Chapter 13

“EVERYTHING LOOKS REALLY good.” Gary didn’t waste time with small talk as he breezed into his office. “No trace bleeding, no swelling, nothing at all to indicate that there’s any kind of problem. It’s healed nicely.”

Kelly closed her eyes as he gave her a perfunctory kiss on the cheek. “Thank God.”

Tom didn’t seem to be as happy at the news. He sat forward as Gary slid into his seat behind his desk. “So what’s going on, then? What’s with the headaches and dizziness? The paranoia?”

“I found no physiological explanation, other than that of the injury and surgery.” Gary looked tired, older, lines of strain giving his handsome face a pinched, anxious look. “The symptoms you’ve been having are probably related.”

“No kidding.” Tom looked at Kelly, his frustration evident. “Am I asking the wrong questions here?”

“I think what Gary’s trying to say is that he doesn’t really know why you’re experiencing these things,” she told him.

“There’s a great deal we’re still learning about injuries to the brain, Lieutenant,” Gary admitted. “And ten individuals with similar injuries will have ten entirely different recoveries, varying from death to complete return to preaccident condition. The problems you’ve been having are insignificant compared to, say, paralysis or damage to the speech center of your brain. And as for the feelings of paranoia and the slight personality change regarding your lack of control with your temper—these aren’t outside the realm of normal for the type of injury you’ve had. Although, again, since we know so little, normal tends to be a pretty broad band.”

“Is there any way to know whether or not the paranoia’s going to be permanent?” Tom asked. But when Gary took a deep breath and opened his mouth to speak, Tom held up his hand. “That was a yes-no question. I’m kind of hoping for a single word response.”

Gary closed his mouth. He looked at Kelly, and she lifted her eyebrows, waiting. He sighed. Single word answers weren’t his forte. “No.”

Tom nodded, his face impassive. It was not the answer he’d been hoping for, and Kelly ached for him. She wished she were sitting close enough to take his hand. She wished, when they walked out of here, that she’d have the courage to put her arms around him and hold him close. And she also wished that her comfort would be enough to sustain him.

“Can you give me any statistics?” he asked Gary. “Percentages of people with this type of injury who do achieve complete recovery?”

Gary straightened the files on his desk into a neat little pile. “Since I don’t have your medical records, I can’t be absolutely certain, but from what you’ve described—the severity of your injury plus the length of time between being injured and getting medical attention . . .” He shook his head. “I don’t know the exact number, Lieutenant, but most people would not have survived. Statistically, you’re way ahead of the game.”

Tom was silent.

“If these side effects are permanent,” Gary tried to reassure him, “there are steps you can take to make them easier to live with. There’s medication that will help relieve feelings of anxiety. It may also help with any vague feelings of paranoia you might be having. If you want I can—”

Tom shifted his weight, giving Gary a big body-language no. “That’s not an option. Not if I want to stay in the SEAL teams.”

“Maybe it’s time to consider retirement,” Gary said as gently as he could. “Return to civilian life. Take a year or two off—relax. Play golf, do a little gardening. Let yourself heal.”

Tom stood up. An even less subtle rejection. “I’m not ready to quit yet. I’ve got a few more weeks. Any suggestions on what I should be doing to speed along any kind of additional recovery?”

“Rest,” Gary recommended, “lots of sleep. Keep life low-stress. Take everything slowly, avoid upset, don’t push yourself physically. Lots of massage and other tension-relieving, ahem, activities.”

Kelly didn’t dare look at Tom. It was too bizarre—sitting here with this man she wanted to sleep with, listening to her ex-husband recommend he use sex to relieve tension. It was all she could do not to giggle. She stood up, too. “Well, that sounds good to me.”

Both Gary and Tom looked at her, and she carefully kept her face perfectly straight, her eyes wide. Little Miss Innocent.

Gary didn’t give her a second glance, but Tom kept one eye on her, even as Gary stood and the two men shook hands.

Tom was, no doubt, remembering the whipped-cream comment she’d made back in the car. Well, good. About time he caught on.

Kelly took Gary’s hand and air-kissed his cheek as Tom moved tactfully out of the office, giving them at least the illusion of privacy.

“How’s your father?” Gary asked.

“Pretty frail. How’s Tiffany and the baby?”

He forced a smile. “Fine. Great.” Very unhappy with his workaholic schedule, she knew. Tiffany had called Kelly to find out if Gary’s eighty-hour workweek was normal. It was. Kelly gave their relationship five years, tops. Tiffany was too smart to take his oh-so-important-me crap for longer than that. Yes, he was a good doctor, but he wasn’t Albert Schweitzer.

