by Sarah Sundin
Clay eyed the grapnels as he ran. They disappeared over the edge of the cliff, and the ropes flopped against the cliff face. Some were plain rope and some had toggles.
He slung his rifle over his shoulder, grabbed a plain rope, and shimmied up, bracing his feet against the cliff as he went.
“This is nothing,” Gene said from a toggled rope beside him.
“No fooling.” Maybe fifty feet tall and not too steep, a cliff the Rangers could scale with bare hands.
To his left, Sid Rubenstein set up a tubular steel ladder and climbed it. Bob Holman passed Ruby another section to add to the top.
The Rangers had learned every possible way to climb a cliff. No matter what obstacles they found on D-day, they would conquer them.
Near the top Clay readied his rifle, and he scrambled over the edge.
One hundred feet ahead lay two concrete pillboxes, smoke streaming out of the gun slits. An earlier platoon had already secured the primary objective, so Clay gathered the other four men in his rifle squad and jogged to the road, the next objective. They were to proceed to Combe Point at the mouth of the Dart River, and then to Dartmouth.
On the road the squads formed into sections, the sections into platoons, and they marched.
“Hope D-day is this easy,” Gene said with a grin.
“Wouldn’t that be nice?” Clay eyed the trees and stone walls, but no Germans would pop out today. Not even an Englishman. All the civilians had been evacuated from the region so the GIs could practice.
South Devon had been chosen for its resemblance to their objective on the far shore, wherever it might be. Whenever it might be.
Clay figured he had a week or two left on earth. A week or two to write those letters and fully forgive.
Leah’s words scrolled through his head, and he pulled her letter from his pocket, the letter that had arrived before they boarded the transport. It felt strange knowing his parents were in Tullahoma with her and the baby, two disconnected parts of his life joining—as he’d hoped they would. Obviously, they’d been talking about him.
Clay darted his gaze between the road, the Rangers, and the stationery.
I pray constantly that you’ll completely forgive your brothers. This is for your own good, so you’ll be at peace knowing you’ve done right by them. This is for Wyatt and Adler, so they can rest in the knowledge of your forgiveness and love. Despite all that’s happened, I know you love them dearly.
This is for your parents, who love all three of you and long for you to forgive each other. Please remember your parents’ love for Wyatt and Adler doesn’t diminish their love for you. It never has, and it never will.
This is also for the sake of your family as a whole. Clay, you alone hold the key to restoration and peace. Your parents have forgiven your brothers, and they say Wyatt and Adler have forgiven each other. That leaves you, my sweet husband.
My sweet wife. What wisdom, written with assurance. What compassion—for Clay, for his parents, and for the brothers-in-law she’d never met and had heard nothing good about.
Clay pulled the snapshot from the envelope, the picture of Leah holding baby Helen to face the camera. Over and over he’d studied Helen’s face—so tiny it only intensified the desire to see her, to watch her expressions and hear her cries and coos.
And Leah. Something in his chest stirred and rolled. She’d changed. Nothing girlish or naïve remained. She was a woman. A beautiful woman.
The way those dark eyes looked to the camera, still dreamy but with a new poise. And the way her lips tipped up at the corners, serene but strong.
Clay had married a lost waif who needed his protection and his giving. Along the way, something had changed. She’d begun giving to him. He craved her words, soft but true. He needed her.
He loved her.
Clay stifled a groan and tucked the photo and letter back in his pocket. He was afraid this might happen. He was afraid he’d fall in love. Now he couldn’t deny it any longer.
Through an opening in the shrubbery, the cliff fell away beside him. So like their objective on the far shore.
Where he’d die.
Clay kept his feet moving, although the stirring in his chest transformed to churning. For three years, he’d wanted to die to escape the pit of his life. But now the pit wasn’t miserable. It was downright cozy. He belonged to the best unit in the US Army, and he had the sweetest wife and baby girl in the world.
If his brothers hadn’t . . .
Clay’s eyes stretched wide, taking in gravelly path and trees and clouds and insight.
If his brothers hadn’t cast him in the pit, he never would have been drafted. He never would have joined the Rangers. He wouldn’t have been at Camp Forrest—
His blood ran cold.
