Helen understood how he felt only too well. She’d been only nine when the war had broken out, but London had been a warzone as much as any battlefield. She’d survived the Blitz that had nearly pulverized the city, cowering in air raid shelters with Edith as explosion after explosion shook the walls of the overcrowded cellar, the vibrations dislodging pebbles and thick dust that coated their hair and faces. Every time they’d gone down to the shelter, they’d had no way of knowing if they’d be coming back up, or if their house would still be there when they returned. Miraculously, it had been, but once the explosions came too close to the shelter and a loose beam had knocked Edith on the head. Helen had held her mother’s hand until the all clear, and then several men helped her get Edith to the surface and hailed a passing ambulance.
Waiting in the foyer of the hospital, Helen had seen the steady stream of ambulances pulling up in front of the hospital, one after the other, disgorging their bloody contents, the victims either half-dead and unconscious or wide awake and in agonizing pain, trying to put on a brave face for the nurses, who were so tired they could barely stand. It was then that Helen had decided to become a nurse. She wanted to do something that mattered, something that might make a difference to someone’s life. Some of the people she’d seen arrive had left the hospital in bags, but their final moments had been made less harrowing by the stoic compassion of the nurses.
She’d taken to the streets with the others when the news finally came down that the war was over, waving a Union Jack and singing loudly along with the crowd. There’d been such exaltation, such hope for the future, but very little had changed in the coming months, or even years. She’d returned to the hospital, as a volunteer this time. The wounded had stopped coming, the adrenaline-filled hours of chaotic urgency replaced by orderly shifts on the ward, but life did not return to normal. London was gray and forlorn, the people who’d been dancing in the streets only a few months ago downtrodden and tired of never-ending hardship.
Rationing continued, as if the war hadn’t ended at all, and returning soldiers trickled into the city, expecting to resume their interrupted lives and reclaim their livelihoods. A new threat loomed in the East, Stalinist Russia whispering words of terror into the ears of post-war Whitehall, warning that the threat wasn’t only without, but within. Rumors circulated that individuals close to the seat of power were spying for the Soviet Union and planning to betray their country. A known enemy, who’d worn a recognizable uniform and the insignia of the Third Reich, morphed into shadowy back-alley spies, people one might work with or sit next to on the bus. The world had changed, and nothing would ever be the same.
People often reminisced about the war, recalling close calls, brief but passionate affairs spurred by fear of dying, and a sense of purpose they now seemed to lack. They grumbled as they stood in bread lines and walked with their shoulders stooped once they received their allotment of butter or flour. It was as if those first few years had been stolen from them, lost in rebuilding and regaining their equilibrium. For Helen, they had been years of hard work, domestic economy, and bitter romantic disappointment. But as she lay next to David, the world seemed full of promise. The golden sunshine that streamed through the window warmed her, the sea beyond sparkled in gorgeous shades of blue and green, and the gentle breeze caressed her skin like the hands of her lover, who smiled and pulled her closer, brushing his lips against her flushed skin. His stubbled jaw felt rough against her cheek and his stomach was rock-hard against her pink softness, but lying next to him felt so right, so natural.
Helen wondered if David felt it too, as she closed her eyes and gave in to the drowsiness that seemed to weigh down her limbs and cradle her in its embrace. Once they returned to London, their idyll would be over. David’s landlady didn’t allow lady friends in the gentlemen’s rooms, and Helen could hardly invite David to spend a night at her house. They would have to come up with some sort of arrangement, but she would leave that up to him. He’d made no mention of the future, and she hadn’t asked, preferring to enjoy the lazy days of their getaway.
She’d lied to her mother, telling her she was going on a training course offered by the hospital, but she was sure Edith suspected that wasn’t exactly the truth. It didn’t matter; she’d carved out three days for herself and she would enjoy them. She felt truly alive for the first time in years, and the feeling was heady. They had only been in Bournemouth for two days, but already her face looked less pinched in the mirror, and her shoulders weren’t hunched with tension. She felt carefree, wanton, and sophisticated.
