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 e
yes 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.
Fourteen
KELLY CAME INTO her bedroom at full speed, singing a pop tune at the top of her lungs—baby, keep me up all night.
And taking off her clothes.
Tom was at her computer, and he didn’t have time to warn her he was there. She spotted him at the exact same moment she flung her dress over what should have been her computer chair, hitting him full in the face.
“Oh, my God!”
She snatched her dress back, holding it up in front of her like a shield. As a dress, it was exceptional. However, as a shield, it didn’t function well at all.
“Sorry,” he said, nearly knocking the chair over as he stood up. “I needed to get on-line, and I didn’t think you’d mind. I’ll get out of your way.” He turned back to the computer. “Just let me—”
“Wait.” Kelly moved closer to the computer, looking at the picture of the Merchant that was on the screen. “Is that . . . him?”
When she stood next to Tom, the dress worked even less well as a shield. Her entire back half was exposed. He forced himself not to look, but his peripheral vision was too damn good. She was wearing her trademark thong. In dark purple satin. Against pale skin. Dear God.
Tom sat back down so that she was slightly behind him, out of peripheral range.
Yes, they were having dinner tonight. Yes, he’d kissed her again while they were in Boston. Yes, he was intending to kiss her again tonight. And yes, very big yes, he wanted to explore all the wonderful possibilities of where this mutual attraction could go.
One of the possible places was back here, in Kelly’s room, with the door tightly shut the way it was, with Kelly in only her underwear, also the way she was.
But there was a lot of talking that needed to be done before they reached that place. And as much as every cell in his body was screaming for him to stand up right now and take her into his arms, to slide his hands all over all that smooth, perfect skin, communication was key. The talking part had to come first.
It had to.
She trusted him.
She was looking at the picture on the computer screen, waiting for him to answer her question. Is that him?
Tom cleared his throat. “Yeah, that’s um . . .” What’s his name. “The Merchant. Before plastic surgery.”
“Can I see what he looks like after plastic surgery?” she asked.
“No,” he said, “I don’t have any recent photos of him. He’s been presumed dead since ’96. I’m assuming he had his face changed sometime between then and now.”
She moved back into his peripheral vision range, looking at him instead of the screen. At this proximity, her eyes were an illegal shade of blue. “Assuming?”
“It’s what I would’ve done if I were him.” He tried not to sound desperate. “Can you do me a huge favor and put on a robe?”
She gave him what he was starting to recognize as her innocent face. The wide-eyed one that really wasn’t very innocent at all. She was enjoying this. “You mean the one you’re sitting on?”
Tom stood up, and she pulled something that might’ve been a bathrobe off the back of the chair, showering the floor with a rain of lingerie.
Of course.
It was bad enough to sit here surrounded by it when she wasn’t in the room. But when she was there . . . It was like finding out that Pollyanna modeled for Victoria’s Secret on the sly. And then being invited to a photo shoot.
“Whoops,” she said, “that’s the clean stuff.”
She slipped on the robe—if you could call something that was made of very thin cotton and came only to midthigh a robe—tossed her dress onto her bed this time, then gathered up the “clean stuff,” throwing it into her top dresser drawer. “I don’t suppose you’ve seen the belt anywhere, have you?”
Dear Christ, there was no belt to this so-called robe. “No, but I bet if you give Mrs. Lerner a miner’s helmet and forty-eight hours, she could find it.”
Kelly laughed. “It’s not that bad in here.”
“Do you keep anything in your closet? I mean, what’s the point in even having a closet?”
“I’m very neat back home—in my apartment in Boston.” She rummaged through the piles of clothing on a chair next to her bed. “I think I’ve been resisting putting my clothes away because if I do, that’s like admitting I’m really living here again. Dealing with my father’s illness is hard enough without having to focus on my personal failure issues at the same time.”
She found the belt—thank you, Lord Jesus—and threaded it through the loops of her robe, tying it shut in the front.
“Failure issues?” he echoed.
“Pass,” she said. “That’s too pathetic a topic—and I’m in too good a mood. And my mood got even better when I got home and found my father sitting out on the deck with Joe. Do you know they spent the entire day together—without anyone needing extra oxygen?”
Tom let her change the subject. He had plenty of failure issues of his own, and God knows he didn’t want to talk about them right now. The fact that his CAT scan had come back normal, that there wasn’t an obvious if not easy fix to his physical problems, was also high on his list of topics to avoid.
“Yeah, they spent the early part of the afternoon staking out the hotel for me again. I told them it could be just a waste of time, but they don’t care. They sit in the hotel, playing chess, watching for any suspicious-looking men.” Tom laughed. “Kind of a vague order, but they’re okay with it. I think they like having an excuse to hang together. And I’ve told them I won’t let them help me if they fight. So they don’t fight. At least not in front of me.”
“Bless you,” Kelly said. “I can’t tell you how glad I am you’re here.”
Her eyes were too warm, and that robe was too short. Tom tried not to look at her legs.
Talk about failure issues. He was failing completely.
He had to get out of here. Fast. Before he kissed her again. Which would be fine later, downstairs, when they were both fully dressed. But as for right now . . .
“Tell me more about the Merchant.” Before he could stand up and lunge for the door, Kelly blocked his way and sent the conversation rocketing back in another direction. “Do you have any other photos? Anything that really shows his eyes?”
She came up right behind him, spinning his chair back so he faced the computer, resting her hands possessively on his shoulders. He liked that she did that. Too much. Yes, he had
to get out of here.
“Even if he had plastic surgery, he can’t really change his eyes, can he?” she asked. “I mean, he could change the color, sure, but color’s just a small part of it. The intensity would stay the same. Look at his eyes in this picture—scary.”
She started rubbing his shoulders, and Tom knew damn well that he wasn’t going anywhere. Especially not when her hands were cool against the back of his neck, her fingers in his hair.
Tom used the mouse to click through a series of pictures. The aftermath of the Paris embassy bombing. Five devastating café bombings in Afghanistan, a bus bombing in Israel. And then the Merchant. Most of the photos were taken from a distance, slightly blurred. But the last one was again in close-up. WildCard had done his computer voodoo on it, enhancing it, sharpening the edges. It was definitely the Merchant, smiling at the woman who was to become his wife, taken about a year before Paris.
Kelly leaned closer, and he could feel the softness of her body against his shoulder. He could smell her sweet scent. It wasn’t perfume—it was probably some kind of lotion or maybe her shampoo or soap. Whatever it was, it made her smell delicious.
“In this one, he doesn’t look like a monster,” she said. “He looks like a regular man. A man who likes this woman—look at the way he’s looking at her. He’s crazy about her. He can’t be all bad.”
“He’s claimed responsibility for the deaths of over nine hundred people,” Tom told her.
“God,” she breathed, taking an even closer look. “No wonder you’re worried he’s still out there. I could see how someone like that might stay on your mind.”
“I keep thinking he’s the perfect man to succeed with a full-scale, high death-toll terrorist attack here in the U.S. He’s not some amateur—he knows what he’s doing. Yet he’s not being watched twenty-four–seven like all the other big league players we do know about. He’s invisible because he’s on everyone’s presumed-dead list. It was probably laughably easy for him to get into the country.” He shook his head. “Unless he’s on everyone’s presumed-dead list because he is dead.”
Which meant Tom was the dangerous one, the complete fucking nut job who was going to start killing innocent salesmen from Des Moines or Cincinnati, imagining they were hard-core terrorists.
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