Stranger at the Door
I don’t know if it was born out of a subconscious need for self-preservation or a desire to escape, but I asked my parents for only one thing for a college graduation present. A trip to Atlanta, where the Montgomerys were living, to visit Twink, before plunging into final bridal preparations.
And that, as they say, made all the difference.
Atlanta, Georgia
Summer 1961
TWINK MET ME AT the Atlanta terminal, her smile as infectious as always, her freckles giving her a Doris Day insouciance. We shrieked, we hugged, we jumped up and down and then repeated the process. She loaded my bags into a Lincoln Continental convertible and swooped out of the parking lot, red curls lifting in the breeze. Above the roar of wind and traffic, she pointed out landmarks. Finally we entered an old neighborhood of lovely Southern and Greek Revival homes, with well-tended formal gardens shaded by century-old trees. “Pretty impressive, huh?” She winked. “Wait until you see Tara.”
She slowed, pulling through wrought-iron gates, and we began a gradual climb, past a fish pond, a gazebo and a caretaker’s home. At the crest of the hill, I saw it—the massive three-story white house with Greek columns. Twink stopped the car and leaned back, arms folded across her chest. “The parents are on the upswing again.”
An understatement, particularly by Springbranch standards. Speechless, I realized I was far out of my element. My thoughts flew to the clothes I had packed—store-bought, gauche. Before I could focus on my discomfort, Twink leaped from the car, grabbed my suitcase and put her arm around me. Leaning close, she said, “It’s just me, Izzy. You’ll be fine. All you have to do is pretend you’re in a movie.” Once again she’d read my mind.
Later that night, settled on the four-poster in her spacious bedroom, decorated in a pink-and-white magnolia motif, we shared the six-pack of beer she’d liberated from the restaurant-sized kitchen. “Okay,” she commenced. “I want to hear everything about Drew, and please tell me you’re not choosing fussy organdy bridesmaid dresses.”
She didn’t immediately probe my carefully suppressed reservations, but shocked me by the question she asked after I’d waxed eloquent about Drew’s stellar qualities. “Is he good in bed?”
“Twink!” The sultry Southern night echoed my dismay.
She threw herself dramatically across the bed. “Isabel Irene, surely you’re not marrying before trying him out.”
My fire-engine red face gave me away.
“Oh, God.” She sat up and took both my hands in hers. “Honey, it’s no big deal.” She smiled impishly. “Mostly it’s a lot of fun.”
My stomach soured. “You mean, you’ve done it?”
“Me and most of your lah-de-dah sorority sisters.”
“You think?” I couldn’t process the images bombarding my brain.
“Is it Drew? You don’t think he’s…?” She waggled her fingers back and forth in a this-way, that-way fashion.
I was horrified. “What a thing to say! And no, I’m sure he’s not.”
“Well, my advice, sugar, is to try the merchandise before buying.”
Deep in the pit of my stomach, I knew she was right. I wanted fireworks and shooting stars. I’d experienced none with Drew. Before Twink’s question, I’d successfully buried my doubts, but her honesty forced them to the surface.
Sensing my discomfort, she reached for the church key and opened another beer, thrusting it into my hands. “Drink up. You don’t have to decide anything this very minute. Anyway, I want to tell you about the garden party we’re throwing in your honor tomorrow night, not to mention the country club dance on Saturday. We’re going to have so much fun.” She flopped over onto her stomach. “You will not believe the dreamy men in this town. Why, chile, I just flit from one to another like a bee sippin’ honey.” Her low laugh had a distinctly seductive sound.
I studied the diamond on my ring finger, incapable of imagining how she handled multiple suitors. I took a swig of beer, suddenly missing Drew. All this talk of sex, parties and glamorous men made me long for the mundane, the dull, the safe. For my fiancé.
I REMEMBER THE MOMENT as if it happened yesterday. There is no way I can adequately describe the impact. Let me set the scene.
Chinese lanterns strung from tree to tree illuminated the flagstone patio leading to the Olympic-size pool in which colorful blossoms floated. A white tent stretched over the manicured lawn; inside, a quintet played romantic dance music. Jacketed waiters manned the buffet table and fully stocked bar. Our hostess, Honey Montgomery, was stunning in a silver-lamé evening gown. Mr. Montgomery, a cigar in one hand, mingled with groups of tuxedo-clad gentlemen. Twink had given me good advice when she told me to pretend I was in a movie. I fully expected Elizabeth Taylor to make a grand entrance. Twink had been accurate about the young men of Atlanta—tall, well-groomed, mannerly and utterly gorgeous in their white dinner jackets. Not to mention a trio of handsome young lieutenants from Bainbridge Air Force Base.
