“Seven out,” he crowed. “I win.”
The man groaned good-naturedly as Bill raked in the coins.
“There you are!” Lucy scolded. “Should have known you’d be waist deep in trouble.” She eyed his trousers. “And mud, by the looks of it.”
The man scrambled to his feet as he dragged his cap from his head.
“Hiya, Lucy,” Bill shouted. “Look who I met.”
She bent to snatch the cigarette from Bill’s mouth and ground it beneath her heel. “Michael and I have been looking everywhere for you.”
“I’ve been right here with Enzo the whole time.”
The man offered her a small continental bow. His large hands were at odds with his bony wrists and the scrawny set of his shoulders, and his thick black hair brushed his coat collar.
“He works at the mill and lives at Barwick House camp.” Bill paused before adding in a stage whisper, “He’s an Eyetie.”
“Thank you for pointing out the obvious. What’s he doing here?”
“Playing craps. Enzo was winning, but then I bested him for ten pence and four fags.”
“The boy is a very skillful player.” The man’s accent was thick enough to cut with a knife.
“Skillful, yes,” Lucy replied. “Trustworthy is still up for debate.”
“Allow me to introduce myself. I am Sergente Enzo Raneri.”
His manners were impeccable. No self-consciousness or discomfort. She might have been meeting him at a house party in Florence or a soiree in Rome. She’d known prisoners of war in England were allowed a certain amount of freedom. They were put to work on neighboring farms or anywhere a strong back and willing hands were needed. But she’d never come across any face-to-face. And certainly not handsome charmers with the grace and airs of a Medici prince.
He nodded toward a fishing pole and a basket lying in the grass. “I was given leave to fish this afternoon. But the only thing I am catching today is Guglielmo here, who took a tumble into the water.”
“There was a frog, Lucy.”
“Of course there was.”
“I meant the boy no harm. I am sorry if I worry you.”
“I should be the one apologizing. If I hadn’t come along, Bill might have emptied your pockets of everything, including the lint.”
“You are not from the village,” Raneri suggested.
“How do you know that?”
“I have been at the camp long enough to know most of the villagers, and I would remember having seen someone as enchantingly beautiful as you.” He smiled, a dimple winking at the edge of his mouth.
“You’re Italian, all right.” Even scruffy and malnourished, the man could probably piacere di conoscerti the clothes right off a woman.
Bill started to gather up his ill-gotten gains. Catching Lucy’s sharp eye on him, he sheepishly handed them to Raneri.
“Is that all?” Lucy chided with a lift of a brow.
Bill offered another two pennies.
“I should not,” Raneri objected. “The boy won fair and square, as you would say.”
“I doubt that. Bill’s not exactly a model of British sportsmanship.”
Raneri smiled and pocketed the returned loot. “Then I very much thank you. I would hate to admit I was swindled by a child.”
“You wouldn’t be the first, though hopefully the last”—she speared Bill with a hard stare—“if I have any say in the matter.”
Bill had the grace to blush, but only for a moment before he recovered with a shake like a duck sluicing water off its back. “I told Enzo about me mam, Lucy. About the bombs and . . . well . . . she’ll be all right, won’t she? You said she would, but . . .”
“Of course she’s all right.” She and Sergeant Raneri exchanged a long measuring look.
He knelt beside Bill with an arm around his shoulder. “I too am missing my mother, young Guglielmo. She remains in Campione del Garda—that is the village where I am from—and it is difficult for news to reach me here at the camp. But every morning as I lay in my bed, I am very still and I reach out with”—he tapped his temple—“you see? I seek to touch her spirit and open myself so that she might touch mine. In that way, we know we have survived another day and are closer to being together again. You try this. Close your eyes and reach out.”
Bill shot Raneri a sideways skeptical look.
“Do it. Tell me what you hear and what you feel.”
Bill sighed and did as he was told. “I hear the birds and the stream and you breathing. You whistle through your nose.”
Raneri chuckled. “You have smart ears, but do you not hear your mother’s voice, her song?”
