Into the Storm

by Lisa Bingham

  “Once she’s finished serving, I’ll instruct Louise to make up your bed and unpack your things.”

  “No!” The word emerged like a gunshot, short and sharp, and RueAnn cleared her throat and said more calmly, “I don’t wish to impose. I’m more than capable of doing it myself.”

  Edna’s gaze was pointed, but she didn’t bother to press the issue. “As you wish.”

  The rest of the dinner was an uncomfortable affair, fraught with long, tense silences. It soon became clear that Edna might have begrudgingly offered RueAnn the use of her home, but she was not about to make idle chit-chat. So after complimenting Edna on her home, trying to converse about the weather, and remarking on the smartness of the older woman’s attire, RueAnn stopped trying. If her motherin-law wished to be impolite and inhospitable, that was her business. RueAnn was far too weary and disheartened to make an effort to change the woman’s mind.

  So she forced herself to eat, forced herself to listen to an hour’s worth of radio—a program filled with dire reports of German air raids and the RAF’s daring retaliation. With each grating tick of the mantle clock, each flicker of light from the radio’s glowing Cyclops eye, she felt her nerves draw so tight, she feared that they would shatter like blown sugar.

  Finally, knowing she could not continue to mask her distress, RueAnn stood and excused herself on the pretense of needing to recover from her journey.

  Edna gave no indication of having heard her. She listened raptly to the mellifluous tones of a reporter interviewing pilots preparing for battle “somewhere in England.”

  As soon as she’d surmounted the first set of stairs, she all but ran up the other flights until she could dodge into the room she’d been assigned and slam the door. Leaning her back against the painted panels, she flung back her head, taking huge gulps of air.

  She would not cry.

  She would not cry.

  Her fingers curled into her palms, her body shook with the effort to maintain control. Bit by bit, she managed to push the worst of her desperation aside.

  A sudden knock on the other side of the door caused her to jump.

  “Miss RueAnn?”

  It was Louise.

  Quickly running her hands over her hair, her cheeks, she ignored the thrashing, irregular cadence of her heart and opened the door just a crack.

  “Yes?”

  Louise smiled at her, her cheeks bunching like plump apples.

  “I’ve brought you a few things to make you more comfortable,” she whispered.

  Trembling, RueAnn opened the door.

  “I brought you some flowers from the garden,” Louise said. The warmth of her tone and the lilt of her British intonation slid over RueAnn’s frayed nerves like a mantle of silk.

  She bustled into the room and set a squat glass vase on the dresser. Above the hobnail lip fluttered a bouquet of pink roses—some in tight little buds, others unfurled to release their heady scent.

  RueAnn stared at the flowers, overcome with memories of Charlie. His touch. His kisses. The warmth of his body over hers.

  “We don’t have many blooms this year, more’s the pity,” Louise continued, her voice coming from miles away. “Most of the bushes were dug up for the veg garden, but I managed to find enough to brighten your room.”

  With some difficulty, RueAnn focused on Louise, on the way the woman’s bright smile dimmed as she surveyed the garret. “Ooo, it’s stuffy up here, isn’t it?” She clucked to herself, setting a pile of fresh towels, sheets, and a blanket on the rickety chair. “I don’t know why Mrs. Tolliver didn’t move you into Master Charlie’s room.”

  As soon as the words were uttered, she flushed, clearly embarrassed about the implied criticism toward her employer. She hurried to the bed, unrolling the mattress, then grasped a set of crisp white sheets.

  When RueAnn would have helped her, she waved her away. “I’ll have things set to rights in a jiffy, never you fear. Sit. Sit.”

  Louise’s motherly care threatened RueAnn’s tenuous hold on her emotions more than anything that had occurred throughout the tumultuous day.

  “I’m sorry to say the window is sealed shut with layers of paint. But I’ll have my mister take a look at it tomorrow and see what he can do. Then you could crack it open to catch the breezes at night, provided the light is out.

  “That would be lovely.”

