With Love, Wherever You Are

by Dandi Daley Mackall

  She stepped off the train, her foot touching ground as the engine heaved its last sigh.

  “Helen!”

  She heard him before she saw him. And when she did glimpse her tall, handsome husband, she couldn’t run fast enough into his arms. He lifted her up and spun her around. She hoped he couldn’t feel how much weight she’d lost. He kissed her, soft but so intense. God in Heaven, thank You for this man, my husband. He was no stranger. He was the love of her life.

  Frank chattered as they weaved through the crowded station, asking about her trip, her fellow nurses, Rennes. She answered all his questions, but none of it seemed important now. She asked him about Dotty and Jack and Lartz. He asked about Eugene.

  “I’ve written Genie several letters,” she explained. “He’s staying in Cissna with my parents. Mom wrote that he isn’t helping with the farm. She doesn’t say more, but he must be in awful shape if Dad’s not making him pitch in. It makes me crazy that I can’t do anything for him.”

  “At least he’s safe and at home. If he’s shell-shocked, it might be a long recovery. Maybe we’ll be able to help when the war’s over and we’re all home.”

  She hooked her arm though his, just as they’d done back in Battle Creek. “Want to tell me where we’re going, husband of mine?”

  “We’re staying with the LeBlancs, the family I wrote you about. Well, not exactly staying with them. More like in their barn.”

  She laughed. “Their barn? Well, that should be one to tell the grandkids.” A silence fell between them, their personal UXB, the reminder of the child they’d lost, the grandchildren that might never follow.

  Frank looked flustered. Then he dropped her bags and scooped her into his arms again. “It’s okay. We’ll have those grandkids soon enough, Granny.” He kissed her. “Have I told you how beautiful you are, Mrs. Daley?”

  “Take me to the barn and tell me again.” They left the station, hand in hand, at a run.

  At the exit, Frank stopped and glanced around.

  “Aren’t taxis over there?” Helen pointed to a long line at the front of the station.

  “Right.” He continued looking in all directions.

  A horn beeped, and Frank waved at a jeep. “We have a chauffeur. He’s a decent driver and got me here right on schedule—with one minor detour.”

  The jeep inched into the line of taxis and military vehicles. Helen studied the driver. He was dressed in the blue denim shirt of Army fatigues, but something about him didn’t look Army. She climbed into the backseat with Frank and had to sit on his lap, which she found rather a good idea.

  “You are crowded?” Their driver had an accent Helen identified as high German, like her mother’s. “You want to ride here?” He patted the seat beside him.

  “We’re fine where we are.” Frank wrapped his arms around her. “Helen, this is Fritz, POW trustee from camp. Fritz, this is my wonderful wife, Helen Eberhart Daley.”

  Helen shot her husband her best are you out of your mind? look.

  Fritz pulled the jeep out of line, to the honks and complaints of other drivers. “Good name is Eberhart.”

  “True,” Helen said. “But better name is Daley.”

  Instead of having Fritz take them to the barn, Frank had him drop them off at the Palais Longchamp, a fantastic palace that curved inside the Parc Longchamp. Any other time, Helen would have wanted to explore the park, dotted with pavilions, flower gardens, and waterfalls. But now, all she wanted to explore was her husband and squeeze every minute out of their time together.

  They thanked Fritz, and he promised to pick them up at the same spot in two days. Helen tried not to think about that, the moment when she’d have to leave Frank. “Why didn’t he take us to where we’re staying?”

  “Long story,” Frank answered. “He’s a good guy, but I don’t feel right taking a German POW to the doorstep of a Resistance fighter.”

  Helen didn’t say so, but she didn’t see anything wrong with that. Marseille was liberated. She watched Fritz drive off.

  Frank looked around. “Pretty sure it’s this way.”

  Several miles later, Frank shouted, “There! I knew it was around here somewhere.”

  “Are you sure?” Helen fought the irritation that had seeped in like British drizzle. They’d started out in the wrong direction, circled the city, and wandered the countryside, traveling three times as far on foot as they would have in Fritz’s jeep.

