"You seem antsy," Margaret said.
David took a deep breath.
"I'm just wondering whether I should be here."
"Do you want to leave?"
"No," David said. He held his partner closely as they moved in tight circles on the living room floor. "I don't."
"I'm glad you don't. I'm having fun."
"I am too."
David tightened his hold on Margaret as "Tuxedo Junction" gave way to "Moonlight Serenade" on a long-playing Glenn Miller record. He tried to imagine dancing with the same woman at a lavish ball or a New Year's Eve party and succeeded without much effort. It was easy to imagine possibilities with Margaret Doyle in your arms.
As the slow ballad continued to play, David felt Margaret draw slightly closer and begin to relax. For the second time in several minutes, he asked himself an uncomfortable question. Was something happening? If so, what should he do about it?
"This is nice," Margaret said.
David offered a wary smile.
"It is."
Margaret returned the smile.
"It's much nicer than riding a Ferris wheel."
David chuckled.
"I hope so."
Margaret took a breath.
"I feel bad that I never thanked you for saving my life."
"You don't need to thank me," David said.
"Maybe I want to."
"OK. You can thank me."
"All right," Margaret said. She met his gaze, leaned forward, and kissed his cheek and then his lips. "Thank you."
David sighed.
"You're welcome."
For thirty seconds, the two locked eyes, held each other tightly, and moved at an increasingly slower pace. For half a minute, time stood still.
David studied Margaret's face and looked for a reason to walk away, but he couldn't find one. He saw longing in her eyes and sadness and passion.
He leaned forward and answered her soft kiss with one of his own. Sensing some resistance, he backed away and slowed the dance to a stop. He expected Margaret to frown or say something or perhaps pull away, but she didn't do any of these things.
Instead, she did something else. She advanced. She gently draped her arms around David's shoulders and kissed him again, this time longer and more forcefully.
David responded in kind and then upped the ante. He lifted Margaret off her feet, pressed his eager mouth against hers, and spun her around.
Locked in a deep, passionate embrace, the not-so-platonic lovers moved from one end of the living room to the other. They bumped into tables and knocked over lamps. They moved joyously, clumsily, and rapidly toward a hallway, a bedroom, and an outcome that both had wanted for weeks and would surely regret.
As they did, David heard a voice, a voice in his head that called to him frequently and dispensed advice he did not want to hear. More often than not in his twenty-six years, he had ignored the voice or tuned it out. This time he did not.
"I can't," David said. He released Margaret and gently pushed her away. "I want to. I want to more than anything, but I can't. This is wrong."
Margaret trembled as she considered his words. She stared at David with eyes that revealed disappointment, confusion, and shame. Then she nodded, turned away in an apparent effort to hide tears, and ran through the hallway and into her room.
David considered running after her but decided to let her go. He could not mend her heart any more than he could mend his own. So he left.
He moved toward the door, exited the residence, and stepped into the muggy, gray July afternoon. He looked at the house across the street, took a deep breath, and walked slowly toward his temporary home and his complicated life.
As he crossed the street and glanced at his living room window, David saw his sister move about the room. He did not see another woman, in another house, press her fingers to her lips as she stared out her living room window and watched him walk away.
CHAPTER 53: MARGARET
Tuesday, July 24, 1945
Sitting at a picnic table in a neighborhood park, Margaret watched two people she knew interact on a spacious lawn. She found the scene both uplifting and upsetting.
She found the scene uplifting because it evoked happiness. Few images brought smiles to faces faster than the sight of a mother walking hand-in-hand with her young daughter.
Margaret found the scene upsetting because it also evoked sadness. Few images brought frowns to faces faster than the sight of a mother wiping away a tear.
She pondered the contrasting images for a moment and then turned her attention to the man sitting across from her. She could see that he, too, had much on his mind.
"How is Claire doing?" Margaret asked.
"She's doing surprisingly well for someone who never expected to be in this situation," David said. "She reads a lot, walks a lot, and spends time with Hannah, of course."
"I sense there is more to this than you're letting on."
"There is."
Margaret gazed at her friend.
"Why won't you tell me?"
"I won't because I can't," David said. "I can't because I don't want to drag you into something that might put you at risk."
"I can take care of myself, David."
"I know you can."
"Then tell me," Margaret said.
"Maybe I will. Maybe I'll tell you in a letter someday."
"You're still not saying much."
"I know," David said.
"What about us?" Margaret asked. "Are you going to keep to yourself about us too? Are you going to pretend that Saturday didn't happen?"
"No. I just don't know what to say."
"I don't either."
David studied her face.
"Do you regret any of it?"
Margaret smiled sadly.
"No. I don't regret a minute. You left me with a beautiful memory, one I will treasure for the rest of my life, even if it causes me pain."
"Margaret?"
"Yes?"
David took a breath.
"Can I ask you a personal question?"
"Of course."
"Do you love me?"
"Does it matter?" Margaret asked.
"It does in one respect. In another, it doesn't."
"Tell me how it matters."
