He snorted. “The only mystery in our relationship is why it took you so long to realize I was crazy about you.”
Laura pushed herself up on her elbows. “I beg your pardon,” she said indignantly. “As I recall the night before you blew up the factory I threw myself into your arms.”
“You have a short memory,” he said archly. “About who threw what at whom, that is.”
“May I have that again, please?” she said, grinning.
“You know what I mean. I had made up my mind not leave this house without doing something about the way I felt, but I was so nervous I let it go until the last minute. My recollection is that I grabbed you as I was running out the door.” He crushed his cigarette out on the heel of his shoe.
“Well, almost,” she said, sighing. “I guess it was mutual.”
“And then there was London,” he said.
“Oh, yes,” she murmured.
“We’ll have to get back there,” he went on. He turned on his side to face her. “You know, going through a ceremony now will just be a formality. I’ve felt married to you since then.”
Moved into silence, she twined her fingers with his.
“Speaking of ceremonies, do you think that priest who married Brigitte can marry us?” he asked. “I’d have to get permission but I think I can handle it through the 1st Army installation in Bar-le-Duc.”
Laura didn’t answer.
“What’s the matter?” he said, looking at her. “Changed your mind?”
“Dan, I have a favor to ask,” she said sweetly, holding his hand to her cheek.
“Oh, boy,” he said in a martyred tone. “Here it comes.”
“I’d like to get married at home with my parents there.” She released his hand. “They missed the first one because I got married here, and because...my father was against it. They were very hurt. I don’t want to do that to them again.”
“Do you think your father will be against me?” Harris asked.
“Are you kidding?” Laura said. “A decorated marine cap...major, an all-American boy from good old Evanston, Illinois, the heartland of the nation? He may marry you himself.”
Harris laughed. “I’ll settle for his daughter, if you don’t mind.” He sat up. “Laura, if you want to wait until we get back to get married that’s fine with me. There’s a chapel on the base, you can invite your family and anybody else you want. Or I’ll get a pass to go up to Boston.” He looked away from her. “It’s just that it’s taken so long for us to get to this point,” he said. “I’m guess I’m afraid to tempt fate any longer.”
“The worst is over for us. I can feel it,” Laura said.
He nodded. “I think you’re right.” He stretched. “Well, so what do we do? I’ll apply for permission to marry when I get back and see how soon I can book passage for you to come home. The military’s been using steamers out of Le Havre for dependent personnel, I think a fiancée would qualify. The trip to New York takes about two weeks. I’ll meet you there and bring you back to Lejeune. How does that sound?”
“Can you arrange that?” she asked, impressed.
“You’d be surprised how far a Silver Star and a game leg will take you in the Corps,” he said flatly.
“Dan, how did you get the leg? The wound, I mean. I’ll understand if you don’t want to tell me,” she finished hastily.
“There’s not much to tell,” he replied. “I don’t remember a whole lot. I was shot down over Okinawa and wound up in the hospital with a leg full of shrapnel.”
“When?”
“June.”
“And how long were you in the hospital?”
“A couple of months.”
“‘Not much to tell,’ huh?” Laura said skeptically. “Enough to keep you laid up for eight weeks, though.”
“It’s over, Laura,” he said shortly. “I just want to forget it.” He reached for another cigarette.
“I’ll bet I can make you forget about that smoke,” she said quietly, dropping her hand below his waist.
He closed his eyes. “I’ll bet you can too,” he murmured. The cigarette fell to the floor.
“Still hungry?” she whispered, moving on top of him.
“Not for food,” he answered, and enfolded her in his arms.
They spent the rest of Dan’s leave together getting ready for Laura’s departure, which would follow his. They prepared to close up the Duclos house, sheeting furniture and storing household items in boxes in the cellar. Laura gave her notice at the school. A replacement was found among the returning occupation refugees flooding back into France, and Laura packed her desk, taking Lysette’s things as well and transferring them to her cottage. She doubted if Lysette would ever return. But she felt better putting the personal belongings where the other woman could find them, rather than leaving them among strangers.
Harris became a popular guest in Fains-les-Sources once the story of his role in the factory explosion was revealed. The rest of his time there was a pleasant round of dinners with old friends and new, Curel, Langtot and the Thibeau boys among them, punctuated by nights spent in Laura’s arms.
Every morning when she woke and found him with her, it was like a miracle.
Harris arranged her passage out of Le Havre for the beginning of November. He threw his weight around and called in favors, but a month’s delay was the best he could do. Laura wished she could fly home with him and he was worried about the dangers of an ocean crossing in wartime, but they agreed to take the chance. Their time of separation was at an end.
He refused to let her go to the airfield with him, concerned about her return trip through the newly liberated areas, and she had to admit she didn’t want to say goodbye among strangers. Carter Foley, who had since enjoyed their hospitality on a number of occasions, had arranged transportation to Carpiquet for Harris. On the morning he was to leave they waited at the Duclos front window for the car to arrive.
“This reminds me of the time in London, at the hotel during the blitz,” Laura said softly. “It was so hard to say goodbye to you that day.”
