by Lyn Cote
Now, Bette paused at the doorway of the ivory-and-beige room, which hadn’t been redecorated since Jamie’s grandparents had occupied it. It was lit only by two small bedside Tiffany lamps. Bette stood there, remembering the night Miss Estelle, her stepfather’s mother and Jamie’s adopted mother, had passed away in this room.
Probably this memory should be disturbing, but it wasn’t. The room had a faded, homey quality like a comfortable old family quilt. And her memories of Miss Estelle were only good ones. Miss Estelle had been one of the wonderful people who had come into Bette’s lonely childhood along with Jamie. Jamie. Her heart ached for him—her very first friend, as close as a brother. She’d prayed for his safety all afternoon and evening.
A fragment from a long-ago hymn sang in her mind. “He hideth my life in the depths of His love . . .” Since she had no better words of her own, she sent this plea heavenward. Father, protect Jamie. As the bombs dropped, as he fought, please let him have been protected. Whatever has happened, hide my dear Jamie, my first friend.
This evening, Curt had sent her up first to give her time to undress and prepare for their first night together. She sighed as she pushed away her fears. Curt always thought everything through, always planned ahead. Once she had valued this trait, but now . . . Although she knew it was forbidden, she couldn’t keep herself from imagining Ted’s approach to a honeymoon.
But no. She stopped herself. I have married Curt and I will put these thoughts, temptations, out of my mind now once and for all. She walked to the closet, opened it, and began undressing. She hung her wedding dress on a padded hanger, smoothing her hands over the satin once more, and then opened a flat pink-and-gold department-store box with a peignoir set inside, a gift from her mother. The soft white fabric shimmered in the low light. She slipped out of her undergarments and into the satin gown and robe, shivering at the touch of the cool, silky fabric sliding over her bare skin. Then she went to the window and looked out into the darkness and heard Curt mount the steps.
He entered, coming up behind her. He still wore his khaki dress uniform. Taking her arms into his hands, he kissed the nape of her neck. Then he bent his forehead onto her shoulder and squeezed her upper arms. “We’re not,” he murmured, “the only ones who chose today to marry, you know.”
She relished the reassurance in his touch, feeling the pressure of his military insignia, bars, and ribbons against her flesh. When he was with her like this, she could forget the war, forget Ted. But she couldn’t glean much meaning from his cryptic comment. “What did you say?” Her low voice matched his.
“I mean it’s hard to have a wedding day that will become a historical date. We’ll always remember not just our wedding day, but . . .”
“I see.” She halted him abruptly, turning to face him. She and Curt and their families had spent the hours after the wedding reception at Ivy Manor listening to the radio, her worry mounting with each report. She didn’t want to talk about world history, about the horrible danger hanging over all of them. But she couldn’t act as if she weren’t aware of the significance of the attack on Pearl Harbor. Jamie’s voice over the crackling connection haunted her.
She braced herself, her hands resting on Curt’s shoulders. “We’ve waited a long time for this night, Curt, our wedding night. I don’t want anything to spoil it, but now that you brought it up, all I can think about is Jamie—whether he’s alive or dead. And where this war will take you.” There—she’d voiced her overwhelming fear.
“You know this means war?”
“Of course I do,” she snapped, anger flaring hot and wild in her. “Ever since 1939 when Hitler invaded Poland, it’s just been a matter of waiting for the sword to drop. Don’t talk down to me, Curt. I’m not an ignorant girl. I’m a woman.”
He stepped back from her, studying her. “I’m sorry, Bette. I know you’re a woman. A beautiful woman. And my wife.” He tugged her slowly to him and then buried his face within the satin collar of her robe.
His intimate touch released long-suppressed, dormant sensations that swept away her anger. Curt, hold me, love me. Bette leaned into his embrace, kissing his ear and stroking his thick, blond hair. “I’ve wanted you for so long,” she whispered.
“Not as much as I’ve wanted you.” He pressed urgent kisses to her throat and collarbone. Then his hands moved slowly down her spine as if memorizing her form. “You’re so beautiful and so desirable. I’ve dreamed of this night over and over again.”
