The Soldier's Bride Read online

  Chapter 2 ~ Trading Sorrows

  April 1944 ~ Evelyn

  “Mother, I put Danny down for his nap, and I’m heading over to the church swap meet.” Evelyn paused at the front door.

  Marie looked up from her sewing. “It’s time then?”

  “Yes, it’s what Jim wanted.”

  Marie nodded, and Evelyn let herself out and walked two blocks to the whitewashed building in silence. A gentle spring breeze caressed the back of her neck and reminded her of the day she and Jim stood in the kitchen one year ago. So much had changed since then. Her hair stayed tight in the clip and refused to play with the wind.

  The town of Aspen Falls was much as it had been for the past twenty years—moving at its own pace. If one knew what to look for, change would be evident, but a passerby wouldn’t recognize the handful of new shops and the remodeled park the town boasted in its claim to progressive growth.

  Evelyn carried the music box under her arm. Her heart seemed to beat with the rhythm of the music held inside. Maybe it would always keep time to Jim’s melody. She had copied his message and pasted it inside the box under the red velvet paper to remind her of what she’d heard in the cemetery. Jim had hinted at a secret, and if it wasn’t for that, Evelyn would never have ventured out with the music box.

  Tugging at the heavy door, she cradled the music box and stepped inside the church. Her eyes adjusted to the dim lighting of the entryway. She crossed the hall and entered the Sunday school room. With some hesitation, she eyed the gleaming wooden benches surrounding tables overflowing with donations.

  Evelyn meandered through the church, looking at the tables filled with trinkets and treasures from the community and the larger neighboring town of Callaway Grove. She rubbed the ivory paper on the box in a circular motion, and her voice resonated with a hum—something she did almost without realizing.

  The double doors at the back of the church swung open. A gust of wind pushed through and collided with Evelyn. She stood there staring as a woman struggled to carry a large cradle inside. As the wind died down, the current of air tickled her ears with the sounds of the earth coming alive, and Evelyn walked toward the woman.

  The cradle was marvelous—solid maple with little birds carved in the sides—and polished to a pale sheen. The woman closed the doors, and the last bits of wind pushed the cradle until it rocked gently. Evelyn smiled at the woman.

  Her cheeks were flushed from the exertion of carrying the load inside. A tangled mess of dark curls fell halfway down her back. She glanced at the cradle, then at Evelyn. “Do you like it?”

  Evelyn saw something familiar in the woman’s eyes. “I, uh, I do, but it’s so beautiful—I don’t know if I have enough.”

  “My name is Rhonda Halverson.” She motioned to Evelyn. “What did you bring to trade?”

  “I’m Evelyn Patterson.” Her throat tightened and she held out the box with trembling hands. “This is a music box.” She set it on the table and popped open the compartment. The miniature ballerina stood up gracefully and pirouetted to the music.

  The two women stood still and listened. Rhonda bent down and peered at the reflection of the ballerina in the mirror. “Beautiful. I’ve never seen one like this before. Where did you get it?”

  Evelyn hesitated. “It was a gift. I’m not sure where it came from.”

  Rhonda’s fingers grazed the tulle skirt of the ballerina. “My daughter would’ve loved this. That was her cradle, or bed as she called it. It’s big enough that she slept in it until she was nearly eighteen months old.”

  Evelyn swallowed. “Your daughter?”

  “Yes, she passed on two years ago. She was three.” Rhonda squared her shoulders and gazed at Evelyn.

  “I’m so sorry.” Evelyn shook her head and murmured, “My late husband gave me this music box and asked me to give it away to help me move on with my life if he died.” She touched the velvet padding and looked at Rhonda, understanding what she had recognized in her eyes. “He died in the war before I could get a letter out that I was expecting.”

  “Seems like we have a connection then,” Rhonda said. “I’d like to trade you my cradle if you feel up to it.”

