by Lynn Sheene
A breeze blew a lock of hair in Marta’s face. Claire brushed it from her eyes. At that simple kindness, the girl shuddered and released deep, wracking sobs. Legions of puffy clouds marched overhead as Claire rocked her in her arms.
Marta grew soft against her, sobs fading to breaths. She pulled her head away, swiping futilely at her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she said, her cheeks red from tears and embarrassment.
Claire wiped the girl’s face with the hem of her dress and looked deep into her eyes. “I am your friend, Marta. Truth, no matter how sad, is meant to be shared among friends. I am grateful you chose to tell me. And please, call me Claire.”
Marta nodded, her eyes taking in Claire as if for the first time. Hand-in-hand, they meandered back toward the farm, picking hyacinths and white anemones until the bucket was full. Marta wore a crown of braided flowers in her hair and a fragile smile when they got back to the house.
Anna’s laughter sounded like a bird’s trill as she and Grey returned from the forest. Grey cradled a bag bulging with eggs. Anna’s hands and pockets were stuffed full of rocks and leaves. She held a leaf up before her. “Fagus sylvatica,” she pronounced.
Claire turned to Marta. “How would you like to help me cook an omelet?”
Another week passed, supplies dwindled to crumbs. Claire woke hungry, an old memory in her mouth of the taste of fresh tomatoes still warm from the sun, the deep ache in her shoulders from picking vegetables all day in the blazing August heat. Her eyes flew open and she jerked upright. “A kitchen garden,” she whispered.
They were on a small farm, too far from town and too poor to shop for more than the essentials. A kitchen garden would have been a necessity. Her body felt what this time of year was on a farm. Harvest. That morning, Claire instigated the hunt.
A game for flagging spirits, the prize for finding the garden was a kiss or a spoon of sugar, the victor’s choice. Anna giggled and slid her fingers into Grey’s hand. A smile and he led her outside. Walker teamed up with Marta, leaned on her shoulder and hobbled out the door.
Claire scoured the barn for a shovel or trowel while the search continued outside. Climbing the ladder to the darkened hayloft, she felt her way across the room and swung open the heavy door overlooking the yard. Sunlight revealed the room empty except for a bundle of rusting tools and bits of straw pushed into the corners. Claire gathered a bent rake, two chipped shovels and a pick, then watched, from the doorway, the scene below.
Grey stood nearly motionless, his eyes studying the sky then the ground, while Anna kicked up dust next to him. Finally, they set off hand in hand, working their way through clumps of low brush alongside the road. Walker leaned on a fence post next to the orchard, wiping sweat from his eyes as Marta thrashed through the grass behind him.
“Here, here,” Anna cried.
Marta burst into a run and Walker stumbled along behind. Claire slid down the ladder and caught up with Walker. They found Grey on his knees between low brambles. His shirt clung to him in the heat as he dug into a tangle of vines and grass with his hands. An exhale and he leaned back. “Look, Anna, what is this?”
The little girl jumped to her feet, holding it aloft like a trophy, dancing from one foot to the other.
“A dried-up squash?” Marta couldn’t hide her disappointment.
“No, better. A marker,” Claire said. “Like a treasure map. Take a rake and poke through these bushes. There may be tomatoes, green beans, onions, garlic, or other vegetables hidden there.”
Grey nodded; he understood. “Plants that reseed themselves year after year. Smart. How did you know?”
“Lucky guess. Your prize?” Claire said.
“Sugar, sugar,” Anna yelled, jumping up and down.
“The lady chooses.” Grey bowed toward Anna with a benevolent smile.
Claire pointed them toward the tools in the barn and led Anna into the house. As they stepped inside she heard Walker say, “Sugar is sweet for Anna, Grey, but you are a goddamn fool. The sweets you want come with a kiss.”
That afternoon, a meal of fried squash and apples, and the garden still held much more. Marta and Anna sat at Walker’s feet, learning words for their journey: soda pop, square and jitterbug.
Claire made a plate for Grey, found him inside the barn, the upper half of his torso hidden inside the open hood of the truck.
