by Sarah Sundin
Lawrence chuckled. “I reminded Julia of that. I do wish all women could be as modern-minded as you.”
“Thank you.” But her pleasure at his compliment dissolved. She’d given him permission to see as many women as he wanted, hadn’t she? Why did romance have to be so complicated?
They rounded the corner. A dark-haired American naval officer closed a door in the passageway before them.
“Good evening, Commander Marino.”
He smiled and shook Lawrence’s hand. “Good evening, Lieutenant Commander Eaton.”
“May I introduce Second Officer Fairfax?”
“We’ve already met.” He shook Dorothy’s hand. “Can’t tell you how much we appreciate the work your department does. It really helps.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Any word from your boys down at Slapton Sands?” Lawrence asked. “I certainly hope they’re doing better with Exercise Beaver than with Fox.”
“Much better.” Marino rubbed the back of his neck. “I sent Mr. Paxton this time, and he did a bang-up job. Hit two of the targets right on the nose.”
Dorothy couldn’t restrain her smile. Oh, good for Wyatt.
Lawrence cocked his head to the side. “Paxton? Is he new? I haven’t met him.”
She blinked at him. Wyatt had been in the intelligence office several times a week for almost three months.
“Sure, you have. He’s quiet, but don’t make the mistake of overlooking him as I did.” Commander Marino shook his head and closed his eyes.
Thank goodness he’d seen Wyatt’s merits. Dorothy smiled at Lawrence. “You’ve met him. Tall, sandy hair, has a Texas accent.”
“Oh yes.” Lawrence nodded. “I suppose cowboys do know a thing or two about shooting.”
Commander Marino’s smile flattened.
Lawrence had sounded a bit condescending, but Dorothy didn’t dare give him the reprimanding scowl he deserved. Instead, she grasped her chance to escape before Old Blissy could see them together again. “Excuse me, gentlemen. I must run. Good evening.”
After they said good-bye, she strode toward the main staircase.
What smashing good news. Bully for Wyatt. Commander Marino would never overlook him again. And if the training exercise was over, he’d return to London soon.
She trotted down the stairs. She couldn’t wait to congratulate him. He’d smile, but he’d duck his chin in that modest way of his. What a good man.
A little trill in her chest, similar to when she’d danced with him.
Dorothy paused, her hand curled around the banister, her breath snared in her lungs. Yes, he was a good man and an attractive man, but not for her. They were friends, dear friends, but nothing more.
He wasn’t the right kind of man for her, and she must never fall for an American and leave Papa.
A hint of Lawrence’s voice drifted down the stairs, and she glanced up. Now that her hope with him had been renewed, why would she want anyone else?
21
Hyde Park, London
Sunday, April 9, 1944
Wyatt strolled through Hyde Park with Mr. Fairfax, Dorothy, and Bonnie Prince Charlie. He’d rather have Dorothy right by his side than her father, but how could he complain on an Easter afternoon with a full dinner in his belly and the smell of flowers tickling his nose?
No complaints at all. Even though Exercise Beaver had revealed problems with communication and organization, Wyatt had succeeded and Commander Marino had praised his work.
Now Commander Marino, Wyatt, and Slobodsky—whom Wyatt liked immensely—were busy divvying up targets for the individual warships. The US task force would start arriving in a few weeks, and they’d need to be trained and briefed.
“I can’t help but think of William Wordsworth.” Dorothy leaned over and trailed her fingers over a patch of yellow daffodils, setting them bobbing. “‘I wandered lonely as a cloud that floats on high o’er vales and hills, when all at once I saw a crowd, a host, of golden daffodils; beside the lake, beneath the trees, fluttering and dancing in the breeze.’”
Wyatt smiled at the back of her head. She was as bright as those flowers, breaking up the loneliness of his life the past few years.
She straightened up. “That’s an unfashionably sentimental poem nowadays, but I loved it as a child.”
Wyatt shrugged. “If it’s unfashionable to enjoy God’s creation, count me out.”
Mr. Fairfax led Charlie around a Victorian statue of a boy with a large fish, and then down a path out of the sunken garden. “Onward.”