Bill nodded once slowly before his eyes sprang open, a suspicious shine shimmering at the corners. “I did hear her. It was ‘Billy Boy.’ That’s her favorite.”
Raneri offered Bill a comforting pat on the back. “There, you see? She is safe. You would know if she were not. You would not hear her voice, you would hear only a great rushing wind, a hollow place.”
“You try it, Lucy,” Bill said. “See if you can hear your mother. You said you didn’t know where she was. Maybe you can ask her.”
An icy chill slithered up her spine to curl cold around her shoulders. “We don’t have time.”
“Go on,” Bill urged. “Try.”
“Stop it. Please, just stop.” Lucy’s breath came in a hot painful rush, her earlier emotions scraped raw and bleeding. “Do you hear me? I don’t want to close my eyes or hear my mother. All I want is for you to quit your damned chattering. Now, are you coming with me, or am I leaving you behind?”
Raneri watched her carefully, compassion in his sloe-dark eyes.
Bill’s chin wobbled. Perfect. She might as well pluck the wings from a butterfly and kick a puppy while she was at it. Her anger drained away, leaving her achy, temples throbbing. Her cheeks burned hot and tight. “I’m sorry, Bill. I didn’t mean it. I don’t know what came over me.”
“It’s all right. My mam scolds too,” he answered bravely, though his gaze shone overbright. “She says, ‘Bill, you could test the patience of a saint with your palavering.’”
Lucy gave a small pained laugh. “I’m no saint and you can palaver all you want.”
There’s Michael,” Bill shouted, leaping through the grass like a gazelle.
The estate wagon sat where they’d left it on the verge with its hood up and Michael bent once more over the engine.
He straightened, wiping his hands on a greasy rag, his lopsided smile dispersing the lingering tightness in Lucy’s chest. Had he always looked so ruggedly capable, or was there just something about men working on cars that screamed raw masculinity?
“The lost sheep finally found their way home.” His gaze flicked questioningly toward Raneri and back to her, his smile fading. “Everything all right, lass?”
“This is Enzo.” Bill tugged him forward. “He lives at the POW camp.”
“Good afternoon, signor,” Raneri said politely. “You must be Guglielmo’s father and this beautiful woman’s husband. You are very fortunate.”
“That wouldn’t be the first adjective that sprang to mind,” Michael countered. “But no, we’re not married.”
Raneri took in the open toolbox and the open hood. “You are having automobile problems?”
“Afraid so.” Michael shot Lucy a pained look. “I managed to repair the clip, but now the hose itself has burst. There’s a village a mile or two back. You can probably catch a bus there to take you on to Yeovil.”
“What about you?”
“I’ll stay here and work on the car. I wouldn’t want you to miss your chance for a perfect life.”
She flushed with anger, but before she could put sharp words to her hurt, Raneri rescued her with a low whistle of approval. “My father had an automobile like this one.” He gazed at the battered Ford with a nostalgic shake of his head. “As temperamental as a woman but loyal as a dog. That is what he would say. May I look?”
Michael st
ood back with a wave of his hand. “Help yourself. I’ve about had it with the old banger.”
Looking a touch wistful, Raneri put down his basket and pole and leaned over the engine.
“Can I see too?” Bill anxiously hopped from foot to foot as he sought to crane his neck above the two men. “I want to see.”
Michael hoisted Bill onto the bumper to join them. “Right there. That’s the problem.”
What was it about engines that invited such manly camaraderie? The three of them were like kids in an oily, metallic candy store. Lucy tried to imagine any of the men of her previous acquaintance up to their elbows in motor oil and enjoying it. Impossible. The closest she could come was an old boyfriend of Amelia’s who’d been a grand prix driver. She’d been sixteen and spending the summer with her mother in Monaco. He’d been French and fast. His car and his hands.
When she clocked him with a tire iron, Amelia decided to send her back to school early. It had been one of the few times Lucy hadn’t complained about going.
“I never seen inside an engine before.” Bill reached out with a hand. “What are all those wires and things there?”