“Helen,” David whispered as he tenderly pushed a stray lock of hair out of Helen’s face. “My beautiful Helen.”
Helen had never thought of herself as beautiful, and the compliment sent shivers of pleasure down her spine. She was plain, ordinary, and easily overlooked, the type of woman blessed with good sense and a strong constitution. But when David looked at her, she felt pretty, and sensual, and interesting. He gave her his full attention when she spoke, and even when she was quiet, his gaze caressed her as if the mere sight of her gave him untold pleasure.
For so long, she’d dreamed of belonging to someone, and now that she was with David, it felt even more wonderful than she’d ever imagined. She lifted a hand to his face, cupping his cheek with all the tenderness of her love-starved soul. She was still floating on a bubble of contentment when David abruptly brought her back to Earth.
“I think it’s time I met your mother,” he said, watching her from beneath hooded lids.
“Why?” Helen asked. She supposed she should be glad he wanted to meet her mother. That meant she wasn’t just his tart, but his sweetheart, but for some reason, she wanted to keep him a secret just a little bit longer.
“Because I love you, and I see no reason for us to hide our relationship, unless you have reservations about me,” he added, studying her face.
Helen shook her head. She couldn’t seem to find her voice. David had said he loved her. No one had ever said that to her, not even her parents, who’d been reserved at the best of times. She wanted to tell him how much she loved him, how much his words meant to her and how she wanted nothing more than to bask in the glow of his affection, but instead, all she managed was, “All right. I’ll arrange something.”
David reached over to the nightstand and took a little brown packet out of the drawer. He handed it to Helen. “I saw it in a shop window yesterday when I went out to buy a newspaper and thought of you. I hope you like it,” he said shyly.
Helen opened the package with shaking hands. It was a pewter brooch. A whimsical letter H was carved into the round surface, the curlicues entwined with flowers and vines. It was beautiful. “Thank you, David.” She beamed at him. “It’s lovely. I’ll treasure it always.”
“You deserve to be happy, Helen.”
“I am.”
He nodded. His eyes were shining with love and warmth and he bent his head to kiss her.
Dear God, so this is what happiness feels like, Helen thought as she wrapped her arms around his neck.
Chapter 17
June 2015
London, England
Quinn set aside the brooch and let out the breath she’d been holding. She’d almost expected David to spring some awful truth on Helen, but his feelings for her seemed genuine. Unlike the other tortured romances she’d witnessed over the past two years, this one seemed pretty straightforward. Helen and David looked right together and enjoyed the kind of effortless connection that defined most successful couples of Quinn’s acquaintance. They should have had every chance of a happily-ever-after. What had gone wrong for them and the child, whose remains now lay tiny and incomplete in Colin Scott’s mortuary?
Since Quinn was able to see Helen’s memories, she had to be deceased, but what about David Edevane? He’d be close to a hundred now, if he still lived. Quinn was tempted to go online and do a cursory search but decided to wait. She needed to learn more before scouring the internet for any trace of David.
Quinn returned the brooch to the drawer of her bedside table and reached for her mobile. She’d sent Jo a text but hadn’t heard back. She longed to talk to her sister, but instinct told her not to push Jo too hard. She clearly wasn’t ready to speak to Quinn, so it was best to give her some space. It seemed that everyone was in need of space these days. She’d texted Logan as well, but received a terse reply several hours later, assuring her he was fine and would ring her when he had time.
Quinn selected the one number where someone was always happy to hear from her. Susan Allenby answered the phone, her voice breathless. “Quinn, I’m so glad you rang,” she exclaimed. “Your father is running me ragged on the tennis court and I need to take a break without having to admit that I’m winded.”
“Glad to help,” Quinn replied, smiling to herself. She was glad her parents had become so active since moving to Marbella a few years ago for her father’s health. They’d traded in the cloudy skies of England for the blue vistas of Spain, and the change seemed to suit them both. They’d made friends with other English expats and had a busy social life, enjoying wine and tapas and day trips along the coast.