Floating on a tide of sensation, Bette recalled her solitary nights on Bermuda. Through her open window, she’d listened to the lap of ocean waves and thought of what it would be like to be married to Curt. “Me, too.” Banishing any thought of Ted, she lifted his face with both hands and kissed his mouth. Curt, make me forget everything but you.
He clasped her to him, deepening the kiss. Then he drew away and led her to the bed. Gently he nudged her down. “It will just take me a moment.” He walked to the closet, opened the doors, and began undressing within the semi-shelter of the closet doors.
She leaned forward, craving his nearness, wishing he would hurry. Curt, I love you, only you.
“Bette, I want you to quit your job censoring mail in Bermuda and move home to Ivy Manor.”
Curt’s words rolled over her, knocking her down like an avalanche—suffocating her. She went cold and gooseflesh popped up on her arms. “Move home to Ivy Manor?” she parroted, sitting up straighter.
“Yes, Bermuda is much too far from stateside, too close to the open Atlantic. German subs have been waylaying merchant ships all along the Eastern coast. Hitler might decide to take over Bermuda for strategic purposes and I can’t think that the English have much manpower there to defend the islands. You must come back to Maryland. I want you safe.”
Each of Curt’s pronouncements jolted her. Bette knew all about the German depredations on merchant ships. She’d personally foiled several of these attacks by intercepting coded letters headed for the Abwehr with merchant marine shipping routes and dates. She felt like telling Curt this. But, of course, she’d been sworn to secrecy—had taken an oath, in fact, and couldn’t reveal her work even to her husband. Her supervisor had reiterated this before she’d left Bermuda for her wedding. “Curt, we are at war.”
“I know and I want you safe.” He shut the closet doors and came toward her, wearing blue-and-white-striped pajamas.
She searched her mind for a way to make him understand that she must continue her work. “I’ll be as safe as anyone can be in a war,” she said judiciously.
“I don’t want any argument about this,” Curt said, looking determined. “I’m your husband and I want you here in Maryland for the duration.”
Bette flamed with sudden rage. She tangled her hands into the soft, worn quilt, gripping the end of her self-control. “Perhaps I ought to call your commanding officer,” she said, oozing sarcasm, “and tell him that I’m your wife and I want you here in Maryland for the duration.”
Curt stared at her as if dumbstruck. “Bette, I’m a man—”
“I’m well aware of that,” she snapped. “I wouldn’t have married you if there had been the slightest indication that you weren’t a man. But being a woman doesn’t mean that I will spend this war sitting at home knitting you socks. Maybe you don’t have a clue, Curt, about what this war is going to demand of all of us. But I do. I’ve spent the last four years in government service. I know—” She fell silent, again hampered by her vow of secrecy.
“You don’t even sound like my Bette.” Curt said the words in a tone of confusion, wonderment.
“People change, Curt. I’m not the sweet little girl you took to the prom. I’ve been to the big city.” She chose her next words with extreme care. “I’ve been in positions of trust. I’ve worked with men, powerful men, who knew things the general population wasn’t to know. I am a part of this war.” She reached for his hands. “Please understand. I’m valued for what I can contribute to defeating Hitler, and now Tojo in Japan.
”
He stood apart from her. “You’re my wife now. Didn’t you tell me that that was all you ever wanted to be? I want you safe. I insist on this, Bette. It’s my job to keep you safe. And you won’t be sitting here knitting me socks. You have proved your value with the War Department work. I just want you to find something close to home where you can keep busy,” he lectured on. “Maybe your stepfather will need you at the bank. His male tellers will enlist or be drafted and he’ll need someone trustworthy to take over. You’ll be a comfort to my parents and yours—especially with Jamie in the Pacific.”
