He stands so close that he inspires an uncommon wrath in Laura.
He helps Amelia with her stole and ignores her while she puts on her gloves. She drops her handbag in the juggle and Laura is the first to the scene. She stoops down to pick it up, and their hands touch as she returns it. Amelia’s fingertips press into the space between her knuckles.
“We should get together sometime,” she says. Her voice is high and loud, but to Laura it seems a whisper, as if they’re the only ones there.
“I’d love to,” she replies. “We could catch up.”
“Soon.” From Amelia, the word’s a promise. Enough of one that Laura barely seethes when Chalmers wraps his arm around Amelia’s waist and speaks with his lips too close to her ear.
At the car, Amelia turns, takes a breath deep into her chest, and smiles.
And for the night.
And the days to come.
That’s enough.
CHAPTER 18
Amelia does not return to New York immediately. The local press is breathless when they note she’s taken a role as another of those “women who served and then gave it all up after the war” pictures and has decided to stay on in DC “for research.”
“I’ll actually be meeting with one such woman,” she says.
Laura’s cheek twitches when she reads that in the paper. Michel asks if she’s all right, and she tells him just how fine she is.
She doesn’t know where Amelia’s staying in the city, and she is sorely tempted, twice, to use the resources at her disposal to find out, but the last time she tried that—when attempting a background check on the nanny—it resulted in a… very embarrassing dressing down in front of her coworkers.
But she’s tempted to risk it anyway.
Except… except Amelia has her address. She knows where Laura lives. She can stop by whenever she likes to say hello, and she really ought to because Laura can’t be the one doing the chasing all the time. She’s got a whole world to protect, damn it.
When she arrives home one day, there are flowers sitting on the kitchen counter. She smirks. They’re simpler than the last set, but they’re all red, white, and blue, and she feels that silly pang she always does when it comes to patriotism.
There’s a note tucked into them. “Got any tips for the newest spy on the French front?”
It’s signed with a hotel name and room number.
She slips the card into her pocket for safekeeping and puts the flowers on the table. When Michel sees them later, he frowns but doesn’t say anything.
Laura doesn’t make it to the hotel. Instead, the next morning, she stands in her office, watching the news and crushing the card in her hand because Amelia’s there on the television again. She ducks down, and the flash of camera lights reflects off her big glasses and glossy hair. The newscaster talks about how she’s being forced into an emergency hearing concerning communists in Hollywood.
Her whole department cowers that day as she stalks the halls and lurks over too clever agents and analysts. No one can tell her why Amelia Wright is being brought before the House Un-American Activities Committee.
“But chatter’s through the roof because of it,” one newer analyst finally confesses. “If she isn’t already working for the Soviets, they’ll be trying to recruit her by the afternoon.”
“She isn’t.” Laura’s sure of that.
That afternoon she travels to the Hill to sit in on the hearing. She sits demurely, legs crossed at the ankle, and ignores the few faces around that recognize her. Most don’t.
Up front, Amelia’s back is ramrod straight as she answers some questions and refuses to answer even more. The committee is tired and angry, none more so than Chalmers, who growls his way through the proceedings and glares hard at the top of Amelia’s head every time she looks down at her hands.
Finally, a break is called, and Amelia stands and asks one of her escorts a question. She’s stiff as she makes her way out into the hallway and through the reporters.
Laura’s much more nimble, and sifts through the crowd as if it were sand. She follows Amelia and her escort to a small meeting room. One she isn’t going to get into without throwing around a lot of names.
The room next door is open though, and after tucking her heels into her waistband and throwing the strap of her purse across her whole body, she climbs out the only window, closing it with slippery fingertips.
She inches along carefully and is grateful the room is on the side of the building and she’s half hidden in the shade. Otherwise, she’d be the one splayed across the newspapers later as everyone wonders who the hell is crawling along the outside of Capitol Hill.
Her big toe slips, and she has to grip the crevices between the stones a little tighter. She’s rather proud when the string of curses that escape her lips is short.
And she’s lucky that the only one to hear the expletives is Amelia, who pops open the window and leans out looking startled, wary, and so very, very tired. Seeing who it is, she sighs.
“You couldn’t knock?”
“I didn’t want to be forward.”
Amelia shakes her head and offers a hand that Laura gratefully takes. “I would have been happy to see you versus the rest of those vultures.”
They don’t let go even after Amelia pulls her in. She stands too close and the wind whips into the room, ruining both their fastidious curls. “I just thought it might look odd, being who we both are.”
Amelia tilts her head even as the pads of her fingers stroke Laura’s hand. “Who are we?” she asks, her voice a thrilling whisper.
Laura wants to swallow. Somehow, around Amelia she finds herself turned into one of those All-American aw shucks kind of boys.
Instead Laura comes just an inch closer and revels in the delicious sensation of standing so near. There’s something intoxicating and heady about the way they flirt, all up close and dancing on that razor’s edge. It makes it all feel dangerous.
