Christmas in Cedar Cove

by Debbie Macomber

  He shrugged. “Yes and no. You have no obligation to me and vice versa.”

  “Are you seeing some one else?”

  “No.” His response was immediate.

  “I’m not, either,” she told him. She wanted to ask how he could even think that she would be. “I promised my grand mother I’d visit tomorrow.”

  “Your grand mother?” he repeated.

  “She invited you, too.”

  He arched his brows.

  “In fact, she insisted I bring you.”

  “So you’ve mentioned me to your family.”

  She’d told him in her letters that she hadn’t. “Just her. We’ve become really close. I’m sure you’ll enjoy meeting her.”

  “I’m sure I will, too.”

  “You’ll come, won’t you?”

  Paul turned Ruth into his arms and gazed down at her. “I don’t think I could stay away.”

  And then he kissed her. Ruth had fantasized about this moment for months. She’d wondered what it would be like when Paul kissed her, but nothing she’d conjured up equaled this reality. Never in all her twenty-five years had she experienced any thing like the sensation she felt when Paul’s mouth descended on hers. Stars fell from the sky. She saw it hap pen even with her eyes tightly closed. She heard triumphant music nearby; it seemed to surround her. But once she opened her eyes, all the stars seemed to be exactly where they’d been before. And the music came from some body’s car radio.

  Paul wore a stunned look.

  “That was…very nice,” Ruth man aged.

  Paul nodded in agreement, then cleared his throat. “Very.”

  “Should I admit I was afraid of what would hap pen when we met?” she asked.

  “Afraid why? Of what?”

  “I didn’t know what to expect.”

  “I didn’t either.” He slid his hand down her spine and moved a step away. “I’d built this up in my mind.”

  “I did, too,” she whispered.

  “I was so afraid you could never live up to my image of you,” Paul told her. “I figured we’d meet and I’d get you out of my sys tem. I’d buy you dinner, thank you for your letters and emails—and that would be the end of it. No woman could possibly be everything I’d envisioned you to be. But you are, Ruth, you are.”

  Al though the wind was chilly, his words were enough to warm her from head to foot.

  “I didn’t think you could be what I’d imagined, either, and I was right,” Ruth said.

  “You were?” He seemed crest fallen.

  She nodded. “Paul, you’re even more wonderful than I’d realized.” At his relieved expression, she said, “I under estimated how strong my feelings for you are. Look at me, I’m shaking.” She held out her hand as evidence of how badly she was trembling after his kiss.

  He shook his head. “I feel the same way—nervous and jittery inside.”

  “That’s lack of sleep.”

  “No,” he said, and took her by the shoulders. “That’s what your kiss did to me.” His eyes glittered as he stared down at her.

  “What should we do?” she asked uncertainly.

  “You’re the one with reservations about falling for a guy in the service.”

  Her early letters had often referred to her feelings about exactly that. Ruth lowered her gaze. “The fundamental problem hasn’t changed,” she said. “But you’ll eventually get out, won’t you?”

  He hesitated, and his dark eyes—which had been so warm seconds before—seemed to be closing her out. “Eventually I’ll leave the marines, but you should know it won’t be any time in the near future. I’m in for the long haul, and if you want to continue this relationship, the sooner you accept that, the better.”

  Ruth didn’t want their evening to end on a negative note. When she’d answered his letter that first time, she’d known he was a military man and it hadn’t stopped her. She’d gone into this with her eyes wide open. “I don’t have to decide right away, do I?”

  “No,” he admitted. “But—”

  “Good,” she said, cut ting him off. She couldn’t allow their differences to come between them so quickly. She sensed that Paul, too, wanted to push all that aside. When she slipped her arms around his waist and hugged him, he hugged her back. “You’re exhausted. Let’s meet in the morning. I’ll take you over to visit my grand mother and we can talk some more then.”

  Ruth rested her head against his shoulder again and Paul kissed her hair. “You’re making this difficult,” he said.

  “I know. I’m sorry.”

  “Me, too,” he whispered.

