by Renee Roszel
For one rebellious instant, Drew wanted to rip it to shreds, severing any ties she had with Rolf Erhardt. But reason returned and she remembered that the freedom of sixty-eight people rested on the safety of that piece of paper.
Her hand began to tremble, and the document fluttered from her fingers.
Drew put her hands to fiery cheeks, allowing a shuddering sob to escape her throat. “A week. . .”
She slumped back into the soft cushions of the sofa and stared, unseeing, into the magenta-tipped flames of a dying fire.
Chapter Four
Drew huddled on the couch before a carefully nurtured fire, having now used all the logs Rolf had brought inside for that purpose. She felt very cold, even in her cashmere slacks and sweater, and she pulled the comforter close about her shivering frame.
The door clicked open, its loudness magnified in Drew’s ears by the silent hours she had spent alone in Rolf’s house. She stiffened and turned toward the door to see him enter and toss his snow-flecked parka on the hook near the door.
Fearfully, she judged his mood, noting the set, angular lines of his rugged profile and she gulped nervously, her head pounding furiously behind her eyes.
As he turned toward her and strolled into the den, she turned away, catching her breath, waiting. . . .
“Did you get something to eat?” The question was not harsh, not even curt. He just sounded tired, weary.
She looked back up at him. “No. . .no, I’m not hungry.”
His brows knit in a puzzled frown as he cocked his head, “No?” Lifting broad shoulders he went on. matter-of-factly, “Well, I am. Come, we can make something together.”
Drew looked away from his face. She didn’t speak.
“Drew?” he questioned. “It is so late, dinner will be faster if we both—” She sneezed violently, unable to hold it back any longer.
A frown deepened on his brow. “What is this?” He moved around the couch and placed his hand on her forehead. It felt cool to Drew.
Embarrassed, she tried to move away from his touch. “I—please, Doctor. . .go and fix yourself something. I’ll be all right.”
“Don’t be silly.” He held her face firmly between both hands. “You’re ill.”
Drew couldn’t answer. It was too obvious a thing to argue. She was ill. And most disconcerting was the fact that they both knew why. It was because of her foolish dash in the snow last night.
She ran the back of her hand across dry lips before another sneeze shook her shoulders, and then another as she put an odd, squared piece of cloth to her nose, blowing.
Rolf removed his cool hands from her head and bent to her side, lifting another square of fabric, frayed at the edges, from a large stack. “What is this?”
Drew winced inwardly. What would he think of her when she told him that she’d torn up one of his bed sheets in a moment of unreasonable irritation?
She recalled going through his dresser when she had first started sniffling and locating his handkerchiefs lying next to a color photograph of an attractive, smiling blond woman with the name “Monika” swirled in flowing, feathery script across the lower right-hand corner.
Oddly piqued by the lovely woman’s photograph nestled intimately among his things, Drew had left his handkerchiefs undisturbed and chosen instead to tear up one of his defenseless sheets.
Now, though, she was ashamed and surprised by her unreasonable action, feeling like she’d once again reverted to childishness, for Dr. Erhardt’s love life was certainly his own business!
She cleared her throat. He was standing silently, wailing for an explanation.
“I—I needed handkerchiefs. I know I’ve ruined a perfectly good sheet.” Her words were muffled as she looked up at him from behind the piece of cloth and lied. “But, I couldn’t find any of yours. . . .”
His smile was amused and tolerant, both of which Drew knew she didn’t deserve. He was shaking his head, chuckling. “Very resourceful.”
She interjected quickly, in guilt, “Of course, Doctor, I intend to pay. . .”
With a slightly irritated wave of his hand, he halted her words, changing the subject. “About dinner. . .” She looked away. “I—I’ll just stay here. I don’t want. . .” She coughed.
Shrugging, he said, “We’ll discuss that later.” He moved to flip off the lamp near the couch. “You get some rest. I’ll call you when it’s ready.”
The room was now bathed in the muted colors of glowing embers. Drew didn’t feel like following him out to reiterate her insistence that she wouldn’t eat. She didn’t even feel like sitting up. Sinking into the softness of the couch, she pulled the comforter about her and drifted off to sleep.
