Читать книгу: «A Rendezvous To Remember»
A Rendezvous to Remember
Geri Krotow
MILLS & BOON
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Dedication
For Stephen
My Everlasting
Contents
Acknowledgment
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Epilogue
Acknowledgment
My heartfelt gratitude, respect and love to
Haywood Smith, Susan Wiggs and Debbie Macomber
for believing in me and my potential. You are soul sisters.
Special thanks to my editor extraordinaire,
Paula Eykelhof.
Chapter 1
November 10, 2007
He stood hunched over the azaleas, shaping the bushes with ease despite the cold. Melinda Busher-Thompson burrowed her gloved hands deeper into the front pockets of her Berber coat as she watched him. Her exposed skin stung with the raw damp of the November day—another reason for her desire to leave western New York.
Yet Grandpa Jack moved through his garden as though he was still forty, like her, and not eighty-seven.
As if Grammy was still here.
“Hey, Grandpa.” Her all-weather moccasins squished over the scattered dead leaves Grandpa Jack had laid down for insulation.
“Hey, yourself, kiddo!” Pleasure lit up Jack Busher’s face. Melinda caught the sparkle in his violet-blue eyes before he enfolded her in one of his famous bear hugs.
Grandpa Jack might be thinner than he’d been when she was a child, but his embrace still held all the love in the world for her. She breathed in his scent—fall morning rain mixed with soap and old-fashioned cologne.
“I didn’t think you’d get here until tomorrow.”
The familiar vestiges of his English accent comforted her.
Jack pulled back to look at Melinda’s face but his hands were still on her upper arms. He squeezed her with just enough pressure that she felt it under her thick coat. Her heart pounded in response to the unconditional love she’d only ever found here with him and Grammy.
“I got into town late last night.”
“I see.” Jack grunted as he hoisted a pile of twigs he’d gathered and tossed them into his wheelbarrow.
“I didn’t want to wake you.” She held her breath for a moment, then watched the cloud of vapor as she expelled it forcefully from her lungs.
“I slept at my house last night but I have my luggage in the car so I can stay with you for the next two weeks.”
Jack’s expression stiffened.
“That won’t work, honey. You belong in your own place.”
“Grandpa, I belong with you right now.”
She felt her neck muscles tighten in exasperation. Grandpa refused to accept her broken marriage for what it was.
Irreparable.
“Melinda, you’ve always belonged with me, you’ll always be part of me. But no one’s been in your house for months, except me checking on it, and it needs some living. It’ll do the place good to have the furnace on and water running through the pipes.”
Jack paused in his raking and leveled a look at Melinda. It was the same look he used to give her as a teenager when he saw through her schemes.
“I’m not so old that I need a babysitter, honey.”
“I’m not here to babysit you, Grandpa. I miss you and we’ll have more time together if I stay here.”
“Phooey. We’ll have all the time we want. You need to be in your own home.”
He wasn’t going to back down on this one. Nor was he willing to discuss Nick with her.
Not yet.
“You taking care of yourself, girl?” Jack’s body might be fading but his eyes and perception weren’t.
“Sure, Grandpa.” She glanced down, but felt the strength of his gaze. “It’s not easy, you know….”
Her cheeks flushed with shame. How could she stand here whining about her loss when Grandpa mourned the loss of his life’s partner of more than sixty years?
His breath caught, and she heard the rasp in his throat. When she raised her eyes back to his, she saw the unshed tears. Guilt and grief washed over her and she clenched her fists in her coat pockets.
“Of course it’s not easy, pumpkin, but we have to go on. We’re still here. You know your Grammy wouldn’t have it any other way.”
He bent down to pick up the shears he’d dropped at their feet. When he straightened, she saw the strain on his face.
“I know, Grandpa. I’m sorry. I’m being a bitch.”
Jack’s eyebrows rose. “Nothing this family hasn’t experienced from its women before.”
They both laughed, and for a moment all the sorrow of the past three months was gone and it was just Melinda and Grandpa Jack out in the garden.
Exactly the way it’d been since Melinda could remember. She’d even taken her first steps here. Busher family legend said she’d reached for a tulip to pick, unaware of the rarity of bulb flowers in a Buffalo spring.
