Patrons continued to filter through the red-curtained doorway of the Rialto Theater, conscientiously shaking rainwater off of overcoats and hats and speaking to each other in muted undertones even though the show had not yet started. It was going to be a full house, Betty observed, despite the lateness of the hour. No surprise really, considering the feature was "A Yank in the RAF". Any movies dealing with the war in Europe were immediate hits these days and people were avid to see the latest newsreels from across the Atlantic.
She shifted in her seat, trying to find a more comfortable position. This movie theater certainly wasn't doing such incredible business because of the comfort of its seats, she reflected ruefully. Her face broke into a sudden smile as she watched Scott approach their seats, popcorn in hand.
"Hi," she greeted him.
"Hi. Did you miss me?" he asked, with a roguish grin.
"Terribly," she answered in kind as he leaned toward her for a quick kiss.
"Harumph," said the stout matron behind them, clearly stating her opinion of public displays of affection.
Scott half-turned toward her with an apologetic glance before exchanging an impish grin with Betty. He shifted in his seat and cleared his throat.
"So what did Mr. Berger have to say about the debut of 'Footsteps in the Dark'? He left so quickly I didn't have a chance to talk to him," Scott asked, referring to the espionage show they developed for their newest sponsor.
"Oh, he was thrilled. It was exactly what he wanted," she smiled brightly at him, then paused reflectively. "You know, it's funny. When I was writing it I pictured it as a mystery program with lots of snappy banter, sort of like the Nick and Nora Charles of international espionage. Somehow I never saw it with quite so much 'Simmons the Gardener' in your character," her voice trailed off and she looked at him with an ironically raised eyebrow.
He smiled deprecatingly. "It was just my interpretation."
"Or maybe it was just you trying to get back at Hilary for that little incident earlier on 'The Hands of Time,'" Betty suggested teasingly.
Scott feigned indignation. "Betty, I'm shocked you'd think I'm so petty. Besides," his voice lowered seductively and he leaned towards her, his eyes fixed hypnotically on hers. "I thought you liked my Simmons the Gardener."
Betty struggled to find her voice, all the while knowing she was being drawn irresistibly closer to Scott. "Maybe I do, but my opinion hardly matters."
"Why not?" he asked softly, close enough now that she could feel his breath on her cheek.
A shiver raced down her spine. "It's too biased. I'm in love with the man who plays him."
Scott nodded slightly. "Good," was his only reply as he moved forward to kiss her again.
"Harumph," came the scandalized noise from behind them, followed up with a condemnatory, "Masher."
Betty's hand flew up to her mouth as she tried to stifle her laughter and Scott turned around for another apologetic look at the woman behind them. The lights dimmed as he turned back around in his seat and Betty threaded her arm through his, leaning her head momentarily on his shoulder before looking up to share a quick grin with him in the semi-darkness.
Her smile quickly faded, however, as she turned to look at the movie screen. The first thing they were showing was one of those increasingly horrific newsreels from Europe chronicling the rapidly escalating war there. This particular one focused on the fierce battles raging between Germany and Russia. The footage showed Stalin delivering an impassioned address to the Russian people, rallying them against their foe by recalling the names of past heroes. The very next day, the announcer told them, Hitler had delivered an equally impassioned speech to the German people, bragging about the eight to ten million casualties the Russians had suffered at his hands. The film concluded with scenes of Russian troops mobilizing and the news of the fall of the Tikhvin railhead, which put Leningrad in increasing peril.