He turned and touched her cheek. “It’s not the same,” he said gently. “Then we didn’t know if we’d ever see each other again.”
“We should have gotten married here,” she said suddenly. “I don’t know why I was so selfish about it.”
“Take it easy,” he said soothingly. “A month isn’t long to wait. We’ll be together again.”
A jeep pulled to a stop in the road fronting the house.
“There’s my ride,” Harris said, and hoisted his duffel bag.
“You’ll be careful?” Laura whispered, embracing him.
“I’m always careful.” When he saw her worried look he added, “Honey, if they haven’t been able to kill me so far I must be immortal.”
“November 18th,” she said to him.
“Do you think I’m going to forget?” he asked, kissing her cheek.
“Kiss me for real,” she said desperately.
He put down his bag and took her in his arms, kissing her tenderly. When he released her, as he turned he saw the moisture clinging to her lashes.
“I’ll see you in a month,” he said casually, as if going away to camp. He opened the door and ran lightly down the steps, his bad leg causing a slight catch on each one. She watched as he flung his bag into the jeep and then she looked away, listening for the sound of his departure. It came and then faded as the silence of the house closed in around her, more oppressive than ever.
Laura spent the long weeks saying goodbye to everything and everybody, promising herself that someday she would return. She visited the churchyard one last time. She remembered those who lay there and thought of all the others, just as fragile, just as loved, now sleeping in the soil of Normandy. There were no flowers left so she made wreaths of ash leaves entwined with tricolor ribbons and set them at the base of the stones.
The people with whom she had shared the life and death struggle of the Résistance all came, one
by one, to bid her farewell. Although she looked forward with great anticipation to her new life with Harris, the old one clung with the tenacity of first love, rendering her speechless with emotion as she parted with comrades she might never see again.
Curel was the hardest to leave. The crusty old war horse, who had always seemed capable of loving only his dead wife and his country, gave Laura a tiny fleur-de-lis studded with marcasites that had been in his family a long time. He said since he had no children he wanted her to keep it, to remember him.
Laura didn’t need a token to recall his courage and his honor, which would be a part of her always, like Alain’s. But she accepted the pendant and hung it on the chain around her neck with Harris’ silver wings.
Finally it was time to set out for Le Havre. Aware of the condition of the transportation system she allocated plenty of time for the trip, taking with her only a single bag. She didn’t want to be weighted down with luggage; this was one boat she was not going to miss.
The journey did not disappoint her. Trains ran erratically if they ran at all, and she and what seemed like the rest of the planet sat around in terminals, waiting for one to pull up that wasn’t full and was going in the right direction. France that autumn was the way station for the world; after four years of occupation everyone was trying to get in or get out.
Armed civilians were all over, men and women dressed in loose shirts and jackboots with rifles on their shoulders, prowling the depots like cats. Laura saw them arrest several people, obviously collaborators attempting to flee the country. She tried not to think of their fate.
By the time she reached the port city of Le Havre she was filthy and exhausted but she had a day to spare. The only hotel room she could get was a sectioned off portion of a walk out basement with a tiny, grimy window, both of which she shared with another female traveler. She fell onto the cot provided and awoke at evening, listening to the harbor sounds of wheeling sea birds and fog horns and vehicles on the streets. She was hungry but still too tired to go in search of food, so she settled for an apple she’d brought with her and fell asleep again.
When she awoke once more it was morning. She washed her face and hands in a cracked basin with the tin of tepid water provided by the management, straightened her clothes, and went out to face the day.
It was glorious, a bright fall morning, cool and brisk, freshened with a salt breeze. Laura bought a sweet roll from a stand and walked down to the docks, getting in one of the passenger lines and munching her breakfast as she waited.
It was noon before she was cleared to board. De Gaulle’s new government was attempting to cope with the mob, but apparently everyone not on a train was trying to get on a boat. Laura’s feet ached from standing in the queue, and her head ached from the endless questions and forms, but her outlook improved dramatically as soon as she walked up the gangplank.
The ship was stately and well appointed. Harris had booked her a single cabin with a sitting room on an upper deck. She glanced out the porthole at the mass of humanity eddying below on the quay, and then lay down on the bunk, ready for another nap.
The days passed quietly. Laura read and took most of her meals in her cabin. The crew looked sharp the first few days for German boats in the Channel, moving in for an attack on the coast, but none were sighted. The nights, however, were enlivened by air traffic. The RAF and USAAF flew above them to drop bombs on German airfields, oil refineries and railroads. The passengers were warned to stay below, but many braved the danger to listen to the roar of the motors above them in the clouds, trying to catch a glimpse of the planes and cheer them onward. Laura sometimes joined them, glad that for Harris that part of the war was over.
The morning they were to arrive in New York she was up early like almost everyone else. Fog shrouded the coastline, but the rising sun began to burn it off as the ship moved closer to shore, and she was standing at the rail when a shout caused her to turn and look.
The Statue of Liberty rose out of the mist, the torch and flowing garments trailing cottony wisps. Details emerged as it came closer and Laura could see the tablet the woman clasped, the spires in her crown.
