by Carrie Lofty
Again she found his deliberate nature amusing. He was just so . . . unruffled. Maybe that was part of the reason why she liked kissing him, wanting to feel him lose control. She’d seen it when he’d fought Lt. Dixon. The idea of Joe directing that passion toward her—with lovemaking in mind, not violence—turned her insides to steaming hot water.
“Leicester’s been lucky, really. Half of London’s been destroyed.” Memories as dark as the evening blackness sent her tumbling back in time. “Orphans sleep in tube stations if they haven’t been evacuated to the countryside.”
Orphans of all ages.
“So I’ve heard,” Joe said. “What a choice, eh?”
He put an arm around her shoulders and she cuddled closer, for both warmth and security. There was nothing between them and Mersley except this empty stretch of road, a few cows, and the occasional farmhouse. They might as well have been the only two people in England.
Lulu smiled, finding it odd that she was enjoying their isolation. “But we’re still people. We need something to alleviate all the madness. So if there’s alcohol, it will be drunk. If there’s music, it will be danced to.” Laughter tickled in her throat like the promise of a cough. “And if there’s a horizontal surface . . .”
Joe snorted. Lulu set her laugh free.
“Even if they never see each other again?” he asked. “That couple on the horizontal surface, I mean.”
“Why put off till tomorrow things that can be done tonight?”
“You tell me.”
“I have my reasons, Joe. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it. Looks like I’ve volunteered again.”
“You’re comparing me to volunteering for the paratroopers? Or being a medic? I don’t know whether to be flattered or insulted.”
Joe made a strangled noise. “Now hold on a second, honey. I signed up for the Airborne, but no way did I want to be a medic.”
The seriousness in his voice curbed her levity. She’d wanted to avoid her own dark places, not poke a stick into his. “I don’t understand.”
“I wanted to join the paratroops. That much is true. The training promised to be rigorous, well beyond anything that’s been tried before. The men who came out of it—they’d be the best of the best. I wanted that.” He took a long drag, the tip of his cigarette glowing brightly as he inhaled. “But as for being a medic, I didn’t have any say. I took a test when I joined up and hot dog, that was my assignment.”
“I just assumed. That is, I thought . . .”
“Nope.”
“Had you any previous training?”
“The closest I came to being a doctor was working as a janitor in a home for old folks. That plus my test scores seemed enough for Uncle Sam.”
The evening had turned downright cold. She laid her head on his shoulder as they walked. Taller, more solid and muscular, he made her feel petite and protected. She wasn’t used to relying on anyone other than her fellow pilots, and never in such an intimate way. “But that’s just cruel. Your army simply assumes a man has the stomach for being a doctor?”
“Just like the draft, I suppose,” Joe said with a shrug. “Some boys don’t want to serve at all. They’ve gotta find the spine to kill, not save.”
“The two aren’t comparable. You wanted to do your bit. You volunteered for it. And this is your reward?”
“Someone has to do it, Lulu. There aren’t enough conscientious objectors or religious men to go in unarmed.” He paused. “I don’t like it, but there it is. It’s my job now. And I’m not going to let my platoon down.”
“Of course you won’t.” The flare of anger she’d felt on Joe’s behalf eased out of her. He was a medic and that was part of him, part of how she thought of him—as intrinsic to his identity as his uniform and his jump wings. As they turned up the drive toward the ferry pool, Lulu said, “But you will keep your head down, won’t you?”
They stopped beneath the branches of an ancient oak tree. Fifty feet away the pilots’ residence sat quiet and dark, hewn of shadows. A low-wattage guide light atop the highest part of the hangar’s roof was the only bright spot on the Mersley grounds. Joe petted his thumb along her lower lip. “My, my, Miss Davies. That almost sounds like you care.”
“About your platoon, surely.”
“Surely.”
Heat and sizzling, expectant pleasure blossomed where he touched. They were going to kiss again. She wanted it to happen.
She made it happen.
Standing on tiptoes, her arms around his neck, she pressed her lips innocently to his. Innocently at first, and then with growing need. His tongue traced the fullness of her lower lip, slipping along the seam. She opened for him. He tasted of beer and a faint hum of the cigarettes. He cupped the back of her head with one hand and her backside with the other.