WHAT is that? Her eyes came open. The room was still dark, but something in that darkness smelled awfully good. She inhaled deeply. Even through the stuffiness in her nose, she could detect the highly seasoned aroma of something delicious.
Her stomach issued an insistent growl that she find the aroma’s origin. Pulling herself up and dragging the beige comforter with her, Drew padded down the hall to its far end and entered a large square kitchen.
She blinked at the brightness of the room and stepped just inside the door looking absently around the orderly kitchen. The cabinets were all natural pine, stained a medium brown. The roof was vaulted, a heavy beam running across the center. From it, over the stove, hung a long iron bar with four hooks protruding from the lower end. Several well-used iron pots and pans dangled from them by their handles. The stove was of a German make, gas burners on the top, with a windowless door below. The white refrigerator was the most unusual appliance, for it was only counter-top high. This was, Drew knew, because Germans shopped for fresh meat and vegetables nearly every day, requiring less storage space. All in all it was very unlike her modern, convenience-oriented kitchen in Los Alamos, New Mexico.
Rolf stood with his back to her before the stove stirring something in an iron pot. He had changed from his suede coat and gray slacks and now he sported a black and brown plaid flannel shirt, the sleeves rolled up his muscular arms midway to the elbow. And once again he wore tight-fitting faded jeans and brown work boots.
An odd feeling of normality invaded Drew’s consciousness as she watched Rolf, tall and quiet before the stove. It almost seemed like home.
Home! The very idea was ridiculous. It was no home! More correctly, it was a prison. Drew shook off the foolish notion.
She tried to stifle a sneeze, but was unsuccessful.
Rolf turned at the small sound. “You’re up.”
Drew took a few steps forward. “What are you cooking? It smells. . .” She had almost said “good” when she stopped herself, refusing to compliment her captor. “. . .different.”
“Sit down.” He gestured with a long wooden spoon toward a round table near the door. “It’s ready.”
She lowered herself wearily into the nearest of four chairs that surrounded the pine table as he continued, “It’s Kohlsuppe—cabbage soup with smoked sausage.” Drew wrinkled her nose, puzzled. “I thought cabbage was supposed to smell bad.”
Rolf turned back to the stove, a smile playing at one corner of his expressive mouth. “I assure you, the taste will not disappoint you either.”
She moved her elbows to the table, cupping her chin in her hands. The kitchen was warm and she allowed the comforter to fall from her shoulders. “You assured me once that I’d be out of here an hour after our wedding, too!” With his lack of response, she pressed on. “So. you see, Doctor, the value of your assurances is questionable.” She blew into the crumpled cloth in her hand.
Unperturbed Rolf moved to a cabinet and opened it, removing two brown pottery plates and bowls. He didn’t turn to Drew as he spoke. “Your fellow passengers”—he began to fill the bowls with the steamy soup—“have been moved to more suitable quarters since their stay has been extended.”
He placed a full bowl on a plate and crossed with it to Drew. Brown eyes caught gray. “The Peabodys are
bearing up quite well.” His words were matter-of-fact.
Sitting back, Drew folded her arms in her lap as he placed the bowl on the umber linen mat before her. A depressing weight had been lowered to her already pounding head. “Then we really will be here for days. . .even a week?”
“At least a week, Drew.”
He turned away from her, walking back to the stove to retrieve his own bowl. Drew lowered her eyes, catching sight of Rolf’s long sinewy legs moving across the floor with fluidity and ease. He seemed totally unconcerned about their living situation, one that was completely unacceptable to Drew.
She straightened in her chair. “If the Peabodys are all right in the quarters, then why wouldn’t I be?” A sneeze burst from her lips before she could go on. “How. . . how can you trust them out of your sight and not me?” He turned, the guttural cadence of his accent more pronounced as he explained calmly, “The Peabodys will not talk. They have each other to think of.” A heavy brow arched in mocking challenge. “You, on the other hand, have already proven your lack of ability to keep a secret. Remember, I found out who you are.”
