Ever so Near

By Kay Westfield

Always a little adventurous, seventeen-year-old Georgeanne Chamberlain has big dreams of becoming an actress or screenwriter. She imagines leaving her home in Fort Wayne, Indiana, and heading to California to attend a school for acting. Her mother is against Georgies move to Hollywood; in the end Georgie feels guilty about leaving her mother, who has sacrificed so much for herand so she chooses the safe path and heads to Indiana University.

There she experiences challenges she had not anticipated. Georgie had planned to share a room in Memorial Hall with Sandy, her lifelong friend from St. Patricks grade school. But Sandy must deal with an unexpected pregnancy. In addition, Georgies childhood love, Tony De Marco, attends Notre Dame, and they endure a long-distance relationship. Complications arise when Tony believes he is being called to the Catholic priesthood.

Ever So Near follows Georgie as she experiences the ups and downs of life and questions her decisions, her dreams, and her goals.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Abbott Press
• Release date: Feb 5, 2014
• ISBN: 9781458213884

Kay Westfield

Kay Westfield attended Indiana University in the early sixties and studied journalism and history. After raising three children, she now has eight grandchildren and has retired to Florida with her dog. This is her first novel.

Book preview

Chapter 1

I t was 1958. I was seventeen and about to graduate from Easton High School in Fort Wayne, Indiana. It was spring, late May to be exact. The day was warm enough for only a light jacket, and the strong morning sun streamed into the cockpit of the L-16 that I was flying. Though quite unusual for a girl to be taking flying lessons, there I was, at three thousand feet, listening to Nick, the middle-aged man to my right, say, Keep your eye on the horizon. I had a tendency to go into a climb if not paying atte ntion.

My mind would occasionally wander back to the times when, as a little girl, while playing outside with my friends, I would stop to look up to the sky to watch the small airplanes taking off, circling, and then landing at the private airport near my home. The other kids didn’t pay much attention to them, but I was fascinated. Always the adventurer, I envied the student pilots overhead, wishing I were old enough to take lessons and fly to some wonderful place far away. Now it was my time.

Nick had been a fighter pilot in World War II and still wore his army-issue leather jacket with the Army Air Corps patch on the right sleeve and the silver wings above the left pocket. He talked often about his service in the corps and had said that being a flight instructor was the next best thing. Though a little gruff, I think deep down he liked teaching and spending time with anyone who loved to fly.

This was my day to land a plane for the first time. I had taken off many times without help. Just get the speed up until you feel a lift and then pull back on the stick with all your strength. If all goes well, you’re airborne.

But today was much scarier. Landing was serious business. With youthful enthusiasm and a sense of infallibility, I looked for familiar landmarks to identify the small airport just southeast of my house. We flew over my neighborhood with its mature trees and well-manicured lawns surrounding the Brookhaven Country Club golf course that my family enjoyed. Looking down to my left, it was fun to see the home where I grew up. A winding driveway led up to the white, L-shaped brick house. The swimming pool in the back had just been opened for the summer, and the fresh blue water gave a stunning splash of color against the green grass and white house. The pool was enclosed with a tall, black wrought-iron fence.

Just past the creek separating the tenth tee from the ninth green was a cluster of white wooden buildings housing small airplanes. Spotting the runway, I gently pushed forward on the stick and then down on the left rudder pedal to go into a circle pattern, lowering the altitude.

After circling the runway five or six times while carefully going over in my head everything I had been taught, I looked over at Nick. He nodded. That was my signal. Lowering the air speed to just enough push to stay up and lining up with the runway on the right and then the left rudder to stay level, I went for it. Pushing forward on the stick, down we went.

My heart was pounding and my palms were wet as the runway came closer and closer. Am I going too fast? No, Nick hasn’t said anything yet, so—so far—I have to have enough speed to stay up. Oh God! There’s the ground closing in. Pull up! Pull up! Stay level; don’t let the nose dip. At that moment, I wanted to close my eyes but thought better of it.

The ground met the wheels with a slight bump, then bounce, then bump. Pushing forward on the stick with all my might and pulling back hard on the throttle, with feet riveted to the rudders, we came to a stop just inches from the end of the runway. Five more feet and we would have been in a cornfield.

