by Sarah Sundin
Wyatt stepped inside and smiled around the crowded room. “Conservatory, huh?”
“It started as our playroom, but our toys changed as we grew older.”
He removed his jacket and cap, tossed them on a chair, and circled the room, passing the profusion of art supplies, musical instruments, and insect collections. He paused in the corner. “Whose guitar?”
“Gil’s. He picked it up on a school holiday in Spain before the Civil War.”
Wyatt squatted in front of it and stroked the wood. “Beautiful. Great workmanship. Must have nice tone.”
“Do you play?”
“Mm-hmm.” He stood and gazed at the wall. “These your paintings?”
Why did she keep those old things up? “I painted those when I was young. Nothing but fairies and ferns and flowers. Pure poppycock.”
Wyatt sank his hands in his trouser pockets and tilted his head. “I like them. They’re bright and happy.”
Too much so. “I liked watercolors then, so sheer and ephemeral. But they’re naïve.”
“Naïve? A young girl should be naïve.”
“But a woman needs to grow up. That’s when I started using oils.” She knelt by the canvases stacked against the wall and flipped through them.
Wyatt knelt beside her. “After the Blitz?”
Black buildings, red fires, jagged ruins. “I prefer oils, the density, the truthfulness.”
“Truthfulness?”
She stared at the painting of a façade piercing the sky and the black crater beyond, where her mother and her mother’s friend had been reduced to ash by an incendiary bomb while sipping tea. Only Mum’s handbag and hat by the door had survived.
Dorothy’s jaw ached. “Truthfulness. Oils show the world the way it is. Watercolors show the world the way we want it to be.”
“I don’t know.” Wyatt frowned at the painting overhead with its patch of golden daffodils. “That’s truthful too. Those up there—light and joy and life. These down here—darkness and ruin and death. One isn’t truer than another. Just different aspects of truth.”
Her mind reeled, and she stared at him.
His gaze settled on her, his eyes blending blue and gray. “When times are dark, it’s hard to see the light, but it doesn’t mean the light is less real.”
There was truth in his words, in the rector’s words, in the Scriptures—the painful truth of the sun hitting night-shadowed eyes.
“In Psalm 139 . . .” She swallowed away the rasp in her voice and fingered the blackest black in her painting. “It says, ‘Yea, the darkness hideth not from thee; but the night shineth as the day: the darkness and the light are both alike to thee.’”
“You read more of it.” Pleasure lent even more music to his drawl.
Too much light hurt, so she pushed to standing. “Would you like to see what I’m working on now?” Her voice sounded tight and unnatural.
“Sure.”
She whisked off her jacket, donned a paint-dappled smock, and studied her easel. “Thank goodness I had a good stock of paper and canvas before the war, but I’m running low on oil paints.”
Wyatt stood behind her. “I like it.”
“I’m experimenting.” She dipped a brush into a cup of water, then swirled it in emerald green. “I do the basic work in watercolors—I have plenty of those. After it dries, I add accents in oil. Quite improper, mixing media, but I rather like the effect.”
“The real and the ideal together.” He reached around her and ran a finger down a streak of brown oil paint on the roof. “And you’re letting in the light. I like it.”
His chest had to be mere inches from her back, and warmth tingled between them. A naughty impulse made her want to lean back into his security, but everything reasonable inside told her to lean forward, away.
She couldn’t move, paralyzed between impulse and reason.
“Say, it’s your house in Normandy,” he said. “In Vierville.”
“Yes.” Her voice squeaked. She leaned away and added more leaves to the tree.
“Well.” He stepped to the side. “Since you’re painting, mind if I play the guitar?”
Dorothy’s brush paused above the tree branches where she’d climbed with her brothers. Music hadn’t graced the room for years. “That would be lovely. Will you play a cowboy tune?”
“If you’d like, but I’m fixing to play something Latin.”
“All right.”
