He was as different from her husband as two men could be. Thierry had been lighthearted, playful in sex; this man made love the same way he did everything else, with a single minded intensity that erased all other concerns. His life was so black and white, Laura thought, he always knew just what to do: fight the Germans, free the French, save the world. It was an insular, unforgiving attitude and it frightened her. If she failed to be wonderful would he be disappointed? There was no room in his life for second best.
Sighing, she lay next to him and he enfolded her immediately, flooding her chilled body with radiant heat. She drew the sheet over both of them and fell asleep.
* * *
Laura rolled over in the bed and encountered an empty pillow. She opened her eyes and saw Harris propped up on one elbow, watching her.
“Hi,” she said.
He smiled.
“What time is it?”
He turned his wrist to look at the watch face on the inside of it. “Seven o’clock,” he said.
“In the evening?” Even as she said it she realized it wasn’t possible that they had slept through to the morning.
“Yup.”
“Dinner time?” she asked hopefully.
He groaned, bending to plant a kiss on her forehead before vaulting off the bed. He fished around for his shorts and pulled them on before saying in a martyred tone, “I suppose now I have to feed you.”
“That’s the general idea.”
“Do you want to go down to the dining room?”
Her expression became pained.
He sighed. “There’s a bell pull in the hall to get somebody from the kitchen, but their response time is not exactly meteoric.” He looked around, mystified. “And first I have to find my pants.”
Laura lifted one hip and produced them from under her leg.
“Thank you very much,” he said stiffly, feigning offended dignity. He put them on and headed for the door as Laura coughed imperatively behind him.
He turned. “What?”
She pointed to his bare chest. “Don’t you think you’d better put on your shirt?”
“The bell is just outside the door.”
“One of these proper British matrons might see you and faint from the excitement,” she said breathlessly, batting her lashes.
He threw a pillow at her, but she noticed he slipped into his uniform blouse before he left the room.
He returned five minutes later, looking doubtful. “Well, I tried.”
“What does that mean?” Laura asked, laughing.
“The dairy wagon must have hit town hard today. They seem to have an unlimited supply of cheese and nothing else.”
“What did you get?”
“‘Toasted cheese sandwiches,’” he replied, delivering the phrase in a Cockney accent.
“I guess we should have eaten the tart tarts when we had the chance,” she said gloomily.
He nodded. “I hope you’re in a patient mood. This should take approximately the same number of hours grandma needed to prepare Thanksgiving dinner.” He sat next to Laura on the bed and tapped his cheek. “Put one right there.”
Laura kissed him and he pulled her into his arms. She lay with her head on his shoulder and fingered his dog tags through his unbuttoned shirt. The metal oblongs were warm from his skin.
“‘Harris, Daniel P.,’” she read aloud. “What does the P. stand for?”
“Patrick.”
“Ah-ha. Did your mother come from Ireland?” she sang softly.
“Grandmother. And grandfather. My mom’s maiden name was Reilly.”
“I see. That’s where you got the blue eyes.”
“And the bad temper,” he added, grinning.
“You don’t have a bad temper,” she said.
“That’s because you’re seeing me on my best behavior. I’m trying to impress a lady.”
She could have argued that she’d seen him under all sorts of adverse circumstances while he was in France and had never been disillusioned. Instead she dropped the medals back against his chest, observing, “You never take these off.”
“Never,” he confirmed.
“Why not?”
“Regulations. They’re for identification purposes.”
“Identification of bodies,” Laura said.
He didn’t answer, but she could see she had spoiled his good spirits. He was silent for a time and then said, “I wonder if I did a very selfish thing in asking you to come here.” He got up and stood at the window, looking down into the street.
“Why selfish?” Laura asked quietly.
He gestured at the city as if a battle were taking place there. “This is going to get a whole lot worse before it gets better. It could go on for a long time.” He shrugged. “I don’t want us to be...” he gestured helplessly, “casual.”
“Ships passing in the night?” she said, smiling at the cliché.
“Don’t joke about it,” he said tightly. “None of this is under my control. There’s nothing I can do to change the war, or our situation.” He balled his fist and smacked it into his other hand. “I can’t do anything.”
And that infuriated him, she knew. Pain and fear and uncertainty he could endure but powerlessness, never.
Laura wrapped the sheet around her and got up, putting her arms about his waist from behind. “We’ll have the memories,” she said quietly, putting her cheek against his back. “We still have five days left, Dan. Let’s enjoy them.”
He turned and held her, speaking into her ear. “I don’t want to lose what we have. I don’t want you to forget me.”
“Oh, Dan, I won’t.”
He stepped back and looked at her. “Everything is so uncertain, Laura,” he said, stroking her cheek. “You and I both know that what happened in Fains was only the beginning.”
She nodded. “And Alain, who wanted to do so much, is already dead.”
“He was a great kid,” Harris said quietly.
“Yes, he was.”
“He saved my ass the night of the raid,” Harris said, releasing her. He put his hands in his pockets and regarded her levelly.
Laura looked at him inquiringly.