“That’s called a ring gear,” Raneri replied. “It can catch little fingers if you are not careful.”
“Grab me a pair of pliers from the toolbox,” Michael instructed.
Bill hastened to follow orders; his light enthusiastic chirp was a melody to the mellow baritones of Raneri and Michael as they bonded over gearboxes and drum brakes.
Soon, talk of clutch release bearings and gudgeon pins became just talk.
“Enzo fought in Africa,” Bill volunteered eagerly. “Did you fight in Africa, Michael?”
“No, I missed that particular fun.”
“Just think, if you’d been in Africa with Enzo, you might have had to shoot him or he might have had to shoot you and then you’d both be dead. I’d be sorry if you were dead.”
“Not half as sorry as we would be. That’s right. Connect it there.”
“Ever wonder what it’d be like if there weren’t any war? I did all the time when I was with the Sayres. I’d be home with me mam right now. What about you, Enzo?”
“Ah, I would be working in my family’s cotton mill with the beautiful Sophia Maria by my side and many plump happy children. There would be food and singing and wine and the stars would scrape the tops of the mountains and glitter across the lake like diamonds.”
“Crikey, that sounds nice. What about you, Michael?”
“If there’d been no war?” He never looked up from his work. “Let’s see. I’d be running my Dad’s garage, doing errands for my mum, and playing darts with the lads at the pub.”
“But that’s what you do now,” Bill said.
“Exactly. Hand me that clip, would you?”
“When I am back home in Italy, the first thing I plan to do is ask my Sophia Maria to marry me. Will you two . . .” Enzo nodded toward Lucy with a sly smile.
“Me and Miss Stanhope? You must be joking.”
He didn’t have to sound quite so shocked at the suggestion.
“She’s on the hunt for a toff with a fat wallet who’ll keep her in the style to which she’s become accustomed. That leaves me out of the running.”
“As if you ever wanted to be in the race,” she shot back, shading her tired eyes against the sun.
“I don’t know,” he replied with a cynical smile somehow only improved by a smear of grease on his cheek. “I’ve always liked a challenge.”
“Arabella might not be pleased to hear you say that.”
His smile froze, his body completely still but for a jumping tightness in his jaw.
Lucy swallowed around a mouth suddenly gone dry. Why on earth had she blurted out mention of Arabella? It must be this blasted headache, making her feel muzzy and thick. She waited for the explosion, but after the initial shock, he seemed to collect himself. He drew in a long breath and tossed her the keys. “Give her a go.”
Oddly let down, she slid behind the wheel to crank the starter. It sputtered, coughed, groaned, and died with a belch of black smoke.
“Again.”
This time, the engine caught with a roar and the car shuddered to life.
“Woo hoo!” Bill danced around the front of the car like a wild man. “We did it.”
Michael and Raneri exchanged smug looks of success as they slammed the hood closed.
“She is not so temperamental as she appears.” For a moment, Raneri’s eyes met hers. “Nothing that a little care and attention would not fix.” Was it her imagination, or did he just wink? There was a new liveliness in his thin face, an energy that lasted as he gathered his gear. “I must say good-bye now. It is late, and the guards will begin to question my absence.”
“Thanks for your help.” Michael shook his hand.
“It is for me to be thanking you. For a few moments, I was back home and working on my father’s . . . how you say it . . . old banger, and the war was forgotten.” Raneri squatted in front of Bill with a hand on his shoulder. “Good luck in your travels, Guglielmo. I hope you and your mother will be together very soon.”
“I’ll do just what you said, Enzo. Maybe I’ll listen for you too.”
“I would like that.” He straightened and turned to Lucy with another of those small continental bows that gave him an air of authority despite his incarceration. “I hope you find who it is you are looking for too, signorina.”
“I’m not looking for anyone.”
His dark eyes seemed to bore right through her until she squirmed under his examination. “Are you not? She is there. Locked away. You have only to listen to hear her voice.”
“My mother?” she whispered.
“Yourself.”