“Thanks again for seeing Tom,” she told him.

He was still holding her hand, and he lowered his voice. “He seems nice, but . . . a Navy SEAL? Aren’t you a little young to be having a midlife crisis?”

“He’s an old friend from high school.” Kelly pulled her hand free. “Whom I still happen to find very attractive. There’s no crisis. I’m single, he’s single. He’s going to be in town for a few weeks. . . .”

Gary smiled. “So it’s purely physical. I can understand that. Use birth control, sweetheart, or it might become permanent.”

The five years with Tiffany shrank to less than two, and Gary morphed into her father, richer than God, but dying alone and bitter after a string of failed marriages.

“Good-bye, Gary.” Kelly closed his office door behind her, more glad than ever that she had escaped when she did. Tom was already out of the waiting room, standing in the hall. “Sorry about that.”

He glanced at her. “No problem.”

They started toward the bank of elevators. “Are you okay?” she asked.

He met her gaze, sighed, and then, to her surprise, shook his head no. “I’m pretty disappointed.” He laughed. “I don’t know what I was hoping for. Some kind of low level internal bleeding, maybe. Something that we could all point to and say, ‘Aha, there’s the cause of the problems.’ Something that could be fixed.”

He jabbed the down call button for the elevator.

“Through surgery,” Kelly pointed out, trying to speak clearly even though her heart was securely lodged in her throat. She’d never expected him to be so honest about what he was feeling, although it was clear that disappointed was an enormous understatement. “Through the doctors drilling a hole in your skull and . . . God, Tom, Gary’s a good doctor, but brain surgery involves certain high risks. We’re talking about someone poking around in your brain. Even if the surgery goes well, there are chances of infection and—”

“Right now I’d take the risks. Gladly.”

The doors slid open, and Tom stepped aside, letting Kelly into the empty elevator first.

“Of course, the point is moot,” she said.

“Right.” Discouraged, he rubbed his forehead as the elevator took them to the lobby.

“I was a little surprised you didn’t go into more detail about your . . .” She wasn’t sure what to call it. “Your suspected paranoid episodes.”

Tom looked at her and smiled ruefully. “Tactfully put.” He shrugged. “I just didn’t feel as if I wanted him to know.”

And yet he’d told her, in complete detail.

“Do you think I’m nuts if I continue to act as if my seeing the Merchant was anything besides a paranoid delusion?” He laughed again. “Okay, let’s see you answer that one tactfully.”

That wasn’t so hard. “I think you should do whatever you need to do in order to feel most comfortable with this situation—make it as stress free as possible. I think you should follow Gary’s advice and relax.”

Tom was leaning back against the elevator wall, just watching her. She could see his unhappiness in his eyes, his frustration at this “wait and see” advice. She tried to imagine what it might be like. What if she were told there was a chance that she couldn’t be a doctor anymore? That everything she’d worked for, everything she’d strived to become would be gone? And, oh, she had to wait a month to find out her fate.

Her anxiety and stress levels would be pretty high, too.

“Maybe you should go to some tropical island for a few weeks, just drink strawberry daiquiris on the beach all day,” she said, knowing as the words left her lips that even if Tom could walk away from this ghostly terrorist he’d thought he’d seen, her own father’s failing health made the option impossible. Tom wouldn’t leave Joe until his convalescent leave was up. “I’d give just about anything to go with you.”

There it was. She’d just served him a nice, fat, slow pitch. If he wanted to, he could step up to the plate and hit the ball clear out of the park.

He didn’t pretend to misinterpret or misunderstand. He just smiled that little half smile that always made her knees feel weak. “What am I going to do about you? You should be running away from me.”

“Why should I run away,” she said, her heart pounding, “when what I really want is for you to kiss me again?”

He pushed himself up and off the wall, and Kelly knew that he was going to do just that. She’d seen that same look in his eyes last night, and in Joe’s car, all those years ago. Her pulse kicked into quadruple time, and her mouth went dry, and . . .

The elevator doors opened.

A half-dozen people were standing there, staring at them, waiting to get on. Tom stepped back to let her off first, ever the gentleman.

“Come on,” she said, leading the way through the crowded lobby, trying her hardest not to be embarrassed. He had been about to kiss her, hadn’t he? “I’ll take you to the train.” When they got into her car, dammit, she’d kiss him.

