colette, was there one that got away?”

“Perhaps. Or maybe I came to my senses and let
him
go.”

S
EPTEMBER
1948

A
FTER
F
RIDAY NIGHT UNDER THE LIGHTS

Aunt Jean’s wide, warm kitchen was full of light and the laughter of red-cheeked boys. Cousin Clem had many handsome chaps as friends, strapping and rugged from playing sports.

Sitting among them, Colette sipped from her iced tea, a new drink she rather adored. In Carmarthenshire they drank hot, bitter tea most of the time, or black coffee, without sugar as it was a scarce luxury during the war.

Each Friday Uncle Fred allowed Clem to host parties after the football match as long as the kids behaved and helped clean up. Although she’d only lived in Heart’s Bend for a month, Colette found these parties wonderful for making new friends.

Because of Clem, she and Peg had been easily accepted at school. The lads greeted Colette as she walked the halls. The girls
insisted she dine with them at the lunch hour. Everyone especially adored Peg, so classically lovely with her reddish-brown curls, curious brown eyes, and pouty lips. She’d taken to wearing red lipstick and Aunt Jean said not a word.

Peg also charmed the kids with her mimicking skills. Voices. Drawing. Handwriting. She forged Shakespeare’s script from a photograph on the wall at school and nearly gave the English teacher a heart attack when Peg claimed the piece was original.
“It’s been in our family for generations.”

How the kids had laughed at Mr. Bruner’s expense.

Last week Peg wrote a letter for one of the senior boys, Larry, who skipped school to see his girlfriend in another town. He brought his mum’s grocery list for Peg to use as a sample. Peg’s copy was flawless.

Larry exited the principal’s office with a big smile on his face, giving Peg the thumbs-up.

She meant her skill to be a lark. A way to gain favor. But three more kids had asked for her talents in the last week.

Colette had warned her just last night that the habit would be her demise.

“You’ll get caught, mark my words. You think you’re doing good, but you’re causing harm.”

“You’re such a worrywart. Leave me be, I’m having fun. Wait until I write a letter to myself from Princess Elizabeth.”

Her laugh gave Colette chills. “Peg, you can’t—”

“Colette, we’ve already faced the worst thing possible.” Peg pursed her lips, lowering her voice. “After something like that, how in the world can a bit of princess handwriting fakery harm anyone?”

“You said we were not to speak of their death.”

“Did you hear me speak of it? I certainly didn’t.” Peg switched off the light. “Go to sleep.”

“Go to sleep? No. I want to speak of it now that you’ve cracked the door.” Colette switched the light back on.

“Peg . . .” But her sister had gone silent, rolling away from her, leaving her to simmer in her own grief.

Music burst into the kitchen from the living room, bringing Colette into the moment. She spun around to see Clem rolling back the rug and grabbing pretty Sharon Hayes for the jitterbug, twisting her round and round until her skirt billowed and her long blond ponytail bounced about her shoulders.

“Come on, gang, let’s get on the floor.” One of the chaps ran by, tugging a dark-headed girl with round hips behind him. “Can’t let Clem have all the fun.”

The lads scooped up the other girls, and Peg, who’d become quite good at the jitterbug since living in Heart’s Bend, danced with a bloke called Spice.

Colette loved to dance. She practiced in her room before the mirror. But, oh, she’d be too scared to dance with one of these chaps. When Peg caught her practicing the boogie-woogie, she laughed, telling Colette she looked silly.

Clem jumped in front of her, startling her, bowing with a grand sweep of his arm. “My dear English cousin, might I have this dance?”

“Oh no, I don’t know.” She’d feel so self-conscious. “I’ve never really da—”

“Never fear.” Clem grabbed her hand, jerking her to her feet. “I’ll teach you.”

“Go on, sugar, dance.” Aunt Jean took Colette’s iced tea, pressing her forward from the confines of her chair. Her words of
Southern affection carried her English breeding, and her bright eyes were so like Mamá’s.

“B-but I’m so awkward. Truly I am.” Colette took Clem’s hand. She looked silly, according to Peg’s assessment. “Clem, you’ll be embarrassed to dance with me.”

“What’re you, crazy?” Shoving aside her protest, Clem twirled Colette onto the dance floor. “Come on, let’s see what you can do.”

A new song dropped on the hi-fi and on the downbeat, he started juking and jiving. Colette stumbled as he twisted her about, reeling her in and out, moving, turning, never letting his feet stop.

“Clem, you’re a hepcat,” one of the chaps hollered between the beats. “Go, daddy, go.”

“Come on, Colette, get with the swing.” Clem spun, tapping his feet, gyrating his hips. “You’re too stiff.”

She tripped around and caught Peg’s disapproving posture. Who was she to be so condemning? Was she not dancing for her very life just two minutes ago? With that darling Spice Keating?

With the song nearly half over, Colette found her determination and fell into the rhythm, tapping, kicking, spinning, twisting from side to side, and following her cousin wherever he led. When he jerked about like a pecking hen, she did the same.

“Thatta girl, Lettie. Come on now. Hit that jive. I’m going to send you out . . . now come back through, do the shoulder twist. Yeah, like that . . .” Clem laughed, exerting an energy that spread a rosy glow across his high cheeks.

Note by note, Colette let go and danced. The song ended in a flurry of music, brass overlaying piano, and Clem spun her round to his father’s Barcalounger where she collapsed, laughing and gasping for air as the kids applauded.

“Colette, where have you been hiding all your talent? You’re wonderful.”

One of Clem’s friends danced alongside Colette. “Dance with me next, Lettie, okay?”

“Ice cream is ready out back if anyone’s interested.” Aunt Jean’s announcement elicited a shout, and the whole gang surged through the house to the back porch.

Colette stumbled behind them. She adored dancing. Outside, the cool air felt good on her warm face. Taking a seat at the picnic table, she fanned herself with her hand, waiting for the ice-cream line to thin down.

Now that she knew she did not look silly, she’d listen to no more of Peg’s insults. Colette would relish the freedom. Was it really all behind her? The war. The death. The Carmarthenshire farm. The nightmares.

Maybe she could dream about good things. About the possibilities—

That’s when
he
appeared in the doorway. A tall, rather somber boy with a mop of dark hair and beautiful eyes. He wore a letter jacket like Clem’s and had a football tucked in his arm.

He hesitated, glancing about, his gaze easing past her and then back again. He smiled and offered a short, stiff wave.

Her? Was he looking at her? Colette peeked around. She sat alone at the table. So, in polite and kind reply, she smiled and waved back.

“Jimmy, goodness, welcome.” Aunt Jean shuffled over to him, a big ice-cream spoon in her hand.

“Hey, Mrs. Clemson. Is there room for one more?”

“There is always room for you. You needn’t ask. Come on out, we’re dishing up Fred’s homemade ice cream.”

Still clinging to that football, Jimmy stepped out on the porch.

“Jim-Jim.” Clem jumped up to greet his friend. “The man of the night.”

Jimmy was an instant hit. The other kids clamored around
him, patting him on the back. Poor chap, he seemed rather overwhelmed by it all.

But he was the one who’d scored the winning try, or rather
touchdown
, as they called it in America.

“How’d it feel crossing the line?”