“I was coming round a corner, after we were inside the factory, and one of the guards was about to spot me when Alain took him from behind. I would have been dead meat for sure.”
“He never said anything about it,” Laura whispered.
Harris looked down. “It must have been hard for him to do that, feeling as he did about you, but he never hesitated.”
Laura shook her head. “Dan, it wasn’t serious. He was just a kid,” she said, as much for her sake as for his.
“He was old enough to know what he wanted,” Harris replied evenly. “That’s why he resented me. Territorial imperative. And with a male animal that’s pretty potent stuff.”
There was a knock at the door.
“Yeah?” Harris called.
“Your order, sir.”
Harris shot Laura a glance. “And it’s still the same year,” he mumbled. “Here goes nothing.”
Laura moved out of the busboy’s line of vision and sat on the bed. Harris returned momentarily carrying a tray.
“Looks edible,” he commented, sitting next to her and balancing the burden on his knees.
A few bites confirmed his opinion.
“Not bad,” he said, wolfing the first half of his sandwich.
Laura nodded, chewing.
He poured tea for both of them, demolishing the rest of his sandwich, and then launched into the blueberry scones that came with it.
“You must be very hungry,” Laura said dryly, watching him.
He popped the last crumb into his mouth and washed it down with tea, setting the tray on the floor. Then he grabbed her and pressed her back onto the bed.
“You wore me out, woman,” he said fiercely. “I have to replenish my strength.” He ripped the sheet off her and kissed her stomach loudly, smacking his lips.
“Daniel!
” Laura protested, laughing in amazement. She held the remains of her sandwich aloft, squirming.
“Hold still,” he murmured, warming to his task. His mouth moved lower and Laura closed her eyes. The sandwich fell from her hand to the floor.
“So sweet,” he murmured. “So soft.” He trailed his tongue across her inner thigh, and down, as she gasped, tangling her fingers in his hair.
Thunder rolled outside the window, accompanying a fresh downpour of rain, but neither of them heard it.
* * *
Laura awoke to a siren in the middle of the night and her first thought was of fire. Then she realized the sound of the alarm was different, and in the next instant she remembered where she was.
Harris threw back the blanket and jumped out of bed.
“Air raid,” he yelled over the din. “Get dressed.” He threw her clothes at her in an unceremonious jumble.
Laura sat up and reached for her skirt as the sound of running feet pounded in the hall outside their room. Harris pulled on his pants and then tossed her his uniform raincoat when he saw her fussing with her blouse.
“Leave that,” he ordered impatiently, taking the blouse out of her hand. He bundled her into the coat and belted it around her like a robe. He thrust his arms into his shirt and then grabbed Laura’s hand, hauling her to the already crowded corridor outside their room.
The noise was terrible. The sound of the siren seemed to be increasing in volume, though Laura was sure it was an aural illusion created by the incessant assault on her eardrums. People thronged toward the stairs, ignoring the tiny lift and descending rapidly to the first floor. It was a remarkably orderly progression; the British were getting used to this drill very quickly. The hotel guests, still adjusting to the crisis on the way down, were wearing oddly assorted clothing and clutching sleepy children in their arms.
“Cellar,” Harris shouted, pointing.
They followed the crowd into the basement. Harris hustled Laura to a spot next to the cement foundation, and she had just huddled on the dirt floor when the first bombs began to fall.
Harris flung Laura full length and jumped on top of her, shielding her with his body. The building shook above them, sending tremors through the very earth, and the crash of near misses on the street around them spread terror among the group. Between bursts Laura could hear aborted sounds of sobbing and muffled conversation as people tried to reassure each other. The bulk of the man above her gave her a false feeling of security; she knew that Harris couldn’t prevent a bomb from dropping on the hotel, but his body against hers and the steady beating of his heart went a long way toward alleviating her fears.
Another barrage began close by and the very bricks in the foundation shook loose, tumbling over the cowering guests. A piece of mortar fell toward Laura and Harris covered her head with his arms, taking the blow on his shoulder. Laura heard him grunt, then a stream of muttered curses assured her that the injury wasn’t serious. She stuck her fingers in her ears and tried to distract herself by remembering every detail of their night together. The relentless pounding continued for twenty minutes without a break. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the bombing stopped.
“Are you all right?” Harris asked, sitting up and running his hands down her arms, examining her for bruises. Around them the group stirred, coming back to life. People were shaking brick dust from hair and clothes, murmuring in relief, glad to be alive. Laura could see the eerie light of flames through the grimy, mesh screened cellar window, and as if on cue fire and ambulance sirens began to clamor in the distance.
“Fine,” Laura said to him. “And you?”
He was rubbing his shoulder, flexing his arm and looking furious.
“Bastards,” he muttered. “I’ll get them.”
“Who?” Laura asked absently, retying the sash on his coat, which was threatening to come undone and expose her left breast.
He stared at her. “The 1936 Olympic Team. Who do you think?”
“Oh,” she said, fiddling with the knot. She looked up at him. “All by yourself?” she asked teasingly.