Dorothy fell in on her father’s left. Wyatt didn’t have room on her left, so he fell in to the right.
When Mr. Fairfax had asked to accompany them to church that morning, Dorothy looked shocked. Since they weren’t meeting with Mr. Montague that afternoon, it worked out fine. But Wyatt was torn. The man needed to be at church too, but if he came along in the future, what excuse could Wyatt and Dorothy give to leave him and go to his office?
Gray clouds threatened showers, and Wyatt frowned at them. Last Sunday’s investigation hadn’t turned up any leads, and a nasty suspicion hung as heavy as the overcast. Why couldn’t the accountants at Fairfax & Sons find the leak? Why couldn’t Wyatt? And why did Mr. Fairfax insist there wasn’t a problem? What if he was involved?
Wyatt stifled a groan. How could he think such things?
“I do love Hyde Park on Easter, don’t you, Papa?” Dorothy reached up to a low-hanging tree branch. “Such lovely memories.”
Mr. Fairfax grunted, and his eyelid twitched.
As always, these two broke Wyatt’s heart. Dorothy wanted to reclaim her lost family through memories, and Mr. Fairfax wanted to forget. Both grieving in different, clashing ways.
The path led through a tunnel of tall trees, with open fields to the right.
“I used to love the Easter Parade here.” Dorothy turned in a little circle as she walked. “Mum and I decorated our Easter bonnets with as many fresh flowers as they could bear. Then we’d watch the others in their finery. I’m so tired of this war. It’s beastly to wear navy blue on Easter—and these horrid black stockings.”
Wouldn’t she cut a pretty picture in a flowery dress, silk stockings, and her hair flowing free? “Well, I think you look pretty in uniform.”
“Thank you.” She gave him a polite smile as if he’d given the compliment only to be courteous. She didn’t know how much he meant it.
“She doesn’t need frippery anyway.” Mr. Fairfax clucked his tongue and pulled Charlie away from something questionable on the path.
Dorothy leaned around her father and smiled at Wyatt. “Papa never had patience for fashions and flowers. While Mum and I pranced around in our bonnets, he and the boys always stole away to find a cricket match.”
Pain zinged across Mr. Fairfax’s face, but then he turned to Wyatt and his face cleared. “You don’t happen to play cricket, do you, son?”
Son? Again? Wyatt held his breath and ventured a look at Dorothy, but she kept smiling, so he relaxed. “Afraid not. But I do play a mean game of baseball.”
Mr. Fairfax turned right onto a path across the open fields, and he flapped his hand. “Bah. Baseball. Barbaric game, all about power and speed. Now cricket is a game of finesse and accuracy. You play with your mind, not brute strength.”
Wyatt chuckled. “You’d be surprised. A lot of strategy in baseball, a lot of psychology, reading the other players’ minds.”
He’d been a solid player in high school, a reliable heavy hitter and a consistent second baseman. Not the star Adler turned out to be, but at least Wyatt had his time in the sun before his younger brother smashed his records.
“We’ll have to teach you cricket.” Mr. Fairfax gestured to men playing in an open spot between two antiaircraft batteries. “A fine sport.”
“Ah, what could be finer than hitting a home run?” Wyatt swung an imaginary bat. “Hearing the crack, watching the ball soar, seeing the infielders gawk, the outfielders run and jump an
d flail? Now that’s a fine feeling. Y’all don’t know what you’re missing.”
“Yanks.” Mr. Fairfax’s eyes glowed with the joy of a good argument.
As they crossed the field, the man explained cricket with his face lit up. Lots of talk about wickets and pitches and creases and bowlers. Complicated game, but intriguing. Wyatt asked plenty of questions to keep him talking, to keep Dorothy smiling.
His protective urge was satisfied. Wyatt might not be able to heal the Paxtons, but befriending the Fairfax family gave him a taste of redemption.
They followed the path into another clump of trees. A silver band of water shimmered just beyond.
“Do you suppose the ducklings will be out?” Dorothy asked.
“Ducklings.” Mr. Fairfax’s face brightened again, in a soft, nostalgic sort of way.
“Let’s go see, Papa.”
Even Charlie’s ears perked up.
Wyatt laughed. “Doesn’t Charlie chase them away?”
