Bette

by Lyn Cote

  As if sensing her mood, Ted took her hand and held it. She let him because leaving Gretel had been almost too hard to bear. But she had Gretel’s promise, and if she knew Souers, he would have someone keeping tabs on Gretel when she headed for Palestine.

  God go with you, Gretel, my dear friend, my sister.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  France, October 1946

  Curt stood at the graveside. All around him, mourners wept. But he only felt cold and distant, remembering how he’d met Maurielle. His squad had entered the village and had immediately been pinned down by Nazi snipers on the village church’s high roof. His men had scattered. He’d tried to edge closer to take out the sniper and instead his right shoulder had been grazed. Seeking shelter, he burst into an empty barn—more like a lean-to. The snipers maintained their post, picking off anyone who tried to come out and take them. Curt hoped someone still had the shortwave set and was calling for backup. Minutes had passed and then he’d realized he wasn’t alone.

  A very young, very thin, brunette had emerged from a loft and murmured to him in French and broken English. He’d never forget that moment. She was so beautiful, so ethereal. For a second he thought he was imagining her. Surely this lovely vision didn’t fit the rough setting. Then she brought out a bucket of water and broke off pieces from a salt lick and bathed his bleeding shoulder with the stinging salt water.

  Her touch had sparked his desire.

  All the lonely years spent in the company of men overwhelmed him. Other men in his squad had picked up willing women when short leaves came. He had not. But now he gave into temptation and kissed her. When he began to apologize, she kissed him in return, a long passionate kiss filled with a desperate longing that matched his own. And before he knew what he was doing, he was holding her and then making love to her in the fresh straw in a stall.

  Afterward, he was appalled with himself. How could he have let himself be unfaithful to Bette? But recalling his wife hadn’t helped. The attraction to Maurielle had only grown stronger as the long night of the snipers passed. She told him of Nazis and what they had done to her and her family. Just after dawn the next day, backup had rolled in with tanks and taken out the snipers. Curt and his squad had been ordered to secure the village and hold it and its bridge until the next wave of troops caught up with them.

  That evening he’d shared his rations with Maurielle and her father and had ended up spending the night with her. Her father had turned a blind eye. That had shocked him, too. But he hadn’t been able to resist being with her again. It was as if all his suppressed passion had burst its bounds and he couldn’t put the genie back in the bottle.

  Two days later, he’d left the village, but he’d given Maurielle his home address and promised he’d come back for her. When the other guys made vulgar remarks about his good luck, he defended Maurielle. But they just hooted at him—saying that being conquering heroes had its benefits and why shouldn’t he enjoy them. They had insulted Maurielle by saying she’d been on the prowl to snag an American. That had hardened his resolve to keep his promise. He wasn’t the kind of man who compromised a young woman and then deserted her. That would have put him on the par with the Nazis who’d occupied her village. And Maurielle had needed him so. She’d begged him not to forget her. She’d suffered so under Nazi occupation—horrors he didn’t want to think about.

  And in the end, he’d come to the resolve that she needed him more than Bette did.

  Now, Maurielle’s father touched his arm, yanking him back to the present. “Come.”

  Curt let himself be persuaded. He walked down the narrow lane back into the little village. Everyone knew about him—Maurielle’s American—and everyone along the way offered him sympathetic glances and words. It was as real as a nightmare and just as incredible. In the end, he hadn’t been able to save Maurielle. His life had become a cruel joke. What do I do now?

  A small, lazy Italian wharf, October 1946

  Gretel held her passport and ticket in hand as she waited to board the seedy-looking ship that would take her to Cyprus and then to Palestine. Her name was no longer Gretel Sachs. She’d practiced leaving her German accent behind but she tried to speak as little as possible.

  She’d tired of the trials and when her new passport and money had been delivered to her by a nameless agent, she’d quit before the next round of cases had started. Every mile she’d put between her and Germany had been liberating.

  On the gangway, her turn came. With a nonchalance that was completely fabricated, she presented her passport and her ticket for approval. The ship’s officer glanced at them, at her, and waved her aboard.