After he fetched the guitar from the corner, he sat on a stool a few feet in front of her. He wiggled down the knot on his black tie and unbuttoned the top button of his white shirt. “My Pawpaw Ramirez taught me the guitar, Uncle Emilio taught Adler the trumpet, and Mama taught Clay the violin.”
When he rolled up his sleeves, revealing his thick forearms, Dorothy added yet more leaves. Simply because he was an extraordinarily attractive man didn’t mean he was the right man for her. “Did you ever play with your brothers?”
“Sure.” He plucked strings and twisted the tuning knobs. “We played in a trio, the Gringo Mariachis, we called ourselves. Gringo means white boy, and not in a nice way.”
“Oh? Were you any good?”
“Not bad for gringos, they’d say. Which means, yeah, we were good.” He flashed a quick smile. “It’s been a while, so don’t expect much.”
“Gil only tinkered. Even if you’re out of practice, that poor guitar is thrilled to be played.”
“Hope so. Has real nice tone.” He plucked out an intricate rhythm. “Recognize the song?”
It sounded vaguely familiar, beautiful and exotic. The Americans and their big bands did like the Latin tunes. “What’s the title?”
“‘Bésame Mucho.’ Know what that means?”
“No. I don’t speak Spanish.”
“Good.” He flicked her a little smile, and then he sang.
Oh my, did he sing, cradling the neck of the guitar, crooning to the instrument, the Spanish words caressing the air, rumbling low in her belly, the high notes trembling in her heart.
And Wyatt? This was the same quiet naval officer who precisely filled in his tables and charts. But now with his sleeves rolled up, his fingers dancing over the strings, his voice full of passion, his eyes closed as he lost himself in his music. Oh my. More thrilling than all Lawrence’s kisses combined—and Wyatt hadn’t even touched her.
Goodness, what had come over her? She wrenched her gaze to her palette and dabbed some color or another onto the canvas, everything a blur.
She loved Lawrence. Didn’t she? Well, maybe not love. She didn’t know him well enough to love him. But for over a decade he’d been her ideal man with his witty words, debonair looks, and love of adventure.
Everyone always said Dorothy was just like her mother. And Mum always said Dorothy should never settle for safety but should strive for a man like Lawrence who’d provide the excitement she craved. Mum had been miserable, and she didn’t want Dorothy to suffer the same fate.
Lawrence was the right kind of man for her. So why were things so very difficult with him? Why were things so easy with Wyatt?
The timbre of Wyatt’s voice changed, and she glanced up.
He looked right at her, belting out the title phrase, his eyes hooded as if—as if he longed for her.
No, it couldn’t be. He was a friend, a dear friend, but only a friend.
She focused on her painting, although nothing made sense. He was only a friend.
A friend who volunteered to spend every Sunday with her. A friend she could always be herself with. A friend who knew all her secrets and had told her all of his.
Or had he? Was he becoming infatuated with her?
Nonsense. No one had ever loved her but her brothers. And he knew she was set on Lawrence. Wyatt was the old-fashioned sort who wouldn’t flirt with another man’s girlfriend.
Except she wasn’t Lawrence’s girlfriend. He was involved with several women, and Wyatt knew it.
The music changed to another Latin-flavored song, and
Wyatt stopped singing.
After Dorothy composed herself and her vision cleared, she inspected her painting.
In the grass—tiny splotches of purple, white, yellow. Wildflowers? When was the last time she’d painted a flower? Part of her wanted to paint over them, but they looked right. Not naïve, but another part of the truth.
“I’m getting the hang of it again.” Wyatt held up one hand. “But I miss my calluses.”
“It sounds very good.” Remarkably, so did her voice.
Something wistful passed over his face. “Sounded better with Adler and Clay.”
In that room, she felt the same wistfulness. “I miss Art and Gil too.”
“I know. I’m glad you were still close when they—when they were killed.”
She was too. How could she endure it if they’d been estranged like the Paxton brothers?
“You know . . .” Wyatt strummed a slow tune. “I was convinced my brothers weren’t in danger. Then I saw Adler last week. Airmen—they don’t live long.”