  Ruth knew they’d need to con front the issue soon. She could also see that settling it wasn’t going to be as easy as she’d hoped.

  Four

  Paul met Ruth at the Seattle terminal at ten the next morning and they walked up the ramp to board the Bremerton ferry. The hard rain of the night before had yielded to glorious sun shine.

  Un like the previous evening, when Paul and Ruth had talked non stop through a three-hour dinner, it seemed that now they had little to say. The one big obstacle in their relationship hung between them. They sat side by side on the wooden bench and sipped hot coffee as the ferry eased away from the Seattle dock.

  “You’re still thinking about last night, aren’t you?” Ruth said, carefully broaching the subject after a lengthy silence. “About you being in the military, I mean, and my objections to the war in Iraq?”

  He nodded. “Yeah, there’s the political aspect and also the fact that you don’t seem com fort able with the concept of military life,” he said.

  “I’m not, re ally, but we’ll work it out,” she told him, and reached for his free hand, entwining their fingers. “We’ll find a way.”

  Paul didn’t look as if he believed her. But after a couple of minutes, he seemed to come to some sort of decision. He brought her hand to his lips. “Let’s enjoy the time we have today, all right?”

  Ruth smiled in agreement.

  “Tell me about your grand mother.”

  Ruth was more than willing to change the subject. “This is my paternal grand mother, and she’s lived in Cedar Cove for the past thirty years. She and my grandfather moved there from Seattle after he re tired be cause they wanted a slower pace of life. I barely remember my grand father Sam. He died when I was two, before I had any real memories of him.”

  “He died young,” Paul commented sympathetically.

  “Yes… My grand mother’s been alone for a long time.”

  “She probably has good friends in a town like Cedar Cove.”

  “Yes,” Ruth said. “And she’s still got friends she’s had since the war. It’s something I ad mire about my grandmother,” she continued. “She’s my inspiration, and not only because she speaks three languages fluently and is one of the most intelligent women I know. Ever since I can remember, she’s been helping others. Although she’s in her eighties, Grandma’s involved with all kinds of charities and social groups. When I en rolled at the University of Washing ton, I in tended for the two of us to get together often, but I swear her schedule’s even busier than mine.”

  Paul grinned at her. “I know what you mean. It’s the same in my family.”

  By the time they stepped off the Bremerton ferry and took the foot ferry across to Cedar Cove, it was after eleven. They stopped at a deli, where Paul bought a loaf of fresh bread and a bottle of Washing ton State gewürz-traminer to take with them. At quarter to twelve, they trudged up the hill to ward her grand mother’s duplex on Poppy Lane.

  When they arrived, Helen greeted them at the front door and ushered Paul and Ruth into the house. Ruth hugged her grand mother, whose white hair was cut stylishly short. Helen was thinner than the last time Ruth had visited and seemed more fragile some how. Her grandmother paused to give Paul an embarrassingly frank look. Ruth felt her face heat as Helen spoke.

  “So, you’re the young man who’s captured my granddaughter’s heart.”

  “Grandma, this is
Paul Gordon,” Ruth said hurriedly, gesturing to ward Paul.

  “This is the soldier you’ve been writing to, who’s fighting in Afghanistan?”

  “I am.” Paul’s response sounded a bit defensive, Ruth thought. He obviously preferred not to discuss it.

  In an effort to ward off any misunderstanding, Ruth added, “My grand father was a soldier when Grandma met him.”

  Helen nodded, and a far away look stole over her. It took her a moment to refocus. “Come, both of you,” she said, step ping between them. She tucked her arm around Ruth’s waist. “I set the table out side. It’s such a beautiful afternoon, I thought we’d eat on the patio.”

  “We brought some bread and a bottle of wine,” Ruth said. “Paul got them.”

  “Lovely. Thank you, Paul.”

  While Ruth sliced the fresh-baked bread, he opened the wine, then helped her grand mother carry the salad plates out side. An apple pie cooled on the kitchen counter and the scent of cinnamon permeated the sunlit kitchen.

