For All Their Lives Page 9

  Mac flagged the waitress. Casey continued to smile while the tired waitress simpered and apologized for the tuna sandwiches.

  “What is it you do that you can’t find a job?”

  “I’m a nurse.”

  “And you can’t find a job?” Mac asked incredulously. “Wait, wait, wait, I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. But hospitals always need nurses, don’t they?” He felt stunned at how indignant he felt in this young woman’s behalf.

  “My credentials are French. They tell me I have to take the American Nursing Boards, which are given in July and February. I cannot . . . I speak English well, but I would need a tutor, and there is no way I can be prepared by July. I don’t want to stay until next February and not work at my profession. I have a dual citizenship, but that makes no difference,” Casey said mournfully.

  “I never heard of such a ridiculous thing,” Mac said huffily. “You should show them all and join the army. They need nurses.”

  Casey’s eyebrows shot upward. “How do you know this?” she demanded.

  How did he know this? “I don’t, not for sure, but it stands to reason. I saw in the Washington Star that nurses are in short supply everywhere.”

  “You mean Vietnam!”

  “Please don’t tell me that you’re one of those antiwar protestors.”

  “I won’t tell you that. Were you in Vietnam?”

  “No, but that’s where I’m headed as soon as my new orders come down.”

  “Did you volunteer or are they sending you against your wishes?”

  “No. I volunteered,” he replied, as the waitress set down their bowls of cereal. “It’s a year’s tour, but I’ve already decided I’ll volunteer for a second year. It’s the right thing for me to do. I guess it was like that for you when you made the decision to come here from France. I mean, the right thing for you.”

  “At the time.”

  “You might like working at Walter Reed Hospital. The Washington-Virginia area is quite nice.” And I might get to see you again sometime.

  Under the cover of her eyelashes Casey observed him. He looked tall and strong. Possibly he had been an athlete at one time. She liked the strong look of his hands. A wave of heat surged through her when she wondered what it would feel like to be touched by those hands.

  She knew he was staring at her. He had said something to her. Lord, what was it? “Yes, the cornflakes are quite nice,” she stammered.

  He laughed deeply. “The banana is a little green, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, and hard. Bitter too.”

  He laughed again, revealing perfectly aligned white teeth. American orthodontia, she decided. She felt self-conscious when she remembered her slightly crooked eye tooth, the one Nicole called “endearing.”

  Sadie would approve of this girl, Mac thought. So would Benny. His brow began to knit when he thought of his lacquered, polished, coiffed wife. He pushed her from his thoughts.

  She looks nervous, Mac thought. He felt a moment of panic when he realized she was groping in her bag for money to pay her check. She was going to get up and leave, and he’d never see her again. The thought brought an immediate ache to his chest.

  Mac reached for the check. “I’m the one who ordered the cornflakes, so I should be the one to pay. Please, I insist,” he said at the doubtful look on her face. “Besides,” he grinned, “it’s the American way.”

  She was slipping into her coat. In a few minutes she’d be gone. The ache intensified. “Listen, would you like to join me for a drink someplace? A decent place. Perhaps one with a piano bar. We could have dinner too.” He held up both hands, palms toward her. “Look, it will be two people enjoying each other’s company. Then on the stroke of midnight, or before, if you wish, you can ride off in your pumpkin. I don’t know anyone else here. What do you say?”

  If Nicole and Danele were here, they’d subtly kick her under the table and blatantly hiss in her ear, “Go, go, go. Mon Dieu, do we need to draw you a picture?”

  “That sounds very nice. My evening is free,” Casey said breathlessly. There was such a buzzing in her ears, she felt light-headed, and she thought her shins hurt. She laughed then for no reason.

  Mac joined her, not knowing why. He wondered vaguely if what he was about to do came under the heading of unfaithfulness. No, he decided, dinner and conversation were social pastimes. Anyway, at this point, he didn’t give a roaring fuck what heading they came under.