It took a few seconds for me to realize we had made it before I could breathe again and let go of the controls. Giving Nick a big hug, I knew I did okay because he smiled. Maybe he was just glad to be alive, but he smiled.

Turning the plane around, we taxied back to the hangar, where I received several congratulations from the guys. I really wanted to practice landing several more times, but today I had to hurry back home. My best friend, Sandy, and her dad, Charles, were picking me up at noon to go to Lake James. Charles was getting his boat out of storage, and ever since Sandy and I had met at Saint Patrick’s Catholic School in the fifth grade, we looked forward to this spring ritual. We loved to help Charles get the boat ready for summer.

Climbing into my mother’s Buick parked by the fence along the hangars, I headed home. Feeling really good about myself, I was anxious to tell Mom and Sandy all about my outstanding skill as a pilot. Never mind that I managed to take up the whole runway. I was ready to conquer the world. I was invincible. Nothing could hold me back now. The radio was playing a Johnny Mathis song, Chances Are. I loved listening to him and sang along with every note. I felt great.

Pulling into my driveway, I saw a familiar car. Sandy and Charles had arrived. They were inside waiting for me and talking to my mother, Nell. It was Saturday, and my stepfather was playing golf.

My father, George, had died a month before I was born, and my mother named me Georganne to honor him and his mother, Anne. As a kid I was not exactly thrilled with such an unusual name, so I encouraged my friends to call me Georgie. I’m not sure who came up with that name, but it stuck and seemed fitting since I was a bit of a tomboy—that is, until the age of twelve when I sprang boobs and began looking at my boy pals in a different light. Then it didn’t seem as much fun to go down to the creek and throw pebbles in the water to see who could throw the farthest and cause the biggest splash.

Playing tackle football went by the wayside as well, much to my mother’s relief. More than once I had come home with a cut lip or bleeding nose. She would shake her head in disbelief as she cleaned me up and applied iodine and a Band-Aid when needed. Now I was a real girl, doing girl things and getting crushes on boys. But the name Georgie stuck.

My stepdad, Vince, was not around much. If he wasn’t working at his advertising agency, he was out of town or golfing. He worked hard, and Mom didn’t want to deny him the things he loved to do. He made up for it when he was home. He loved us. We knew that. Once, in a moment of confidential girl talk, Mom told me that she had married him out of necessity to take care of me, but as time went on, she had grown very fond of him.

Vince had adopted me when I was a baby, so I had his name, Chamberlain. I liked that name. He was a commercial artist and had moved us from Pittsburgh to northern Indiana right after their wedding. That was in 1942, and World War II was raging. The Midwest was growing with expanding auto plants and steel mills, causing a demand for other businesses and manufacturing plants. Mom kept busy at the Brookhaven, playing bridge and socializing with her friends. It all seemed okay.

Parking in the garage, I went through the inside door leading to the hall off the kitchen. My dog, Puddles, greeted me with his usual enthusiasm, and familiar voices were welcome as I rushed in to tell them about the greatest morning of my life. Sandy and Charles expressed real admiration for my not crashing the plane, but my mother’s response wasn’t what I had hoped. She didn’t like me flying. That’s so dangerous. For the life of me, I don’t understand why you do those things, she would say.

It was odd that she hadn’t forbidden me to fly. Maybe she felt guilty about insisting I go to college rather than do what I really wanted to do. In my junior year I had sent for information about a school in Los Angeles called the Pasadena Playhouse. My dream was to be an actress or a screenwriter. Several school plays had sparked an interest in acting, and I had always loved to write.

A packet of information came in the mail while I was at school, and when I got home that night, Mom reluctantly handed it to me.

This came for you today. I hope you’re not serious about this, she said.

Oh, it came! Thanks, Mom! I heard about this school for acting and was just curious. I think some famous movie stars went there. I’m just curious. Taking it from her and trying to hide my enthusiasm, I rushed up to my room to read and wonder about the possibilities. Yes, that was what I wanted to do with my life: go to Hollywood, write screenplays, and be a movie star.

After a few days, when Mom could see that I was serious, she came up to my room while I was doing homework. She knocked lightly and then came in and sat on my bed. As I turned from my desk to look at her, I could see in her eyes the concern of a mother thinking that she was about to lose her only child.

She started by calling me Georganne. I always felt like I was being scolded when she called me that.

