“I can see why Patton appeals to the Germans,” the President said dryly. “The man has a definite megalomaniacal streak. Which suits him to this task, I suppose.”
Ruefully, Eisenhower agreed. “We’ll pretend to ‘hide’ Patton in the south of England, but we’ll encourage him to strut his stuff boldly enough to catch the attention of German intelligence. All a fiction, of course.”
“Everything in war is a fiction of one kind or another,” the President said. “Now, tell me what you think of—”
They talked for another half hour about the progress of the war, and especially Eisenhower’s relationships with the British and the French. As always, Ike was impressed with the President’s grasp of the overall situation, and he felt better when he got up to leave. The Commander in Chief might not be a well man, but he was still very much in command.
“Oh, before you go,” the President said, “I have something for a friend of yours. The very lovely Miss Summersby.” He took a photograph of himself, picked up a pen, and autographed it. “Give it to her when you see her,” he said, holding it out. He looked up, catching Eisenhower’s eye. “You will be seeing her, I suppose.”
“Yes, sir,” Eisenhower said evenly. “My staff has flown to London while I’ve been here in the States.”
The President held his glance. “Well, then, give her my very best regards.” There was a moment’s silence. “I suppose you know about the gossip.”
Eisenhower was tempted to put him on the spot by asking “What gossip?” But he only nodded. “Yes, sir. I know.”
Milton had given him an unvarnished version of the talk that was floating around Washington—talk that Mamie had undoubtedly heard. He hadn’t been surprised or even offended, although he had been rather startled by his brother’s moral objections. He had been quick to interrupt what promised to be a sermon on the subject with “I haven’t slept with her, Milt, if that’s what you’re getting at.”
Which was true, strictly speaking, although—having grown up with a religious mother—Eisenhower was well aware of the Bible’s stern warning against lusting after a woman in his heart. Of that, he was certainly guilty. In fact, now that he knew he’d be spending the next few months with her in England, he had nerved himself to a discussion with one of the medical officers he had seen the day before. The problem was likely related to his high blood pressure, the doctor had said, adding drily, “I don’t suppose it would do any good to tell you that if you want to have sex, you should steer clear of high-stress situations.”
“Is that your only advice?” he had asked. He was a goddamned commander. If his job wasn’t stressful, he wasn’t doing it right.
The doctor shrugged. “No silver bullets, General. If you want to make it happen, lay off the booze. And take it slow. A little patience can go a long way.”
The President cleared his throat. “I’m in no position to make judgments, of course,” he said wryly. “Just reminding you—and myself—that sometimes the personal gets pulled out into the public. Things we don’t think should be mentioned in polite society—well, they are. When that happens, it’s usually the woman who’s blamed. And in your case, as Supreme Commander, there’s an extra burden. I’m not overly worried, but I should tell you that Winston is concerned about blackmail. He—”
There was a light knock at the door and the First Lady bustled in. “Oh, General Eisenhower,” she trilled, in her fluttery, flyaway voice. “So very good to see you!” She put out her hand. “I want you to know that the fervent prayers of every American will be with you in this tremendous endeavor of yours. The fate of the world is in your hands. We’re trusting you to save us.”
Eisenhower stood. “Thank you, ma’am.” He saluted the man in the bed. “And thank you, sir. I’m grateful for your confidence.”
“Right-o.” The President leaned back against his pillow. “But I imagine you’d be a great deal more grateful for a few extra landing craft.”
PART THREE
Europe and Washington,
January 1944–November 1945
CHAPTER SIXTEEN:
One and One
England
January–June 1944
Hands in the pockets of her coat, Kay stood waiting in the chill, foggy darkness. Ike had been expected to fly in from Washington, but another of London’s infamous pea-soupers had engulfed the city, and all flights were canceled. The Bayonet, the General’s railroad car, had been dispatched to Prestwick to pick him up, and Beetle had sent Kay to meet the train at Addison Street Station.