  Evelyn knelt down beside the cradle and traced the lines carved into the wood. “I think my baby will fit better in here than in the music box.” She laughed and the tinkling sound echoed through the hall.

  “And I think I’m ready to pour my sorrows into something smaller.” Rhonda cleared her throat. The music stopped playing, and the ballerina stood still in a half turn away from the mirror, her face painted in an everlasting smile that looked up at the two women who knew about heartache.

  A few hours later in the quiet of her room, Evelyn battled second thoughts. She closed her eyes for a moment and hummed Jim’s tune. Her heart beat in time with a loss she thought might never leave. She knew Jim wanted her to trade the music box so her heart would not be haunted by the song of his love, but it didn’t matter what material possessions she gave away, it wouldn’t rid her heart of the pain of Jim’s loss. She didn’t want to—wasn’t ready—to give up a love that had barely begun.

  She rocked her baby in the cradle until she felt a draft coming from the window. Stepping close to the sun-streaked pane, she saw it was open a half inch. Evelyn closed it tight, and the wind tapped against the glass once and then twice before turning back to blow in another direction. The wind seemed to know something that she didn’t. If only it could whisper what the next step was for her and Danny. Evelyn hummed and Danny smiled in his sleep, unaware of the past and with no concern for the future.

  ~*~

  The wind blew down the street to a two-bedroom house with a picket fence and a rusty tricycle in the yard. Leland Halverson nursed a bottle of beer in the back bedroom and looked at the empty spot on the wood floor where the cradle had been. He groaned, remembering those happy times when he could breathe without hurting. Leland had built the cradle for their baby girl, Jessie.

  He felt the current of air enter before he heard Rhonda’s light step in the kitchen.

  “Leland, I’m home. I traded the cradle for something special.”

  He winced, took a long pull from his beer, and tossed it in the corner. The glass shattered, and the amber liquid trickled over the pile of bottles he had consumed. No matter how much he drank, he’d still hear Jessie’s scream. He’d hear the haunting cry of his baby girl and remember that horrible day.

  He heard Rhonda move around the kitchen and then a clicking noise, like a windup toy. A melody—ethereal yet alluring—traveled toward him and filled the room. Rhonda must have left the door ajar, for Leland could still feel a light breeze moving down the hall. And for just a moment he thought he heard something besides music.

  The cool air sent a shiver through him. He cursed and slumped against the bedroom wall. The music continued to play and he rubbed his hand along the coarse stubble framing his jaw. He couldn’t remember the last time Rhonda had made him shower and shave. The whiskers on his cheek were matted. It must have been over a week.

  “Would you like to come in the kitchen?” Her voice was almost a whisper, but he still flinched. Rhonda stood in the doorway and Leland took a shallow breath.

  “Why?” He glanced at her and then back at the floor. He waited for his wife to answer that he stunk of liquor and needed something running through his veins besides alcohol, but she only sighed. Then he heard the wind blow the screen door shut and the music stopped playing.

  “I picked up something today I think Jessie would’ve liked.”

  Leland cringed and covered his eyes with his hand. Rhonda crouched beside him and touched his arm. “It will only take a minute. Come on.” She tugged on his sleeve.

  He curled his toes snug in his woolen socks and bit his bottom lip. Slender fingers grasped his hand and pulled. He looked up into the clear blue of Rhonda’s eyes and tried not to see Jessie there. She paused and he knew she was doing the same thing—trying not to see Jessie in the dimple under
his left eye or the red highlights in his hair. She pulled again, and he allowed himself to rise with the momentum and follow her out of the bedroom.

  “I’m tired,” he complained as he shuffled down the hall.

  Rhonda turned around and looked at him. “Me, too.” She gave his hand a gentle squeeze and nudged him into the kitchen. “Here it is.”

  She pointed at the music box open on the table with a ballerina frozen mid-twirl. Leland swallowed, but his throat didn’t seem to be working right, his saliva caught and he choked. His chest burned, his eyes blurred, and still he was choking.

