Not2Nite

by Barbara Burke

  “Here we are. The embassy is right there across the square. You should be able to find your way from here without getting too terribly mixed up.”

  “Thank you…” Guy began humbly and then stopped. “Say, I don’t even know your name. What kind of an idiot wanders around London with a pretty girl on his arm and doesn’t even find out what her name is?”

  Wisely ignoring the second half of that exclamation, she said, simply: “It’s Molly.”

  “Thank you, Molly. I sure do appreciate your help. I reckon if you hadn’t come along, I’d have been found wandering in circles and completely out of my head by morning.”

  “Nonsense.” Molly laughed. “The nannies would have long since gotten you.”

  “You’re probably right,” Guy ruefully agreed. “I was reaching the point where the babies would have gotten me.”

  “Don’t sell yourself short,” Molly answered. “I can’t imagine what it would be like to have to find my way through New York in the middle of the night with nothing to guide me. I think you did very well.”

  “Well thank you again. Not just for guiding me, but for being so nice and lying about what you must consider my complete inadequacy. If not actually getting yourself killed counts as doing very well then I guess I aced it.”

  “You’re very welcome.” She held out her hand. “Good luck for the rest of your stay…”

  “There I go again being a complete idiot. It’s Guy,” he said as he took her hand in his.

  “You’re welcome, Guy.”

  She retrieved her hand and jammed it down into the pocket of her jacket. It was still winter, after all, and she suddenly felt the cold of standing alone without Guy’s warmth helping to fend off the chill. They stood for a minute, not sure how to move on from the moment. Finally Molly started to turn away.

  “Well, cheers,” she said. “It was nice meeting you. Try not to get lost crossing the square.”

  Without another word she plunged into the alley and almost immediately disappeared from sight.

  Chapter Two

  All thoughts of Miss Mapplethorpe had long since evaporated. All Guy knew now was that one minute he was walking down the road bantering with the pretty girl on his arm and the next he was standing outside in the middle of winter in the middle of London all alone. Who in their right mind would think that was a fair trade off?

  Not him.

  “Hey, wait up!”

  Without thinking he plunged back into the alley.

  When he smacked right into her, he realized that perhaps he’d plunged into the alley just a little too aggressively. Quite possibly, if he had been a little less precipitous, she would have been able to stay on her feet despite the rubble strewn across the ground, in particular the rather large piece of brickwork that caught her foot and twisted beneath it as she stepped forward to regain her balance.

  Unfortunately that wasn’t the case. She went down like a bowling pin.

  Strike.

  Once again Guy was glad the darkness hid his face because he could feel it burning with embarrassment. At least he hadn’t fallen down on top of her. It was small compensation.

  “Molly, I am so sorry. Are you able to get up?”

  She had already pulled herself to her hands and knees, and he carefully put an arm around her waist before taking her hand to lift her up. When she put one foot beneath her to rise he felt her wince.

  “Let me take your weight,” he ordered. “You might have sprained your ankle.”

  “Who might have sprained my ankle?” The indignation in her voice rang clear, but she nonetheless allowed him to help her to her feet before letting herself rest against his firm support.

  “Do you think you can walk?” Guy asked, wisely ignoring her words. “I think it would be best to get you to the embassy and have a look at the damage under some light. Should I carry you?”

  “Certainly not. You’d probably drop me in the Thames.”

  “We’re miles from the Thames.”

  “I have every confidence in your ability to do so nonetheless. Just give me your arm. I don’t think anything’s broken.”

  Guy couldn’t help but admire her spirit. He reckoned this was probably how the Brits managed to sing and play cards in the bomb shelters every night before emerging for a full shift at work the next day. But he wasn’t going to let her practically carry herself to the embassy. At least this was one thing he was good for.

  “Put your arm around my neck. Which is the bad ankle? The left one? Let me come around to that side.”

  As she raised her arm obediently, he slipped his right arm around her waist, taking most of the weight off her left side.