He was on the right path, but she sensed he needed a little push. “What if he dies before you have a chance to apologize? Or what if . . . what if something happened to you?”
“I doubt they’d mind. Plus, my life insurance would wipe out my debt.”
How could he not see? “Wyatt, they haven’t had a chance to forgive you. If something happened to you, they’d never have that chance. They’d have to live with that the rest of their lives. I couldn’t endure it if my brothers had died when we weren’t on good terms. Please think about it, think about contacting them.”
Wyatt strummed the guitar, his lips tucked in, his brow creased.
Dorothy turned to her easel and added a few strokes of dark gold to the grass.
“You’re a wise woman.” His voice sounded husky.
“Oh, I don’t know about that.”
“And a good friend.”
His smile was so affectionate, she had to return it. “You’re a good friend too.” She’d only known him . . . three months now. How had he become such an important part of her life?
He lowered his chin and picked out a new tune. “Say, I’ve been thinking. I won’t be in London much longer, and I’ve never taken in a big show, had a fancy dinner.”
Dorothy’s mind whirled. He was going to ask her out. Oh no. She couldn’t step out with him, but how could she reject him? If only she could find an escape that wouldn’t hurt him. Then she found it. “That’s awfully expensive, and you’re so close to paying off your debt.”
“I refuse to punish myself any longer. And sometimes a fellow has to splurge.” His Adam’s apple dipped and rose. “I was wondering—”
“Oh! You can’t go alone, can you? I’ll help you find a date.”
His eyes widened with shock, then darkened with understanding.
She pretended not to notice, although pain squished her heart. “I know just the girl—Louise.”
“Lou—Louise?”
“Third Officer Randall in intelligence. She’s the right sort of woman for you—quiet and serious and very sweet. You’ll get on famously.”
Wyatt cranked one of the tuning keys. “I barely know her.”
“Silly goose. That’s why you go out, so you can get acquainted.”
“That’s not how I do things.” His voice was stiff.
She’d hurt his feelings, but it was necessary. He wasn’t the right man for her, and besides . . . “Maybe you shouldn’t get involved with an English girl anyway. Many of us don’t wish to leave the country. Many of us aren’t free to do so.”
He shot her a look, then blinked and returned to his music. “True.”
Her breath eased out. He understood better than anyone that she could never leave her father. He wouldn’t ask her out again.
She frowned at the patch of dry grass she’d just painted. Whenever she thought Lawrence wouldn’t ask her out again, she was filled with grasping desperation. But with Wyatt, it was a sad sense of loss.
“What shall I play next? Any requests?” He gave her a confident, nonchalant look.
What a good friend he was. “You haven’t played a cowboy song.”
“All right, then.” He started a new rhythm, lazy and rocking, and he bobbed his head as he sang “Jingle, Jangle, Jingle.”
Dorothy smiled and turned her attention to the house in the painting. The lyrics spoke of a cowboy who loved being single. Wyatt must have asked her out on a passing whim.
Thank goodness, because she didn’t know what she’d do without their friendship.
23
Allied Naval Expeditionary Force Headquarters
Norfolk House
Monday, April 24, 1944
Wyatt dodged sailors toting boxes down the passageways of Norfolk House. Adm. Sir Bertram Ramsay, the Allied Naval Commander, had issued the naval orders for Operation Neptune that morning, and his headquarters was packing to move to Portsmouth on the southern coast.
He had to find Dorothy and say good-bye, say what he hadn’t been ready to say the day before. The last two visits to Fairfax & Sons hadn’t yielded leads, only suspicions he’d never be able to investigate.
He entered her office. There she was, directing Wrens as they removed photographs from the huge wall map.
The aching sensation hadn’t left him in the week since she’d shot him down. At least she’d interrupted him before he’d actually asked her out and made a bigger fool of himself. That courtesy allowed them to maintain their friendship with minimal strain.
