The Long Path Home

by Ellen Lindseth

  “You’re worried about a little boy you’ve barely met and Miss May?” His tone was somewhere between exasperation and disbelief. “Not Luciana? Not you?”

  “I asked you a question, Sergeant. And as I’m an officer in the USO, I command you to answer me.”

  He huffed a tired laugh, the hard edges of his cheekbones and jaw stark, almost frightening in the half light. “That rank is an honorary one, Virginia. It’s not real, so I don’t have to tell you a damn thing.”

  “Are they in danger?” she asked, refusing to be intimidated.

  “There’s a war going on, Miss Heart.” His tone was sarcastic. “What do you think?”

  “That you are being deliberately obtuse.”

  He drew in a long breath. “Fine. No, Miss May is not in any danger above the usual and customary for a USO performer in a war zone. And Enzo should be just fine. That said, stay away from that clock store, and”—he poked her in the chest for emphasis—“never follow me anywhere again. Got it?”

  Vi rolled her eyes, exasperated. “You’re the one who ran away before I could talk to you. And by the way, you could thank me. If I hadn’t followed you, I wouldn’t have been on the landing to scream, and you would be dead right now.”

  “If you hadn’t made such a ruckus while following me, I likely wouldn’t have picked up a tail.”

  “You don’t know that,” she said, even as the truth of that twisted in her chest.

  “You endangered a lot of people tonight, Virginia. That no one died is a miracle.”

  “But what about the man—”

  “He was an enemy agent. As was the man in the stairwell. So I don’t count them.”

  “Oh.” Her breathing constricted. Not because she regretted their deaths, per se. There was a war going on, after all, and both men had tried to kill the sergeant. But the matter-of-fact way the sergeant mentioned it, as if the men’s deaths were of no significance, struck her as somehow wrong.

  “Hey.” He lifted her chin and looked directly into her eyes. “I couldn’t let them live. You know that, right? If either agent had gotten away, a lot more people would have been killed later. Good people. People on our side.”

  “I . . . I know. It’s just . . . well, it’s hard knowing you were the one who did it.”

  “Should I not have?”

  She hesitated, not sure. She had always hated Tony for being so cavalier about life and death, for killing people just because someone had deemed them a threat to the family. To be faced with the fact that the sergeant had likely killed so many more men, also deemed threats, only this time to the Allied cause . . . Did that make them the same?

  No. Whatever the sergeant was, he wasn’t Tony. Somehow she knew in her bones that Sergeant Danger was a good man caught in an awful situation.

  She gently touched her fingers to his jaw, wishing she could have met him in a different time, in a different place, untouched by war. “You’re right. You did what had to be done. And I’m sorry.”

  A beat passed, and then he exhaled. “Let’s get you back. I think we’ve both had enough excitement for one day.”

  She huffed a soft laugh and reluctantly dropped her fingers from his face. “Roger that.”

  A companionable silence surrounded them as they started down the street. A curiously relaxed feeling settled over her, as if the dangers of the last hour hadn’t happened. As if facing them down, with the help of the man by her side, had made her somehow invincible. With new eyes she took in the ancient buildings and narrow streets.

  “How is it you’re not lost?” she asked as he turned them onto another street. “Have you spent a lot of time in Rome?”

  “No. But I’m good with maps, mental or otherwise. Before the war, I was a surveyor.”

  “Really?” She laughed. “And here I thought you were a bank president.”

  He slid her an amused look. “I’d have to work in a city for that, and I don’t like cities.”

  “So, a surveyor, huh?” She followed him into a quiet plaza that looked vaguely familiar. “I bet the army was happy about that.”

  “The army? Nah, they didn’t care. They put me in the infantry, where I could work on my hand-to-hand combat skills.”

  “But wait—if you’re in the infantry, why are you in Rome?” she asked, surprised.

  “Because I am.” It was clear from his tone that he was done with questions, which was fine. Vi had her answer on whether Marcie was in danger. With that worry removed, anything else she learned merely iced the cake. Another turn, and she started recognizing stores and landmarks despite the dark.

