by Dan Walsh
“You mean, did he break my heart? No, I’m not heartbroken. I know now, I didn’t really love Jim. But still, it’s so wrong, the way he treated me. It’s deceitful and cowardly.”
“I agree.” What was Ben saying? That’s exactly what he was doing with Claire, right here, right now. And all along. Wasn’t he being deceitful and cowardly?
“And from what Barb told me, Jim also lied to Sally.”
“How so?” Ben felt himself tensing up.
“Barb said Sally had no idea that I didn’t know the two of them were back together. Jim must have said things in his letters to make her think that, right? He must have told her he’d written me to break it off. But I haven’t heard from him in over two weeks. He’s written her a bunch of letters in that time, so he certainly could have found the time to write me. I’m just glad I found this out about him now.”
“Why?”
“Because you can’t have a healthy relationship with someone who lies.”
Ben’s heart sank; the words were like a punch in the stomach.
She stood up and reached for his hand. “So, Ben Coleman, are you going to ask me out or not?”
“What?”
“Everyone I trust—my mom and dad, Barb—say you’re crazy about me. They said they can’t believe I didn’t know. Well . . . are you?”
Ben stood up. “Claire, I’m guilty.” He took her hand, instantly felt heat shoot up his arm. He squeezed it tight then took her other hand. “I’ve been in love with you, I think, since the first day we met.”
She looked right into his eyes and said, “I don’t know if I love you yet, Ben. But I know I already care more for you than I ever cared for Jim.”
“You do?”
She nodded.
His sick feelings all disappeared. He had no idea how he’d ever overcome the last huge obstacle between them—telling her the truth about his past—but right now he didn’t care. He loved her deeply, completely.
She rested her head on his chest. He hugged her tightly. Ben knew he’d remember this moment—when Claire’s heart first turned toward him—for the rest of his life. Something deep inside him shifted right then. He could feel it; something more than the joy and release of romantic desire. He wanted to protect her, to keep her safe from all harm, no matter what it cost him. He leaned down and kissed her softly on the cheek, then reached up and turned her head toward him, caressing her cheek, finding her lips, promising everything—a lifetime—in his kiss.
She turned and faced the river, still leaning against him. He put his arms around her shoulders and pulled her close. He knew nothing in his past, nothing in his future, would ever equal the value of this precious woman he held in his arms. She was so warm but also so fragile. He knew what it meant for Claire to give herself to him now: she was placing herself in his trust. He felt the weight of that trust like a tangible thing. He could not, would not break it. Somehow, he’d find a way to become worthy of her trust; then once he had earned it, he’d do whatever he must to keep it intact.
He was holding the love of his life.
Suddenly, several seagulls nearby began cackling loudly, startling them. Claire pulled away and they both laughed.
The seagulls stood between the sidewalk and the river, looking right at them. “It looks like they approve,” Claire said.
“Actually, I think they want food.”
“Speaking of food,” she said, “would you like to come over for dinner again tonight?”
They began walking back toward the car, holding hands. “Oh yes, I definitely would.”
Chapter Sixteen
“So nice of you to join us, Ben.” Claire’s father took his seat at the head of the table after giving his wife a peck on the cheek. Mrs. Richards sat at the other end, Claire and Ben across from each other. They were four at a table that could comfortably seat twelve. Claire looked radiant. Her whole face seemed lit up with happiness.
Her expression matched the way Ben felt on the inside. “When Claire asked, I said yes immediately. I haven’t stopped thinking about that roast beef and mashed potatoes from Saturday night.” He looked at Claire’s mother. “I have never eaten a tastier slice of apple pie. I’m not exaggerating.”
Mrs. Richards smiled. “I’m glad you enjoyed it. There’s about half a pie left.”
“If you throw in a cup of coffee, you can talk me in to staying for dessert,” Ben said. Her parents laughed.
“Well, let’s say a blessing and dig in,” her father said.
Ben looked at the food on the table. Pork chops, green beans, and roasted potatoes. Then he looked up at Claire staring back at him. She smiled. His eyes focused on her lips as he remembered their kiss from an hour ago. As her father prayed, Ben closed his eyes. He was most definitely thankful for everything and everyone around this table.
The sheer force of his present elation and joy had temporarily suppressed any of the dark, disturbing thoughts seeking to ascend the stairway of his mind. For some unexplainable reason, the God he all but neglected from his youth had opened a new door for him, and he had no intention of looking back.
Not this night anyway.
“Dig in, Ben,” Mr. Richards said. “Guests first.”
Ben reached for the green beans, though his eyes were firmly fixed on the pork chops. It might make a better impression on Mrs. Richards if she saw that he thought vegetables were an important part of one’s diet. “Mr. Richards, Claire told me you got some big contract recently with the military.”
He smiled. “Yes, we did. Actually, it’s just gotten even bigger with all of these young ladies moving into town. You know, the WACS.”
“Is that what they’re calling them?” asked Mrs. Richards. “Doesn’t sound very nice.”
“That’s how these things go, dear,” Mr. Richards said. “Everything gets abbreviated. Who wants to keep saying Women’s Auxiliary Corps?”
