1945, United States
The train from San Francisco heaves with passengers, travelling in-land. John pushes through the carriages, searching for a seat as it pulls from the station. So much for being an honoured veteran, no one looks twice at his military uniform or offers him a seat.
In the aisle ahead, a woman struggles to place her suitcase in the overhead rack. As he approaches, the train swerves, the suitcase falls from the woman's grasp, almost bludgeoning another passenger and crashing to the floor. The latches spring open and its contents spill-out.
"Watch it!" The businessman, whom the case narrowly missed, squawks and steps around the woman as she hurries to gather her scattered belongings.
As he goes, there is a crunch, and John sees the businessman's foot has landed on a photo frame that must have fallen from the woman's case. The businessman doesn't pause to survey the damage, blundering on to the next carriage.
John scowls after him crouching beside the woman and picking up her strewn belongings, placing them back in her case. "What an ass."
She doesn't appear to hear him, cradling the frame, its photo now obscured by a spider-web fracture. "He is going to kill me."
John frowns, "It's just glass. You can easily replace it."
She looks at him and his breath stalls, taking in hazel-green eyes, full red lips, a dusting of freckles and rose-flushed cheeks, framed by thick, sable curls.
Another violent turn rocks the train and John overbalances, toppling onto the young woman. He stares at her sprawled out under him, their faces inches apart. Then he regains his senses and realises what a creep he is being. The last thing she must want is a gawking stranger on-top of her.
"Sorry," he coughs, crawling off her.
"No, no, it's my fault." The woman scrambles upright. "Look at this mess." From the floor she grabs the train ticket he must have dropped when he fell and hands it to him. "Here you go."
He takes the ticket, helping her onto her feet. She sways, the colour leaching from her face, and clamps a hand over her mouth.
He steadies her. "Are you alright?"
She looks at him, eyes widening, and lurches forwards. Something splatters across his shoulder, the smell of vomit wafting up his nose because of course. This is just his luck.
:-x-:
John washes his coat in the sink of the train toilet. That was not the reaction he was told he would receive from beautiful women when he enlisted a whole war ago. He should have foregone wearing his uniform but Margaret insisted it would help with sales ("Ladies love a man in uniform," Margaret had crooned, as if anyone wanted to be reminded of the war, of the men who had not returned).
He has changed his clothes and washed the specks of sick from his skin, but the smell lingers, worse than that coming from the toilet stalls, as noted by the ticket inspector who pinches his nose as he enters.
"Ticket, please?"
John shows him his ticket.
The inspector looks it over and clips it. "Getting off at the next stop then?"
"What? No, I'm heading on to Sacramento."
The inspector frowns and looks at the ticket again. "Not with this you're not."
He hands the ticket back to John, who snatches it from him. He checks the destination. It had said Sacramento before, it doesn't now.
His mind races, spinning like the train wheels — the woman from earlier, she must have handed him back the wrong ticket. He needs to find her, see if she has his ticket.
The ticket inspector has gone. John shoves his sopping coat back into his bag, still stinking of sick. He pushes through the carriages, searching for the woman with sable curls. A face like that has to stand-out.
He becomes more frantic as the train slows, pulling into the station. Passengers stand, surging around him, preventing him from getting through. He fights against the tide before realising it is hopeless. He could stay aboard the train with an invalid ticket and risk a fine he can't afford or he can take the bus.
He gets off the train.
He has to ask for directions to the nearest bus stop and then it is a race to get there in time. John has always felt the universe took a vindictive pleasure in spitting on him, but someone must feel he deserves a break because he makes it in the nick of time, skidding between the doors of the bus before they shut. He murmurs a breathless thanks to the driver and moves down the aisle.
Halfway down he stops. There, sitting on her own, is the woman from the train. The corner of his mouth twitches. Maybe his luck isn't so terrible.
"Hello again."
She glances up, hazel-green eyes growing wide as she recognises him before her face morphs with embarrassment. "Oh my god. I am so sorry."
He shakes his head, claiming the vacant seat across the aisle from her. Under different circumstances, he might have been annoyed, but she looks so apologetic, so ashamed. He would have to be a real ass to get mad at her for being ill.
"It will wash out. Are you feeling better?"
