I didn’t hear him approach

I only knew that when I raised my head, the handsomest man I’d ever seen was standing over me, hands in the pockets of his air force dress uniform pants. His head was slightly cocked to one side, a mischievous grin played on his lips, and he was studying me. My heart stopped.

“Running away?” His voice was like warm brandy. He didn’t wait for my answer. “Mind if I join you?”

“Are—are you sure?” I stammered.

“Never surer of anything in my life,” he said, sitting down beside me. “I’ve been looking for you.”

“For me?”

“I haven’t been able to keep my eyes off you all evening.”

My breath caught. “Me?” I couldn’t think, much less converse, so caught was I in the tremulous quality of the moment.

He slipped an arm around my bare shoulder and turned me toward him. “What I’d really like to do is kiss you.”

And he did. All the fireworks and starbursts in the world were tame compared to the immediacy and power of that kiss. When we broke apart, he framed my face, brushed one finger across my cheek and with a lazy smile added, “And now I’m going to do it again.”

Dear Reader,

A writer often, wittingly or unwittingly, is influenced by events in her own life. I am no exception. By nature I am nostalgic and sentimental. Artifacts from the past—photographs, a pressed flower from a prom corsage, a birth announcement—transport me to a treasured moment or a special person. So it is with the billiken, which inspired Isabel and Sam Lambert’s love story.

The billiken, a small Buddha-esque figurine with a round belly, pixie ears and an impish grin, was the rage from approximately 1909 to 1912. My grandmother kept hers in a china cabinet crammed with dishes, glassware and tiny porcelain dolls. When she died, others took the valuable plates and crystal; I wanted the billiken. It has sat on my desk for forty years, waiting for its story—this story.

The billiken asks the question “What would it mean in life if things were as they ought to be?” Would dreams come true? Can life’s dark moment become the way things were destined? Isabel and Sam’s relationship is tested by conflict, separation, tragedy and secrets. But in the end, the message is exactly as it should be: true love endures.

Best,

Laura Abbot

P.S. I’d love to hear your reactions to

Stranger at the Door. Please write me at

P.O. Box 373, Eureka Springs, AR 72632,

or e-mail me at LauraAbbot@msn.com.

STRANGER AT THE DOOR
Laura Abbot

TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON

AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG

STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID

PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND

MILLS & BOON

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Books by Laura Abbot

HARLEQUIN SUPERROMANCE

970—A COUNTRY PRACTICE

1059—YOU’RE MY BABY

1101—A SUMMER PLACE

1162—MY NAME IS NELL

1191—THE WRONG MAN

1300—SECOND HONEYMOON

This book is dedicated

to my special Thursday-morning friends

who are such blessings to me and without whose

unfailing encouragement and unconditional love,

I would be so much the poorer.

CONTENTS

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

EPILOGUE

Acknowledgments

For detail concerning the United States Air Force

and the experiences of Vietnam-era pilots

and their families, I am deeply indebted to

Lieutenant Colonel Lyle E. Stouffer USAF (Ret)

and Lieutenant Colonel Jack Anderson USAF

(Ret). My thanks go also to their wives, Mary Jo

and Rosemary, for additional insights and help.

Any errors of fact are mine.

PROLOGUE

Breckenridge, Colorado

NERVES ON EDGE, MARK Taylor stood at the top of the driveway studying the large two-story log home shrouded by blue spruce and boasting a view across the tarn of craggy peaks. Unaccustomed to the altitude, he drew a labored breath, concerned that the next few hours would be awkward at best and difficult at worst. However, there was no turning back. For his peace of mind, the meeting was vital. And long overdue.

His strategy was surprise. Otherwise, immediate rejection was too real a consequence. But so was the possibility of shattering a family. He reminded himself it was too late for second-guessing.

The wide front porch, bedecked by hanging baskets, was inviting, serene. He paused, tension rooting him to the spot. Get a grip, he told himself. You’re a forty-year-old man, not a six-year-old.

Lungs working overtime in the thin air, he stuffed his hands into the pockets of his ski jacket and walked toward the massive front door where a woodburned sign above it read Welcome To Lamberts’ Lodge. Closing his eyes, he mumbled a quick prayer, then pressed the bell. And waited.

An attractive older woman dressed in khaki slacks and an oversize flannel shirt answered. She looked like a friendly type with short salt-and-pepper hair and laugh lines framing her mouth. “May I help you?” She held the door, poised to shove it closed.

He found his voice. “Mrs. Lambert, is your husband home?” Wariness clouded her expressive brown eyes and she pulled back.

Before she could answer, he went on. “I’m sorry. That question must’ve alarmed you, and that is certainly not my intent. My name is Mark Taylor. I’m an attorney from Savannah. I’m here to speak with your husband. On a personal matter.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Taylor, but he is unavailable at the moment. Was he expecting you?”

“No, we’ve never met.” Hope warred with a panic he was helpless to control. A chill mountain breeze slithered down his back. “I’ve come all the way from Georgia. It’s important that I talk with him.”

“What could possibly be so urgent that you would travel halfway across the country to meet my husband without an appointment?”

He controlled himself with difficulty. “I’d rather not say, ma’am. May I just wait for him?”

“I don’t think that’s advisable, particularly since I’ve never heard my husband mention you.”

“But you don’t understand—”

“No, I don’t. I’ll tell him you came by, but now you’ll have to excuse me.” She moved to shut the door.

Momentary dizziness swept over him and involuntarily the words spilled forth. “Wait! I just want to meet my father.”

The woman stared, mouth agape, color leeching from her face. When she finally spoke, he could barely hear her. “Your father? What on earth are you talking about?”

He took a half step forward, silently pleading for her help. “There’s no easy way to say this. I have reason to believe your husband is my father.” He hesitated, trying to keep the longing from his voice. “I, uh, want to meet him.”

“There must be some mistake—”

“No, ma’am, I don’t think so. Did your husband serve in the Vietnam War in 1968?”

Mutely, she nodded, her hands locked on the door.

Gently he continued. “He knew my mother there.”

The woman raked her eyes over him as if assessing his resemblance to her husband. Time stood still. Only the cries of mountain jays broke the silence.

At last, with tears pooling in her eyes, she whispered, “Come inside.”

CHAPTER ONE

I THOUGHT MARK TAYLOR would never leave. Now I’m pacing from room to room, disbelief lodged in my chest. Never once with Sam has there been a whisper of another woman. Yet in this young man’s tall, well-built frame, the way he tilts his head when listening and the matchless blue of his eyes, I see my husband. Everything in me screams denial, but the truth is hard to escape. Even if Sam was ignorant of the pregnancy, as Mark claims, did he think this chapter of his life could remain forever closed?

Oddly, despite my anger and hurt, I found it impossible to ignore the entreaty in Mark Taylor’s voice or to doubt his sincerity. But I know Sam. A sudden confrontation between the two of them would never have worked. Even so, I resent having to be the one to break the news when he returns from Boulder where he’s helping our younger daughter Lisa paint her living room.

I’ve taken Mark Taylor’s contact information and encouraged him to return to Savannah if Sam doesn’t phone him at his motel within a couple of days.

Numb, I wander to the picture window overlooking the tarn, now turning steely under gathering clouds. All my certainties are evaporating like a shifting mountain mist. In their place, questions and accusations swirl.

THE NEXT EVENING, I hardly let Sam hang up his jacket before turning on him. “You’ve been keeping quite the secret all these years. Did you ever plan to tell me or was I just supposed to drift along in ignorance?”

His eyes widen with incomprehension. “Tell you what?”

“About your fling during the Vietnam War. About the total stranger who appeared at the door yesterday announcing himself as your son.”

“What in blazes are you talking about?”

With barely controlled fury, I repeat Mark Taylor’s claim. About his mother Diane and her gallant sacrifice in not telling Sam she was pregnant. About Mark’s stateside birth and his mother’s marriage to Rolf Taylor, whose name is on the birth certificate. “He’s a grown man now. He wants to meet you.”

Sam turns to granite before my eyes. “I have no knowledge of any baby. I won’t see him. He’s nothing to me.”

I am speechless, appalled by his cold indifference to his son and to my feelings. Finally I choke out, “Was she also nothing to you?”

“For God’s sake, Isabel!”

“Answer the question.”

“Do you think I’d have spent over forty-five years of my life with you if she meant more to me?”

“Well, you certainly spent a bit of time with her. Enough to impregnate her.”

“Christ, Izzy, I was lonely and scared.”

“Welcome to the waiting wives’ club. Do you think it was any picnic being at home and imagining the worst?”