  “We’re almost at the hotel,” she exclaimed, relief lifting her spirits.

  “We are.” The sergeant’s grim tone reminded her that his evening had been decidedly less successful.

  “I’m sorry about tonight,” she said, meaning it. “And I’m sorry you had to ruin your trousers. You won’t get in trouble, will you?”

  “No. Uniforms tend to get ruined when there’s a war going on.” He slid her a questioning look. “Speaking of which, where’s yours?”

  “My . . . ?” Her hands flew to the lapels of her borrowed coat as sudden dread washed over her. “Oh, Lord. My uniform is at the theater. I was in such a rush to follow you, I never changed.”

  “Guess you’ll have to get it tomorrow.”

  She pulled him to a stop. “But I need to wash my blouse tonight.”

  He held up his hand to quiet her protest. “I’m not taking you back to the theater, period. It’s already past your curfew.”

  “But—”

  “I said no, Virginia.”

  The sudden steel in his voice brought her up short. All of a sudden, the emptiness of the streets, the darkness of them, struck her. If she never made it back to the hotel, there was no one to connect her disappearance with the sergeant. She hadn’t told anyone what she was doing.

  He would be free and clear, and she would be dead.

  Swallowing her sudden fear, she took a step back, ready to bolt if she had to. Except the sergeant was in great shape. And certain to be faster than her, given her bruised knees.

  He sighed. “That wasn’t a threat, Miss Heart. I don’t kill women or children, even if ordered to, unless they’re armed and about to kill me or one of my men.”

  “Women and children have tried to kill you?” The very notion shocked her.

  “Not everyone is fond of American soldiers,” he said dryly, “particularly near the Austrian border.”

  “But Austria . . .”

  “Is behind enemy lines. Yes, I know.” He gave a humorless laugh. “Believe me, I was well aware of that.”

  “I’m glad they didn’t succeed,” she said quietly. She had never meant anything more. And she had never wanted anything more in her life than for this damn war to be over.

  “Tell you what—seeing as I can’t waltz into the hotel with you on my arm without causing a scandal—I’ll head back to the theater and get your uniform. There’s a good chance your friend Miss May might have brought it back to the hotel for you already, since you’ve been gone so long. But if not, I’ll knock on your door when I return. Give me thirty minutes or so. I’ve got something else I need to do first.”

  Guilt washed over her again. Of course he had other things he needed to do tonight, things that were going to end up delayed because of her impulsiveness. “Thank you.”

  “And, Virginia, as far as you or anyone else knows, Luciana is still in Nettuno, recovering. Got it? Because if Mr. Miller hears otherwise, your friend will be back in the chorus faster than you can blink.”

  “Yes, sir.” She saluted smartly.

  “You don’t salute sergeants, Vi,” he said, sounding a little exasperated.

  “Oh, sorry,” she said, tucking the information away. “And I can get to the hotel by myself from here.”

  “You got a key? The front door is likely locked by now.”

  “Of course it is.” She closed her eyes as unexpected tears of exhaust
ion and embarrassment welled up. “Criminy, but you must think I’m a big ninny!”

  “No, I don’t. Come on.” He took her elbow. “I’ve got a key.”

  “You know, I’m not always this much trouble,” she said once they were walking again.

  “Is that right?” He stopped outside the front door of the hotel and pulled a key from his trouser pocket. “Good to know.”

  She wiped her eyes and looked up at him. “Will you ever forgive me?”

  His hand lifted as if to touch her face, then dropped to his side again.

  “I already have.” He unlocked the door for her and then stepped back. “See you in thirty.”

  Chapter 27

  Vi slipped inside the dark foyer of the hotel, her heart in her throat as she peeked around. It would be a cruel irony if she was tossed out of the USO now, over a curfew violation that had nothing to do with sexual impropriety, after being so careful to hide her past all these weeks. Not seeing anyone, she tiptoed across the tile floor. A small light in the stairwell illuminating her way. Even though it was after midnight, she knew not everyone in the place would be asleep yet. But if she stayed really, really quiet—

  “Out kinda late, aren’tcha?” Frances’s voice pierced the silence.