"Yes, thank you."
She smiles but from the pale-wash of her face, he suspects this is a lie. He wonders if she suffers motion sickness. Maybe he can distract her. He has never been much of a conversationalist, but something about her makes him want to try. At the very least, he can't do any worse than what has already transpired between them.
"I'm John."
"My name is Hero."
"Hero?" It is an unusual name, but now he knows it, he can't imagine her being anyone else. "It suits you."
Her smile blossoms, colour returning to her cheeks.
His pulse stumbles and he struggles to hold her gaze, noting the book in her lap. "Good book?"
She glances at the book and shows him the cover, Tess of the d'Urbervilles. The title is familiar but he has never read it.
"It… is a struggle," she answers, her voice softer than before, eyes downcast.
He frowns, gaze flitting between the book and her. "Quite a mouthful."
This time, her smile does not reach her eyes and she sets the book down. "It's required reading."
He considers this information, weighs it with her youthful appearance, and takes a guess, "College?"
"My master's degree," she confirms.
He raises both eyebrows, "Playing hooky?"
She laughs and the sound twists inside him, glittering like golden thread. "No. Going home. My family has a vineyard in Napa. What about you?"
"Business in Sacramento."
Margaret had arranged it for him. Being a chocolates salesman is not something John ever envisioned for himself, but it has served him well in the past and will tide him over until he finds something better.
Hero tilts her head. "The train goes to Sacramento…?"
"My ticket didn't. I mean, it did when I got on, but—"
She gasps, rummaging through her purse. "Oh, no." She plucks out a crumpled strip of paper, staring at it with horror before handing it across to him. "I think this is yours."
He looks at the train ticket destined for Sacramento. A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, "Yup."
Hero covers her face with her hands before looking back at him, her mortification has tripled but at least she no longer looks ill. "I thought it was a mistake. I'm so sorry."
Once again he shakes his head, assuring her that there are no hard-feelings. "Now I get to take the scenic tour."
He should be more irritated but instead he is amused. He can't complain about an extra hour with her.
The bus pulls to a stop and two men get on. They make their way down the bus, eyes lighting with a foreboding gleam as they notice Hero. John tenses, a prickling in his chest, sensing trouble. The men seat themselves, one behind Hero, the other next to her, boxing her in.
"How are you?" The man next to her asks. His friend leans over the back of their bench, leaving Hero little space to turn. "Look, uh, I'm Bill. This is my buddy, Herman."
She regards them both, her face tight and shuttered. She looks like a mouse caught between two cats. John is rigid, watching the exchange. He is not going to jump in like a jealous boyfriend, but he keeps his guard up. It wouldn't be the first time he has had to intervene between a woman and a man that wouldn't take no for an answer. Situations like this can escalate quickly.
"And you're, uh…" the man, Bill, presses as Hero looks away, shoulders hunching in on herself.
"Mrs Roussillon," she replies, her voice cool and clipped, nothing like when she spoke with John.
The men pause at this pronouncement, as does John. Is she married? The prickling in his chest intensifies, the sharp sting of a snake's bite. For some reason, Hero Roussillon sounds wrong to his ears.
"Mrs?" Bill's tone is disbelieving. "And where's your husband? Don't tell me he left a pretty little bird like you all alone?" John's teeth scrape across each other as the man leans into Hero's space, her expression hunted. "Now that's just careless."
Herman sniggers, "Downright negligent."
"If you were my girl, I'd take gooood care of you," Bill leers, wrapping his arm around Hero.
She recoils, "Stop it!"
"Fellas," John calls, with more restraint than he feels. "The lady doesn't want to be bothered."
Bill looks at him, rolls his eyes, and turns back to Hero.
John grabs his shoulder with force, anger slipping through. "Leave her alone."
With a look at his friend, Bill stands. He makes as if to move to another seat, then swings round with his fist. John dodges, blocking the fist and shoving him away. As Bill stumbles, John's fist collides with his side, under the ribs. A woman gasps, but he is caught in the rush of the fight. He grabs Bill's shoulders and rams his head into the bus ceiling. Herman stands to defend his friend and John slams Bill into him. Both men fall onto the seat behind them, groaning.