His shoulders slump. “I don’t know what to say to you, except I’m sorry. I never wanted you to find out.”

“I can believe that. But you should have told me. Then I wouldn’t have had to open the door yesterday and get blindsided by Mark Taylor. Who, by the way looks just like you. He wants to meet you. Whether I like it or not, you owe him something.”

“Not now.” The grandfather clock sounds like a ticking bomb. “I can’t deal with this just like that.” He snaps his fingers to emphasize the point. “I need time. I have to go away.”

“You have to go away? What about me? Am I just supposed to keep the home fires burning, carry on as if my whole life hasn’t been turned upside down?”

“Izzy, please understand. I have to think.”

“You know what? I don’t care what you need right now. This is always the way you handle trouble. You run, Sam, you run. Like a coward.”

He takes me by the arms. “Please, I need time.”

I hear the coldness in my voice. “And I need an explanation.”

He raises his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “I know you do. Believe me, I’ve regretted the incident ever since. It was nothing. It was wartime and—”

“Save your excuses for another time—after you’ve had your precious time to think. And whatever happens, Sam, a son is not nothing. Remember that.”

I leave the room seething. History repeats itself. Sam crawls into his cave, and all I can do is wait and wonder how I could have been married, happily for the most part, to a man with such a devastating secret.

SAM DEPARTS THE NEXT morning for Montana where his air force buddy Mike has offered his vacation cabin on the Yellowstone River. The fiction is that Sam is on a fishing trip. The truth? He’s escaping.

The day after he leaves, our older daughter Jenny comes up from Colorado Springs where she lives with her contractor husband Don. Usually I look forward to her visits. Today, though, the effort to mask my feelings is almost more than I can handle.

“Since Daddy’s in Montana, I thought you might like company,” Jenny says from the kitchen where she’s making our lunch—tuna salad. “Besides, I’m kind of lonely myself, now that both girls are off at Colorado State.”

“Empty nest?” I query from the breakfast room where I’m setting the table.

She grins wistfully. “I always thought I’d be immune.”

“Impossible,” I assure her. “Not if you love your children.”

After making small talk during our meal, we retire to the family room, where she settles on the sofa with a book, our tiger cat Orville curled in her lap. I sit in my chair, knitting. Fifteen minutes pass before she lays down her novel. “Have you thought any more about Lisa’s and my suggestion that you write your memoirs?”

“I don’t know how I could find the hours.”

“Mother, you’re running out of excuses. Now that Daddy’s off fishing, you’ll have plenty of time to give it a try.”

My forty-five-year-old firstborn is every bit as stubborn now as she was as a toddler when, arms folded defiantly, she would stomp her foot and tell me “no.” She wore me down then, and nothing seems to have changed because I’m actually considering doing what she asks.

“My life isn’t that exciting.”

“Nonsense. Your history is interesting to us. We really don’t know that much about what you were like as a girl or about your early married years. It’ll be a legacy for your grandchildren.”

“I wouldn’t know where to start.”

Jenny fixes me with her brown eyes, so like mine. “At the beginning, of course.”

How can I tell her it isn’t the beginning I’m worried about. That part I can handle. But the rest? How honest can I be? Particularly in light of recent events. Our daughters will expect portraits of the parents they think they know.

Jenny reaches into her tote bag. “Here.” She thrusts a thick journal into my hands, then pulls out a package of my favorite ballpoint pens and plops it on the table. “Now you have no excuse. What have you got to hide? Just pick up a pen and jump in.”

What have you got to hide? My thoughts leap to Mark Taylor. Oh, my darling girl, life isn’t always as it appears. Dreams become distorted, we do things we never thought we would, and in the twinkling of an eye everything changes.

Jenny arches an eyebrow and waits for my answer.

I sigh. “You’re not letting me wiggle out of this, are you?”

Her mouth twitches in a mischievous smile. “I of the iron will? Of course, not.” She sobers. “Please, Mom.”

Picking up the journal, I thumb through the blank pages, wondering how I can possibly fill them. Wondering how to keep the truth from shattering my daughters’ illusions.

“What if you learn some things you’d rather not know?”

“Ooh…” My daughter shivers with delight. “Family skeletons? I can’t wait.”

“Don’t be too sure.”

“Do it for us, please, Mom?”

In my head I fast-forward a film of memories, the laughter and tears of a lifetime welling within me. I nod. “I’ll try.”

After Jenny leaves, I move to the window with its view of the mountains, now in early autumn adorned with skirts of golden aspen. So many years. So many subjects I’d sooner avoid. But I cannot write a fairy tale, especially not now, when the happily-ever-after is in doubt. Sitting in the armchair that has been my refuge for years, I pick up a pen and open the journal. Where to start?

Glancing around the room, my focus settles first on the man-size sofa and recliner, then on the stone fireplace and finally on the floor-to-ceiling bookcase. As if drawn by a magnet, my eyes light on the small figurine peering at me from the fourth shelf. The Buddha-shaped body is both grotesque and comical, but it is the impish, all-knowing smile that pierces my heart. The billiken.

Now I know how to begin.

Springbranch, Louisiana

1945

THE PEALING CHURCH BELLS and deafening staccato of firecrackers mark the event forever in my memory. My scholarly father scooped me into his arms and danced me up and down the sidewalk among throngs of neighbors spilling from their houses. “The Japanese have surrendered,” he shouted. “Praise the Lord, the war is over!” Then cradling me close, he whispered for my ear alone. “Remember this day always, Isabel. Freedom has prevailed.”

I didn’t know what prevailed meant, but I understood something momentous had happened.

I can still picture the tear-stained face of Mrs. Ledoux, whose son was on a ship somewhere in the Pacific, and hear the pop of the champagne cork from Old Man Culpepper’s front porch. Small boys beat tattoos on improvised drums and grown men waved flags semaphore-style over their heads.

I was six and had no memory of a time before rationing, savings stamps and victory gardens. When the family gathered around the radio listening to news from the front, even though I couldn’t grasp much, I knew “our boys” were heroes. But the freedom my daddy talked about was a puzzling concept. Looking back, I realize how far from harm’s way we were in the small, backwater town in north central Louisiana.

That night Grandmama Phillips, my mother’s mother, led me into her upstairs bedroom. After Grandpapa died, she came to live with us and brought an astonishing array of antique furniture, including a china closet, a Victrola, two rockers and a canopy bed. Her room was an exotic sanctuary for me, smelling of Evening in Paris cologne, peppermint drops and patchouli incense.

Sleepy after the V-J Day celebration, I crawled onto my grandmother’s lap and nestled against her bosom. “Ma petite Isabel, this is a joyous end to long, troubling years. I have something special to give you to remember this day. A token to remind you how every once in a while, things turn out exactly as they should.”

Reaching into the pocket of her flowered smock, she brought forth the odd-looking figurine that I’d seen sitting in the china cabinet among her collection of delicate teacups and saucers. Smiling beatifically, as if giving me a gift of great worth, Grandmama placed the grayish statuette in my small, cupped hands. The contours of the Buddha-esque body felt cool and soothing, and I giggled when I gazed at the face, bearing an elfin grin as if he and I shared a delicious secret. “What is it, Grandmama?”

“A billiken. My father brought this to me in 1909 after a trip to Missouri.” She ran a finger over the billiken’s head. “He’s an extraordinary little god.” Then, taking him from me, she upended him. On the bottom was a circular brass plaque with an inscription around the circumference. “Can you read this, Bel?”

I screwed up my face and studied the words. She took over for me. “‘The god of things as they ought to be.’” She chuckled. “No wonder he’s smiling, ma chère. Today is one of those rare times when things are, indeed, exactly as they ought to be.”

I fell asleep clutching the billiken, secure in the knowledge that I was safe, the world was at peace and things truly were as God intended.

LET ME TELL YOU more about my family. I was an only child, doted upon by the three adults in the home. Sometimes I wonder if their attention to me wasn’t, in part, a means of buffering themselves from one another.

Daddy was a short, chubby man who wore thick glasses and taught English literature at the local college. In a household of females, his study was his haven, and he retreated there most evenings to prepare lessons or grade papers. My mother deferred to him, but with ill-concealed martyrdom, as if she were silently screaming, “I made my bed, and now I will lie in it.”