As Betty watched with mounting despair, she suddenly noticed that something subtle had changed. The muscles in Scott's arm, which moments before had been relaxed and at ease, were now tightly clenched. His hand gripped the armrest between them, the knuckles showing whitely in the surrounding darkness. She looked up to see his profile and was astonished to find his jaw clenched relentlessly. He was angry, she realized, far angrier than she had ever seen him, and suddenly, she was more frightened than she'd ever been in her life.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Betty and Scott strolled slowly down the street, their fingers intertwined, neither one eager for the night to end. It had become a beautiful one while they were in the theater. The rain stopped and a brisk wind had blown the clouds away. The stars shone brilliantly in the sky and it was just cold enough to remind them that it was late November and Thanksgiving was only a couple of days off. The darker feelings aroused earlier in the evening by the newsreel were not forgotten, but merely superseded by their delight in each other and their unwillingness to allow anything to blight their near-perfect happiness. Once again, the war was a far-off, impersonal thing which held no relevance for them, neither guessing that soon reality would invade their happiness, inexorably drawing them further into peril. For now, Scott watched the stars reflecting in Betty's eyes, making them unusually bright, and couldn't recall ever having seen anything so beautiful.
"I thought Tyrone Power was devastatingly charming. In fact, he reminded me a little of someone I know," she mused now.
"Really? What reminded you of me the most? His dashing good looks, his witty repartee, his noble acts of courage?" he asked, smiling down at her.
"Mostly I think it was his relentless scheming to get Betty Grable," she teased him as she returned his smile.
"What is it that's so intriguing about women named Betty?" Scott asked her with mock seriousness as they came to a stop outside of the Barbican.
"I don't know. I leave it to you to find the answer to that one," she laughed with him. "Scott," she began, far more soberly. "You know, you don't have to come to Elkhart with me for Thanksgiving if you don't want to."
"Are you kidding? I've waited a long time to meet your family. Besides," his hands slid down the length of her arms and he looked more deeply into her eyes, "I have to talk to your father about something."
"And what would that be, Mr. Sherwood?" she asked, reaching up playfully to fix his tie.
"That, Miss Roberts, is for me to know," he drew her closer, tenderly kissed both her eyelids, "and for you to find out." He pulled her against him, kissing her deeply as her arms reached up to encircle his neck. With a small sound, she pressed closer to him, reveling in his warmth, wishing the moment could go on forever.
"Miss Roberts!" a voice shrilled imperiously.
With an overwhelming sense of deja vu, Betty turned to see Miss Pritchard glaring at them from the doorway of the Barbican.
"Need I remind you that curfew is 12:00 sharp? If this sort of behavior continues, I'm afraid the Barbican will have to release you from your lease," the matron sneered haughtily.
"I guess that's my cue to release you," Scott joked, reluctantly loosening his hold on her.
She smiled. "I guess so. I love you, Scott," she told him, pressing a kiss to his cheek.
"I love you, too," he returned, his voice husky.
She disappeared inside the building and Scott found himself alone momentarily with Miss Pritchard.
"Good evening, Miss Pritchard," he said, politely tipping his hat. "You're looking particularly- er, well," he favored her with his most charming smile.
Miss Pritchard was, as always, unimpressed. "Good night, Mr. Sherwood," she sniffed, dismissing him with an air of decisive finality and a contemptuous look that would have turned a lesser man to dust.
Scott only smiled at her radiantly before continuing on his way, pushing thoughts of gimlet-eyed harridans out of his mind in favor of shining brown hair and soft dark eyes that lit up whenever they met his.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
"Scott, is everything all right?" Betty regarded him two days later from the passenger seat of their borrowed DeSoto with a furrowed brow. It was Thanksgiving day and they were making the lengthy trek to her parent's home in Elkhart. Scott had arrived that morning in the gray pre-dawn light, materializing out of the heavy mist to help her with the small overnight suitcase she'd packed in preparation for the visit. Conversation had been sparse since they'd started their journey. Betty originally attributed that to the fact that she'd dozed off almost immediately after getting into the car, but she'd been awake now for at least two hours and Scott had hardly spoken a word- for him, that had to be some kind of record.
"I'm fine, Betty. Why do you ask?" He tried to sound like his usual self, but even to his own ears it was a dismal failure.
"Oh, I don't know. You just seem...quiet. I wondered if you might be a little, well, nervous?" she queried tentatively, unsure of her assessment of his mood; it would be totally out of character for Scott Sherwood to be nervous about anything.
