Chapter 52

From the Memoirs of Grace Bailey -

My hair is as white now as it was gold then. If I were to look in my mirror, I could spend the better part of an afternoon counting my wrinkles. Nonetheless, the memories of those happy five days with Van at the Jennings Lodge on Lake Wahkeeahnlah remain vivid and alive. When I revisit them, all the time between becomes a curtain of flimsy gauze brushed aside with only the slightest effort of thought.

I can still see Lake Wahkeeahnlah, a sparkling blue gem nestled amid tall pines in the shadow of the Iron Hills. Wahkeeahnlah means dove in the language of the Sioux, or Lakota as they call themselves. It was certainly peaceful. At night, if you walked far enough away to escape the noises of the resort, your ears would be soothed by the murmur of its waves and the sigh of the breeze through the surrounding pines. Both were almost as soft as the gentle rise and fall of Van's bare chest as I lay nestled in his arms. … I'm getting a little ahead of myself, though.

Our first night at Jennings Lodge, Van had champagne brought up to our room on ice. He then apologized. The champagne we had sampled on our wedding night had been of a much better label and vintage.

"That's alright," I assured him smiling at the memory. "As I recall, we didn't drink very much of it."

Van answered with a wicked grin. "I hope you don't mind if history repeats itself."

As it happened, I didn't mind at all.

For enthusiastic second honeymooners, we spent a lot of time outdoors. We hiked, played tennis, canoed on the lake, and picnicked. We might have been living in a tourist brochure.

One day Van took me on a walk to a snug clearing ringed by sharp-scented pines which looked down on the calm, blue, sunlit expanse of the lake. He carried a picnic basket filled with sandwiches, two thermoses of hot vegetable soup and a cold bottle of milk in one hand. In the other, he carried an old but sturdy carpet bag.

No matter how much I teased and wheedled, he wouldn't tell me what it contained. The bag sat there on the blanket as we enjoyed our lunch. I was burning with curiosity, but all Van would tell me was that the contents were a surprise.

After the remnants of our picnic were placed in the hamper, he opened the carpetbag and reached in. By this time, I was holding my breath in suspense. Van's hand emerged cradling a ukelele. I couldn't help it. My hands flew to my mouth to stifle the laughter that was beginning to rise up. "Oh no!"

Van's smile was amused, slightly embarrassed, and utterly sincere at the same time. "I'm afraid so, Grace. I love you so much that it isn't enough just to say it. I have to sing it as well."

I pretended to be worried. "Is this revenge for the shining armor?"

Van looked at me with equally insincere offense. "My singing isn't that bad. I was even a pretty decent ukelele player in college."

I gaped at him openmouthed. My husband was admitting to being a real-life roaring twenties cliché. "I thought you were a jazz fan?"

Van shrugged. "Starting my sophmore year. I was a little more of a square as a freshman. I've been practicing when you were working at CRNB or at the mine office."

I gave up. "You're a nut."

All of a sudden, the mischief went out of his smile and what was left was achingly sincere. "No, I'm not. Falling in love with you was the sanest thing I ever did."

Not being made of stone, there was only one thing I could say. "You're still a nut, but you're a sweet nut."

He leaned over and kissed me. It was a gentle rather than a passionate kiss, but it lingered like a hint of honeysuckle. Van pulled away reluctantly. "Let's not forget why we're here."

I was a little disappointed that the kiss had been so short. "I thought we were doing a pretty good job of remembering."

Van grinned and held up his ukelele. "You know what I mean."

After the ukelele was tuned to his satisfaction, he reached into the carpet bag again. Out came an actual straw hat. I couldn't help laughing this time. "You're kidding. Is there a candy-striped coat in that bag too?"

Van looked sheepish. "There was one, but the moths got it."

I was starting to feel a little doubtful. "You're really going to serenade me?"

"Don't worry. I've done this before."

It was awful of me, but I just couldn't resist teasing. "Is that why you were still a bachelor when I first met you?"

Van was miffed, but only slightly. He placed his hand over his heart in a theatrical gesture of mock suffering. "Your cruel words have no power to hurt me. No amount of scorn can dim my devotion to you."

I put my fist to my mouth and stifled a fit of giggles by main force, as Van put the straw hat on at an absolutely ridiculous angle. Then, he sank to one knee, settled the ukelele in the crook of his arm, and began to strum … for about five seconds. At that point, the top string broke with a loud twang. He looked so disappointed that I didn't have the heart to tease anymore. After gently placing the ukelele back in the carpet bag as though it were a dying bird, he looked up at me again and began to sing unaccompanied.

He was no threat to Dick Powell, but he wasn't too bad. He managed to stay within hailing distance of the melody and made up in sincerity for what he lacked in technique and polish. I recognized the song. It was a very lovely waltz that I remembered from when it was first introduced before World War I. It was very popular. There was a copy of the sheet music on every parlor piano in New Bedford.

"Meet me tonight, in dreamland/Under the silvery moon./Meet me tonight in dreamland/Where love's sweet roses bloom./Come with the love light gleaming/In your dear eyes of blue./Meet me in dreamland/ Love's dreamy dreamland/And there let my dreams come true."

I relaxed and allowed myself to be lost in the beauty of the song, the warmth of my husband's voice, and the deep affection in his eyes. I could see so clearly that it all came from a feeling that was only for me, and for no other woman on earth. The moment was so beautiful, so precious that it never even occurred to me to wish that it would last forever. I simply lived it as though it would. Van finished the last chorus and began the refrain. He continued as he had before. Then he changed the last line from "… And there let my dreams come true." to "Because, Darling, I love you."

I was astonished. "That's not the lyric."

"No." Van took me in his arms. "But it is the truth, and it always will be."

He drew me to him. When I remember that kiss, I think of a sweetness that may only be imagination heightening a memory of joy, but for me is more real and intense than flesh, itself, could ever hope to be.

Next Week: Promises and nightmares. An iron hand. Van goes home.