Looking up at him, she observed how solid he appeared, a soldier come to save her, just as his family had saved hers, so many Christmases ago, with a single purchase of a gentleman's gold traveling set. She wondered whether the elegant fingers stroking her now had ever touched those luxurious combs and brushes, pushing back that stubborn lock of brown hair off his forehead.
‘Tell me,” she protested. He had to lean forward to hear, her voice was so soft “I want to know everything about you! Where you'll be flying. When do you leave?” He watched, beguiled, as she pulled her hands back and lightly ran them across the bare skin at her throat “Will you be fighting?” She drew her brows together in concern, a foreign line crossing her smooth brow. The room was coming back into focus.
Harry did his best impersonation of his father, stern-faced and aristocratically nonchalant.
“I'm teaching navy pilots right now—and I'll…” He paused; it was against his nature to lie. “I'll be flying combat missions, probably in the Pacific, as soon as I've fulfilled some family obligations.” His voice descended into a baritone, just as his father's would have.
“Family obligations.’’ Her own high spirits were dashed. Claire couldn't see his face as he retreated back into the brass-studded leather chair out of the light of the fire.
The fiancée, Claire thought, is this where she comes in? She waited.
Harry cleared his throat and clasped his hands under his chin. How could this girl be expected to understand that in families like his, marriages were deals? How many times had he been cautioned that matrimony was the glue that bound together good families and good genes, and that the heart had no place in this anatomy? Harry turned toward the window. He couldn't meet her eyes.
As if by intuition Claire could read his thoughts: She was losing him.
Out of her gilded female past, she summoned up her teachers. She needed their guidance to hold his attention. What would her practical mother have done? Claire puckered her lips as if she had just bitten into a sour apple. Probably have handed him over to the Pettibone girls, like her dress, as if Claire weren't worthy of him.
What about Auntie Slim? Claire frowned. Auntie Slim would be no help. She wasn't interested in becoming a rich man's mistress or the target of powder-room slurs.
And Amelia Earhart? What would her heroine have done? Claire wondered. Amelia wouldn't let him just fly away, that's for sure. Not the adventuress. But how would Daisy Armstrong have stopped him?
And then she knew.
Claire blushed. She laid her arm on Harry's jacket sleeve. Her angel-light touch brought Harry back, away from his Tuxedo Park promises.
Two powerful urges were at work. Their passion was pulling them within a hair's breadth of one another. And the practicality of their respective escapes was pushing them even closer.
Harry could, with one full bend of the knee, acquire a wife and fulfill his obligation to the Harrison ancestors so that he could fly in this war instead of only train other air jockeys. And he could release himself from his unofficial engagement to Minnie. Harry grinned mischievously. He could return to Tuxedo with this pretty girl on his arm, striking out in independence with a single defiant act even while fulfilling his duty to ensure there would be a Roman numeral VI to follow his own V. Yes, he thought, putting a protective arm around Claire, by tangling his fingers in her silken hair, by making her a Harrison, he'd get his freedom to fly without the ball and chain of Minnie. Looking now at Claire's face in the firelight, he could barely remember what Minnie looked like.
“I think you've bewitched me, Claire Organ.”
Claire studied him as she would study one of her stamps under a magnifying glass. Harry's rangy good looks were appealing, as was his bookish curiosity; she found his sincerity and fine manners attractive, his honesty truly wonderful. In fact, in a vague whirl of fleeting images, he reminded her of someone. Someone important to her. She also couldn't quiet the recurring thought that he might be her ticket out of a dead-end job at the store.
The firelight danced on her face as she widened her violet eyes, inviting him in. It suddenly dawned on her. He resembled an awkward version of the man she had danced with in a thousand dreams. If he were only gray at the temples and a little more aloof, he would look just like the man she had been in love with since she was five: the man from the Marshall Field's catalog.
And so, motivated by a surge of youthful passion coupled with earthly practicality, their mouths moved nearer to one another and, closing their eyes, lips touching, they soared into the future with a kiss.