But Tom caught her hand, stopping her before she pushed open the door that led to the parking garage. “I can get myself to the train. It doesn’t make sense for you to drive me to North Station and then drive all the way back here to the hospital to see Betsy.”

“Oh,” she said. “No. I don’t mind. In fact, I’d feel much better if I could actually take you into the station and get you onto the right train.”

“That’s ridiculous. I don’t need you to do that. I’m not a child.”

“What if you get dizzy again?” she worried.

He laughed. “I’ll sit down. I’ll wait for it to pass. If I do get dizzy, I promise I won’t run several miles at top speed, like I did last night, all right?”

She gazed at him, unconvinced, and the amusement in his eyes changed to something softer, something warmer as he laced their fingers together and pulled her toward him.

“I like that you care about me, Kelly,” he said. “It makes me feel good. But you know what?”

She shook her head, aware that he was moving even closer, aware that she wanted him even closer—their legs touching, their stomachs, her breasts against his chest.

“I’m a highly trained professional,” he told her. “I think I can probably get from the hospital to the train station and back to Baldwin’s Bridge on my own, even if I get a little dizzy on the way.”

His mouth was now mere inches from hers. He paused, though, gazing down at her before he closed the gap and kissed her, sweetly covering her lips with his own.

It was a see-you-later kiss, but it was unlike any other see-you-later kiss she’d ever received in the middle of a crowded hospital lobby.

He took his time with it, making a point to nestle her body against his, to slowly drink her in. He was all solid muscles, and yet, somehow, his arms managed to feel so soft.

His mouth was soft, too, and beautifully gentle. He tasted like coffee and chocolate, like everything that was good and right with the world.

When he finally stopped kissing her, when he lifted his head, she was the one who was dizzy. But it was okay, because he still held her tightly.

More tightly than she’d ever been held before in a hospital lobby.

But Tom didn’t seem worried about the fact that they were standing there in public. He didn’t seem to care that there were dozens of people around them. He surely saw them, but from the way he was looking at her, he didn’t give a damn about anyone else. Gary and her father both would’ve frowned at such a display of affection, but to Kelly, it was as good as she’d always dreamed it would feel. And if this was the way he’d kiss her in public, how would he kiss her when they were alone? The thought was heart stopping.

“You trust me, remember?” he said softly.

Kelly nodded. Oh, yes.

“Then trust me to be able to take the T to North Station. Trust me to get to Baldwin’s Bridge. I’ll see you back there. Believe me, I wouldn’t miss having dinner with you tonight for anything in the world.”

He kissed her again, but just briefly. Just long enough to make her lips tingle and her pulse surge.

And then, with a wave, he went out through the revolving doors and onto the street.

Kelly watched him from the window as he crossed to the aboveground T stop that ran down the center of the city street. Although the platform was crowded, he stood out, unique and splendid in his uniform.

Tom Paoletti.

Tonight.

Oh, my God.

When David got home from work, Mallory Paoletti was sitting on the wooden stairs that led up to his apartment.

She closed her book and stood as he climbed out of his car. “Hey, I thought your shift ended at ten-thirty.”

She was wearing low-riding shorts today with her trademark black tank top, probably because of the heat. The ring in her belly button glittered with a red stone instead of her usual blue. Both that and her long pale legs worked nicely with the shorts. Very nicely.

“Hey, Nightshade.” He shouldered his backpack and started up the stairs. “My boss asked me to stay and work part of the lunch shift. What time is it, anyway?”

“It’s after one. You must be exhausted.”

Had she been sitting here since 10:30?

The thought was absurd. She couldn’t possibly have been.

And yet there it was, a pile of gum wrappers—her substitute these days for cigarettes—on the steps next to not one but two soda cans and an empty coffee hot-cup.

David had been tired. Coming home, he’d wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed and sleep for the entire afternoon. But now he felt energized. He felt terrific. Mallory had been sitting here, waiting for him for hours.

“I’m doing okay,” he told her. “Hardly even tired at all.”

She was wearing sunglasses and he couldn’t see her eyes as she gazed at him. “You’re kidding, right? You couldn’t have gotten to bed before one-thirty. And you said you had to be at work at four-thirty. That was less than three hours—”

“I’m fine.” He unlocked his door. “Come on in. Did you have lunch? What time do you have to be back at work?”

“I’m not on today.” She picked up her things and followed him inside, closing the door behind her. “I don’t have to work until tomorrow at noon.”