"What me, nervous? Nah!" Scott dismissed the idea outright. Try scared to death, he added silently. And why shouldn't he be? He'd certainly never done anything like this before. What was he supposed to say to her father- "Sir, I've been a con man living on the shady side of the law all my life, but now that I've reformed, mostly, the only thing I really want is your daughter"? He wanted to cringe every time that little scene played in his head and all of the other scenarios he'd imagined where equally depressing. He'd be lucky if her father didn't laugh him out of the house, or more likely, throw him out on his ear for presuming he was good enough to marry his daughter. Scott groaned inwardly. If he wasn't so sure Betty Roberts was the only thing he needed in life, he'd turn the car around right now- but that was definitely not an option. So, instead he said, "I haven't had to drive this much in a long time and I guess I've just forgotten how tiring it can be." He mustered a smile for her.
Betty's face brightened. "Oh, well if that's all, I could drive for awhile so you could get some sleep."
"I'll be fine. We're almost there anyway, aren't we?" At her nod of assent, he continued, glancing at her admiringly. "I didn't even know you could drive, Betty Roberts."
"Oh, sure. My dad thought it was one of those necessary skills every girl should learn, you know, in case some boy ever tried to strand her in his car in the middle of nowhere," she laughed at the memory. "He even taught me basic mechanics so I could repair almost any car. You never know when that will come in handy."
Her father sounded like a practical, intelligent man; just the sort of father he'd expect Betty to have. Just the sort of man Scott would never be able, or want, to con- he was far too shrewd. Good thing his intentions were completely honorable- Scott just hoped Betty's father wouldn't see through that to his often less-than-noble past.
"And did you ever have to use those skills to escape from the clutches of some overly-amorous boy?" Scott asked, with an ironically raised eyebrow.
Betty paused as if to reflect. "Not yet. But if you're planning a breakdown somewhere along the road, just remember I won't fall for it, Mister," she warned him.
"Darn! I guess that means I'll have to replace those spark plugs."
"Spark plugs?" Betty started laughing. "Oh, wait! There's the turn!" she pointed abruptly to the right, causing Scott to brake swiftly. Skillfully, he negotiated the sharp turn onto a narrow dirt road, noting the graceful old trees lining each side of the drive. As they bounced along the deeply rutted road, Scott's stomach tied itself in knots. At the end of this road was the man who- for better or worse- could ultimately decide his fate. Scott stifled a sigh. He was beginning to sound as melodramatic as one of Betty's soap opera scripts.
They rounded a slight curve and suddenly the large, immaculate farmhouse came into view. It was a beautiful old house; the white paint shone brilliantly in the crisp autumn sunlight, the dark green trim providing the perfect contrast. The house and the deep green lawn surrounding it had obviously been lovingly tended for decades. Several large old trees were scattered across the yard, the most impressive of which supported a simple treehouse and swing. It must be beautiful in the spring, Scott realized, when the trees were covered with green leaves and the flower beds were in bloom. He noted the enormous red barn some distance from the house. This must have been an ideal place to grow up; no wonder Betty often spoke of missing it. He glanced at her as he brought the car to a stop and was pleased to see her face aglow with joy.
She turned to him expectantly. "Well, what do you think?"
"It's beautiful," Scott admitted frankly as he looked at the house. "I can see why you love it here."
"I'm glad. I thought you'd understand," she smiled at him radiantly and when Scott turned to meet her eyes, his apprehension melted away. Suddenly, he felt as if he could face anything: a lion in it's den, a dragon in it's lair- facing Betty's father would be a piece of cake. He only had to remember why he was doing this and everything else would fall into place.
"C'mon, my family's waiting to meet you," Betty told him as she got out of the car. Scott followed suit, taking the time to get their luggage out of the trunk before joining her on the wooden porch. A dog and cat slumbered lazily there, despite the crisp weather. The cat was a cute little orange tabby not long out of kittenhood, the dog an ancient Irish setter, clearly used to the respect accorded an animal which had served it's family long and faithfully.