  “This was the maid’s quarters years ago, but no one has used it in ages. The rooms below us have been closed up for some time, so I suppose Mrs. Tolliver felt this would be the easiest solution for now.” With a flick of her wrists, Louise snapped the sheet free of its folds and settled it onto the bed, then proceeded to tuck in the edges with the efficiency of a career soldier.

  “Master Charlie is a lucky man to have found such a pretty girl—and an American, at that.” She smoothed on the top sheet, then draped a blanket over that. “Tomorrow, I’ll bring in your coverlet. But it’s such a warm evening, the blanket will do, I think.”

  “Yes, I’m sure it will be fine.”

  Tucking a pillow beneath her chin, Louise wrestled an embroidered pillowcase over its plump shape. As she worked, the crisp scent of sun-dried linens twined around the muskier perfume of roses.

  Once she’d plumped the pillow and set it in place, Louise turned. “I’ve brought towels and face cloths for you, dear,” she said, gesturing to the pile of linens still waiting on the chair. “If you need more, there’s a closet in the loo downstairs piled high with bathroom supplies and linens.” She sighed. “Soap’s rather dear, more’s the pity, but I managed to find you a small cake to keep up here.” She pointed to RueAnn’s single piece of luggage. “Would you like me to help you put things away?”

  RueAnn unconsciously moved in front of her suitcase. “No. That’s not necessary. I’m so tired, I think I’ll just find my nightgown, wash my face, and call it a night.”

  “Of course, dear.” Louise paused at the door, her eyes so gentle. Like a mother’s. Like RueAnn’s mother’s had been, oh, so long ago. Before things had gone so horribly, horribly wrong. “Sweet dreams.”

  The door closed behind her with only the faintest of clicks.

  The sobs came then, thick and strong, wrenching free from a black, black place so deep within her that she shoved her fist against her teeth as the eruption of emotion threatened to consume her from within.

  Whirling, she rushed to the suitcase, flipping open the latches. Digging deep, deep, deep, she ripped at the lining and pulled up the cardboard cleverly disguising a false bottom. Removing the bulky shape wrapped in layers of velvet scraps, she held it against her chest for a moment, surveying the empty room. Finally, she hurried to the bureau, sliding open the bottom drawer and peering underneath.

  Just as she’d hoped, there was a hollow cavity formed where the bottom of the drawer didn’t quite meet the underside of the dresser.

  Gently, she settled the package into the scant space and slid the drawer back into place. Then, quickly, in case she should change her mind and run back in the direction of the railway station, she unpacked her things and tucked them into the remaining drawers.

  After a cursory splash of water on her face, she stripped down to her slip, too tired to even don her nightgown.

  But she couldn’t sleep. Not yet.

  If Charlie had been gone all these months, then perhaps, somewhere in this house, he’d hidden her letters.

  Moving to the door, she pressed her cheek against the cool, painted panels, listening for the slightest sound. Around her the house gradually settled with stray squeaks and pops. RueAnn heard Edna climb the stairs, the other woman’s shoes making sharp taps on the treads before disappearing into the bedroom somewhere two floors below RueAnn’s. Louise had said that the entire floor below the attic was unused. On the level below that, there were three rooms. Nearest the stairs was Edna’s quarters. In the middle was a bathroom.

  Which meant the room facing the street must be Charlie’s.

  RueAnn waited u
ntil the house had grown completely dark and quiet. Stealthily, she crept down the staircase, treading as close as she could to the wall so that the boards wouldn’t creak. Then she moved to the door which had remained closed throughout the day.

  Feeling much like a thief, she twisted the cut glass knob ever so slowly until the latch clicked in release. After noting the blackout curtains were in place, she switched on the light, and then quickly shut the door behind her.

  The weak glow emitted from the overhead fixture streamed into the dark corners, dappling the floor and the gleaming furniture. Unlike her own room, this one clearly waited for an occupant. The high tester bed was covered with crisp sheets, a thick blanket, and an intricate matelassé bedspread. A matching double wardrobe fashioned of carved mahogany had an inset mirror that reflected a washstand and a dresser as well as a clothes tree and a bookcase filled with trophies, pennants, and books.