Lulu stroked his starched uniform tunic, but she didn’t want wool. She wanted skin, or at least the feel of smooth, heated cotton—his T-shirt stretched over the firm muscles of his chest. Memories of that redhead urged her to demand more, take more. She’d never been hit with such a wave of jealousy, its intensity stealing both breath and pride. Now she took that surprise and frustration out on Joe, molding her body to his, deepening their kiss. The sound of air slipping in and out of his nose, his control ebbing away, accelerated her own breathing.
Joe relented first. He forced a scant few inches between their mouths, their foreheads pressed together, when Lulu wouldn’t have stopped until they were both collapsed in a satisfied puddle beneath that guardian oak.
“Not tonight,” he said, his voice oddly amused.
“No?”
He laughed softly and kissed her temple, just as he’d done during their first dance. “Not tonight. But you’ll save me the last dance next Saturday night, won’t you?”
Lulu closed her eyes. So that was his hustle, with all of his quiet deliberation. She should’ve known. He was willing to trade a sure thing for the promise of more.
And she was just the daredevil to accept his unspoken challenge. God, she had it coming—whatever it was. Apparently pushing her luck in the air wasn’t enough. Four years of rules and safeguards pinched too deeply. Her reckless heart wanted free—wanted a man to crash against, time and again, until it shattered.
Joe was that man.
She stepped out of his arms and whispered, “Next Saturday.”
chapter nine
Lulu and Paulie sat beside each other on the Anson as it taxied around, with Margaret Plimsole at the controls. The three American men of Mersley sat on the other side of the plane’s central walkway. Todd was reading a newspaper with “Baby Blitz on the Fritz!” as its headline, while Felix and Lee played a quick hand of cards. Paulie was fiddling with the rigging of her parachute. As the Anson’s noisy engine grew steadily louder and Margaret guided it airborne, Lulu finished her mug of Victory tea—tea where the leaves had already been steeped two or three times.
They had twenty minutes in the air before touching down at RAF Langar outside Barnstone, home of the U.S. 9th Air Force.
“Three weeks,” Paulie said, her voice pitched to be heard over the engine noise. She’d taken out a nail buff to fuss with her perfect manicure. Where she’d managed to scrounge a bottle of scarlet nail varnish was a riddle best left unsolved.
“Three weeks what?” Lulu asked.
“Since you’ve taken up with Joe.”
“I’ve not taken up with him.” Lulu grimaced. “I’ve no more taken up with him than you would with Lee.”
Paulie pulled a face. “I see you dancing with him every time you’re both at the Henley. What does that tell me?”
Lulu leaned her head back against the seat and closed her eyes. That soaring feeling she’d come to anticipate with thoughts of Joe eased over her in a fluttering rush. Her belly quivered. Her hands grew restless. She sat up and snatched Paulie’s emery board just to give her fingers something to do.
“You’ll file off a nail,” Paulie said, a wry smile t
wisting her red lips. “So . . . tell me.”
“Not every dance.”
As if that tepid fact would stand as barrier enough between Joe and her heart.
The truth of it, however, was more dangerous than she wanted to admit, and much more romantic. The last dance of the night was for Lulu and Joe, when they’d find one another as if with radar. In the meantime the anticipation played out like a good game of chess. She danced with other men—keeping up appearances, she knew, as if her thoughts weren’t on Joe the entire time—while he patiently waited her out. Whether having a quiet drink or talking with Smitty or cutting the occasional rug with a pretty girl, he waited. Not once had he given up and gone home early. And not once had Lulu refused him when he presented his unspoken request.
It was driving her mad.
After the club closed up for the night, Joe would walk her home from the train station. She’d done the sums once and figured that he’d never make it back to his barracks at Rothley until after two in the morning. But he insisted.
“Well, one or a hundred,” Paulie said, “I’m glad to see you coming out of your shell.”
Lulu stopped filing and glanced at her friend. She knew exactly what Paulie meant. Memories of Robbie became an unmentionable ghost flying around the Anson’s cabin with them.