“Honey, I called you for a reason.” She heard the slight quaver in his voice, saw the deep lines around his mouth.
“Grandpa, you don’t have to explain. I told you I’d come whenever you needed me, and I meant it. I’m just sorry I didn’t come sooner.”
The truth was, she’d had to convince Senator Hodges that she’d only be gone two weeks. Thank God it wasn’t an election year or she’d never have gotten this vacation time. Since she’d taken over as head speechwriter for the senator, she’d had exactly one week off.
When Grammy died.
“You have your own life, Melinda. I don’t expect you to drop everything for me. You know that, honey.” He raked up the clippings from the azaleas and stooped to put them in the black plastic bag.
“Let me help you, Grandpa.”
Together they finished the rest of the job, and within twenty minutes were inside the warm kitchen. The kitchen was home to Melinda ever since Grandpa and Grammy moved into the large suburban house in the 1970s.
Hot coffee steamed from Grammy’s chipped ceramic mugs that Melinda set on the table in front of them.
“Your Grammy was always closest to you, Melinda, even more so than she was to your father or Lille.” Jack’s hands tightened around his mug.
“We don’t have to talk about this, Grandpa.” Sad conversations weren’t good for Grandpa Jack. Not in his deep state of grief.
“Yes, my dear, we do. Now let me finish.”
He covered Melinda’s hand with his, and a lifetime of Grandpa Jack conversations flooded through her heart at the contact. Tears seeped from her eyes but she remained silent.
This isn’t about you, Melinda. Be strong for Grandpa Jack.
“As close as Grammy was to you, my dear, she didn’t share everything. We didn’t share everything, not with anyone, really.”
Melinda sucked in a breath. Now what? She was going to find out she had long-lost sisters or brothers? The family had a fortune from bootlegging that they’d kept in Swiss accounts?
Grandpa Jack appeared oblivious to her thoughts.
“As you may remember, we married after the war, here in Buffalo.” Grandpa Jack looked out the kitchen window and as much as Melinda wanted to follow his gaze, she couldn’t stop staring at his face.
What was he going to tell her?
“But that’s not where the story started. Your father was born in 1944.” Melinda heard Grandpa’s words but still didn’t follow him.
“Yes, so he’s sixty-three.”
“And your aunt Lille’s one year older than he is.”
“Sixty-four.” As she did the math, Melinda realized that Aunt Lille seemed much younger than her years. But surely this wasn’t why Grandpa Jack was going through the family timelines.
“And your Grammy and I were married for—”
“Sixty-one years,” Melinda finished for him.
Silence fell, and Grandpa Jack just watched her. She looked back at him, unsure of where he was headed with this. Okay, so there were a few years between her aunt’s and father’s births and Grammy and Grandpa Jack’s wedding. That was hardly uncommon during World War II.
Wasn’t he her biological grandfather? Was that the big secret?
“So you weren’t Grammy’s first husband?”
What kind of question was that? she asked herself. How much of a comfort was she to Grandpa Jack now?
Grandpa Jack showed no concern at Melinda’s comment. He laughed.
“Oh, honey, no, that’s not what I’m trying to tell you. Your Dad’s my son, no question.” But he didn’t say anything about Aunt Lille.
Melinda knew she should’ve asked Grammy more about her life, especially after Grammy was diagnosed with cancer last year. But the final date of her divorce from Nicholas loomed, and overwhelmed by the thought of losing Grammy, it hadn’t occurred to her.
She’d been too self-absorbed.
“So why the gap, Grandpa? It was the war, right?”
“I was in a concentration camp.”
The words flew like bullets from a sleek pistol. Quiet. Oh, so smooth.
Shocking.
“But, Grandpa…why? Are you Jewish?”
Melinda had never seen any great religious fervor in Grandpa and Grammy. They were spiritual, and both their children, as well as Melinda, had been raised Catholic, but not in a strict way.
Melinda racked her brain, trying to remember everything she’d learned about concentration camps during World War II. She recalled that more than thirteen million had been slaughtered in the Holocaust. Six million Jews and the rest a mix of Catholics, Gypsies, homosexuals and whoever else didn’t fit Hitler’s grand scheme for the “master race.”