He wouldn’t have passed the library that July night. Leah would have bled to death. Even if she’d lived, Clay wouldn’t have been there to marry her. She would have given Helen up for adoption.
“Oh, Lord. Thank you,” he murmured. Thank you for the pit. Thank you—thank you for letting my brothers take away my future so Leah and Helen could have a future.
His chest convulsed. He gasped long and hard—quickly faked a cough to divert his friends’ attention.
Clay could barely breathe, barely walk, barely think, everything upside down and backward and topsy-turvy.
And everything turned right side up for the first time in three years.
31
TULLAHOMA
SUNDAY, MAY 14, 1944
On the church lawn, Miss King from the orphanage peeked into the carriage—not easy with Luella and Sally Bellamy guarding “their” baby. “My, she’s good. I hope this means you can volunteer again soon. The children keep asking about you.”
Leah rolled her hands around the handle of the baby carriage. “Thank you.”
“Happy Mother’s Day.” Miss King wiggled her fingers at Leah and Rita Sue.
In front of the stately brick church, Mrs. Paxton chatted with Mrs. Sheridan from the library, Mercer chatted with three men Leah didn’t know, and Joey Bellamy played tag with some older boys.
Leah frowned at Rita Sue. “Why would Miss King want me back?”
Rita Sue tilted her head, making the pink flowers on her hat sway. “Why wouldn’t she?”
“I insulted the donors.”
“Pff.” Rita Sue leaned close and lowered her voice. “Mrs. Channing is insulted if the weather doesn’t do her bidding. Never you mind her.”
Leah turned the carriage to keep the sun out of Helen’s eyes. “But I’m not . . . well, I’m not like the other ladies who sit on boards and volunteer. I don’t belong.”
“Don’t belong?” Rita Sue set one hand on an ample hip. “Sugar, if you want to belong, you have to join.”
Leah’s mouth drifted open. She’d never thought of it that way.
Rita Sue retied the pale green ribbon at the end of one of Sally’s braids. “Some groups you’re born into, some you’re invited into, and some you have to worm your way in. You just received an invitation.”
“I—I did.”
“Yes, you did. I don’t want to hear any more talk about not belonging, you hear?”
“I hear.” Leah smiled at her daughter, asleep on her back in her ruffled white bonnet, her arms stretched out as if fencing. “I do enjoy reading to the little children and helping the older ones with homework. And Helen’s so good, I could bring her. Maybe in a few weeks. Yes, definitely.”
“That’s the way.”
“I wish I could do more. They really are having financial woes, but Miss King can’t ask for more donations without insulting the current donors. They think no one will help because the children are”—Leah swallowed a hot, hard lump—“a drain on society.”
One of Rita Sue’s eyebrows rose to the rim of her hat, challenging Leah. “Do you agree?”
Memories dragged on her heart . . . “Scram, you hooligans” . . . “dirty orphans” . . . “unwanted.”
But Mikey and Marty and the other children at the home were sweet and silly, same as Joey and Luella and Sally and Helen. They had great worth, and something hardened in Leah’s neck. “No child is a drain on society. Orphans can’t help it if they don’t belong . . . Rita Sue, you’re brilliant!”
“Hear that, girls?” Rita Sue tugged on Sally’s braid. “I’m brilliant.”
Luella and Sally giggled.
Rita Sue laughed. “Don’t you sass me, young ladies. Round up your father and brother and Mrs. Paxton.”
The girls scampered off.
The idea took shape in Leah’s mind. “You are—you’re brilliant. ‘If you want to belong, you have to join.’ The orphans don’t belong in town. They’re someone else’s unwanted children. So they have to join the community—by contributing. If they can be seen as assets . . .”
Rita Sue’s hazel eyes glimmered in the spring sunshine. “No, you’re the brilliant one. Keep going. What are you thinking?”
“Something for the war effort. Maybe they could collect scrap, plant victory gardens, sell war bonds.”
“I like it. Let’s talk tomorrow morning.”
Luella and Sally finished herding, and the Bellamy and Paxton clans walked up Washington.
Mrs. Paxton fell in beside Leah. “I like that Mrs. Sheridan. She hopes you can volunteer at the library again.”
