Page 2 of Landing Love

Her aunt in Poughkeepsie didn’t have a cent to spare. Until Roger died, they were sending her money.

She’d asked her church for assistance, and they gave her a token sum, but she already spent it on rent.

Maybe someone in the Army could help? She never seemed to be able to get through to anyone with useful information. If only she could find the right person. She tried writing to her husband’s commanding officer, but he was still fighting somewhere in Europe and never replied. She would have to try the local civilian liaison’s office again. Her husband had given his all for his country. Surely, they owed his widow a modicum of assistance.

It pricked her pride to have to ask for charity, but she had to keep a roof over her son’s head somehow. It was astonishing how quickly the comfortable life she led fell apart after Roger’s death. Until she got that dreadful telegram, she had no idea how fragile the life they’d built together was. Now everything had been washed away by the tide of fate, and she was left with nothing but a pile of wet sand. Or wet shingles, she thought peering up at the ceiling again.

The clock on the mantle chimed ten o’clock, making her jump. How was it possible so little of the day had passed when so much had already gone wrong? She still had two hours before her train back to the city. Two hours to attempt to repair the bathroom sink and clean out more of her mother’s old papers.

She took the library book she borrowed about plumbing, the new faucet fixtures she purchased, and her wrench, and set to work. There was no one to do the work for her, so she’d simply have to make do. Rolling up her sleeves, she reached beneath the sink and unscrewed the nuts that held the faucet fixtures in place.

In the other room, Junior screamed. Dropping the wrench like a hot coal, she ran to him. Scooping him up, she nearly screeched as a huge jumping insect had landed on a stack of her mother’s papers. She rolled up a newspaper from another pile and whacked the bug, squishing it where it stood. Good heavens. What else lived in these papers? Maybe she’d throw the whole lot away and not bother reviewing. She’d had enough of her mother’s endless magazines and newspapers.

But then what if she missed something important, like a bill or a letter? No, she’d have to go through it, darn it all.

Soothing Junior and distracting him with a toy, she looked around the room to make sure there weren’t any other insects lying in wait. After examining every corner and assuring herself there was no further danger, she went back to her plumbing.

An hour later, after many interruptions, she whooped in triumph as her new faucets turned on and off without leaking. She washed her hands in the newly repaired sink and set to work reviewing papers and clearing away the junk. Before she could move in, Ann had to clear the house out, making room for the furniture and belongings she refused to sell or give away.

To all outer appearances, her mother was everything that was good and proper—a pillar of the community, a boon to her church. But she had one notable weakness: an obsession with high society. Gossip rags filled the entire house, stacked willy-nilly. The one on top had the headline, WEDDING OF THE CENTURY, and went on to describe the lavish plans for the so-called Princess of New York, Aurora Belmont, and Connecticut Senator Henry Windham. Well, that could go right in the trash.

She worked her way through the piles methodically, throwing out tabloid after tabloid with sensational headlines about forbidden romances, celebrity divorces, and what the rich and famous wore to which charity gala. The city’s elite had no idea what it was like to wonder how they would keep a roof over their heads or feed their child. In better times, her mother’s obsession with the Knickerbocker set amused her, but at the moment, the frivolous tales were salt in her wounds. The sooner she could throw all this nonsense out, the better.

After half an hour, she packed up their things, put Junior in his baby carriage, and took one last look at the almost comically tiny bungalow with gingerbread trim. She never thought she would make her parents’ vacation cottage her home, but what choice did she have? Mama sold the big house right after Papa died and lived off the money. Now, the cottage was all the inheritance Ann had.

Walking to the train, she wondered what would become of her. The best scenario she could imagine was a long, lonely life of hard work where she put her all into raising Junior and took what joy she could from being a devoted mother.

Right after Roger died, Mama urged her to consider remarrying, but she simply couldn’t imagine it. Roger was everything to her. How could she ever give her heart to someone else, especially so soon after his death?

Mama said to spend less time worrying about her heart and more about putting food on the table.

And then Mama had passed so suddenly, Ann still couldn’t quite believe she was gone. It was a wonder Ann managed to get out of bed in the morning after so much loss—not that she had a choice. She was all Junior had now.

How was she going to live on her teacher’s salary of seven hundred and fifty a year and raise a child? She had no one to turn to.

No, that was untrue. She had herself. No more moping, she told herself firmly. You have good health, a bit of intelligence, and an education. You are quite capable of making your way in the world.

She arrived at the station five minutes before the noon train, head held high. A young man about Roger’s age glanced her way, but his gaze slid away as if she was a grim specter. Her auburn hair used to attract attention, but her widow’s garb made her practically invisible. The baby also shielded her from unwanted attention. What man would want to take on another man’s grieving widow and infant? Men left her alone, and she was glad of it.

After a never-ending train ride back to Manhattan, she was grateful to slip into the privacy of her cozy apartment. She needed a moment’s rest before heading back out. Junior fussed as she climbed the stairs, and as soon as they were inside, she unbuttoned the hidden panel on the front of her shirtwaist and offered her breast, where he slurped happily. She sat in her favorite pale green wingback chair next to a large bay window, wishing she could pick up her crochet hook from the basket beside it. She was nearly done with the elaborate bedspread she was making.

The room was already covered with examples of her craft. A crocheted runner hung over the upright piano against the wall. The piano bench cushion was covered in needlepoint roses. Crocheted doilies protected the arms of her chairs and draped over the tops. Embroidered pillows adorned the sofa. She found crocheting, knitting, and all forms of needlework deeply soothing, and she had taken great comfort in it since Roger’s death.

Her gaze snagged on the picture of her and Roger on their wedding day. They’d been so happy, so in love. Blushing, she remembered the last time he was here with her. That was when they’d conceived Junior. When they weren’t in bed, they spent their evenings singing together at the piano. He had a voice like Al Jolson. Their voices blended together so well, his tenor and her smooth mezzo soprano. She still had the thick book of Gilbert and Sullivan they were going through sitting on the piano. She dusted it regularly but never moved it. It lay there, a monument to better times.

Chin up, Ann. You have other things to worry about.

After burping Junior, she packed up for another outing, this time to see the Army’s civilian liaison. It had been a long day, and she allowed herself the luxury of a cab, even though she knew she oughtn’t. After spending the day hefting her mother’s garbage, she simply didn’t have the energy to carry Junior on a crowded subway where she probably wouldn’t even get a seat.

Fortunately, Junior slept through the short ride to a run-down office building near Times Square where the Army Civilian Liaison’s Office was housed. She climbed the steps and entered the packed waiting room. She was far from the only family member in need of information or assistance. With a sigh, she added her name to the sign-in list by the door and settled into a vacant chair to wait. Twelve names were ahead of hers. This was going to take a while.

She closed her eyes, needing a moment of rest before trying to wring some assistance out of an indifferent bureaucracy. It was only supposed to be for a moment, but…

“Mrs. Prince?” a stern woman in uniform called out.

Ann jolted awake. Darn it all! She must have dozed off. Fortunately, Junior was still slumbering peacefully on her chest.

“Yes, that’s me.” Ann rose slowly, trying not to wake Junior, as the woman pursed her lips and peered at the clock on the wall.