  “Now just use that foot for balance if you can put any weight on it at all. If not you can hop along or swallow your pride and let me carry you.”

  “This is fine, thank you,” she said, a little breathlessly. “We haven’t got far to go, and I’m sure I can manage. It’s starting to feel better already.”

  They slowly made their way around the square until they reached the gates of the embassy. Fortunately, comings and goings at all hours of the day and night were not unusual, and it wasn’t long before Guy had Molly inside and seated on an upright chair in the foyer. He knelt down before her.

  For the first time he was able to see her face. She looked like every American’s dream of an English girl. Her face was small and heart-shaped and sported a peaches and cream complexion. It was always startling to see it in real life because it was such a tired stereotype in just every book that had come out of the country since God still had training wheels on his bicycle. All the pilgrims in The Canterbury Tales were probably described with just such a complexion. At least all the girl pilgrims. If they described people’s complexions in books back then. He realized he was internally babbling.

  Her hair was caught back under a metal helmet and rolled into a chignon or whatever it was women called that complicated sausage thing they all seemed to be able to construct from the cradle on. Getting knocked down hadn’t done the style much good. A lock had fallen askew and lay draped along her cheek. He couldn’t call it honey colored, even when it glistened like molten gold in the bright light from the overhead chandeliers. That was just silly and romantic.

  But he wanted to.

  She had a straight, small nose under dark lashes and brows that swept across her face to taper off in a small lilt. That didn’t make any sense, but it was true nonetheless.

  He decided it might not be a good idea to think about that mouth. But just for the record, if someone was going to cuss him out and dress him down, that was the mouth to do it with because nothing bad could ever be associated with those lips. Nothing. Not ever.

  She had her eyes closed. He really wanted to see what color they were. Something exotic? Or something, like that peaches and cream complexion, that just seemed exotic because he couldn’t believe it was really true.

  They were brown. Really unmistakably brown. Like hot chocolate brown. Like the tip on the tail of a Siamese cat brown. Who knew eyes could be that brown? Who knew that a simple word like brown could refer to such an amazing, why-isn’t-this-color-in-the-rainbow shade?

  “Well, have you made up your mind?” The amusement in Molly’s voice tempered the abrupt question. Her eyes were open. Of course, idiot! How else could he know what color they were? And he’d just been gawking at her like a teenager. He was momentarily at a loss for an answer, and apparently it showed on his face.

  “Am I a real live girl or a creature from the far side of the moon?” she prompted.

  He smiled. “I can’t decide,” he admitted. “On the one hand you sure feel like a real live girl. But on the other hand I wouldn’t be a bit surprised to learn that you fell down to earth from somewhere up in the heavens.”

  “Ah, then that must explain why my ankle hurts. Nothing to do with goings on down here. It was strictly my own clumsy landing that was to blame.”

  He grinned. “You said it, not me. How does it fe
el now you’ve taken the weight off it?”

  She straightened her leg out in front of her. It was sheathed in a fine, gray wool trouser, now somewhat mucky around the knee area. There was a small triangular tear in the material just above her shin, but the leg beneath it didn’t seem to be cut. No blood had seeped through onto the fabric. From what he could make out, Guy was rather sorry he wasn’t looking at her leg clad in a sheer silk stocking, but that was a bit of selfishness on his part, as he freely admitted to himself. If she hadn’t been wearing trousers, the damage might have been considerably greater. As it was at least her skin remained intact. Gingerly she rotated her ankle.

  “It’s moving quite freely. Nothing broken or even badly sprained by the feel of it. Just a momentary jarring.” She put her foot back on the ground and bounced it up and down a few times. “If I can just have five minutes to rest it, I’ll be as right as rain in no time and on my way.”

  “What?” Guy sat back on his heels. “You’re injured! You can’t just swan off into the night like some kind of cowboy at the end of the main feature. Who do you think you are? Roy Rogers or something?”