His mouth closed on Claire's with such intensity that her lips opened in surprise, allowing his breath to sweep into her. She lifted her hands up to Harry's face to hold him there in the most natural untutored impulse. Her hands rested on his ears, blocking out all other sounds and sensations other than the pull of their continuous kiss. He managed to take in some air without removing his mouth from hers and she sucked the breath gently out of him as if they were sharing oxygen. He was stirred to every part of his body.
Harry had been taught the relevancy of God, Duty, Country, Family, but never the pleasure of guiltless love or the fine-tuned maneuvers of a naturally gifted lover.
They were perfectly suited to one another. He drew her up to him and her lithe body molded to his like molten lava so there was no space between them. The lights and the fire caught him standing over her so that his darkened shadow covered the wood-paneled wall behind them. Opening her eyes as she kissed him, she suddenly turned her lips away and pointed.
“Look, Harry Harrison. You're larger than life,” she exclaimed. “Look at your giant shadow.”
Harry was gone, lost in a waterfall he had never fallen over before. He buried his head in her breast, inhaling her, his fingers tangled in her loose hair, enveloping her body, messing up her dress. If it weren't for the cumbersome dress, he might have been inside of her, their contours were so indistinguishable, his shadow swallowing hers.
Finally, Claire shook loose and pushed him away. Her laugh was clear and silvery and her high color genuine as she deftly smoothed the folds of her bodice that his hands had rearranged. Her eyes were coy as she lowered her lashes and glanced quickly to see if her small, high breasts were covered.
“Excuse me, fly-boy.” She was breathless. “I was wishing that you'd take me flying, but I was kinda hoping you'd use a plane.” She dimpled at him.
“What are you doing tomorrow?” He studiously examined his Cartier tank watch like a flight plan, his lips on her ear. Tomorrow was only an hour away.
“It's my eighteenth birthday,” she whispered, a private smile on her lips. “I'll be a woman, legally.”
There was a moment of stillness as he looked at her. “You already are.”
Harry wrinkled his forehead, the brows becoming a single furrow. “Well then, I better take you home so I can pick you up.” He pressed his mouth against her cheek. He couldn't seem to stop touching her.
A date. He was making a date with her! But he still hadn't explained away the sort-of fiancée.
“Your birthday!” Now his grin was wide. Claire recognized his teeth as rich people's teeth—big and white and well tended to. “How would you like it if I took you flying? Really flying.”
She clapped her hands together, dismissing once and for all the invisible fiancée. As she well knew, if the merchandise wasn't out on the counter, the customer stopped wanting it.
“I'll be by for you at ten,” he said. “I'd suggest you lose the dress for some trousers. Unless you think you're going to need a parachute.” The dress. She looked down horrified at the pricey, voluminous borrowed Charles James that now looked as if it had been rolling around the hayloft.
A grave look suddenly fell over Harry's features. Minnie had come trotting back into his thoughts. “How do you feel about horses?” he asked.
“Horses?” she asked. Claire had no idea how much her answer mattered.
She put his hand on her cheek. “The only ho
rse I care about is Pegasus. He has wings.”
Delighted, Harry kissed her full on the lips and sped off to prepare for the Claire-filled day ahead.
Back in her closet-sized bedroom, Claire slung her dress over a straight chair, ignoring the padded hanger and tissue paper, and dived into bed. She had only a few hours to dream until Harry would be back to pick her up. She snuggled naked under the covers, for the first time leaving her flannel nightgown in the drawer, kicking Raggedy Ann and Pooh Bear off the bed. It had been an hour's drive from Lake Forest to Hyde Park and it would be another hour back. And then back again. Claire had tested his interest in her and he had passed the long-distance marathon. In the morning, she absentmindedly pushed past her mother with a breezy kiss and told the Aunties to put her birthday on hold. She was going to meet some friends.
“I love you, dears,” she called over her shoulder to the astonished ladies.
“I didn't know she had friends.” Miss Wren clucked in surprise.