Grandmama, ever the romantic, amused herself by listening to radio soap operas. When I stayed home from school sick, she would bring me into her bedroom where we would snuggle under her comforter, breathless for the latest adventures of Helen Trent or “Our Gal Sunday.” My grandmother admired swashbuckling rogues of the Rhett Butler mold. Occasionally she would mutter things like, “Your daddy just needs to stand his ground with Renie” or, referring to one of the soap opera idols, “Now, there’s a man for you—he’s out in the world doing something.” Young as I was, I knew what had been left unsaid. “Unlike your father.”

In retrospect, I see she was preparing me for my own Clark Gable, spinning romantic notions of the day my personal knight in shining armor would appear.

I loved Grandmama dearly, but I wished she saw in Daddy what I did—a courtly and gentle man who made me his intellectual companion and in whose eyes I could do no wrong. And what of his interior life? Did he regret marrying my mother, or, in his own way, did he care for her? Had he ever harbored other—different—aspirations? Amazingly, I never heard him utter regrets or say an unkind word about either Mother or Grandmama.

Irene Phillips Ashmore. My mother. It’s hard, even now, to imagine she was Grandmama’s daughter. There wasn’t a romantic bone in her body. Businesslike, practical and fixated on propriety, she was the engine that kept the household machine running smoothly.

She found fulfillment in the Women’s Club of Springbranch. No one ever worked harder to be accepted in society, or what passed for it in our community, than my mother.

And who was expected to be the living embodiment of her social ambitions? Her daughter. Me. Isabel Irene Ashmore.

Springbranch, Louisiana

Early 1950s

POSTWAR SPRINGBRANCH WAS a place of promise. A development of starter ranch homes sprouted in the field beyond the water tower, new model automobiles replaced prewar coupes and sedans, and enrollment at the college reflected the popularity of the G.I. Bill.

My mother’s postwar efforts were directed toward transforming her gangly adolescent daughter into a lady. Not just any lady, mind you, but a genteel Southern lady. Posture: “Isabel Irene Ashmore, stand up straight.” Etiquette: “I didn’t hear you say ma’am.” Table manners: “My dear, a lady never talks with her mouth full.”

I dreaded most her advice concerning boys, whom she referred to as beaux. “Flirt, Isabel. Bat those pretty brown eyes.” I had little interest in the pimply-faced males in my class at Springbranch Elementary School. The idea of flirting with them was humiliating.

Mother meant well, but I always believed I fell short of her expectations. Even though she is long dead, I don’t remember ever experiencing unconditional love from her. Maybe she had to be the way she was. Daddy was lost in his books and Grandmama filled my head with fairy tales. Somebody had to take me in hand.

Throughout my girlhood, I did my best to please her. Every Sunday I wore a hat and gloves to St. John’s Episcopal Church. I didn’t use slang expressions, and I always changed out of my school dress before going outside to play. I even practiced the piano the requisite half hour a day.

Not surprisingly, I liked school—the wooden desks lined up in neat rows, the dulcet tones of teachers’ voices, the sense of accomplishment in winning a spelling bee. I tried very hard to be what others referred to as “a good girl.”

In sixth grade Twink came into my life. School started right after Labor Day and standing just inside Miss Vinnie’s classroom was a strange girl, covered with freckles and sporting a wild mop of carrot-colored curls. Never had I seen such green eyes. She was a leprechaun come to life, and I loved her from that first moment.

“Hi.” She took a step forward. “This is my first day.”

“I know,” I said. “What’s your name?”

“Twink Montgomery.”

“Twink?”

She scowled, daring me to laugh. “Aurelia Mae Starr Montgomery. How would you like it if people called you Aurelia Mae?” She strung out each syllable in challenge.

“I wouldn’t, I guess.” In fact, I wasn’t crazy about my mother calling me Isabel Irene. From that first meeting with Twink, I longed for a nickname. “I’m Isabel Ashmore.”

“Isabel.” She rolled the name around on her tongue. “That’s not as bad as Aurelia. Close, though.”

We burst into a fit of giggles, the first of many.

When I told Mother about my new friend, she was horrified. “Twink? What kind of name is that? What are her people thinking? Why, why—” she sputtered “—it’s almost as bad as someone referring to you as Izzy!”

Izzy. Now there was a nickname! From the beginning, I liked it, but I knew Mother would swoon if she ever heard anybody call me that. Twink often used it when we were alone, but was careful not to slip in front of Mother.

Something weird happened the next year. Boys started paying attention to Twink and me. Not in a smooth-talking, Tab Hunter manner, but awkwardly, fumblingly.

Then, over the summer, to my horror, my breasts started budding. Mother and Grandmama simpered about how wonderful it was that I was “developing.” I hated that word. It conjured images of being sent, like a roll of film, to the Kodak camera shop for some mysterious metamorphosis.

Those times seem pretty tame now. As a naive thirteen-year-old I had never heard of condoms, wet dreams or oral sex. My goodness, finding out about menstruation had about done me in.

Oh, I started to write about Twink and me. She was still straight as a stick, but didn’t have any qualms when it came to talking to boys, whereas I became virtually tongue-tied.

This brings me to the Springbranch Cotillion—a tradition as established as sweetened ice tea. Held in the parish hall of the Episcopal church and sponsored by the Springbranch Women’s Club, the Cotillion was a series of ballroom dancing classes for eighth graders from the “best” families.

Every other Tuesday evening, dressed in our taffeta dresses and black ballet slippers, we girls were dropped off at the church where we suffered under the tutelage of Mrs. Collins Wentworth, self-proclaimed grande dame of local society.

Our very first night, Twink sailed toward the boys, dragging me reluctantly in her wake. Dressed in ill-fitting suits, shirts and even bow ties, they looked nothing like they did at school. When the boys averted their eyes and shuffled their feet, I realized they were no more enthusiastic than I was about the upcoming ordeal.

Mrs. Wentworth, clapping her hands over her head, sashayed to the center of the floor. “Please number off for partners.” My eleven was matched by Laidslaw Grosbeak’s. Yes, that was actually his name, and it suited him, because his thin, sallow face was overwhelmed by a long, aquiline nose. I towered over him. In memory, I can still smell the combination of his Juicy Fruit gum and Brylcreem hair tonic.

Twink shot a triumphant smile over Jimmy Comstock’s back. With the luck of the Irish, she had snagged the man of our dreams. After the briefest instruction, they were actually waltzing, while Laidslaw and I were still stumping in one place, eyes fixed on our uncooperative feet.

The Grand March mercifully brought an end to the evening. Two by two and then four by four, we circled the room and then were dismissed into the humid Louisiana night.

“How was the dance?” Grandmama asked later, her eyes sparkling in giddy anticipation. I stood in the living room doorway, mute with embarrassment.

Mother looked up from her darning. “I’m sure she enjoyed it, Mama.” She turned to me. “Didn’t you, Isabel?”

“It was all right.” I started toward my bedroom, eager to strip off the scratchy dress and remove the glittery rhinestone barrettes from my hair.

“Tell us more. Who did you dance with?” Hearing my grandmother’s plaintive tone, I knew a debriefing was unavoidable. Surrendering, I sat beside her and did my inventive best to paint a glowing picture of the debacle.

When I finished, Mother, a triumphant gleam in her eye, said, “See, Mama, I told you Isabel would do us proud.”

That night as I lay in my bed watching the moon rise over the treetops and feeling the restless breeze cool my body, I had the strongest premonition that something important was expected of me. Something involving boys.

Shortly before I closed my eyes, a shaft of moonlight settled on the billiken sitting on my curio shelf. For the fraction of a second, he seemed to wink at me.

EVEN THOUGH TWINK’S parents had bought an antebellum Southern mansion and drove the latest model cars, they were carpetbaggers in Springbranchian eyes. Mr. Montgomery had made his money in stocks, a specious enterprise in our part of the agricultural South. Mrs. Montgomery, called “Honey,” defied convention by hosting cocktail brunches on Sunday and driving to Shreveport to have her hair done.

I reveled in the sense of the forbidden whenever I was in their home, where full liquor decanters and a silver cigarette box sat on a table right in the living room. If my mother had known, she might have forbidden me to be friends with Twink.

Best of all was the gazebo at the back of the Montgomerys’ deep yard. Shaded from view by hundred-year-old oaks, it was our secret hideaway. One hot July afternoon following our eighth grade year, we took lemonades and a Monopoly set out there. But before we set up the board, Twink looked around, making sure she wasn’t being observed, and then pulled a soft-covered book from beneath her sleeveless camp shirt. “Want to see what I found?” In her expression excitement mingled with disgust.

Prickles traveled down my spine. “What?” I pulled my legs under me and waited.

“This was in my mother’s dresser drawer, way in the back underneath her nightgowns.” As if it were a hot potato, she handed me the slim volume.