“How are my grandchildren?” Susan demanded. “I long to see them, Quinny. You said you’d come see us this summer.”
“Mum, we’ve been a little snowed under, what with the program and the new house. I think we might be able to come at the end of July, if that’s all right.”
“We’ll be happy to see you anytime you can make it. Oh, I long to hold Alex in my arms. He’s growing so fast. And Emma… I do wish we lived closer to one another. I’d love to spend more time with her. I keep remembering all the fun things you and I did when you were a little girl. You were so sweet,” Susan crooned. “How quickly childhood goes by.”
“I’m still sweet,” Quinn assured her with a joyful chuckle. She missed her mum and dad dreadfully, and even though she was happy they were well, she wished they lived closer too.
“Have you spoken to that woman?” Susan asked. Sooner or later she always returned to the topic of Sylvia. For some reason, she didn’t feel nearly as threatened by Seth. Maybe it was because he was in New Orleans, or because she trusted him not to hurt Quinn. Sylvia, on the other hand, was not to be underestimated, in Susan’s opinion.
“Yes, I’ve spoken to her, but I haven’t seen her in a while. I’ve been very busy with the program. Cases are coming fast and thick.”
“Your Mr. Morgan is a genius,” Susan gushed. “Imagine, creating a hotline for people to call in their discoveries. Given England’s long history, I bet there are a lot more unexcavated burial sites than we care to imagine.”
“There are plenty, but many of the calls are cranks,” Quinn replied. “People long to be on television, so they call in all kinds of rubbish in the hope that it will turn out to be something of interest. Every rusted piece of metal is Excalibur, and every bone might have been a fallen knight or a Celtic warrior princess. Rhys keeps a full-time archeologist on staff just to check out all these claims. I tell you, Mum, he’s not a happy camper.”
“Happy camper? Is that another silly expression you picked up from your eh…Seth?”
Quinn giggled. “Seth is full of them. Some of them are quite clever. On the money, as he likes to say.”
“It’s all about the money with the Americans, isn’t it?” Susan grumbled. “Vulgar, is what it is.”
“Mum, come off it. Seth is great. You’d like him if you ever spent any time with him. He’s not like Sylvia. Or Jo,” Quinn said, instantly regretting bringing her into the conversation.
“Have you heard from that sister of yours?” Susan asked, her tone implying that she’d be much happier if Quinn hadn’t.
“She’s back. Seems she’d gone off to Syria. She stopped by two days ago, but I wasn’t at home. I texted her, but she hasn’t responded yet.”
“Not in much of a hurry to see you, then?” Susan asked. “Can’t say I’m surprised.”
“Mum, Alex is awake. I’ve got to go.”
“I’ll ring you next week, darling. Do book your tickets soon. Tourist season is in full swing here in July and August. All the flights will be booked.”
“Don’t worry. I’m on it.”
Quinn said goodbye and hung up. Alex was still asleep, but she didn’t have the patience to continue the conversation once it turned to Quinn’s birth family. She could understand her mother’s feelings. Susan couldn’t help feeling displaced after years of being Quinn’s closest relation, but no matter how many times Quinn assured her that no one would ever take her or her father’s place, she still tried her best to remind Quinn that these people weren’t her real family, despite their blood ties.
“Ma! Ma!” a cry came over the baby monitor.
Quinn’s face split into a happy grin. Hearing Alex say “Mama” made her heart soar. She went to his room and lifted him out of his cot. He was warm and sleepy. She inhaled his wonderful scent and held him close. “Would you like to go to the park after lunch?” she asked him. “We can go on the swing and the slide. Would you like that?”
Alex’s eyes opened wider and she was sure he’d understood the question.
“Can you say ‘park’?” she asked as she settled him in his highchair.
“Pa,” Alex said.
Rufus came trotting into the kitchen, wagging his tail when he saw Alex, or maybe because he’d heard mention of the park.
Alex leaned over the side of the chair and pointed a chubby finger at the puppy. “Dog,” he said, clear as a bell. “Fus.”