To my utter horror, before we sat down for dinner, Honey stepped to the top of the stairs leading to the pool, signaled for quiet and introduced little ole me from Springbranch, Louisiana, to the assembled partygoers. Clutching the skirt of my pale blue chiffon gown, I felt frumpy and exposed.
As soon after dinner as I could politely excuse myself, I escaped to the seclusion of a garden bench nestled in a bower of roses beyond the tent. I knew I couldn’t remain cowering there, but I needed to gather myself. I had always known that Twink’s world was vastly different from my own. I just hadn’t realized how different. She took the opulence and sophistication in stride. I was totally intimidated, a pond fish washed up on a tropical beach. I had no idea how I would endure the rest of the evening.
Wallowing in my social ineptitude, I didn’t hear him approach. I only know that when I raised my head, the handsomest young man I had ever seen was standing over me, hands in the pockets of his air force dress uniform pants. His head was slightly cocked to one side, a mischievous grin played on his lips, and he was studying me with the deepest cobalt-blue eyes I had ever seen. My heart stopped. I was in a movie.
“Running away?” His voice was like warm brandy. He didn’t wait for my answer. “Mind if I join you?”
“A-are you sure?” I stammered.
“Never surer of anything in my life,” he said, sitting beside me. “I’ve been looking for you.”
“For me?” The words came out as a squeak.
“I haven’t been able to keep my eyes off you all evening.”
My breath caught. I couldn’t have written a better script myself. “Me?” I was speechless.
He slipped an arm around my bare shoulder and turned me toward him. “What I’d really like to do is kiss you.”
And he did. No fireworks or starbursts in the world could match the thrill and power of that kiss. When we broke apart, he framed my face, brushed one finger across my cheek and with a lazy smile added, “And now I’m going to do it again.”
It never occurred to me to deny him. I was helpless, but in some small part of my brain I understood that, until that moment, I had known nothing of the kind of love a man and woman are born to share.
He pulled me to my feet. “Isabel Ashmore.” His mouth caressed the words. “Izzy. I’m Sam Lambert and, if you don’t mind, I’m claiming you for the rest of the evening.”
Mind? I couldn’t believe this was happening to me. Yet everything—the night sky, the distant strains of “Deep Purple,” the fragrance of roses—whispered, Do this thing.
“Why did you call me Izzy?”
He held my hands firmly. “Isabel sounds formal, public. I want our private name. It sounds good, don’t you think? Sam and Izzy. Izzy and Sam.”
I couldn’t help smiling. “Aren’t you being a wee bit presumptuous?”
He circled my waist as we strolled up the path toward the tent. “Not at all. I’ve been waiting for you all my life. When you were introduced this evening, I knew I had to get to know you. I’ll be damned if I’ll let you get away.”
With a sinking sensation, I realized that with my thumb I was fingering my engagement ring. I needed to tell him. To put an end to whatever this was. But at that moment he stopped walking and tilted my chin so that I was looking straight into those sexy eyes, so full of promise. “Tell me you feel it, too.”
Grandmama’s advice came flooding back to me. Passion. Right then I understood that I was caught up in something beyond my control. “I do,” I whispered, “and it’s scary.”
“And wonderful.”
“And wonderful.”
I know this all sounds corny and clichéd, even melodramatic. But it happened just like that. In an instant, the planets halted in their orbit and my heart knew love.
For the rest of that evening and the days and nights that followed, Sam and I were inseparable. I’m not proud to say it, but I took off my engagement ring and stored it in my jewelry case. Twink gloated like an approving mother cat.
Because Sam was on a weekend pass from the air base where he was stationed for pilot training, time took on urgency. We lounged by the pool, soaking up the sun, oblivious to anyone else. We enjoyed a lopsided game of tennis and left the country club dance Saturday night to lie on a blanket near the eighteenth green, sharing hot kisses in the glimmering, magical moonlight. It was an awakening for me. I had not known my body could quiver with need or that instinct could drive me to abandon.