She stared at him, her lips parted in amazement. Curt wanted her—the woman who’d been praised by Winston Churchill and Franklin Delano Roosevelt for her espionage work against the Abwehr—to tuck her tail, come home, and be a bank teller? The idea was ludicrous. Didn’t he understand their nation hung in the balance? America must defeat Nazi Germany, and whatever service she could offer would be given. Bette listened to his words and could not prevent her mind from bringing up Ted’s words: “Curt will never understand, never appreciate what you’ve accomplished.”
But she recognized in Curt’s eyes the stubbornness in him she’d noted a few times before—like last year when he’d postponed their wedding. He wasn’t obstinate very often, but on a few occasions she’d found him implacable. She wanted to say, “Curt, this is our wedding night, let’s not fight.” But she knew he’d persevere until she agreed to what he wanted. He would fight all night, argue away their wedding night until she gave in. If we had more time; if I could tell him about my work. He doesn’t know and I can’t tell him. “All right, Curt,” she lied, her heart breaking. Forgive me, Lord, for lying to my husband. I just can’t face fighting with him when our time together is so short. Forgive me.
“That’s my girl.” Curt beamed at her. “Now I—”
Before he could pronounce another edict and force her into another lie, she rose up and kissed him. No more talk, Curt. No more. She ran her palms over his chest and down his arms. Ted had taught her how to distract a man. And this was her husband—the man she could show her love to. The military had given her “professor” some muscles and their taut strength thrilled her. She deepened her kiss, keeping his mouth too occupied to form words. And then, knowing it would shock and please him, she began to unbutton his shirt.
He sucked in his breath. But he smoothed the robe from her shoulders and it slipped soundlessly to the faded beige carpet. “I don’t want,” she whispered against his cheek, “you to think of anything but me tonight. Nothing but me and you.” She pushed his shirt back and bent her face to his chest. She rubbed her face into his skin, breathing in his natural fragrance. A heady scent—she knew well.
He nudged her down onto the bed again and came down with her. “I love you, Bette. No matter what happens, never forget that.”
Her love for him, so long denied, slithered through her like warm butter. “I love you, Curt. I always have and I always will. Never forget that.”
December 24, 1941
Chloe and Roarke stood in the doorway of Rory and Thompson’s bedroom at Ivy Manor, hearing the boys’ prayers. A small fire burned on the hearth in the room and the windows rattled in the winter wind. The scene warred with Chloe’s emotions—her stomach roiled with worry and sorrow. “Well,” she said, her voice catching her throat, “we’ll let you boys get to sleep now.”
“Good night, sons,” Roarke said.
Chloe held Roarke’s hand tightly as they walked down the darkened hall and into their bedroom. On Chloe’s vanity lay two colorful, glittered Christmas cards: one from Bette, one from Jamie, and a letter from Gretel—each child gone from her. Each card had been a spear through her heart. Chloe walked over and fingered them. “Gretel’s letter worries me most,” she murmured.
“I know, it almost sounded like a last farewell.” Roarke’s voice was heavy with worry. He shrugged out of his brown corduroy robe.
Chloe opened the card and read again the brief note: I am leaving New York now. I have work to do. I will never forget your kindness to me. May God be with you—always. Love, Gretel. “She won’t be writing again. I feel it, Roarke. We’ve lost her. And so has Jamie.”
He came up behind her and put his good arm around her, pressing her back against his chest. Roarke stroked her hair. “Gretel broke his heart.”
Chloe bent her head back and grazed Roarke’s chin with a kiss. “And Bette went back to Bermuda and Curt thinks she’s moving home to work at the bank with you.”
“That will cause trouble. But they’ll have to work it out. They’re man and wife now.” Roarke turned her in his arms. “I pray to God this is over before Rory and Thompson get much older. I can’t believe the world has let this happen again. Didn’t we learn anything from the first war in this century?”
“We learned much—you and I.” She kissed him. “But the world evidently learned nothing.” She kissed him again, seeking that solid strength he always brought her. His kisses made her forget the emptiness of losing Gretel, Bette, and Jamie to this war, the war that threatened to devour the whole world in its flames. “We’re helpless,” she whispered. “Only God has enough power to change this, to end it.”