Drew opened her mouth to protest but was cut off as he continued. “Beyond that, Drew, you are in no condition to leave.” His look was unreadable. “I can give you much more individual attention here than you would get in the quarters.”
Drew sputtered, “That’s exactly my point, Doctor. I don’t want your individual attention!”
Rolf returned with his bowl and sat down at her left, eyeing her narrowly. “Stop talking nonsense and eat.” Drew blinked at the sudden sternness in his tone; new anger blossomed at his unyielding attitude. “I told you I didn’t want anything!”
His lips twisted into a sarcastic smile. “Yes, you do.” His tone had lost its harsh edge.
“Oh? And to what miracle do you owe this newfound clairvoyance, Doctor?”
Right on cue, her stomach growled angrily and she shot an embarrassed glance toward Rolf. He appeared not to have heard. Thick lashes obscured his eyes as he lifted his spoon to his lips. Drew looked down at her bowl. The soup’s aroma wafted up into her nostrils, clearing her head with its spicy fragrance. Her mouth watered. He was right, of course. She was terribly hungry. She realized it wouldn’t do her any good to abuse her health because of her pride. Taking up the spoon and skimming the surface, she tasted the soup. It was good. . .very good, just what she needed, hearty and filling.
They’d been sitting, eating in silence for several minutes when Rolf’s deep voice startled her. “Would you like more?”
“No. . . no more.” She kept her eyes averted.
He stood, taking his bowl. “You’re welcome. It was no bother at all.”
Drew bit her lip at his gibe. It was not like her to be ungrateful. But somehow, she couldn’t bring herself to make friends with this man. And she had every reason not to, she reminded herself. . .after what he’d done—threatening to put her in a Communist prison, black-mailing her into marriage to gain his freedom, and now, keeping her locked up as his personal prisoner, of letting everyone think she was a—a—!
She sneezed loudly and the quiet that followed bore heavily down on her. She decided to thrust a gibe of her own. “I’m surprised that a man in your position is forced to do all his own cooking.” She lifted challenging gray eyes to his as he resumed his seat at her side.
Looking over at her passively, he spoke, “I don’t do it all. Sometimes I am invited out. And occasionally, I invite someone over who cooks a meal for both of us.”
“Like Monika?” The question came out without Drew’s permission.
Rolf lifted a brow in surprise, but recovered himself. “Like Monika.” He nodded. A slight smile passed fleetingly across his lips.
Drew compressed her mouth into a tight line, angry with herself. She was caught in her lie. He knew she had found his handkerchiefs. . .and Monika’s photograph. . .and worst of all, why she had torn up his sheet!
“Monika is a good. . . cook, I suppose?” Drew didn’t know why she’d brought this up.
“Among other things.” Laughter sparkled in his eyes, making Drew grit her teeth.
Anger flared within her and she was at a loss to understand why Rolf’s complimentary reference to this unknown woman irritated her so. She countered, “Yes? Well, if Monika is so indispensable, I’d be happy to tear up that marriage certificate and you can send me to the passengers’ quarters. . . . We could just forget this whole thing, you know!”
He rubbed his napkin over his lips, remarking, “Haven’t you done enough tearing up for one day?”
Was he hiding a smile? Drew winced, her self-respect dropping to zero.
Clearing his throat with some difficulty, he continued, “I admit, Drew, that Monika is quite a woman. . .in many ways.” He replaced the napkin. “However, she is not an American citizen. Right now, that is all that counts with me.”
Drew shot to her feet. She’d lost face with his discovery of her lie, and she was on the defensive. “You talk about Monika as though she were a thing!” The sudden move made her dizzy and she grabbed for the table.
Rolf stood quickly to steady her. “Sit down, Drew, you’re not well.”
She raged on, ignoring his concern, mortified that he seemed to be taking the whole situation so lightly. “And. . .I. . .I’m nothing to you either—just a ticket out!” She shook her head numbly. “Is that what women are to men—things to be owned, to be used?”