And definitely not boring.
“An Oscar-winning actress.” She’s staring at Amelia’s lips. The color she’s wearing is demure—her one nod to the forum she’s appearing in. “And a—”
Amelia leans up, and Laura braces herself for what’s sure to be a wonderful kiss.
“Spy?” It’s a question instead. Right before Amelia steps back explosively, flinging Laura’s hand away and stalking toward a small platter of muffins and scones on the table.
Laura’s hands fall uselessly to her side.
“You couldn’t waltz in the front because then they’d all think little Miss Super Spy was a big flaming Communist.”
“That’s not true…” It is, in fact, a little true.
Amelia snatches up a muffin and throws it at her.
“Did you just throw—”
She throws another one too.
“Are you quite finished,” she begs as she bats a scone away from her head.
“Some big knight in shining armor you are, Laura Wright! Skulking in the back and asking me to do the same. Can’t even go vouch for me.”
“And how should I do that, hmm? Oh Amelia’s marvelous. She made me come more times in one night than my husband has in our whole marriage. Won’t you please let her go?”
“I’m not asking you to out me! Jesus Christ. But, you know, telling ’em you know me, and that I’m not sitting in bed making moon eyes at Stalin might be a little bit of a start.”
Laura’s quiet a moment. “That’s an elaborate image.”
Amelia has her arms crossed, and her body nominally turned away from Laura. “So’s the one of you and your husband.” She looks Laura up and down with no small amount of pity.
“It was a joke.”
“Sure.”
“He’s brilliant in bed.” He is certainl
y not terrible.
Amelia sniffs. “I’ve no doubt.”
“You’re being—”
“What,” Amelia asks, eyebrow raised.
Laura looks down at her shoes, still stuffed into her skirt waist. Between that, the flying pastries, and Amelia’s non-plussed expression, she feels very foolish.
Amelia sighs. “How about this… when you want to help me and not just try to take advantage by consoling—”
“I am doing no such thing!”
“—me. Then we can talk.”
“I didn’t just come here to console.” She sounds a little petulant, but she’d never admit it.
Amelia crosses her arms. Actually crosses them. As if Laura is some shirty customer at the old diner.
“I can help.”
“Are you going to go tell ’em I’m not a commie?”
“No.”
“Then there’s the door, Agent.”
Why is it people only ever use that title when they are irritated with Laura? It is never a sign of respect, but more like the “Miss Wright” uttered by bothered school marms in her youth.
“I could talk to Chalmers. Perhaps he can smooth things over.”
Amelia huffs. “He’s already trying. Pretty sure he thinks I’ll take him with me if I fold.”
Laura blinks. “He’s a communist?”
“No, but he’s so light in the loafers he practically floats.”
“So’s half the Hill.”
Amelia rolls her eyes as if this isn’t brand new information.
Laura ventures, “Do you often date men who?…”
“If I don’t want to worry about them getting ideas, yeah.”
Laura pulls her shoes out of her waistband and drops them on the floor and then leans against the table.
Oh.
Oh.
She’s ashamed at how long it took her to work out exactly what Amelia’s been doing with the line of men she’s been dating. It’s the sort of sluggish mental acuity she’d expect from Michel or her old OSS colleagues.
Amelia doesn’t tell her to leave again, but she does sit down at the table, pokes a scone with her finger and studiously ignores Laura. When they call for her to return to the hearing, Laura comes over and squeezes her forearm, tells her it will be okay, and then hides behind the door like a big fat coward.
She doesn’t—she can’t—suffer through the rest of the hearing, so she makes her way back to work and tries to understand how Amelia came under fire to begin with. Particularly if she’s a lynchpin in some sort of homosexual consortium. That’s the sort of thing that would normally keep a person far from this kind of suspicion.
Which means someone is setting her up.
She thinks about calling Amelia from her untraceable office line that night. Amelia’s life has become a mystery, and Laura feels, for a variety of reasons, that she needs to solve it. But even if her call can’t be traced, she has to assume Amelia’s under surveillance.
At home, before dinner, she idly flips through a magazine and bounces her leg nervously. When he comes home later than usual, Michel is unshaven and oddly quiet.
It gnaws on her, the question of who is setting Amelia up. There are the usual suspects, chiefly the Russians. Yet the why of it, doesn’t make sense.
She keeps circling around and around the problem until, somehow, she finds herself sneaking into Amelia’s hotel at half past eleven that night. It’s not the hardest mission she’s ever had, but it does require two costume changes, a wig, and a Swiss accent that she has on good authority is terrible.
Sneaking into Amelia’s room itself is the most difficult part. There’s a man that screams “agent” standing at the end of the hall and his gaze forces her to duck her head and keep walking. And walking.
And walking.
And ultimately slipping out a window and crawling around to Amelia’s room.
She thanks God for small favors when she finds the room empty. Having Amelia catch her climbing in through the window for the second time in a day would be… embarrassing.