“Food.” Claire laid a towel over a board, setting the plate on top.
A curse from deep inside the engine, and Grey reappeared, arms black up to his elbows. He jumped to the ground, wiped his hands on a rag, sniffed the air and grinned.
“A problem with the truck?”
“Not really. An oil leak, I think, but we must have reliable transport out of here, whether we make the drop or not.” He took a bite of squash, savored it and smiled. “Thank you. Are you a secret mechanic, as well?”
Claire shook her head.
“Neither am I. I admit to using a driver, before.”
“So did I. Well, my husband’s.” Claire circled the barn, peered into the dusty stalls that lined one wall and examined a tangle of dried leather and iron hanging from a rusted hook on the empty tack room door.
“Do you miss him?”
Claire laughed. “My driver, terribly. My husband, hell no.” She pulled the tangle off the wall. A plow harness, the leather cracked from age. She examined it. The thread had rotted and once-tight seams split open in her hands. “I don’t understand this place. This was good leather and well made. It would have been too valuable to leave behind, if they’d had a choice.”
Grey walked over next to Claire. “Who are you? Who are you really?”
She stared, swallowed by his gaze. “A bloody Yankee princess.”
“No. That is what you show, but underneath.” He shook his head, forehead wrinkled as if he didn’t understand. “I’d heard of the courage you showed in Paris. I saw it. But here, you’ve shown heart, grace.” He reached out and stroked the back of her hand. “Who are you?”
Claire felt herself falling into his eyes; she stepped back from the precipice. A deep breath, something ripped free inside her chest. “A plow horse, then, who dreamt of champagne and diamonds. And did what it took to have it.”
Grey tugged the harness from her hands, dropped it onto the packed dirt floor and reached for her. Claire met his hands with hers, softly pushed them away.
“I was born Clara May Wagner on a dried-up farm in Greenville, Oklahoma, population 317. My family were sharecroppers, worth less than our plow horse. Dirt poor. After my mama died, I got a chance to leave and I took it.”
“To New York?”
She nodded. “I taught myself how to dress and how to talk. To drink and lie, to make a man feel important. I became Claire Harris, with a pedigree I’d stolen from a dead woman in an obituary.”
“Your husband?”
“He didn’t know. We had an arrangement. He needed a blue-blooded wife to become respectable. I needed money. I had certain abilities he put to use.”
“Albrecht von Richter?” The anger was clear in Grey’s voice.
Claire shrugged. “Among others. The drinks flowed and I made certain businessmen feel very important.”
“He made you—”
“Not that. Hinted, but no, sex wasn’t part of the deal.” The thing inside burst free, left her throat aching but her mind crystal clear. No matter the cost, she needed Grey to see her as she really was. “I’m Clara May Wagner, runaway daughter of a dirt farmer.”
He caught one hand. With a callused thumb, he wiped at a smudge of dirt on her knuckles. His warmth sparked her skin. “You are so much more, you have no idea. There is a fire banked deep inside you. I’m sorry I was so wrong about you.”
His eyes were the color of slate and drilled deep inside her. Heat flooded her core; her lips sought his; her free hand slid behind his neck. He pressed her backward against the wall, cupping the back of her neck with one hand, his mouth tasting hers. He smelled of sun, oil and tobacco. She mel
ted into the hardness of his body. The heat from his breath woke the skin on her face, then her neck as his lips tasted lower. His hand slid to her hip, then under the hem of her dress.
Anna’s laughter drifted from the house.
“Not here,” Claire said, her voice breathy.
“The hayloft.” Grey held out his hand, palm up, his expression serious. “Join me?”
A hundred responses flashed and died on her lips. The truth was this life was uncertain, darkness was always too close, and she could be sure of nothing.
Except for this.
She took his hand. His grip was tight. He followed her up the ladder.
Lines of sunlight illuminated the loft floor through warped boards overhead. They faced each other. He watched her pull her dress over her head and slither out of her panties. She slid her fingers over the muscles in his stomach and up to his chest then slowly freed each button until his shirt fell open. She peeled it from his shoulders.