  They chatted through out the meal; the conversation was light and friendly as they lingered over their wine. Every now and then Ruth caught her grand mother staring at Paul with the strangest expression on her face. Ruth didn’t know what to make of this. It al most seemed as if her grand mother was trying to place him, to re call where she’d seen him before.

  Helen had apparently read Ruth’s mind. “Am I embarrassing your beau, sweet heart?” she asked with a half smile.

  Ruth resisted informing her grand mother that Paul wasn’t her any thing, especially not her beau. They’d had one lovely dinner together, but now their political differences seemed to have over taken them.

  “I apologize, Paul.” Helen briefly touched his hand, which rested on the table. “When I first saw you—” She stopped abruptly. “You resemble some one I knew many years ago.”

  “Where, Grandma?” Ruth asked.

  “In France, during the war.”

  “You were in France during World War II?” Ruth couldn’t quite hide her shock.

  Helen turned to her. “I haven’t spoken much about those days, but now, toward the end of my life, I think about them more and more.” She pushed back her chair and stood.

  Ruth stood, too, thinking her grand mother was about to carry in their empty plates and serve the pie.

  Helen motioned her to sit. “Stay here. There’s something I want you to see. I think per haps it’s time.”

  When her grand mother had left them, Ruth looked at Paul and shrugged. “I have no idea what’s going on.”

  Paul had been wonderful with her grand mother, thoughtful and attentive. He’d asked a number of questions during the meal—about Cedar Cove, about her life with Sam—and listened intently when she responded. Ruth knew his interest was genuine. Together they cleared the table and re turned the dishes to the kitchen, then waited for Helen at the patio table.

  It was at least five minutes before she came back. She held a rolled-up paper that appeared to be some kind of poster, old enough to have yellowed with age. Carefully she opened it and laid it flat on the cleared table. Ruth saw that the writing was French. In the center of the poster, which measured about eighteen inches by twenty-four, was a pencil sketch of two faces: a man and a woman, whose names she didn’t recognize. Jean and Marie Brulotte.

  “Who’s that?” Ruth asked, pointing to the female.

  Her grand mother smiled calmly. “I am that woman.”

  Ruth frowned. Helen had obviously used a false name, and al though she’d seen photographs of her grand mother as a young woman, this sketch barely resembled the woman she knew. The man in the drawing, how ever, seemed familiar. Gazing at the sketch for a minute, she realized the face was vaguely like Paul’s. Not so much in any similarity of features as in a quality of…character, she sup posed.

  “And the man?”

  “That was Jean-Claude,” Helen whispered, her voice full of pain.

  Paul turned to Ruth, but she was at a complete loss and didn’t know what to tell him. Her grand father’s name was Sam and she’d never heard of this Jean or Jean-Claude. Certainly her father had never mentioned an other man in his mother’s life.

  “This is a wanted poster,” Paul re marked. “I speak some French—studied it in school.”

  “Yes. The Germans offered a reward of one mil lion francs to any one who turned us in.”

  “You were in France during the war and you were wanted?” This was more than Ruth could assimilate. She sat back down; so did her grand mother. Paul remained standing for a moment longer as he studied the poster.

  “But…it said Marie. Marie Brulotte.”

  “I went by my middle name in those days. Marie. You may not be aware that it was part of my name because I haven’t used it since.”

  “But…”

  “You and Jean-Claude were part of the French Resistance?” Paul asked. It was more statement than question.

  “We were.” Her grand mother seemed to have difficulty speaking. “Jean-Claude was my husband. We married during the war, and I took his name with pride. He was my everything, strong and handsome and brave. His laughter filled a room. Some times, still, I think I can hear him.” Her eyes grew teary and she dabbed at them with her linen handkerchief. “That was many years ago now and, as I said, I think per haps it’s time I spoke of it.”

  Ruth was grateful. She couldn’t let her grand mother leave the story un told. She suspected her father hadn’t heard any of this, and she wanted to learn whatever she could about this unknown episode in their family history before it was for ever lost.

  “What were you doing in France?” Ruth asked. She couldn’t comprehend that the woman she’d al ways known as a warm and loving grand mother, who baked cookies and knit socks for Christmas, had been a freedom fighter in a foreign country.

