by Sarah Sundin
“Nothing to worry about.” Mr. Fairfax sipped his tea.
But Dorothy’s gaze darted all over the ceiling. “I—I don’t think this is a nuisance raid.”
A long rumble swelled in the background. “Where do y’all go? Down into the Tube?”
Dorothy’s gaze flew to him. “We have an Anderson shelter in the garden.”
“Balderdash. No need to worry.” Mr. Fairfax lifted his fork to his mouth.
Regardless, Dorothy looked worried. And that rumble was more than a handful of planes. Far more. “Dorothy, would you like to go to the shelter?”
“Yes—”
“You always nag me to eat, so eat.” Mr. Fairfax pointed to Dorothy’s plate.
Wyatt bolted to his feet. “Sir, I am taking your daughter to the shelter. Do you want her alone with a strange man, much less a Yankee, much less a thief? If you care about her reputation, you’ll join us.”
Mr. Fairfax gaped up at him, but Wyatt didn’t budge.
“Come on, Dorothy. Show me the way.”
“Fine.” Mr. Fairfax shoved back his chair. “I didn’t realize the Americans were a cowardly lot.”
“Yes, sir. Cowards all. Why do you think it took us so long to join the battle?”
Dorothy strode down the hall. “Right this—oh dear. Charlie?”
Wyatt peeked under the table, but his little buddy wasn’t there. “Where’d he go?”
“Oh dear. He hides in the larder under the shelves.”
Thumps of antiaircraft fire added to the noise. “Where’s the larder?”
Dorothy took her father’s arm and headed toward the back of the house. “We don’t have time, Lieutenant.”
“Call me Wyatt, and where’s the larder?”
She cast a surprised look over her shoulder.
He shook his head. “I won’t leave him.”
A sigh. “The kitchen’s through that door.”
“Thanks.” Wyatt shoved it open. Nice big kitchen. An open door to his left—lots of shelves. And a whimper.
“Poor fellow.” He squatted. “Here, Charlie. Come here, boy.”
There he was, wedged under a shelf.
A scared dog would bite.
A stack of towels sat on a shelf. Wyatt wrapped one around each hand, dragged out the squirming dog, and swaddled him. Cradling the dog to his chest, he found his way to the back door.
Outside, the war became real, even more real than shelling Japanese positions in the icy Aleutians.
Searchlights arced across the night sky, turning the clouds a sick shade of gray. The air raid siren keened, high . . . low . . . high . . . low. Airplane engines thrummed in a menacing beat. Antiaircraft guns thumped out a reply.
And the ground beneath him trembled.
Wyatt had watched the newsreels of the Blitz, when German bombers had blasted Britain almost every night for a year. He’d seen the footage of bodies in the rubble, of brave Londoners carrying on. But this was how it felt—small, naked, unarmed.
Charlie whimpered.
Wyatt pressed the dog’s towel-covered ears to his head. “Come on, boy. Let’s get you to safety.”
That lump in the ground had to be the shelter. Earth had been piled over it, and a garden grew on top.
He scampered down stone steps and knocked on the corrugated steel door.
Dorothy flung it open. “Charlie? Oh, you naughty dog. Thank you, Lieutenant—Wyatt.” She took the dog, and the towels fell away.
“You’re welcome.” Stooping under the low arched ceiling, he shut the door behind him.
“Charlie, you mustn’t hide. You mustn’t.” Dorothy hugged the pup and sank onto a cot beside Mrs. Bromley.
Wyatt sat on the other cot beside Mr. Fairfax and leaned his forearms on his knees. “Is this a normal raid or . . . ?”
Mrs. Bromley knitted by the light of a flashlight strung from the ceiling. She didn’t answer, just kept humming.
Mr. Fairfax sat bolt upright, his face a mask. He didn’t answer either.
And Dorothy rocked back and forth, murmuring to the dog.
Probably all she had left of her mama, and Wyatt’s chest tightened.
Still the siren blared. Still the engines throbbed. Still the guns pounded.
This family had been fractured by death and grief, while his had been fractured by his own carelessness and sin.