  Molly gave him a long look from beneath those lilting brows. Under her steady gaze, he felt himself, if not exactly shrinking, certainly starting to have second thoughts about his impulsive exclamation.

  “Mr…”

  “Guy. Please.”

  There was that look again before resignation replaced it.

  “All right then. Guy. I’m sorry to have to repeat myself, but at the risk of boring you, I’ll once again ask. Don’t you know there’s a war on? I may not be dressed in khaki or have some sorts of epaulets on my shoulders, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have a duty to discharge. And unless and until I’m truly incapacitated, I intend to discharge that duty to the best of my ability. And you have neither the right nor the authority to stop me. Is that quite clear?”

  It certainly was.

  “Yes, ma’am,” was all Guy could come up with. He wasn’t a stupid man, and he knew this was a battle he had no hope of winning. And to make matters worse, she was quite right. If she had some sort of role to play in all this chaos that raged across Europe then he couldn’t, and didn’t want to, stop her.

  Molly smiled and was gracious in victory. “In any case I think given the nature of my injury, Roy Rogers is a ridiculous analogy. Hopalong Cassidy seems much more suitable, wouldn’t you say?”

  “You may be a lot of things,” Guy said. “But Hopalong Cassidy isn’t anything like the first thing that springs to mind.”

  “It must be the hat. I’m wearing the wrong one.”

  He watched her for a minute as she carefully manipulated her foot. He was still kneeling on the cold marble tile in front of her.

  “Let me do that,” he said and gently lifted her foot, quickly unlacing it from her sensible brogue and cushioning it on his bent legs. “I may not know a lot about war work, but I do know how to ease an injury.” He cupped the foot in his hands and began rubbing it with his thumbs.

  “Mmmm, that feels good.” Molly unlatched her helmet and pulled it off. She rested her head against the back of the chair and closed her eyes. “You could make a fortune massaging the poor work worn feet of shop assistants and land army girls.”

  “Hey! Nothing so prosaic. I’ll have you know I’ve got my heart set on the dainty digits of show girls and opera dancers.”

  “Fair enough,” Molly conceded. “This isn’t your war. You can be as self-serving as you like and leave the poor working girls to the tender mercies of their flatmates and families.”

  “Self-serving?” Guy feigned indignation. “I like that! I look upon it as contributing my bit to keeping spirits up by making sure those poor girls didn’t hobble across the stage wincing and making every uniformed man in the audience wonder what he was fighting for.”

  Molly laughed. “I’m sorry I misjudged you.”

  “So where is it you’re off to in such a hurry?” Guy asked. “You said you work at night. I don’t already have a dancer’s feet in my hands, do I? I know you told me what you do, but to tell you the truth I didn’t actually understand what you meant.”

  “Good heavens, there may be a war on, but times aren’t so desperate that they’d let me on a stage. You’ve only got one foot in your hands, but if I took the other shoe off, you’d see that it was also decidedly left. I’m an air raid warden.”

  “What’s that?” It sounded awfully grim. Could she be a Miss Mapplethorpe in the making after all?

  “A look out, mostly. I’m basically in charge of making sure everyone’s safe in the event of an air raid. Except when there’s an actual air raid on, wardens spend most of their time checking to see there are no lights showing. It’s amazing what people think they can get away with.” She glared at him severely, but he could see the hint of a smile on the corner of those aristocratic lips. “I’m afraid there are people in my district who consider us proper nuisances and nosy parkers.”

  “So that’s what you’ll be doing tonight? Patrolling around making sure everyone has their blackout curtains up?” Guy knew he should shut up, but he couldn’t help himself. Even if he got another one of those looks and a lecture, he had to protest. “Even if it’s not broken or sprained, your ankle is in no condition to support you wandering about all night. Isn’t there someone else who could take over?”

