The Unsung Hero

by Suzanne Brockmann

  Cybele.

  Slight and slender. Gleaming brown hair tumbled down around her shoulders. Deep brown eyes that had seen such sorrow and pain, eyes that seemed to beg a man to run away with her, to escape, if only for a moment, for a heartbeat. . . .

  “You can’t give me the only thing I’ve ever wanted,” Joe said softly. He sat back in his chair, staring out at the ocean, but this time when Charles glanced at him, he knew Joe saw nothing. Joe was lost in the vibrancy of a nearly sixty-year-old recollection that was more vivid and distinct than the already cloudy memory of yesterday’s chess game in the hotel lobby.

  Who had won, anyway? Damned if he knew.

  Charles looked down at the Walther, and he, too, could almost see Cybele’s slender, work-roughened hands. He could practically see her slipping the gun into the pocket of her apron or tucking it into a pouch she wore just inside the waistband of her skirt.

  He could see Cybele’s eyes, her face wet with tears. Cybele, who never cried. She’d cried that one time, though. Cried as if her heart were breaking.

  Another of the Resistance fighters, a man named Lague, had been killed, and the Jewish children hiding in his attic had been taken away by the Nazis.

  And Cybele had wept, silently now.

  Joe had tried to hold her. He’d tried to comfort her.

  “It won’t be long now before the war is over,” Joe told Cybele as Charles had stood awkwardly in the kitchen, uncertain of whether to go or stay, wanting . . . what?

  To hold her himself, the way he’d held her that afternoon in the alley behind the bakery. He wanted to lose himself again in the intoxicating sensation of her hands in his hair, her leg wrapped around his. He wanted to feel her body straining against his. He wanted to rid them both of this pain and anguish by the simplest of solutions. It seemed so obvious. What they’d felt in that alley had been good, despite all the complexities and confusion. It had been very, very good. What they were feeling right now, with Cybele on the floor, weeping as if her very soul was wounded, was bad. Very, very bad. They could have pleasure. Or no pleasure. And watching her cry was definitely no kind of pleasure.

  But of course it couldn’t be that easy.

  “The Americans have landed in France,” Joe told her, desperately trying to give her hope when it was so painfully obvious that the last of her hope had gone. “It’s only a matter of time—months, weeks—before Ste.-Hélène will be free from the Nazis once and for all.”

  “And then what, Guiseppe?” Cybele asked quietly. “When the Germans have gone, when there’s no one left to fight, what then? What will I do? Where will I go? Will I stay here in this empty house, alone with the ghosts of my husband and child?”

  She tried to pull away, but he held on to her.

  “Marry me,” he said. Tears were running down his face, too, and Charles knew he loved her enough to do anything for her. If he could have, Joe would have suffered her pain, and gladly. “Marry me, Cybele, and come home with me. We’ll go to Baldwin’s Bridge together. I’ve never been there, but I’ll take you there if you want. We can live next to Ashton’s beautiful ocean. I’ll tend to his garden, you can work in his house. We can go there, cherie, after the war is over. When life is normal again.”

  Cybele gazed wistfully at Joe through her tears, smoothing his hair back from his face almost as if he were a child.

  “Don’t you know?” she said. “Don’t you realize? Not even the end of this war will make life normal again.” She touched his face, her eyes brimming with a fresh onslaught of tears. “I can’t marry you. I can’t just walk away from my life here, from everything I’ve been and done and—”

  “Then I’ll stay,” he promised her desperately. “We can live here in Ste.-Hélène. I’ll do whatever you want—”

  “I can’t have what I want,” she whispered. “The only thing I want, the only thing I’ll ever want, is Michel. My baby.” Her face crumpled and she began to cry again. Terrible, soul-wrenching sobs that made Charles want to double up from the pain. “I want my Michel back. I want to hold my son! If you could give me my son, even just for a minute, just for one moment, so I could feel his arms around my neck again—I would go with you. I would follow you anywhere, for the rest of your life! But you can’t! You can’t! No one can!”

  She pulled herself away from Joe, dragging herself to the corner, where she wept.