She’d never seen any connections between her grandparents’ lives and what she’d studied.
“No, honey,” her grandfather answered. “I’m not Jewish, but your Grammy and I tried to help the Jews. We also worked against the Nazis when they moved into Belgium, and the rest of Northern Europe, for that matter.”
Grandpa Jack’s statements poured out of him as though he’d spoken of this his entire life.
But Melinda had never heard any of it before. All her grandparents had ever said about their lives prior to arriving in America was that “times were tough. We’re happy to be together now.”
Certainly their son, James, Melinda’s father, had never revealed any knowledge of their past. He just said his parents were from Europe. Aunt Lille had never revealed that she knew anything, either.
“You’re from England, and Grammy was from Belgium, right?”
“Yes, that’s true. But it was unusual for a Brit to meet a Belgian like your grandmother during the middle years of the war. The circumstances we found ourselves in…”
Grandpa Jack’s voice trailed off and he gazed down at the coffee in his cup. He took a swig.
After a moment he said, “Your grandmother kept a journal. Hell, more than a journal—it’s our life together. And her life before she met me. Our tough times, even after the war, here in America. It’s part of your legacy, Melinda.”
“Why didn’t you mention this sooner?” Melinda searched her memory for all the times Grandpa Jack could’ve told her about Grammy’s journal. For that matter, why hadn’t Grammy said anything while she was alive?
“We’ve always been reluctant to talk about the war years.” Jack grew still, his expression somber. “We experienced struggles that, until recently, would’ve been unimaginable to you, to your parents.”
Melinda knew what he meant. Until September 11, 2001, most North Americans wouldn’t have been able to fathom the depth of suffering experienced at the hands of the Gestapo in occupied Europe.
“There’s one more thing, my dear. I kept a diary after my release from the concentration camp. I’ve never even shared it with Grammy. She’d already suffered too much by the time I found her again. But you deserve to know both sides of our story.”
Grandpa Jack looked at her and raised his chin. Slightly, but enough for Melinda to read the pride and conviction on his face.
“We went through hell to get our freedom.”
Chapter 2
The heavy, leather-bound journal sat on Melinda’s lap. Pages jutted out from its frayed edges, added later or falling out from age. It was one of several books Grandpa Jack had given to her, all with Grammy’s writing.
Melinda ran her hands over the dark brown cover, as though she could somehow sense Grammy’s love, feel her presence.
God, she missed Grammy so much.
As an adult she should be past needing her grandmother’s affection. Most of her friends and colleagues had lost their grandparents far sooner than she.
Yet the long talks and the hours spent cooking and baking together were all woven into the fabric of her life with Grammy. She just wanted to be able to pull out that blanket one last time.
A tear slipped from her eye and Melinda blinked.
She’d cried enough these past few years, hadn’t she?
If not about Nicholas, then about Grammy.
Nicholas.
She glanced around the Victorian home they’d restored in the early years of their marriage. The floral wallpaper in the living room reminded her of her neglected rose garden, out back. She and Nicholas had made love there on more than one occasion, in the gazebo.
What had brought that memory to the surface?
She swiped at her tears. Maybe coming home to Buffalo hadn’t been the best idea, after all.
But Grandpa had called. And Grammy’s words called her now.
And no way was Grandpa going to let her stay with him.
Melinda pulled on the leather string that held the journal together. Despite the cracked condition of the book, the string ran soft and supple through her fingers. She whispered a quiet prayer, lifted the old leather cover…and saw a large cream envelope with her name written on it in Grammy’s shaky cursive.
Melinda
The envelope was fairly new.
Grammy had left her one final birthday card, perhaps? She’d turned forty a week ago, and Grammy had always made it a point to celebrate Melinda’s birthday. Even when she’d been on assignment in D.C. last year, Grammy had sent balloons and chocolate to her one-bedroom efficiency condo.
Melinda opened the envelope. The edge of the flap gave her a paper cut but she paid no heed.
This was no birthday card.
Grammy had left her a sympathy card. A white embossed dove rose from a pale blue background, and the words To Comfort You in Your Loss were written across the top in silver. Melinda read the message inside.