  Despite efforts to keep it neat and polished, the room belonged to a full-blooded male who left a wave of untidiness in his wake.

  She needed to search—drawers, wardrobe, cupboards. But even though she was frantic to find what she’d come for, her body trembled with such weariness, she could no longer stand. Sinking onto the edge of the bed, she gripped the covers, needing something to ground her in this reality.

  She was married.

  She was Mrs. Charles Tolliver.

  And he was missing somewhere in a war she didn’t entirely understand.

  Only then did the tears come, crowding hot and heavy and streaming down her cheeks. Drawing her knees up, she clutched a pillow against her face to stifle the sound of her sobs.

  She’d made a mistake in coming here. A horrible mistake. But Charlie had stolen her secrets. Her very soul. What else could she have done?

  • • •

  A tap, tap…tap, tap, tap woke Susan from a fretful sleep. Frowning, she gave up all pretense of slumber and squinted into the darkness.

  Since blackout restrictions had been imposed, London had become a more formidable place once the sun went down. She was so used to the street lamps that caused an ever-present glow to hover over the city—especially in the winter, or just after a rain.

  But London had grown dismal and bleak once the lights were extinguished. So much so that Susan wasn’t the only person loath to leave home at night. Where once there had been a constant symphony of lumbering busses, cars, foot traffic, and distant trains, now she listened for footfalls. The heavy lumbering tread of Mr. Wamsley, the local ARP who trolled the streets looking for chinks in the blackout. He would pace to the end of the block, then pause, gazing upward in case German paratroopers had managed to escape his eagle eye and fell like silent, deadly snowflakes. Then there were the quick steps of women returning late from their war work. Sometimes, they giggled and whispered along the way, more as a way to dispel their uneasiness than through actual light-heartedness. After twelve hour shifts, they were tired, nervous, hungry, and eager to be off their feet. Then, more often than not, in the early hours, Susan would hear the uneven thu-thump of young Kyle Rampnell-Hoskins who’d lost a leg in Norway. They said after being pinned for more than a day in the wreckage of a bombed hotel, he couldn’t sleep, couldn’t abide being closed in a house. Long before dawn arrived, he would gather his crutches and begin his nocturnal exploring. Sara said he kept a pistol with him in his coat pocket, but Susan didn’t know if such suppositions were mere gossip.

  Tap. Tap, tap…

  What on earth?

  Dragging her robe over her arms, Susan hurried to the window and drew back the blackout curtains just as a pebble hit the glass.

  Down below, she saw a dark shape, but the moon had already set, so there was no way to distinguish who it might be.

  Another pebble hit the glass and she quickly raised the sash.

  “Who’s there?” she whispered harshly.

  “Good. I’ve finally managed to rouse you.”

  A rush of sensation thrilled her like a too-fast elevator. Instantly, she recognized the voice wafting up to her from the darkness.

  “Paul?”

  “I need to talk to you.”

  “But—”

  “Please. I’ve got to be back to the airfield by four-thirty this morning or there’ll be hell to pay. God knows when I’ll get another leave.”

  She could tell by the infinitesimally paler wash of darkness that he was looking up at her.

  “Come down. Just for a few minutes. Things were so…awkward between us earlier, that I spoke to you about silly, superficial things. But now that I’ve screwed up my courage, I’d like to tell you what I really came here to say.”

  Try as she might, Susan couldn’t make out his features—which meant he couldn’t see her either, right?

  Good Lord, she hoped not.

  “Just a minute. I’ll be down.”

  She ducked back inside. For a moment, she considered waking Sara and sending her downstairs. But a rebellious streak she hadn’t even known she possessed caused her to rush to the dressing table instead. Squinting in the direction of the mirror, she quickly ran a comb through her hair and pinched her cheeks.

  Moving as quietly as she could, she abandoned her robe and nightgown and dragged on the first dress she could find. Then, after slipping her feet into a pair of Sara’s open-toed shoes, she tiptoed from the room.