An ache built inside, of loss and regret and a longing to help and heal and protect.
If only he could.
5
Allied Naval Expeditionary Force Headquarters
Wednesday, January 26, 1944
Teleprinters chattered and telephones buzzed, and Dorothy carried a stack of diagrams into the intelligence office. Generals Montgomery and Eisenhower had proposed landing five divisions for Operation Overlord rather than three, which meant postponing D-day from May 1 to June 1.
For Operation Neptune, the naval portion of the invasion, all plans had been thrown into disarray. More ships, more supplies, more convoy routes, and more beaches to survey.
Dorothy scanned the office, and her pulse fluttered. Where was he?
Lawrence and First Officer Bliss-Baldwin reviewed a report, standing too close for Dorothy’s taste. An attractive woman and better bred than Dorothy.
And Lawrence hadn’t asked Dorothy out yet.
Nonsense. She refused to obsess. For all she knew, Lawrence already had a girlfriend. Indeed, how could a man so handsome, charming, and cultured be unattached?
Dorothy greeted the officers and handed Lawrence her diagrams. “We’re expanding our survey from Le Havre on the east to Cherbourg on the west with the most intense scrutiny between Ouistreham and Quenelle.” Thank goodness she’d excelled in French, her accent honed by summers in Normandy and Paris.
“Very good.” Lawrence thumbed through the papers. “This work truly aids our analysis.”
“Thank you, sir. We Wrens enjoy our duties.”
“Very good, Second Officer,” Bliss-Baldwin said. “Carry on.”
“Aye aye, ma’am.” She aimed a smile Lawrence’s way—droll but professional—and turned toward her office.
A loud laugh in the corner. Lieutenant Geier held a rolled-up piece of paper, and he swung it in a giant arc as the Americans did in their game of baseball.
A Royal Navy officer plucked the fake bat from Lieutenant Geier’s hand and demonstrated proper cricket batting form.
Dorothy shook her head. As much as she liked fun, they had work to do.
In fact, Wyatt stood by the wall map, taking notes. She’d overlooked him when she entered the office.
“Good afternoon, Lieutenant Paxton.”
“Good afternoon, Second Officer Fairfax.” His smile lacked surprise. He hadn’t been so rude as to overlook her.
She’d have to make up for it, especially after his kindness on Friday. “Have you recovered from your first air raid?”
He dipped his chin and smiled. “I have. They say there were over four hundred bombers.”
“They didn’t do a terribly good job of it. Very little damage, scattered all over the south.”
“And y’all shot down forty planes. Some of the fellows say they hope Fritz keeps this up. Then the Luftwaffe will be decimated before Overlord.”
“Ah, you’re learning the British black humor.” She turned to the map. “You chaps must be busy with the change in plans.”
“Yes, ma’am. We’re concentrating on the two beaches to the west. The British and Canadians are landing to the east—” He gave her a sheepish look. “You already know that.”
She chuckled. “Carry on.”
“First, we’re locating the big gun batteries for the battleships to target—here at Morsalines, Quinéville, Émondeville, St.-Martin-de-Varreville, Maisy, Pointe du Hoc.”
His French was atrocious. He pronounced it point doo hock. “Pwint doo oak.”
He shrugged. “Too bad we’re not invading Spain. I could pronounce those words just fine. As for these sites
? I may not be able to pronounce them, but I can target them.”
“That’s what matters.”
He tapped another spot. “Next come the cruisers and destroyers. They can come closer, target the smaller positions during the initial bombardment. After the landings, they’ll be on call.”
“And the spotter aircraft and the FOBs on the beaches will call for fire support.”
“The Forward Officers, Bombardment? We Americans call them Shore Fire Control Parties, because we’re rebels.”
Dorothy crossed her arms and gave him a mock frown. “And you’re proud of that.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Wyatt pointed to Vierville-sur-Mer. “This is the fun part of my job. For close fire support, we have to think like the Germans. Where will they hide machine-gun nests? Where will they erect barricades? Where will they concentrate their reserves? The more we can predict, the better we can prepare.”
