More Than Words: Stories of Courage Page 10

  P.K. believes that the ability to dream is a life-affirming experience that can transform lives. She is so touched by each dream she witnesses that watching is like having her dream fulfilled, as well. P.K.’s dream has always been to enhance life in nursing homes and to honor the resilience and vitality of the human spirit in our elders. Because of P.K. Beville’s vision and passion, Second Wind Dreams is changing the perception of aging…one dream at a time.

  For more information visit www.secondwind.org or write to Second Wind Dreams, 1031 Cambridge Sq., Suite G, Alpharetta, GA 30004.

  SHARON SALA

  THE YELLOW RIBBON

  SHARON SALA

  New York Times bestselling author Sharon Sala has written more than sixty-nine books. Her novels regularly hit all the bestseller lists. She’s a five-time RITA® finalist, five-time winner of the National Reader’s Choice Award, five-time winner of the Colorado Romance Writer’s Award of Excellence and has won many other industry awards too numerous to mention. During her writing career, she has captured the hearts of countless readers with her awardwinning romances written under her own name, Sharon Sala, as well as her pseudonym, Dinah McCall.

  She was born and raised in rural Oklahoma and still calls the state her home. Being with her family is ultimate joy, although her life has changed drastically, from the time she made her first sale to the way it is now. Sharon claims it is her greatest satisfaction to create her stories, then share them with people who love to read.

  CHAPTER ONE

  It was almost 9:00 a.m. and Frances Drummond was late. She was due to be at Just Like Home no later than nine. The residents of the assisted living center where she worked held her to a high standard and she tried never to disappoint them.

  But disappoint them she would if she didn’t get there in time to help with shampooing. Today was beauty day. Although she wasn’t a licensed beautician, she was a perfectly willing shampooer, and was often called in to remove hair curlers so the beauticians could do comb-outs and styles more quickly.

  Beauty day was the female residents’ favorite day, and Frankie loved to see the women giggling and fussing over different hairstyles and nail polish colors.

  A bread delivery truck was leaving the parking lot just as she drove in. The driver turned and stared as Frankie jumped out of her car. Self-consciously, she pulled up the neck of her pink cotton sweater, wishing she’d worn a turtleneck, and tried not to stumble as she hurried across the lot.

  She entered the lobby of the home, breathless and limping more than normal from moving too fast. The girls, as she called them, waved at her from outside the little beauty shop, which was in a corner of the lobby. It was open only two days a week—one for the women, the second for the men—so no one wanted to miss out.

  Haircuts and dye jobs were regular requests, both for men and women, along with the occasional permanent. The residents ranged in age from sixty-seven to ninety-eight. For Frankie, whose parents had died when she was twenty, these senior citizens had become the family she no longer had, and they took it upon themselves to give her advice, whether she asked for it or not.

  Frankie had been in college when she and her parents were in the automobile accident that had killed her parents and left her with thick, puckered burn scars on her neck and arm and a painful limp. When she was tired, the limp was more noticeable. The scars and the handicap were usually enough to put most men off giving her a second look.

  After years of disappointment, she’d given up hoping she’d ever find a decent man who could look past her imperfections to the woman beneath, and had created a satisfying life by helping others with much larger problems. This attitude was what had led her to the job she had now, working as the recreation director in a home for the aged. She loved her work and she loved the people. They had way more wrinkles than she had scars, and they all dragged their feet a bit when they walked.

  The residents of Just Like Home were also funny, wise and to Frankie’s unending surprise, often a little bawdy. She’d gotten more sexual advice from the girls than she’d ever be able to use.

  Once she’d crossed the lobby, Frankie stepped into the site manager’s office long enough to lock up her purse and hang up her coat.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Tulia,” Frankie said. “Sorry I’m late.”

  Mavis Tulia was on the phone, but she wiggled her fingers and mouthed a hello.