“If necessary,” he replied, half smiling, then pulled her hands away from the belt. “Let me do that.” He secured the closing and then stood back. “You look like Shirley Temple in Little Miss Marker.”
“This outfit wasn’t my idea, Captain. Is it safe to go upstairs now?”
He glanced around them. Most of the others were leaving, climbing out of the cellar slowly, and they followed. Laura was amazed that the lights were still working; the hotel staff was switching them on as the blackout was lifted. As they passed through the lobby she saw a fire truck spraying streams of water on a burning building across the way.
“That was close,” Harris said, nodding toward the street. “A couple of hundred yards in the other direction and that bomb would have hit us.”
Laura was silent as they returned to his room, afraid that he would want to send her away after this close call. The first thing he said as the door closed behind them told her she had read him correctly.
“I think you should go back to France,” he said. “It’s not safe for you to stay here.”
“It’s no safer in Fains,” Laura countered. “They’re not dropping bombs but they are standing people in front of firing squads.”
“Then go home to the States!” he answered angrily. “Doesn’t this episode tonight convince you that nobody is playing here?”
“I knew it wasn’t a game when Alain was killed,” Laura said quietly.
He sighed, his expression remorseful, and pulled her into his arms. “I know, baby, I’m sorry. It’s just that I’m so afraid something is going to happen to you.”
She didn’t know how to respond and so said nothing. There were no guarantees, for any of them. She looked past his shoulder at the lightening sky. It would be dawn soon.
“I thought the rain would keep the planes away, too much cloud cover,” Harris said, as if to himself.
“It cleared up while we were asleep,” Laura said.
He held her off and looked at her, lifting a lock of red hair that fell over one eye. “You’re out of uniform, marine,” he said, tugging at her belt.
“I feel like an exhibitionist,” she replied.
He slipped his hands inside the coat and encircled her waist, bending to take one pink-brown nipple in his mouth.
Laura sighed and cupped the back of his head.
Harris straightened, scooped her up in his arms and carried her to the bed.
* * *
It rained on and off for the rest of the week, sometimes drizzling, sometimes pouring. Whenever Laura thought of that time afterward, it seemed shrouded in a haze of happiness, as if her memory of it were as misty and dreamlike as the weather. They walked through the parks, made love, and talked endlessly, as if they had all the time in the world. Laura told him about her family in Massachusetts, and her time in Fains before the war; she heard all about his three sisters, his stolid but loving father and eccentric mother, his youth in Chicago, his respect for the Corps.
Neither talked about their imminent parting or their future beyond it.
On the evening before he was to leave they went to see Gone with the Wind at the Empire Cinema in Covent Garden. It had been released in the States the previous year, but this was the first London showing and the theater was mobbed. The sedate British audience applauded in delight when fellow countrymen Vivien Leigh and Leslie Howard appeared on screen, and one fellow down in the front guffawed loudly when he heard Leigh’s magnolia scented American accent. He was quickly shushed by his more polite seatmates, and the performance continued without further distractions.
Laura fell hard for the romantic story, and was talking about it when they emerged from the theater to rain slicked streets and a cloudy evening sky.
“That Clark Gable is terrific,” Laura said.
“I hear he has false teeth,” Harris replied.
Laura shot him a withering look. “Didn’t yo
u think the movie was wonderful?” she asked.
“Wonderfully long. A three hour challenge to the kidneys.”
“That’s what the intermission was for,” she said.
“I spent the intermission trying to get you something to eat at the snack stand, remember?”
She threw her arms around his neck. “Can I help it if you keep me so busy in bed that I don’t even have time for a Hershey bar?”
“Assuming you could find a Hershey bar,” he replied, hugging her and spinning her in a circle. He set her down and they walked hand in hand to the bus stop, getting into line, which the British referred to as a “queue.” There was always a crowd waiting for the buses, which ran less frequently since the outbreak of war due to the fuel shortage. The other people crowding on the corner looked at Laura, and Harris in his uniform, and knew their story at a glance.
They rode back to the hotel on the second level of the double decker, with Harris standing behind Laura, who was seated. As they walked down the hall to their room the woman they’d seen in the lift, who was staying across the way from them, stared at Laura as she came out of her door. Then she looked down, striding off on the opposite direction.
Laura followed the woman with her eyes as Harris called for her to come in.
“What are you doing out there?” he asked, as she joined him.
“I don’t like the way that woman looks at me,” Laura said.
“What woman?” he asked, taking off his coat.
“That lady who has the room across the hall. The one we saw the day I arrived.”
“How is she looking at you?” Harris asked, humoring her.
“Like she knows we’re doing something scandalous in here,” Laura said uncomfortably.
“Then she’s right,” Harris replied, drawing her to him and kissing her neck.
“She’s nosy,” Laura said, irritated.
He laughed. “She’s probably just jealous.”
“You have a high opinion of yourself,” Laura said indignantly, pulling back to look at him.
Clash by Night (A World War II Romantic Drama) Page 20
