“The piano. You shouldn’t have . . .”
Jonathan shrugged. “I figured you might have more practice time now, with the war in Europe being over and all. Don’t worry. I sent the piano with no strings attached. Just being a friend.”
Grace stared at him again. She couldn’t believe how handsome he still was, despite his physical changes and the twinkle in his eyes that now looked more haunted than mischievous. She also noted how she felt less stressed about him being here. Alone with her. But a lot had happened to them both since they last saw each other. Each had experienced the devastation caused by the war with their own eyes.
Or maybe it was because the war was now over. In a few months’ time, she wouldn’t have the eyes of the Women’s Army Corps on her neck. That is, if she decided not to reenlist. Would he still be employed by the War Department? If so, then maybe . . .
Then maybe nothing. That chapter between them was closed. Like they both kept saying, they were just friends now.
Her lips trembled. “Thank you.”
Grace looked at the clock on the wall and cursed softly. “I really must be on my way. I’m the officer on duty this weekend. Eliza’s covering for me. And I’ve been away for too long as it is.”
“Good old Grace Steele. Every time I see you, you’re racing off to somewhere.”
She shrugged, leaning into him gently. “What can I say? Where ‘we’ are concerned, there seems to be a curse of bad timing.”
“Yes, well . . . I can’t argue with that.” In the course of laughing, Jonathan wavered a little bit. She feared for a moment that he was going to slide off the love seat.
“What are you doing here, Jonathan? You need to be in a hospital.”
“You’re probably right. But I had to see you.”
Grace looked away. “That wasn’t a good idea.”
“Probably. But I didn’t want to leave Europe without giving this back to you.” Jonathan fumbled in his pocket. When he pulled out his hand, he produced an envelope that had clearly seen better days. “Here. Take it.”
Grace took the envelope with her free hand. It fell open—the glue looked as if it had dried up ages ago. Inside was the watch that her brother had given her on that last Christmas he had been home. A lump of emotion formed at the base of her throat. She blinked back tears.
“You found it. Thank you so much. You have no idea what this means to me.” Grace threw her arms around Jonathan’s neck. Impulsively, she leaned in to plant a kiss on his cheek. But her sudden embrace threw off Jonathan’s balance. He turned his cheek in the process of regaining his equilibrium. Which meant that Grace’s lips landed right atop his instead.
Now it was Grace’s turn to fumble. Jonathan wrapped his arms around her waist. She was on her back, and he above her. Neither seemed eager to pull away. Finally, Jonathan drew them both into a semi-upright position.
Grace put her hand to Jonathan’s chest. He covered her hand with his own. His eyes connected with hers. His brow wrinkled as the question hanging in the air between them remained unspoken.
“I’ll miss you, Grace.” He pressed his forehead against hers. She leaned forward, causing the tip of her nose to rub against his.
“I know.” Their lips brushed as she spoke. She felt the tension in his body, his struggle to restrain himself. The contact had been brief, lasting only the length of time it took her to breathe the two syllables. There was no way that it could have been considered a kiss, right?
“I wish I could kiss you.” He removed her hand from his chest and returned it to her side. Then he pressed his hand, now free, on the arm of the love seat just behind her.
He wasn’t leaning in any farther, but he wasn’t pulling away either. He hovered in a state of limbo. The energy between them was charged. Her breath hitched as she realized what he was doing. He was letting her know that the next move was hers.
“But I won’t,” he said, their lips touching again as he spoke. He closed his eyes and groaned.
“I know.” Touch. Touch.
“Stop . . .” He paused. He exhaled. The burst of air caressed her bottom lip. But most important, he didn’t move away. “. . . doing that.”
“I can’t.” She flicked her tongue against his mouth. “I don’t want to. Not really. But I don’t want to let you go either.”
This was the moment that she should have turned her head, stopping this madness, and sent Jonathan on his way. Back to America. But that most likely would mean sending him out of her life for good. It was the right thing to do. No, it was the safe thing to do.
