Stranger in Paradise (Home Front - Book #2) Page 5

  Not the kind of thoughts a man should be entertaining when he was ten seconds away from meeting his woman’s only living relative. Think of something less dangerous, Weaver. Baseball. Tennis. A rousing game of rugby. Anything but the way she’d feel in his arms.

  The second-floor landing opened into a narrow library, lined on both sides with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves of deep mahogany. Thousands of leather-bound books filled those shelves, interspersed here and there with green plants and the accumulated paraphernalia of a life well lived.

  Nigel Albert Townsend was a portly man in his early seventies. His skin was pink and clear—English skin, Mac called it. A product of fog and lorry exhaust and that odd collection of genes that produced Churchill and Richard the Lion Heart and beauties like Janie. He looked up from his newspaper at the sound of their footsteps.

  “Jane?” He pushed his eyeglasses down on his nose and peered at them over the frames. “I believed you to be spending the day with young Queen Bess.”

  Jane crossed the room and placed a kiss atop his shiny pate. “Don’t tell me you didn’t peek out your window at the procession, Uncle Nigel, for I shan’t believe it for an instant.”

  “Stuff and nonsense,” said Nigel Townsend, eyeing Mac with open curiosity. “And who is your friend, m’dear?”

  Jane performed the introductions with alacrity. Mac stepped forward and pumped the older man’s hand.

  “You Americans,” said Nigel with a shake of his head. “You’re not gripping the pommel of a Western saddle, young man.” He flexed his fingers and scowled in mock pain. “This is—or was—a human hand.”

  Jane wanted to disappear beneath the floorboards. One living relative to her name, and that one living relative had to insult Mac.

  Mac, however, was having a fine time. Nigel was a sharp old bird, capable of setting up little traps designed to snare an unsuspecting victim. The handshake, for one. Mac hadn’t exerted anything but the most normal degree of pressure. Nigel was trying to discomfit him. Sorry, Nigel, thought Mac with a grin. I’m afraid I don’t discomfit that easily.

  “Sit down,” said Nigel after a moment had gone by. “I don’t know if my chairs are big enough for you, Mr. Weaver, but you’re welcome to give them a try.” All this said from the comfort of a huge wing chair of burgundy leather.

  Jane despaired when Mac pulled up a chair for her then one for himself. His sheer size dominated the room and she winced as he lowered his frame into a straight-back chair scaled for Munchkins from The Wizard of Oz. Nigel didn’t blink. Neither did Mac. Jane, however, was beginning to perspire. Please, Mac, she thought desperately. Don’t say anything about that foolish marriage proposal....

  They made small talk for a few minutes. Jane prattled on about the queen’s coach, about Prince Charles and Princess Anne waving from the balcony at Buckingham Palace, and the crowds in front of Westminster Abbey. Nigel made the right noises, but he was more interested in sizing up Mac, who was every bit as interested in sizing up Nigel in return.

  Why on earth had this seemed such a brilliant idea? Oh, certainly they needed the typewriter. They couldn’t very well turn in their stories without one, but she had a portable tucked safely away in her hotel room. She had wanted to bring Mac and her uncle together so they could—

  What?

  She looked from one man to the other. What on earth had she been expecting? She was fond of her uncle, but he had maintained a laissez-faire attitude toward her during the time when she’d needed him the most. He had been no better than she at handling the deaths of her brother and father, and had retreated deeper into his world of books and ideas, leaving Jane to struggle with the real world of war.

  Still she harbored no bitterness. She was accustomed to shouldering burdens, to being the strong one when others fell apart beneath the strain. When you lost your mother early, as Jane had, you quickly learned to care for yourself. Her father had been shattered by the death of his wife; her brother, Jackie, had turned his anger outward, fighting with everyone in the neighborhood until his entry into the Royal Navy, where his anger was channeled into more worthwhile areas.

  Make no mistake about it: Nigel’s approval wasn’t necessary, but there was a tiny part of Jane’s heart that devoutly wished for his blessing. Wouldn’t Nigel be amused by such a bourgeois thought!