“They’re all over town now,” Claire said. “More and more come in the store every day.”
“Are you allowed to say what you do, what kind of work you do with the military?” Ben said. He figured if he asked the questions, he wouldn’t have to answer so many.
“I can’t talk about the details, of course, but mostly we’re about fixing and overhauling airplanes. Pretty much all our work converted to supporting the military after Pearl Harbor. We have a shop at both the Daytona and Deland Airports. I work out of the one in Deland. Both airports have become naval air stations now.”
“We saw four Dauntless dive-bombers fly overhead on Saturday,” Ben said. “Claire thought they were heading to Deland.”
“So you know your bombers?” Mr. Richards asked. “Most people can’t tell the difference from one plane to another.”
Ben got a little nervous. “I’m . . . airplanes really interest me,” he said. “I would have liked to become a pilot.”
“Really,” her father said. “I’ve actually got my pilot’s license. Haven’t flown a plane in years. But I used to love it. Did you ever try to join the Army Air Force? They’ll be building hundreds of planes in the next year. Sure they could use more pilots.”
“Ben can’t serve in the military, Dad,” Claire said. “Remember?”
“Oh . . . right.”
Ben released a quiet sigh. Claire to the rescue, subtly introducing his fake 4-F rating. Everyone squirmed in their seats a moment, as if allowing some time for an embarrassing faux pas to clear the air. “What will your company be doing that involves the WACS?” Ben asked.
“We’ll be training them mostly,” Mr. Richards said. “With so many men heading off to war . . . uh, I mean . . . well, you know, there’s a big shortage of men available to do jobs traditionally done by men.”
Ben could tell that Mr. Richards was still struggling with Ben’s supposed 4-F status, trying not to say things that might embarrass him. “It’s okay, Mr. Richards. I understand what you’re saying. Millions of men—a lot of them my age—have signed up. You don’t know how badly I wish
I could join them. I’d do anything to defeat the Nazis.” Ben meant that sincerely.
Mr. Richards smiled. “Thanks, Ben. Well, because of that, we’ll need thousands of young women to be trained to do these kinds of jobs. That’s why the WACS are here in Daytona.”
“So your company will be training some of them to fix military planes, like the Dauntless?” Ben said.
“Everything from repairing engines to putting air in the tires. Say, Ben, don’t let that last pork chop go to waste.”
“I’m fine, sir, thanks.”
Claire stuck her fork into it and lifted it off the serving dish. “I know you want it,” she said. “Put your plate here.” Ben obeyed. “Did I tell you, Dad, Ben rented a house today.”
“You did?” Mrs. Richards said. “Where is it?”
“On Vermont Avenue, just around the corner from where I’ve been staying.”
“A house is much better,” Mrs. Richards said.
“If you don’t mind me asking, Ben, what kind of work do you do?”
“Ben doesn’t have a job right now, Dad,” Claire said. “After his parents—”
“But I do plan on getting one,” Ben said. “I came into some money after my parents died, so I’m not in a hurry.”
“That’s probably a good idea,” Mrs. Richards said. “You’ve been through a terrible thing, losing your parents like that. You take all the time you need.”
“Thanks, Mrs. Richards.”
“I was just asking,” Mr. Richards said, “because I might be able to get you a job where I work. You seem like a sharp young man, well spoken. Do you have any college education?”
“A bachelor’s degree. But it’s in English literature.”
“You have a college degree?” Claire asked, obviously impressed.
“Does that surprise you?” he said.
“No . . . I knew you were smart. I just didn’t realize you were so old.”
“Old? I’m just twenty-four.”
“That’s not so old, Claire,” her mother said. “You’re nineteen.”
“I’m only kidding, Mother.”
“Well, I don’t care what your degree’s in,” Mr. Richards said. “The fact that you have it says a lot about you. It’s a mark of achievement. You might make an excellent trainer. How do you feel about talking in front of people?”
“I don’t know,” Ben said. “I’ve never done it. You mean, like a teacher?”
He nodded. “We’ll be doing hands-on training but also a lot of classroom lectures.”
“But I don’t really know that much about planes.”
“Ben, we’ve got manuals that spell out everything from A to Z. The main thing is having someone who can communicate well.”
“And someone who’s not boring,” Claire said. “And Ben is definitely not boring.”
Ben looked at Claire. She was loving this. He was rather enjoying it himself. He liked her parents, both of them.
“Well, give it some thought, Ben, and let me know. Don’t want to rush you into anything.”
“No, I appreciate it, Mr. Richards. Really. I’ll give it some thought.”
“Wouldn’t that be great?” Claire said. “If you and my dad worked together?”
Ben smiled. He wanted to do anything that made her happy. But something bothered him, an unformed thought, something someone said.
“Great,” Mr. Richards said. He looked across the table at his wife. “What do you think? Can we have that apple pie now, hon? Everyone okay with that?”
“I’d take a small piece,” Claire said.
“I have room,” Ben said.
Mrs. Richards stood up, started clearing the table. “I’ll start the coffee and put the pie in the oven to get warm.”
“I’ll help you,” Claire said.