  “I need a beer.” He gasped for breath and moved toward the icebox.

  “Wait.” Rhonda put a hand on his arm and pushed him into a chair situated directly in front of the music box. She leaned over the ballerina and turned the brass key until the melody began again and the ballerina finished her pirouette and started another.

  He watched her spinning to the tune emanating from the music box and shook his head. “Why?”

  “Because it’s time for us to heal.” Rhonda sank into the chair next to him. “I traded the cradle to a woman who lost her husband in the war. She has a baby boy who’ll never know his father. She smiled at me anyway, Leland, and said she needed to give this music box away so she could keep on living.” Rhonda motioned to the music box. “We still have a chance to live. I don’t want to give up on that.”

  The table in front of him was polished with a satin finish, and the grain of the wood was hardly noticeable, lost in the deep mahogany. Leland rubbed his finger along the edge of wood he had sanded and shaped so carefully, the same way he’d shaped Jessie’s cradle. The music played on, and the melody climbed higher to sweeter notes that reminded him of Rhonda’s lullabies. He sucked in a breath, fighting the tightness in his chest. The chair scraped along the floor as he pushed it from the table and stumbled toward the icebox.

  “It was an accident. Drinking won’t change that. Jessie’s gone.”

  His hands closed around the beer bottle squeezing nearly hard enough to break the bottle and crush the shards of glass into his hands—the same hands that would never hold his little girl again. He choked, this time on a great ball of tears rising up his throat. Woolen socks made it easy to shuffle down the hall, and he leaned against the door frame for a moment, his chest heaving with sobs.

  After prying the top from his beer, he drank and swallowed his tears then sank into a heap on the floor. Grimy fingers rubbed the jagged edge of the bottle cap and flipped it into the air. It bounced along the hardwood floor—ping, ping, ping—in perfect time with the music box as the notes reached for the sweet strains of a lullaby again. Leland held his breath, listening to the tinny music, and stared at the mound of brown glass in the corner. The bottles rested against each other like a graveyard of lost hopes and dreams.

  The screen door slammed and a whoosh of air rushed down the hallway. It lifted dark strands from Leland’s head like little fingers once did when his baby girl rode on his shoulders through the woods. Closing his eyes, he leaned his head against the wall and listened to the music dance with the wind. The smell of lavender overtook the scent of liquor, and the sound of small feet pattered against the floor.

  Chapter 3 ~ Singing

  May 1944 ~ Leland

  Rhonda reached around the back of the music box to turn the crank.

  “I don’t wanna hear no more music today,” Leland muttered.

  She continued winding as if she hadn’t heard him. When the music began playing, she looked at him, her blue eyes piercing his drunken stupor. “I spoke with the Giffords today. They were asking about their chairs. I didn’t know how to tell them you’re still staring at the same pile of wood you were four months ago.”

  He shrugged and peeled the label on the beer bottle.

  “You’re not the only one who’s hurting!” She grabbed his beer and threw it against the wall. The glass sprinkled over the floor, its tones discordant with the melody playing.

  “Did you know the day she died Jessie got into your shoe polish and smeared it all over my good rug? Black shoe polish, Leland, and I was so mad. I spanked her and yelled at her and asked her why she was always making a mess of everything. I told her she was three years old now—old enough to know better.”

  He straightened up and his eyes were clear with understanding. “Don’t.”

  She stood and paced in front of him. “You should’ve seen her face. She looked at me with tears running down her cheeks and said, ‘I just wanted to paint a picture.’”

  Rhonda pulled at a stray curl near her temple. Her lip trembled. “But I was so angry, I sent her to her room, and I grumbled the whole time I tried to clean that shoe polish out of the rug. I didn’t hear her go outside—I didn’t know she was out there until I heard her singing. I went out to look for her and tell her she needed to go back to her room, but she was hiding from me. I knew you were bringing that load of wood around and I tried to find her.” Wet drops splattered the table and Rhonda covered her face with her hands.