It took a few miles before Lucy recovered from Raneri’s rather odd parting remark. The man was Italian but no Gypsy fortune-teller. Then again, he’d told Bill to listen to his heart for the song of his mother. He might not know better than to fall for such soul-searching, sentimental claptrap, but she certainly did. The only person she looked for was a gentleman wearing a tuxedo and a Pepsodent smile.
“Well?” Michael broke into her thoughts with a voice ominously mild. “Care to explain yourself?”
“Explain what?”
“You know perfectly well what.” A flash of irritation hardened his expression. “That was a private letter.”
She should apologize for prying—she really should—but knowing she was in the wrong only made her want to defend herself more. “I didn’t mean to read it. I was searching your bear’s nest of a desk for a lighter, and as I was moving things around I sort of came across it accidentally.”
“And sort of read it accidentally?”
“You can’t blame me for wanting to find out what I can about the almost complete stranger to whom I’ve entrusted myself and a young, impressionable boy. You might have been a crazed maniac for all I knew.”
“Do you generally ring up potential crazed maniacs?”
“Yes, well, you were readily available. Standards tend to slip when one’s desperate.”
She risked a glance from under lowered lashes. A pulse beat under his jaw, his eyes stabbing the road like daggers, but in no other way did he give vent to any emotion greater than slight exasperation. It was like battling a feather pillow. Every blow he turned aside, causing her to hit harder. What would it take to get that iron control to shatter? To see what lay behind his always-even temper? No one was that content. Everyone had something to hide.
“I was merely trying to understand what made you tick. You’re a puzzle, and I’ve always been mad over puzzles.”
“I always thought I was pretty straightforward. I treat others with respect. I expect them”—he swept her a pointed glare—“to do the same.”
“Well, there’s your first mistake.”
His hands white-knuckled the wheel. “I’m so glad you find the situation amusing, but steer clear. Arabella is none of your business.”
Finally. She’d landed a solid hit. Anger blazed up within his untroubled blue gaze, his voice a harsh growl. She should claim the win, shake hands, and retreat while retreating was still an option. Then he made the error of adding, “Besides, what would a spoiled little rich girl like you know about it anyway?”
That did it. She’d a lifetime of being summarily dismissed and uncounted. She was not about to let Michael starch-in-his-shorts McKeegan push her away like an afterthought. “If by ‘it’ you mean having someone stomp all over my heart, then the answer would be plenty. The poor girl just wants to talk. Where’s the harm in a conversation?”
Michael gave an ugly little laugh that somehow seemed all the uglier coming from him, his eyes alive with some dark emotion. “I’ve asked myself that question a thousand times since Singapore.”
Lucy frowned but otherwise chose to ignore his dig. “If you love her, you should fight for her.”
“You’ve seen too many movies. Not every romance has a happy ending.”
“That doesn’t mean they shouldn’t.”
“Lucy?” Bill said quietly from the rear seat.
Michael drowned him out. “Why don’t you figure out your own life before you start arranging mine?”
“I have.”
“That’s right. I forgot. You think you’re the next Bette Davis.”
“Sorry for having aspirations beyond pumping petrol.”
“You have aspirations, all right.” Michael clenched his jaw so tightly it was a wonder his teeth didn’t grind down to nubs. Maybe peeking beneath that placid exterior hadn’t been her smartest idea. “You think you can hide out in sunny California and attend your swanky parties as if the world tearing itself apart is just some big inconvenience to be endured.”
“That’s a horrible thing to say.”
“Lucy?” Bill said in a quavery voice. “I don’t feel so good.”
“Can you tell me I’m wrong? I saw you in Singapore. You behaved as if the war were a Saturday matinee put on for your amusement, and the soldiers bit actors barely worth your time. It’s real, Lucy. Good men are dying. Cities are being destroyed. Just two years ago, everyone around you went to bed at night not knowing whether our little part of the world would still be ours when we woke. But what would you know of that? What would you know of anything more serious than the strength of your next cocktail?”
The Way to London Page 17