I had intended to ask why she’d been snooping in her mother’s bedroom, but I couldn’t. Not after reading the shocking title. Sexual Secrets of Happy Marriages.

“Open it.” Twink’s voice sounded tinny.

I gripped the book between my fingers, sensing I was on the brink of a fateful decision.

“Go ahead, Izzy.”

Twink’s use of the special nickname committed me in a way nothing else could have. “Okay.” I turned to the middle of the book, then blinked, certain I could not be seeing what was there on the page in black and white. “Twink?” Light-headed, I held out the book for her inspection. “Are they doing what I think they are?”

“Yes.”

Incredulous, I studied the photograph of the naked couple. I knew vaguely about sperm and eggs and ovulation, but no one, not my mother and not the health teacher, had ever explained in detail about the sex act.

“See—” Twink pointed to the picture “—the man puts his thing in her. Listen here.” Turning the page, she read me a graphic account of the mechanics, then flipped to photos of other contorted positions.

“Twink, this is revolting.”

“It’s icky to think about our parents doing this, isn’t it?” she said in a hushed voice.

“My parents!” It’s a wonder the neighbors didn’t hear my shriek of outrage, but the mental image of Irene and Robert Ashmore coupling was utterly incomprehensible.

Twink and I never opened the Monopoly set. Instead we spent the afternoon devouring every lurid detail, alternately horrified and titillated.

Only later, walking home, did the full import hit me. Husbands and wives did this. That’s how babies were made. I would someday have to do that thing myself. I remember leaning against the trunk of a tree, on the verge of being sick, trying to catch my breath.

Then another thought came. Grandmama and Mother kept asking me whether I had any beaux. But if they knew what men and women did…

In bed that night, I thought about Laidslaw Grosbeak and Jimmy Comstock. Even Tab Hunter. Then I made a solemn promise to myself. I would die an old maid before I would ever do that.

One afternoon with “the book” had shattered the idealized image of Southern womanhood for me. However, all that knowledge couldn’t prepare me for what was to come, and before too long, I discovered life always has the capacity to blindside us.

ARMED WITH THE back-to-school issue of Seventeen, Twink and I assembled our wardrobe for the most momentous step in our lives—high school. The three-story brick building, two blocks off the town square, had not yet been remodeled. Tall, heavy-sash windows opened to whatever breeze might come, desks rested on polished wooden floors and freshly cleaned blackboards bordered the rooms. But to Twink and me it was Valhalla—the place where the gods and goddesses of our adolescence resided.

On that first day, although I had mastered my locker combination, I was fearful about getting lost. What if I was late for a class? To add to my insecurities, I caught sight of the head cheerleader, the varsity quarterback and the senior class president, whose green eyes and dimples made me weak in the knees. I had never felt so out of place or awkward.

But that changed when I walked into algebra and saw Taylor Jennings. He had the dark good looks of a Creole grandee and a sultry voice that transported me to moonlit bayous. Sitting at my desk, feeling his gaze on me, the hairs on the nape of my neck stirred. In the pit of my stomach were funny, unfamiliar sensations. Unbidden, the photos in “the book” rose in my memory, and I felt myself blush.

Walking home with Twink, I mentioned Taylor.

“He’s handsome, all right,” she agreed. “If you like freshmen.” She smirked, then did a jig step. “I’m setting my sights on Jay Owensby.”

I stopped dead in my tracks. “He’s a junior.”

She giggled. “So? I’ve always adored older men.”

“Aurelia Mae Starr Montgomery, are you keeping secrets?”

“I was going to tell you. Dad hired Jay two weeks ago to mow our lawn. You should see him without a shirt.” She made a play of fanning herself. “Anyway, we’ve been talking, and last night he came over to pick up his check. One thing led to another and…”

I wanted to shake her. “What do you mean?”

“He asked me to go for a walk and we ended up in the park.” Her eyes twinkled mischievously. “Oh, Izzy, it was di-vine!”

“What was?”

“The kiss.”

She said it so matter-of-factly, I wasn’t sure I’d heard correctly. “The kiss?”

“Believe me, it was nothing like those stupid games of post office.” She shivered with delight. “I can’t wait for the next one.”

I wanted details, but at the same time I felt like a novice in the presence of the initiated. “Are you two, like, dating?”

“He’s taking me to the football game this weekend. He has a car. Who knows? We may end up at the lake for a smooch.”

“A smooch?”

She put an arm around my shoulder and leaned closer. “And maybe more.”

“More?” In my bewilderment, I couldn’t stop parroting her.

“Oh, Isabel, it’s all starting—just like in the movies. I’m so glad we’re growing up.”

By the time we reached the corner where we parted ways, we had changed the subject, yet all I could think of was the change in Twink.

DESPITE TYPICAL TEENAGE trials, high school was an idyllic interlude. I enjoyed my classes and, committed as I was to pleasing my parents, Daddy in particular, I excelled. That achievement was not without its price, however. I soon discovered that boys were not interested in the quality of my mind.

I dated some, but usually other serious students, whose claim to fame lay not on the football field but in labs and at debate tournaments. Like most teens, I fantasized about being the homecoming queen, escorted to the prom by a handsome, champion athlete. Instead, my date was the aforementioned Laidslaw Grosbeak, who, at least, had grown ten inches and adopted his middle name, Barton. And yes, Twink was the queen.

As far as what passed for romance was concerned, I lived vicariously through Twink, who knew how to flirt, lead a boy just to the point of no return, cast him aside and mysteriously remain on good terms with him. She also gave me my first view of the world beyond Springbranch. At least twice a year her family vacationed in exotic spots like New York City, London and Honolulu, scenes I could only imagine from magazines or television. Much as I wanted to see such places for myself, I was intimidated by the unfamiliar. I couldn’t envision a future that didn’t include Springbranch, a provincial outlook that hardly prepared me for what happened later.

One snapshot from those years summarizes the two of us. We stand in caps and gowns, arms entwined. Mortarboard at a rakish angle, Twink grins triumphantly at the camera, while I face straight ahead, my mortarboard aligned in a scholarly manner, clutching my diploma protectively. “Graduation is only the beginning,” she appears to announce, whereas my demeanor screams a need to remain eternally at Springbranch High School.

How often I have appreciated Twink’s adventurous spirit. Even considering her two divorces and years of caring for her ailing mother, she has rarely lost her optimism. I, on the other hand, am full of reservations and second thoughts, which makes this trip down memory lane both necessary and bittersweet.

CHAPTER TWO

Springbranch, Louisiana

August, 1957

TWINK AND I WERE TOGETHER every day of what was to be our last Springbranch summer. In mid-August Twink’s parents abruptly put their house on the market under suspicious circumstances. Twink acted unfazed. “After all,” she said with a toss of her head, “I’ll be back East at college. What do I care where they live?”

But she did care. A great deal. She’d told me once that Springbranch was the only place her family had lived for more than two years. The town represented roots, and poignantly, so did my family and I.

Not that Mother ever fully accepted Twink’s eccentricities, but Grandmama relished another rapt listener for her stories, and Daddy enjoyed it when we girls sprawled on the Oriental rug in his study and read while he worked.

Although Twink may have appeared undaunted by change, I couldn’t even pretend to be unaffected. We were attending different colleges—she, a prestigious women’s college and I, the state university on an academic scholarship. Knowing we’d be apart even during vacations made this transition all the more unsettling. The last night before Twink left for school, Mother allowed me to sleep over at the Montgomerys’ house.

Twink’s belongings had been boxed up, ready for the family’s move to Baltimore, and open suitcases awaited last-minute additions. Her stripped room was symbolic of change. Gentle breezes stirred the ruffled curtains at the window, and our voices echoed off the bare walls. Twink seemed determined to get through the night without sadness, but I barely held myself together. Determinedly cheerful, she recalled our meeting, high school escapades and secret crushes. It was after two when we finally turned out the light. I lay in the twin bed, staring at the leafy branches of the huge oak outside the window, choking back my pain and loss and wondering when I would ever see my friend again.

Just as I was about to drift off, Twink spoke. “Are you awake?”

“Yes.”

“You’ll be all right, you know.”

It was as if she’d read my mind, knew how apprehensive I was about going to Louisiana State University and understood how much I was going to miss her friendship. A lone tear trickled down my cheek. “It won’t be the same without you.”

“I know.” I detected a hitch in her voice. “Here’s the thing, Izzy. Things can’t always stay the same, even if we’d like them to. Look at it this way. We’re ready for new adventures in that wonderful world out there.”