“Rufus,” Quinn automatically said, correcting him.
“Fus,” Alex repeated.
Rufus gave a contented woof and settled beneath Alex’s chair. Quinn smiled affectionately at the two of them as she prepared Alex’s lunch, grateful that her life wasn’t as tragic as those of the people she saw in her visions.
Chapter 18
Getting to know Sylvia had never been the plan, but Jo found herself outside Sylvia’s neat little house, a box of chocolates in her hand as a peace offering. She’d called to ask if she could come round and Sylvia had cautiously agreed. Jo wasn’t sure what she hoped to accomplish by seeing Sylvia again, but their story felt unfinished. There had to be a third act to this drama, a final scene in which they either forged a tentative relationship or cut all ties. She’d been in favor of cutting ties from the moment they’d met but had found herself frequently thinking about Sylvia during her time in Syria. She had been shocked to discover that the arctic layer of ice around her heart had begun to thaw. Her worldview had shifted, thanks to Daisy, and she had come to realize—not without some bitterness—that she shared a strange kinship with her birth mother.
After all, how was Jo any different? She’d always assumed her daughter’s adoption would go through the proper channels and her child would have a good home, but she’d never bothered to find out what had become of her. For nearly fifteen years, she’d been at peace with herself, not giving her daughter a second thought. Daisy was a part of the past, not a bridge to the future. Now that she knew the truth, she couldn’t believe she’d never considered the possibility that her adoptive brother Michael, who was Daisy’s biological father, might have taken it upon himself to raise their daughter.
Michael had proved to be a better person than her, a better parent. Jo had seen numerous photos of Daisy on Facebook and Instagram. She was a happy girl, surrounded by a loving family and countless friends. She looked like her, Jo had thought as she’d studied Daisy’s face for the first time. She had her eyes, and the shape of her mouth was just like Jo’s, and there was the way she stared pointedly into the camera, the way Jo always did when photographed by someone else.
There were lots of selfies too. Daisy wasn’t shy. Jo wished she could speak to her and ask her all the questions that had been multiplying in her mind since she’d seen her face for the first time, but it was too late. If she were to give Daisy one gift of maternal love, it would be to not disrupt her well-orde
red life. She had no right to march in there and turn Daisy’s world upside down.
Jo frequently wondered what Daisy had been told about her birth mother. What would she think of the woman who had never even asked what became of her baby? Against all hope, Jo prayed that Michael hadn’t been too truthful. Perhaps he’d spun some yarn about a girl who wasn’t ready to be a mum, or even killed her off in Daisy’s imagination. If Daisy believed her mother to be dead, she wouldn’t look for her, would never spend hours lying in bed at night, wondering why her mother didn’t want her and had never even asked for visitation rights or inquired how her little girl had been. Jo’s resentment of Sylvia had colored her entire existence, but while cowering in a shelter during a bombing raid in Syria, she’d suddenly realized that she was exactly like her—cold, calculating, and selfish.
Daisy was better off without a mother like her. Michael was probably a great dad. He loved children. He was a giver by nature, a nurturer. He’d tried to nurture Jo when she’d been an awkward, sullen preteen and then a resentful, selfish teenager, and she’d taken advantage of his love and had nearly destroyed his medical career. She’d wanted to punish him, to hurt him for disappointing her. She’d wanted so much more than a drunken tumble in her bedroom. Michael had been in his thirties, a grown man who’d had his share of sexual experiences. He’d been married. She’d thought he’d know how to love her, would be so much better than some sloppy teenage boy who had no experience of the female body. But Michael had been drunk that night, thanks to her, and he’d been aroused. She’d teased him for hours, had straddled him and wrapped her arms around his neck, sliding her tongue into his mouth and kissing him with all the intent of a grown woman. Michael had kissed her back, but then he’d lifted her off him and set her down on the sofa.
“Enough,” he’d said. “This has gone too far. Go to bed.”
The Broken (Echoes from the Past Book 8) Page 9