If Grace was being honest with herself, she was tired of playing it safe. For once, she wanted to be reckless. And she didn’t want to feel guilty for doing so afterward.
Yet, she also didn’t want to throw her military career in the toilet. Even if part of her was more than ready to return to civilian life.
She reached up and cradled his head between her hands. And then before she could think too much of it any further, she kissed Jonathan on his forehead.
“Take care of yourself, Jonathan.”
Finally, he backed away. He studied her face for a moment. “I understand,” he said quietly.
He stood, shoved his hands in his pockets, and turned to leave. With his back to her, he said, “Take care of yourself too, Grace. But if you ever need anything . . .”
“I know.”
“Good.”
“Until . . .”
He stopped, looked over his shoulder, and grinned at her.
“Until.”
GRACE WAITED THERE in the shadows for a few minutes. She swiped away the lone tear that escaped the corner of her eye. Saying goodbye to Jonathan like that had hurt. There was still a part of her that wanted to run after him and explain herself. To beg him to wait for her, to not give up on her while she followed through with her commitments here in Europe and to the corps.
But she knew doing that wouldn’t change anything in the long run. It wouldn’t be fair to either one of them to prolong the inevitable—the timing would never be right for them as long as she was in the corps and he was an adviser in the War Department. Every moment she spent alone with him jeopardized her reputation and her future. And she would make a fool of herself if she were to suggest that he quit his job for her. He was a man, after all. He had his pride.
Love didn’t put food on the table, nor did it pay the rent. They both knew better than most that a musician’s pay was sporadic at best. It was even more unreliable when that musician was a woman. And then there was the chance that he might stay in the War Department, while her life was still in New York.
Grace sniffed back the rest of her tears as she wiped that errant one with the back of her hand and onto the side of her skirt. Great, she’d been away from her post too long. She ran up to her room and grabbed some blank music sheets and a pencil.
Grace emerged from the shadows with her shoulders thrown back and a renewed sense of purpose in her step.
She hadn’t made a reckless decision this time. But she hadn’t made a safe one either. Instead, she had chosen what was right for her.
Chapter 30
WHERE THE HELL have you been?”
Grace returned to the rec room to find it in a state of panic. A few girls were huddled in a corner comforting another private who appeared to be inconsolable. All of them had tears streaming down their faces.
“Sorry, I got sidetracked on my way back here. What happened?”
“There’s been an accident. We received reports of casualties. Some of our girls are . . .”
“What?! Who? Are they okay?”
The clerk turned away to stifle a sob. “Last we heard they were on their way to the hospital. It . . . it didn’t sound good.”
“Who? Who is on their way to the hospital?”
“Captain Jones didn’t say. She took the call since you weren’t here. And then she ran out to meet them there since she was the most senior officer we could find.”
Grace sank d
own into the nearest seat. Her buoyant spirits from just a moment before completely deflated. Crap.
“I should’ve been here. I should’ve been here to take that call.” She stared off into the distance as shock settled in. She felt numb as her eyes darted around, following the activity in the room. It took a moment for it to dawn on her that she was the only officer. This was no time for her to be sitting there dumbfounded. She needed to do something.
Grace shook herself out of her fog. She grabbed the shoulder of the soldier closest to her, the one who had updated her when she first came in.
“You, find Jonathan Philips. He’s a civilian aide to the War Department. He’s in town. He may even still be on post. I left him no more than ten minutes ago.”
WE CAN’T FIND Captain Steele anywhere. You have to go to the hospital in her place.
The words echoed in Eliza’s mind as one of the Six Triple Eight’s MPs wormed their Army jeep around the pockmarked, muddy road. Part of Eliza’s mind had shut down at the thought of having to enter another hospital. She had not set foot in one since she had been attacked.
Her hands gripped her seat as the jeep lurched over a rock in the road.