  Frankie hurried back to the lobby, hugging girls on her way into the beauty shop, then waving at the three beauticians already at their chairs. One was in the midst of a cut, one was doing a dye job, and the third was putting curlers in Margie Potts’s hair.

  “Good morning, Margie,” Frankie said.

  “Hello to you, too,” Margie replied. “I’m thinking of Ravenous Red for my nail color today. What do you think?”

  “I think you would look ravenous,” Frankie teased.

  Margie laughed.

  “Hey, Frankie,” the beautician said. “Didn’t think you were gonna make it.”

  “Traffic.”

  Margie rolled her eyes. She’d driven a cab for more than thirty years, and for the past five claimed to be working on a book about her life and her fares.

  Frankie doubted the book was a work in progress, but it hardly mattered. It gave Margie an identity. Here in Just Like Home, she was known as the writer, just as she’d been the cabby before.

  “What do you want me to do first?” Frankie asked the beautician working on Margie.

  The woman pointed out to the lobby and the residents who were sitting there, waiting their turn.

  “Louise is next. If you do the shampoo, Lori should be through with her cut and style by then.”

  “Will do,” Frankie said, and stepped outside the little salon. “Louise, you’re next, dear. Here’s your cane. Let’s go to the shampoo station.”

  And so the morning began. By noon, they were down to two beauticians, one having returned to her regular salon. When Frankie had Doris shampooed and ready for the stylist, she went back into the lobby to get the last resident.

  Charlotte Grace was eighty-seven years young and never married. Some of the girls called her the Old Maid, but only in jest. Charlotte never seemed to mind. She’d usually fire back a comment that being single didn’t mean being a virgin, which always made the others laugh. Only Frankie saw the sadness in Charlotte that the other girls seemed to miss.

  “Charlotte, you’re next,” Frankie said.

  The older woman looked up from the magazine she’d been reading.

  “About time,” she said. “I was afraid I wouldn’t get to show off my new do before they laid me out.”

  Frankie grinned. When she’d first begun working here, the death and funeral humor had taken her aback. But she’d long since gotten used to it. Only yesterday, Marvin Howard had flagged her down to look at some snapshots. When she realized they were of the new headstone set at his prepaid burial plot, she’d oohed and aahed the same way she might have done if she’d been looking at a picture of his great-grandchildren.

  Charlotte’s step was spry and her figure trim, her only frailty a slight tremble in her hands. She wore her hair short and fluffy, so the shampoo and styling wouldn’t take long.

  Frankie settled her into the shampoo chair and began to fasten a clean cape around her neck to protect her clothes. As she did, the Velcro fastener caught on the yellow ribbon that Charlotte always wore around her neck.

  “Oh, wait…I’ve caught your ribbon,” Frankie said.

  “That’s okay,” Charlotte assured her. “I need to get a new one anyway. Can’t let my locket go begging.”

  Frankie eyed the small oval locket hanging from the ribbon. She’d never seen Charlotte without it.

  “That’s really pretty,” Frankie said. “Is it an heirloom?”

  Charlotte’s smile faded.

  “I suppose it is now,” she said, rubbing it between her thumb and forefinger. “Or at least it will be soon. That’s what happens when you get as old as
I am.”

  Frankie frowned. She’d said something wrong, but she wasn’t sure what. She laid her hand on the back of Charlotte’s neck.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”

  Charlotte shook her head and managed a teary smile.

  “Oh, pooh, you’re not prying. I’m just a sentimental old woman. I bought the locket for myself, you know. It wasn’t handed down or anything.”

  “It’s beautiful,” Frankie said.

  Charlotte opened it.

  “So was he,” she said softly, revealing the photo inside.

  Frankie bent over for a closer look and saw a young man with a very sober countenance.

  “Who was he…your husband?” Frankie asked.

  Charlotte’s chin trembled, but she didn’t cry.

  “I never married,” she said at last, then looked up at Frankie. “But he asked. He did ask me to marry him.”