  “Sorry, Helen.”

  She forced a smile. “I love you.”

  “Even though you now know you married a man who will never be able to take a direct route anywhere?”

  “Maybe partly because I’ve married such a man. It’s all part of the wonderful package of you.” She did believe it . . . even if she didn’t quite feel it at the moment. All she felt were sore feet.

  Frank put his arm around her and guided her up to the cottage door.

  Before he could knock, the wooden door cracked open, then was thrown wide. The woman standing there had been beautiful once. Helen could tell by her high, classical forehead and the slope of her jaw. Wrinkles had turned what might have been alabaster skin into old leather.

  “Madame LeBlanc, I’d like you to meet my wife.”

  “Bonjour. Merci beaucoup, madame.” Helen’s French, in spite of the hours with French patients, was limited. But her patients claimed that her accent was excellent and what she lacked in vocabulary, she made up for in style.

  Madame launched into animated French until Helen apologized for not understanding. Still, she was fairly certain the woman had been singing Frank’s praises.

  Frank took two bottles of vitamins from his pack, his own Army-issued vitamins. She wished he’d told her before. She would gladly have donated her bottles, which was probably why he hadn’t told her.

  Madame clutched the bottles to her apron. Tears trickled down deep wrinkles. “Merci.” She waved them inside and shut the door.

  A young woman tiptoed up to Frank, her eyes shining, her gaze never leaving his face.

  “This is Marie,” Frank said, “the best patient I ever had.”

  “This is Marie?” From her husband’s letters, Helen had expected a little girl, not this beautiful woman, who might have been Vin’s age. Her long hair flowed over a sleeveless flowered dress that exposed just enough to prove her womanhood.

  Marie gazed at Frank with undisguised idol worship, then turned to Helen with raw hatred.

  A boy emerged, all smiles and yellow teeth. Frank introduced him as Michel, and he shook Helen’s hand with both of his. “Yes! You are beautiful American lady! We welcome you!”

  She returned the handshake and thanked them all in a mixture of French and English as two little boys peeked around the corner.

  “You will eat dinner with us, yes?” Michel said.

  Helen turned to Frank, hoping he’d read her mind that she needed to be alone with him. Besides, she didn’t want to take food from them.

  Frank smiled down at the boy. “Merci beaucoup. But no, thank you. Another time?”

  Michel nodded, though Helen could tell he didn’t understand. The last thing she wanted was for them to think these Americans were too good to join them. Michel started to translate to his mother, but Frank put a hand on his shoulder and whispered something.

  Michel glanced at Helen, his cheeks reddening. “Oui. Of course.” He rattled something in French to his family. Madame grinned, and the boys giggled. Marie, however, turned on her heel and stomped out of the room.

  Michel led them out back to an old barn. Apparently Frank hadn’t been kidding about their sleeping quarters. The boy shoved open the door, then grinned sheepishly before waving them in. He shut the door and disappeared.

  Slits of light through wooden slats revealed a barn smaller than her father’s. No bins for corn or coal. No chickens or cows or horses. Stray bits of straw and dirt littered the floor, and even the absence of cows couldn’t take away their lingering odor. “I love what you’ve done with
the place,” she teased. At the far end she spotted a haystack. She turned her best smile on her husband. “I think a little roll in the hay might be in order.”

  He took her hand and nearly dragged her there, both of them laughing. “You ain’t seen nothin’ yet, schveetheart!” he shouted in a terrible Cagney or maybe Bogie accent that echoed. He brushed aside hay, then opened a trapdoor. “After me.” He climbed down first and waited on the wooden ladder.

  Helen sensed the shimmery glow before Frank lifted her from the ladder and set her down. It was as unexpected as it was fantastic, a fairyland oasis in the middle of war-torn France. A small table held fresh flowers and a kerosene lantern, with two candles, a bottle of wine, and a loaf of bread. Beyond the table was the most inviting bed Helen had ever seen, covered in handmade quilts, with a cylindrical pillow that stretched the width of the bed. “How did you do this?”