"That's Max," Betty explained, pointing at the dog. "I think he spends most of his time sleeping now. We've had him practically as long as I can remember. The cat must be Sam. My mother wrote about getting a new kitten a few months ago. He looks so sweet."
"You sound like you miss being around animals," Scott said, having observed her wistful tone.
"I do. My mother used to complain that our house was more of a menagerie than a home, but I know she liked the animals as much as my brothers and I did. She could never turn away a stray animal we brought home. That's just how she is," Betty smiled warmly.
"There you are!" cried a delighted voice from behind the screen door. A woman emerged, looking exactly as Betty might thirty or so years in the future. She was slender, just slightly shorter than Betty, and her gray-streaked hair was pulled back in a loose bun. Laugh lines radiated from her eyes as she pulled Betty into a fierce embrace. There was an air of competence, of hominess about her that put Scott immediately at his ease. He could already tell he was going to like Betty's mother; she might even be an ally if things didn't go so well with her father. "Well, come inside now, before you both catch your death," she was saying as she drew Betty along by the hand into the warm kitchen.
Scott followed close behind, beguiled by the heat radiating from within and the irresistible smells emanating from the oven. The room was cozy and old-fashioned and clearly much-loved. The family probably spent a lot of time in here, gathered around the scrubbed pine table. It was the first place Scott had been in a very long time that felt like home.
"You must be Scott," Betty's mother advanced toward him, her hands outstretched. She stopped rather abruptly as she firmly took both his hands and a concerned look crossed her face. "You don't mind if I call you Scott, do you? Betty writes of you so often, I feel like I already know you," she looked up at him expectantly.
Scott smiled his reassurance. "Of course I don't mind. I feel the same way; Betty talks about her family all the time."
Her face lit up. "Oh, good. Then you'll be perfectly comfortable calling me Mary. Unless, of course, you'd rather call me mom. Oh, I hope that wasn't too presumptuous," she finished in consternation.
Scott's famous smile beamed on Mary. He definitely liked Betty's mom. "Not at all. I'm sure we're going to get along very well."
"Come and sit down. You must be exhausted and hungry after that long drive. Betty, get your young man a glass of that fresh milk- he's probably faint from hunger."
Exchanging an amused glance with Scott, Betty did as her mother asked, not forgetting to get a glass of milk for herself. She joined the cozy couple at the table, conscious of the sensation of being enveloped in a warm, fluffy blanket that she always got on one of her rare trips home. Betty tasted the rich milk, closing her eyes to savor it.
"Mmmm, I've missed this," she told Mary.
"And we've missed having you at home," her mother returned warmly with a proud light in her eyes, "but I couldn't be more pleased with how your life is going. You've made so many of your dreams come true. Well," she smiled brightly at them both. "Dinner is less than an hour away and it won't fix itself. Scott, James is waiting for you in the parlor."
Scott swallowed audibly. "He is?"
"Yes. He felt sure you'd want to speak to him alone. Betty, why don't you stay here and let Scott introduce himself? I could use your help," she added, with an impish grin.
"Sure," Betty answered, but she followed Scott as he headed for the kitchen door. "The parlor's just through this door, down the hall on the right. You can't miss it. And don't look so nervous," she teased him under her breath. "He'll love you as much as I do."
"That's too much to hope for. I'll settle for him even liking me a little bit." He took a deep breath. "So you've been writing home about me, have you?" She nodded her assent. "We'll talk later," he teased her before heading out the door.
Betty gave him an encouraging smile, then turned to find her mother had been watching them with an amused expression. "I like your Scott Sherwood," she said decisively, "and so will your father."
"I hope so. Speaking of dad- what exactly is he up to?" Betty asked, a trifle suspiciously.
Mary tried to hide a smile. "Oh, you know your father. He's been waiting for this moment all your life. Let him have his fun," she laughed at Betty's consternated expression. "Don't worry, I'm sure Scott can hold his own."
Betty's face finally relaxed into a grin. "That's what I'm afraid of."
Far From Pittsburgh
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