“Slow down,” she snapped at the MP. “The goal is to get there in one piece.”
She continued to maintain a tight, white-knuckled grip on the edges of her seat with each bump, jump, and squeal the jeep made. It was too easy for Eliza to imagine herself being thrown headfirst over the hood and wracked with the pain that would surely follow. The jeeps that the U.S. Army personnel used had nothing to keep their passengers inside the vehicle or strapped down to their seats.
It was bad enough that she had to go to the hospital in an official capacity. The last thing she needed was to be admitted to one as a patient again. At this thought, an imaginary vise began to squeeze its grip around her lungs. Great. She hadn’t had a panic attack since the U-boat chase on the ship that had brought them to Europe.
“Where the hell is Grace?” Eliza muttered to herself. What a time for the most reliable person she knew to disappear. Grace had better have a good reason for being away so long.
Eliza struggled to stay present when they arrived at the field hospital. The sight of all the medical supplies, the blood smeared across a doctor’s jacket, the weariness in the nurses’ eyes . . . it all threatened to yank her back into the memories of her own ordeal. The vise around her lungs came back with a vengeance.
She put her hand on the arm of the nurse who had been briefing her.
“Excuse me. I haven’t heard a word you’ve said. I—I think I need to sit down.”
The nurse gave her a terse nod, but her eyes shone with understanding. “Of course. I understand. Shall I get you some coffee?”
“Yes, that would be great. Black please.” Eliza was grateful that she was in France for a situation like this. She loved the English dearly, but she had consumed enough tea there to last her a lifetime. She would always be a coffee girl at heart.
The nurse came back with a steaming mug of coffee. Eliza inhaled its scent first to center herself before taking her first sip. It wasn’t the best-tasting stuff, but it was the jolt she needed for the situation at hand.
“Thank you for this.” Eliza gestured at the mug in her hand. “Now, you were saying that three of my girls were in a jeep accident?”
The nurse confirmed that there had indeed been a jeep accident. Then she went on to confirm the worst. Privates First Class Mary Barlow and Mary Bankston had been killed in the accident. Sergeant Dolores Browne had been seriously injured. She was still alive, but barely. The prognosis for her was not good.
“I’m so sorry. Did you know any of these women?” The nurse gave her a sad smile.
Eliza’s heart sank. “Yes, I did know all three of them. Well, I didn’t know them well, but I knew them by name.”
The two Marys had been regulars in the unit beauty salon. Eliza remembered signing up Dolores herself during a quick recruiting trip back home right before her attack. A lump formed in her throat. The only reason that Dolores had even joined the WAC was because of her. And now she might die too . . . because of her.
“I hate to do this to you, but the two deceased women . . . their dog tags flew off and . . . we need someone to identify the bodies.”
Eliza forced herself to focus back on the woman in front of her. The one who was wringing her hands. Who had probably been here in this hospital for way longer than her shift required. The one who looked like she would rather be doing something, anything, other than asking this of Eliza. Eliza could empathize with her, because she felt the same way.
“Okay.” It was jarring to hear her own voice sound so small, so distant. So weak.
“Thank you. Come right this way.” The nurse gestured for Eliza to follow her into the stairwell. The building itself didn’t look like it had been built to be a hospital. It looked more residential. Maybe a grand mansion at some point in time. Sometime before the war. Had Eliza not been focused on the ornate fixtures on the walls, it might have dawned on her that whether or not this building had once been someone’s home, they were going down the stairs and not up. Down to the cellar. But it wasn’t some family’s cellar anymore. Because if the upstairs had been turned into a makeshift hospital, then that meant the cellar was now functioning as a . . .
MORGUE.
The handwritten sign on the door was a shock. What was she doing here? She couldn’t do this. She wasn’t ready to face death. She hadn’t been two years ago when it had been her lying in a hospital bed, broken mentally and fractured physically.
“They’re in here. You don’t have to stay long. Just enough to confidently say which Mary is which.”