Claire was already out of earshot and far down the hall, bypassing the slow elevator to skip down the stairs instead.
In the driveway, Harry, grinning and daylight handsome in the cool morning air, was holding open a leather flying jacket for her. She slipped her arms into the sleeves as he enfolded his arms around her.
They were aloft. Flying high over the planetarium, Marshall Field's, and city hail, Harry turned left and buzzed the Windermere Hotel. Claire gave him the thumbs-up from her backseat bird's-eye perspective as he swung out over the copper-domed Museum of Science and Industry and headed east out to the lake, until there was nothing but a brilliant morning sky, ice-blue water, and Harry and Claire in the Lockheed Electra.
There was snow. From the air, the frozen ground was a precise quilt laid out in blocked squares of white lace and linen. It felt as if the world below them, nestled under its winter blanket, mattered so much less than the closed space they inhabited together within the silver hull.
Claire inched closer to her handsome pilot. The engine noisily reverberated through the plane. Peering out the window, Claire was lost in a trance. The trees were trimmed in ice ornaments, sparkling like white diamonds in the morning sun. It was magic. She had never felt like this. Freely flying, time lost to space, soaring like Amelia.
She looked at Harry's large hands pulling back on the throttle. She liked the look of his strong neck as he turned from the task to her and back. She liked the way his leather aviator's jacket cracked as he expertly swung the plane around, in complete control. The ride was smooth. He was so good-looking squinting into a sun brightened by the snow's reflection. His eyes crinkled at the corners and he pushed on a pair of aviator glasses. And then he turned to her.
Either he was the handsomest fellow she had ever encountered or she was falling in love.
So Claire was merely shy but not offended when Harry drove directly from the airfield, where small planes hastily commandeered for Illinois Civil Defense were being painted camouflage colors, to the Palmer House. Packed with young men in uniform in the cocktail-hour commotion, the hotel's revolving door spilled out equal numbers of navy, marine, and army recruits with colorful precision in a parade of white, blue, and khaki. Laughter floated out from Trader Vic's like some tropical port of call. It was an eerie last hurrah for these untested military men, many of whom would soon ship out and likely die trying to recapture the very South Seas islands this hot spot gaudily imitated with its tiki torches and Polynesian totems.
The irony of the moment was lost neither on the well-read Claire nor on Harry, who was already savvy to War Department secrets. The Japanese had attacked the Philippines, Malaya, Wake Island, and Guam the day after Pearl Harbor. Harry knew of the reclamation plans and that even he could lose his young life for a piece of dirt on one of these palm-tree pockets of paradise in the South Pacific. Upstairs in the main lobby, music from the Empire Room rumba-boom-boomed with an urgent hilarity. There was more swaying than dancing going on as Claire and Harry poked their windblown heads inside to watch the clenched couples for a moment before he guided her to the brass floral-engraved elevator doors.
On the ride up, Claire nervously studied her boots as Harry awkwardly searched for the room key in the side pocket of his jacket.
What was she doing? she asked herself. She fought down the grown-up feelings he had aroused in her. Had she lost her mind? Was she going to give her virginity to a total stranger? Well, she assured herself, not really a stranger after a dozen dances, seven hours of conversation, and a ride in the sky. In the days before Pearl Harbor, the intensity of their night and a half together would have stretched out for months and been considered a long courtship. War hormones simply speeded up the process. Why, then, was she feeling like a village virgin about to be sacrificed to the lord of the manor, who was off to fight the Crusades?
She folded her slender arms across her chest. “I think we should shut down the engines right here. Slow down a bit. I mean, I'm not that kind of girl.” She realized too late that she'd just let a schoolgirl cliché tumble out of her mouth.
“I mean, Lieutenant Harrison, aren't you being just a bit presumptuous?” She wished the rush of erotic feelings inside her would be still.
“Geez, Claire,” he ventured cautiously. “I thought you'd like a little supper and some private time … like last night.”
“In your suite?” she queried sharply in her mother's voice.