Leah’s heart strained in that direction. But even good babies couldn’t spend an entire morning in a library, and Rita Sue was busy with her own home and volunteer duties. “Maybe I could find another mother to trade babysitting with.”
“That’s the spirit.” Mrs. Paxton stroked her corsage. “I’ve always loved Mother’s Day.”
“This is the first one I’ve enjoyed.” And she’d enjoyed it twofold—for being a mother and for having one. Mrs. Paxton had become dear to her over the past three weeks.
“Ah, mija.” Mrs. Paxton squeezed Leah’s arm. “Do you remember your mother?”
“A bit. I was four when my parents died. I remember they read to me and sang to me, and we spoke English and Greek. And I remember they loved the three of us girls so much.”
“You have sisters? I didn’t know that. Where do they live?”
“I don’t know. They were babies. Twins. The Jones family adopted me, but not them. Then they left me in Des Moines. All my life I’ve wanted to find my sisters. I just found out we came from Chicago, but I can’t do anything with that information.”
“Why not?”
Helen moved her arms, dragging the blanket up over her face. She fussed, and Leah tucked the blanket down. “You sound like Clay. He keeps telling me to go to Chicago.”
“Then go.”
Leah laughed. “Diapers to wash, nursing, baby baths—I can’t imagine traveling with a baby, staying at a hotel. Not to mention the expense. Besides, there must be dozens of orphanages in the Chicago area. I wouldn’t know where to begin.”
“That would be difficult.” Mrs. Paxton squinted one eye in the way she did when she was thinking.
Did Clay do that too? Leah couldn’t remember. It’d been so long since she’d seen him, and her heart folded in.
Back at the Bellamy property, Leah returned to her little house with her mother-in-law.
Mrs. Paxton pulled on the apron Leah had made from her “good” gray dress from the orphanage. “Go take care of the baby, and I’ll get the frijoles refritos cooking. The beans soaked all night.”
“Thank you—Mama.” The word was difficult but came easier each day.
Leah settled down with Helen in the nursery chair. Rita Sue said bottle feeding was the modern and civilized way to feed a baby, but Dr. Adams and the mother’s book from the Department of Public Health insisted nursing was healthier for the baby—and far less expensive. Leah enjoyed how her daughter molded to her body and heart and soul when she nursed.
After Helen was satiated, Leah changed the wet diaper and dropped it in the pail. Tomorrow morning she’d wash diapers again. Thank goodness Rita Sue let Leah use her washing machine and wringer.
“Here she is, all fresh and happy,” Leah said.
“There’s my girl.” Mrs. Paxton made faces at Helen. “She’s always so bright-eyed in the late morning. See how she watches us?”
“I know.” Leah kissed a tiny hand and passed the baby into her grandmother’s eager arms. “What can I do for dinner?”
“Nothing for now.” Mrs. Paxton sat in the rocking chair, and Leah pulled up a kitchen chair.
The living room looked much homier. The Paxtons had brought Clay’s little tabletop radio, his violin, and a couple dozen books, which Leah was devouring. They’d also brought some of Clay’s boyhood toys and books for Helen.
“We made the tortillas yesterday, and we’ll start the carnitas and sauce in an hour.” Mrs. Paxton waved a rattle in front of Helen. “This is Clay’s favorite enchilada recipe. Mind you, don’t tell him you’re learning my secrets. Just surprise him when he comes home.”
Leah tried to smile, but it wobbled.
Mrs. Paxton lowered her eyebrows. “Don’t worry. He’ll come home.”
“Yes, Mama.” He’d taken to writing daily, and so had she. Each morning could bring the invasion, and after that, how long would he have?
“Has he . . . has he ever mentioned a strange dream?” Mrs. Paxton’s brow furrowed.
With the truth unlocked, relief flowed out. “Yes. He says it comes weekly.”
“Even now? But everything’s changed.” She rocked harder. “For so long, he didn’t want to live. But now he has you. Now he has his daughter, his own blood.”
Leah’s heart ripped. Mrs. Paxton thought Helen was Clay’s blood—hers too—the only child of her only child. It was a lie.