And we talked. And talked. I had never met anyone who had nurtured an ambition—in his case to be a pilot—and then pursued it with such intensity. A three-sport athlete in high school, he’d been awarded a scholarship to the University of Nebraska, where he’d played varsity basketball and had joined the air force ROTC. When he spoke about his pilot training and his service buddies, his face lit up. This was no boy; this was a man who had embraced his purpose in life. His maturity stirred something deep within me.
Our last night together Sam held me close. “You’re my girl. My Southern hothouse flower.” He nuzzled my cheek. “My Izzy.”
I was besotted. Twink was merciless. “Isabel Irene, you’re in love. Why would you settle for anything less? You march right home and cancel that wedding.”
“I’ve had a wonderful time, but, Twink, this isn’t reality. It’s a fairy tale, and the clock is about to strike midnight. Chances are, I’ll never see Sam Lambert again.” Even as I said those words, my throat closed in panic.
“Maybe not, but you don’t know that. What you do know is that you’re not in love with Drew Mayfield. I’m not going to stand by and let you…” she fussed, searching for words “…settle for mediocrity.”
It was tempting to follow her advice, but I rationalized that my time with Sam was probably nothing more than one of those heady—but fleeting—summer romances I’d heard other girls talk about. Sure, he’d said he’d call, write. Finally, I decided I’d be a fool to count on anything, given the miles separating us.
Besides, was I willing to scuttle my future because of one gloriously romantic weekend? How could I disappoint Drew? Shatter my mother’s hopes? Act so irresponsibly and uncharacteristically?
And yet, how could I not?
CHAPTER THREE
Springbranch, Louisiana
WHEN I RETURNED FROM Atlanta, Mother was knee-deep in wedding preparations, researching fruit-punch recipes and floral arrangements. On her desk were four boxes of invitations: “Dr. and Mrs. Robert James Ashmore request the honor of your presence at the wedding of their daughter Isabel Irene…” I felt sick. But when, at the end of the first week, I hadn’t heard from Sam, I wondered if I’d dreamed the encounter or, beyond that, made a complete fool of myself.
“Isabel, can’t you demonstrate a little more enthusiasm?” These were Mother’s words after we’d spent an afternoon finalizing the guest list. The wedding plans had taken on a life of their own, and I was powerless to stop them, even as I questioned myself. Then two things happened to make the situation worse. I received my first letter from Sam, and Drew arrived for a visit.
In Sam’s bold handwriting was a note that was just like him—breezily self-confident with a dash of bravado. And unutterably romantic. I blush even now recalling the pure physicality of my reaction when I tore open the envelope and saw the words My Izzy. I soon learned that he, like Twink, could read my mind.
I bet you’re wondering about my intentions. If I’m just a guy who came to Atlanta for a weekend to have a good time. Well, I did have a good time, but it’s more than that. Izzy, you’re the dream I’ve had for a long time. I’m not going away.
The next day Drew pulled into our driveway and bounded from his car, waving a piece of paper over his head. “I nailed it, Isabel,” he said wrapping me in a hug. “The apartment near the law school. This is the lease.”
He stood back, awaiting my ecstatic reaction. Furnished apartments near the campus were rare. “That’s nice,” I murmured, taking the wind out of his sails. The mental picture of us settled on the second floor of a big house surrounded by overstuffed chairs, tables and, worst of all, a double bed, was overwhelming.
Later that night, Drew and I sat in the porch swing watching fireflies gather, smelling the musk of the warm night. He had his arm around me. It felt cozy. When he kissed me, I closed my eyes and really tried to experience the spark that would reassure me. Pleasure, familiarity, yes. No spark. He may as well have been the brother I never had.
Meanwhile the letters from Sam continued, much to my mother’s disgust. “Isabel, who is this person who keeps writing you? It’s not seemly. You’re practically a married woman.”
She was right. I was defying all the norms of both etiquette and morality. I hated my duplicity. It wasn’t fair to Sam and it wasn’t fair to Drew. I had to quit playing games.
Two weeks after Drew returned to Baton Rouge, Sam called. “Isabel, there’s a man on the phone.” My mother’s voice dripped disapproval. “He asked for Izzy, for heaven’s sake.”
I restrained myself from turning cartwheels. Stretching the phone cord around the corner into the dining room hopefully out of Mother’s earshot, I answered. “Sam?”