Oh heartache, oh pain. David was working pretty much nonstop until tomorrow at noon. He was going back in just a few hours, at six, to help with an evening party. The money was all overtime, which was good, but money meant nothing when Mallory Paoletti was standing in his apartment and telling him she had the next twenty-four hours off.

“I sort of had a liquid lunch,” she told him, wandering toward his computer setup. She touched the mouse, waking the computer out of standby mode. It came on with a series of beeps and a blast of music from his speakers, making her jump back. “Oh, my God, what did I do?”

David put his backpack on the table by the door, in the kitchen area of his studio apartment. “It’s all right.” He crossed the room and turned down the speakers. “I’ve set it up to go right on-line, check my email first thing.”

“Isn’t that an Internet camera?” she asked, pointing carefully, clearly afraid to touch anything else. “Pretty kinky, David Sullivan. What do you do, dance naked in cyberspace?”

“Oh, God, no! I use it to show stuff—artwork—to Ren Shimoda, my former partner in California,” he quickly explained. “When I draw, particularly for a graphic novel, the paper’s too big to put in the scanner and . . .”

Mallory was laughing at him. “Chill, I was kidding. I figured it was something like that. You’re definitely the type to do your naked dancing off-line.”

David was standing close enough to smell her perfume. It was tangy and sweet and not at all subtle. He loved it. He loved the different flecks of color he could see in her eyes at close range, too. He loved the sheer perfection of her skin, the delicate shape of her collarbone, the curve of her shoulder, her overabundance of earrings.

He cleared his throat. “So. I was just going to make myself a sandwich. Want one? I’ve got some sliced chicken and rye bread.”

He turned away, ready to escape to the safety of his refrigerator, but she stopped him with a hand on his arm. She had nice hands—long, slender, graceful fingers—but she bit her nails nearly to the quick. Her less than perfect nails ruined the effect created by her hair, her clothes, and her piercings, making her seem vulnerable, softer, human.

She pulled her hand away fast, as if she, too, had felt a jolt of electricity at the contact. No, couldn’t be. That was his fantasy.

“Lookit, I came over because I wanted to thank you for helping me last night. I know that must’ve been really weird for you, dealing with my uncle and my great-uncle, and . . .” She shook her head. “It shook me up seeing Tom like that.”

“I’m glad I could help you,” he told her. “It was my pleasure.” He realized she actually had tears in her eyes, and he tried to make it into a joke. “How often will I have the chance to come to Nightshade’s rescue, anyway, right?”

But Mallory didn’t laugh. “Brandon just walked away,” she told him flatly. “We were still at the carnival, and he just left me there, with Tom practically unconscious on the ground.”

Damn Bran. David wasn’t surprised, but obviously Mal had expected more from his friend. She’d expected Bran to be as bright and shining inside as he was out. She’d probably even fallen more than half in love with the person she’d imagined him to be.

No wonder there were tears in her eyes. This had to hurt.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly.

“Why are you apologizing?” She wiped her eyes brusquely with the back of her hand. “You were great. If someone came waking me up in the middle of the night, I would’ve pulled the blanket over my head and told ’em to go to hell. You should be given a sainthood or something.”

No, he very definitely didn’t qualify for sainthood. Especially not when Mallory stood so close. “Well,” he said, backing up a little. “Yeah. Sure. Hey, sandwich?”

She shook her head. “No, I’m not going to eat your food, too, on top of making you sleep deprived. I should go, let you do whatever you were planning to do today.”

“Gee, I was going to make a couple sandwiches, then go over to the Ice Cream Shoppe, see if you wanted one.”

She gave him her death look. “You were not.”

He took the chicken and mustard out of the fridge and put it onto the table. “Saint David never lies.”

Finally, finally she laughed. “Yeah, right.”

The bread was still soft, the sell-by date several days in the future—always a good sign. He tossed it to Mallory. “Hey, you know, I got the pictures back from last night. I dropped ’em at the one-hour photo place—they should call themselves Photo Thieves. It’s, like, three times as expensive as getting the pictures developed at the drugstore. But I didn’t want to wait, so I dropped them off during my break this morning, picked ’em up on the way home.”

Mallory brightened even more. “Are they any good?”

“Some of ’em, yeah.” He got two paper plates from the cabinet, two plastic knives. “I’m out of mayo, but I’ve got some catsup.”

“On chicken? Gross. Stick with mustard. Can I see the pictures?”

“Only if you stay and have a sandwich.” He put the plates and knives on the table, unzipped his backpack. There were three packs of photos. He tossed them out onto the table, near the chicken.