Kay had lived in London for nearly twenty years, and she thought she’d seen fogs. But this was one for the history books. She had driven the General’s olive-drab Packard through Mayfair at a snail’s pace, threading a perilous way between the abandoned cars and taxis that littered the streets. The occasional pedestrian emerged like a pale ghost out of the swirling fog, then vanished again. And on the Strand, she saw a double-decker bus inching along behind a man with a flashlight in one hand and the other on the fender, guiding the bus as if it were a blindfolded horse.
The Supreme Commander’s staff had flown to London a few days before, on his new B-17. Beetle had put them to work at 20 Grosvenor Square, catching up on the cross-Channel invasion planning that had gone on in London while they managed the Mediterranean campaigns. Now, hunching her shoulders against the January chill, Kay found herself missing the warmth of sunny Algiers, with its fragrant orange and lemon trees, its bougainvillea and mild Mediterranean breezes. But London was home—or at least, it would be when Ike arrived. He was the center of her life now. With him, her days had purpose and meaning. Without him, emptiness.
It was after eleven when the train finally arrived with a hiss of steam and the squeal of metal wheels on metal track. Eisenhower alighted and came through the gloom toward her, flanked by Butch and Mickey. Kay wanted to run to him and throw herself into his arms, but that was out of the question. She saluted smartly. “Welcome to England, sir.”
“Jesus H. Christ,” he exclaimed, as Butch and Mickey went to gather the luggage. “I’ve never seen such a fog. You drove in it, Kay?”
She smiled. “I did, sir. I’ll get you home in it, too.”
“You never fail to surprise me.” Eisenhower frowned. “Where’s Telek? I thought you’d have him with you.”
Kay made a face. “Afraid he’s in solitary. Government-ordered quarantine for all dogs coming into England. The Ministry of Agriculture and Fisheries—don’t ask—has detained him for six months, along with Caacie and Beetle’s spaniel. Not even the PM could get us out of this one. I asked.”
“Six months?” Eisenhower was shaking his head. “Jeez. He’ll go stir-crazy, penned up all by himself.”
“And no time off for good behavior.” Kay grinned ruefully. “He’s having to face the most appalling truth of his entire life. He is actually a dog.”
“I’m sure he’s lodged his complaints with the management.” The General chuckled. “Well, just get us home tonight, Kay. Tomorrow we’ll go visit our little guy.” He paused. “Butch and I aren’t in the Dorchester again, are we?”
“No, sir, we’re not,” Butch said emphatically, coming up with a trolley full of luggage. “We’ve been upgraded. We have a town house.”
Ike’s new London home was Hay’s Lodge, an attractive, nicely furnished two-story townhouse in Chesterfield Hill, not far from Grosvenor Square. Getting there was a problem, though. The fog had thickened while Kay was waiting for the General’s train to arrive, and driving through the mizzly brown murk was like trying to swim underwater in a muddy river. In Brompton Road, she turned the steering wheel hard to avoid a lorry and ran the Packard up on the sidewalk, narrowly missing a red callbox. A couple of blocks further on, she had to get out of the car and creep across the curb to a doorway, where she could see the street number and be sure where they were.
At last, she found her way to Hay’s Lodge. Tex had left the lights on, laid a fire in the sitting room fireplace, and
stocked the bar and the kitchen. They took off their coats and jackets. Ike fixed drinks while Mickey got the fire started, then made cheese sandwiches and went upstairs to bed.
The conversation ran the gamut between the situation they’d left behind in Algiers to the problems the new headquarters was encountering in London and the issues Ike had confronted in Washington. Kay was energized by the talk, feeling herself at the heart of what had to be the most important work in the world. And—even though she knew the enormity of the task ahead—feeling bolstered by Ike’s quiet confidence.
After a second round of drinks, Butch yawned, put his glass down, and said, “I’ve had enough fun for one day, Ike. I’m turning in. Goodnight, Kay.”
Kay reached for her shoulder bag. “I think it’s time I—”
“Hold on a minute, Kay,” Ike said, as Butch took the stairs. “I have something for you in my briefcase.”
It was the President’s photographed, autographed to her. “Oh, lovely,” Kay said, admiring it. “I’ll write a note to thank him.”