“Hi, darlin’. Are you missing me the way I’m missing you?”
My knees failed me and I crumpled to the floor “Oh, yes.”
“That was your mother who answered, I bet. Have you told her about me? About us?”
“Um…”
“I take that as a no. Any particular reason you haven’t?”
“It’s kind of complicated.”
“Complicated as in you’re engaged to be married?”
My heart sank. “Did Twink tell you?”
“Yes, thank God. She thinks your wedding would be a mistake. What do you think?”
In that moment I hardly knew my own name. “It’s all set, Sam.”
“You didn’t answer my question. Let me try another. Do you love this guy?”
“Sam, that’s not really any of your business.”
“Answer the question.” The authority in his voice took my breath away.
“He’s a wonderful man.”
“Listen to yourself, Izzy. I’m a big boy. If you love him, just say so.”
I laced the phone cord through my fingers. This was insane. It made no sense to throw over a man like Drew. Not for someone with whom I’d spent less than seventy-two hours. The wedding plans were in the final stages. Drew was the type of man I should marry. Ours would be exactly the kind of life my mother had envisioned for me. “I can’t call this marriage off. It’s too late.”
There was silence on the other end of the line. Finally, with resignation, Sam repeated the question. “Do you love him?”
“Please, Sam, don’t make me say it.”
“Make you? Make you? You don’t say it because you can’t. You love me.”
God help me, it was true, but I was paralyzed by indecision. “Sam, please. We have to stop this.”
“Damn right, we’re going to stop it. I said it before and I’ll say it again, I’m not letting you get away. I love you, Izzy. Please say you love me, too.”
In answer, I could only whimper.
Within two days Sam had applied for emergency leave. When he arrived on our doorstep, I took one look at him and knew I could never marry Drew. That very evening I packed a small bag, left my parents a note and fled with Sam.
We drove through the night to a town in southern Arkansas where a county judge married us the next morning. Lying in Sam’s arms in the lumpy motel bed on our wedding night, I was the happiest, most satisfied woman in the world.
Never mind that I had betrayed Drew, Mother and my Southern upbringing. My father accepted my decision with his usual equanimity, but Mother, furious over my defection and the embarrassment I had caused her, rarely spoke to me until after Jenny was born. As for Drew, when I told him about the elopement, I could have sworn he sounded relieved.
Several weeks later as I packed to join Sam at his new base in Arizona, I tucked the billiken in a corner of my suitcase. “The god of things as they ought to be.” My mother had groomed me for one life. But that was her life, not mine. I had chosen another.
Sam Lambert. Grandmama’s passion. And the way things ought to be for me.
OUR WHIRLWIND COURTSHIP and rash decision to elope was as out of character for me then as it would be now. It’s no secret there was a powerful physical attraction between Sam and me, but that was not sufficient motivation to throw caution to the winds and brave my mother’s ire. What was it about the young Sam Lambert that overcame my inhibitions and upbringing?
Quite simply, from the first he seemed to see the real me. To revel in the Izzy he had discovered—and brought to life. For him, I was never typecast as merely a girl who would make an ideal wife, mother and social asset. Somehow he recognized my need to be rescued from convention. To be sure, Grandmama’s influence played a role. In the deepest part of myself, I’d always believed in the knight in shining armor. Much as I tried to deny it, I had always known that Drew was not that hero. The magic—and mystery—is that just as Sam recognized me immediately as his Izzy, so I knew, with complete confidence, that he was the man destined for me.
Twink made sure Sam and I had plenty of time to ourselves during that Atlanta weekend. He coaxed from me stories about Springbranch, fascinated by the local customs and mores that had shaped me. Sunday afternoon we lay together in a hammock in the Montgomerys’ backyard. He lifted a lock of my hair and grinned that lopsided, charming grin of his. “That Southern belle? She’s not you, Izzy,” he said.
“Oh, no,” I teased. “Then who am I?”
Sobering, he traced a finger down my nose and considered my question. “You are real. Honest, loving and kind. You’re a peacemaker. If you had your way, you’d make everybody happy.”
“Do I make you happy?” I murmured, my daring surprising me.
“You have no idea,” he whispered. Then he leaned forward and kissed me. In that moment the blue sky above faded, the bird calls went silent, and I knew Sam understood me.