  She didn’t allow herself to think of Sara asleep on the bed—or even the future consequences of her actions. Paul was outside. Within hours, he would be back at the airfield. So many men had already been killed in the past weeks. So many pilots. For months now, she hadn’t known if he were alive or dead. This moment was hers—hers.

  She made hardly any sound as she all but flew down the front stairs—all the while refusing to remember the way Sara had launched herself at Paul only hours before. Pausing only long enough to release the latches, she slipped outside.

  The heat of the day had eased, although it was still unseasonably warm for so early in the morning. All of London huddled beneath a blanket of uncertainty and foreboding.

  When would the Germans bomb London in earnest?

  When would the invasion of troops begin?

  But she refused to think of that either. As an airman, Paul had been in the thick of things for weeks. She couldn’t allow herself to think of what awaited him at dawn.

  Paul.

  She sensed, rather than saw him. Turning, she reached for him in the darkness, feeling first the wool of his jacket, then the strength of the man beneath.

  Momentum sent her into his arms and once there, it was the most natural thing in the world to wrap her arms around his neck and hold him close.

  He sagged against her, his breath leaving in a rush.

  “I couldn’t leave without seeing you one more time.”

  She became suddenly conscious of the way she’d literally thrown herself into his arms. But when she would have stepped back, he held her tightly.

  “The boys will be here soon to give me a lift.”

  “The boys?”

  “Some pilots from my squadron.” He laughed bitterly. “Three weeks ago, there were nearly thirty of us. Now there are three. That’s why we were given leave in the thick of things. They finally brought in some new pilots to…fill in the gaps.” He glanced up and down the street. “I’ve only got five or ten minutes until Collin and Joseph arrive.”

  “No!” The word was a puff of air, but he must have heard her because his grip tightened.

  “You were so…distant earlier. I was afraid you were peeved that I rang you up with so little notice.”

  “No. No!”

  “I was hoping…perhaps…if you wouldn’t mind…”

  He drew back and she could just make out his face in the darkness.

  “If I were to write…”

  “I’ll write to you. Every day,” she said without letting him finish.

  He chuckled softly. “I’ve been writing for weeks, did you know?”

  “What?”
>
  “But I never mailed them. We’ve known each other for such a short time. I didn’t want to presume—”

  She stopped him with a kiss—a quick peck on his cheek that with a twist of his head became a full-on embrace.

  It was what she had dreamed of for months. The touch of him, the taste of him…It was all she wanted and more, so much more.

  She pressed herself against him, offering him her lips even as his arms swept around her and he kissed her fully, deeply, crushing her to him. Just as before, a rush of sensation swept through Susan’s body, thrilling her. Terrifying her.

  A horn tooted from the curb and she could have wept. Not now. Not yet!

  But Paul was stepping away. One hand taking hers, holding it, holding, until they were forced to separate. The other men in the car whooped and called, but she hardly heard them.

  “I’ll write,” she promised.

  “Send me a picture.”

  “Yes.”

  He lifted a hand in final farewell just as one of his fellow pilots opened the rear door and pulled Paul in.

  Immediately, Paul rolled down the window, poking his head out to call, “Until my next leave, Sara!”

  And she froze, her hand lifted in a wave.

  How could she have allowed herself to be in this situation, this moment? How could she have forgotten that he didn’t want her, he wanted Sara?

  Just as every other male, he’d been drawn to Sara, to her vitality, her spontaneity, her giving nature.

  And what about Sara? Sara had trusted her enough to ask Susan to take her place for a few hours on that night nearly a year earlier. She would be hurt to discover that Susan now had designs on a man she herself was interested in. Then again, he’d said Sara had been distant. Did that mean he’d sensed a difference between the sisters?

  Groaning, Susan sank onto the step and rested her head in her hands. She was wrong to have met with him again. So wrong. And she’d always prided herself on being trustworthy. She followed the rules. She always followed the rules.