  Joe tried to follow her, and Charles moved to intercept. But Joe was weeping nearly as much as Cybele, and he wasn’t easily stopped. At least not until Charles sat down, with a clatter of his cane on the tile. Not until Charles grabbed him and held him back.

  Joe’s need for her was only hurting, not helping. There was no one who could help her. No one.

  And there, on a beautiful summer afternoon, with the sky a brilliant shade of blue, Charles and Joe clung to each other because there was nothing else they could do. Neither of them could come even remotely close to giving Cybele what she wanted most in all the world.

  One last embrace from her baby son.

  Tom cleared his throat. “Hi.”

  Kelly looked up from putting a jacket and her briefcase in the backseat of her car. “Hi.” She smiled at Tom, but it was a self-conscious smile, a little bit stiff. She was nervous.

  She wasn’t the only one.

  He gestured down at his summer uniform. “I wasn’t sure what to wear. Technically, if I need medical attention, I should go to a military hospital. But this is kind of a unique situation. There are privacy issues, and . . .” He climbed into the passenger side of her car, put the can of cola he’d taken from Joe’s fridge into the cup holder in the front. “I mean, if it turns out I need some kind of surgery, I’ll have to go to a military hospital. Unless it’s an emergency. But it’s hard to believe it would be an emergency at this point.” Great. He was babbling. Way to be cool, Paoletti.

  “How are you feeling this morning?” she asked, starting the car. She glanced at him only briefly before she gazed into the rearview mirror to back up, maneuvering out of the driveway.

  “Okay,” Tom said. “I’ve still got a headache, but it’s okay. It’s manageable, especially with my sunglasses on.” He saluted her with his soda can, taking a sip. “Getting some caffeine into my system helps, too.”

  She glanced at him again. “You do look . . . nice.”

  Okay. Now what did that little hesitation before the word nice mean? God, this was killing him. It was his fault, too. He’d made the choice to be polite as he’d approached her this morning. He’d chosen small talk and a polite, discreet distance over a full-body-contact embrace with a tongue-down-the-throat, to-hell-with-this-appointment-let’s-go-get-naked kiss.

  But his distance was for good reason. Even if Kelly didn’t care if she became involved with a man who was certifiably crazy, he cared. She didn’t deserve to get hooked up with some nut job—even if that nut job was him.

  And maybe she’d changed her mind. Aside from that slight hesitation before the word nice, she was in heavy polite mode, too.

  But then she glanced at him again. “What is it about a man in uniform?”

  Well, okay. That was definitely an invitation to flirt. It was the conversational equivalent of a yellow flag announcing her interest.

  “I don’t know,” he said. Come on, Paoletti, use your brain. Say something clever. “I’ve spent years around men in uniform, and it doesn’t do a damn thing for me.”

  It was lame, but Kelly laughed anyway. “That’s right,” she said. “I remember. You’re into black lingerie and whipped cream.”

  Holy Christ. That wasn’t just a flag, that was an entire team of semaphore men gesturing wildly.

  Tom, for the life of him, didn’t know what the hell to say in response.

  Paradoxically, fascinatingly, Kelly’s cheeks were turning an intriguing shade of pink. She’d embarrassed herself. Go figure.

  She looked way beyond nice this morning. She was wearing a sleeveless dress with a skirt that ended many wonderful i
nches above her equally wonderful knees. Her legs were tan and bare and gorgeous, and she had sandals on her feet, nail polish on her perfect toes. She’d taken extra time with her hair and makeup today, too. God, she looked delicious.

  And she’d virtually just told him . . . Jeez, he wasn’t sure what she’d just told him. With any other woman he would have interpreted her words to mean that if he played his cards even slightly right, he would be exploring far more than the inside of her mouth tonight.

  The thought made him dizzy. He and Kelly. Tonight? . . .

  Was it possible she really wanted that?

  “I spoke to Gary on the phone,” she told him as she drove through town, heading out toward Route 128. She was using that brisk, businesslike voice she’d slipped into last night. After Joe caught them kissing on Tom’s bed.