Georganne, I know you think that going to California is what you want, but I can’t help you do that. It would break my heart to see you go so far away, and I know that if you did, you wouldn’t come back the same sweet girl. Hollywood is a harsh place, and a good Catholic girl like you would be lost in a world you don’t understand. Please don’t go.

I didn’t know what to say. Her sadness got to me. I knew that somehow I could do this without her help if I really wanted to. After all, I had exchanged flying lessons for part-time work at the airport by keeping records and doing office duties. But how could I do this to a woman who had spent her whole life taking care of me, who had married someone just to provide a good home for me?

Well, you know, Mom, you started this whole thing when I was three, and you insisted on my reciting ‘The Night Before Christmas’ to anyone who would listen. Remember? Poor people having to put up with some kid saying every word of that poem. It’s a long one too.

She looked at me for a moment and then said, Well, I thought you were just darling with that dark curly hair and those big brown eyes. You look just like your father, thank heavens.

Yes, I know, Mom. You’ve told me that a million times. You have an exaggerated view of my cuteness. Really, I’ve always wished that I had your red hair and blue eyes. Dad calls you his Irish beauty for a reason. You are an Irish beauty.

Thank, you dear, but I must always remind you both that I am also half English. Your grandmother would not have stood for being left out.

Well, from what Aunt Thelma tells me, you did all right with the boys in your day.

Looking a little amused, she said, She did, huh? I’ll have to have a little talk with her.

Too late—I know all about you skipping school to be with a boy named Tommy and how Grandma caught you two having a soda in the drugstore one morning instead of going to Mass. Let’s see, was it one month you were grounded?

Good heavens. She told you that? She makes things up, you know. I don’t remember any such thing. She’s the one who probably did something like that. Now I will have to have a talk with her.

Okay, Mom.

The next fall, along with my best pal Sandy, I enrolled in Indiana University. We were going to be roommates.

Chapter 2

L ake James is a little north of Fort Wayne, near a town called Angola. In Angola there was an engineering college, Tri State University. It was all boys. It was a two-year school, so students attended all year around—no summers off. That meant that the boys hung out at Bledsoe’s Beach on wee kends.

The marina at Bledsoe’s Beach is where Charles stored his boat for the winter. It was a fine Chris Craft cabin cruiser with bunks, a galley, and a head—boat language for kitchen and bathroom. Also at this beach, much burger munching by our gang took place in a restaurant just off the dock where a grocery store and bait shop stood. Gas pumps lined several of the long docks where boats tied up to be serviced. Fumes from the oil and gas mixture were more welcome than not, because it was all part of the excitement and promise of a great day of fun on the water.

Nighttime fun was in the dance hall where live bands played every evening throughout the summer. This was teen heaven, with boats, boys, and dancing. How lucky could a girl be?

Sandy and I worked hard that day, cleaning the head, putting fresh sheets on the bunks, polishing the stainless steel galley, and then washing down the deck with a hose and buckets of suds. We were also being silly; Sandy threw a sudsy sponge at me when I squirted her with the hose. We played like children. Charles always tinkered with the engine and changed things around while we polished and scrubbed inside and out.

With the rich mahogany exterior glistening in the sun and the smell of disinfectant on everything, including the life jackets, we headed over to get gas for our first run of the summer.

Pulling up to the dock, I noticed Sandy perk up and point as she said, Hey, Georgie. Look at that. She was referring to a young man pumping gas into boats and gas cans. He had on dirty jeans and a blue, short-sleeved shirt with a Bledsoe’s Marina patch and Jim sewn over one pocket. He looked to be in his early twenties with blond hair and a nice build, but to me he was not that great looking. I commented that he must be new since we hadn’t seen him before.

We waited in line for our turn, the boat rocking and swaying on waves of water that slapped into wood posts supporting the dock. We could hear and feel the low chug of the boat’s engine in neutral, forward, and then reverse, back and forward as Charles worked the gears to maintain our position. Sandy hardly took her eyes off of Jim. He must have noticed her too. As Charles maneuvered toward a newly available slip, Jim pushed past another attendant heading our way. Sandy looked thrilled as I threw Jim the rope to tie up. Upon closer inspection, he wasn’t bad but still not my type. Sandy and I seldom agreed on men, a good thing for the friendship.

