Where or When: A Pearl Harbor Romance Read online

  "You really don't understand,” said Mrs. Agnelli with sadness. "You're not in competition with anyone but yourself, Eden. If you can't reach down deep inside your heart and reveal yourself, you'll never achieve half of the greatness you're capable of achieving."

  Strange that Mrs. Agnelli's words would come to her now. As a rule Eden wasn't given to walks down memory lane or bouts of introspection. Thinking about the past had always seemed a pointless pursuit. There was nothing you could do to change what was. The countless prayers she'd offered up to God when her mother took sick years ago were proof positive of that. Eden had prayed herself to sleep night after night but Marguerite Bell Forrester had died just the same. Her father had thrown himself into his work; her teenage brother had retreated into sports. Five-year-old Eden had been left alone with thoughts so dark and scary that she'd found it impossible to give voice to her fears. No one in her family seemed very interested in helping the frightened child deal with her grief and so Eden had learned to stay one step ahead of her demons.

  She also quickly learned that people loved pretty and precocious little girls and rewarded them with attention and presents--and even overlooked the times when precocity crossed the line into brattiness. "She's high-spirited," her father had always said with an indulgent smile. "I suppose I've spoiled her, but...." His words usually trailed off into a what-can-you-do shake of his head and a laugh.

  Her days were filled with swimming and shopping, long walks beside the shore and dancing until dawn. There was something to do every moment of the day in Honolulu, from enjoying the perfect beauty of the beaches at Waikiki to partaking of the glitter and glamour of places like the Royal Hawaiian where she was tonight. On the rare occasion when she craved solitude, there were her paints and canvases.

  Lately, however, not even her beloved sketchbook and easel had been able to ease the loneliness she felt. And yet it wasn't loneliness exactly; it was more an emptiness inside her heart that didn't bear close inspection. Normally she danced through life at high speed, making certain she stayed one giant step ahead of any upsetting thoughts that might pop up.

  This foolish broken leg of hers was the only blot on the otherwise sunny landscape of the past four years on Oahu.

  Owen Forrester's assignment to Pearl had given them the chance to settle down and have a real home for a change. No more moving from naval base to naval base with the seasons, saying goodbye to people long before they had a chance to become friends. And, most wonderful of all, her father was around more than ever before and her brother Tony was only a short airplane flight away.

  Oh, her father kept harping on the fact that Eden seemed woefully short of goals and that she hadn't a serious suitor anywhere on the horizon, but Eden always hugged him and laughed away his worries. "Twenty isn't so old, Daddy," she'd said the last time he tried to talk about her future. "Are you trying to get rid of me?"

  "You're my little girl," Owen Forrester had said. "I worry about you. I want to know you have someone to take care of you when I'm gone."

  "Gone?” She'd laughed and tugged at the end of his greying mustache. "You're not going anywhere, Daddy. You'll live to be one hundred."

  Just because her friends had found husbands before their twenty-first birthdays was no reason to think Eden would be an old maid. She wasn't going to marry just anyone, after all. She had her standards and the man she fell in love would have to be an absolute paragon, simply perfect in every way. He would be tall and handsome, brilliant and witty, from a good family and with a wonderful future ahead of him--a future he would share with his wife and children.

  Idly she let her glance drift over the hotel ballroom crowded with naval officers and their ladies. A dark-haired sailor stood in the archway to the ballroom, a half-smile on his handsome face. She felt an odd little flutter deep inside her stomach as he turned slightly and his eyes met hers. His gaze was direct, frankly curious, openly appraising. She wanted to look away, to break the intensity of that look, anything to stop the rush of heat flooding her cheeks, but she seemed rooted to the spot. The moment stretched, growing awkward, and she welcomed the intrusion of a waiter bearing drinks.

  She'd certainly never marry a man like that sailor in the archway, no matter how attractive he was. She wanted a man of accomplishment, one who would understand the world she came from because he was part of it himself. Most of the men she knew were officers and few enlisted men ever crossed her orbit so it wasn't unreasonable to assume that one day she would be married beneath the crossed swords of Annapolis graduates.