  “No, there isn’t anyone. In actual fact, I am the someone else. I won’t be patrolling tonight. I’m usually in charge of co-ordinating the wardens in my group, and someone’s done a bunk for the evening. I’m filling in and will have the rather cushy job of sitting on a roof and watching out for planes. So unless there’s a bad air raid, and I understand Herr Goering is running out of planes and petrol so we haven’t had one lately, I’ll be quite comfortable and able to baby my ankle.”

  She lifted her foot out of his grasp. “That feels much better, but I really think I should go now. Thank you so much.”

  “I’m the one who’s supposed to be thanking you. Remember?”

  “Let’s call it even, shall we?” she suggested, rising from the chair.

  “Not a chance. I still owe you.”

  “Nonsense. As I’ve already said, I would have done the same for anyone. You’ve already thanked me.” She paused in the midst of buttoning her helmet back on and frowned up at him. Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “You did thank me, didn’t you? I’ve lost track.”

  “Thank you,” Guy responded promptly. “There. Whatever came before, the answer is now yes.”

  Molly laughed. “You’re welcome.”

  She held out her hand. “Goodbye. I hope you enjoy the rest of your stay in London and things work out with your uncle.”

  She was clearly determined to be on her way. But Guy had no intention of letting her disappear into the night. Not without giving it the old college try.

  “Can I at least offer you a brandy before you go—for strictly medicinal purposes, of course.” He stopped, realising where he was. “Or a cup of tea? That’s the English solution to whatever ails you, isn’t it? I can get some water boiling in no time. If I can find the kitchen,” he added, doubtfully. “I’m sure I can rustle up an ADC or someone who can manage it.”

  “No, really. Thank you, but I’m already late. I truly must be going.”

  “It’s against all the rules of hospitality to let you walk out like this,” Guy argued. “If my mother found out, I’d be turned away from the door when I got back home. You wouldn’t want to be responsible for making me homeless, would you?”

  She cocked her head to one side and brushed a stray honeyed curl off her cheek. Her eyes twinkled. “Would you like me to write a note for you excusing your behavior?”

  “Gee, that would be great! Would you mind?” Guy grinned and started rifling through his pockets. “Let me see if I’ve got a notepad or something here. If you could just write down that it was all your fault and I’m completely blameless, I may be able to spend next Christmas in the
bosom of the family instead of miserable and alone with nothing to keep me warm but a threadbare overcoat and a cheap bottle of hooch.”

  He pulled out an American quarter and a British shilling, a rumpled handkerchief, the stub of a pencil, a piece of meat packer’s string carefully wrapped and tied in a bow, some candy, and a torn ticket from, apparently, the New York subway system. There was clearly not the slightest bit of paper to be found.

  He frowned down at the ticket stub. “Where did that come from?”

  “I’d be more inclined to wonder what a grown man was doing with a bag of candy,” Molly said.

  Guy’s focus on the ticket stub shifted abruptly to the cellophane package of pastel lozenges. “Those are Sweethearts. A very special girl gave them to me for Valentine’s Day.”

  “Of course,” Molly said. “Although I would have thought you’d be the type to prefer something a little less sweet and a little more liquid.”

  “Well, generally speaking that’s true. But not when the person who wants to be my Valentine is five years old. And not when her father outweighs me by twenty pounds and has been regularly beating the bejeezus out of me since before living memory. I know where to draw the line.” He quickly ripped the package open and held it out. “My niece gave them to me, and she’s destined to ace kindergarten because she’s very big on sharing. Would you like one?”

  “I haven’t tasted candy in over a year,” Molly admitted. “Sweets were one of the first things to disappear off the shelves when rationing was instituted. I don’t think I can resist.”

  She reached into the package and pulled out a yellow candy shaped like a heart.

  “It’s got something written on it,” she said.

  “That’s the message. Some people live their lives based on what’s written on a Sweetheart candy. It’s kind of like a fortune cookie from a Chinese restaurant or those creepy fortune telling machines at the carnival, only you get to eat the words. What does yours say?”

  Molly looked down and then laughed. “‘Not2Nite.’ Disregarding the dubious spelling, what does that mean?”