  Heads turned, Casey noticed, when Mac walked to the register to pay the check. She watched as one girl rolled her eyes and pretended to swoon, while another whistled soundlessly. She felt like whistling herself. American girls called it a wolf whistle, but somehow she’d thought it was the men who were supposed to whistle at girls, not the other way around.

  Outside the fog swirled about them. It was late in the afternoon. “Would you like to walk for a while?” Mac asked. “It’s not quite so dismal when you’re with someone. When we get tired, we’ll take a cab to a French restaurant I’ve heard about called La Folie. What do you say?” He waited anxiously, hardly daring to breathe for fear she’d say no.

  “Oh, I’d like that very much. Do you like French food?”

  He didn’t, but he was going to learn to love it in short order. Still, for some reason he didn’t want to lie to this girl. “It’s a little rich for my taste, but everyone knows it’s the company and the wine that make for a delightful dinner.”

  “I think you’re right.” Impulsively, Casey linked her arm with Mac’s. “Wouldn’t you love to catch it?”.

  “The fog?” He thought it was the most wonderful thing he’d ever heard. He found himself chuckling. “Shall we try?”

  “Absolutely.” Casey laughed as she let loose of his arm and started to chase a tendril of fog. They were children, laughing and giggling as they ran down the street, their arms outstretched. Mac had never done anything so outrageous or silly, especially in uniform. He hadn’t laughed like this in years. He suspected Casey Adams hadn’t either.

  “I give up,” Casey said a long while later.

  “Thank God. Ten minutes ago I realized we weren’t going to make a fortune catching and bottling this stuff. I hate to admit this, but I’m winded. Let’s hail a cab.”

  Casey giggled. “I agree.”

  Warm and gentle. A sense of humor. Her arm was in his again, her breathing as labored as his own, but there was a smile on her lips. He liked this girl with the delightful French accent. Damn, he felt like he was nineteen again.

  “I’d like to hear all about France and what it’s like to live there.” He wasn’t just saying the words. He really did want to know.

  “Where do you come from, Mac?” Casey asked quietly.

  “McLean, Virginia. It’s not far from Washington, D.C.”

  “I will tell you all about France if you tell me about Washington, D.C.”

  “It’s a deal. Hey, here’s a taxi.” Mac flagged the Checker cab. “Polk Street, La Folie,” he said to the driver.

  “You’re familiar with the city then?” Casey asked curiously.

  “Not really. I used to come to California on vacations,” Mac said shortly. “San Francisco is not one of my favorite places. I prefer Los Angeles.”

  “I see,” Casey said, because she felt she had to make a comment.

  Mac laughed. “No, you don’t. My mother used to say ‘I see’ all the time. What it meant was she didn’t understand and she was going to be polite until I explained. My father likes California. He has friends here, and we used to come here every year when the school term was over in the spring. Going on a vacation with one’s father isn’t exactly the best way to have fun, especially when father and son don’t get on all that well.” He forced a light tone to his voice. He wasn’t about to allow his father to infringe on this evening.

  It was dark when the cab pulled to the curb in front of the pretty storefront café. “I have to warn you,” Mac said, holding the door for her, “service here is supposed to
be lackadaisical at best. Well meaning, of course. But I’ve heard it’s a fun place. The sort of restaurant my father would hate.”

  There was no warmth in his eyes when he spoke of his father, Casey noticed.

  “Sazerac cocktails and fresh oysters,” Mac ordered. “Shall I try out my French on you? It isn’t half as good as your English.” He leaned across the table and blurted, “You have the most incredible blue eyes. Is that the real color of your hair or does . . . is it artificial? It looks like soft butter. It’s important for me to know, but I can’t explain why.” A boyish grin stretched across his face. Casey’s heart thumped.

  “My hair color is real. My friends always teased me in school. I tried to be so French, and they all said I looked American. Right now, I don’t know what I am. Thank you for the compliment,” Casey said lightly. She was actually flirting.

  “It’s your turn,” Mac teased.

  Casey blushed.