  But that day was still far away. Eden's heart was as untouched as her body and, despite her many suitors, not one had come to mean more than any other.

  Next to her, Harry launched into an off-key rendition of Chattanooga Choo-Choo and Eden winced. Under normal circumstances, she would have endured no more than three notes of such inhuman torture. She would have leaped to her feet, blown hapless Harry a kiss, then danced off with the nearest available male. Harry leaned closer and gave her a soulful look. She knew that look. In another moment he would be declaring his undying devotion, promising her the moon and the stars and generally embarrassing them both in the process.

  Men had a way of saying the most ridiculous things to her. Was it any wonder she found it so difficult to take their flowery declarations of love seriously? How could you possibly love someone you really didn't know? All anyone really knew about Eden was that she was pretty and funny and an admiral's daughter. It never occurred to anyone that she might be something more. Her hopes and dreams were her own, hidden away deep inside her heart in that place no one had ever reached.

  "You know you're really beautiful, Eden.” Harry's smile was loopy. "Anybody ever tell you that?"

  She leaned away from him. "A few people."

  "A lot of people.” His smile grew even loopier, if that was possible. "I'll bet lots of people have told you that. You must be the prettiest woman in this room."

  "Thank you.”

  She reached for her crutches and maneuvered herself to a standing position before Harry or any of the other dimwits could figure out what she was about. She'd rather look awkward than die of boredom or be trapped with these idiotic declarations of love everlasting.

  "I have a headache," she declared to the room in general. "I'm going home."

  "Stay for another tune," urged a second lieutenant. "The night's still young."

  "Not for me, it isn't.” She started toward the door, noting with dismay that the ballroom was the size of an airplane hangar, one with an extremely slippery floor.

  "Why don't we go to the Blue Grotto?" asked Harry, pausing briefly in his vocalizing. Frank Sinatra certainly had nothing to worry about. "Best Mai Tais in the Islands."

  "Forget the Blue Grotto. Let's just ditch this dance and head straight for The Luau in Pearl City.” The second lieutenant--Art, was it? --draped an arm across her shoulders and she struggled to maintain her balance.

  Idiot, she thought. He'd probably ask the Venus de Milo to hold his packages for him.

  "Come on," said Harry. "You know you love the Blue Grotto."

  Harry and Art began a mock argument, complete with some good-natured shoving. She wondered how many martinis they'd consumed between them to produce such juvenile behavior.

  "For goodness' sake," she said with an exasperated sigh, "it's late, I'm tired, and my crutches are about to slide out from under me. You two can stand here the rest of the night and argue. If you need a ride, you're welcome to one."

  She would turn on all the lights in her studio and paint until she grew too tired to tell her tube of vermilion from her tube of crimson. How splendid it was to know her driver would be waiting outside with her father's big white Olds with the leather interior. Billy had seemed a little piqued when they pulled up in front of the hotel but she was certain he'd more than gotten over that by now.

  "Well, are you coming with me?" she asked, positioning her crutches and taking her first clumsy step toward the door.
"I meant what I said about going home."

  Harry and Art looked at her, then at each other, and before she knew what they were up to, the two men made a basket with their hands and scooped her up off her feet and into the makeshift seat. Laughing with surprise, she somehow managed to cling to her crutches as they hoisted her as high as they could and proceeded to carry her from the ballroom.

  "Put me down, you fools!" She giggled as they trooped through the lobby past some elegant couples in full evening dress. A man seated near the reception desk looked up from his copy of the Bulletin and arched a patrician brow over his horn-rimmed spectacles. Eden favored him with her sweetest smile and did her best to look as regal as possible, considering the idiotic situation.

  "Miss Forrester.” A very concerned concierge scurried across the marble floor to join the odd trio. "Can I be of some help? If you've reinjured your leg, I would be glad to--"

  "Thank you, James, but I'm fine.” She barely suppressed another giggle. "Harry and Art are seeing me to my car."

  The look on James's ruddy face made it perfectly clear what he thought of Harry and Art's ability to do so. "Perhaps the gentlemen would care for a cup of coffee?"