But Mallory just stood there, still holding the bread. “David, Bran told me how you’re trying to save money. I really don’t need a sandwich.”

“How about we trade? You eat one of my sandwiches, you treat me to a sandwich some other time.”

She thought about that and nodded. “All right. But you’ve got to promise that you’ll really let me buy you one. Maybe tonight?”

He had to promise that he would let her take him out for dinner. How twisted was this? Like he wouldn’t sell his little brother into a life of slavery for just a chance to spend time with this girl. “I’d love to, but tonight might be a little tight. I’m doing an extra shift from six to close.”

“Tomorrow, then.”

“Actually, I was kind of hoping you’d agree to come over for another photo shoot tomorrow night. Some of the pictures are really good, but in some the lighting was wrong—they came out overexposed.”

She was looking through the first packet of pictures, her nose wrinkled. “Oh, my God, I look—”

“You look great,” he told her. “Anything bad is my fault.”

She pulled out a picture in which her eyes were half-closed. “Your fault?”

“Well, yeah, obviously I waited right until you blinked. Definitely my fault.”

She laughed again as she sat down at the table, flipping through the pictures.

“Do you want mustard on your sandwich?” he asked, sitting next to her and pulling the paper plates toward him.

“Yeah, thanks.” She looked at him. “Man, that’s service—you’re gonna make it for me, too, huh?”

He shrugged. “I’m making one, I might as well make two.”

“Most people don’t think that way,” she said. “Thanks.”

He smiled at her. “You’re welcome.” Thank you for staying and having lunch and fulfilling one of my fantasies. A tame fantasy, but a fantasy just the same. “What do you say about tomorrow night? It won’t take long, maybe just an hour.”

“God, Brandon’s photogenic,” she said.

Brandon. Way to kill the fantasy. “Yeah, I know.”

She didn’t look up from the photographs. “Maybe tomorrow night we could go out for a burger afterward. I mean, you know, just to even up the score.”

“Sure,” David said. “Right. Just to even up the score.”

“Kelly said to scold you if you didn’t call for a ride from the train station.”

Tom stopped short on his way up the stairs to the Ashtons’ deck. The kitchen door was locked, but he’d spotted this open slider. Now he saw that Joe and Charles were sitting out here in the shade.

Charles was asleep in a lounge chair, a blanket tenderly tucked around his bony frame. Joe was awake and looking at Tom, frowning slightly.

“It’s not that long a walk,” Tom told his uncle quietly so as not to disturb Charles. “I took it nice and easy. I actually feel pretty good today.”

Joe glanced at Charles, then pushed himself up out of the chair, moving toward the sliding door, away from his sleeping friend. “Kelly told me about the CAT scan, that you’re okay.”

“Yeah.” Tom looked out at the sparkling blue ocean. “That’s one way of looking at it.” He met Joe’s eyes. “I would have preferred more conclusive results.”

“I would have preferred finding out you were in the hospital when you were in the hospital.”

“I’m sorry.”

Joe laughed. “No, you’re not. You know, I can remember being young. It feels like it was yesterday.” He glanced at Charles, shaking his head. “We spent a few hours at the hotel again today. I’m not sure what to tell you—either no one’s suspicious looking or everyone’s suspicious looking. I’ve been trying to pay attention to who’s here with their family, who’s not, but it’s a big hotel, it’s not an easy job.”

“My XO’s coming tomorrow afternoon,” Tom told him. “We’ll figure out the best way to watch the place. I mean, even if all it comes down to is checking cars in the parking lot on the day of the opening ceremony.” He met Joe’s gaze. “There’s probably no threat. I’m probably wasting everyone’s time.”

“Probably,” Joe agreed. “But maybe not.” He smiled sadly. “Anyway, I’ve got some extra time to waste these days.” He cleared his throat. “So. You and Kelly.”

Tom shook his head. “Joe, I really don’t want to discuss—”

“I apologize for walking in on you last night.”

“Okay. Apology accepted. Great.” Tom turned to go into the house.

“You’re having dinner with her tonight.”

Tom turned back. “Yeah. But, funny, I don’t remember sending out that information in a press release.”

Joe crossed his arms. “Is there a reason you don’t want me to know you’re spending the night with her?”

“Evening,” Tom corrected him. “Dinner. Give me a break.”

“She’ll be home in a few hours. She called to ask if I wanted her to pick up something from the Lotus Blossom. That’s the Chinese restaurant here in town.”