Dear Melinda,
This is a sympathy card because by now I figure you’re missing me a lot. Know that I am with you and I’ll always love you. As much as I’m confident that I’ll be having a grand time wherever I am, know that I must somehow miss you, too. Unless, of course, I’m allowed to haunt you. In the most positive way, of course! No, I haven’t lost my mind, I’m just losing my body and I wanted to write this before it’s too late. Please read the enclosed letter before you start my journal.
XOX
Grammy
The enclosed letter had dropped onto Melinda’s lap when she opened the card. Along with it wafted the scent of Grammy. Baby powder and roses.
Grammy’s hand cream of choice was always rose-scented.
Melinda couldn’t help laughing through her tears. Grammy never lost her earthy sense of humor, even when the cancer limited her world to her bedroom those last few months. She shook her head and unfolded the lavender-colored paper.
Dear Melinda,
By now I’ve been gone at least a month. I told Jack to wait until the dust had settled, not just on my grave but in your lives.
Melinda honey, we’ve shared the best of our lives with each other. You and I have been blessed with a wonderful bond these past forty years. As much as I’d be the first to wish your father had been more available to you and that your mother had lived, it’d be a lie to say that I regret the consequences. It was a blessing to me, and to Jack, that we were able to spend so much time with you. Being able to raise you as our own for so much of your childhood meant everything to us.
We struggled financially while your dad was young and weren’t able to spoil him the way we did you. But as you already know, spoiling you with material things wasn’t ever our main focus. We wanted to spoil you with our love.
I’ve worried these last couple of years whether we’ve spoiled you too much. When things got rocky with you and Nicholas, I thought it might pass. All couples go through rough spots—that’s just life. But then you picked up and moved to Washington, D.C., and your whole life revolved around Senator Hodge’s career and agenda.
Jack and I were happy when you went to college right after high school and got your degree. We were so proud! And it always seemed destined that you’d marry Nicholas. Ever since you met him at St. Bonaventure, your eyes held a bright light.
We thought you were proud of his service in the Reserves and understood that it meant he could be called away at any time. So when he was called to war and you took it so badly, we questioned our assumptions. You said you believed that if Nicholas loved you, he wouldn’t go. That he’d put family first.
Since you’d been unable to get pregnant I wondered if you worried he was leaving during the time you’d have left to get pregnant. Remember when I took you out for coffee and ordered you that huge maple scone? And you said, “I’m not supposed to eat refined sugar or wheat.” I was trying to get you to relax, to enjoy yourself.
You’ve worried about so many things in your short life, Melinda.
It’s clear to me that Nicholas is a true patriot and simply answered the call he always knew could come. Maybe he’s even relished the challenge, in the way only a warrior does.
But you took it personally.
I’m sorry if this sounds like a lecture, Melinda. I just hate to see you suffer, and to see you throw away what may be the love of your life.
I know what pain that brings, as there was a time when I’d lost the love of my life. It was the bleakest period of my existence.
As you know, I’ve always liked writing. I’m sure you recall the column I wrote for the Buffalo Evening News. But what you don’t know is that my greatest work is what you’re about to read. Mind you, I started it when I was young, idealistic and thought myself a cross between Jane Austen and James Joyce—unlikely though that sounds!
I kept the journal hidden throughout the war but, just in case it was stolen or fell into the wrong hands, I wrote in English. Even though I was fluent, I was speaking my native French daily, so you may find some errors.
Read my story—you’ll figure out quickly that it’s not just my story but also that of Grandpa Jack, and millions of World War II survivors. Read this with an open mind and heart. Finally, understand why I found my peace and love here, in Buffalo.
Think about coming back to Buffalo, dearest, so you can give yourself a real life. I’ll never believe that working in that rat race on Capital Hill is good for you, Melinda. You’re certainly smart enough to be there with the best of them, but I don’t want you to waste your heart on things that won’t mean anything once you’re my age. You were such a natural in the classroom. Your former students still ask about you.
I’m feeling bold, since you’re not here in person to roll your beautiful blue eyes at me. I want you to reconsider your marriage to Nicholas. Twenty years of love and laughter—including the fifteen you’ve been married—is a lot to throw away, Melinda. Trust me when I tell you that no one will love you the way he has. I’ve seen both sides of love and marriage, and what you and Nicholas share is real.