Roarke pulled her closer, tighter, maneuvering his bent arm around her so she rested in the cradle of his arms. Silently, she offered a prayer for her children and those of every other mother who wept and prayed tonight. When would this war end and who would survive to come home?
Part Two
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Ivy Manor, April 1946
Her blood fizzing in her veins, Bette paced the front porch of Ivy Manor. The same wicker rockers that adorned the ivied porch every year, April through October, had already been placed outside for spring afternoons and evenings. The magnolia trees bloomed with their pink and white petals. The scene was so familiar that Bette merely breathed it in with the fresh scent of spring morning.
She glanced at her wristwatch once again and then straightened her belt. She’d dressed with care for this reunion. She wanted to look her best for Curt. She wore a deep purple rayon dress with a black peplum waistline, a matching Peter Pan collar, and the amethyst earrings Curt had given her as his wedding gift. She smoothed her shoulder-length page.
“You look lovely, Bette.” Chloe stepped out the front door. “He’ll think you’re beautiful. And you are.”
Bette managed a tight smile. One thing still worried her. She tried to stop the words, but they came out anyway, “Why didn’t he want me to meet his ship?”
Chloe looked serious . . . worried. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you and I guess this is my last chance.” Chloe sat down and looked away from Bette down the lane to the road.
Bette gazed at her mother, whose expression made her almost afraid of what she’d say.
“War changes people, Bette. I don’t know if it’s that he’s had to learn to kill people and learned what it feels like to have someone try to kill him or . . . what. He’ll be Curt but he’ll be different. Maybe he didn’t want you to come to the ship because he just wasn’t ready to see you, not ready to let go.”
Bette sank into the chair beside her mother, suddenly weak at the knees. “Let go of what?” she whispered.
“I don’t know. He may be mourning some of the things he did. Or mourning the death of some of his buddies—feeling guilty that he survived.” Chloe took her hand. “It may not be easy, honey. It wasn’t easy for your stepfather and me. It took us years to reconnect.”
Her mother’s hands warmed Bette’s chilled one. “Wasn’t that because you married my father before the war, not my stepfather?” Curt and I are husband and wife—what could change that?
“Yes, that’s somewhat right. Your stepfather and I hadn’t made that commitment before he went to France.” She squeezed Bette’s hand. “You and Curt were sweethearts for a long time before the war and you married before he left. Yes, you have that going for you. But nothing is for certain.” Chloe frowned. “Roark
e loved me but the war had . . . injured him.”
Bette didn’t think her mother was talking about her stepfather’s frozen arm. She knew she was trying to help her but her words were only raising Bette’s anxiety level, sharpening her nerves. Again, thoughts she’d held back flowed out, unstoppable. “Am I being jealous because I think he should have come here first—instead of going to his parents?”
“I don’t know. Something must be making him unsure of how to fit back into this life. Maybe he’s afraid you won’t love him like you did.”
“Why would he think that? I love Curt with all my heart.” Could his love have cooled toward me? No. Not Curt. Her pulse skipped a beat. He’d never do anything like that.
“I don’t seem to be able to find the words.” Chloe pursed her lips. “You’ve both grown up—apart from each other. You aren’t the same young girl Curt married. You’ve spent the war censoring mail in Bermuda. Curt’s been in North Africa and then Europe. Letters can only convey so much . . .”
Bette pictured the Princess Hotel on Bermuda—a bittersweet memory. The headquarters where she’d done much more than censor mail to keep military information out of letters was just a hotel again. Everyone she’d worked with had returned to their civilian lives, taking the secrets of that place with them. She still couldn’t reveal her wartime service. But yes, it had left its mark on her. She had loved her work, but would she ever take anything at face value again? “I did what needed to be done.”
“Then you have that in common with Curt,” Chloe murmured. “I had changed too during the first world war and that made it harder for Roarke and me to talk, to begin to become close again.”
Bette recalled her lonely childhood years before her mother came home. But the overwhelming import of today overshadowed everything else. “Why are you telling me this?”