Tom nodded. “Yeah, I remember.”

“Good food. No MSG.”

“That’s good.”

“Nice people own the place. New people.”

Tom waited.

“Chinese people,” Joe said. “Don’t speak much English, but they sure can cook a mean moo goo gai pan. They actually know a little French, so I don’t have any trouble communicating.”

For a man who was taciturn, Joe was talking up a storm. But Tom knew that Chinese food wasn’t the subject he really wanted to discuss.

“Okay,” Tom said. “Me and Kelly. Let me have it. Your uncensored opinion. You don’t think I should have dinner with her. At least not alone. You don’t think—”

“No,” Joe said. “I think it’s great. In fact, I think you should get decked out in your dress whites tonight and use the opportunity to ask her to marry you.”

Tom nearly choked. “What?”

“You heard me,” Joe said. “That’s what a man does when he’s in love with a woman. And since you’ve been in love with Kelly nearly half your life, it’s probably time to marry the girl.”

Tom scratched his head as he chose his words carefully. “I’m not sure love’s quite the right word for it. Yes, I’ve always been attracted to her, but—”

Joe smiled. “You call it whatever you want, whatever label you’re comfortable with, Tommy. But if you have even half a brain, you’ll marry her while you’ve got the chance.”

“Um . . .”

“I know you’ve got some history,” Joe continued, “you and Kelly. I know something happened, something that scared you to death and chased you out of town that summer you left for basic training a whole month early.”

Tom tried to hide his surprise and the older man smiled. “You don’t really think I didn’t know, do you? That night you brought her home so late.” He laughed softly. “You had a wild look to you, Tommy, and I was proud of you for going—for knowing she was too young. And I was disappointed when she wasn’t here for you to come home to when she was finally old enough.”

Joe met his gaze steadily. “She didn’t understand when you left,” he continued, “and it nearly broke her heart. Tonight you can explain and make it right. And ask her to marry you.”

“What, so I can break her heart again?” God, how’d he get into this conversation anyway? Tom edged toward the door. He didn’t want to talk about this, didn’t want to think about the emotion he’d seen in Kelly’s eyes sixteen years ago as he shook her hand and said good-bye. He’d actually shaken her hand. Jesus. “You know damn well that a man in my profession can’t afford to have any serious relationships. Marriage isn’t easy in the SEAL units. It’s—”

“A man in your profession can’t afford not to have a serious relationship. I was in your profession, you know. Not exactly, but close enough. Life is so short, and so precious. You and I both know that—more than most men. How can you hold happiness in your hands and not do everything in your means to keep it forever?”

Tom didn’t know what to say to that.

“Besides, there’s no such thing as an easy marriage,” Joe continued. “I’ve seen a lot of ’em in my life, and the marriages that seem to run smoothly, the ones that last the longest, they’re the ones that are worked on diligently, kind of like an old car. A Model T will last forever if it’s properly maintained. But as soon as you start to neglect it . . .”

Tom leaned back against the railing. “And yet you never got married.”

“No,” Joe agreed. “I didn’t. But it wasn’t because I didn’t ask.”

“Cybele,” Tom said.

Joe glanced over at Charles, who was still sleeping soundly. When he looked back at Tom, he just shook his head.

“I wish you would tell me about France,” Tom said. “And about this Cybele, and about Mr. Ashton and the Fifty-fifth, too. I honestly didn’t know until a few days ago that you were OSS, and I’m—” He stopped, shook his head. “I understand why you didn’t tell me about what you did in the War. There’s an awful lot that I’ve done that I can’t talk about, and even more that I won’t talk about. I’m not going to ask you about it, but if you ever do want to talk . . .”

“Thank you,” Joe said. “But I have to tell the whole story to that writer after the ceremony on Tuesday. I don’t think I can stand to do it twice.”

“You don’t have to do it at all,” Tom countered.

“You know,” Joe said, “you could go into town to the jewelers and buy Kelly a ring. Give it to her before you spend the night with her.”

Oh, God. “Dinner,” Tom said. “We’re starting with dinner.”

Joe nodded. “I won’t wait up.”

“I’ve got work to do on the computer,” Tom told him, beating a hasty retreat into the house.

You don’t have to do it at all, Tom had said about Joe’s plan to talk to that author, Kurt Kaufman.

But Joe did have to do it. Because the story needed to be told before Charles died.

There was a statue in front of the Baldwin’s Bridge Hotel with Joe’s face on it. And it was about time this town knew that that face should have been Charles Ashton’s.