  She felt a silent sigh of relief echo through her. Thank you, CIA. Free. She was finally free of the past and heading toward the land of her fathers. And mothers. A land of milk and honey where no one would ever tell her she wasn’t welcome. She was through wandering and if the authorities in Palestine didn’t like that—too bad.

  Maryland, February 1947

  It was over. Exhausted and in pain, Bette Leigh lay in her bed in a private room at the hospital near Ivy Manor. Old Dr. Benning stood at her bedside. “Well, for a first baby, that went very well.” He patted her shoulder and then walked from the room. Bette couldn’t reply aloud. My first baby . . . and my last. I always wanted at least four children. Silently, she mourned for all the children she would never have. The fairy tale she’d longed to live—a home with children and a husband who loved her—had disintegrated. All because Curt had broken faith with her.

  Nearby, her mother and Jerusha were “helping” the nurse bathe the baby in a basin of warm water. Bette watched them and tried not to think about Curt. He hadn’t written or called in the months since she had returned from Europe. Ted’s face came to mind. Their work in Europe had been exciting and risky—as had been his continued but more subtle pursuit of her. She’d easily refused his light-hearted advances, of course. But underneath all his teasing, she’d recognized that he hadn’t given up. And deep down she knew she didn’t want him to give up. Was it fair for her to be condemned to a lonely life because of Curt’s unfaithfulness?

  The thought of divorce still struck terror into her heart. And she couldn’t help wondering if she’d broken her engagement with Curt and married Ted instead things would have turned out just the same. Would Ted have been any more faithful to her than Curt? Was it her—was she the kind of woman men left behind?

  After Europe, she’d told her boss at the CIA about the baby. He had been surprised but pleased when, instead of resigning, she’d asked for a maternity leave. He’d agreed without any objection. Obviously he had expected her to quit. So she’d continued her work at the CIA offices until Christmas and then she’d come home to have her baby. She would return in a month or two, unless Souers changed his mind about her. Ted had said she was too valuable for Souers to let go. She hoped that would continue to be true. She had savings, but they wouldn’t last indefinitely. She couldn’t depend financially on Curt, didn’t want to live off her family. When she returned to Washington, D.C., she’d have to find an apartment and a nanny before she could resume her work.

  Jerusha propped Bette up with pillows as her mother carried her little daughter, wrapped in a soft yellow baby blanket, to her. “Here she is, dear, your own little daughter, Linda Leigh.”

  Bette accepted the warm bundle and looked down at her child. Linda Leigh was very much Curt’s daughter. All newborns had blue eyes but Bette doubted Linda’s eyes would turn brown or gray like hers. And her daughter’s sparse hair was a baby-fine blond.

  Again she thought of Ted. After their heated conversation in Nuremberg, Ted had never proposed an affair or anything else. But in D.C. he’d bought her little presents for the baby and teased her about becoming a mother. What did Ted want? Did he think she’d finally divorce Curt and then—as a divorcee—start up an affair with him? She couldn’t believe he knew her so little. But he’d never spoken of marriage.

  Forget all that. You’re on
your own. Whatever she wanted or Ted wanted was not as important as this little girl in her arms. Dearest Linda, I won’t let you pay for your father’s sins. You’ll come first. You won’t have the family life I had hoped my children would have, but I’ll make sure you’re well cared for.

  “Mother, would you please call Curt’s parents?” Bette’s words caught in her throat. “I’m sure . . . they want to know that their granddaughter is born—healthy and very pretty.”

  Curt opened the cablegram and read: “You have a daughter. Come home and make things right. Mom and Dad.” Curt sat down and reread the telegram over and over. He’d promised Bette that he would not ignore their child, not make this child pay for his sins. But facing Bette would be the hardest thing he ever did.

  Ivy Manor, March 1947

  Bette walked slowly down the stairs at Ivy Manor and picked up the receiver waiting on the hall table. “Hello?”

  “Bette, according to Souers, you’re a mother,” Ted said. “Why didn’t you call me?”