  “I didn’t.” Frank looked as awestruck as she felt. “They can’t afford the wine, or the kerosene. I doubt if they can afford the bread.”

  “We’ll pay them back.”

  “They won’t accept it. I’ve tried.”

  “Then we’ll give them gifts.” Maybe she could buy them something in Marseille and—

  But that’s where speculation ended. Frank swooped her into his arms and carried her, as if over an invisible threshold, to their bed beneath the barn.

  The next day, reluctant to leave their hideaway, they stayed in bed, snuggling and talking. Frank told her about the men in his unit, and she could see how much her husband cared about them, especially about Major Bradford.

  “Bradford isn’t just a war hero, Helen. He cares more for peace than for war. When the Nazis finally surrender, he’s committed himself to moving on to the Pacific and working for peace there.”

  “He sounds like a good man.”

  “He believes he and his unit could make a difference in the occupation after the war ends,” Frank continued. “It’s all about a lasting peace and leaving the world a safer place.”

  “It’s a wonderful goal, darling. He isn’t married, is he?” She couldn’t remember if Frank had told her already.

  “What? Oh, yeah. Married for ten or twelve years. They have two sons.”

  “How awful for them.” She couldn’t imagine what Mrs. Bradford had been going through since England’s war began. She remembered the woman on the train, the one who’d had to send her children away to keep them safe.

  Helen didn’t want to think sad thoughts, not now. She scooted closer to her husband and again took in the romance and wonder of their Resistance hideaway. “Frankie, let’s talk about us.”

  He wrapped his arms around her. “What a good idea. As it happens, you’ve landed on my favorite topic—us.” He gazed around their little room. “I can’t think of a better place for us, can you?”

  “Not at the moment,” she answered.

  “You can see why I hated canceling our rendezvous here,” Frank said.

  Helen thought of that horrible night when she’d believed Victoria had made up the story about the French farmer and the canceled reunion. And just like that, the old anger sparked, and before she could shove it down, she snapped, “I can see why you hated canceling. What I don’t know is why you canceled.”

  Frank sat up. His arm slid out from under her. “Excuse me?”

  “I was all packed and couldn’t wait to see you. And your note came as such a . . . well, a surprise. It didn’t even give me a hint why you canceled.”

  “Not this again. Tell me you didn’t assume I didn’t want you to come. That would be too . . . I can’t even think of a word.”

  “No, Frank. Of course not. I’m sure you must have been busy, with side trips out here after hospital work.” She thought her voice sounded light and chatty. “You probably worried you wouldn’t have enough time with me. But, darling, I wouldn’t have minded.”

  He looked at her as if only this minute recognizing her . . . and not liking what he recognized. “Is that what you thought, Helen?” She started to answer, but he didn’t give her a chance. “I was busy when I was in Marseille before. Still, I made time to arrange everything.”

  “Well, I’m sorry I caused you so much trouble.”

  “That’s not what I’m saying. Colonel Croane didn’t give us any warning before canceling our leaves, then shipping us out. It wasn’t easy getting a message to you before we left.”

  “Wait. You left? You weren’t in Marseille?” She touched his arm, but he pulled it away.

  “How could you think I’d cancel our rendezvous just because I was busy?” She’d never seen him this angry. His lower lip curled . . . just like her dad’s. “Don’t you know me at all, Helen?”

  Right now, she wasn’t all that sure. “Maybe I don’t.”

  “Don’t you know I’d move heaven and earth to be with you?”

  Helen could see he meant it. Her pent-up fury fizzled, and an awful guilt replaced it. What was wrong with her? “I’m sorry, Frank. I was just so hurt. I felt abandoned. And alone.”

  He stared at her now, and it was not a look of love. “Is that why you went to Paris with Colonel Pugh?”

  The words landed like a punch to the gut. “How did you—?”

  “How did I find out? I called you New Year’s Eve, late. I tried all night to get hold of you, and it wasn’t easy sneaking to the phone. So you can imagine my surprise when a drunk nurse answered the general’s office phone and told me my wife was in Paris with another man.”