Eliza took one step toward the door then stopped. The nurse placed a hand on her back. Eliza stiffened.
“It’s okay. I know this is difficult.”
“You have no idea.”
“Honey, I’ve been working in a war zone for the last three years.”
Eliza gave her a weak smile. “You’ve got me there.”
“Take all the time you need. I’ll be right beside you.”
Eliza looked at the nurse, really getting a good look at her for the first time. Her dark brown hair was pulled back into a severe bun that was tucked neatly under her nurse’s cap. Her eyes were kind, but they shone with a weariness that must have come from seeing too many young people killed, maimed, or permanently changed too soon over the course of the war. A war that had finally ended only a few months ago. Eliza had never met this woman before, but there was something about her that made her at ease. That made her feel like she understood or sympathized with this horrible tragedy more than she would with someone else.
Her skin looked like it had a slight tan to it. That wasn’t so unusual now that it was summer. But Eliza wondered when she would have had time to lie out under the July sun. She was a nurse. The war might be over, but she imagined that the work of the hospital staff was never over even in peacetime. There was a question that Eliza was tempted to ask—if only to delay the inevitability of having to go into the morgue and look at those young women’s remains—but now was not the time or place to ask something so rude. So instead, she opted for something that was safe.
“I’m so sorry, but what is your name?”
The nurse studied her for a moment before answering. “Jane.”
“Hi, Jane.” Eliza took a deep breath. “Okay, I’m ready. I think.”
The nurse gave her a reassuring smile. “C’mon, then. Let’s get this over with.”
AS JANE HAD promised, the process of identifying Mary Barlow and Mary Bankston had been quick. Eliza had prepared herself for the worst visually, but, thankfully, both women had sustained very little damage that she could see. They both looked like they were sleeping peacefully. Before she turned to leave, she had to fight off the urge to reach out and attempt to rouse them, if only to prove to herself that they were indeed gone.
Next, Jane led Eliza back upstairs and
down a long hallway to check on Dolores Browne. As they reached the end of the hallway, she stopped short. To her surprise, Noah, the doctor who had helped her, was coming out of Sergeant Browne’s room. He had emerged with his mouth flattened into a grim line. But when he saw the two women approaching him, his face brightened visibly.
“Nurse Jane.” He smiled. “Captain Jones.”
He had paused before he said her name. The sound came out of his mouth almost reverently, like one would say a prayer. Eliza was in too much of a daze over the current tragedy to think on it beyond surface observation.
“Noah.” She nodded before clearing her throat. “How is she?”
“Not good. She’s proving to be a fighter. But I’m afraid that the extent of Sergeant Browne’s injuries are too vast for any hopes of recovery.”
Eliza’s heart sank. But that last shred of hope in her gut held on fiercely. Surely if she had been able to recover from her own injuries, that meant that Sergeant Browne could too. Besides, the bodies of the two Marys barely had any signs of damage. How much worse could the lone survivor be?
Sadly, her opinion of the good Doctor Noah here dimmed a little bit. She vowed then and there to keep the light of hope lit until her soldier proved him wrong. She pasted on a grim smile, but her eyes beamed at him, You’re wrong.
“I understand,” she responded. “I’m ready to go in to see her, if that’s okay.”
“Of course.”
Eliza must have lulled herself into a cocoon of denial after seeing the two Marys, because she was not prepared when she saw Sergeant Browne’s condition.
The woman Eliza found lying on the makeshift hospital bed barely looked like a person, much less the vibrant young woman who had made a point of saying hello to her every afternoon during lunch. Her foot slanted at an odd angle. Her chest was bound in bandages, an indication of broken ribs. The rise and fall of her breathing was so slight that it took a few moments for Eliza to detect the movement. Dolores’s left arm was in a cast that was suspended in the air. Eliza could empathize with those obvious injuries, having been in a similar situation herself. She winced in sympathy as she reflected on the aches and pains that she had experienced.
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