by Kerri Maher
Waldorf shrugged. “There’s some socialist unrest out in the counties. This man Charles White is agitating for a seat his own father stole from the Cavendish family in 1918, and managed to hold for five years. He might give Billy a run for his money.”
Nancy put a hand on her husband’s and said, “Let’s not talk of anything unpleasant today. And Charles White is certainly that. I want to hear all about your plans and your work, Kick. Start at the beginning.”
She had no idea what the beginning could possibly be, but Kick was happy to oblige, and simply started with the heat in New York on the day she boarded the Queen Mary, just two weeks before. Unbelievable, she thought. Two weeks and a lifetime ago. When she first arrived, she’d sat in Sissy and David’s kitchen and written in her crisp new diary, “First day back in London and I still can’t believe I’m really here. It all seems like a dream from which I shall awaken very soon.”
Please, God, not yet.
CHAPTER 27
All through her second official day of work on Friday, she kept the latest telegram from Billy in her white apron pocket so she could feel it near her, and so she could take it out to read whenever possible, not that she had many spare moments between serving the infamous coffee and donuts, sitting at the bedsides of injured soldiers, reading books till they nodded off, and playing cards with the healthy ones on their precious leave days. But each time she read or remembered his words—REACH LONDON 7.15 SATURDAY STAYING AT MAYFAIR CAN YOU KEEP SUNDAY FREE BILLY—she knew all her efforts were worth it. And effort it was. Despite its foreboding exterior, the Hans Crescent was one of the most popular and busiest of all the Red Cross Clubs in London. American soldiers of every rank came for beds, meals, drinks, dances, healing, and company. The Red Cross girls who worked there were occupied every minute of their ten-hour shifts and only got one and a half days off each week—and those days off were not supposed to be weekends. Doesn’t leave much time to see my friends, Kick thought when she first heard her schedule. Fortunately, pretty English girls were more than welcome in the club, so many of her friends could visit with her there. The other good thing was that she’d been assigned a later shift, which meant she could head out to the 400 or another club after work ended, sleep in, and still be fresh for work the next day.
Mr. Scroggins was her boss, and he looked just as his name sounded: scrogginly. Though he was American, his tonsure of curly gray hair and round, ruddy face atop an equally round body made him the perfect overlord of this Dickensian structure. Determined to win him over, she kept her best smile plastered on at all times and did exactly as she was instructed tout de suite. Following Billy’s telegram, though, she used her short break Friday afternoon to ask if she could have a private word with him. In his office, which was a bare place with stacks of paper on an underused desk, he said, “Make it quick, Miss Kennedy.”
“First, sir, I want you to know how thrilled I am to be here, and how much I want to help the boys who come through our doors.”
“But?” he said with a frown. He wasn’t going to have any of her usual coquettishness; she could tell.
“Well, sir . . .” she stammered, knowing she just had to come out with it. Employing a small, well-rehearsed lie, she said, “The assignment to start work came a bit earlier than I was expecting, and I had already made plans with a family friend who’s visiting on Sunday. I know the rules, sir, and they are good ones, of course, because I know how much the boys need us girls here on the busy weekends, but it would mean a great deal to me if I could have just this one Sunday off. I can give up my day off next week if it would help.”
She held her breath, watching his frown carve ever-deeper lines in his face.
At last he drew a breath and said, “You may have it. But consider this your first favor wasted. I hope he’s worth it.”
He knows. How could he know? Still, though she’d been caught in a lie, relief flooded her, and she smiled widely and gratefully at Mr. Scroggins.
“Thank you, thank you, sir.”
“Get back out there, Miss Kennedy.”
She went about the rest of her duties with an incurable smirk of anticipation on her face. In the afternoon, she offered coffee and cigarettes to groups of boys sitting around wooden tables doing puzzles and crosswords or hurling vulgar insults at one another. Jeff, a curly-haired farm boy from Nebraska, said, “Why, thank you, Miss Kennedy,” after she’d refilled his cup.
