by Julia Kelly
“I promise to keep a close eye on the time. I’d never live it down at the base if we had to be rescued,” Paul said. “Why is it called the Smugglers’ Cave? I always thought most of their hiding places were in the cliffs to the south, facing France.”
She shrugged. “That’s always been its name.”
“Well,” he said, stopping at the bend around the rocks lining the bottom of the cliff, “are you ready?”
She nodded. She thought he might give her his arm again, but instead he picked up her hand, twining it in his.
He tugged her into a run across the damp, hard-packed sand and shouted, “Come on then!”
She let out a surprised laugh, the tails of her coat flapping behind her as they sped along. She could feel the combs sliding from her hair, but rather than try to shove them back into place, she ripped them out, stuffing them into her pocket as Paul slowed to a stop before the slash in the rock that was the opening to the cave.
“Just like Mickey said it would be,” he muttered before turning to her. “Would you like to do the honors?”
She nodded, eyeing the gap in the rock. It had seemed so large when she was a child, but now she could see that it was little more than eighteen inches wide, although it was more than tall enough for Paul to enter without having to stoop. Turning sideways, she breathed in and shuffled into the cave.
“I can hardly see,” she said, any light from the entrance blocked as he shimmied through the gap behind her.
“Close your eyes.”
She did, listening to the scrape of his boots against the sand.
“Now open them,” he said, his voice coming from close to her right shoulder.
Her eyes flicked open, and she gasped. Now that Paul was by her side, the entire cave shimmered with the light streaming through the entrance. The walls glinted as she slowly swung around in a circle, as though she were standing inside a jewel.
“I can’t believe I don’t remember this,” she said.
“Mickey says it only happens during the winter months at certain times of day. The sun has to be low enough that it comes in through the entrance and hits the crystals in the walls at the right angle.”
“It’s beautiful,” she whispered, her eyes still fixed on the shimmering walls.
“Then it’s a surprise?”
She offered him a smile. “It is.”
He took a step forward. “Then would you allow me . . . ?”
She nodded and turned her cheek to him to permit him the kiss she hadn’t wanted anyone to see in the lane. His lips brushed skin, warm and soft. But he didn’t stop with a kiss on her cheek. He brought his lips to her cheekbones and then just to the side of her ear. Under her jaw and to the side of her mouth.
She shivered, her hands flexing by her sides, hardly knowing what to do for the wanting of him. But when he pulled back an inch and breathed, “Louise,” instinct took over. Her fingers wrapped themselves in the crisp lapels of his uniform, and she turned her mouth, bringing her lips to his.
He kissed her, long and sweet, with just a touch of pressure. His hands spread wide on her back, holding her to him and arching her body so it matched with his. Her lips opened, and she lost herself in the depths of an unhurried kiss for the first time in her life.
With a sigh of contentment, his hands stroked up her back, and he carefully, slowly pulled away. She felt almost drunk, unable to blink away the haze of pleasure that had settled over her in this extraordinary cave with this extraordinary man.
“Is there another man?” he asked quietly.
She shook her head.
He breathed out a sigh of relief. “Good. In the lane—”
“My mother hopes I’ll marry the village solicitor’s son, Gary, when the war is over.”
“That sounds very grand,” he said.
“It’s not. I promise.”
“And what would Gary think of you kissing me?” he asked.
Drawing her shoulders back, she looked at him square in the eye. “It doesn’t matter what he thinks.”
“Good. I shouldn’t like to steal a soldier’s girl.”
“I’m no one’s girl.”
He picked up her hand, toying with her fingers and turning them over as though memorizing every line of her knuckles. “Perhaps then, Louise, you might consider being mine.”
Louise floated home. Her shoes would need a good brushing to rid them of the damp sand, and she’d done her best to wrestle her hair into order on the beach, using Paul’s comb to scrape her set into place, but she had no doubt she looked something of a mess—a blissful mess.
The afternoon had been wonderful. They’d explored the cave as far as they’d dared, using a torch Paul had liberated from his base, and then settled down on a low, flat rock to split a Crunchie bar he’d bought in the NAAFI shop. True to his word, he’d kept an eye on his watch, and they’d made it out of the cave while the water was still low.
He’d walked her back to the bottom of the lane again, stealing kisses when they were sure they were out of sight. He squeezed her hand goodbye, but it wouldn’t be for long. He’d asked her to the cinema in Newquay later that week, taking advantage of a scheduled night of leave. He would meet her at the bus stop and they would go see Freedom Radio with Clive Brook and Diana Wynyard.
She suspected Kate would be more than happy to provide an excuse for her to miss the meal with her parents. In all likelihood, her cousin would insist that Louise borrow something else from her wardrobe, and perhaps dress her hair as well, insisting that an updo would look far more adult than her misbehaving waves.
Louise let herself through the garden gate, prepared to answer any of her mother’s inevitable, pointed questions about her afternoon. She’d gone for a walk with a book. (That would account for the time.) She’d decided to go to the beach. (That would account for the sand on her shoes.) It certainly was a windy day, but it had felt good to be outside in the sun after a dreary winter. (That would account for her windswept hair and rosy cheeks.)