“Oh no.” Dorothy shuddered in mock offense. “As a member of His Majesty’s Royal Highlanders, he knows all ducks are loyal British subjects.”
“So only the squirrels are Nazis.”
Dorothy tipped her head to one side. “Possibly the geese. He hasn’t quite decided. He growls at them to let them know he’s watching.”
Wyatt smiled down at the alert little dog. “Carry on, Highlander.”
A whole bunch of pathways intersected in a hub straight ahead, and Wyatt stepped behind Mr. Fairfax to let the crowds pass.
From the left, a group of American airmen sauntered in front of them onto the path, wearing crush caps and waist-length olive drab jackets with the Eighth Air Force patch on the sleeve.
A trio of British girls strolled past in floral dresses, and the airmen whistled and called out, all but two pilots, the lone gentlemen of the group.
“Typical Yanks.” Dorothy cast Wyatt a teasing glance over her shoulder.
He would have chuckled, but there was something about one of the pilots, the taller of the two who hadn’t whistled. Something about the set of his shoulders and hips, something about his walk, something about the way he shook his blond head when his buddies ribbed him for not flirting.
Something about the throaty laugh that tumbled back to him through the air, through the years.
His blood froze into icicles prickling all his veins.
Adler.
No, it couldn’t be. Adler was home helping with the business. It was vital to the war effort, so he wouldn’t be drafted.
“Wyatt? What’s the matter?” Dorothy asked. “Wyatt?”
His name? No! Not his name.
“Shh!” He pressed his finger to his lips, wheeled around, and marched away. There—a bubbler. He leaned over it, his breath galloping.
“I don’t trust those contraptions,” Mr. Fairfax said. “Don’t seem quite hygienic.”
Wyatt didn’t take a drink. He gripped the sides of the basin. A rusty stain darkened the stone around the drain, and a drop of water plopped down, splattering on the drain shield.
“Wyatt?” Dorothy’s small hand settled on his shoulder. “Are you—are you all right?”
He was making a fool of himself, but he couldn’t stand tall, couldn’t look at her, couldn’t speak.
“He looks pale,” Mr. Fairfax said. “Perhaps Mrs. Bromley used a bad bit of cream in the sauce.”
Wyatt shook his head, heavy and slow. Adler would be long gone, but it took a few breaths for Wyatt to gather words. “I think I just—I just saw my brother. Adler.”
“You did?” Dorothy squeezed his shoulder. “Maybe it’s a sign. You can make up.”
“No!” He stood straight, dislodging her hand and looking down into her stunned face, as close as when they were dancing. “Not now. I’m not ready.”
Her expression softened. “Because you haven’t paid off your debt?”
Wyatt sneaked a glance over his shoulder. No sign of those airmen, thank goodness. “I can never pay off that debt. I’m responsible for the death of the woman he loved.”
“It was an accident, and you know it.”
“I know. But he doesn’t.”
“Are you sure?” She gave him a small, sad smile. “What if he realizes it was an accident now? What if he’s aching to tell you he’s forgiven you? What if he wants to apologize for blaming you, for trying to kill you?”
His cheek twitched the length of the scar. “I doubt it.”
“Poor, sweet Wyatt.” That tiny hand patted his forearm. “You talk about God forgiving you, but you can’t forgive yourself.”
His mouth opened to tell her it was about Adler forgiving him, about Clay forgiving him, not about forgiving himself, but the words crumbled on his tongue.
She was right.
His eyes slammed shut, and he groaned.
“Didn’t the rector talk about that this morning?” Her voice was so soft and low. “How we try to atone for our own sins, but how Christ made the ultimate atonement and we can do nothing. We don’t need to.”
This desperate need to pay off every penny. This drive to heal and reconcile. This self-flagellation of depriving himself, of isolating himself from his family.
He gripped the basin so hard the pebbles hurt his fingers. Deep inside it bothered him that God had let him off the hook so easily. He didn’t deserve such mercy. So he’d put himself right back on that hook, punishing himself, as Jack kept saying.
He was trying to pay the price Jesus had already paid.
But how could he forgive himself for what he’d done?