Charles Ashton—one of the richest of the rich in a wealthy town. He could buy and sell almost anyone, coming into money that his grandfather’s grandfather had earned, and doubling it with his fearless investments and his cutthroat financial wizardry. He came off as cold-blooded and standoffish, and few recognized the truth—that risking money meant nothing to him. Not after having lived through the War, after having watched so many risk their very lives, after seeing so many sacrifice so much.

As Charles had gotten older, he’d tried to buy acceptance in the town by donating generously to the hospital fund. But all that had bought him were vague mutterings that he’d probably bought himself a safe position far from the front lines during the War, as well.

Nothing could be further from the truth.

Charles was the real hero of Baldwin’s Bridge. And Joe was finally going to tell the story.

But not the whole story. There were parts he’d never tell anyone. Like the night Cybele had come to his room.

Joe sat on the deck near Charles, who was sleeping more peacefully than he had in a long time. He checked to make sure the blanket was still tucked around his friend’s feet.

This morning, when he’d seen Charles cleaning the guns he’d brought home from the war, he’d been thrown back into the past. It was strange, seeing Cybele’s Walther PPK again after all these years. One look at the thing, and it was as if he’d seen Cybele just yesterday. The clarity of his memories astounded him. He could practically smell her kitchen.

He could nearly feel the roughness of the sheets on his straw-filled mattress.

He could taste her kisses.

He sat back in his chair, gazing out at the water. Looking without seeing.

Remembering.

He’d been asleep, and he’d woken to Cybele’s soft touch. She’d slipped into his arms, begging him to hold her. He would have been content to do just that, only that, but she’d kissed him, she’d finally kissed him, and, oh . . .

The night air coming in through the window had been cool, but it hadn’t been long before their skin was slick with sweat. He’d been delirious, certain that he’d found heaven at last.

After, Cybele had cried. He hadn’t understood. Not then. Not till later. He’d simply held her close to his heart, whispering that he loved her, asking her—again—to marry him, to love him not just that night, but forever. She’d begged him not to speak, asked him just to hold her, and she’d finally fallen asleep, there in the circle of his arms.

He’d slept, too, but when he awoke in the morning, Cybele was gone.

He’d washed and dressed quickly, and went down to breakfast, his heart and step both light. Sure, there was a war on. Sure, the Nazis were still living right down the street. But the Americans were pushing toward Ste.-Hélène. And Cybele belonged to him. There was even a chance that his child—their child—was growing, right now, in her womb.

Henri and Luc Deux were at the table, eating stale bread softened with warm goat’s milk. Cybele and Marie were preparing several baskets of vegetables from the garden. They would take them along when they returned the mending to the Germans, try to sell them, too, earn a few more coins.

As Joe sat at the table, he saw Charles sitting on a bench by the door. He was unshaven and haggard looking, as if he’d had a sleepless night. And he was staring almost sightlessly at Joe.

“Leg bothering you again?” Joe asked him.

Charles gazed at him with his red-rimmed eyes for several moments longer before he spoke. “Yeah. That’s it.”

“I’m sorry,” Joe said, but he was in too good a mood to sound as if he truly meant it. He turned toward the two women, unable to keep from smiling, too filled with joy to try to hide it. He wanted to shout and dance, but instead he merely said, “Good morning, Cybele. You should have woken me to come help in the garden.”

Cybele glanced up at him, then glanced almost furtively at Charles.

“You’re always up at dawn,” she replied, not looking up again as she put the freshly washed beans into the basket. “I thought I’d let you sleep.”

Why wouldn’t she look at him? “I slept quite well last night,” he said, willing her to look at him, to meet his gaze and smile. “Exceptionally well, in fact.”

Charles laughed as he stood up abruptly, turning away to look out the open door.

And Cybele rinsed more of the beans as if she were angry, her movements quick and fierce.

“I wouldn’t have minded if you woke me,” Joe continued, looking from Cybele to Charles.

They were both tense, both tightly wound, both careful not to look at the other. Too careful.

His joy was no longer quite as bright. It was accompanied by a slightly queasy feeling. What was going on here?

Perhaps Cybele had once again turned down Charles’s request to be returned to the Allied side of the line. They’d argued over that in the past.

“What did I miss this morning,” Joe lowered his voice to ask Henri, “by sleeping so late?”

Henri shook his head. “Dunno.”

Charles turned away from the door, using his cane to shuffle toward the front of the house. “I’ll be lying down.”