  She didn’t have to say any more. Leland saw it all in his mind’s eye. He had been singing, too, on that day, whistling and humming and all around making joyful noises. So happy about the number of orders coming into his shop and the bargain he’d got at the lumberyard. He’d pulled around the corner by his shop and backed his truck in like he always did. He saw a flash of color, heard a scream, and then Rhonda was there screaming about Jessie. He’d run over his sweet baby girl, and she was gone before help could arrive.

  Within minutes, it seemed people were crying everywhere and the wind was howling, too. The great limbs of the oak tree swayed and creaked in the sky. Leland had heard the trees groaning against the gusts of wind, as if their very roots were tearing away from the rocks and soil deep underground.

  At the cemetery, the women tied black scarves around their hair to keep it from blowing wild. He hadn’t heard anything that day except the moaning of the trees. If there had been an axe, he might’ve cut every one of those trees down just so he could quiet the wind. It sounded so much like the pain in his heart echoing through his mind.

  Leland shuddered. How could he tell Rhonda he was afraid to enter his shop again? He’d tried to go back after Jessie died. He’d even picked up his planer and began smoothing out the wood in broad strokes. But the wind had lifted bits of sawdust and as they swirled through the air and irritated his eyes, he’d heard singing—Jessie’s singing.

  He dropped his tools and ran, sobbing until his throat felt parched. He knew he could drink for the rest of his life and never quench his painful thirst. Maybe that’s what he wanted. To shut out the singing, the dancing, the feel of Jessie’s little hand in his, the warmth of her smile.

  Rhonda sat at the table with her head in her hands now, crying harder than he’d ever seen her cry. He reached out his hand, but then brought it back and rubbed the stiff whiskers on his chin.

  “We don’t have anything left, Leland,” Rhonda said between sobs. “I’ve used up the last of the money my father left us. I’m going to look for a job.”

  With furrowed brows, he raised his head and opened his mouth to speak.

  “If you refuse to work, what choice do I have? There won’t be any money for liquor though.” She lifted her head and caught him with a fierce gaze. “Think about what you’re doing to us.” She pushed the chair back and stood. “I’ll be back later.”

  The cemetery is where he would find her, if he dared to follow. He hadn’t returned to the cemetery to see the tiny grave. Rhonda went every day for the first six months and now after almost two years, not so often. The music stopped playing. Leland reached over to close the lid on the ballerina staring at herself in front of the mirror.

  He hesitated when the reflection of bloodshot eyes and sallow skin caught his attention. A lock of hair curled above his eyebrow. His mouth was covered in unruly whiskers from his unkempt mustache. What could a man do in his circumstance? A man who had killed his own
daughter?

  He slammed the lid of the music box down with the questions screaming through his head, throbbing with the thought, Why couldn’t it have been me?

  ~*~

  Rhonda waited two more months hoping Leland would find the strength to live again. The music box played its melody and Rhonda attempted to talk to him, but he stayed locked inside his drunken mind, tormented by his mistake.

  Early in the morning on July twenty-eighth, she sat at the magnificent dining table and wrote a letter. On a separate piece of paper she wrote a note, folded it, and put it inside the compartment of the music box where the ballerina slept. She took two suitcases and five boxes out to the edge of her yard, loaded them into her cousin’s truck, and left.

  Leland didn’t even notice she was gone until the next day when he awoke from his usual alcohol-induced slumber accompanied by a headache hammering against his skull. The house was quiet as he shuffled into the kitchen toward the sink and splashed cold water on his face. Water droplets hung on the ends of his hair and pooled on his shoulders, the dripping sound magnified in the stillness alerted him that something was amiss.

  The music box sat on the table and a rustling sound behind it gave Leland a chill. He noticed a sheet of stationery tucked under the box. The window above the sink was open a slit. A draft crinkled the paper, lifting it and letting it fall.