Leah clutched her arms across her belly. “Oh, Mrs. Paxton, I have to tell you the truth.”
“Not Mrs. Paxton. Mama.”
“No. Mrs. Paxton. I’m not really your daughter.”
“You’re married to my son, aren’t you?”
“Yes, but he only married me because of the baby.”
Mrs. Paxton’s mouth rounded, then she dropped her chin. “I see. I—at least you did the right thing and—”
“Oh! Not like that.” Leah’s fingers dug into the too-soft flesh around her waist. “Please don’t think less of Clay. Think more of him.”
“I won’t tell anyone. Not even your father-in-law.”
“No, it’s not like that.” Leah stood and walked to the wedding portrait on the wall. Clay looked so handsome in his service uniform, his smile white in his strong face. “He—he told you I was attacked and stabbed, and that he saved my life. But he didn’t tell you I was also—I was—that man—violated me.”
“Oh my goodness. Oh no. You poor child.”
Her breath strained in her tightened chest, and she stroked the rim of the wood frame, forcing herself to concentrate on Clay rather than the wolf. “When I found out I was pregnant, Clay offered to marry me so I wouldn’t have to put my baby up for adoption. So she could have a good name. So I could have his allotment to raise her.”
Mrs. Paxton murmured.
Leah faced her, and her heart wrenched at the turmoil on her face. “Helen—she isn’t really Clay’s daughter. And she isn’t really your granddaughter. I’m so sorry.”
Mrs. Paxton pressed the baby to her chest and lowered her face over the downy black hair on Helen’s sweet head.
The only sound in the room was the creak of the rocking chair.
Leah hugged herself. Now she’d driven away someone she was growing to love, someone who loved her little girl like a real grandma. But she had to tell the truth.
Mrs. Paxton drew a deep breath, her head still bowed over Helen’s. “You know I didn’t give birth to Wyatt or Adler, don’t you?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She raised dark eyes just like Clay’s. “They look nothing like me and don’t carry a drop of my blood, but they’re my sons. I love them the same as I love Clay, and I
always will.”
“I—I understand, but this—”
“Helen is my grandchild, and I love her the same as I love my Timmy. Both babies—” She bit back a sob and shook her head. “I don’t care how they came into the world. I love them, and they’re mine.”
Leah’s gut churned. How she wanted to accept the acceptance, but it didn’t seem right. “But Mrs. Pax—”
“Mama, and don’t argue with me.” Her voice wavered. “Don’t you argue. You married my Clay, and you love him. I can see it in your eyes.”
“I—I do.” But why did love have to hurt, squeezing and twisting everything inside her?
“I know he loves you too.”
Leah lowered her face. She refused to shatter that illusion as well.
“So you’re my daughter and always will be, and Helen will always be my granddaughter. Understood, mija?”
Leah raised her gaze to this woman she had no right to claim as family. But something stretched between them, a mutual love for Clay and for Helen.
That was the right. That was the claim. That was family.
Leah breathed it in deeply. “Yes, Mama.”
32
SWANAGE, DORSET, ENGLAND
MONDAY, MAY 15, 1944
The only sound in Clay’s ears was the scratching of pens on paper. Occasionally, Rangers murmured to each other, but overall a hushed reverence filled the quarters in the old school.
After Exercise Fabius, Clay’s company had returned to Swanage on the southern coast, along with the rest of the 2nd Ranger Battalion. More cliff climbing, with extra training on using the rocket-propelled grapnels, now mounted on the LCA landing craft. They were also experimenting with extension ladders from the London Fire Department mounted on DUKW amphibious vehicles.
Dozens of Rangers lounged on cots writing letters. They were strong, smart, well trained, unified, and confident bordering on arrogant. They were ready.
Down the length of the room, Frank Lyons met Clay’s gaze without smiling, and a chill ran through Clay. Something about that man. Nothing definitive to report to Rudder, just a needling suspicion.
Clay returned his attention to his stationery boxes. Enough dillydallying. All around England, vehicles transported troops to marshaling areas close to the southern ports. Rudder had told the men to write any letters they wanted mailed before the invasion. After the men were briefed on their mission, the mail would be impounded so no classified details could be leaked.