“A few dances doesn’t mean I’ve lost my grip. It doesn’t mean I’m in love with him or anything of the sort.”
“I never said it did,” Paulie answered carefully. “But I’ve known you since Hatfield. I’ve never once seen you give a chap more than a second look, let alone . . . well, let alone what you’ve been doing with that handsome Yankee.”
Lee looked up from his hand of cards. “You talking about me, Paulie?”
“Decidedly not, Yank.”
“Aw, Paulie, don’t be so mean.”
She unhooked her safety belt and leaned across the aisle, giving Lee a quick kiss on the mouth. “Then mind your own business, goosey.”
Lee sat up straighter and flashed his picture-perfect grin. He laid down two pair but was promptly beaten by Felix’s straight. “Damn. Oh, sorry, ladies.”
Paulie waved away his reflexive courtesy and buckled in, then stuck her tongue out at Lulu. “I mean, kissing him in public? Right there on the dance floor of the Henley? Lou, don’t give me this guff.”
Lulu curtly returned the nail file and crossed her arms. Every moment she’d spent with Joe was unraveling her, slowly but inevitably.
“Very well, I like him,” she said at last. “But I’m not being foolish about it. He has a past we won’t discuss, he doesn’t like my flying, and he’ll be over the Channel and pinged with Jerry artillery by the end of summer. A few dances just seems . . .” She exhaled as if she could push the tension and the scalding feelings out of her body. “It just seems like now. Do you understand my meaning?”
Paulie nodded. Her expression was both sympathetic and amused. “Sure I do.”
They didn’t exchange another word until Margaret had landed the Anson and they’d disembarked. Then they couldn’t help but embrace and wish each other well. Both had seen firsthand what could happen in wartime if friends didn’t part on good terms.
Lulu adjusted her friend’s Mae West life preserver. Paulie was set to fly to RAF Langham along the northern coast of Norfolk and would be crossing the Wash estuary to do so.
“All set. Good flying, Paula.”
“You too, Louise.”
Lulu spent a muggy Saturday in early April at the Henley, anticipating Joe’s arrival. Two weekends had passed since they’d last seen each other. First she’d been caught out in Dorset on another dreadful P.I.W. Then his company’s weekend passes had been revoked because of disciplinary infractions. Now rumors were flying around the Midlands that units were transferring to the south. Nights of fun and dancing were coming to an end.
And she might never see him again.
Although an unwelcome grief gathered in her throat at the thought, she swallowed a quick gulp of beer and pushed it down. She knew real grief. This was just disappointment.
“Well, well, if it isn’t the girl fighter ace.”
Lulu snapped her head toward the familiar voice she couldn’t place. But the pencil-thin mustache and Clark Gable looks were unmistakable. “Good evening, Lt. Dixon.”
“Evening, flygirl. What was your name again?”
“Lulu,” she said drearily.
The lieutenant didn’t catch her hint. He just said her name again, slowly, like a sommelier rolling a satisfying taste across his tongue. The thought made Lulu’s stomach tighten.
He grinned and introduced the men who’d joined him, as if she’d remember their names beyond the next five minutes. He had that blond with him, Dawson, the fresh-faced American with dimples the size of threepence coins gouged out of each cheek. Two other Yank officers from the same engineering unit flanked Dixon just to his rear.
Although Lulu was in a room full of people—the same crowded club as always—she felt suddenly confined. Maybe it was the grin on the lieutenant’s face, which lingered midway between teasing and malice. She’d never been accosted, but she knew when to avoid certain company. Just to be safe.
This was one of those times.
“If you’ll excuse me, Lieutenant, I’m off to rejoin my friends.”
“That girl Paulie? Quite a dish. Too stuck up for my tastes, though.”
“Have a good night, boys,” she said, doing her best to fake a smile.
She turned to scoot through a narrow opening between Dawson and the bar, but Lt. Dixon grabbed her arm. “Or maybe you’re here with that jailbird scum, Weber.”
His smile had turned cruel, the gleam in his eyes shadowed and nasty.
“I’m not here with anyone. Britain’s still a free country that way.”