The more he thought about it, the more he knew it was for the best. After today, he didn’t know when—or if—he’d see her again. And how could he ask her to start a relationship that might pull her away from her father permanently?
Why did he always fall in love with women who weren’t available?
Dorothy smiled and waved. “Good day, Lieutenant Paxton. Come to help us pack?”
“If you’d like.” He ambled over. “My train doesn’t leave until 1500.”
“Good.” She examined the wall. “That’s all, ladies. Let’s take the boxes down to the lorry.” She plunked a box in Wyatt’s arms and picked up another. “Follow me.”
“Aye aye, ma’am. When’s your train?” He followed her into the crowded passageway.
“Tomorrow afternoon. Headquarters opens at Southwick House on Wednesday. Tonight I pack and—and say good-bye to Papa.” Her voice quivered.
“He’ll be fine. He’s doing much better. And the Little Blitz seems to be over.”
She glanced over her shoulder, and worry zigzagged across her forehead. “But will he continue to do well after you leave, after I leave? We’ll be gone over a month.”
He steeled himself. “Actually, I doubt I’ll be back. That’s why I came today, to say good-bye.”
She faced him by the railing overlooking the staircase, her blue eyes enormous. “To me? But I’ll see you in Portsmouth.”
Wyatt took in every one of her facial features, committing them to memory. “The Western Naval Task Force is based in Plymouth. That’s where I’m going, then straight out to sea for a training exercise. After that the American destroyers should be here, and I’ll get assigned to one. Then . . . well, you know what’s coming.”
“But—but afterward—afterward you’ll return to London, won’t you?” Her eyes. How could he take it?
“We’ll be on the far shore a while, gunfire support, antisubmarine patrols, all that. When we’re done, I’ll get new orders. Don’t know where they’ll send me.”
The emotions on her face took him back to her conservatory when he was playing guitar, the connection that fooled him into thinking she might have feelings for him beyond friendship. It was only friendship, but it had been a good one.
“Oh.” Her voice squeaked. “I’ll miss you.”
“I’ll miss you too.” Everything in him wanted to ask her to write, but the sooner he got over her, the better. He kept women too long in his heart as it was.
Two Wrens passed them.
Wyatt adjusted his grip on the box and tilted his head to the stairs. “We should get—”
“Yes, we should.” She headed downstairs.
Rats, he still had to tell her. But how could he without breaking her heart?
Outside, a truck sat parked by the curb. Wyatt hoisted his box inside, then Dorothy’s box, and a sailor stacked them.
Wyatt backed out of the way and turned to Dorothy. “Listen, I feel bad I won’t be able to do any more investigating.”
She blinked. “Oh yes. I hadn’t thought of that.”
“I’m sorry. I let you down and Mr. Montague too.”
“Nonsense. You did your best. You simply didn’t have enough time.”
“I don’t know if more time would have helped.” He lifted empty palms. “Everything’s clean. All I have is a couple of hunches.”
“Hunches? You didn’t say anything yesterday.”
“Thought I might have another Sunday. Then today I got my orders.”
Dorothy clasped her hands in front of her stomach. “What are your hunches?”
Wyatt tilted his head toward the north. “There’s something about the Edinburgh office. The budget is out of proportion to its size. Don’t know how I could have gotten up to Scotland to look at those books though.”
“I’ll mention it to Mr. Montague. What’s the other hunch?”
“You won’t like it.” He took her arm and guided her to the wall, far from the other sailors and Wrens.
“I won’t like it? What do you mean?”
Wyatt’s stomach balled up. “Because everything’s clean, it looks like the embezzlement is coming from pretty high up. The head of accounting, Mr. Montague . . . your father.”
Her face went white. “My father?”
“I know. I don’t like it either. But I doubt it’s Mr. Montague, since he’s the one who’s investigating. And remember, your dad denies there’s a problem and he didn’t want Mr. Montague to look into it.”
“How could you say such things?” Dorothy tugged her arm from his grasp, but she kept her voice low. “He extended hospitality to you.”