Their breath was loud in the hot liquid air. He ran his fingers over her lips, over the curves of her breasts, his palms flat against her waist, her hips. He pressed her backward against the wall. She gripped his belt buckle and pulled, fumbled with his zipper, then was rewarded with a low moan.
Her hands rested on his shoulders. With the wall at her back, his hands lifting and guiding her hips, her legs opened.
His lips and tongue found the soft skin of her thighs. She shivered at the sensation and pulled him up to face her. His gaze was consuming as he traced her lips with a finger. With a glint of a smile, he pressed her against the wall. She shut her eyes, held him close, felt his breath on her neck, their sweat mingling, her fingers in his hair as she accepted him inside her. Their breath combined in a rhythm that took over all thought. An exquisite pressure mounted until she cried out. He responded, gripping her tighter, driving her against the slats. Pleasure exploded in waves that rippled through her body then his.
Afterward, they lay on the floor, his shirt, her dress stretched flat beneath them. More gentle now, he explored every inch of her with the tips of his fingers, then his lips. The cadence of their breath and their bodies became music, a world for them alone. They were drowsing, limbs intertwined, when they heard a burst of static from the radio inside the house, then strains of a song too faint to make out.
“I miss music,” Claire said drowsily to Grey’s neck.
He rolled over to face her, head propped up on an elbow. “Let me guess. Jazz?”
Claire smiled. “Billie, Ella, Louis.”
His eyes closed, with a finger he traced a line on her stomach, his voice a low whisper. “Just when you are near, when I hold you fast, then my dreams will whisper—”
Walker whooped inside the house. They both jumped, sat up, stared at each other a moment then leaped up to slip into their clothes and stumble down the ladder. They didn’t look at each other as they raced across the yard.
“Our boys have landed in Sicily,” Walker yelled, his face beaming, as they stepped inside the door.
Anna bounded over to Grey. “Bombardier to pilot,” she said triumphantly in English.
“It won’t be long now. You’ll see.” Walker looked at Grey a moment then at Claire. “Shucks,” he added under his breath.
Claire ran a hand through her hair, found bits of straw. She caught Grey’s eyes and noticed his shirt was misbuttoned. To cover the flush on her cheeks, she went to the kitchen to start dinner. She felt his stare as she walked away.
As she stirred tomatoes into a stew on the stove, she hummed the Billie Holiday song that Grey whispered in the barn. The spoon froze, midair, when she remembered the next line. You’re too lovely to last.
The full moon lit the sky and still no messenger. They gathered around the radio during the nightly broadcast on the BBC for a coded message, for any news at all. But there was nothing. Grey, Walker and Claire debated the next step. They couldn’t take the truck back into Paris empty, Grey would need to buy a load of something and bury them inside. But where would that leave the girls? Claire couldn’t imagine sticking Anna back into that hole in the truck, the girls ending up trapped in Paris. I can’t stay here forever, Walker told them, glaring back and forth. Claire knew what he meant: You know you can’t either.
And they did know.
The next morning in the still shade of the forest, Claire found Grey. Or he found her. It didn’t matter. On a blanket laid over a bed of leaves, she slipped her hands beneath his unbuttoned shirt and traced the lines of his chest beneath her fingertips. Let the beating of his heart warm her palms.
He slipped the dress over her head, pressing fully against her as though he needed to feel all of her to know the moment was real. He cupped the back of her head and covered her face and stomach in tender kisses. She guided his other hand between her thighs then reached for his loosened waistband. His breath was hot on her neck as he slid between her legs. She smiled and bit her lip against the moan. A day had been far too long. Their moments together so short.
Afterward he cradled her, his body warm and solid against her. His soft words died away at the drone of bombers flying overhead. Claire reached for him to drown out the sound with their bodies. But her heart ached as she stared into his eyes. He might belong to her now, but for how long? And damn it, but it was hard not to care what would come next.
That night after dinner they tuned the radio to the BBC. Grey jotted intently on a small pad of paper. His frown deepened as the broadcast faded to static. Walker turned the radio off. The click echoed in the silence.