She walked around the table and took Ben’s plate and stood right next to him. He couldn’t believe it. They were together now. It had all happened so quickly. Just a few days ago, he’d felt hopeless, wouldn’t have imagined ever being in this place. He didn’t want to do or say anything that would jeopardize their future.
As she walked toward the kitchen, that disturbing thought suddenly became clear. It had to do with Claire’s dad and his job offer.
Her dad worked with the Navy, fixing the latest military fighters and bombers.
Ben could never work for him. How could he? It would require clearance and extensive background checks. Who should he put down for references, his Abwehr commanders? What should he put down for the school he graduated from, the University of Munich? That his degree in English literature was actually part of the reason they thought he’d make an excellent spy?
“Everything okay, Ben?”
“Hmm?” Ben looked up at Claire sliding behind her mother’s chair, heading back to her seat at the table.
“Something bothering you?”
“What could be bothering him?” her father asked. “He’s about to eat your mom’s apple pie.”
Chapter Seventeen
Ben didn’t sleep well last night.
He didn’t dream about Jurgen; that was some relief. He was just restless, tossing and turning in his bed. He should have been flying high after the turnabout with Claire. He’d kissed her, twice. No, three times. Twice by the river, then again at the car when they’d said good night. It was that thing at the end, about the job. He would love to do something like that, and thought he’d be good at it too. He might make a great teacher. And he really did love airplanes, would have loved to become a pilot. But there was no way he’d ever fly airplanes for the Luftwaffe, against the British or Americans, so it was out of the question.
He sat in a pew at St. Paul’s Church, a few rows back from the confessional, waiting for Father Flanagan. He wrestled about calling him all morning before deciding it was the right thing to do. Last night, for the first time in ages, he’d actually prayed. He couldn’t remember any of the prayers he’d learned as a good Lutheran boy, so he just talked to God the way you’d talk to anyone, but with more respect. It was the last thing he did before he finally fell asleep. When he awoke, the first thought he had was to call Father Flanagan.
So here he was. He had no idea what he was going to say.
He looked around at the insides of the church. It was a beautiful place, not nearly as fancy as the exquisite cathedrals he’d seen in Germany, but close to some. It had tall, looping arches on either side, finely trimmed, set on thick stone pillars. An impressive dome rose high above the altar. Several elderly women stood near the front, lighting candles.
He heard the echo of a side door opening and closing. There was Father Flanagan, walking down the side aisle. He looked around, noticed Ben, and smiled. He bent over and set something down in a pew next to the confessional. Ben got up and hurried into the nearest side. It was dark, and he was glad it was. He heard a door open and close, then the little door separating them slid over.
“Morning, Father.”
“Morning, Ben.”
Ben had decided to tell the priest his name when he’d called. It didn’t seem to matter now—and it wasn’t his real name anyway. “What was that thing I was supposed to say? Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been . . . one day since my last confession?”
Father Flanagan laughed. “Something like that.”
“Well, the FBI didn’t come after me.”
“Did you think they might?”
“No, well . . . I hoped not. Didn’t seem like a priest would lie.”
“Your secret is safe with me. See, the idea is, people need to feel like they can be honest in here. If they thought we—that is, priests—might share what people say to others, they’d never feel like they could talk freely.”
“Are they?” Ben said.
“Are they what?”
“Are most people honest in here?”
“Good question.” A long pause. “Some are, but I get the sense a lot of people still hold back with me. It’s hard for people to talk freely with anyon
e. Hard for me too, I guess.”
“Really, you have a hard time being honest?”
“Not when I’m sharing facts or admitting things I’ve said or done. But sharing how I’m doing deep down inside . . . with other people? Yes, Ben, that’s hard for me.”
“I never would have thought that,” Ben said.
“Priests are just people. But the thing is, God sees through it all. He sees our hearts as they are, as they really are, every moment of the day. That’s why we don’t have to play games with him, try to pretend we’re doing okay when we’re really hurting inside. We can come in whatever condition we’re in, knowing he loves us and knows exactly what we’re thinking and feeling. I’ve been through something myself recently, where I’ve rediscovered just how true that is.”
Ben didn’t know what to say. “Does the Bible say that?”
“It does. I’m thinking of a psalm I’ve read often lately, Psalm 139. It says: ‘You examine me and know me, you know when I sit, when I rise, you understand my thoughts from afar. You watch when I walk or lie down, you know every detail of my conduct. A word is not yet on my tongue before you know all about it.’”
“But God doesn’t pay that kind of attention to just anyone, right? I mean, he might to someone like you.”
“No, Ben, he knows you this way too, not just me. That’s why you can open your heart completely to him. Not just in here, but even when you pray, wherever you are.”
Ben didn’t expect any of this. “I’m so tired, Father.”
“I can imagine. You’ve been carrying a pretty heavy load.”
“Do you think what I’m doing is a sin? I mean, all this lying?”
“Lying is a sin. It’s one of the Ten Commandments.”
“But isn’t God fair? Isn’t he just?”
“He is.”
“Well, if he knows everything, he knows I don’t have a choice. If I tell the truth to anyone except you, about who I am, how I got here, where I’m from . . . they’d arrest me on the spot. A month later, I’d be in the electric chair. How is that fair or just?”
“It’s not.”