  Tom hadn’t seen Joe yet this morning, thank God for small favors. His uncle had been up and out ahead of him.

  He had no idea what Joe was going to say about the fact that he’d seen Tom kissing Kelly Ashton. He would say something, even if it was just a cautious “Be careful.” That was for sure.

  “He was able to pull some strings,” Kelly added. “You’ll be able to go in for the CAT scan right away.”

  Wait a minute. He who? “Gary . . . ?”

  “Dr. Gary Brooks. He’s the neurosurgeon I told you about last night.”

  The name was vaguely familiar. Had she actually mentioned his name last night? Tom had been completely distracted—yeah, there was an understatement—but he didn’t think she had. So why would this doctor’s name ring a bell this way?

  “After the CAT scan, around eleven-thirty, we’ll meet Gary in his office. It’s right there in the hospital. And after that—I’m sorry about this, but I’ve got to go see a patient. If you don’t mind, I’ll drop you at the train station.”

  “No problem. You going to see Betsy McKenna?” he asked.

  She glanced at him in surprise. “Actually, yes. She starts chemotherapy today. I can’t believe you remembered her name.”

  “I’m good with names.” Except for this Gary Brooks guy. “Tell me more about Dr. Brooks. How come he has time to see me today?” Tom asked. “That’s pretty lucky, huh?”

  “Not really,” Kelly told him. “I knew Gary was free at eleven-thirty because we had a date to have lunch together.”

  Tom was completely surprised. Kelly had a date with Gary.

  What the hell was she doing kissing Tom last night and talking about frigging whipped cream if she had a date with Gary today?

  “So,” Tom said, carefully casual, “Gary doesn’t mind missing out on a chance to have lunch with you?”

  She glanced over her left shoulder, checking her blind spot as she accelerated onto the highway, moving immediately into the left lane. She drove fast, one hand on the wheel, the other on the stick shift, with the solid, relaxed confidence of an excellent driver.

  Funny, he wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d been timid behind the wheel. In fact, he’d almost expected it, almost volunteered to drive before they got into the car.

  “Gary’s probably as relieved as I am,” Kelly answered him. “We get together about once every two months. Just to stay in touch. It’s an attempt to be civilized since we work in the same city. But after we get done bragging about the medical miracles we’ve been involved with, we run out of things to say. It was pretty much like that when we were married, too.”

  Ding.

  That’s why the name was familiar. Gary Brooks was Kelly’s ex-husband.

  “Are you sure I should want your ex as my brain surgeon?” Tom asked. “Like, he’s not going to have a fit of unwarranted jealousy and lobotomize me, is he?”

  “We’ve been divorced for almost eighteen months,” she told him. “He’s remarried, and his daughter just celebrated her first birthday.” She glanced at him. “I figure, as a Navy SEAL, you’re probably pretty good at basic math, right?”

  He was. Twelve plus nine was twenty-one months. Gary had gotten wife number two pregnant before he and Kelly had split up. “Ouch. That must’ve hurt.”

  “Actually,” she said, and she said it so sincerely, he found himself believing her, “it was a relief. Neither of us wanted to admit our marriage, well, sucked. We would probably still be married, still droning our way through our pathetic lives if Gary hadn’t met Miss Tits.”

  Tom choked on his soda.

  And Kelly turned slightly pink again. “Sorry. That’s my private nickname for her. I probably just should have kept it private.”

  “No, it’s . . . It just caught me off guard, that’s all.” Tom tried to cough cola out of his lungs.

  “She’s actually very nice,” Kelly said earnestly. “She can’t help it if she’s got, well . . . you know. A body like that. Frankly, I’m still a little surprised Gary actually noticed.”

  “Gary was a fool for failing to notice what he already had,” Tom countered.

  She smiled at him, genuinely pleased. “Well, thank you.”

  “Are we still on for dinner tonight?” Oh, Christ, whatever made him ask that? He should be maintaining a distance between them, not putting ideas about tonight into her head.

  Still, he liked her. He truly liked her. Each time he talked to her, he liked her more and more. She was different than he’d remembered, than he’d imagined. Spicier. Sharper. Earthier. Miss Tits. God. But he had to keep his distance. The last thing he wanted to do was hurt her.