She looked up into his serious face, there were two of him—no, four. “Men! You take so much and give so little in return!” she cried weakly, running a shaky hand across a sweat-beaded forehead.
“Drew. . .” his hands were on her arms.
“Leave me alone!” She pushed past him into the hall dragging the comforter along behind her. In her weakened state, she had to steady herself along the wall as she returned to the den. Once there, she dropped tiredly onto the couch and lay for some minutes, wrapped co-coonlike in the down-filled quilt, listening to the clank of dishes being cleared away.
After a time, the kitchen noises ceased, and she could hear the sound of Rolf’s booted footsteps as he entered the den.
She tensed, not knowing what mood to expect. His tall frame came into her view when he passed the couch and walked directly to the hearth. Placing one hand on the mantel, he appeared to be looking down into the glowing embers. Drew was startled to notice a slight droop in his wide shoulders as he released a long, slow breath. He seemed tired, or was it more? Was he, perhaps, as disturbed by this delay in the jetliner’s departure as she?
Drew mentally shook it off looking away from his broad back. No. Why should he be worried. . .he had his story all worked out. It was just her imagination.
Her sneeze invaded the quiet. Drew looked back up at Rolf as he turned toward her. He was now in the process of removing his shirt. “I thought you were in bed.”
He tossed the flannel garment across the back of the easy chair on his left. “I—I am.” Drew pulled the comforter protectively up to her chin.
His face was serious. “You’re ill. You’d rest better in the bed.”
Drew stiffened. “I’m not sleeping in your room again!” She set her jaw stubbornly.
“I had not realized that my room was so offensive to you.” His voice was heavy with exasperation.
Drew shot back, “It’s not the room that’s offensive! It’s just that I refuse to go in that bedroom where you can just saunter in and out any time to change clothes. . .or whatever. There’s no privacy.”
Rolf’s expression showed puzzled surprise. He lowered himself to sit on the edge of the table, leaning forward, his elbows resting on his knees. “I wonder if you realize that what you just said makes no sense at all.” The remark held a trace of humor. “At least you have a door to close there.”
Drew chewed on her lower lip. He was right. It hadn’t come out exactly the way she’d meant it. . . . Maybe her fever had fried her brains and millions of cerebral cells were shriveling
up, forever useless.
She rubbed a hand across her dry lips. “You know what I meant. This is your house. . . . it really doesn’t matter where I sleep. . . . I can’t be assured of privacy anywhere in it. So, I’m staying here.”
Drew wasn’t going to say it, but she also knew that since the couch was narrow, there was less danger of waking to find the tall German lying next to her than there was if she took the large bed!
Rolf lifted his bronze shoulders in a resigned gesture. The movement in the low glow from the hearth accented the ripple of muscles along his arms and shoulders. “That is your final decision?”
Drew nodded. “It is!”
“All right, then.” He stood and unbuckled his belt, sliding it swiftly out of his belt loops and tossing it on the chair.
Drew’s eyes grew round. “What are you doing?” she gasped.
“Undressing.” His face was passive.
“Here?” she squeaked.
“Oh, yes, here and now.”
Drew pushed herself up, her palms behind her on the couch, “Oh, no you’re not. Go to your own room to do that!”
His lips opened into a wicked grin. “I gave the bedroom to you. The couch is mine.”
He slipped the waistband button through its hole as he continued, “I admit with you joining me here, it will be a little crowded. . . but I can manage if you can.”
The zipper opening raked loudly across Drew’s consciousness as he prepared to remove his jeans. He was actually going to take off his pants before her very eyes!
“I—no—you can’t—” she stammered weakly, flailing her feet to untangle herself from the folds of the comforter. At last free, she shot up from the couch and without a backward glance dashed for the comparative safety of Rolf’s room, an added heat rushing to her already flushed face.
At the bedroom door, she was chagrined to hear, above the pounding of her own heart in her ears, Rolf’s hearty laughter. Grinding her teeth angrily, she pushed through the door into the dark bedroom, slamming it irritably at her back. She hated him for his unfailing ability to make her retreat in humiliation and embarrassment.