  “I’ve embarrassed you, I’m sorry. That wasn’t my intention at all.” He liked her elegant Gallic shrug. Sadie would call him a clod for what he’d just said and tell him that, no matter what, you never embarrass a lady.

  They talked of the weather while they ate their oysters and sipped their drinks. When they exhausted a discussion on the bay’s smell, the fog, the cold, and the rainy winter months, Mac asked where she lived in France.

  “In a very small flat. I sublet it to a young intern. From my yard I could sneak into the gardens of Notre Dame. I used to pretend I was a grand lady out for a stroll when I went there. The priests were very indulgent with me. I love flowers, you see. They allowed me many liberties.”

  They talked and nibbled, whispered and smiled, laughed and touched hands across the table. Casey told herself it was a pleasant interlude that would end when she walked through the doors to catch a cab.

  A guilty expression crossed her features when she looked around the room a long time later to find they were the only patrons in the café. “I think they want to close,” she whispered.

  “I think so too. It is late. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate you . . . it was one of the nicest evenings in my life. Tell me something, though, how is it you have an American name?”

  Casey smiled. “It’s really a French name. It’s spelled Casée. If you were writing it, you would put the little mark over the first e. To be stubborn, I adopted the American spelling.”

  “I see.” Mac chuckled. They were both laughing when they swept through the café doors. She could have eaten for a week with the tip Mac left on the table. She said so.

  “We took up that table all night. They could have turned it over three times. I had to make it up to our waiter.” Casey thought it a wonderful gesture.

  A taxi pulled to the curb. “Lombard Street, you said.” Casey nodded. Mac relayed the information to the driver. “Will you have dinner with me tomorrow?” he asked impulsively.

  “Yes,” Casey answered just as impulsively.

  “Give me your phone number.”

  “Oh! I don’t know what it is. It must be in the telephone book under Jack Adams.”

  Mac stood back from the curb. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  “Thank you for a wonderful evening.”

  “My pleasure. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He snapped off an airy salute in the general direction of the cab, and watched it disappear into the swirling fog.

  Casey swept into the house, her steps light, her eyes sparkling.

  A fire would be nice, she decided. While she laid the twigs and crunched up papers, she pushed all thoughts of Captain Mac Carlin as far back into her mind as she could. She waited a moment while the pyramid of sparks raced up the chimney before she added two solid birch logs. Satisfied with the steady blaze, she trotted off to her bedroom to put on her robe and slippers. She carried her pillow and the comforter bordered with yellow tulips and sprigs of green fern out to the living room. She settled herself in front of the fire. She thought about Mac’s promise to phone her, and reached out of her cocoon for the telephone book on the shelf under the end table. Her eyebrows shot upward when she discovered all the columns of Adamses. Like a child, she ran her index finger down the page to search out her father’s name and phone number. Once she saw it and committed it to memory, Mac would be more real. She could almost picture him dialing the number and then waiting for her to say hello. Ohhh, she could hardly wait for the call. However would she pass the time until that wonderful moment happened? She was on the fifth column on the second page when she realized there was no J. Adams, no Jack or John Adams listed on Lombard Street. Panic seized her. Once a number had been printed on the little paper circle, but it was nothing more than a blur now. Completely illegible. Where was the number? Mon Dieu, where was the number? Her throat tightened. She swayed sickeningly. Her finger found the O on the dial. “Operator, I need to know the number of this phone I’m calling you from. Could you give it to me please?”

  “One moment. The address and name, miss?”

  Casey gave her the address and spelled her father’s name slowly. “Possibly the number is listed under Jack or John or maybe just the initial J.”

  The silence on the phone while the operator looked up the number thundered in Casey’s ears. “I’m sorry but that number is unlisted.”

  “What does that mean?” Casey croaked. “I’m new here in California. This is my father’s number, and he . . . what does it mean?”

  “It means the number can’t be given out. To anyone,” the operator said irritably.

  “But it’s my number now. I’m the one who will be paying the bill. I should have the number. Please, this is very important to me.”

