A Rendezvous To Remember. Geri Krotow
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guy who landed in her pasture—he was a Brit, I assume? Grandpa Jack?”
Nick took a long sip of coffee and watched her across the kitchen table. The sun was rising and sent slanted beams of light across Melinda’s face.
“I haven’t read that far yet. They always said they met during the war, didn’t they?”
“Yes, but neither one of them ever told me the full story. They were experts at enjoying today, the here and now.”
Nicholas longed to share the last conversation he’d had with Grammy. But not now. Not until Melinda was ready to hear him out. After he’d told her about his leg.
Melinda sighed.
“It’s weird. I thought I was coming home to take care of Grandpa Jack. You know how lifetime couples often pass on very close to each other? I’ve been expecting to hear Grandpa’s gone, too. Instead, I come home to find him in his garden, working away, and he gives me these journals to read. Tells me they’re very important.”
She swished her coffee around in her mug.
“I keep thinking I should feel more grief or an extra closeness to Grammy as I read this. But like I said, it’s as though I’m reading the story of another woman’s life.”
She stood up and went to the refrigerator.
“Most of us don’t see our parents or grandparents in an objective light, the way the world sees them.”
Nick smiled to himself as Melinda pulled out eggs, cheese, vegetables and Tabasco sauce. She was making them an omelet. Did she realize how easily they’d slipped back into their Sunday-morning breakfast routine?
Minus the lovemaking, of course.
“True. But, Nick, she killed a man!”
Melinda’s voice snapped him back.
“I see what you mean.” He shook his head. “Hell, she wouldn’t even let me kill the slugs that were eating her prize tomatoes two summers ago. She said ‘just let me take them down to the creek.’”
“Right, exactly.” She cracked two more eggs against the ceramic mixing bowl.
He studied Mel’s movements about the counter and stove. God, he’d missed her grace, her warmth.
“You know, Mel, We’re all capable of things we wouldn’t have any reason to think about unless—or until—we’re faced with the circumstances.”
What would Melinda think of him if she knew he’d killed? Even in self-defense, in war.
What if she knew about the hatred he’d carried in his heart for the person or persons who were responsible for the IED that killed his friend and blew his leg off?
Chapter 5
“Have you ever had to kill anyone, Nick?”
Her question sucked the air from his lungs. She’d never asked about his time in Afghanistan. After his first return, she’d spoken only of the future, mostly about her desired transfer to D.C.
This new intimacy wasn’t much, but he’d take it.
“I’ve been in a war, Melinda. What do you think?”
He saw her shoulders tense. She stopped whisking the eggs and turned to look at him.
“I suppose you’ve had to do things I don’t want to know about.”
“You’re correct.”
Melinda turned back to the counter. A few minutes later, she sat down with two full plates of omelet, sliced melon and rye toast. Drool threatened to drip from the sides of Nick’s mouth as he stared at their meal.
“This is incredible, Mel.” He hadn’t had a homemade meal in, what, seven, eight months?
She dug her fork into the fluffy omelet and raised it to her lips. Only then did she meet his gaze, and laughed.
“You act like you haven’t eaten in years, Nick.”
“It was a long trip home.” He couldn’t say any more or he’d scare her with his newfound devotion to their marriage.
So he shoved a forkful of egg into his mouth.
This was going to be far more difficult than he’d imagined. He didn’t want to overwhelm her with his emotions. Their marriage had broken down over a long time. He didn’t expect to mend it in one conversation.
“Let me warm up our coffee.”
She went to the counter and he was grateful for the reprieve. There was so much at stake here. Because if he didn’t win Melinda back before the divorce was final, he’d lose the biggest part of himself.
The best part.
“I’d appreciate it, thanks.” He needed to switch gears or his emotions were going to become obvious.
“Have you heard from David?” Melinda’s half brother still lived in Buffalo but rarely came around. He was always too busy with the next deal in local real estate.
“Not since the funeral.” She sipped her coffee. “He isn’t as close to Grandpa as I am. Besides, he and Tari spend a lot of time with the kids.”
Kids we never had.
Nick sighed.
“Just because they’re raising children doesn’t mean you can’t ask for some help if you need it with Jack.”
Melinda’s face was relaxed, her expression thoughtful. This was how it was supposed to be between them. How it had been, before they’d both screwed things up.
“I’m not afraid to ask him, if that’s what you’re getting at. But I don’t see any need to bother him at this point. Grandpa’s doing fine from what I saw yesterday. He’s even cooking for himself.”
“Did the casseroles from the neighbors run out?”
Melinda laughed.
“The original round, yes, but several of the widows keep bringing him a fresh meal every few days or so.”
“No one’s asked to marry him yet?” Nick smiled at her. There’d never been anyone but Esmée for Jack. And the widows knew it, too. Still, they couldn’t resist feeding the neighborhood’s most eligible senior.
“I hope not. That’s the last thing he needs.”
“Still, it has to be a welcome distraction from his grief.”
Melinda looked at him, her eyes large.
“When did you get so introspective?”
“Every now and then I actually do reveal some human characteristics, Mel.”
Esmée’s Journal
February 1, 1943
The man with the broken ankle will only tell me his name is “Mac.” But I doubt that’s his real name. I went through all his clothes as I washed them but there’s no identification, no indication of who he is or where he came from.
I’m almost positive he’s RAF, or an agent for the Brits. No matter, as we’re all on the same side. We speak in a mixture of French and English.
Philippe from the Resistance Group has become invaluable to me. He and three other members came and took care of Henri’s body. Philippe told me to tell my neighbors, family and friends that Henri went away on Christmas Eve and never came back. He wouldn’t be the first Belgian to disappear in the middle of the night. No one questioned my explanation.
I live in fear of a German soldier rapping on my door, demanding to know what I’ve done with Henri, but so far it hasn’t happened.
I should worry more about how I’ll explain my new visitor. Yet none