  "James," said Eden, "that's terribly kind but quite unnecessary."

  James, however, was not to be deterred. "Then allow me to call for a taxi."

  Harry sneezed and she swayed like a rope bridge in a hurricane. "Daddy's car and driver are waiting for us outside, but thank you so much."

  James clucked nervously, but backed away to allow them to pass. Eden knew the concierge would fly to the phone to relay her latest escapade to her father the moment her back was turned, embroidering the incident until it sounded downright scandalous. There was nothing wrong with being carried out of the ballroom by two strong sailors, certainly not when your leg was broken and the cast was right there for everyone to see. Not that it mattered. She knew her father would never see the practical side of the story. Owen would rant and rave about her giddy social life and threaten to marry her off to the first eligible bachelor to appear on the scene.

  She'd been skating on thin ice, as far as her father was concerned, and that ice grew thinner with each driver who handed over the keys. When driver number five stormed off the job, her father's rage had been towering.

  Not even her pretty tears had been able to cool his anger that day and Eden had found herself face to face with the dreadful prospect of endless days spent watching their housekeeper dust the rattan end tables while the rest of the world had fun. Even her discarded volunteer work at the hospital sounded more interesting than that.

  "I'll be as sweet as Shirley Temple," she'd managed at last, summoning up her most dutiful-daughter smile. "The next driver will think I'm made of spun sugar."

  Why, she didn't care if he looked like Quasimodo and drove like one of the Three Stooges. No more backseat driving or forcing the poor fellow to sit in the steamy car while she sunned herself on the beach. She'd be pleasant and easy-going and as altruistic as Eleanor Roosevelt. Even after she'd met Billy and discovered he did, indeed, resemble Quasimodo her resolve hadn't weakened. Why, if Billy wanted to push that Oldsmobile all the way up to sixty miles per hour and whistle Dixie in the bargain, she wouldn't utter one single word.

  Not one.

  An astonished doorman held open the door while Harry and Art carried Eden over the threshold in reverse. They were certainly attracting a fair share of attention. "I can see this in the Bulletin tomorrow morning," she said, giggling. "We'll be the talk of Pearl!"

  Harry, who was beginning to go pink in the face, cut her off. "Where's the car, Eden? Let's get this show on the road."

  From her lofty perch it was easy to spot the spanking-white Oldsmobile. "Behind the limos," she said with a carefree wave of her hand. "Lead on, gentlemen."

  The air was moist and heavy with the sweet scent of plumeria and frangipani. She wished she had a lei of ginger blossoms around her neck, its petals so soft and velvety against her skin. Ginger blossoms were so delicate and fragrant; they always made her feel like a movie star. She considered the wisdom of asking Harry and Art to scoot back into the lobby and ask the desk clerk where they could find one at this hour of the night, but the poor men seemed to be having some difficulty negotiating safe passage up the driveway.

  "Uh, Eden...” Art's forehead was beaded with perspiration. "Do you think maybe you could drop the crutches? We'll come back for 'em the minute you're in the car."

  "I'd love to, Art, but I'm afraid they'll break on the pavement if I do.” She did, however, make an attempt to hold the crutches as far away from their bodies as possible.

  Unfortunately, not far enough away. Harry grunted as one of the crutches caught him in the back of the knee.

  "Oh, I'm so sorry.” Her voice was soft and filled with concern, but she didn't drop the crutches.

  "'S okay," muttered Harry. "I'm doin' fine."

  It occurred to Eden that she--and her crutches--could make their way down the driveway to the Oldsmobile just fine thank you, but there didn't seem to be much reason to voice the obvious. Men were so foolish about things like that. If Harry and Art were determined to carry her to the car as if she was the Queen of Sheba--well, she'd just let them.

  Besides, Eden liked being the center of attention. Her father said she'd been born with her very own fan club of admirers, most of them male, who had doted on her from her first step to her first word to her first date. Where other girls prayed for a date to the next officer's club dance, Eden had more invitations than she knew what to do with. She loved to flirt and be flirted with, to dance with handsome men in uniform. She loved knowing she was the prettiest girl in the room almost everywhere she went and that most of the young officers would sell their commission for a kiss.