Cybele threw down the beans and stormed after him, out of the room.

Joe pushed himself to his feet, not certain whose rescue he was going to—Cybele’s or Charles’s. But he stopped, just inside the kitchen door, at the sound of Cybele’s voice.

“How dare you?”

“How dare I what? Close my eyes? Try to rest?” Charles’s voice got louder with barely restrained anger. “Heal this goddamned leg so I can leave here for good?”

“How dare you act as if I’ve injured you in some way!” she cried. “You told me to—”

She broke off as Joe stepped into the hallway, wishing she hadn’t stopped and at the same time certain he didn’t want to hear what she had to say.

“I told you,” Charles said as he stood by the closet he’d claimed as his bedroom. Although he spoke quietly, his voice shook. “But I didn’t know it would make me feel like this.”

And as Charles looked at Cybele, Cybele looked back at Charles in a way that Joe knew she had never, ever looked at him. Not even last night, when she was naked in his arms.

And he knew the truth.

Cybele loved Charles. And it was glaringly obvious that Charles loved her, too.

Joe had merely been a pawn in a game he hadn’t even known they all were playing.

He turned silently and walked out of the house. When he heard Charles follow him, he ran.

He couldn’t remember much of that day, wasn’t sure where he’d been, what he’d done. All he knew was that he came back. As much as he wanted to, he couldn’t stay away. There were people depending on him, and one of them was Cybele.

Whom he loved. Still.

She was waiting for him in his room, curled up asleep on his bed, with all her clothes on.

He sat on the edge of the bed, and the movement of the mattress woke her. He hadn’t lit a candle, but the moon shining in through the open window was bright enough to light her face.

“Giuseppe, I’m so sorry,” she said. Her apology was sincere. Not that it made it hurt any less. “I’m not as terrible as you must think. I honestly thought last night would . . . I don’t know . . . save me, maybe. Don’t you see? I can have nothing I truly want. I thought if I could make myself want something I can have . . .” She bowed her head. “It was wrong and I’m sorry. The last thing I’ve ever wanted was to hurt you.”

He was silent. What could he say?

“I do love you,” she whispered. “Just not the way you want me to.”

“Not the way you love Charles.” He had to know for sure. Maybe hearing the truth would make him stop loving her. God, he wanted to stop loving her.

And she didn’t deny it. “I’m sorry.”

Anger sparked. Frustration. Jealousy. “He’s married.”

“I know.”

“Is it his money that—”

“No!” She was vehement. “I don’t care about that. It means nothing to me. I own this house now. I’m a wealthy woman, too.”

“I don’t understand why—”

“I don’t, either,” Cybele said. “All I know is he pretends so hard not to care about anything or anyone. He says he doesn’t remember going back into the church, risking his life for that child. He says he’d never do it again, but I don’t believe him.”

“And you think he could . . . save you somehow?” His voice sounded rough and harsh to his own ears, but he had to know. He had to stop loving her.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “But just sitting with him, just looking into his eyes, makes me feel both despair and hope. And it’s been so long since I’ve felt anything but despair.”

Her breathing was ragged, as if she were crying, but her face and her eyes were dry.

“Every breath I take hurts,” she whispered. “It’s so heavy, so suffocating. If it weren’t for the anger and the hate I feel for the Nazis, I’m sure I would die.

“And I know I’m not alone. I know I’m not the only mother who lost a child in this war. There must be millions of us—” Her voice broke. “And oh, I think, what an army we’d make. All that outrage, all the anguish making us invincible. But then what? After we completely crush the Third Reich, what then? What will we have won?”

Joe couldn’t answer.

“A chance for Marlise’s baby to live more than two years. That’s the best I can hope for. There’s nothing I can do that will bring Michel back.”

And still Joe couldn’t speak.

“I’ll win this war against the Nazis,” she told him fiercely. “I’ll win or I’ll die. But when I win, I’ll die anyway, because without an enemy to hate, I’ll be completely alone with only the despair.”

“You’re not alone,” he told her. “I’m here.” He reached for her, but she pulled away. She didn’t want him. God, that hurt.

“I wish I could love you,” she said wistfully.

When Joe looked at Cybele, he, too, felt hope with his despair, despite his hurt, despite his anger. “Maybe someday you will.”

She gazed at him a moment longer, her beautiful eyes ancient looking and weary, as if she foresaw her own future and believed she had no someday to look forward to.

She closed his door gently behind her, leaving him loving her still, and suspecting that he always would.