Christmas in Cedar Cove

by Debbie Macomber

  Ruth’s heart did a happy little jig. “Am I?” she asked flirtatiously.

  A rigid expression came over him, betraying none of his feelings. “I don’t know the answer to that yet.”

  “Re ally?” she teased.

  “Listen, Ruth, I’m not handing you my heart so you can break it. You don’t want to be involved with a soldier. Well, I’m a soldier, and either you accept that or at the end of these two weeks, it’s over.”

  He sounded so…so military. As if he thought a relationship could be that simple, that straight for ward. Life didn’t divide evenly into black and white. There were plenty of gray areas, too. All right, so Paul had a point. In the back of her mind, Ruth hoped that, given time, Paul would decide to get out of the war business. She wasn’t the kind of woman who’d be con tent to sit at home while the man she loved was off in some far away country risking his life. Experiencing dreadful things. Suffering. Maybe dying.

  “You’d rather I didn’t meet your family?” she asked.

  “Right.”

  That hurt. “I see.”

  Some of her pain must have been evident in her voice, be cause Paul came to ward her and tucked his finger beneath her chin. Their eyes met for the longest moment. “If my family meets you, they’ll know how much I care about you,” he said quietly.

  Ruth man aged to smile. “I’m glad you care, be cause I care about you, too,” she admitted. “A lot.”

  “That doesn’t solve any thing.”

  “No, it doesn’t,” she said, leaning for ward so their lips could meet. She half expected Paul to pull away, but he didn’t.

  In stead, he groaned and forcefully brought his mouth to hers. Their kiss was passionate, deep—honest. She felt the sharp edges of her text books digging painfully into her breasts, and still Ruth melted in his arms.

  “You’re making things impossible,” he mum bled when he lifted his head from hers.

  “I’ve been known to do that.”

  Paul reached for her hand and led her into the parking lot. “I mentioned your grand mother to my parents,” he said casually as he un locked the car doors.

  “Ah,” Ruth said, slipping into the passenger seat. “That ex plains it.”

  “Ex plains what?”

  “Why your family wants to meet me. I’ve brought you to my family. They feel cheated.”

  Paul shook his head solemnly. “I really don’t think that’s it. But…speaking of your grand mother, when can we see her again?”

  “Tomorrow afternoon, if you like. I talked to her this morning before my classes and she asked when we could make a re turn visit.”

  “You’re curious about what happened, aren’t you?” Paul asked as he inserted the key into the ignition.

  “Very much,” Ruth said. Since their visit to Cedar Cove, she’d thought about her grand mother’s adventures again and again. She’d done some re search, too, using the internet and a number of library books on the war. In fact, Ruth was so fascinated by the history of the Resistance movement, she’d found it difficult to concentrate on the psychology essay she was trying to write.

  She’d had several days to be come accustomed to the idea of Helen’s exploits during the Second World War. And yet she still had trouble imagining the woman she knew as a fighter for the French Resistance.

  “She loved Jean-Claude,” Paul commented.

  Ruth nodded. Her grand mother had loved her husband enough to kill him—a shocking reality that would not have made sense at any other time in Helen’s life. And then, at some point after that, Helen had met her Sam. How? Ruth wondered. Helen said he’d rescued her, but what were the circumstances? When did they fall in love? Family history told her that Sam Shelton had fought in the European campaign during the Second World War. He’d been in France to ward the end of the war, she recalled. How much had he known about Helen’s past?

  Ruth could only hope her grand mother would pro vide some answers tomorrow.

  The meeting with Paul’s family was going well. Ruth was charmed by his parents, who immediately welcomed her. Barbara, his mother, had an easy laugh and a big heart. She brought Ruth into the kitchen and settled her on a stool at the counter while she fussed with the dinner salad.

  Paul and his father, Greg, were on the patio, firing up the grill and chat ting. Every now and then, Ruth caught Paul stealing a glance in her direction.

  “I want to help,” Ruth told his mother.