That alien world terrified me. Yet in that moment I found myself wanting to comfort Twink, whose voice betrayed her bravado. Oddly, that made me feel better. I wasn’t the only one uncertain about the future.

“A whole new world…but, Twink, I can’t do this unless I know we’ll always be friends, no matter what.”

“Till we die,” she whispered.

I echoed her words. “Till we die.”

We were such innocents, little dreaming what changes and upheavals life would bring. But we understood the solemnity of our pledge, and we honor it still.

Baton Rouge

1957-1958

COLLEGE. THE HALCYON years between adolescence and adulthood. Or so they say. First semester of my freshman year, from the frenzy of sorority rush to the rigor of final exams, I felt overwhelmed. So many people. Unfamiliar surroundings. Sharing a room for the first time. And the crushing weight of my mother’s expectations.

Before I left for the university, I’d been unaware that a coed’s true purpose in attending college was snagging a husband. But in Mother’s weekly phone calls, she made that abundantly clear. “Have you met anyone yet?” Anyone, of course, was code for Mr. Right. I was meeting some college men at fraternity mixers, but they weren’t lining up to escort me to parties.

Gradually, I settled into a niche. I enjoyed sorority life, and once or twice a month one of my sisters arranged a blind date for me, but none of them progressed beyond friendship. Women today have choices, but back then, college, for most, was a marital hunting ground. We gave lip service to majoring in education, nursing or home economics, but few of us expected to be employed beyond our first pregnancy.

Meanwhile, Twink regaled me in letters and phone calls with accounts of wild house parties, weekends in New York City and the “divine” men she was meeting. I wasn’t exactly jealous because I knew such glamorous experiences weren’t for me, and yet….

My sophomore year was easier. Living in the sorority house gave me a comforting sense of home, I knew my place and began to understand the usefulness of my English lit studies. Yet I was no closer to satisfying my mother’s ambitions. The fact of the matter was that I was in no hurry. Marriage was a distant goal. College men either terrified me with their drinking exploits and masculine swagger or bored me with their immaturity.

Throughout my first two years at LSU, the billiken sat on the dresser in my cubbyhole of a room, mocking me with its silence.

Baton Rouge

1959-60

HONESTLY, I’D EXPECTED my college experience to be like the glossy color photos in the school catalog, where I’d be happily waving a purple and gold pennant in the student cheering section or strolling hand-in-hand with a handsome fellow sporting a letter jacket.

Amazingly, in my junior year that’s exactly what happened. Drew Mayfield came into my life. If Mother had ordered him from a husband catalog, he couldn’t have more neatly fit her mold. His résumé was impeccable: honor student, captain of the golf team, treasurer of the top fraternity, a pre-law major. From Mother’s viewpoint his most important credential lay in the fact his father was a federal judge.

Drew was handsome and innately kind. All Southern gentlemen model courtesy, but many practice it in chauvinistic, self-aggrandizing ways. Not Drew. He treated me like a lady, even a cherished one. Therein lay the problem. He was perfect…on paper. We walked hand-in-hand down azalea-lined sidewalks, he bought me a chrysanthemum corsage for homecoming and nominated me for sweetheart of his fraternity. We became a couple. At the end of that year, beneath a full Southern moon, he gave me his fraternity pin.

When I went home for the summer, Mother was ecstatic. For once, I was convinced I’d pleased her. She pored over photographs of Drew and me, and couldn’t hear enough about our courtship. Yet the more I repeated the story, the more removed I felt, as if I were observing a film entitled the The Good Daughter.

Drew drove up from New Orleans twice that summer and succeeded in charming my mother and grandmother. Daddy was his usual chivalrous but inscrutable self. Drew seemed maddeningly at home in Springbranch. I say maddeningly, because I caught myself trying to discover a flaw in him. Surely he would be out of place in our small town. But he wasn’t. Even Eunice Culpepper, our nosy neighbor, fell under his spell.

I liked him. I really did. And I’m reasonably certain he believed himself in love with me. By the beginning of our senior year, we had a tacit understanding that we would marry following graduation. Mother was already considering the guest list and the seasonal flowers that would adorn the church. I was swept away in a tidal wave of others’ expectations.

It took Twink to ask the question. “Do you love him so madly your body quakes with excitement?”

I clenched the phone and swallowed the lump in my throat.

“Izzy?” The compassion in my friend’s voice undid me.

“I…uh, I…”

“The answer’s no, isn’t it?”

How desperately I wanted to tell Twink that Drew was the most exciting man in the world, that he did, indeed, make me limp with desire. That all the pictures in the book we had read in that gazebo years ago had taken on glorious new meaning.

You might logically assume I broke off with Drew. But I didn’t. He was safe. Predictable. I liked him. Best of all, he pleased my mother. I could learn to love him, I told myself. We could have a nice life together.

Oh, what a weak word “nice” is.

Springbranch

1960

IN EARLY NOVEMBER OF that year, I was called home from school. Grandmama, who had grown increasingly frail, was in the hospital. Seeing her pale, shrunken body on the bed, I faced mortality for the first time. When I picked up her hand, the paperlike, wrinkled skin felt warm, but her breath came in labored gasps. Her white hair, usually perfectly coiffed, hung lankly. Nurses came and went, but I felt compelled to stay. From the hall I heard whispered consultations. Congestive heart failure. Not long now. Words that pierced my soul.

Daddy sat in the waiting room, a volume of Wordsworth his only company. Mother bustled. Straightening pillows. Filling the water carafe. Adjusting the blinds.

But I sat, willing each new inhalation and realizing how much I loved Grandmama and depended on her. I had never had to work to please her. Even if I’d told her the truth years ago about the cotillion disaster, she would have hugged me and said, “There, there, Bel.”

Later that night after Mother left the room, I found myself humming “I’ll Fly Away” and blinking back tears. Then I felt Grandmama’s thumb caressing the back of my hand. When I looked up, her eyes were open, her mouth curved in the trace of a smile. “Bel,” she murmured.

“I’m here.”

With surprising strength, she drew me closer. I leaned over the bed. “That boy,” she whispered.

“Drew?”

She nodded. “Passion.” The word had the force of an imperative.

I had no answer.

Then came the last words I ever heard my grandmother utter. “Things as they ought to be, ma petite.”

Then she closed her eyes, gave a long sigh and left me.

Baton Rouge

1961

EVEN THOUGH I KNEW in my heart I was betraying both myself and Grandmama, I agreed to marry Drew. Of all the men I had met at college, he was by far the best match. We had much in common. Our families approved. We discussed names for the two children we intended to have. Besides, marriage was the “done” thing. With few exceptions, my sorority sisters either were already married or in the throes of planning their weddings.

Drew’s kisses didn’t send me to the moon, but they were pleasant enough. Heavy petting, while arousing, seemed a bit clinical, but so had the photographs in the book. Back then, though, I didn’t know anything different.

St. John’s was reserved for September 8, the women’s auxiliary scheduled to cater the reception and the Springbranch Country Club booked for the rehearsal dinner. Twink was to be my maid of honor. Mother was in her element. Things were proceeding precisely according to her plan. Daddy spent even more time in his study.

I don’t know if it was born out of a subconscious need for self-preservation or a desire to escape, but I asked my parents for only one thing for a college graduation present. A trip to Atlanta, where the Montgomerys were living, to visit Twink, before plunging into final bridal preparations.

And that, as they say, made all the difference.

Atlanta, Georgia

Summer 1961

TWINK MET ME AT the Atlanta terminal, her smile as infectious as always, her freckles giving her a Doris Day insouciance. We shrieked, we hugged, we jumped up and down and then repeated the process. She loaded my bags into a Lincoln Continental convertible and swooped out of the parking lot, red curls lifting in the breeze. Above the roar of wind and traffic, she pointed out landmarks. Finally we entered an old neighborhood of lovely Southern and Greek Revival homes, with well-tended formal gardens shaded by century-old trees. “Pretty impressive, huh?” She winked. “Wait until you see Tara.”

She slowed, pulling through wrought-iron gates, and we began a gradual climb, past a fish pond, a gazebo and a caretaker’s home. At the crest of the hill, I saw it—the massive three-story white house with Greek columns. Twink stopped the car and leaned back, arms folded across her chest. “The parents are on the upswing again.”

An understatement, particularly by Springbranch standards. Speechless, I realized I was far out of my element. My thoughts flew to the clothes I had packed—store-bought, gauche. Before I could focus on my discomfort, Twink leaped from the car, grabbed my suitcase and put her arm around me. Leaning close, she said, “It’s just me, Izzy. You’ll be fine. All you have to do is pretend you’re in a movie.” Once again she’d read my mind.