  Frankie pulled up a stool and sat down beside her.

  “What happened?”

  “I said no.”

  Frankie didn’t know what to say. She could tell that Charlotte viewed this as a tragedy.

  “Father didn’t like him,” Charlotte explained, then shrugged. “Back then, a father’s opinion still held water. But he was wrong…my father…I should have married my sweetheart. His name was Daniel Louis Morrow.”

  “What happened to him?” Frankie asked.

  A tear rolled down Charlotte’s cheek. Frankie leaned over and blotted it with the tail of the cape.

  “After I refused him, he didn’t wait to be drafted,” Charlotte told her. “He signed up for the army right after Pearl Harbor was bombed.” Her voice shook a little as she added, “He never came home, you know. He was shot by a German sniper near a little town called Positano, in southern Italy. He’s buried there.”

  She shut the locket with a snap, then pulled the cape down over the front of her dress and leaned back. It was obvious she was through talking.

  Frankie got up and turned on the water, letting it flow until it ran warm, then began to work shampoo into Charlotte’s hair, scrubbing gently until her scalp had a good massage and her hair was thoroughly clean.

  She rinsed it twice, then wrapped a clean towel around Charlotte’s hair and twisted it into a turban before helping her up and moving her to the stylist’s chair.

  Charlotte sat down, then took Frankie’s hand.

  “I always meant to go there…to his grave. All these years and I kept saying I would go. I even got myself a passport and took all my shots a couple of years back, then didn’t do it. Now it’s too late. Don’t do that to yourself, you hear? If there’s something you know you should do, don’t put it off.”

  “I won’t,” Frankie said, and then leaned over and kissed Charlotte’s cheek.

  Charlotte smiled. “Thank you, dear. I don’t know what I would do without you.”

  Frankie smiled back. “That works both ways,” she said, then went to gather up the wet towels and clean up the shampoo area.

  When it was time for lunch, Frankie played the piano for the residents as they ate. Quite often they would shout out a request. They rarely asked for any modern tunes, and Frankie was becoming quite competent at playing songs from the big band era of the thirties and forties.

  She was in the middle of “Old Buttermilk Sky,” a song Hoagie Carmichael had made famous, when she saw Charlotte come into the dining room. Her hair was freshly fluffed and styled, just as she liked it, and her expression pleasant. Frankie watched her nodding and waving at her friends as she took her seat at the table.

  Since their earlier conversation, Frankie saw Charlotte in a different light. What she’d viewed as a calm, complacent demeanor was really a quiet sadness. And she knew now that Charlotte’s shy personality was actually an expression of regret. The dress Charlotte had on was such a dark purple it looked almost black, and Frankie realized that the older woman never wore bright colors. It seemed to Frankie as if Charlotte were in permanent mourning.

  Poor Charlotte Grace.

  She’d lived an entire life without joy and it broke Frankie’s heart.

  Frankie thought about Charlotte all the way home, and even through her solitary dinner and a lingering bubble bath. As she was brushing her teeth, she caught a glimpse of her own reflection and froze. The scars were redder than usual from the heat of the bathwater. She glanced at them, then focused on her face. For a moment, everything looked blurred, and she could almost see her features aging and her hair turning gray.

  She shivered, then shook her head to make the image go away. When she looked again, she was her normal self, but she’d gotten the message. If she didn’t make some changes in her own life, she was going to wind up just like Charlotte—old and saddened by the things she’d missed.

  Her mood was somber as she got into bed. She lay motionless, willing herself to relax, then wound up doing the opposite. She thrashed and turned until she’d messed up her sheets and was more awake than when she’d gotten into bed. Every time she closed her eyes, she imagined a lone tombstone in an empty field with Daniel Morrow’s name on it.

  Of course, she knew her imagination had exaggerated the facts, but she was certain the young soldier never dreamed his final resting place would be half a world away from his home.