“My pleasure,” she said. “And please, call me Kick.”
Jeff laughed. “Kick’s no name for a girl as pretty as you, if you don’t mind my saying. My mother’d have my hide if she heard me calling a girl by her first name anyway.”
“Dare I point out that your mother’s not here?” Kick said flirtatiously.
“She may not be, but believe me when I say that she’d know anyways.”
At this, the other boy who’d been sharing his table while reading a Dashiell Hammett novel lifted his glacial blue eyes to her. He was about Jack’s age, and deeply tanned like her brother, but his hair was shaved so short, Kick couldn’t even tell what color it was. He interrupted, “You can take a boy off the farm . . .”
“Where are you from, then, Mr. . . . ?” she asked, deciding to take the empty seat between the two boys for a few minutes. This was the sort of informal chatting the girls were encouraged to interrupt chores to do. Anything that made the soldiers’ lives seem more normal, more entertaining—within reason, of course.
“Mr. Thompson is my father,” he replied. “You can call me Tim, Kick.”
She thrust out her hand and shook Tim’s hard, calloused one. “Pleased to meet you, Tim. Where are you from?”
“New York City,” he replied.
“City boys never know their manners,” teased Jeff.
“And farm boys never get the girls,” Tim teased back, though there was a sharpness to his jibe, and Jeff clearly felt its point.
Focusing completely on Kick, Tim said, “So how’d you get suckered into coming over here? You know you’ll be homesick in less than a month.”
“I’ve lived in London before,” Kick reassured him. “I like it here.”
Tim’s eyes widened, and he said with a whistle, “I knew I’d seen you before! You’re one of those Kennedys. Hot damn.”
Already? She felt exasperated at being recognized so soon, but tried to laugh it off. “I’m just the same as anyone else,” she said.
Poor Jeff looked confused. Kick assumed society columns, especially from abroad, didn’t penetrate into his part of the country. And anyway, he was probably two or three years younger than she was. Tim took the liberty of explaining: “Her dad was the ambassador, Farm Boy. At least, he was before it all went to hell in a handbasket.” Then he turned those eyes on Kick and said, “You’re hardly the same as anyone else.”
Kick put up her chin and replied, “I’m working, aren’t I? Same as Ginnie from Atlanta and Betsy from Albany. Both my older brothers are off fighting just the same as you two.”
Tim shrugged. “We’ll see, I guess, won’t we?” Then he went back to his novel, as if to say, Conversation over.
He reminded her so much of John White, she wanted to scream.
Jeff, on the other hand, was pure nice. “Don’t listen to him, Miss Kennedy. And pleased to make your acquaintance. You just never know who you’re gonna meet over here. If I make it back, the stories I’ll have to tell!”
Kick beamed a smile back into his, and said, “I’m sure you’ll make it back.”
He raised his cup of coffee. “Well, I mean to have fun on my way.”
“I’ll save a dance for you tonight,” she said.
“I look forward to it,” he said, and something in his earnestness made her heart break a little.
* * *
Saturday night when her shift ended, she gave herself a little sponge bath at the tiny sink in the bedroom she
shared with Ginnie from Atlanta, with whom she’d barely exchanged ten words yet. Ginnie had as busy a social life as Kick, though she never saw her bunkmate at any of the places she frequented, so she had no idea where the other girl went. It was hardly the leisurely, rose-scented bath Kick would have given herself before past meetings with Billy, but it would have to do. Then she changed out of her itchy uniform and into one of the very few party dresses she’d brought with her, a knee-length black crepe de chine with lace around the neck and on the sleeves. How she wished for a floor-length gown to cover her sore and swollen legs! She’d written her family already asking for some of the other clothes she’d set aside before she left, as well as her Vol de Nuit and the candy to share with her sweets-starved friends. She’d only been able to bring over a bare minimum of cosmetics because of space limitations on the ship, but she wanted to smell nice at the end of the day more than anything, and wished she’d thought about this ahead of time. A bit of rouge and mascara, and a touch of precious red on her lips, did make her feel a bit more like herself. Sissy and Debo had been melting down the stubs of old lipsticks and making pots of lip stains—she was lucky not to have to do that yet. And she had a few packs of nylons to work through. She chose a black pair that night, in the hopes they might do her legs some favors. Then she had to dash.