Dorothy didn’t like how he focused on Vierville.
“For example, that picture of your family. There’s a seawall, and right past that a little rise. If I were Field Marshal Rommel, I’d put a gun behind it.”
She tucked in her lips, then stopped herself to protect her lipstick.
“Don’t worry.” His voice lowered. “We’ll try not to hit your house.”
“It isn’t mine.”
“But it’s special to you, holds happy memories.”
She hardly trusted her voice, but she raised a teasing smile. “See to it that you aren’t as reckless with your guns as you are with your French.”
That big grin again. “Oui, oui, mademoiselle.”
Dorothy waved her hand as if she outranked him, which she didn’t. “Very good. Carry on. At the double.”
She strode toward her office and sneaked a glance at Lawrence. She’d acted rather silly with Wyatt, but Lawrence leaned over a map, his back to her.
Being sophisticated was hard work.
“Good evening, Papa!” Dorothy shut the door behind her.
He came downstairs from his study, as he had every evening this week. Usually he only called out his greeting. “You’re late.”
“I rang Mrs. Bromley, told her I had a sandwich at headquarters. We’ve been dreadfully busy.”
“You received a letter in the post. I don’t recognize the address or the hand.”
“Probably an old school chum.” She opened the envelope.
Dear Miss Fairfax,
I apologize for the subterfuge. This is James Montague from Fairfax & Sons. I used my daughter’s address and handwriting to send you this letter.
How odd. She’d best read this in private. “These shoes are pinching. I’ll go change.”
Papa fingered the hem of his gray wool jumper. “Did you see Lieutenant Paxton today?”
Dorothy blinked. He never asked about her duties, friends, or colleagues. “I did.”
“When you see him next, invite him for dinner.”
Dorothy removed her tricorn Wrens cap and set it on the coatrack. Of all the people for him to latch on to. “Papa, really. I don’t want him to think I’m interested in him.”
“I don’t see why not. He’s a nice-looking chap, I suppose.”
She smoothed her hair. “If I liked the quiet sort, but I don’t. Besides, you don’t want me to fall in love with an American and move to the wilds of Texas. No more of this silly talk.”
Papa marched to his study. “Invite him.”
She had no intention of doing so.
Upstairs in her bedroom, she removed her uniform and put on an old tweed skirt and a thick creamy Scottish jumper with patched elbows, perfect for an evening with paint and easel in a chilly house.
Then she sat at her writing desk and read Mr. Montague’s letter.
I hesitated to contact you, but I have little recourse. The company has been losing money over the last year or so, although business has been good. Rumors are circulating that someone is embezzling.
On the rare occasions that your father comes to the office, he is occupied with correspondence and I have little time to review the financial situation. When I do, he denies there is a problem.
I’m afraid someone will call an investigator. If there is wrongdoing, we could lose our contracts with the crown, which would ruin the company. I wish to resolve this situation quietly before a scandal breaks.
If you have any influence, I beg you to persuade him to return to his duties. Then he will see how dire the situation is and open a discreet investigation.
Please do not mention this letter to him. You may reply at this address. If you’d like, we can meet for tea to discuss the matter.
“Oh, Papa.” Dorothy leaned back in her chair and pressed her hand to her stomach. If his company failed, it would destroy him. If a scandal broke, it would kill him.
But what could she do? He scorned her nagging, and she couldn’t discuss the matter with him without admitting Mr. Montague had written her. Papa would be incensed at his manager’s interference and would fire him. Then the company would be in even worse shape.
Since she couldn’t reply to the letter in her unsettled state, she hid it in her desk drawer.
In the hallway, she leaned over the railing. Downstairs, pale light emerged from under the door to Papa’s study, and her heart churned for her father.
How could she have any influence over him when he had no regard for her?
In the room she and her brothers had called the conservatory, she pulled on a paint-splattered smock and readied her supplies. She could do nothing for her father.
As a young girl, she would have prayed, her heart open and expectant.
Shades of brown and gray mixed on her palette, and she applied them to the canvas in stark, heavy strokes.