Laura’s eyes stung and she sniffed, stifling emotion.
The woman next to her, a French national Laura had met over dinner, patted her hand on the rail and said in French, “Beautiful, isn’t it?”
Laura nodded, dabbing at her eyes. “I feel ridiculous,” she said, smiling. “I didn’t think I would do this.”
“Why do you feel ridiculous?” the woman replied. “You’re an American. It’s normal to cry for happiness when coming home.” She examined Laura’s face. “Have you been gone a long time?”
“Yes,” Laura murmured in reply. “A very long time.”
“The statue is a gift from France,” the woman said.
“Yes, I know.”
“A sign of good luck, don’t you think?”
“I think so,” Laura answered, and went below to get her things.
The disembarkation process was a little better organized than the departure from France had been, and Laura got though immigration with no problem. As she passed through the roped off area and onto the cement quay her anxiety escalated. He wouldn’t be there. She knew it. Something had happened, they weren’t meant to be together, fate was snatching happiness from their grasp. Her heart pounded in her ears with every step she took through the high ceilinged pier building, vaulted like an airplane hangar. Her eyes roamed the crowds like a sonar scanner. Greetings and reunions took place all around her but she was oblivious, focused on the one face she wanted to see.
“Laura!” Her name rang out in a flat Midwestern accent and she spun around instantly.
Her eyes met his over the crowd that separated them.
“Dan,” she whispered, and suddenly she knew that everything would be all right.
She dropped the bag she was carrying and began to run.
Epilogue
December, 1950
Chicago, Illinois
Laura removed the roast from the oven as Danielle said, “Mommy, I still don’t know what to get Daddy for Christmas.”
“Why don’t you get him one of those woolen sweaters we saw at Marshall Field’s?” Laura cut off a tiny section of meat and frowned at it, then left the slice on the drainboard.
“Daddy has a million sweaters,” the little girl said, exasperated. “I want to get him something he doesn’t have.”
“Then get him a moose.” Laura decided the roast was done enough and left it on the counter.
Danielle giggled wildly. “What would Daddy do with a moose?”
Laura smiled mysteriously. “You never know.”
Danielle glanced at the clock. She couldn’t tell time yet but liked to pretend.
“Is Daddy late?” she asked.
“A little. You know the roads from O’Hare get treacherous when it snows.”
“What’s ‘treacherous’?”
“Dangerous, slippery, icy. Daddy has to go slow.”
As if on cue, the front door opened and the baby began to wail from the bedroom.
“Hello, ladies,” Harris said, kissing Laura on the cheek and scooping Danielle off her chair. Snow dusted the shoulders of his American Airlines uniform topcoat.
“Hi, darling.” Laura smiled at him.
“It’s bad out there,” he said to Laura. “The Studebaker skidded twice on the way home.”
“Your nose is cold,” Danielle said, wrinkling hers as she hooked her arms around his neck.
“Is that any way to greet your old man?” he said, swinging her in an arc. She squealed delightedly.
“I’d better get him,” Laura said as the baby made his presence known again.
“He’s always crying,” Danielle complained to her father.
“I guess he’s a cry baby, then, huh?” Harris replied and she laughed.
Laura emerged from the hall. “He’s hungry,” she said, patting Alan’s diapered bottom.
“So
am I,” Harris observed, and popped the meat slice Laura had removed from the roast into his mouth. He set Danielle on the kitchen floor and took off his overcoat, glancing through the mail.
“A letter from Brigitte?” he said, holding up an envelope.
“Yes.”
“What does she say?”
“Read it for yourself,” Laura replied, teasing.
He made a face. “You know I can’t read French anymore.”
Laura gave the baby a bottle. “‘Anymore?’ You could never read it in the first place. Or speak it. That’s why you needed me, remember?”
“That’s not the only reason I needed you,” he said in a low tone, kissing the back of her neck as she passed him. “And who says I can’t speak French? Je vous aime beaucoup.”
“I take it back,” Laura said stoutly, rummaging in a drawer for a napkin.
Harris turned to his daughter and asked, “Hey, kiddo, did I ever tell you the story of how I met your mother?”
Danielle sighed with exaggerated impatience. “Daddy, you’ve told me that story a million times.” “Million” was her new word.
“Listen to this,” Harris said to Laura. “Five years old and she’s bored with me already.”
“Well, you’d better get a new routine if she thinks your stories are boring,” Laura retorted, laughing. She shifted Alan to her other arm. He had stopped sucking and she removed the bottle from his mouth, placing the protective napkin on her blouse.
“Believe me, little girl, living out that story was anything but boring,” Harris said, ruffling his daughter’s reddish hair as his eyes met Laura’s.
The baby spit up on her shoulder, missing the napkin.
“There goes my last clean blouse,” Laura said.
“I like you better without it,” he said.
Laura looked pointedly at Danielle. “Little pitchers,” she said.
“So what? It can’t hurt the kid to know her father’s crazy about her mother.”
“What kid?” Danielle said.
“You see what I mean?” Laura said and he laughed.
Clash by Night (A World War II Romantic Drama) Page 38