  “Non sense,” Barbara Gordon said as she tore lettuce leaves into a large wooden bowl. “I’m just so pleased to finally meet you. It was as if Paul had some secret he was keeping from us.”

  Ruth smiled and sipped her glass of iced tea.

  “My father was career military—in the marines,” Barbara said, chopping to ma toes for the salad. “I don’t know if that was what induced Paul to join the military or not, but I suspect it had an influence.”

  “How do you feel about him being stationed so far from home?” Ruth asked, curious to hear his mother’s perspective. She couldn’t imagine any mother wanting to see her son or daughter at that kind of risk.

  Barbara sighed. “I don’t like it, if that’s what you’re asking. Every sane per son hates war. My father didn’t want to fight in World War II, and I cried my eyes out the day Greg left for Vietnam. Now here’s my oldest son in Afghanistan.”

  “It seems most generations are called upon to serve their country, doesn’t it?” Ruth said.

  Barbara agreed with a short nod. “Freedom isn’t free—for us or for the countries we support. Granted, in hindsight some of the conflicts we’ve been involved in seem misguided, but unfortunately war appears to be part of the human condition.”

  “Why?” Ruth asked, al though she didn’t re ally expect a response.

  “I think every generation has asked that same question,” Barbara said thoughtfully, put ting the salad aside. She began to pre pare a dressing, pouring olive oil and balsamic vinegar into a small bowl. “Paul told me you have a problem with his un willing ness to leave the marines at the end of his commitment. Is that right?”

  A little embarrassed by the question, Ruth nodded. “I do.”

  “The truth is, as his mother, I want Paul out of the marines, too, but that isn’t a decision you or I can make for him. My son has al ways been his own per son. That’s how his father and I raised him.”

  Ruth’s gaze followed Paul as he stood with his father by the bar be cue. He looked up and saw her, frowning as if he knew exactly what she and his mother were talking about. Ruth gave him a reassuring wave.

  “You’re in love with him, aren’t you?” his mother asked, watching her closely.

  The question took Ruth by surprise. “I’m afraid I am.” Ruth didn’t want to be—something she hadn’t acknowledged openly until this moment. He’d de scribed his reluctance to hand her his heart to break. She felt the same way and feared he’d end up breaking hers.

  There seemed to be a tacit agreement not to broach these difficult subjects during dinner.

  The four of them sat on the patio around a big table, shaded by a large umbrella. His mother had made corn bread as well as the salad, and the steaks were grilled to perfection. After dinner, Ruth helped with the cleanup and then Paul made their excuses.

  “We’re going to a movie?” she whispered on their way out the door, figuring he’d used that as a convenient pretext for leaving.

  “I had to get you out of there before my mother started showing you my baby pictures.”

  “I’ll bet you were a real cutie.”

  “You should see my brother and sister, especially the nude photos.”

  Ruth giggled.

  In stead of the theater, they headed for Lake Washington and walked through the park, licking ice-cream cones, talking and laughing. Ruth couldn’t remember laughing with any one as much as she did with Paul.

  He dropped her off after ten, walked her up to the front porch and kissed her good-night.

  “I’ll pick you up at noo
n,” he said. “After your morning class.”

  “Noon,” she repeated, her arms linked around his neck. That seemed too long. De spite her fears, de spite the looming doubts, she was in love with him.

  “You’re sure your grand mother’s up to having company so soon?” he asked.

  “Yes.” Ruth pressed her fore head against his shoulder. “I think the real question’s whether we’re ready for the next installment. I don’t know if I can bear to hear exactly what happened to Jean-Claude.”

  “Per haps not, but she needs to tell us.”

  “Yes,” Ruth said. “She couldn’t talk about it before.”

  “I know.” Paul kissed her again.

  Ruth felt at peace in his arms. Only when she stopped to think about the future, their future, did she be come uncertain and confused.

  Seven

  Ruth and Paul sat with Helen at the kitchen table in her Cedar Cove house as rain dripped rhythmically against the window pane. The day was over cast and dreary, as it frequently was during spring in the Pacific North west.