The May Fair Hotel was as it had always been, a bastion of perfectly appointed luxury. They hadn’t even taken down the crystal chandeliers—or if they had during the Blitz, they’d put them back up again. A few of the debutante balls had been given there in 1938 and ’39, and many out-of-town relatives stayed there when a family’s town house wasn’t large enough to host everyone. It felt thrillingly illicit for Billy to be staying there, almost as if he were a husband checked in to meet his mistress—even though she had no intention of actually going up to his room, and even though she knew he had to stay at a hotel because the Cavendishes’ London house had been bombed. His parents and sisters split their time between Eastbourne and Churchdale Hall, what with Chatsworth let to Penrhos College for the duration of the war, since his father preferred to have women staying in the house rather than soldiers, as was the choice of the great houses during wartime.
Kick followed the sound of a piano playing a medley from The Wizard of Oz through the busy lobby, where Waterford vases overflowing with roses and lilies perfumed the room and made her feel she’d stepped back in time—except instead of feeling light with youthful anticipation, she felt so nervous that she had to focus on every step she took, for fear of falling. Her eyes darted around; she hoped she wouldn’t run into Billy unexpectedly. They’d agreed to meet in the bar, and she planned to stop just outside the entry to smooth her dress, check her lipstick, and take a few calming breaths before making her entrance.
So much for plans.
Billy was leaning against the bar, looking right at the large open entrance as she approached. Tall, slim, beautiful Billy, out of uniform and sporting a trim gray suit. There was no place to hide and check anything. There was only that boyish smile of his that filled his eyes with joy, exactly as she’d remembered it. Better. At that point, she had to stop herself from running into his arms.
Steady, she told herself as she walked toward him, clutching her black purse in a sweaty hand and returning his smile.
When at last she was standing inches away from him, she had no idea what to say. Hadn’t she rehearsed something about how he looked the same? Which it turned out he didn’t, not quite, anyway—he looked like a man now, more sculpted, the softness gone from his cheeks. No more stoop. He was even more attractive now, if that was at all possible. He kissed her cheek, which promptly burst into flames. “Good God, I’ve missed you,” he said quietly, just in her ear. The warmth of his breath and the musical depth of his voice nearly made her faint.
“Well,” she said, clearing her throat and sliding onto a high red velvet chair. “I think this calls for champagne, don’t you?” At that moment, she’d have paid any amount of money for the relaxation those bubbles would bring.
“I’ve already ordered one,” he replied. “It’s waiting at our table.”
With a smile, she said, “I knew there was a reason I’d missed you, too.”
Billy smirked, and Kick began to feel her legs beneath her again.
As he had at their favorite Spanish restaurant years before, Billy had thought ahead—and while he hadn’t reserved a private room, he had secured a secluded table off in a dark corner, out of view of the parade of people walking into and out of the restaurant. A bottle of Veuve Clicquot was chilling in a gleaming silver stand beside the small round table, set with white linens, sterling, and cut crystal glasses. Again, Kick had the mischievous feeling that she was about to misbehave with this handsome, forbidden man, and it gave her the strongest craving to run her fingers through his hair and kiss him properly.
They busied themselves with the formalities of ordering and complimenting those first sips of champagne—“What a lovely treat” and “You wouldn’t believe the rubbish they called wine on the Maginot Line. A disgrace to anyone who calls himself a Frenchman, if you ask me”—before enduring their first really awkward moment. They looked at each other, each with their mouths open to speak, but words didn’t come out. It was as if each was waiting for the other to speak first. After a few seconds, it was clear that both of them were inadequate to the task. Billy laughed, and Kick sighed with a sort of relief. “I suppose we shouldn’t pretend that four years haven’t passed,” she said.