Later that night, settled on the four-poster in her spacious bedroom, decorated in a pink-and-white magnolia motif, we shared the six-pack of beer she’d liberated from the restaurant-sized kitchen. “Okay,” she commenced. “I want to hear everything about Drew, and please tell me you’re not choosing fussy organdy bridesmaid dresses.”

She didn’t immediately probe my carefully suppressed reservations, but shocked me by the question she asked after I’d waxed eloquent about Drew’s stellar qualities. “Is he good in bed?”

“Twink!” The sultry Southern night echoed my dismay.

She threw herself dramatically across the bed. “Isabel Irene, surely you’re not marrying before trying him out.”

My fire-engine red face gave me away.

“Oh, God.” She sat up and took both my hands in hers. “Honey, it’s no big deal.” She smiled impishly. “Mostly it’s a lot of fun.”

My stomach soured. “You mean, you’ve done it?”

“Me and most of your lah-de-dah sorority sisters.”

“You think?” I couldn’t process the images bombarding my brain.

“Is it Drew? You don’t think he’s…?” She waggled her fingers back and forth in a this-way, that-way fashion.

I was horrified. “What a thing to say! And no, I’m sure he’s not.”

“Well, my advice, sugar, is to try the merchandise before buying.”

Deep in the pit of my stomach, I knew she was right. I wanted fireworks and shooting stars. I’d experienced none with Drew. Before Twink’s question, I’d successfully buried my doubts, but her honesty forced them to the surface.

Sensing my discomfort, she reached for the church key and opened another beer, thrusting it into my hands. “Drink up. You don’t have to decide anything this very minute. Anyway, I want to tell you about the garden party we’re throwing in your honor tomorrow night, not to mention the country club dance on Saturday. We’re going to have so much fun.” She flopped over onto her stomach. “You will not believe the dreamy men in this town. Why, chile, I just flit from one to another like a bee sippin’ honey.” Her low laugh had a distinctly seductive sound.

I studied the diamond on my ring finger, incapable of imagining how she handled multiple suitors. I took a swig of beer, suddenly missing Drew. All this talk of sex, parties and glamorous men made me long for the mundane, the dull, the safe. For my fiancé.

I REMEMBER THE MOMENT as if it happened yesterday. There is no way I can adequately describe the impact. Let me set the scene.

Chinese lanterns strung from tree to tree illuminated the flagstone patio leading to the Olympic-size pool in which colorful blossoms floated. A white tent stretched over the manicured lawn; inside, a quintet played romantic dance music. Jacketed waiters manned the buffet table and fully stocked bar. Our hostess, Honey Montgomery, was stunning in a silver-lamé evening gown. Mr. Montgomery, a cigar in one hand, mingled with groups of tuxedo-clad gentlemen. Twink had given me good advice when she told me to pretend I was in a movie. I fully expected Elizabeth Taylor to make a grand entrance. Twink had been accurate about the young men of Atlanta—tall, well-groomed, mannerly and utterly gorgeous in their white dinner jackets. Not to mention a trio of handsome young lieutenants from Bainbridge Air Force Base.

To my utter horror, before we sat down for dinner, Honey stepped to the top of the stairs leading to the pool, signaled for quiet and introduced little ole me from Springbranch, Louisiana, to the assembled partygoers. Clutching the skirt of my pale blue chiffon gown, I felt frumpy and exposed.

As soon after dinner as I could politely excuse myself, I escaped to the seclusion of a garden bench nestled in a bower of roses beyond the tent. I knew I couldn’t remain cowering there, but I needed to gather myself. I had always known that Twink’s world was vastly different from my own. I just hadn’t realized how different. She took the opulence and sophistication in stride. I was totally intimidated, a pond fish washed up on a tropical beach. I had no idea how I would endure the rest of the evening.

Wallowing in my social ineptitude, I didn’t hear him approach. I only know that when I raised my head, the handsomest young man I had ever seen was standing over me, hands in the pockets of his air force dress uniform pants. His head was slightly cocked to one side, a mischievous grin played on his lips, and he was studying me with the deepest cobalt-blue eyes I had ever seen. My heart stopped. I was in a movie.

“Running away?” His voice was like warm brandy. He didn’t wait for my answer. “Mind if I join you?”

“A-are you sure?” I stammered.

“Never surer of anything in my life,” he said, sitting beside me. “I’ve been looking for you.”

“For me?” The words came out as a squeak.

“I haven’t been able to keep my eyes off you all evening.”

My breath caught. I couldn’t have written a better script myself. “Me?” I was speechless.

He slipped an arm around my bare shoulder and turned me toward him. “What I’d really like to do is kiss you.”

And he did. No fireworks or starbursts in the world could match the thrill and power of that kiss. When we broke apart, he framed my face, brushed one finger across my cheek and with a lazy smile added, “And now I’m going to do it again.”

It never occurred to me to deny him. I was helpless, but in some small part of my brain I understood that, until that moment, I had known nothing of the kind of love a man and woman are born to share.

He pulled me to my feet. “Isabel Ashmore.” His mouth caressed the words. “Izzy. I’m Sam Lambert and, if you don’t mind, I’m claiming you for the rest of the evening.”

Mind? I couldn’t believe this was happening to me. Yet everything—the night sky, the distant strains of “Deep Purple,” the fragrance of roses—whispered, Do this thing.

“Why did you call me Izzy?”

He held my hands firmly. “Isabel sounds formal, public. I want our private name. It sounds good, don’t you think? Sam and Izzy. Izzy and Sam.”

I couldn’t help smiling. “Aren’t you being a wee bit presumptuous?”

He circled my waist as we strolled up the path toward the tent. “Not at all. I’ve been waiting for you all my life. When you were introduced this evening, I knew I had to get to know you. I’ll be damned if I’ll let you get away.”

With a sinking sensation, I realized that with my thumb I was fingering my engagement ring. I needed to tell him. To put an end to whatever this was. But at that moment he stopped walking and tilted my chin so that I was looking straight into those sexy eyes, so full of promise. “Tell me you feel it, too.”

Grandmama’s advice came flooding back to me. Passion. Right then I understood that I was caught up in something beyond my control. “I do,” I whispered, “and it’s scary.”

“And wonderful.”

“And wonderful.”

I know this all sounds corny and clichéd, even melodramatic. But it happened just like that. In an instant, the planets halted in their orbit and my heart knew love.

For the rest of that evening and the days and nights that followed, Sam and I were inseparable. I’m not proud to say it, but I took off my engagement ring and stored it in my jewelry case. Twink gloated like an approving mother cat.

Because Sam was on a weekend pass from the air base where he was stationed for pilot training, time took on urgency. We lounged by the pool, soaking up the sun, oblivious to anyone else. We enjoyed a lopsided game of tennis and left the country club dance Saturday night to lie on a blanket near the eighteenth green, sharing hot kisses in the glimmering, magical moonlight. It was an awakening for me. I had not known my body could quiver with need or that instinct could drive me to abandon.

And we talked. And talked. I had never met anyone who had nurtured an ambition—in his case to be a pilot—and then pursued it with such intensity. A three-sport athlete in high school, he’d been awarded a scholarship to the University of Nebraska, where he’d played varsity basketball and had joined the air force ROTC. When he spoke about his pilot training and his service buddies, his face lit up. This was no boy; this was a man who had embraced his purpose in life. His maturity stirred something deep within me.

Our last night together Sam held me close. “You’re my girl. My Southern hothouse flower.” He nuzzled my cheek. “My Izzy.”

I was besotted. Twink was merciless. “Isabel Irene, you’re in love. Why would you settle for anything less? You march right home and cancel that wedding.”

“I’ve had a wonderful time, but, Twink, this isn’t reality. It’s a fairy tale, and the clock is about to strike midnight. Chances are, I’ll never see Sam Lambert again.” Even as I said those words, my throat closed in panic.

“Maybe not, but you don’t know that. What you do know is that you’re not in love with Drew Mayfield. I’m not going to stand by and let you…” she fussed, searching for words “…settle for mediocrity.”

It was tempting to follow her advice, but I rationalized that my time with Sam was probably nothing more than one of those heady—but fleeting—summer romances I’d heard other girls talk about. Sure, he’d said he’d call, write. Finally, I decided I’d be a fool to count on anything, given the miles separating us.