On the other hand, how could he not?
“Lord, I’m sorry,” he muttered. “Forgive me for trying to do your job. Help me forgive myself.”
Tree branches rustled overhead. Children’s laughter floated toward him. Charlie snuffled in the grass. Dorothy’s hand lay gentle on his arm. And the stone warmed in his touch.
Mr. Fairfax cleared his throat. Not loud, not rude, just getting his attention. Wyatt needed to pull himself together.
He drew a deep breath. He’d thought he was helping Dorothy spiritually by coaxing her to church. Yet she was the one who’d spoken God’s truth today.
Wyatt opened his eyes. Dorothy looked up at him with compassion and conviction, her lips bent with a bit of amused understanding.
So kissable.
If her father weren’t there . . .
But he was. And Wyatt didn’t have the right.
Instead, he covered her hand with his own, squeezed, and let go. “Thanks.”
Then he spun to Mr. Fairfax and spread his arms wide. “Didn’t you promise to show me some ducklings? Can’t be as cute as the ducks in Texas, mind you, but I’ll give them a chance.”
Mr. Fairfax chuckled. “Why we let you braggarts onto our island, I’ll never know.”
“Haven’t you heard? We’re here to win the war for y’all.” Then he winked to let them know he was kidding.
Dorothy walked backward toward the lake, beckoning with her finger. “Your misguided sense of superiority will dissolve when you see English ducklings. Utterly adorable.”
He followed, completely dissolved. Utterly adorable. And wise and funny and wonderful. Yes, she was.
22
Kensington
Sunday, April 16, 1944
Dorothy turned onto her street. “I’m sorry Mr. Montague couldn’t meet us until after lunch, Wyatt. I hate to waste your entire Sunday.”
He shrugged. “I don’t mind.”
“Papa won’t mind either. He’ll be glad to have more time with you, especially since we won’t be in London much longer.” Her stomach clenched.
“I don’t have my orders yet, but it’ll be soon.”
“I don’t either.” Allied Naval Expeditionary Force Headquarters would soon transfer to battle headquarters near Portsmouth.
“Your dad will be fine.” Wyatt’s voice was so soothing.
Dorothy gave him a grateful smile and opened the door. “Papa!
I’m home, and Wyatt’s with me.” That ought to bring him running.
Only silence greeted her.
“Here’s a note.” Wyatt picked up a slip of paper from the table. “He’s gone to the park to feed the ducks. He took Charlie.”
“Feed the ducks?” Dorothy snatched the note and read it herself. “How wonderful. He hasn’t done that in years. It used to be his favorite pastime.” How Mum had needled him about it. Such a dull hobby, she insisted. But it made Papa so happy.
“It’s good he went, then. You see? He’ll be fine.”
She clutched the note to her chest. “You’re good for him.”
Wyatt lowered his chin and mumbled something unintelligible.
“You are. Since you’ve been visiting, he’s eating better, he’s going to the office three or four days a week, and now he’s feeding the ducks.”
“Shucks. It’s not me. You know what they say about time healing all wounds.”
Such sweet modesty. “I wish I had that effect on him. I tried—”
“Hey, now.” He locked his gaze on her. “You’re a good daughter. No one could be better for him. He may not see it now, but he’ll come to his senses.”
Even another twenty-four years was unlikely to shift her father’s affections. She glanced around the empty house. “Well. We have two hours before lunch. What shall we do?”
“What would you normally do with two free hours?”
“Paint, but you don’t seem like the artistic sort.”
“Nope, but you could show me your work. I like the sketches you do at headquarters.”
“My paintings are rather awful.” She wrinkled her nose and headed up the stairs. “But you’ll like the conservatory.”
“I’m sure I will.” He followed her upstairs. “A lot of floors. Everything in London is tall and narrow.”
“And in Texas?”
“Wide and open.” He stretched out his arms. “Our house is two stories, but all spread out with a big old wraparound porch and plenty of land.”
“You miss it, don’t you?”
“Sure, but London’s grown on me. I love it here.”
Dorothy opened the door to the conservatory. “Oh bother. It’s awfully stuffy. I usually keep the door open this time of year. The dormer windows let in the sun.”