“And these.” Ike handed her a thin box. “I had to move heaven and earth to get them for you. They’re scarce as hen’s teeth back home.”
She opened the box. “Nylons!” she cried joyfully. “Oh, thank you. You know the way to a woman’s heart, Ike.”
“I hope so,” he said quietly. He took the box out of her hands and put it on the table.
She looked up at him. “I’m very glad to have you home, General.” It had been only two weeks since they said goodbye at the airfield outside Algiers, but it seemed an eternity ago. The war loomed ahead of them like a dark, threatening forest, full of unseen perils. But she felt safe in the fortress of his strength, believing—no, knowing—that he had the wisdom and power to push all of them through to the end. And in the end would be victory, she was sure of that.
“No gladder than I am,” he said gruffly. He put his hands on her shoulders, then bent and kissed her, his lips lingering on hers. He pulled her to him. “God, Kay, I’ve missed you. Two weeks away from you—it felt like exile.”
He held her for a moment, stroking her hair, then gently pulled her down onto the sofa, where she fitted herself into the warm, familiar curve of his arm, feeling as if this were home. Not this place, not London, not even England. Just the two of them together, wherever in the world they happened to be. She felt unaccountably contented. Which was strange, because nothing but uncertainty lay ahead.
He turned off the lamp beside the sofa and they watched fire die down to embers as he told her what had happed at the apartment. “The puppy turned out to be a rotten idea,” he said, with a rueful laugh. “Junior disgraced himself before I even got my coat off. Mamie locked him in the bathroom and I had to find another home for him.”
“I’m sorry it didn’t work out,” Kay said. “He’s such a sweet little fellow.”
Ike was silent for a moment. “That wasn’t the worst of it,” he said finally. “The worst was when I . . . when I called her Kay. Not just once, either.” He shook his head. “I caught old Billy Hell, I’ll tell you. I’ve never seen that woman so angry.”
“Oh, dear,” Kay whispered, and said “I’m sorry” again.
But she wasn’t. Or more accurately, she was sorry that Ike had been troubled by this small thing, when he had so many more consequential matters on his mind. At the same time, she couldn’t blame Mamie. If she were Ike’s wife, she wouldn’t feel it was a small thing to be called by another woman’s name. She would raise old Billy Hell, too.
He went on. “Most of her friends—all of her friends, I suppose—are military wives. They love nothing more than a bit of tittle-tattle. They’ve likely made sure that she’s heard the gossip that’s going the rounds. About . . . us, I mean.” The words came slowly, and Kay understood how hard this was for him. “She didn’t bring it up, but my brother did. And so did the President.”
The President? “Oh, dear,” Kay said again, adding, again: “I’m sorry. I hope you weren’t terribly uncomfortable.”
Surprisingly, she wasn’t. Rather, she felt freer, somehow, and special, very special. The acknowledgment by others felt like a declaration of sorts. It was as if she and Ike had crossed together into a new territory, where their relationship—which they would still pretend was a secret—was an open secret, guessed by his wife and his brother and the President of the United States. By the British Prime Minister, too, she thought. And Ike’s official family, and most of the generals who worked with him. They knew, and instead of making her feel guilty or ashamed, the awareness was somehow reassuring.
But Ike obviously felt differently. “It made me very uncomfortable. I’m not used to people looking into my private life. I hate it.” He pulled her closer. “But more to the point, it reminded me that I’ve put you in a difficult place. You’re the vulnerable one. Men walk away from something like this without a scratch, while women—they’re the ones who get blamed. Who get hurt. I don’t want you to get hurt.”
She was grateful, but she had already weighed the pain she knew would come, and was resolved. “I don’t care about that, Ike. I only want—”
He put his finger on her lips, stopping her. He turned her so that they were face-to-face. His voice was husky. “I have to be honest with you, Kay. I’ve been . . . wanting you for months now. But I felt it wasn’t fair to begin something in Algiers, when it seemed likely that I would be sent back to the States. Now I know that’s not going to happen. We can be together until this is over, if that’s what you want.”