With a little smile, she pushed open the unlocked front door of her parents’ house and shrugged off her coat.
“Louise, is that you?” her mother called.
“Yes, Mum. I’m just hanging up my coat.”
“Come join me in the parlor.”
Her hand stilled halfway to the hook. There was a pleasant sweetness to her mother’s voice that she only used when they had company.
“Just one moment,” she called back.
With her coat hung up, she smoothed her hands down the front of her jumper and straightened the collar of her white cotton shirt. Then she straightened the seams of her fawn-colored skirt, stretched a smile over her lips, and went through to the parlor.
Louise had been right. Her mother was perched ramrod-straight on the chintz chair, and to her left, sitting on the rose-patterned sofa with antimacassars covering the arms, was Mrs. Moss.
“Louise, how are you?” asked Mrs. Moss as she replaced the teacup she held in its saucer.
Louise clasped her hands behind her back, fingers twisting as she glanced from Gary’s mother to her own. “I’m very well, thank you.”
“Louise, won’t you join us?” her mother asked in a way that told her there was only one correct way to answer the invitation.
“If you don’t mind, I’ll just wash up. I was at the beach.” She edged to the door. “Perhaps I can bring you more hot water for the tea.”
“Louise, you will sit.” This time her mother’s voice brooked no argument. Louise sank into a chair. “Now, will you please explain why I received two telephone calls today asking me the name of the RAF officer you were with?”
“I—”
“Now, Mrs. Keene,” said Mrs. Moss, leaning her considerable bulk toward Louise’s mother, “I’m certain Louise meant nothing by it.”
“Then why is it that Mrs. Chalmers said he was waiting at the bottom of the road for her? What an utterly common thing to do. If he had any manners, he would’ve called on you,
” said her mother.
The very idea of Paul having to do something as old-fashioned as “call” on her so that her mother might scrutinize him and find him lacking in this parlor surrounded by lace curtains and bowls of potpourri made Louise recoil. But the real reason she’d asked him to meet her away from the house was so that she could avoid this very conversation.
“And then you were seen walking the steps from the beach with him,” her mother continued.
“Who was it who saw us?” Louise asked.
The question brought her mother up short, and she blinked at Louise a couple of times. “Mrs. Dorsey spotted you from the road. She was walking back with her shopping. She said she was so shocked that Gary’s girl was with another man she nearly dropped her string bag.”
I am not Gary’s girl. The words lodged on her tongue, but Mrs. Moss was leaning over to pat Louise’s mother on the arm.
“This is all just the idle gossip of housewives. Louise has never been anything but a good girl,” said Mrs. Moss.
“I will not have my daughter gallivanting around with some officer,” said her mother.
“He’s a friend,” said Louise before she could stop herself.
“A friend?” Her mother might’ve snorted if Louise had ever heard her make such an uncouth noise.
“Of course he is,” said Mrs. Moss. “It’s to be expected, with so many young people about. What’s his name, dear?”
“Flight Lieutenant Paul Bolton. He flies Spitfires for Coastal Command out of RAF Trebelzue,” Louise said reluctantly, for resistance would only encourage suspicion.
“And how did you meet him?” asked Mrs. Moss kindly. Except Louise had known Gary’s mother for long enough to know not to mistake kindness for empathy. Where her mother was all hard edges and flint, Mrs. Moss could pretend at softness, smothering people until they did or said whatever it was she wanted.
Carefully, Louise said, “He’s one of Kate’s friends. He wanted to see the Smugglers’ Cave, so I told him I would show him.” A half-truth and a little white lie, but she hoped it would be enough to squash her mother’s distrust.
“See, Mrs. Keene? There’s nothing more to it than that. Louise would never do anything to hurt Gary. Not while he’s being so brave, fighting for his country,” said Mrs. Moss.
There it was, the particular brand of crushing guilt that Mrs. Moss specialized in. Louise had told Paul the truth when she’d said that she was no one’s girl, but that didn’t account for the expectations of the two women sitting in front of her.
Setting her teacup aside, Mrs. Moss rose to her feet. “I really must be heading home or Mr. Moss won’t have a thing to eat for supper tonight.”
Louise’s mother shot Louise a look that told her the conversation was far from over, but busied herself showing Mrs. Moss out.
When the front door shut, Louise sucked in a breath, waiting for the inevitable. It came as soon as Rose Keene walked back into the room.
“I cannot believe that a daughter of mine would do anything so disgraceful,” her mother hissed.
“There was nothing disgraceful. I explained—”
“You were seen, Louise. Mrs. Dorsey saw you kiss that man on the steps leading away from the beach.”
Louise’s gaze fell to her hands. She knew there was no way she would be able to keep up the charade that she and Paul were simply friends. Not that her mother had believed it for one moment.
“Now,” her mother said, arranging herself primly in her chair, “you can understand why I chose to withhold that particular revelation from Mrs. Moss. I should hate to think that a mistake like this would make her think you had been untrue to Gary.”
“Mum . . .”
“That boy intends to ask you to marry him, mark my words. I will admit, I’d once hoped my daughter would set her sights higher than a small village solicitor’s son. If only your father would’ve shown some ambition, he might’ve been the postmaster at Truro and you would’ve met an entirely different class of person, but that wasn’t to be.”
