Once in Love with Amy (standard:romance, 1676 words)
Author: Maureen Stirsman	Added: Jan 13 2004	Views/Reads: 3833/2436	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
The last notes of 'Once in Love with Amy' lingered in Amelia's ears as she zipped the case of the old familiar cello on the stage of the Columbus Philharmonic Orchestra for the last time.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

me? Helen will be my maid-of-honor and she will help, but it takes 
time.” So the wedding plans were laid, and held in wait for the time 
David would return. ... 

Those were the only two people who had ever called her Amy—Papa and
David. She had loved them both more than anyone else in the world—and 
they had both been gone for many years. ... 

Amelia had played in the orchestra since the end of the war, immersing
herself in her music when her factory job ceased and when the horrible 
telegram came from the war department. The wedding plans were never 
fulfilled, the musicians never tuned, the baker never greased the cake 
pans, the florist never created the centerpieces, and the Irish lace 
was never sewn on the white satin. ... 

She was retiring from the orchestra, giving up first-chair cello and the
musicians had honored her with cake and punch. And they played her 
song. ... 

She zipped the case of the cello, carrying it home to her back closet
and took down the suitcases. She and Helen were about to take another 
one of their trips. They had taken ocean cruises, bus tours, and auto 
trips, enjoying each other's company over the years. Amelia had joined 
Helen and her husband, Charlie, several times and now that Helen was 
widowed the two women still took trips together. Helen always said, 
“Isn't it nice that we can be totally honest with each other and not 
have to put on airs?” 

They had been friends for a long time and Helen had always wanted to
take a train trip across the country but Amelia had resisted. She had 
some aversion to rail travel but Helen seemed to want it so badly she 
could no any longer put her off. 

Helen had reserved two bedrooms for them knowing it would be a long trip
and now she had gone to buy some magazines. Waiting on the hard wooden 
bench and glancing at the only three other people in the quiet railroad 
station, Amelia looked down the old marble hall that led to the trains. 
She twisted the scarf she held and thought, This is why I didn't want 
to go by train.  She could see in her mind's eye the station full of 
soldiers and sailors, their arms around sobbing mothers and wives. She 
could hear the conductor cry the departure of the hated train that took 
loved ones into its angry mouth, sometimes spitting them out, sometimes 
swallowing them. She could feel the tears fall on her wrinkled 
arthritic hands. 

Helen came back with the magazines and candy bars and they boarded the
train for Seattle. After a lovely dinner in the linen and flower 
appointed dining car, Helen and Amelia sat in Amelia's bedroom and 
talked like teenagers far into the night. They made plans, where to 
stay in Seattle, what attractions to see and wondered if they had 
brought enough money. Helen said, “Don't worry. There are cash machines 
everywhere.” They talked about the future. They talked about the past. 
They talked about Charlie. They talked about David. Helen and Amelia 
had not mentioned his name in a long time. David, lovely dark-haired 
man, was only a dream all these years. David,in his sailor's uniform, 
duffle bag on his shoulder, came to Amelia's memory as clear as if he 
was standing in the room with them now. She could hear the last words 
she ever heard him say, “Please, Amy, meet me in San Francisco and we 
will get special permission to be married.”  But she never went to San 
Francisco, after all wedding plans take time, and there was the Irish 
lace to prepare. 

Now Helen said, “Amelia, do you have any regrets?" 

Amelia pondered, wondering if she should confide in her old friend.
“Yes, El, I do, I should have married him. What good is an empty 
wedding dress? I have had a good full life and David was killed, it was 
meant to be-to die for his country, but I could have made him happy 
those last months. I could have married him. I could have foregone the 
big wedding. I only wish I had. There is no going back. I can only hope 
he knew how much I loved him.” 

The two friends had a final cup of tea and Helen retired to her small
room to write a letter to her daughter. Amelia put the white nylon gown 
with the Irish lace over her firm virgin body. She made an entry in her 
journal and turned out the light. 

Amelia closed her eyes and listened to the hypnotic clackity, clack of
the rails. Soon she noticed in this small cell of a bedroom a strangely 
familiar scent of a man, the identifying personal scent only a lover 
knows. She opened her eyes and in the corner of the train bedroom 
compartment she saw him. Black straight hair, blue eyes, sailor 
uniform, mouth smiling, arms open and welcoming, he said, “Please, Amy, 
I love you.” ... 

The conductor carried his ring of keys, Helen hurrying behind him
unaware her of her untied robe. He bent over the keyhole to open the 
door of the compartment. The conductor stood back as Helen rushed in.  
The three young naval recruits who had boarded during the night in San 
Francisco peered into the small room. 

Helen opened the tiny closet. Everything was in order. The clothes hung
neatly on their hangers. The hairbrush sat benignly on the small 
dresser. Everything was in its place—but Amy was gone. Helen reached 
for the bit of Irish lace that lay on the carpet and picked up the 
journal that had fallen by the narrow unslept-in bed and read the last 
entry. “I should have gone.” 


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