Jim grabbed the handle from a red paint–chipped pump as Charles flipped up the padded white vinyl rear bench seat that covered the gas tanks. Kneeling down, with one knee on the wood deck, Jim unscrewed the caps and then filled the tanks. He steadied the hose by holding onto the back of the boat as it rocked in the waves.

Sandy began flirting and doing some serious signal sending as she looked him over and then said, Jim. Guess that’s your name, unless you’re wearing some other guy’s shirt. Cute in an impish sort of way—about five feet three and dark, straight hair with bangs and hazel eyes that sometimes changed to gray—she seemed very aware that boys liked her. That could be because she had mastered the art of flirting while going through puberty.

Jim, though busy, did ask us our names and where we lived. He told us that he was a freshman at Tri State. I noticed that he flexed his muscles a little more than was necessary, but we enjoyed it.

As the filling and checking ended, Sandy, after some small talk between the four of us, said, Hey, Jim, what time do you get off work? We can come back and take you for a ride. She knew her dad would be okay with that. Charles was a great dad and lots of fun. His wife, Sandy’s stepmother, had said she didn’t like boats and wouldn’t come with us to the lake.

Jim and Sandy continued to flirt with each other until it was time to head out for the first run of the summer. With full tanks, off we went, slowly at first while still in the channel and then speeding up to full throttle as we cleared the inlet. A muffled hum from the strong diesel engine rose from beneath the deck, turning louder and louder with each knot of speed, sending pounding waves slamming against the hull below.

Sandy and I sat on the rear bench, the strong, cold wind blowing through our hair and whipping our heads back. We could see Charles manning the wheel on the captain’s deck just above the cabin. He was a handsome man, though a little overweight and losing some hair.

Swimming or skiing was out of the question with such cold water, but on this warm day, the water spraying us felt refreshing as we ducked to avoid the really big waves, laughing and screaming with each splash. Riding around our very favorite place for probably the eighty thousandth time, we knew every house, cottage, shed, boat dock, inlet, outlet, shallow-water place, and deep-water place on the lake. We could have found our way around the grand lake blindfolded.

After the long winter, it felt good to be back. A sense of comfort enveloped me. This is where I belonged, with Sandy, my buddy, at our favorite place. Now at the end of our senior year, graduation was in one week. We both looked forward to rooming together at IU next fall, but now it was summer. We never imagined that this would be our last summer together at Lake James.

It had taken us most of the afternoon to clean the boat, so we didn’t have much time to be out before Jim got off work. We rode around for an hour or so and then pulled back into the slip Charles had occupied for many summers. The timing was right. Jim, waiting on the dock, helped us tie up, and then he hopped on board for an inspection. He said that he had never been on such a fine boat, and Charles loved showing off all the instruments and mechanical things. Jim, making a valiant effort to give Charles his full attention, glanced over at Sandy every other second.

Finally, Charles suggested that we all get some burgers. He said he knew that Jim must be starving after a long day working in the hot sun and he and his girls were hungry. We’d go out on the boat after we ate. So the four of us headed over to the restaurant where we found a booth next to a window overlooking the lake. Sandy and Jim clung close to make sure they sat together, and Charles and I sat on the other side.

Halfway through my French fries, I looked out to see Tony De Marco on the dock, walking toward our boat. I felt a little flutter of excitement upon seeing him. He was a handsome Italian boy with straight black hair, parted and combed to one side, and deep brown eyes that shone warmth and kindness for everyone he looked at. He walked ahead of two of our other friends, Sharon and Don. I hardly noticed them at first—Tony was there.

The three of them were our old friends from St. Patrick’s who had gone to Central Catholic High while Sandy and I had gone to Easton High, a public school. Central Catholic was located downtown and required a long trolley ride each day that Sandy and I didn’t care to make. The prospect of four more years of catechism wasn’t very appealing either.

Don and Sharon were just friends. Tony and I had been best pals since kindergarten and all through grade school, but in high school our friendship had turned curiously interesting. We had all grown up together, going to the same school and church. We lived in the same neighborhood, and each of us spent as much time in one another’s home as we did our own.

Sharon’s parents owned a cottage on Lake James, and it became a gathering place for waterskiing, cookouts, swimming, and having slumber parties. This is where we