The thumbnail of Louise’s left hand bit hard into her palm. She’d heard this story so many times before, but over the years it had been edited down. Gone were the mentions of her mother’s less-than-modest upbringing as a fisherman’s daughter. Gone were the tales of having just two dresses and one pair of shoes a year. Her mother had recast her history to suit her purposes, and now she intended to mold Louise’s future to further her frustrated ambitions.
“It’s clear that I cannot hope to keep this from Mrs. Moss forever,” said her mother. “You know how life in a village is. You should prepare yourself for her disappointment and hope that she chooses not to write to Gary about it.”
“Gary and I are not engaged to be married. We saw a film or two and went to a dance. That was all,” she protested.
“He was courting you, and if it hadn’t been for the war, you would’ve been engaged by now,” said her mother firmly.
The surety of her mother’s words choked her. Louise didn’t want to become her mother, her domain a small house in a little village with four hundred people, all of whom she’d known from birth. She wanted more—California skies and thrilling dances and handsome men asking her to be theirs—and meeting Paul had made it all seem somehow more possible.
“I don’t even know if Gary likes me,” she said.
“Gary adores you. Not that you deserve it, carrying on with officers,” said her mother.
“And what of what I want?” Louise asked. “You and Mrs. Moss have just decided that we were going to marry. No one ever asked me.”
“Enough!” her mother shouted. Placing a hand to her throat as she composed herself, she continued in a quieter voice, “This is not a matter for discussion, Louise. Now, go peel the potatoes. I will not have your father’s supper late to the table due to your selfishness.”
Louise’s lips pursed as she fought to hold back all the words she wanted to say, all the years of things she wanted to shout at her mother. But she knew better than most that trying to drive through an immovable mountain was impossible. Instead, she would somehow find the path around it.
6
CARA
When Cara’s phone pierced the silence of her house with its ringing, she lunged for it with a gasp of relief. She’d been hunched over her laptop at her kitchen table reading up on French verdure tapestry because Jock had sent her a scathing look that said, Not only am I annoyed, I’m disappointed, after she’d drawn a complete blank identifying a large tapestry she’d discovered rolled up in one of the Old Vicarage’s hall cupboards. It had been the low point of her Friday, a sign that her progress in getting up to speed was beginning to plateau.
When she flipped her phone over, a photo of her best friend, Nicole, grinned back at her. Swiping to answer, she said, “Hello, stranger. Fancy you calling me.”
“Not a stranger,” said Nicole over what sounded like her car’s hands-free system. “International business traveler of mystery.”
Cara laughed. “How was Switzerland?”
“Breathtakingly expensive. You wouldn’t believe how much a bottle of wine costs.”
“Sounds like you need to bring your own if the agency decides to keep sending you,” Cara said.
“Don’t think I haven’t considered bringing another suitcase. If I did my job well and the bank chooses to pick up my ad campaign, I’ll be spending at least a few months on-site. Speaking of wine, have you looked around the new neighborhood? Any good drinking establishments where you could take your oldest friend?” Nicole asked.
Cara traced one of the knots in her wooden kitchen table with the tip of her index finger. “There’s a pub just a couple blocks over on Church Road, and a few other places around.”
“How are they? I can’t believe how long it’s been since we were at uni. I’m sure everything’s changed except for the pubs.”
“Pubs never change. I can’t say for the other places. I haven’t been yet.”
“Caraaaa.”
Nicole drew out her name in mock disapproval that probably was also half-serious.
“I’ve been busy! I moved my entire life.”
“Oh, please. I know you. You were unpacked within three days of moving. Try another excuse,” said Nicole.
Actually, it had been more like two days, but Cara wasn’t going to give her friend any more ammunition.
“I’m also in a job that makes me feel like an idiot at least three times a day. I’m trying to study as much as I can, but Jock keeps throwing me questions I can’t answer,” Cara said.
The constant pressure of knowing that she should eke out just a little more study time had forced her to set the diary she’d found aside after that first night. But curiosity kept tugging at her. Cara knew wartime romances could burn hot and fast—Gran had met Granddad and been married in the space of four months—and already she could tell the girl in the diary had been swept away by the handsome pilot who’d taken her to the Smugglers’ Cave.
“You only feel like you don’t know everything yet because Jock has been in the antiques business for decades and you’re just starting out,” said Nicole, pulling Cara’s attention back to the present.
“Maybe.” She sighed. “It’s just that he took a chance on me and gave me a job—”
“He gave you a job, not a kidney. And from what you used to tell me, the man sounds like he can be an ass.”
“He’s not an ass,” Cara said, surprising herself at how quickly she rose to Jock’s defense. “He’s particular and very, very good at what he does. He wouldn’t have taken me on if he didn’t think I would be a benefit to the business, but that means he expects me to be able to do my job well now. Not in six months. Hence the studying.”
She could hear Nicole’s phone come off speaker, meaning her friend had arrived at her destination. Their call would be cut short and Cara would have to go back to more tapestry. Even she had to admit that didn’t exactly make for a thrilling Saturday.