The Pieces We Keep(53)

“Surely we’re not painting a whole house,” she said. Then added, “Are we?”

“Nope.”

She blew out a breath. It wasn’t a monstrous mansion, like many of the homes in the area, but still that would have taken them days.

“Just the porch and columns,” he said. “And the lattice below. The stairs too. Oh, and the fence.”

Twinges of exhaustion set into her limbs. She recoiled at the thought of ingesting paint fumes for hours. “Marvelous.”

He hopped onto the ground.

“Any particular reason we’re painting here?” she asked.

“Yeah.” He threw an old sheet over his shoulder. “Needs a new coat.”

Weathered with cracks and dirt, the place was indeed due for a touch-up. But obviously that wasn’t her point. She wondered if the side job would earn him a fee. If so, using her as free labor would be unethical.

On account of the previous night, however, she was in no position to protest.

Gene hefted the ladder and headed for the house. “You comin’?”

The question was presumably rhetorical.





Over the arch of blue sky the sun traveled its course. Done with the latticework, Vivian started on the low white fence. Gene went from columns to railings with military precision. Other than whistling various show tunes-a surprise, as he didn’t seem the type-the guy made not a peep beyond necessity. It was no wonder he had been assigned to Intelligence.

Twice he delivered drinks from inside, the only indication somebody was home. The glasses of chilled lemonade were a luxury given the new ration on sugar. For lunch he carried out sandwiches: bologna and Swiss on rye.

After devouring her last bite, she said, “You do realize this is a cruel form of punishment.”

Gene was kicking back on the porch steps above her. He smiled without pity, like the overseer of a chain gang on an allotted break. He swiped a rag over his hairline and the base of his neck. The muscles in his arms rose and shifted. Small patches of sweat caused his shirt to cling, accentuating the firm breadth of his chest.

Vivian turned toward the street. She pressed her glass to her forehead, its coolness fleeting.

“We better get back to it,” he said, and none too soon.





By the time all the paint had been set to dry, the neighborhood glowed like a string of lanterns.

Vivian waited in the truck, body slumped, her limbs limper than yarn. She felt no trace of guilt for leaving Gene to repack the supplies. She had, without question, repaid her debt.

She rolled her head toward the side window and spotted him on the porch. He stood at the front door, face-to-face with a shadowy woman. She touched his arm as they spoke, Gene now with words to spare.

Vivian sat up.

The woman gave him a small basket, a token of thanks. Perhaps a trade in a blossoming courtship.

Could all of the day’s work, slaving in the sun, withering from fumes, have been done to impress a girl? He had been vague about details for a reason.

“Incredible.”

If the lovebirds wished to carry on, they could do so on their own time. Vivian pushed on the horn, yielding a glance from Gene. Then he angled toward the woman and accepted a kiss. It was only on the cheek but, had they been in private, would undoubtedly have been meant for the lips.

He trekked down the steps, revealing a full silhouette of the woman. She moved backward to close the door. Light from inside swept past her face before she disappeared. Her features were familiar, though hard to place out of context.

The aroma of bread, from Gene’s kerchief-covered basket, billowed as he drove. A block down, Vivian’s mind snagged on the recognition.

“Mrs. Langtree,” she said. “Was that . . . her house?”

He gave a nod, his gaze locked on the street.

She had almost forgotten the two were acquainted. It was from his recommendation that Mrs. Langtree had hired Luanne, and later Vivian as well. His motivation for today’s chores now became clear. A widow without a son would have few helpers to maintain her home, thus Gene’s actions had assured her that she wasn’t on her own.

Vivian cringed at her prior assumptions, namely those pertaining to the scene on the porch. In Gene’s company, Mrs. Langtree had appeared so very different.

“I had no idea you two were close,” Vivian said, stricken by how little she knew of them both.

Gene steered in silence. Finally he replied without turning. “Neal and I met at basic. Became buddies right off the bat.”

Neal Langtree. The airman.

“Oh, Gene ... I didn’t know. I’m so sorry.”

“He was hell-bent on getting those fancy pilot wings. We could’ve done it together, you know, if I’d wanted to....”

He trailed off, leaving Vivian to fill in the rest. Whether he was regretting not being there or questioning his own survival-perhaps simply mourning the senselessness of it all—the moisture rimming his eyes did not require words.