  Helen reached for the tea pot in the middle of the table and filled each of their cups, then offered them freshly baked pea nut-butter cookies arranged on a small dessert plate. Ruth recognized the plate from her child hood. She and her grand mother had often had tea together when she was a youngster. Her visits to Cedar Cove were special; her grand mother had listened while Ruth chattered endlessly, sharing girlish confidences. It was during those private little tea parties that they’d bonded, grand mother and grand daughter.

  Today the slow ritual of pouring tea and passing around cookies demanded patience. Ruth badly wanted to throw questions at Helen, but she could see that her grand mother would resume her story only when she was ready. Helen seemed to be bracing her self for this next installment.

  “I’ve been thinking about the things I mentioned on your last visit,” Helen finally said, sip ping her tea. Steam rose from the delicate bone-china cup. “It was a lot for you to absorb at one time.”

  “I didn’t know any thing about your adventures, Grandma.” And they truly were adventures, of a kind few people experienced these days. Real adventures, with real and usually involuntary risks.

  Helen grimaced. “My children didn’t, either. But as I said before, it’s time.” Helen set the fragile cup back in its saucer. “Your father phoned and asked me about all of this.” She paused, a look of distress on her face. “I hope he’ll for give me for keeping it from him all these years.”

  “I’m sure he will,” Ruth told her.

  Helen obviously wanted to believe that. “He asked me to tell him more, but I couldn’t,” she said sadly.

  “I’m sure Dad understood.”

  “I couldn’t re live those memories again so soon.”

  Ruth laid a comforting hand on her grand mother’s arm. This information of Helen’s was an important part of her family history. Today, with Helen’s agreement, she’d come pre pared with a small tape recorder. Now nothing would be lost.

  “Jean-Claude had a wonderful gift,” her grand mother said, breaking into the story with out preamble. “He was a big man who made friends easily—a natural leader. Our small group trusted him with our lives.”

  Paul smiled encouragingly.

  “Within a few minutes of meeting some one, he could figure out if he should trust that per son,” Helen continued. “More and more people wanted to join us. We started with a few students like our selves, who were determined to resist the Nazis. Soon, others found us and we connected with groups across France. We all worked together as we lit fires of hope.”

  “Tell me about the wanted poster with your picture and Jean-Claude’s,” Ruth said.

  Her grand mother smiled rue fully, as if that small piece of notoriety embarrassed her. “I’m afraid Jean-Claude and I acquired a some what exaggerated reputation. Soon almost everything that happened in Paris as part of the Resistance movement was attributed to us, whether we were involved or not.”

  “Such as?”

  “There was a fire in a sup ply depot. Jean-Claude and I wished we’d been responsible, but we weren’t. Yet that was what prompted the Germans to post our pictures.” A smile brightened her eyes. “It was a rather unflattering sketch of Jean-Claude, he told me, al though I disagreed.”

  “Can you tell me some of the anti-Nazi activities you were able to undertake?” Ruth asked, knowing her father would want to hear as much of this as his mother could re call.

  Helen considered the question. “Per haps the most daring adventure was one of Jean-Claude’s. There was an SS officer, a horrible man, a pig.” This word was spit out, as if even the memory of him disgusted her. “Jean-Claude discovered that this officer had obtained information through torturing a fellow Resistance member, information that put us all at risk. Jean-Claude decided the man had to die and that he would be the one to do it.”

  Paul glanced at Ruth, and he seemed to tell her that killing an SS officer would be no easy task.

  Helen sipped her tea once more. “I feared for Jean-Claude.”

  “Is this when he…died?” Ruth asked.

  “No.” For emphasis, her grand mother shook her head. “That came later.”

  “Go on,” Paul urged.

  “One night Jean-Claude left me and an other woman in a gar den in the suburbs, at the home of a sympathetic school teacher who’d made contact with our group. He and his wife went out for the evening. Jean-Claude instructed us to dig a grave and fill it with quick lime. We were to wait there for his re turn. He left with two other men and I was convinced I’d never see him again.”

  “But you did,” Ruth said.

