Stranger at the Door. Laura Abbot

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.”