The bus screeches to a halt. From the front, the bus driver yells, "NO FIGHTS. OFF. NOW."
John gasps, the soldier returning to the man. He glances at Hero, who stares at him, looking pale and shaken. The pit of his stomach drops-out.
He collects his bags and marches to the front. In a low voice, he addresses the driver, "They were harassing the lady."
For a second, the driver, a woman, hesitates, then her face resumes its stern expression. "No fights. No exceptions. You can kill each other on the road." She shouts behind her, "YOU TWO. OFF AS WELL."
"I need to get to Sacramento," John persists, unable to keep his disgruntlement from creeping into his tone.
But the sympathy has drained from the driver's eyes. "Not on my bus."
The three men trudge from the bus, Herman clutching his nose and whining about it being broken. As soon as they are off, the doors close and the bus pulls away, leaving them on the side of the road. For a moment, the three men eye each other, contemplating whether to continue their brawl.
John glares, these jackasses have cost him his second ride of the day and now he is stranded in the middle of nowhere. He doesn't know what his face looks like, but Bill and Herman both back up, evidently deciding he is not someone they want to mess with. Good.
Dismissing them as a threat, John turns to watch the bus speed off. It is difficult to tell through the cloud of dust it leaves, but he swears he spies Hero's lovely face pressed against the back window, doe eyes fixed on him. Then the bus disappears around the corner, stealing his last glimpse of her.
He breathes in, releasing all his pent up frustration in a single curse, kicking at the dirt.
Time to start walking.
:-x-:
The forest road seems without end, no sign of a town or other people. Every so often a car speeds past him, some honk their horns but no one stops. Just as well. He is not in the mood to explain himself to strangers.
The surrounding trees offer shelter from the sun, but it is still hot for an autumn day. Sweat crawls down his neck, soaking into his shirt. He has removed his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. He wonders about the stock of chocolate boxes in one of his cases, how they are faring with the heat. He is tired and dusty from the road, his temper fraying. Still, this is nothing compared to what he endured in the war. He can make it to the next bus stop or civilization just fine.
He is walking for what feels like an hour but according to his watch is only forty minutes when he sees a figure up ahead in the road — a woman. He slows, wondering if this is a mirage brought on by the heat or exhaustion because, as he gets nearer, he swears it is Hero sitting there on her suitcase, crying.
John doesn't believe in fate but three chance encounters in one day is a hell of a coincidence. Like someone is trying to tell him something.
"Hey," he greets her. "They kick you off for fighting too?"
She startles, lifting her face from her handkerchief. He can see the trail of tears down her cheeks, the red rim of her eyes.
"Oh… you… I am sorry about the bus. I feel terrible. All the trouble I've caused you."
It is true, after everything that has gone wrong, a more superstitious person might consider her bad luck. But even if John believed in that nonsense, he doesn't think anything about Hero could be bad.
"Thanks, but I'm capable of causing my own trouble. Uh… I'm sorry about the bus too. I scared you."
"Oh… I…" she twists her handkerchief, "I… um… appreciate you stepping in. I… I don't know what would have happened if you hadn't."
He grimaces, not wanting to imagine. It is on his tongue to ask why she is crying, if she really is married, but it is too prying, too personal. He doesn't want to come across like one of those creeps on the bus. They are still strangers, despite everything that has happened.
As if to confirm this, Hero speaks, "You should keep going." His stomach folds at the dismissal, but she follows it with a wry smile. "Who knows… what will go wrong next."
He glances around at the trees. "There's always the possibility of a forest fire, I suppose."
The quip earns him a genuine laugh and he preens.
"Are you waiting for a ride?" He looks around at the quiet stretch of road. He doesn't want to leave her on her own, but he shouldn't force his company on her either. Just because he feels a draw to this woman, doesn't mean it is reciprocated.
"No, no…" her bottom lip quivers, voice cracking, "a miracle."
She stares down at her lap and John notices the broken picture frame from before. Through the fissures in the glass, he can make-out a photo of Hero, standing with an older couple, her parents?
"He's going to kill me."
At this murmur of despair, John's gaze snaps to her face, "Who?"
Her knuckles turn white around the frame, hands trembling. "My father."