“But that’s not all,” he said, leaning on one elbow looking down at me. “You have an adventurous streak you’ve never acted on. So tell me, if you were to follow your instincts, what would you do?”
An intense question. One I’d never really considered, but he was right. I spent most of my time and energy concerned with others’ expectations. What did I really want? The answer came immediately. I wanted to be with Sam Lambert.
“Enough about me,” I said by way of diversion. “How do I know you’re not full of cocky flyboy sweet talk? Maybe I’m the most gullible pushover you’ve come across lately.”
“You’ve seen too many movies. Not all pilots are self-serving bastards.”
“Noted,” I said. “Change of subject. When did you know you wanted to be a pilot?”
“Ever since I was a kid.” His eyes lit up. “The trailer park where we lived was near a small landing strip. I couldn’t stay away. One of the mechanics took an interest in me. I grew up with the smells of aviation gas and oil.”
“Where was that?”
As Sam sketched more of his background, it became clear we came from two different worlds. He’d grown up in a small town in eastern Colorado where his father worked highway construction. When he was ten, his mother died. As he spoke of her, his jaw tensed, and I could tell how difficult it was for him to share her loss. Then his tone turned bitter. “My father soon found another lover. Jim Beam whiskey.”
My throat convulsed as I pictured the motherless boy emotionally abandoned by his father.
“I was angry. At God. At my mother. And especially at my father. If it hadn’t been for Lloyd, I don’t know what I’d have done.”
“Lloyd?”
“My brother. Four years younger than me. I, uh, kinda took care of him. For sure, nobody else did.”
Nothing in my experience had prepared me to imagine a ten-year-old burdened by such adult responsibilities.
“I’m sorry,” was the best I could muster.
“Hell.” He gathered me close, his blue eyes fastened on mine. “Maybe you’re my reward. In that case, it was worth every minute.”
Sam had touched my heart in a way I hadn’t thought possible. From that moment I understood Grandmama’s advice in a whole new way. By passion, she had meant so much more than physical attraction. She’d meant the mysterious, inexplicable connection that binds two people together despite their differences.
There were two Sams I came to know that weekend in Atlanta. The self-assured young man doing what he loved—flying planes—and the vulnerable little boy whose devotion to his brother tugged at my heartstrings.
How could I not love them both?
Breckenridge, Colorado
IT’S TIME TO PUT down the journal for the night. Indulging in memories, I’m surprised to realize it’s past my bedtime. Clouds are gathering, and when I close the deck door off the bedroom, I smell hints of winter in the crisp air. Almost without thinking, I pull one of Sam’s faded chamois shirts from the closet, cloaking myself in the softness of the fabric, his familiar scent bringing him close. Sam. I can’t wrap my mind around his unfaithfulness or his out-of-hand rejection of his son. But, despite everything, I miss him.
In bed, Orville nestles beside me, purring contentedly, and my thoughts drift as I feel my eyes close. A shrill ringing drags me back to full consciousness. Groggy, I glance at the clock: 1:10 a.m. I grab the phone. “Hello?”
“It’s me, Iz.”
“Sam, are you all right?”
“I knew I’d wake you. But—” and here I sense his internal struggle “—I needed to hear your voice.”
Irritation and relief war within me. He could’ve stayed home and listened to anything I might have said. Or maybe that was the problem—he would’ve heard more than he was ready to handle.
“Sam, I don’t know what to say. Unless you’re ready to talk about all of this.”
“I can’t.”
So here we are again. Sam stonewalling, not willing to share his emotions. I clutch the phone and sink back against the pillow. No words come to me.
“I shouldn’t have called. It’s late.”
“It’s okay.” Then in a halfhearted attempt to lighten the mood, I say, “What’s a wife for, anyway?”
Silence hums through the phone line.
I gather my courage. “Have you decided what you’re going to do?”
He waits a beat. “It’s not that easy.”
I want to scream across the miles. Instead I swallow my hurt and disappointment.
“Izzy…I’m so sorry. I don’t deserve you.”
My baser nature tends to agree with him, but that’s the part of me that fails to understand Sam is my world.
“The girls?”
I’m not up for casual conversation. “Both okay.”
“And you? How are you really?”
I bite my lip in irritation. “How do you think?”
“I’m sorry,” he says again.
In any marriage, there are the inevitable regrets, some more damaging than others. “I suppose you are,” is the best I can offer.