“Because of us,” said one of his cohorts. “You’d all be learning that ugly Hun talk by now if we hadn’t shown up.”
With Herculean restraint Lulu left her sharp retort unspoken. These boys weren’t in the mood to chop logic. She tried once again to leave, chancing a glance toward the other servicemen who lingered along the bar. No one made eye contact. Soldiers knew to mind their own business unless a woman was under grave threat of bodily harm. Only then would they interfere in another man’s fun and risk a brawl.
She was on her own.
The lieutenant pulled her closer with a sharp tug. Lulu bit back a gasp; she’d have a bruise come morning. “You want to know what Joe Weber did to spend three years in lockup?” he asked. “Aren’t you the least bit curious why we came to blows?”
Dixon let go and stepped aside, his message clear. She could turn and leave if she wanted to. Bloody hell but she was tired of Yanks playing games with her sanity. Weren’t they supposed to flatter her, buy her drinks, and be thankful for the occasional dance? That’s how it used to be, before she started acting like a twit and caring for one man in particular.
She faced down Dixon’s insolent smile. “Tell me, then.”
He huffed a malformed laugh. “Not in front of these fools. We’re going to need cannon fodder like Weber to throw into the Kraut line of fire. My boys here—decent men that they are—would want justice done now.” He was so close that his breath brushed against Lulu’s forehead. He smelled of tobacco and rotgut booze. “So he lives. For today. I’m a patriot that way.”
Yes, quite the gentleman.
“But I’ll tell you when you dance with me,” he said.
She sighed. “Fine.”
“Get lost, boys. Go find your own dames.”
Lulu wasn’t in raptures with the idea of being Dixon’s dame, not even for one dance. But for reasons she couldn’t face, she wanted to hear this story from someone other than Joe. No, the reason was simple cowardice. If Joe told her, she’d have to make an instantaneous decision and deliver it directly. She would hear the evidence, become his judge, and deliver his sentence, all while trying to look him in the eye. If Lulu learned something terrible f
rom Dixon, the coward’s way out was to never return to the Henley. She’d never have to see Joe again.
Despising both her spinelessness and her curiosity, she yanked on Dixon’s hand as soon as the orchestra struck up “Mexicali Rose.” That same portly man with the rich tenor voice was singing, and Lulu let Lt. Harry Dixon hold her—but not too closely. A sense that she was betraying Joe sliced between her ribs like a knife blade.
She knew Dixon had a penchant for the dramatic by the strutting way he walked and how he kept his mustache trimmed with fastidious precision. He liked to be watched and admired. He liked commanding the attention of those around him. Lulu couldn’t fathom what sort of officer he would be, or how he would lead his subordinates and obey his superiors. She’d heard tales of men transformed by combat, sloughing their egos and forgoing fear in order to become soldiers. But as Lt. Dixon watched her, purposefully drawing out the moment, she couldn’t imagine an alteration powerful enough to make him into a man she could respect.
Then again, perhaps her idea of what made a man worth respecting had been completely corrupted. She knew nothing, really, about either Dixon or Joe. She might have been basing estimations of their character on who was simply more pleasing to be with.
“Out with it,” she said.
“Joe Weber is a nasty piece of work. He was always in trouble with the law. A shame, too.” His face assumed a regretful look, like that of a disappointed parent. “After all, he’d been a really good student. Then his dad died . . . and, well, then he just got mean.”
Lulu gnawed on the inside of her upper lip to keep from arguing. Joe Weber? Mean? She could think of a hundred more apt adjectives. Still, she’d hear Dixon out. He was describing a person from years ago. Maybe Joe really had changed that much. Worse still, maybe he hadn’t changed at all. She could simply be imagining what she’d needed and desired.
“So,” Dixon continued, “I guess it didn’t surprise many when he took on Sheriff Plank.”
“Took him on?”
“Plank was determined to help Joe and his family. He made sure Mrs. Weber’s grocery didn’t close after her husband died, wanted to help Joe fly right and graduate.” He shook his head. “Maybe Joe didn’t like the sheriff crowding in on his dad’s place in the family.”