John goes tense. His focus narrows on the man in the photo. In it, he is smiling, but what does that signify? John wants to assure her that no, of course not, whatever the issue, her father will support her, love her, as a father should. But he knows this is not the truth of the world, knows first-hand how terrible father's can be.
Hero gasps like she is fighting back tears and John kneels down beside her, gentling his voice. "Look, it's none of my business… but whatever the problem is… maybe I can help."
If he has to walk to the next town to buy a new photo frame for her, he will. He still remembers the bruises that would appear on Margaret's arms, her mother's black-eyes, before her father was sent to prison for some other crime. Though he only met her today, John is prepared to throw himself on a knife to spare Hero that fate.
"You can't — y-you can't help," she chokes.
"Try me."
She won't meet his gaze, sniffing as she packs the broken photo frame back into her case and stands. "You can't. You can't. No one can help me. I screwed up. I'm a screw-up."
He rises with her, wincing at her self-abuse. "No. I don't believe that."
"You don't know me." She sniffs, rounding on him, and now her eyes are crimson, tears streaking down her cheeks. "All the trouble I have caused you today alone. Can you imagine the mess I've made of my own life?"
"Hero…" John doesn't know what will calm her. He has never been good with words, never known the right thing to say. "I'm not going to let anyone hurt you."
It is too forward, too familiar, but he means it. She goes still, gaping at him. He holds her gaze, even as he wants to crawl inside himself. Her mouth opens and closes for a moment, struggling for words.
Finally, she spits, "I'm pregnant."
John stills as he absorbs this. "Fuck."
Hero looks satisfied, but her posture is tense as if bracing for… rejection… scorn?
"Your husband…?" he begins, but a quick shake of her head cuts him off.
"No."
"The war?" He asks, voice gentler than he knew it could go.
The way Hero's face crumples is almost an answer in itself, but she shakes her head. "No, I'm… I'm not married."
"On the bus… you said…"
"I lied. Roussillon is not… is not my hu-husband." She hiccups, collapsing back onto her suitcase. "He — he is my professor."
John goes cold. The pieces come together, forming a grim picture that burns like venom through his veins, in his mouth. "Your professor?"
Her eyes flit across his face, widening at what she sees, and he fights to get a hold of himself, to master the animal within.
"He didn't come with you?"
She shakes her head, her hand folding around her stomach and he realises there is a life growing inside her, unseen, for now. "No he — he doesn't want anything — anything to do with — with the—" she sucks in a breath, "—with the baby."
She doesn't need to say more. John knows this story, has heard it before. A man meets a beautiful woman, pursues her, seduces her, promises he loves her, and then when she becomes pregnant with his child he abandons her. It is what his father did to his mother.
His fingers curl, itching to slam his fist into this Professor Roussillon's face. But that won't help Hero.
"God, I'm such an idiot."
"No, no," John crouches beside her, his voice vehement, "This asshole is the idiot for abandoning you. Your father will understand that."
"I will kill anyone who dishonours my family, that is what he says, and what do I do?" She sobs into her handkerchief. "He is going to tear me apart."
John doesn't know her father, but he knows of too many women who have been thrown out of their homes because of an unexpected pregnancy, his mother included. The knowledge is poison on his tongue, but he will not patronise her by pretending her fears aren't valid.
"No, he won't," he says, but what he means is I will not let him.
Hero sniffs and dabs her eyes. "He will. He's... He's very old-fashioned. If I come home this way… without a husband, he'll kill me. I know it."
John's mind whirs, the full breadth of his cognitive powers turned to helping this woman. "What if… what if you showed up with a husband?"
She stares at him, first in confusion, then understanding. "A fake husband?"
He nods, the idea forming in his mind. "Yes, he meets your family, stays one night, then leaves for urgent business, writes a letter saying he's—"
"Abandoned me," she finishes, a pang in her voice. He has struck too close to the mark.
He swallows, wishing this was not a tale he had heard a thousand times before. "Men are pigs."
She doesn't smile but stares down at her twisting hands, brow puckered in thought. "It might work… but who…?"
Her doe eyes flit to John, gazing at him from under thick, black lashes.
His mouth crooks in a smile. "What do you say, Hero? Will you marry me?"