  The two men continued talking under, over and around the real reason for the visit. They talked about the weather. They talked about the queen. They talked about pipe tobacco, of all things.

  Finally Jane’s nerves simply couldn’t take another second of that silent struggle for male dominance and she fled back down the stairs to help Roxie with the tea tray.

  “The real thing, lovey?” Roxie asked, looking up from the tiny cucumber sandwiches she was preparing.

  Jane nodded, too nervous to speak. It is... it is... dear God, this simply cannot be happening....

  “Known him long?”

  She shook her head.

  “No matter,” said Roxie, fixing her with a sharp look. “Two years or two hours—when it’s right, it’s right.”

  “I hope so,” said Jane, straining to hear what was going on in the library, “because I’m going to marry him.”

  * * *

  Upstairs, the two men stared at each other across the chessboard set up on the game table between their chairs. Nigel lit his pipe. Mac reached into his breast pocket for a cigarette.

  “Have you known my niece long?”

  “Not very.” He wasn’t about to undermine Jane. It was up to her to spring the unorthodox details on her uncle.

  “Where did you meet?”

  “At a gathering not too far from here.” True, if not forthcoming.

  Nigel nodded. “She’s a beautiful girl, isn’t she?”

  “Extremely.”

  “You realize you’re the first young man she’s ever brought round to meet her reprobate uncle.” He peered at Mac. “Although you’re not all that young, are you?”

  “Thirty-five.” Mac peered back at Nigel. “How old are you?”

  “Touché, Mr. Weaver,” said Nigel, lifting his pipe in salute. “If your Senator McCarthy were half as clever as you, your country would be in even more distress than it already is.”

  “We’re in agreement on that, Mr. Townsend.”

  “Nigel.”

  Peaches, thought Mac, thinking about Roxie’s pet name for the older man. He withheld a smile. “Call me Mac.”

  “I’m a Trotskyite.”

  “Jane told me.” He had to hand it to the old guy. Janie’s uncle sure knew how to jump start a conversation.

  “I hope your government doesn’t have spies peering in my windows.”

  “We’re safe. I’m not that big a fish.”

  “If news reports are accurate, even minnows are unsafe.”

  “I’m surprised you’re this interested in our domestic problems.”

  “It distresses me to see a great country embark on such a destructive course.”

  Mac didn’t have to ask for clarification. These days when the conversation turned to America, the first name on everyone’s lips was Senator Joseph McCarthy of Wisconsin. Tail Gunner Joe, he called himself, the last bastion of defense against the rampant onslaught of communism in America. While there was no denying the very real danger of communism, it was hard for most thinking individuals to perceive that danger to be hidden in every schoolbook, newspaper and innocuous television comedy show. Joe McCarthy was out to save democracy from the Red Peril and it didn’t take a genius to see he didn’t mind profiting from the misfortunes of those who were cut down by innuendo and lies.

  “It would seem your First Amendment rights don’t hold up under scrutiny,” said Nigel. “You give lip service to free speech but show bloody little interest in granting that right to anyone who disagrees with the powers that be.”

  It wasn’t hard to see where Jane got her feistiness. “A rhetorical statement?” Mac countered.

  “No. I’m quite curiou
s about the dichotomy between Senator McCarthy’s witch-hunt and your Constitution’s affection for freedom of speech.”

  “So am I. I’ll find out when I get home.” There was an ocean between him and the McCarthy witch-hunt. It was hard to imagine the country he knew and loved looking over its collective shoulder at the shadow of one of its own.

  “Your stay in England is at an end?”

  Mac nodded. “Afraid so. I sail for New York tomorrow.”

  “This is why you’re here.”

  “We’re here for your typewriter.”

  “You’re here for my niece.”

  Mac leaned forward in his chair. “How the hell did you know?”

  “You’ve met my Roxie?”

  Mac nodded.

  “Three days from first meeting to nuptials.” Nigel paused to puff on his pipe. “As you see, hasty decisions run in the family.”

  “Any regrets?”

  Nigel considered the question. “Not a one. We’re an unlikely couple but a happy one.”

  “Did you know the moment you saw Roxie?”