I want to write more, but I’ve given you enough to read in my journals. I’d say “read it and weep” but unfortunately, I know you probably will. It is my prayer that you’ll also find some things humorous, and that you may even find a reason to believe in love again.
XOX
Grammy
Melinda let the letter fall back onto her lap. Leave it to Grammy to think she could fix everyone’s problems, even from the grave.
But her problems with Nicholas were about more than not having a baby. Their communication had broken down when she felt restless as a high-school English teacher. She’d wanted more.
“Why don’t you write the great American novel?” Nick wanted to solve her problems for her.
“I’m not a novelist. I’m interested in politics, Nick. I really think I’m supposed to use my talents in this direction.”
“Honey, I’m not being patronizing. But don’t you think your restlessness is mostly due to your biological clock ticking away?”
Melinda had rejected his observation that this was all about her hormones. Sure, they’d been trying to conceive and nothing had happened, but it wasn’t the entire focus of her life.
Or was it?
Nick had made his decision without her. He’d chosen to take another tour in Afghanistan. And she’d decided to take the job in D.C. without his help. They’d stopped relying on each other’s judgment years ago.
All they had in common now was this house.
A house neither of them lived in anymore.
She plucked at the multicolored yarn on the afghan she’d snuggled into on the brown leather couch. Grammy meant well. She was a woman who’d always been with the love of her life, so Melinda understood the basis for Grammy’s opinions.
But Grammy didn’t understand that the situation today wasn’t the same as during World War II. Nick had a choice—whether or not to serve. Whether or not to break Melinda’s heart.
Esmée’s Journal
May 25, 1940
How can this be happening? How can men of intelligence bring us to our knees again? Haven’t we suffered enough?
I’ve spent my entire academic life studying the Great War and how it destroyed our beloved Belgium. My family’s strength, faith and resourceful nature are the only reasons I am able to write this entry today.
A scant generation later we’ve begun another ugly battle.
Ugly it is. The Germans have no room for anyone except themselves. They tolerate us, they use us. Over the past three weeks I’ve seen everything I’ve ever read about in my literature studies—and more.
Bloodthirsty warplanes bombed our capital, and smaller, tactical aircraft strafed my village’s cow pastures. Douglas DuPont, who owns the fields behind our street, was shot dead while he tended to a birthing cow. His widow and five children are heartbroken and see no justification for his death.
Only Nazi barbarism.
My parents are quite vocal about what we’re experiencing. They warn my sister and me of many years of sacrifice to come. Surely this won’t last as long as the Great War. The Allies are on the right side of morality, of justice.
I will keep this record, so the world will know what happened. I will write in English—for practice and security.
Selfishly I wonder if I’ll be able to continue my studies. I graduate in three weeks and plan to attend university this September.
The current situation may dictate otherwise. The simple act of taking the train into Brussels each day may well be impossible.
Does this mean life as I know it is extinguished?
July 15, 1940
Any hope of escape, of fleeing, is over now. I desperately wanted to run to the French border but Mother forbade it. Besides, with Elodie, who will take care of them? Elodie still can’t walk without a lot of help, even using her cane. The polio could have been worse. Maman says I could have contracted it as well. But none of us did.
Just poor Elodie. My sweet little sister.
She looks more like ten years old than sixteen.
Maman and Papa are fine right now, but from what I’ve heard, the war will bring us all up against tough times. We could starve, or get sick, or both. Grandmère and Grandpère told us so many horrible stories of the Great War. I thought it was something I’d never experience. Yet here we are.
Maman and Papa need me, but I feel sorrowful over the loss of my hope, my plan, to study English literature. I can keep reading, of course, but how will I find books? The Nazis are already censoring newspapers and even library books. There are rumors the schools may close, as they did during the Great War.
If I am destined to remain in Belgium for the duration, I vow to make a difference. Not just to Maman, Papa and Elodie. But to my countrymen. To the boys from my class who’ve been forced to work in German factories. To the boys who’ve escaped to fight with our allies.
I wish I were a boy so I could carry a weapon, too.
I will find out what I can do.