“That’s what I want,” she said. A flame flickered in the fireplace. Shadows danced in the corners of the darkened room. “Just to be with you, wherever you are.”
He shook his head. “There’s more, Irish. This thing—it will end when this war ends.” He spoke, she thought, with a kind of sad finality. “When that happens, I’ll go home to whatever duty I’m assigned to, and to my wife. At some point, I may have to say that our relationship never existed, that you only worked for me. That you and I meant nothing to one another. That will be a lie and unfair, but that’s the way it is.” He held her eyes. “I’m leaving it up to you, Kay. You can say no and end it now. Or we can go forward.”
It was so like him, she thought, to offer her the chance to strike her colors and make an honorable retreat. But that wasn’t what she wanted.
“Yes,” she said firmly. “I want to go forward, with you. Beside you, behind you, wherever you need me, whenever you want me.” She took a breath, remembering that she had loved Dick and lost him to the war. Remembering that uncounted others had lost the ones they loved. That life itself was fragile, fleeting, impermanent. That in spite of what she knew was to come, she wanted to love this man.
She put her fingers on the flat of his cheek. “Everything ends, Ike. Nothing is always. Always is . . . never. All we can do is take whatever loveliness we’re offered and hold onto it until it’s gone. And then learn to live with whatever is left.”
“That’s what I wanted you to say,” he whispered. “But I’m not a practiced lover, Kay. It’s been a long time since I—”
“Shh.” She touched his mouth, silencing him. Whatever his doubts, his reservations, she would push them away. No words, no promises, no vows. Only touches, kisses.
His mouth came down on hers. Then his hands began to move, searching her body, and she felt a pulsing, singing energy. Something sparked in the darkness, like light, like fire, like an explosion inside her, like bombs raining down, like fireworks shooting up, leaving her breathless, incoherent, desperately eager. Their ties came off, their shirts, everything. He bent over her. She arched toward him as he kissed her bare shoulder. In a moment his whole body was beside her, their loving urgent, muffled, frantic.
And then, not.
They lay very still. He buried his face in the hollow of her shoulder. “I’m sorry, Kay. So sorry. I can’t love you the way I want to. It’s because—”
“It’s because you’re tired,” she whispered, h
olding him close. “You were on that plane for . . . what? Thirty-six hours—and on the train for another twelve.” She shouldn’t have let it happen, she thought. Not tonight, not here. “A sofa, for heaven’s sake.” She chuckled. “Not even a real bed, behind closed doors. Next time will be different.”
He stirred. “You’re willing to . . . try again?”
“Don’t be daft. Of course I am.” She pushed herself away, just far away enough to see his face. “But not tonight, dearest.” She slipped out of his arms. “Tonight you need to get to bed. And sleep.”
He retrieved his pants from the floor where he had flung them. “What about you? Where are you going?”
“Ruth and Mattie Pinnette and I have a flat in Park West. It’s just up the Edgeware Road.” She was buttoning her shirt.
He turned on the light. “You’re sure you can find it in the fog?” he asked doubtfully. “I don’t want to let you go, damn it. I wish I could ask you to stay.”
“Don’t worry.” She debated whether to put on her tie and decided she’d better do it. She didn’t think the townhouse was guarded, but she couldn’t be sure. “Really. It’s just the other side of Kensington Gardens. There won’t be any traffic.”
“That’s because nobody else is fool enough to be out in that crap at—” He eyed the ormolu clock on the mantel. “Jesus. Two a.m.”
She slipped into her shoes. “Exactly. What time would you like me to pick you up tomorrow?” In front of the mirror, she raked a comb through her hair and settled her garrison cap on her head. “Today, I mean. In the morning.”
He put his arm around her shoulders and walked with her to the door. “I told Mickey to have breakfast ready for us at seven. We’ll check in at Grosvenor Square first, so I can get things squared away, and then we’ll go to that kennel and explain to Telek why he has to pretend he’s a dog for a while. And then we’ll drive out to Telegraph Cottage.” He pulled his brows together. “We do have the cottage, don’t we?” he asked quickly. “It’s still ours?”
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