  “Absolutely, we’re still on for tonight,” she said, clearly happy that he’d remembered, giving him a smile that made him want to ignore his plan to proceed with caution. “Although . . . do you mind if we get takeout and eat on the deck? I didn’t count on being out of the house for this long today, and—”

  “No problem,” he said. “That sounds great. I mean, assuming old Gary doesn’t feel the need to fill his monthly quota and perform immediate brain surgery on me.”

  Kelly laughed. “Good doctors don’t have quotas. And he’s a good doctor, I promise.”

  “I’m trusting you,” Tom said. “As awful as it sounds, I’m putting my brain in your hands.”

  Kelly laughed again, as he’d hoped she would. But then she reached across and took his hand.

  “I like that you trust me,” she said. “I’ve always trusted you, you know.”

  Tom looked down at their fingers, laced comfortably together, and something tightened in his chest.

  She trusted him. But right now, she shouldn’t.

  Because he no longer trusted himself.

  It was that same night—the night after Andre Lague was killed—that Cybele came to his room.

  It wasn’t even a room. It was a closet with a window. But it was private and it was big enough to fit his bedroll. And as long as it continued to be cool enough at night, Charles could sleep with the door closed.

  The moon was out that night. It was shining in the window, silvery bright. He remembered lying on his back with his hands beneath his head, staring up at the backside of the stairs above him when she slipped in through his door.

  She didn’t knock. She just came in.

  He was wearing only a pair of briefs, and he was lucky he had that much on.

  He sat up fast, scrambling for his pants, and he ended up nearly knocking himself out as his head connected with the wood above him.

  It was not the most embarrassing moment of his life, but it was close.

  “Jesus!” he hissed, a word that was understandable in nearly any language, as he collapsed back on his bedroll.

  “Oh, Charles, I’m so sorry.” She knelt down beside him, her fingers cool against his head as she checked to make sure he hadn’t sliced himself open.

  He hadn’t. It only felt as if he had.

  She was wearing only her nightgown. It was thin and cotton, and in the silver moonlight, with her hair down around her shoulders, it made her look like an angel.

  Charles sat up, carefully this time, and backed as far away as he cou
ld, which wasn’t far enough, considering the room was the size of a closet. Where the hell were his pants?

  “What’s wrong?” he asked her in his atrocious French. Had there been some mission that he wasn’t told about? Something that Joe and the other men had left to take care of? Something that had gone wrong? “Where’s Guiseppe? What’s happened?”

  She shook her head. “Nothing has happened. Guiseppe is upstairs, probably asleep.”

  Oh.

  Oh, damn.

  As Charles looked into her eyes, he knew the truth. He knew why she was there.

  “I don’t want to be alone,” she whispered. “I’m so tired of being alone. Please, Charles, will you—”

  “Cybele, please don’t ask me—”

  “Make love to me tonight?”

  No. No, no. It was the one thing he wanted more than anything in the world. It was the one thing he couldn’t have, even though she was right there, right within his reach. And he didn’t even have to reach. All he had to do was open his arms and . . .

  “It’s time to be honest,” she said, as straightforward and direct with this as with everything. “I want you, and I know you want me.”

  He felt like crying. “You also know I’m married.” He said it both in English and in French.

  She didn’t move. She just knelt there, her face illuminated by moonlight. God, she was beautiful. “But you don’t love her. Not the way a man should love a woman. When you speak of her, of Jenny, it’s as if she’s a child that you care for. That you’re fond of.”

  She was right, but that didn’t make the vows he’d made any less binding.

  “You don’t burn for her,” Cybele whispered.

  “She loves me.” And she did—as much as Jenny could love anyone.

  “She loves that you take care of her. She loves your fortune.”

  That was true, too.

  “Tell me you love her,” Cybele challenged him, “and I’ll go.”

  “I love her,” he lied, both in English and in French.

  She didn’t believe him.

  “I do,” he said in English. “I know when I talk about her it sounds as if I don’t, but I swear, I do.”