Melinda knew Grammy studied English as a girl and spoke and wrote it fluently by the age of sixteen. Her breath caught as she realized that Esmée had kept such a detailed account of her life in a foreign tongue.
Esmée had high aspirations for a girl back then.
Esmée’s Journal
September 14, 1940
My first wish has been granted. I’m officially a member of the Belgian Resistance! Maman and Papa are, too, but we associate with different groups. They’re working with the older folks, doing more in the way of disrupting our occupiers’ everyday misdeeds, like not cooperating when asked for papers or goods the Germans have no right asking for. But they have to be careful; if they anger the enemy and end up in jail, or worse, it won’t help any of us.
I’m in a more active group. Right now, we’re getting the local boys who stayed here in touch with their counterparts in England. Thank God for the radio. Still, we have to monitor each and every broadcast so as to not miss one clue the Allies might send us.
May 29, 1941
It’s only been a year, but it feels like ten. I worry for us all. Our food has been so limited. If this war lasts much longer, we may starve before we’re liberated from these evil bastards.
It’s my duty to provide for Maman, Papa and Elodie. We can’t expect Elodie to roam about the countryside looking for food or fuel to keep our house warm. Maman and Papa remain healthy but the war is wearing on them, and I see it reflected in the deepening lines on their faces, the sharper angle of their bent spines.
I pray for an answer.
Melinda took a sip of the tea that had grown cold and looked out the front window, past the Belgian lace curtains Grammy had ordered for her. It wasn’t dark yet, but hazy with the gray that comes before a late-autumn sunset.
Her surroundings, which she’d taken for granted only a few journal entries ago, seemed luxurious, even excessive. On her drive up from D.C. she’d actually complained to herself that her leather car seats weren’t heated.
Grammy had life-or-death issues to face when she was two decades younger than Melinda was now.
Esmée’s Journal
June 1, 1941
A miracle may have happened today.
I met a young man, recently widowed, who owns a farm a few kilometers south of here. It’s a little more rural than I’m used to, but the small town is familiar to me, as some of my schoolmates have gone there to live out the war with extended family.
His name is Henri. We met in Brussels at the Grand Place when I escaped to the city center, trying to remember what it used to be like. I was searching for some fresh vegetables for us, brought in from the countryside.
Henri handed me an apple.
He said he travels to Brussels to sell his produce as it comes in.
He’s lonely, I see it in his eyes. And he has food. Enough for all of us.
June 5, 1941
Henri took me bicycle-riding in his town today. We rode the train to the station, and walked to his home. I didn’t tell Maman and Papa what I was doing. They thought I was out doing Resistance work.
I was, but even Henri doesn’t know that. I told the leader of my group in Brussels that I may have an opportunity to move out to the countryside, to Le Tourn. He told me they’d be happy to have me working there, since that’s where many of the RAF insertions take place.
They warned me not to tell my new friend about my work. Just in case…
I can serve my country and keep my family fed with one simple vow.
June 10, 1941
Henri came by to meet my family today.
Maman and Papa were social enough, but I could tell this is not a man they’d ever trust. Nothing concrete, just an undercurrent of distrust. When he left, they fired their questions at me.
“How did you meet him? How do you know he didn’t find out you’re Resistance and isn’t going to turn you in? How can you be sure he’s loyal to Belgium?”
I can’t answer any of their questions without hesitation. But I know one thing—we won’t starve if I marry him.
He is kind and polite to me. He’s very interested in me, and although I’d normally not give his type a second glance, I have to be practical. I’ve never yet been in love, and with the war, I may never be. So why wait when I can marry a man who can provide for my family?
Henri? Grandpa’s name was Jack. Had she been married before? Had this other man been her first husband?
Intrigued, Melinda turned the page to Grammy’s next entry. She kept reading through 1941 and the start of 1942. Grammy married this Henri. The entries were bland at best, certainly no mention of undying love or passion. But nothing shocking, either.
Until she came upon an entry she’d never have believed Esmée Du Bois had written.
Esmée’s Journal
March 17, 1942
I hate him. As much as I’m relieved to write these words, I’m trembling that he’ll find me doing this. Or worse, he’ll find this journal and use it as another excuse to slam me up against the cellar wall.