  “I’m sorry, miss. Contact the business office tomorrow. The hours are nine to five.” Casey stared at the pinging phone clutched in her hand. This couldn’t be happening to her. It wasn’t fair.

  Casey slumped down on the floor again. Lord, she was stupid. What was she going to do with the phone number when she got it from the telephone company? Stupid! Stupid! She didn’t know where Mac was staying, so how was she to give him the phone number? She pummeled the padded comforter, tears streaming down her cheeks.

  Two weeks. Mac had two weeks in San Francisco, time enough for them to get to know one another. Time enough to explore the area. Time to laugh and perhaps cry when it was time for him to leave.

  If she’d been more experienced, more worldly, she would have made sure the handsome captain had her address. If she’d been more sophisticated, she would have gotten the name of his hotel. Sister Ann Elizabeth would say this was nonsense, and that’s why fate intervened to create an impossible situation. Casey didn’t believe it for a minute.

  She fought the urge to stamp her feet and scream. Nicole and Danele would tell her to leave no stone unturned. “Go, go, go,” they’d say. “Where?” she wailed. “I don’t know enough about this city. I don’t even remember the name of the coffee shop where I met him.”

  The logs shifted, teetered on the iron grate before they settled between the wide prongs. What was Mac Carlin doing right now, this minute? She wished she knew. She longed for a dog or a cat to snuggle with. She’d always wanted a pet. Someday she was going to surround herself with cats and dogs. Once she’d had a goldfish she kept in a cracked cup. It had died in a day’s time. She’d cried for a whole day when Sister Ann Elizabeth flushed it down the toilet and then threw the cup in the trash. She’d wanted to bury the fish in the gardens at Notre Dame. She wondered if Mac Carlin had had a pet as a child. Once she’d caught a flicker of sadness in his eyes, but it disappeared almost immediately.

  What had they eaten? Soupe de poissons, crudités, pâté, potage de légumes, and glacé panachée. She found herself giggling when Mac gave the order in his strangled French. She’d laughed aloud when she saw the garnish on the soup. Mac said it looked like a giant ladybug. It had been one of the most enjoyable evenings of her life. Damn! She wanted to see him again. How delighted she’d been when he asked to see her tomorr
ow. Now it was like everything else in her life that didn’t work out.

  “What I need is a fairy godmother,” Casey muttered. She flopped over on her stomach, propping her chin in her hands. “A fairy godmother who knows San Francisco, and knows about men.”

  Where was he staying? Had he said anything, given a clue she hadn’t picked up on? She yanked at the telephone in her lap. Hotels. She would call them all until she found him. Sleep was the farthest thing from her mind as she flipped through the telephone book to the section that listed hotels. She blinked at the long list. It would take a full night and day to call all of them. Her jaw set tightly. Either she would call them or she would have to forget about Mac Carlin. She dialed and dialed. At one in the morning she was perturbed, at two she was annoyed, at three she started to get angry, at four she threw down her pencil in disgust to head for the kitchen to make coffee. She’d called over a hundred hotels in the San Francisco area and had that many still to call, if not more. She sipped coffee while she continued to dial one number after another. By seven her eyes were red and full of grit from the smoky fire. At eight o’clock she threw her pencil into the dying flames. She was so stupid. Mac said when he visited San Francisco with his father it was to visit friends. He wasn’t staying at a hotel at all but with friends. She felt like a fool when she replaced the telephone on the end table. “Bête, bête, bête, ”she chastised herself on the way to the shower.

  Casey rubbed at the steamy mirror with a yellow hand towel. She looked awful, felt awful, her eyes red and puffy. She wanted to scream at her reflection, to keen, to wail her lament. Instead she cried silent tears of frustration. She toweled her hair as she wept, with the same yellow towel she’d used to wipe the mirror. Satisfied with her damp curls, she made her way to the bed, where she crawled between the cold sheets. She’d never considered sleeping in the nude before, she thought as she drifted into sleep. When she awoke from her nap, she was going to do something else she’d never considered: she was going to join the army.