<< Go Back

A Whisper on the Wind

By Sandra H. Esch

Order Now!

Early June 1945
Jo Bremley panicked. In a vain attempt to outrun the storm, her ’31 Chevy fishtailed around the corner on two bald tires.
Steer into the skid! Steer into the skid!
A truck flashed past, horn blaring. She missed it by inches, her car spinning out of control. Trees and bushes jumped out all over the place, threatening. She fought for breath, her frantic heart pounding.
Pump the brakes, don’t ride ‘em!
She eased out of the skid, pulled to the side of the road, and stared at her trembling hands.
Thumping wipers half-cleared the windshield before rain filled it again. Then through the blur a fuzzy figure emerged—a black umbrella canopied over a wide-girthed elderly man shuffling along the sidewalk with a cane. Jo edged her car up the shoulder and rolled down the window, but a brew of violent wind and pounding rain muffled her shout.
“Mr. Harrington—”
Big Ole Harrington tipped his umbrella. Not only did he arch a bushy brow, he bore the distinct demeanor of someone who wanted to be left alone.
Jo pointed to her door and cried, “You’re gonna get pneumonia. Get in.”
“How’s a geezer supposed to get any exercise when you dote over him like a milquetoast?” Big Ole grumbled as he maneuvered into the front seat. “Honestly, you young women are all alike. You’re far too protective. And speaking of being protective, I hadn’t realized that was you skidding around the corner a minute ago. I thought that truck was going to have you for supper.”
“I know,” Jo said. “I can’t stop shaking.”
“It all happens so fast—doesn’t it?”
She cringed at his penetrating gaze. “If you’re referring to Tryg Howland, you’re right. This is what it must have felt like for him. But for Tryg, it was a snowstorm. A deer he missed by inches. A ditch he didn’t miss.
“And my husband was killed.”
Jo blinked away threatening tears. She downshifted and the car once again puttered up the hill, a row of two-story clapboard houses ticking past one by one.
A brilliant lightning bolt sawed open the black Minnesota sky followed by deafening thunder that rocked the car. “That’s quite some ruckus.” Big Ole gaped through the windshield. “Can you imagine what the South Pacific must be like about now? Bombs falling like hailstones. Only there, people don’t run for their basements—they run for their lives. The concussions? They don’t teeter your car. They bust your eardrums and blow buildings to smithereens. Why, this little storm’s just child’s play.”
“Speaking of this not-so-little storm, what on earth were you doing out there?” Jo said. “Clouds like these drop tornadoes.”
“Which begs the question, Mrs. Bremley, what are you doing out in this storm?”
“I’m on my way home from the office.”
Ole broke a grin. “And I’m on my way home from town. Anyway, it’s the weatherman’s fault. He told me this storm wasn’t coming until later tonight.”
“Told you?”
“Yes, ma’am. On the radio this morning.” Ole leaned to the side, pulled a monogrammed handkerchief from a pocket, and wiped it across his dripping brow. “So how are things at the office these days?”
Not too good. Jo’s mind spun faster than the wheels on the car. The office. Tryg. The unexpected emotional trap she found herself embroiled in. Forbidden feelings. What were they all about? She couldn’t decide whether she was indulging in unwanted infatuation or loneliness. Honestly! Agreeing to work for that man was the sorriest decision I ever made. “Not too bad. I’m meeting some interesting people, learning a lot about the legal profession.” When Ole indulged a moment’s silence, she gave him a sidelong glance. “You look as if you don’t believe me.”
“Can’t say as I do.”
Jo’s eyebrows drew together.
“You’re troubled about something,” Ole said. “I pick up on that sort of thing all the time.” He winked. “It’s part of my amazing charm.”
Jo chuckled.
Meanwhile, the winsome father figure rested his hands on his generous middle and stared straight ahead. He smelled of fresh rain with a hint of aftershave. Massive frame, ruddy complexion, haphazard spidery veins sprouted on his ample cheeks like hairline fractures on a clay pot. The dear old man filled her car the way he filled her world—with warmth, purpose, and unparalleled respect.
“That’s a pretty snappy tie you’re wearing,” Jo said.
“Thank you. But I’m a little color blind. What shade of green would you say this is?”
“Olive.”
“And what about my cardigan?”
“Forest green.”
“You don’t say. They don’t clash, do they? The missus used to lay my clothes out for me. Now I take a guess.”
Ole’s clothing complemented his sharp mind. His tie cascaded down a snowy white shirt. He wore rich brown trousers and shoes the color of walnuts. Even his black cane was polished to a high sheen. “They look perfect together.”
Ole appeared pleased and then said in his matter-of-fact way, “I’ve noticed that your Tryg is spending a fair amount of time with my granddaughter these days.”
So Tryg is seeing Sarah. Although Jo’s heart thump-thumped, she steadied her breath. “My Tryg?”
“I see the truth has distressed you.”
“I’m fine.”
Big Ole smacked the crook of the cane with his palm. “If you’re so fine, why did you miss the turn onto River Lane? Isn’t this your home we’re pulling up to?”
A sudden warmth crawled up Jo’s cheeks. She hit the clutch and brake, shifted the car into reverse, and backed up the wet gravel road.
“You know,” Ole said, “we’re a lot alike, you and me. You want to protect an old man from a nasty storm, and I want to protect a lovely young woman from herself.”
Holding back a choke, Jo asked, “Why’s that?”
“You’re standing in your own way. Tryg is an exemplary young man. He’s bright and knows the score.”
“What does that have to do with me?”
“He’s taken a fancy to you.”
Quickly downshifting, Jo recoiled at the sound of grinding gears.
“And you to him,” Ole continued. “Why, we’d all have to be blind not to see that. But—”
“But what?”
“But he also knows you’re still married to your dead husband. The poor man doesn’t stand a chance.”
Jo drew in a decent-sized breath of the clammy Minnesota air and pulled sharply to the curb in front of the stately O.M. Harrington House. “I know you mean well, but nothing can ever happen between Tryg and me. In the first place, his ego is still smarting over Elizabeth. I mean, how does a guy ever get over being spurned by his fiancée? And even if he did have an interest, which he doesn’t, you can bet it would be coming from a sense of obligation on his part. As for me, I’ve experienced the kind of love that comes once in a lifetime. That’s not going to happen again. Besides, your Sarah is perfect for him.”
“The way I have it figured, as long as you’re around, he’ll never be able to give his heart to her or anyone else.”
Jo stared at the thick raindrops pelting her windshield. “Tryg’s love life doesn’t have anything to do with me. All I am to him is a reminder of his crushing guilt, and there’s nothing I or anyone else can do to change that.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure. As for Sarah, you don’t need to worry about her. My granddaughter is strong. She won’t allow herself to get in too deep.”
“Look, Mr. Harrington—”
“Big Ole,” he corrected.
“If I ever got the feeling I was standing in the way of Tryg’s love life, you can bet I’d catch the first train to New York.”
“Still wanting to run away, are you?”
“Not running away. Pursuing a dream, Mr. Harrington.”
“Big Ole,” he repeated.
“I don’t know,” she said, staring off. “Maybe I was wrong all along not to have listened to myself. I should have gone when I had the chance. Besides, you’re right. I can’t give my heart to Tryg. I couldn’t do that to Case.”
“Aren’t you forgetting something? What about your little girl? She needs a daddy and no one could fill that role better than Tryg.”
“He couldn’t do that to Case either. Subject closed.”
Ole unlatched the door, popped open his umbrella, and turned to Jo with a playful grin. “No need to see me to my door.”

Order Now!

<< Go Back