  Not that she was granting that honor to very many of them. Eden didn't much care for kissing or what went with it. Something happened to men when they kissed her. The moment their lips met hers, it seemed as if their brains turned to oatmeal and their hands developed a life of their own. Kissing shifted the balance between them in a way she couldn't quite explain but understood in the deepest part of her heart.

  Kissing was grownup. It was real and powerful and dangerous and she wanted no part of it. She often had the feeling that she somehow disappeared when a man kissed her, and the part of her that was Eden vanished in a haze of passion.

  Kissing was to be endured. Flirting, however, was the breath of life.

  "You'll change your mind when you meet the right man," Melanie had said with that annoying smugness most newlyweds affected. "Just you wait and see."

  Well, she just might be waiting for the rest of her life because Mr. Right wasn't anywhere on the horizon.

  An admiral friend of her father's hurried by with his skinny wife in tow. He glanced at her once while his wife tsk-tsk'd, then he stopped dead in his tracks.

  "Eden Forrester?"

  "Admiral Shea.” She politely extended her hand. "How wonderful to see you again.” She suppressed a girlish giggle. Admiral Shea was over six feet tall and, for once, Eden was on eye level with him.

  Admiral Shea did his best to scowl but the twinkle in his pale blue eyes gave him away. "Does your father know you're cavorting like this?"

  Eden threw back her head and laughed while Harry and Art tried to figure out how to salute without dropping her on the tarmac. "Daddy knows everything I do," she said gaily. "Pearl Harbor is the most gossipy town in the world."

  Mrs. Shea pawed at the ground like a high-strung colt. Her nostrils practically flared with dislike as she looked at Eden. "You're looking well, dear."

  Eden widened both her eyes and her smile. "How wonderful to see you, Mrs. Shea.” She made a show of looking over the woman's sober evening attire. "And how glamorous you're looking.” Her voice was as sweet as honey, as silky as the sands of Waikiki.

  Mrs. Shea mumbled something and, grabbing the admiral's arm, hurried him away from the three young people.

&nbs
p; "We're going to get nailed for this," said Harry the moment Shea was out of earshot. "Not saluting an officer...."

  "Thirty days in the brig for starters," said Art with a groan.

  "Oh, don't worry about a thing," said Eden. "He didn't even notice you were there, boys.” The two ensigns had been invisible to Admiral Shea, like porters in a railway station after your bags had been loaded into a taxi.

  They struggled a few steps farther, hesitating next to a big black Chevrolet. "Is this the one?" gasped Harry.

  "The white Oldsmobile." She weighed only a few ounces over one hundred pounds. Two grown men should have no trouble at all carrying her.

  Unfortunately, Harry didn't see a bump in the driveway and he stumbled, then Art tripped over his shoelace and before she could react, Eden went sailing through the air, straight into the arms of another man.

  Chapter Three

  The last time Rick had seen anything this ridiculous he'd been watching a Laurel and Hardy double feature at the Rialto back stateside. The tall skinny lieutenant was flat on his face on the tarmac while the ensign hopped around, holding his knee and muttering swear words that would do the Navy proud.

  But the most ridiculous thing of all was the fact that Eden Forrester was in his arms. The boss's daughter, better known as the Ice Princess, was clinging to him for dear life. He didn't know whether to laugh or run for the hills.

  "Stop it!” She glared at him and he noted her eyes were even more brilliant turquoise than he'd first thought. "Don't you dare laugh at me!”

  Her indignation only made him laugh harder. "Pretty high-handed talk for a woman who nearly landed on her keister."

  "I have excellent balance," she said loftily. "I'm certain I would have caught myself in time."

  "Right," he said, trying not to notice the way she smelled of lilacs. "And I'm the Wizard of Oz."

  "You needn't sound so superior."

  "Just stating the facts."

  "My crutches.” She gestured over her shoulder. "I need my crutches!"