  His voice affected her, loosening the tight grip she’d maintained on her rampant sadness, but she tried to keep that from her voice. “I haven’t been feeling very peppy. How are you, Ted?”

  “I miss you. Can I come and see you and the baby?”

  The truth of how much she wanted to see Ted arced through her like an electrical current. She closed her eyes and clung to the receiver. But she couldn’t lead him on. “I’ll be back in Washington in a month or so—”

  “Bette, I don’t want to wait that long. I miss you.”

  She tightened her lips, afraid words might break loose on their own. “I’m not myself, Ted,” she managed.

  “You would be if I were kissing you.”

  She’d dreamed of kissing Ted—vivid dreams. His golden hair shining in sunlight, his lips full on hers. “Ted,” she said, her voice cracking, “I’m nearly thirty years old, married to a man who’s asked for a divorce, and I have a baby—”

  “What has that got to do with the fact that I want to kiss you?”

  I can’t give in. “Ted, be serious.”

  “Bette, I am very serious.”

  She rubbed her taut forehead, her self control lagging. “Ted, what am I going to do with you?”

  “That is the question. Now we need to come up with the right answer.”

  Suddenly she felt too weary to hold the receiver. She sighed. “Ted, you’re not making this easy on me. I don’t intend on divorcing Curt. I can’t even bear to think about it.”

  “Bette, don’t tell me you’re going to be one of those clinging women who hold onto a man when he’s moved on to another woman. You have more self-respect than that.” His voice was even and slightly mocking.

  “Ted, it isn’t that easy. Maurielle died. Curt’s in Maryland again. He wants to get back together.”

  There was a very long silence at the other end of the line. Bette began to bite her nails, a nasty new habit she’d just developed the past week. Tears lodged in her throat.

  “I can’t,” Ted finally spoke, “believe that you’d do anything that stupid.” His voice rasped low. “The man has been a jerk since the beginning and you’re planning to reconcile with him?”

  “He’s the father of my child,” she muttered.

  Another silence stretched out. The baby began crying overhead. “Ted, I need to hang up.”

  “Bette, let me make this very clear. I am not the kind of man who clings to a woman who will never be his. Do you know how long I’ve loved you? Do you have any idea how many times I told myself to murder any idea that we might eventually get together?”

  “Ted, I—”

  “And after Curt commits adultery, makes a fool of you . . .” He fell silent—a very thick silence. “If you go back to him, that’s it. I’m out of your life for good. There are other women in this world, you know. I won’t have trouble finding someone else.”

  His words sent fine shards of ice right through her heart. She gasped silently at the pain. Losing Ted would be like losing the sunlight, like losing her right hand. She clutched the phone tighter, remembering that day in Bermuda under the purple bougainvillea when Ted had proposed to her. I was a fool to stay with Curt.

  But maybe not. How could she trust any man after Curt’s betrayal? Ted might not prove any truer than Curt. And little Linda was more important than her own happiness, more important than Ted to her. And Curt was Linda’s father. Bette had always loved her stepfather, but he hadn’t been her real father—the father who’d died before she was born. How could she keep Linda from having her own father in her home?

  “I’m sorry, Ted. Forgive me,” Bette murmured and hung up.

  Curt had refused his parents when they’d wanted to accompany him to see his daughter for the first time. He knocked on the door and Bette opened it. He stepped inside as she shut the door against the cold. He didn’t know what to say to her.

  She folded her arms. “The baby is in the parlor.” She turned and marched away. He followed obediently, his hat in hand.

  There was an antique bassinet near the fire. He walked over and looked down at his daughter. “You named her Linda Leigh?”

  Bette sat down. “Yes.”

  No discussion, no explanation. The child was his, but he had no rights. He didn’t blame Bette. How could either one of them behave as they should? And this was all his fault.

  “I hear that Maurielle passed away,” she challenged him.

  Curt sank into a chair opposite her. The dead feeling that had begun with Maurielle’s death weighed him down—mercilessly. Even seeing his baby girl didn’t lift his spirit. “Yes.”