  Vi jumped and then pressed a hand to her chest. “Good Lord, Frances. You just took five years off my life.”

  And of all the rotten luck . . . Of course it would be her archenemy to see her.

  “Who were you out with?” Frances asked.

  “No one.” With no choice but to brazen it out and hope for the best, Vi peered into the gloom of the foyer, trying to locate the girl. She finally saw her lounging on an upholstered chair in the corner, her stockinged feet dangling over the edge of the arm. “What are you doing down here?”

  Frances shrugged. “Couldn’t sleep. Gertie snores, and I didn’t feel like waking her.”

  “That’s really . . . kind of you,” Vi said, trying to hide her surprise.

  “You know, I’m not as big a bitch as you think I am,” Frances said dryly.

  “I never thought you were,” Vi said, edging toward the stairwell.

  Frances scoffed. “Liar. But that’s fine. I don’t like you, either.”

  “Why is that?” Vi paused. The sheer injustice of the girl’s animosity toward her demanded a reason, at least to Vi’s mind. “I’ve never done anything to you.”

  “It’s what you haven’t done. Like scrapped for a living, trying to find a way out of the tenement slum you were born into, doing whatever was necessary.” Frances laughed harshly. “I know all about your kind: born with a silver spoon in your mouth, never lacking for anything, taking what others have worked their buns off for, without a second thought.”

  Vi bristled. “Now hold on there! You don’t know the first thing about me.”

  “Really? Are you saying your daddy wasn’t rich? That you didn’t have new shoes and dresses growing up? That you didn’t always have enough to eat?”

  Vi took a deep breath. “I’m sorry your life was hard. But that doesn’t mean—”

  “You know, Janet was a scrapper, too,” Frances continued, as if Vi hadn’t spoken. “Her daddy liked to beat the hell out of her just for fun, but she didn’t let that hold her down. Like me, she worked her way up from nothing.”

  Ah, Vi thought, the root of the problem suddenly coming clear.

  “Did you even stop to think about what might happen to her when you breezed in like the queen anointed?”

  “Janet was your friend,” Vi said with quiet conviction.

  “And she’s twice the person you are,” Frances said, sitting up. The anger in her voice was sharp enough to draw blood. “And yet she was replaced by you. You! A two-bit corn princess with rich parents—and don’t bother denying it, I can tell just from the way you talk—who was out late tonight, likely doing things far worse than Janet ever did.”

  “You’re wrong about tonight,” Vi said, reaching for a calm she didn’t feel. “And about me not understanding what it’s like to fight for a living.”

  “Oh really?”

  Vi debated whether to have this out now or wait until they were both less exhausted and irritable. On the other hand, she remembered the power of confidences shared in the dark. It was about the only time her older sister would talk to Vi as an equal, when the rest of the world dropped away.

  Keeping her coat close around her to hide her costume, Vi walked over to the chair across from Frances and sat.

  “Look, I know you have no reason to believe me, but I’m not the pampered princess you think I am. I’ve slept on the floors of bus stations more times than I can count. I’ve had to choose between eating and buying new dance shoes because the ones I had had holes. And, believe it or not, I worked my ass off to become as good as I am.

  “I’m really sorry your friend was canned. But it wasn’t my call or even my suggestion. And, like it or not, there’s nothing either of us can do at this point except make the best of a bad situation. And since the troupe needs us both to succeed, can we at least call a truce?”

  Frances, wrapped in shadows, didn’t reply.

  Vi’s hopes faded.

  She started to get out of the chair. “Well, I should—”

  “I’ll have to think about it,” Frances said at last.

  A weight lifted off Vi’s shoulders, one she hadn’t even realized she was carrying.

  “Will you think about calling a truce with Marcie, too?” she asked, her fingers crossed. “I know for a fact she had nothing to do with Janet losing her spot.”