“Well actually, it belongs to my dad. He owns an interest in this hotel with Cyrus.”
The Pettibones again. Was she actually going to lose her virginity in one of their business holdings? She flashed Harry an angry look.
“I … certainly didn't mean to give the impression…” Harry's words were pleading forgiveness but his eyes were full of desire. “You see, there isn't a decent restaurant in town that hasn't been invaded by some branch of the military. I figured the only way we could have a quiet dinner was in a private suite.” A shock of hair fell into his hazel eyes. As Harry brushed it aside, an irresistible grin spread across his face. “Besides, we had to fall out of the sky sometime, didn't we?”
“But that doesn't mean we have to fall straight onto a mattress.”
“Look, if you'd rather, we could eat downstairs at Trader Vic's or at the nightclub with all the other soldiers and their girls. I simply thought you'd prefer someplace quiet where we could talk. I thought you might enjoy it. Claire,” he said softly, “it's only dinner.”
He waited earnestly for her answer.
With all the other soldiers and their girls. Yes, Claire thought, their girls. She stole a glance at Harry's patrician profile. Beguiled by his boarding-school manners and Ivy League look, tonight, even if it only lasted until the clock struck twelve, she would be like one of those swaying couples downstairs, closely held and possibly even cherished.
The elevator stopped at the penthouse. Claire took a deep breath then reached for Harry's arm and stepped out. “Which way to private dining? I'm famished.” She twinkled at him. So what if she might end up being dessert? She laughed, giddy with the prospect of the evening before them.
“What's so funny?” Harry ushered her into the marble entry of the suite, flipping on an enormous crystal chandelier with the stem of his aviator's glasses.
“I was just thinking about dessert”
“The lady is already contemplating dessert?” Claire found the slow grin spreading across his face very appetizing. “I thought you were the one who wanted dinner.” He studied the menu on the desk. “How about a bottle of wine? Shall we start with a little game hen? A hock of ham? And maybe I can scare up a cannoli or two from the Pettibones’ troppo Italian table?”
“Can you imagine? Mussolini is the bad guy and the Pettibones have the audacity to throw a goombah carnevale!”
“Well, what do you expect?” Harry smirked. “All the women in that family have linguine and clams for brains.”
They both started to laugh.
She moved over to the couch
and sank down into its plush burgundy velvet while he picked up the telephone to order.
“It'll be a while. Catering says there are three wedding parties going on downstairs and a bunch of soldiers’ farewell bashes. Do you mind? Can I get something, for you? Canned goods? Some army rations?” His grin was lopsided.
“You could light the fire.” Claire crossed her trim ankles and leaned back lazily on her arms.
She watched as he tossed his learner jacket over a satin chair, loosened his Princeton tie, and unbuttoned the first button of his white shirt. Perspiration stains made half-moons under his arms. The firelight sparkled across his handsome face as he stoked the flame. She rose and walked over to him. It seemed only natural that he should take her in his arms and bring their lips together. After all, both of them had been thinking about it all afternoon. They took their time, taking each other's breath away, dropping their inhibitions as they listened to one another's heartbeats instead of following the Boy Scouts’ handbook. He was pulling off her cashmere cardigan and laying it over his jacket. She was turning her slender figure toward him, now emphasized by the matching gray pullover and slim trousers she wore.
“Your hair is beautiful in this light,” he said, gently pulling the side barrettes out so that the length of her hair tumbled over her shoulders.
“Yours, too,” she brushed the errant shock of hair out of his eyes.
“You just want me to see better so I can tell you how lovely you are.”
She lightly placed her fingers on his crocodile belt and then lifted her eyes to his. He took her fingers from his belt and brought them to his lips, swallowing hard.
“Is it the war or is it me?” His question was sincere.
“I'm not sure.” She bit her lower lip.
“An honest woman.” He smiled, regaining his composure.
Then be an honest man … Is it me, or is it because she's not here?” Claire took a step back, the reflection of the fire dancing on her hair and slender neck.
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