Billy reached under the table and took her hand in his, which was warm and dry and calloused in the palm where it had been soft before. “It’s true, yes, it’s been four years. And much has happened. But when I look at you, I feel all those same feelings from before. More so, in fact.”
“I do, too,” Kick said, hoping her tone would convey just enough of what she felt and wanted, but not quite all—since inside, she felt utterly molten with lust and relief. She ran her thumb gently over the rough spots below his fingers.
Had they been alone, he would have kissed her on the lips—she was sure of it. But they were not. Instead, he released her hand, cleared his throat, and said, “Then perhaps tonight we should concentrate on catching up in the way the letters cannot?”
Kick nodded. Billy went first, and talked about his elation at becoming an uncle to his first niece a few months ago. “I’m afraid I rather spoil her,” he admitted, “and it surprises me as much as it does Debo, who assumed—along with me, I’m afraid—that I’d be a somewhat detached uncle. Have you met darling Emma yet?”
Kick shook her head.
“Well, wait till you do,” Billy gushed. “Wait till she wraps her little hands around your finger and sighs. Goodness. I had no idea. And listen to me, sounding like a nanny.”
Kick laughed. “I haven’t experienced aunthood yet, but I can imagine I will deeply love Joe and Jack’s children.”
Billy laughed. “How is Jack? Other than a writer-playboy, that is?”
Kick filled Billy in on the thwarted romance between her brother and Inga, and on both her brothers’ intense desires to make a difference in the war. “No one wants to fight more than Joe,” said Kick. “In fact, he might actually get sent over here soon. I’d love to have him with me in London.”
“I might rival him in my desire to fight,” said Billy moodily. “But,” he said, obviously not wanting to dwell on that subject, “it would be very good to see him again. I always had the highest respect for Joe’s sense of duty.”
Duty. That was a topic Kick wanted to avoid tonight.
Billy went on and filled Kick in on the comings and goings of his younger sisters Anne and Elizabeth, whom Kick hadn’t known well before the war because they were six and seven years younger than she was, and away at school most of the time. Last year, Elizabeth had had a small coming-out party, as was the fashion and necessity these days, and Anne was preparing for hers. K
ick filled Billy in on the doings of her other siblings, too, though she avoided Rosemary, and she was relieved that their dinner finished before he could ask about her. She assumed he was just as eager to avoid mentioning Sally Norton, and she’d already decided that since the other girl was no longer a threat, there was no real point in bringing her up. No doubt they’d run into her somewhere. Kick was resigned to the prospect.
“Fancy a dance at the 400?” he asked when they’d finished their meal.
“I’d like nothing better,” she said.
As their taxi wound its way through the dark streets of blackout London, they were at last able to reach for each other the way they’d both wanted to the moment she walked into the May Fair. His kisses were an intoxicating mix of nostalgia and discovery, of remembering and feeling anew how he smelled of soap and cedar, how large his hands felt on her back, how tiny she felt in his embrace, and how startlingly soft and insistent his lips felt on hers. There was a new sureness in the way he moved with her, though, a confidence in his own body that she found deeply alluring. It was something John had possessed, which had pulled her toward him against her better judgment. She had feared Billy might lack it, and that her attraction to him wouldn’t be as strong as it had been before. She only hoped her own touch pleased him as much as his pleased her. His growl of annoyance when the taxi driver stopped the car was a good sign, she thought, and buoyed her heart in her chest.
The familiar roar of music and laughter greeted them at their favorite old haunt, and as Billy led her by the hand to a table with Bertrand, Tony Rosslyn, Jane, Boofie, and Fiona, Kick saw virtually every other head in the place swivel to watch them. As soon as people saw them, hand in hand and aglow from their taxi ride, the whispering began. Everyone noticed.
“Thank goodness you’ve given everyone something new to talk about,” said Boofie when they sat down at the table.