In those days, she’d believed the parish rector, a man with a glowing countenance, who talked about the Lord with boundless enthusiasm. She’d believed him, believed the Lord loved plump, freckled, loud little Dolly Fairfax.
Her youthful artwork had been filled with nonsense like fairies and ferns and flowers, all done in bright watercolors, the colors as wispy and naïve as her faith.
A tiny squeeze of red paint onto her palette, mixed with a dash of black and yellow.
Since the Blitz she’d favored oil paints, opaque and real. Now her stock was running low, and oil paints were dear with all the shortages.
Dorothy studied her painting. Once again, the subject was the house outside Vierville. This rendition was at dusk, muted and shadowy. The house stood off-kilter, with a scarlet hue in the windows. She hadn’t decided if it was the glint from the sunset—or from a fire inside. She only knew it was red.
With the back of her hand, she rubbed her forehead.
This was her reality. The land she’d roamed occupied by the enemy. The house soon to be leveled by her allies. Her family shattered.
She was alone and unloved, without even faith to sustain her.
More red in the windows, but it blurred in her vision and she pressed her forearm over her mouth and nose to stifle the sudden sob.
What had gotten into her? “Nonsense. Chin up.”
She hadn’t given the Lord a second thought in ages, so why now?
More gray—more gray on the roof, the roof that was about to be blown to smithereens by naval shells.
She stood up straighter. Wyatt Paxton.
He talked about the Lord the same way the rector did, as if God cared. While Dorothy could dismiss the rector’s faith due to his happy life, she couldn’t dismiss Wyatt’s faith the same way.
He’d lost his family as surely as she’d lost hers, with sin and personal failing on top, yet his faith remained.
Dorothy tore off her smock, balled it up, and tossed it into the corner, where it pinged off a string on Gil’s Spanish guitar. Once this room had resounded with music and Shakespearean lines and spirited discussions over paint and canvas.
But not tonight, and never again.
Wyatt had lost his family by choice. She hadn�
�t.
6
London
Tuesday, February 1, 1944
“Wish I had that report,” Rudy Geier said. “I’d love to review it.”
Wyatt turned right onto Grosvenor Square. If Geier had put any work into the report, he wouldn’t need to review it. “Even if you had it, you couldn’t read it in public.”
Geier laughed. “See? That’s why we make a great team.”
Team didn’t seem like the right word when Wyatt had written a good 90 percent of that report, but he only raised an eyebrow to ask for clarification.
Geier knifed his arm toward the gigantic block of buildings at 19 Grosvenor Square, longer than a football field. “You’re like this. Every brick neat and in order. You’re good with regulations and tables and charts, all those fussy little details.”
Funny how the man made a compliment sound insulting. “Thanks.”
“I’m like this.” Geier swept his other arm toward the park that filled the square. Trees towered over green grass under a blue sky speckled with clouds. “Wide open, unplanned. I’m good with people, making connections, building bridges.”
“We do have different strengths.”
Pale blue eyes shone in the sunshine, and Geier clapped Wyatt on the back. “That’s why we make a great team.”
Wyatt smiled. True. Every man like Geier needed a man like Wyatt to do his work for him.
“Did you have a good weekend?” Geier could be plenty friendly when Marino wasn’t around.
“Sure. Jack and I looked around near the Tower of London and St. Paul’s Cathedral.”
“No hot dates?”
“Nope. How about you?”
“Sure did.” They entered the white-columned façade of 19 Grosvenor Square and removed their covers. As they traipsed down the hallway, Geier chattered about his date with a British girl he’d met on the Underground.
Last week Wyatt had considered asking Dorothy out. She intrigued him, so cheerful and strong despite all she’d lost. Although her father barely paid her any mind, she looked after him with care that seemed born of affection not duty.
He climbed the stairs, awful fancy for an office building.
Where could he have taken Dorothy anyway? He couldn’t spend money on a date. That’d be stealing from Clay all over again. And a man without funds had no business asking out a woman like Dorothy Fairfax.