  “I was attending the Sorbonne when the Germans invaded. You may recall that my mother was born in France, but her own parents were long dead. I was studying French literature. My parents were frantic for me to book my pas sage home, but like so many others in France, I didn’t believe the country would fall. I assured my mother I’d leave when I felt it was no longer safe. Being young and foolish, I thought she was over re acting. Be sides, I was in love. Jean-Claude had asked me to marry him, and what woman in love wishes to leave her lover over rumors of war?” She laughed lightly, shaking her head. “France seemed invincible. We were convinced the Germans wouldn’t invade, convinced they’d suffer a humiliating de feat if they tried.”

  “So when it happened you were trapped,” Paul said.

  Her grand mother drew in a deep breath. “There was the Blitzkrieg…. People were demoralized and defeated when France surrendered after only a few days of fighting. We were aghast that such a thing could hap pen. Jean-Claude and a few of his friends decided to resist the occupation. I decided I would, too, so we were married right away. My parents knew nothing of this.”

  “How did you join the Resistance?” Paul asked as Ruth looked at her grand mother with fresh eyes.

  “Join,” she repeated scorn fully. “There was no place to join, no place to sign up and be handed a weapon and an instruction manual. A group of us students, naive and foolish, offered resistance to the German occupation. Later we learned there were other groups, eventually united under the leadership of General de Gaulle. We soon found one an other. Jean-Claude and I—we were young and too stupid to understand the price we’d pay, but by then we’d al ready lost some of our dearest friends. Jean-Claude and I re fused to let them die in vain.”

  “What did you do?” Ruth breathed. She leaned closer to her grand mother.

  “What ever we could, which in the beginning was pitifully little. The Germans suffered more casualties in traffic accidents. At first our resistance was mostly symbolic.” A slow smile spread across her weathered face. “But we learned, oh yes, we learned.”

  Ruth was still having difficulty taking it all in. She pressed her hand to her fore head. She found it hard e
nough to believe that the sketch of the female in this worn poster was her own grand mother. Then to discover that the fragile, petite woman at her side had been part of the French Resistance…

  “Does my dad know any of this?” Ruth asked.

  Helen sighed heavily. “I’m not sure, but I doubt it. Sam might have mentioned it to him. I’ve only told a few of my friends. No one else.” She shook her head. “I didn’t feel I could talk to my sons about it. There was too much that’s disturbing. Too many painful memories.”

  “Did you…did you ever have to kill any one?” Ruth had trouble even get ting the question out.

  “Many times,” Helen answered bluntly. “Does that surprise you?”

  It shocked Ruth to the point that she couldn’t ask anything else.

  “The first time was the hardest,” her grand mother said. “I was held by a French police man.” She added something derogatory in French, and al though Ruth couldn’t understand the language, somethings didn’t need translation. “Under Vichy, some of the police worked hard to prove to the Germans what good little boys they were,” she muttered, this time in English. “I’d been stopped and questioned, detained by this pig of a man. He said he was taking me to the police station. I had a small gun with me that I’d hid den, a seven millimeter.”

  Ruth’s heart raced as she listened to Helen re count this adventure.

  “The pig didn’t drive me to the police station. In stead he headed for open country and I knew that once he was out side town and away from the eyes of any wit nesses, he would rape and murder me.”

  Ruth pressed her hand to her mouth, holding back a gasp of horror.

  “You’d trained in self-defense?” Paul asked.

  Her grand mother laughed. “No. How could we? There was no time for such les sons. But I realized that I didn’t need technique. What I needed was nerve. This beast of a man pulled his gun on me but I was quicker. I shot him in the head.” She paused at the memory of that terrifying moment. “I buried him my self in a field and, as far as I know, he was never found.” She wore a small satisfied look. “His mistake,” she murmured, “was that he tightened his jaw when he reached for his gun—and I saw. I’d been watching him closely. He was thinking of what might hap pen, of what could go wrong. He was a professional, and I was only nine teen, and yet I knew that if I didn’t act then, it would’ve been too late.”