  At least not knowingly, she silently amended.

  “No.” Frances’s tone was flat.

  Vi sat back, honestly perplexed. “Why not? She’s apologized for insulting you and been on her best behavior recently.”

  “She’s a wop.”

  Anger flashed through Vi’s veins at the slur. “Stop! Don’t ever say that word in my presence again. I’ll put up with a lot of nonsense from you, but not that.”

  “Why not? Can’t I call a spade a spade?” Frances asked mockingly.

  “Not in front of me, you won’t. And you do realize you’re in Italy, which is filled with the very people you’re insulting.”

  “Yes, and I hate every minute of it.” Frances’s voice cracked with emotion, throwing Vi off-balance yet again. She couldn’t see the girl’s face in the gloom, but she was pretty sure she was crying, or else very close to it. Frances, the unassailable . . . To witness her so vulnerable was unsettling.

  “I didn’t want to come here,” Frances continued in a whisper. “I didn’t even know it was a possibility. I wouldn’t have signed on if I had known. I was thinking France, or the South Seas, or England. Anywhere else would’ve been okay . . .”

  A fraught silence filled the dark, and Vi shifted uncomfortably in her chair. “Frances, why do you hate Italians so much?”

  There was a small, choked sob from the other chair.

  “I won’t tell anyone else; I promise.” Vi leaned forward, trying to see through the dark. “Please tell me. I want to understand.”

  “They killed my brother.”

  The fury and anguish in Frances’s voice made Vi’s heart catch. She closed her eyes in shared sorrow, the enormity of the loss stealing all the air from the room. “I’m so, so sorry, Frances. For you and for your family.”

  “He was in North Africa, in the tank corps, and the Italians shelled his position.” Frances’s voice broke. “They killed him!”

  “It was the war that killed him. It could’ve been the Germans or the Japanese or anyone.”

  “I don’t care.” The coldness in Frances’s tone declared the subject closed.

  Vi drew a deep breath. “No, I suppose you don’t. And I’m sorry.”

  Frances sniffed. “Why? You never met him.”

  “No, but I have a sister I love like life itself. And I can’t imagine how I’d feel if Fern were killed, other than very, very angry at whoever did it.�
�� Her anger at herself for betraying her sister’s trust was gut wrenching enough.

  Aware of the minutes sliding by, Vi got to her feet. As awkward as it was to be caught by Frances coming in late, she at least hadn’t been caught by Sue or Wyatt, though her chances of that happening were increasing with every second. Nor did she want to be in the lobby when Sergeant Danger returned with her uniform in his hand. By himself, the sergeant could likely dance around Frances’s questions, disarming the girl’s suspicious nature. Heaven knew he had handled Vi’s attempts at interrogation easily enough. But she suspected he would have an easier time of it if she weren’t standing right there, arms outstretched for her clothes.

  “I’m heading up. You should probably get some sleep, too, since we have another performance tomorrow.”

  Frances waved her hand, and once again Vi wished she could see her expression in the dark. “You go ahead. Gertie’s probably still snoring.”

  Exhaustion hit her like a brick wall as she climbed the stairs. Forcing herself to stay upright, she knocked softly on her room door. Like everything else, her room key was still at the theater.

  “Marcie,” she called softly through the door. “It’s me. Can you let me in?”

  The lock snicked, and the door opened an inch. Marcie peered out blearily and then opened the door farther when she saw Vi.

  “Well, it’s about time,” Marcie said sourly.

  “Shhh.” Vi glanced up and down the hallway, hoping no one had heard her friend. She slipped inside past Marcie. Marcie closed and locked the door while Vi unbelted the coat she had borrowed.

  “Where did you go tonight?” Marcie asked in a quieter voice, though her annoyance was still plain. “I thought you had a headache.”

  Vi felt around for her mattress. With the blackout curtains drawn, it was like a tomb in their room. “I do, but I was out of aspirin powder. Do you know how hard it is to find a drugstore open at this time of night?”