  Smoke encircled Nigel’s head as he exhaled. “Even before. The second I heard her sweet voice singing ‘White Cliffs of Dover’ I was a lost man.”

  “So you don’t think we’re crazy.”

  “Of course I do. Completely daft. The odds are against you, my dear fellow.”

  “The odds didn’t stop you,” Mac pointed out.

  “When you’re my age, the odds are already against you. Why not tempt fate?”

  “So you give us your blessing?”

  “I don’t believe in blessings, Mac. Neither does Jane. I did precious little for her when she was younger. I doubt I have the right to tender blessings at this late date.”

  “She must have brought me here for a reason.”

  “A gesture, perhaps. I wouldn’t presume to guess.”

  Mac leaned back in his chair and dragged a hand through his hair. “I’m confused.” It had seemed so clear to him a few minutes ago. They hadn’t really come to Nigel’s flat for the typewriter, had they? Unless he was as crazy as Nigel seemed to think, he was certain they had progressed beyond that stage.

  “You’ll learn soon enough. Jane keeps her own counsel. I’ve known her all her life and she’s an abiding mystery to me.”

  With one sentence Nigel had summed up Jane’s allure. Mystery. You could sense the darkness about her, an underlying sorrow that tempered her delicate beauty with steel. A man could spend years with a woman like Jane and never come close to understanding what made her tick.

  “Ready for a cuppa, gents?” Roxie bustled into the room, carrying a tea tray. Her showgirl bosom jutted forward like the prow of a ship. “Cream. Sugar. The first strawberries of the year.”

  Jane glided into the room behind Roxie. He watched as her huge blue eyes went from Nigel to himself then back to Nigel again.

  “Well,” said Jane, sitting down next to Mac. She held herself straight as a soldier, hands clasped primly on her lap. Only the faintest trembling of her elegant fingers gave her away. “And how have you gentlemen been getting on?”

  Nigel looked over at Mac. The twinkle in his faded blue eyes could have lit half of London. “I would say we have an understanding, wouldn’t you, Mac?”

  Mac looked over at Jane. “I would.”

  “No difficulties?”

  “None that I know of.” Mac turned to Nigel. “How about you?”

  “Not a one, my boy.”

  She looked so young and hopeful. “Truly?”

  He reached for her hand. “Truly.”

  “How wonderful,” she said with a gentle sigh. “We can borrow the typewriter.”

  Mac threw back his head and laughed. Life with Jane wasn’t going to be dull. That much was certain.

  Chapter Three

  “You changed the wallpaper.” Catherine Wilson Danza ran her hand across the pale yellow and white kitchen walls. “I like it.”

  Nancy, who was slicing onions for their cookout, looked up at her sister. “You noticed.” She reached for another onion. “Gerry still doesn’t realize I’ve changed anything.”

  Cathy laughed and plucked a tomato from a pile that had already been sliced. “Men don’t notice anything until the bill arrives,” she said, biting into the tomato with her even white teeth. “We had our new living-room suite for three months before Johnny realized he was sitting on a blue sofa instead of a red love seat.”

  Leave it to Cathy to come up with a topper. Not that Nancy was jealous or anything. After all these years, Nancy had left jealousy far behind. Plain and simple, awe had taken its place. Her older sister had just turned thirty-one a few days ago and you’d be hard-pressed to believe it. Her hair was the same lustrous honey blond it had always been, although it was now swept off her face into an elegant chignon as befitted her position as president of Wilson Manufacturing. She’d managed to regain her figure almost immediately after giving birth to her and Johnny’s son, and you’d certainly never guess she was four months pregnant right now. Cathy had had a miscarriage two years ago and there’d been concern about whether or not she’d be able to carry another child to term. This time, however, it looked as if little Billy would soon have a baby brother or sister to love. Johnny still looked nervous as a cat, but Cathy positively radiated confidence that all would go as it should.