She’s settling down to inspect Amelia’s room for surveillance when a key in the lock tells her she has company. Lurking in the shadows, she sighs when she sees it’s just Amelia, all alone.
Much of that Hollywood sheen has wasted away over the course of the day. Strands of hair have come loose from the previously immaculate do, and there are no glasses to hide the dark bags forming under her eyes. Amelia sighs and leans back against the door. The motion exposes a long expanse of neck that’s pale under all the powder she now wears.
For a moment, even with the fatigue wearing her down, Amelia is some kind of portrait. All done in oils and illuminated only by the faint yellow glow of a lamp.
As if she’s aware of Laura’s mute scrutiny, Amelia tenses.
Her fingers curl around her bag as she straightens up.
She flips the light switch and immediately relaxes when she sees who it is waiting for her. “Thank God. I thought—well I don’t know what I thought, but I’m sure glad it’s you.” She even smiles.
Laura flips a switch on a device in her purse and steps closer. The lights in the room flicker. “Not an assassin?”
“Or an overly enthusiastic fan, or whatever. How’d you get in? Because there’s a guy in the hall, pretending he’s not watching me and about a half dozen more down in the lobby—”
“Amelia, I’d love to discuss the details, but I’m afraid we don’t have time. I’ve just flipped a switch that will ruin any surveillance taking place in this room.”
Amelia’s brow furrows with confusion, her bright eyes wide. “So… shouldn’t we have all the time?”
“Yes. If you aren’t being watched, absolutely. If you are…” She looks to the door, waiting for the shadow to blot out the light and tell her someone’s there. “Well, they’ll be coming to call. Won’t they?”
“I don’t get it. I mean, this stupid hearing aside, why would someone be watching me? I’m not actually a spy.”
“I think… it’s what you said today about Chalmers.”
Amelia blanches.
“You know things, Amelia. You have secrets that could unmake half this country if you chose to share them—”
“Except these aren’t the kind of secrets a girl goes and shares, Laura. I’d be taking myself down too.”
“Before the hearing, yes. But now you’re being tagged a communist. You’ve got nothing to lose.”
“I’ve got plenty!” Her hand strikes her chest when she says it. She’s so sure. So positive. Desperate.
Laura has to reach out and put her hands on Amelia’s arms. It’s not the same as the hug she feels she should give her, but the contact soothes her and seems to calm Amelia.
“I know you do,” she says softly, “but the rest of the world doesn’t.”
This close it’s easy to be familiar, to feel that wanting that thrums through every bit of her. Amelia’s just a little shorter than her, so when she looks up, the light catches in her eyes and brings out an amber hue that makes her gaze warm.
She licks her lips.
Those warm eyes settle on her mouth. Then Amelia swallows and looks back up at her.
She speaks before Amelia can say something wonderful. “I need you to make a list.”
She quirks one eyebrow. Amelia’s confused. “A list?”
“Someone reported you and set all this in motion. We have to find that person. Ex-boyfriends. Colleagues who hate you. Lovers. Former… family connections. All of them.”
She tries to ignore the flinch when she says “lovers.” Tries not to think about what it could mean. Tries not to think about the last few years, how far they’ve come, and how much they couldn’t have.
“Okay
,” Amelia says evenly. She takes a step closer. She can be so still, so smooth. She has a poker face Laura’s agents would be envious of. “So we make a list.”
Laura’s hands are still on Amelia’s arms, and she thinks it wouldn’t be too difficult to pull her toward her and kiss her senseless. It wouldn’t be difficult or wrong, but perhaps ill-timed.
She pulls. Amelia comes willingly. She tips her face upward, and her eyes start to fall closed, and Laura’s eyes start to close too. Just so she can enjoy the sensation, so she can have something tactile and memorable.
And then there’s three knocks at the door. Steady and sure.
They freeze. So close. She can see the eyelash that’s fallen on Amelia’s cheek and smell the powder she’s recently applied to her nose.
“You should get that,” she whispers into her hair.
Amelia swallows.
“Miss Wright, this is maintenance. We’re afraid there may be a leak in your room.”
Amelia’s breathing quickly, and while Laura would like to think it’s due to her proximity, she knows it has everything to do with the man at the door.
“You’ll be all right,” she tells her.
Then she does kiss her, but it’s quick and meant to comfort, and it’s far, far too easy. A kiss dropped onto Amelia’s perfectly painted lips. She never used to wear such purposeful shades.
Another kiss at her hairline.
“Just act naturally.”
Amelia pushes away, smooths down the front of her dress, and walks toward the door with her head held high.
And Laura escapes back out the window.
It’s Friday. Amelia’s second appearance before the thugs and brutes of HUAC. Hard-looking men with smiles sharp as knives and hands graceful as wrecking balls.
They, Chalmers and his “colleagues,” demand Amelia tell them what she knows. Tell them who she knows. Laura watches from her office. Periodically, they all take breaks from their work to watch the proceedings and make crude jokes.
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