Besides, was I willing to scuttle my future because of one gloriously romantic weekend? How could I disappoint Drew? Shatter my mother’s hopes? Act so irresponsibly and uncharacteristically?

And yet, how could I not?

CHAPTER THREE

Springbranch, Louisiana

WHEN I RETURNED FROM Atlanta, Mother was knee-deep in wedding preparations, researching fruit-punch recipes and floral arrangements. On her desk were four boxes of invitations: “Dr. and Mrs. Robert James Ashmore request the honor of your presence at the wedding of their daughter Isabel Irene…” I felt sick. But when, at the end of the first week, I hadn’t heard from Sam, I wondered if I’d dreamed the encounter or, beyond that, made a complete fool of myself.

“Isabel, can’t you demonstrate a little more enthusiasm?” These were Mother’s words after we’d spent an afternoon finalizing the guest list. The wedding plans had taken on a life of their own, and I was powerless to stop them, even as I questioned myself. Then two things happened to make the situation worse. I received my first letter from Sam, and Drew arrived for a visit.

In Sam’s bold handwriting was a note that was just like him—breezily self-confident with a dash of bravado. And unutterably romantic. I blush even now recalling the pure physicality of my reaction when I tore open the envelope and saw the words My Izzy. I soon learned that he, like Twink, could read my mind.

I bet you’re wondering about my intentions. If I’m just a guy who came to Atlanta for a weekend to have a good time. Well, I did have a good time, but it’s more than that. Izzy, you’re the dream I’ve had for a long time. I’m not going away.

The next day Drew pulled into our driveway and bounded from his car, waving a piece of paper over his head. “I nailed it, Isabel,” he said wrapping me in a hug. “The apartment near the law school. This is the lease.”

He stood back, awaiting my ecstatic reaction. Furnished apartments near the campus were rare. “That’s nice,” I murmured, taking the wind out of his sails. The mental picture of us settled on the second floor of a big house surrounded by overstuffed chairs, tables and, worst of all, a double bed, was overwhelming.

Later that night, Drew and I sat in the porch swing watching fireflies gather, smelling the musk of the warm night. He had his arm around me. It felt cozy. When he kissed me, I closed my eyes and really tried to experience the spark that would reassure me. Pleasure, familiarity, yes. No spark. He may as well have been the brother I never had.

Meanwhile the letters from Sam continued, much to my mother’s disgust. “Isabel, who is this person who keeps writing you? It’s not seemly. You’re practically a married woman.”

She was right. I was defying all the norms of both etiquette and morality. I hated my duplicity. It wasn’t fair to Sam and it wasn’t fair to Drew. I had to quit playing games.

Two weeks after Drew returned to Baton Rouge, Sam called. “Isabel, there’s a man on the phone.” My mother’s voice dripped disapproval. “He asked for Izzy, for heaven’s sake.”

I restrained myself from turning cartwheels. Stretching the phone cord around the corner into the dining room hopefully out of Mother’s earshot, I answered. “Sam?”

“Hi, darlin’. Are you missing me the way I’m missing you?”

My knees failed me and I crumpled to the floor “Oh, yes.”

“That was your mother who answered, I bet. Have you told her about me? About us?”

“Um…”

“I take that as a no. Any particular reason you haven’t?”

“It’s kind of complicated.”

“Complicated as in you’re engaged to be married?”

My heart sank. “Did Twink tell you?”

“Yes, thank God. She thinks your wedding would be a mistake. What do you think?”

In that moment I hardly knew my own name. “It’s all set, Sam.”

“You didn’t answer my question. Let me try another. Do you love this guy?”

“Sam, that’s not really any of your business.”

“Answer the question.” The authority in his voice took my breath away.

“He’s a wonderful man.”

“Listen to yourself, Izzy. I’m a big boy. If you love him, just say so.”

I laced the phone cord through my fingers. This was insane. It made no sense to throw over a man like Drew. Not for someone with whom I’d spent less than seventy-two hours. The wedding plans were in the final stages. Drew was the type of man I should marry. Ours would be exactly the kind of life my mother had envisioned for me. “I can’t call this marriage off. It’s too late.”

There was silence on the other end of the line. Finally, with resignation, Sam repeated the question. “Do you love him?”

“Please, Sam, don’t make me say it.”

“Make you? Make you? You don’t say it because you can’t. You love me.”

God help me, it was true, but I was paralyzed by indecision. “Sam, please. We have to stop this.”

“Damn right, we’re going to stop it. I said it before and I’ll say it again, I’m not letting you get away. I love you, Izzy. Please say you love me, too.”

In answer, I could only whimper.

Within two days Sam had applied for emergency leave. When he arrived on our doorstep, I took one look at him and knew I could never marry Drew. That very evening I packed a small bag, left my parents a note and fled with Sam.

We drove through the night to a town in southern Arkansas where a county judge married us the next morning. Lying in Sam’s arms in the lumpy motel bed on our wedding night, I was the happiest, most satisfied woman in the world.

Never mind that I had betrayed Drew, Mother and my Southern upbringing. My father accepted my decision with his usual equanimity, but Mother, furious over my defection and the embarrassment I had caused her, rarely spoke to me until after Jenny was born. As for Drew, when I told him about the elopement, I could have sworn he sounded relieved.

Several weeks later as I packed to join Sam at his new base in Arizona, I tucked the billiken in a corner of my suitcase. “The god of things as they ought to be.” My mother had groomed me for one life. But that was her life, not mine. I had chosen another.

Sam Lambert. Grandmama’s passion. And the way things ought to be for me.

OUR WHIRLWIND COURTSHIP and rash decision to elope was as out of character for me then as it would be now. It’s no secret there was a powerful physical attraction between Sam and me, but that was not sufficient motivation to throw caution to the winds and brave my mother’s ire. What was it about the young Sam Lambert that overcame my inhibitions and upbringing?

Quite simply, from the first he seemed to see the real me. To revel in the Izzy he had discovered—and brought to life. For him, I was never typecast as merely a girl who would make an ideal wife, mother and social asset. Somehow he recognized my need to be rescued from convention. To be sure, Grandmama’s influence played a role. In the deepest part of myself, I’d always believed in the knight in shining armor. Much as I tried to deny it, I had always known that Drew was not that hero. The magic—and mystery—is that just as Sam recognized me immediately as his Izzy, so I knew, with complete confidence, that he was the man destined for me.

Twink made sure Sam and I had plenty of time to ourselves during that Atlanta weekend. He coaxed from me stories about Springbranch, fascinated by the local customs and mores that had shaped me. Sunday afternoon we lay together in a hammock in the Montgomerys’ backyard. He lifted a lock of my hair and grinned that lopsided, charming grin of his. “That Southern belle? She’s not you, Izzy,” he said.

“Oh, no,” I teased. “Then who am I?”

Sobering, he traced a finger down my nose and considered my question. “You are real. Honest, loving and kind. You’re a peacemaker. If you had your way, you’d make everybody happy.”

“Do I make you happy?” I murmured, my daring surprising me.

“You have no idea,” he whispered. Then he leaned forward and kissed me. In that moment the blue sky above faded, the bird calls went silent, and I knew Sam understood me.

“But that’s not all,” he said, leaning on one elbow looking down at me. “You have an adventurous streak you’ve never acted on. So tell me, if you were to follow your instincts, what would you do?”

An intense question. One I’d never really considered, but he was right. I spent most of my time and energy concerned with others’ expectations. What did I really want? The answer came immediately. I wanted to be with Sam Lambert.

“Enough about me,” I said by way of diversion. “How do I know you’re not full of cocky flyboy sweet talk? Maybe I’m the most gullible pushover you’ve come across lately.”

“You’ve seen too many movies. Not all pilots are self-serving bastards.”

“Noted,” I said. “Change of subject. When did you know you wanted to be a pilot?”

“Ever since I was a kid.” His eyes lit up. “The trailer park where we lived was near a small landing strip. I couldn’t stay away. One of the mechanics took an interest in me. I grew up with the smells of aviation gas and oil.”

“Where was that?”

As Sam sketched more of his background, it became clear we came from two different worlds. He’d grown up in a small town in eastern Colorado where his father worked highway construction. When he was ten, his mother died. As he spoke of her, his jaw tensed, and I could tell how difficult it was for him to share her loss. Then his tone turned bitter. “My father soon found another lover. Jim Beam whiskey.”

My throat convulsed as I pictured the motherless boy emotionally abandoned by his father.

“I was angry. At God. At my mother. And especially at my father. If it hadn’t been for Lloyd, I don’t know what I’d have done.”

“Lloyd?”