  Still wide awake at midnight, Frankie slapped the mattress with both hands, pushed herself up, and rolled out of bed. Within moments, she was heading for the library, where she kept her computer. She booted it up and got online, then typed in the words Positano, Italy.

  To her surprise, a colorful Web site popped up. One of the more imposing facts about the little fishing village was that it had turned into quite a tourist spot, and the foremost hotel in the village was a former palace that had once been owned by Charles Murat, the brother-in-law of Napoleon Bonaparte. The palace had long since been turned into a hotel called the Hotel Murat, and boasted an aging elegance.

  She sat there for a moment with her fingers resting on the keyboard, then impulsively clicked onto a form to e-mail the hotel and began to type.

  Dear Sirs,

  I am looking for the grave of an American GI who died during World War II. His name was Daniel Louis Morrow, and I was told that he’d been buried in a small cemetery in your area. If there is anyone who can help me verify that, I would greatly appreciate it.

  Time is of the essence, since the woman for whom I’m writing is very elderly. Please help me. It matters so much to her that we know for certain the location of his final resting place.

  Sincerely,

  Frances Drummond

  Chicago, Illinois

  USA

  The moment she hit Send and the e-mail went out, she felt a weight roll off her shoulders. Her efforts might not amount to a thing, but whatever the outcome, she felt better for having made an attempt to verify this for Charlotte.

  Frankie went to bed with a light heart, and as soon as she closed her eyes, fell fast asleep.

  A half a world away, Giuseppe Longoria, the hotel manager at the Hotel Murat, was checking the hotel’s e-mail. He was down to the last message, and when he opened it up, he realized it wasn’t a request for reservations but a letter of inquiry instead. Being bilingual, he scanned it quickly, then frowned. This was beyond his expertise and had nothing to do with hotel management. He started to fire back a response that said as much, when one of the maids came into the office to empty the wastebaskets.

  Her name was Maria Romano. She didn’t read English, but he knew her nephew, Daniel Sciora, did. He also knew that there were several American GIs buried in the little cemetery on the outskirts of Positano where Maria lived. He explained the situation, asking if she would pass this message on to Daniel. When she agreed he printed it out and gave it to Maria.

  It was after seven o’clock in the evening before Maria returned home. She had forgotten about the paper until she was changing out of her uniform. She took it from her pocket and laid it on the bed. Once she was dressed in her regu
lar clothing, she headed across the road to her nephew’s home.

  Thirty-six-year-old Daniel Sciora was a lonely man, although his family was large, even by Italian standards. His aunt Maria and uncle Paolo lived across the road. Eight cousins and their spouses lived nearby in Positano, twelve cousins and their families lived a couple of hours north in Naples, while most of the others were in Sicily. Once a year, they made it a point to get together, renew family ties and catch up on family news. And every year, the aging grandmothers and aunts gave Daniel grief because he was still an unmarried man.

  Daniel knew he was considered a good catch. He was tall and good-looking, and had inherited the vineyard and winery that his great-grandfather had begun. He could have had his pick of a dozen pretty women from the village, but he didn’t want to settle for just any match. He wanted “love at first sight.” A woman who took his breath away with nothing but a look, and he had yet to find her.

  On this particular evening, he was about to serve himself dinner when there was a knock at the door. He dropped the spoon back into the pot and went to answer it. When he saw who it was, he smiled.

  “Zia Maria! Come in! Come in! The pasta’s ready. Have you come to eat dinner with me?”

  Maria Romano rolled her eyes.

  “Your zio Paolo would never get over it if I did,” she said.

  “Then bring him, too,” Daniel offered. “I made plenty.”

  “You’re a good boy,” Maria said, and kissed him on both cheeks. “But food is not why I’ve come.”

  She handed him the e-mail that the hotel manager had printed out.

  “This came to the hotel today, and Giuseppe asked me to bring it to you. He says it’s a request for information from a woman in the United States. He thought since you understand English, you might be able to help.”