  The old woman nodded. “According to Jean-Claude, it was either kill the SS officer or he would take us all down. He simply knew too much.”

  “What did Jean-Claude do?”

  “That is a story unto it self.” Helen sat even straighter in her chair. “This happened close to the final time he was captured. He knew, I believe, that he would die soon, and it made him fear less. He took more and more risks. And he valued his own life less and less.” Her eyes shone with tears as she gazed out the rain-blurred window, lost in a world long since past.

  “The SS officer had taken a room in a luxury hotel on the out skirts of Paris,” Helen went on a minute later. “He was in the habit of sip ping a cognac before retiring for the evening. When he called for his drink, it was Jean-Claude who brought it to him wearing a waiter’s jacket. I don’t know how he killed the SS man, but he did it without alerting any one. He made sure there was no blood. The problem was get ting the body out of the hotel without any one seeing.”

  “Why? Couldn’t he just leave it there?”

  “Why?” Helen repeated, shaking her head. “If the man’s body had been discovered, the en tire staff would have been tortured as punishment. Eventually some one would have bro ken. In any event, Jean-Claude smuggled the body out.”

  “How did he do it?”

  “Jean-Claude was clever. His friends hauled him and the body of the SS officer up the chimney. First the dead man and then the live one. That was necessary, you see, be cause there was a guard at the end of the hall way.”

  “But once they got to the roof top, how did he manage?”

  “It was an effort,” Helen said. “Jean-Claude told me they tossed the body from that roof top to the roof of an other building and then an other—an office building. They lowered him down in the elevator. When the men arrived with the body, we all worked together and buried him quickly.”

  “The SS officer’s disappearance must have caused trouble for the Resistance,” Paul said.

  Helen nodded ardently. “Oh, yes.”

  “When was Jean-Claude captured the second time?” Ruth asked. She was in tensely curious and yet she dreaded hearing about the death of this brave man her grandmother had loved.

  Helen’s eyes glistened and she lifted her tea cup with an un steady hand. “It isn’t what you think,” she prefaced,
and the cup made a slight clinking sound as it rattled against the saucer. Helen placed both hands in her lap and took a moment to com pose her self. “We were headed for the Metro—the sub way. By then I’d bleached my hair and we’d both changed our appearances as much as possible. I don’t think my own mother would have recognized me. Jean-Claude’s, either,” she added softly, her voice a mere whisper.

  Paul reached for Ruth’s hand, as if sensing that she needed his support.

  When her grand mother began to speak again, it was in French. She switched languages naturally, apparently with out realizing she’d done so. All at once, she covered her face and broke into sobs.

  Al though Ruth hadn’t understood a word, she started crying, too, and gently wrapped her arms around her grand mother’s thin shoulders. Hugging her was the only thing she could do to ease this remembered pain.

  “It’s all right, it’s all right,” Ruth cooed over and over. “You don’t need to tell us any more.”

  Paul agreed. “This is too hard on her—and you,” he said.

  They stayed for an other hour, but it was clear that re living the past had exhausted her grand mother. She seemed so frail now, even more than during the previous visit.

  While her grand mother rested in her room, Ruth cleared the table. As she took care of the few dishes, her eyes brimmed with tears again. It was agonizing to think about the horrors her grand mother had endured.

  “When she was speaking French, she must’ve been reliving the day Jean-Claude died,” Ruth said, turning so her back was pressed against the kitchen counter.

  Paul nodded. “She was,” he answered somberly.

  Ruth studied him as she re turned to the kitchen table, where he sat. “You said you speak French. Could you under stand what she was saying?”

  He nodded again. “At the Metro that day, Jean-Claude was picked up in a routine identity check by the French police. Through pure luck, Helen was able to get on the train with out being stopped. She had to stand helplessly in side the sub way car and watch as the police hauled him to Gestapo head quarters.” Paul paused long enough to give her an odd smile. “The next part was a tirade against the police, whom she hated. Remember last week when she explained that some of the French police were trying to prove their worth to the Germans? Well, apparently Jean-Claude was one of their most wanted criminals.”