  Helen’s mind was racing faster than her heart. Who would have—? Then she remembered. Victoria. She’d been the one in the general’s office when they left to take Liddy to Paris. “You don’t understand, Frank.”

  “Clearly.”

  “You’re not being fair!” she protested. “You’ve got it all wrong.”

  He raised his eyebrows at her. “You didn’t go to Paris?”

  “Well, yes, but—”

  “Colonel Pugh didn’t go with you?”

  “Will you let me explain?” She tried to think. She wasn’t hiding anything. There was nothing to hide. “I didn’t tell you because I was afraid you’d misunderstand. And you have.”

  “Have I?” He wouldn’t even look at her. “You should have told me, Helen.”

  “You’re right. Just like you should have told me about Marie.”

  “I told you about Marie!”

  “You didn’t tell me she was beautiful. And not a child.”

  “Fine. I apologize.” But he didn’t sound like he meant it.

  “Fine. So do I!”

  At a sudden pounding above, they both stared up at the trapdoor as if expecting the Nazis to storm in and capture them.

  “Who is it?” Frank said, which wasn’t how Helen would have handled the interruption.

  “Michel,” came the answer.

  Frank bolted out of bed. “Just a moment!” He pulled on his pants, tried to button his shirt. “Helen, get dressed.”

  “No.” She scooted deeper under the covers.

  He shook his head at her and started up the ladder.

  “Frank?” she whispered. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  He didn’t bother answering her, but climbed the ladder and shoved the trapdoor. It clattered against the barn floor. “Michel? Is anything wrong?”

  Helen peeked from her covers and saw the boy’s smiling face overhead.

  “My maman invites you to eat with us.”

  “That’s so kind of you,” Frank said. “When?”

  “Now.”

  Helen was glad she hadn’t gotten dressed and climbed the ladder instead of Frank. Let him be the one to disappoint.

  Without a glance her way, Frank said, “Thanks, Michel. We’d love to. Tell your mother we’ll be right along.”

  Helen heard Michel’s footsteps overhead as Frank climbed back down.

  “I don’t want to go,” Helen said.

  “We’re going.” Frank sat in one of the two chairs and pulled
on his socks and shoes.

  “You go! I’m staying right here.”

  “I’m going,” Frank said. “And I’m not going without you. So you can either get dressed and walk or have me carry you there in your nightgown.”

  “You can’t talk to me like that!” Who did Frank think he was, giving her ultimatums?

  Frank turned to look at her. He might have been counting to ten. “I’m sorry, Helen. But we need to accept their invitation. These people have been more than hospitable to us. They’ve gone out of their way to be kind. The least we can do is have a meal with them.”

  She knew he was right, even though she wasn’t about to say so. She didn’t want to hurt this family’s feelings any more than he did. Without another word, she hauled herself out of bed and got dressed.

  Frank fell in behind her as she started up the ladder. “Do you want me to go first so I can give you a hand when you climb out?”

  “No, thank you.” She could hear winter in her voice.

  Michel was waiting for them outside the barn. Helen squinted at a sun that barely peeked from behind gray clouds. They followed Michel inside, to a small room beyond the kitchen, and were directed to sit on the couch. Helen scooted as far away as she could from Frank, but it was a short couch. That’s when she spotted Marie frowning at them from a wooden chair off in the corner of the room. If this were a cartoon, the kind Eugene loved, smoke would have been coming out of her ears. Helen thought the girl looked even more beautiful than yesterday. Wisps of her long, dark hair framed a classic face, then continued to her bare shoulders. She’d obviously dressed for Frank instead of for the season.

  Helen got up and walked to the kitchen. “Madame, je vous aider? Help you?”

  Madame LeBlanc turned wide eyes on her. “Non, non!” She flipped her apron at Helen, shooing her out of the kitchen.

  Forcing herself to smile, Helen returned to the couch without so much as a glance at her husband. Michel had pulled his chair up and was pumping Frank for information about America. Helen endured the glares from Marie as Michel turned to her. “You come from Missouri also?”