“My brother. Four years younger than me. I, uh, kinda took care of him. For sure, nobody else did.”

Nothing in my experience had prepared me to imagine a ten-year-old burdened by such adult responsibilities.

“I’m sorry,” was the best I could muster.

“Hell.” He gathered me close, his blue eyes fastened on mine. “Maybe you’re my reward. In that case, it was worth every minute.”

Sam had touched my heart in a way I hadn’t thought possible. From that moment I understood Grandmama’s advice in a whole new way. By passion, she had meant so much more than physical attraction. She’d meant the mysterious, inexplicable connection that binds two people together despite their differences.

There were two Sams I came to know that weekend in Atlanta. The self-assured young man doing what he loved—flying planes—and the vulnerable little boy whose devotion to his brother tugged at my heartstrings.

How could I not love them both?

Breckenridge, Colorado

IT’S TIME TO PUT down the journal for the night. Indulging in memories, I’m surprised to realize it’s past my bedtime. Clouds are gathering, and when I close the deck door off the bedroom, I smell hints of winter in the crisp air. Almost without thinking, I pull one of Sam’s faded chamois shirts from the closet, cloaking myself in the softness of the fabric, his familiar scent bringing him close. Sam. I can’t wrap my mind around his unfaithfulness or his out-of-hand rejection of his son. But, despite everything, I miss him.

In bed, Orville nestles beside me, purring contentedly, and my thoughts drift as I feel my eyes close. A shrill ringing drags me back to full consciousness. Groggy, I glance at the clock: 1:10 a.m. I grab the phone. “Hello?”

“It’s me, Iz.”

“Sam, are you all right?”

“I knew I’d wake you. But—” and here I sense his internal struggle “—I needed to hear your voice.”

Irritation and relief war within me. He could’ve stayed home and listened to anything I might have said. Or maybe that was the problem—he would’ve heard more than he was ready to handle.

“Sam, I don’t know what to say. Unless you’re ready to talk about all of this.”

“I can’t.”

So here we are again. Sam stonewalling, not willing to share his emotions. I clutch the phone and sink back against the pillow. No words come to me.

“I shouldn’t have called. It’s late.”

“It’s okay.” Then in a halfhearted attempt to lighten the mood, I say, “What’s a wife for, anyway?”

Silence hums through the phone line.

I gather my courage. “Have you decided what you’re going to do?”

He waits a beat. “It’s not that easy.”

I want to scream across the miles. Instead I swallow my hurt and disappointment.

“Izzy…I’m so sorry. I don’t deserve you.”

My baser nature tends to agree with him, but that’s the part of me that fails to understand Sam is my world.

“The girls?”

I’m not up for casual conversation. “Both okay.”

“And you? How are you really?”

I bite my lip in irritation. “How do you think?”

“I’m sorry,” he says again.

In any marriage, there are the inevitable regrets, some more damaging than others. “I suppose you are,” is the best I can offer.

I’m only now aware of how much has been left unsaid between us through the years. It had become a habit to skate over the surface of our relationship rather than tend to the brittle hairline cracks.

“I’ll let you go now,” he says wearily. “But I couldn’t sleep without telling you one thing. No matter what, Izzy, I love you. I always have.” His voice breaks. “I always will.”

The phone goes dead before I can respond. Truthfully, I’m relieved. I wouldn’t have known what to say, but Sam’s final words remind me why I’m still here. Why I’m willing to wait for him.

Springbranch, Louisiana

1961

THE MORNING CAME FOR me to take the bus from Springbranch to join Sam in Tucson where he’d been assigned for advanced flight training. Mother fixed a big breakfast, slamming about the kitchen, banging pots and pans in thin-lipped disapproval. I was too young, then, to read hurt rather than anger in her jerky movements, too self-absorbed to put myself in her place and understand her worry. I don’t recall what, if anything, we said to one another, only that our communication was hopelessly strained.

I do, however, remember what my father said. Before he drove me to the bus station, he invited me into his study. Taking his customary place behind the desk, he gestured me to the armchair at his side. Before speaking, he removed his spectacles, cleaned the lenses with a crisply ironed white handkerchief and settled them back on his nose. “We don’t know your Sam,” he began. “Or his people. And that is upsetting to your mother.”

I waited, mute with the dread of disappointing him.

“But that’s not so important for me, because I do know you. You are kind and would not willingly inflict hurt. I have strived to teach you the importance of being true to yourself.” He looked intently at me. “Does this young man complete you?”

I managed a teary smile. “Yes, Daddy.”

“Love.” He said the word as if it were an enigma. “I believe it’s the most important thing in life.”

An overwhelming sadness crept over me. Had he ever known love in his own life?

In an apparent non sequitur, he continued. “How baffled Mr. Barrett must’ve been by the romance between his invalid daughter Elizabeth and the poet Robert Browning.” My father smiled wistfully. “But see how that turned out.”

He reached in a desk drawer and pulled out a small leather-bound volume. “May this gift be a constant reminder of the beauty and power of love.”

I took the book into my hands, caressing the soft brown leather as I read the title. Sonnets from the Portuguese. Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

“‘How do I love thee? Let me count the ways,’” my father began.

I joined him, a solemn promise passing between us. “‘I love thee to the depth and breadth and height my soul can reach…and, if God choose, I shall but love thee better after death.’”

My father nodded in satisfaction. “I’m proud of you, Isabel, and wish you much happiness.”

My wonderful, quiet, unassuming father, unlike my mother, could let me go.

Davis-Monthan Air Force Base, Tucson, Arizona

Fall 1961

NAIVE? IDEALISTIC? BESOTTED? I was all of that the day I stepped off the bus and into the arms of my handsome, young husband and buried myself in his suntanned arms. Ever after, I’ve always found home in Sam’s sheltering embrace. That morning Sam had only enough time before reporting back to base to settle me in our one-bedroom, unair-conditioned apartment. And to make love to me in a brief, ecstatic reunion. Afterward, rolling onto his back, he pulled me close and whispered, “Until I met you, I never believed in happy endings, never thought I deserved one. But, God, I do now.” Those words bound him to me in a new and wonderful way.

Showering quickly, Sam put on his uniform, and with a lingering kiss, left me alone in the apartment in a place where I knew no one. Still flushed from our lovemaking, I explored my surroundings. The bathroom, tiled in mustard-gas green, was tiny. The west-facing kitchen boasted a small refrigerator, an ancient oven and a two-burner electric cooktop. The living room furnishings consisted of a vinyl couch, a two-person dinette set and one scuffed armchair. Sam had, however, added two large fans and a small black-and-white TV.

I peered into the refrigerator, wondering if I was expected to cook dinner. Then I unpacked, and was overcome with shyness when I discovered drawers filled with Sam’s undershirts and briefs, a razor and shaving cream on a bathroom shelf and a pair of dirty jeans in the clothes hamper. Somehow I was to make this drab box a home for both of us, preparing appetizing meals, laundering military uniforms, keeping house. I lay across the utilitarian tan bedspread, immobilized by the enormity of my new role.

Until I heard a knock. I smelled the cigarette before I opened the door. There, one eyebrow cocked in assessment, stood the woman who was to become my chain-smoking, dyed-blond guardian angel.

Flicking her ash, she sized me up. “Honey, you look like you’re straight off the banana boat.” She moved past me into the living room and only then stuck out her hand. “I’m your next-door-neighbor, Marge DeVere. And I’ll lay odds, you need help.” She took a drag from her cigarette. “Am I right, sugar cakes?”

All I could do was nod. Marge was as unlike my sorority sisters or the matrons of Springbranch, Louisiana, as anyone could imagine, but I couldn’t have been more pleased to see her. “I’m Izzy,” I said, surprising myself. I had always referred to myself as Isabel. “And to tell you the truth, I don’t have a clue.” I shrugged, then grinned. “About anything.”

Marge’s laugh rolled up from her belly and filled the room. I joined in until tears ran down my face. Finally, catching my breath, I remembered my manners. “Please sit down. I have more questions than you can imagine.”

“I’ve got plenty of time. Why don’t you check the fridge and let’s have us a beer and some girl talk.”

Until then I had never guessed beer could substitute for an afternoon glass of tea. I pulled out two bottles, snatched up a bag of chips and settled on the sofa. In a few short hours she gave me a tutorial on the intricacies of being a military wife, reminding me to wear a hat and gloves when Sam and I called on his commanding officer and his wife, and cautioning me about speeding on base, an infraction for which Sam could be reprimanded. Never, before or since, have I been so grateful to a teacher.

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