  But then Cathy was always radiant, wasn’t she? She simply had to wash her face in the morning, and the world—or at least the male half of it—was ready to fall at her feet. Nancy had to work at it. She’d long since abandoned her natural red hair color in favor of a variety of rich chestnut shades, and she’d acquired a remarkable expertise with foundation makeup in her eternal battle with her wayward freckles. Everyone laughed at her stacks of magazines piled up in the far corner of the rumpus room, but those magazines had taught Nancy a lot about the two things that were really important in this world: looking pretty and keeping your husband happy.

  Cathy sat back down at the kitchen table and lifted the baby from her bassinet. “Is it time for Debbie’s bottle?”

  Nancy shook her head. “In forty-five minutes. We have her on a schedule.”

  Cathy nodded, but Nancy could see that her sister took exception to Dr. Spock and his methods. When Cathy and Johnny’s son, Billy, was a baby, Cathy had fed the infant on demand. “He’ll be spoiled rotten,” Nancy had said, the voice of experience. “Children thrive on schedules.” Cathy had just nodded and gone about things her own way. Billy was a good-natured, well-adjusted five-year-old who made his cousin Linda seem downright high-strung.

  Nancy washed her hands at the sink, then pulled the package of ground beef from the refrigerator. “That was really nice of Johnny to volunteer to go to the train station tonight.”

  Cathy kissed the top of her niece’s downy head and looked up at Nancy. “No problem, Nance. He’s going to be at the Levitt office right near the depot. Why should you have to race over there when you have dinner to make?” Cathy’s decision years ago to do business with the firm Levitt & Sons had proven to be the most important deal Wilson Manufacturing had ever made. Bill Levitt had transformed 6,000 acres of barren potato fields into 17,447 houses aimed for the World War II veteran and his growing family. As a subcontractor, Wilson had reaped the rewards of Levitt & Sons’ success.

  There it was again, that veiled note of censure in Cathy’s calm voice. Nancy gritted her teeth and concentrated on the task at hand. Cathy had never been terribly good at understanding the way normal marriages worked. Just because she and Johnny had been able to figure out a way to share both a professional and a personal life was no reason to assume the rest of the world could pull off such a difficult stunt. Maybe being a working mother was okay in New York City, where anything goes, but in Levittown, Long Island, heading off to work in some office every day would make you an instant outcast. Not that Nancy wanted to work, mind you. The house and the kids kept her busy, and if she added in her trips to the train station and the
kindergarten car pool and all the endless visits to doctors and grocery stores—well, there weren’t enough hours in the day as it was.

  It was just that Nancy had never imagined that she would settle down so quickly into a routine so predictable.

  Or that life would seem so quiet.

  “Nance?”

  She started at the sound of her name. Cathy touched her elbow.

  “Are you okay?”

  Nancy brushed back a lock of hair and flashed her sister what she hoped was a self-confident grin. “Just daydreaming.”

  “The coronation?”

  Nancy sighed and placed the package of meat down on the countertop. “Mac Weaver has all the luck, hasn’t he? Can you imagine being right there, front row center, for it all?”

  “Somehow Mac doesn’t seem the type to enjoy all the pomp and circumstance.”

  Nancy pulled the morning paper from the breadbasket where she’d stashed it hours earlier. “Front-page story with his byline.” She spread it out on the kitchen table in front of her older sister. “Five paragraphs about V-E Day and not one single mention of her dress at the pre-coronation ball.”

  “That’s a man for you,” said Cathy with a shake of her head. “I can’t imagine why they’d send a war correspondent to cover a glamorous event like this.”

  Nancy glanced at the clock on the wall over the kitchen window. “Two o’clock.” She thought for a second. “Elizabeth is back in the palace, about to address her loyal subjects.”

  Cathy chuckled. “Always the romantic, aren’t you, Nance? I’m surprised you didn’t stow away on the Queen Mary and sail to England for the festivities.”

  “I thought about it.” But with a husband and a house and three little girls all under six, Nancy wasn’t going anywhere.

  “Do you and Gerry still think about seeing the world?”

  Nancy thought for a moment. “I do. Gerry’s too busy to think about much of anything.”

  Cathy’s brow furrowed as she gently massaged her belly. “It seems to me Gerry’s been doing a great deal of thinking lately.”