“What did you hear?” Marta asked.
“I don’t know,” Grey said finally. “And I damn well should,” he added under his breath. He stalked out into the darkness.
Claire helped the girls get ready for bed then slipped out after Grey. The heavy summer air was still. She found him on the hilltop above the farm, leaning against the lone oak tree, his eyes on the night sky. She rested a hand on his arm. His muscles were taut beneath her grip, his jaw clenched.
“They should have told us something by now,” Grey said without looking at her. “A messenger. A broadcast. But bloody nothing.”
Claire felt the frustration, the anger in his body. She faced him, sliding her arms around his waist and pulling herself close. His heart pounded against her. Steadfast Grey was desperate. She felt a surge of dread rising in her core.
Grey looked into her eyes. “How many days can we stay here, Claire? How many more?”
She pressed herself against him and stared up into his shadowed eyes. She had to respect his need to get Walker and the girls safe, to get his job done. Her own worry for the girls grew daily. But leaving meant losing these moments, losing Grey. Was he so desperate to escape her, to return to his lover in London? She tamped down the fear that bubbled in her now. She knew better than to think of a future with Grey. She damn well knew better. She pressed her lips hard against his.
Grey responded by devouring her with hungry kisses. He pushed her against the tree. The bark bit into her back. Her skin was on fire, heat building inside her. He stared into her eyes as he entered her. She gripped his shoulders, pulling him close, letting his strength fuel her. His rhythm was the ticking of a clock against them. She concentrated on their heartbeats, their breath. It was this moment that mattered. That made her feel whole. Safe. Only this moment. Time slowed and gave way to ripples of pleasure.
A warm breeze dried the sweat on their skin as they lay cupped together in the grass, their gazes toward the faint lights from Lyons-la-forêt in the distance.
Grey brushed the hair from her face. “Claire, I . . .” His words trailed to silence. “Thank you,” he said finally. He wore the ghost of a faint smile as he covered her with his discarded shirt.
In the depths of his slate eyes she saw tenderness, gratitude and, yes, something more. A warmth spread through her chest. She felt such simple joy; she had never been so alive.
In love, a soft voice whispered in her head.
No, never that. She shoved away the thought. She was too damn smart to let a few fleeting weeks, a liaison de la guerre, make a fool of her. In truth, it would be good for all of them to escape this place, this deception. But not yet. Not tonight. She slipped the shirt from her body as she reached for Grey and let the cadence of their breath smother her worries.
They lay intertwined until the sky began to lighten around them. An intimate form of flânerie, of the body and the heart.
The moon waned to a crescent. Weeks passed, the summer heat descended and broke. The sun was bright, the sky a translucent blue. Claire and the girls spent the morning in the forest among birdsong and whispered laughter. Claire and Marta each carried a sack of berries. Anna trotted between them, her mouth stained deep purple.
Claire paused at the edge of trees behind the farmyard and motioned for silence.
“They’ve found us?” Marta whispered, reaching for Anna’s sticky hand.
The farm looked as it always did. Building listing to the side, brush overgrown. But there was a stillness in the trees. The yard was too quiet. The skin pricked on the back of Claire’s neck.
“Wait here.” Claire set down the bucket and snuck forward.
The door was closed; Claire crept around under the window, past a dented bicycle with the spokes covered in mud. She held her breath and listened.
“This is not the plan,” Grey said, anger radiating in his voice.
A new voice, a mix of bluster and fear, spoke in a provincial dialect. “My job is to take you to the drop at the appointed time. I do not make the decisions, Monsieur. I cannot control the pilotes anglais.”
“Tell him, Grey. No deal.” Walker interrupted in English.
Grey answered Walker. “I can’t do that, Captain. We must do what we can.”
Claire slid back from the windows, let her voice rise. “I’m back.”
Chairs scraped across the wood floor, the door opened. Grey leaned out, the lines around his eyes tight, jaw tense. “Come inside, Evelyn, and meet Monsieur Citron.”