  “And you think that will change matters between us?” Her chin jutted out, daring him.

  He dragged in air. “Don’t you think that there’s a chance that we could get back together?”

  Bette stared at the fire on the hearth. “Why would you want to get back together? You said you didn’t love me anymore. Is it just because of the child?”

  Bette’s bitter tone lashed him. “I must admit that Linda Leigh is my main reason to ask for a reconciliation. Don’t you think we should try?”

  “I don’t relish playing second best.” She turned her face from him, her hurt tone flaying his tender conscience.

  He’d unforgivably wounded this woman who’d loved him. “You were never second best,” he said and he meant it.

  She looked at him, her eyes flashing. “If you had not gone back to France, I would have tried to put your infidelity behind me. But you went to France.” Looking down, she adjusted the hem of her skirt. “I know you’re right. We owe it to Linda to see if we can get back together. But how can I trust you not to play me false again? How can I?”

  “If I were you, I’d feel the same way.”

  “But that doesn’t tell me how to forget, how to put this behind me.” She sounded suddenly exhausted.

  He fell silent, rotating his hat brim with his fingers. He had no answers. “May I hold my daughter?”

  Bette stood up and gathered the sleeping baby in her arms. She brought Linda to him and waited.

  He formed his arms into a cradle and Bette laid his daughter there. He gazed down at the white skin, the blue eyes, the fine blond hair. “She’s so tiny.”

  “I’ll leave you two alone.” And she walked out the door.

  Curt stroked the baby’s cheek. “I failed your mother, failed you, failed everyone.” A cold tear slid down his face. “I’ve got to find a way to change that. There must be a way.”

  In the early hours of an April Monday morning, Curt stood in the front hall of the McCaslin house, holding two-month-old Linda Leigh and watching Bette don a stylish hat and gloves. Bette had finally agreed to a trial reconciliation for the sake of their daughter. During the preceding week, they’d moved into the McCaslin house that had stood empty when Jamie didn’t return. The week had been tense. He’d weighed every word before he uttered it, and he was exhausted. And now he couldn’t stop himself from saying in a
n irritable tone, “I wish you didn’t have to leave us. We just moved back together.”

  In front of the wall mirror, Bette straightened her hat. “We knew getting back together wouldn’t be easy.” Her voice was overly calm, as though she were talking to a cranky child. “You know I’d rather stay here with the baby, but we agreed that until you get a job, I need to continue at my job three days a week. We don’t want to live off my parents or yours.”

  Everything she said was true, but each word shredded, stung his pride as a man. He was living in his wife’s family home and she was supporting them. This is all wrong. “I know,” he agreed, hating every syllable he spoke. “It’s just . . . I should be going off to work.”

  “I will be back Wednesday evening on the 7:00 p.m. train,” she replied, dismissing his feelings. “It’s only three days a week. I’m grateful my employer agreed to this part-time position. I’ll quit just as soon as we’re able to make it without my working.” She did not look or sound happy about that prospect.

  Tell the truth. You can’t wait to get away from me. Then he felt guilty for these feelings. Bette had been so generous to him. No matter how I feel, I have to hold up my end of the bargain.

  “Curt, we need to get going.” Bette called for the housekeeper, who bustled in and took the baby after Bette had kissed and cooed over her once more.

  Grudgingly, he put on his hat and overcoat and went out to get his father’s car. He picked Bette up at the front door. He didn’t want to say anything to upset things before she left for three days. He clamped his jaw shut so tightly it began to ache and in an awkward silence drove her to the train stop; he noticed a headache coming on. When he parked, Curt felt the eyes of everyone there turn to observe Bette getting out of the car with her briefcase.

  At the small station, he was the only man driving his wife to leave for work. The condemnation and sneers he detected around him said he was a lesser man, living off his wife and her family. Each one pierced him like hot needles. He didn’t try to kiss Bette good-bye and she didn’t act like she’d welcome it anyway. He’d been unable to bring himself to show her any affection or passion. Guilt overpowered him . . . because of his adultery.