"OK. I will," David said. "If you do love me, I can rest in peace. I can go to my grave knowing I didn't make a mistake by kissing a woman I have loved for weeks."
Margaret winced when she heard the words, which hit her with surprising impact and prompted her to look away. She hadn't expected him to be so honest and direct. When she looked again at David, she did so with moist and wistful eyes.
"You didn't make a mistake."
David looked at her thoughtfully.
"Is that your way of saying yes?"
Margaret nodded gently.
"I do love you. I've loved you since you offered to change Hannah's diaper at Point Park. I knew right then you were a special kind of man."
"Thank you," David said. "I can die now."
Margaret laughed.
"Please don't. I like you too much."
David chuckled in a way that cut the tension in the air and gave Margaret some comfort when she needed it most. He paused for a moment, as if collecting his thoughts, and then came back with a comment she had expected for days.
"I suspect this doesn't change things."
Margaret shook her head.
"It doesn't. Under different circumstances, it would. I would run with you to the ends of the earth. I would do a lot of things, but I can't. I'm engaged to another man, a man I love. I can't justify leaving him any more than millions of other women could justify leaving their husbands and fiancés. Convenience is not a good reason to do anything."
David frowned.
"You make it sound easy."
"It hasn't been," Margaret said. "I have agonized over you. I have thought about throwing my lot with you several times, but each time I've come back to the same
place."
"You don't need to explain."
"I do though. I do because you deserve an explanation."
"OK."
"A few years ago, I made a promise to a wonderful man. I promised to wait for him, through thick and thin, until he returned from the war. If I don't keep that promise, I will be no better than the people who did not keep their promise to me. I will be no better than the people who brought me into this world."
"I understand," David said.
"That's good. It's good because I want you to understand. I want you to know why I am standing by Tom. It has nothing to do with how I feel about you."
"You don't need to say more."
"I don't, but I will," Margaret said. "Walking away from you is probably the hardest thing I will ever have to do. You're going to make a great husband and father. I truly envy the woman who gets to share your name and your life."
David smiled sadly.
"You make rejection sound pleasant."
Margaret touched his arm.
"I'm not rejecting you. I'm setting you free. Don't dwell on what could have been. Think about what you can still have. You'll find someone. I know you will."
CHAPTER 54: CLAIRE
Thursday, July 26, 1945
During the tenth hour of the tenth day that she was no longer supposed to be in Chattanooga, Tennessee, Claire Rasmussen did what a lot of mothers did. She multitasked. Holding a glass bottle in one hand and an important letter in the other, she managed to feed her child and keep up with her adventurous uncle and aunt without missing a beat.
The first task was easy enough. Claire needed only to support Hannah's own efforts as she enjoyed her morning milk from the comfort of her mother's lap.
The second task was even easier. All Claire had to do was turn a single page with her fingers to see both sides of a letter sent from Iquitos, Peru.
She found the letter from the Bells as dismaying as the one from her husband. From the first paragraph of the second page, she learned that Geoffrey and Jeanette had traveled south from Cartagena, not north, and were still days, if not weeks, from opening a letter David had sent to the U.S. embassy in San José, Costa Rica.
Claire set the letter to the side and placed both hands on Hannah as they swung gently on the porch swing in front. Though she did not like hearing that help was still thousands of miles away, she did take comfort in the fact it was coming. The Bells had recovered their valuables, including their crystal, and were slowly but surely working their way home.
Claire used the precious quiet time to bond with her daughter and think about the people in her life. On July 26, her wedding anniversary, she had much to consider.
She thought about her beloved husband, of course. Somewhere on the other side of the world, Seaman Ron Rasmussen was watching his peers transfer an atomic bomb to a landing barge off the western Pacific island of Tinian. She knew this because her brother, the teacher and historian, had shared the particulars over their morning coffee.
Claire hoped that Ron was staying strong and alert. She knew he would need to be at his best to survive the ordeal to come.
She had tried to improve his odds by sending him a cryptic letter on July 18. By citing an actor who had not yet been born and a movie that had not yet been made, she hoped to inspire Ron to desert his ship or at least take precautions to survive the sinking. She could only pray that the message, sent as Victory Mail, was on its way to Guam.
Claire thought about David as well. She knew he still blamed himself for Ron's fate and worried he might do something drastic if his brother-in-law did not return in one piece. Losing a brother on top of a husband would only compound her grief.
Claire also worried about David's relationship with their neighbor. Though she did not think he had something going on with Margaret Doyle, she was not as sure as she used to be. He had acted differently toward her since returning from her house on Saturday.
Then there was the bundle in her arms. Claire could not go a minute without thinking about Hannah's progress, welfare, and future. She did not want to even consider a future without Ron, but she knew she had to prepare for that possibility. If something happened to him, now or in the months to come, she would have to go it alone as a single parent.
Claire pondered the days ahead and then shifted back to the present. She looked down and saw that the object of her affection had finished her bottle and begun to fade.
"Are you ready for a nap, sweetheart?" Claire asked.
Hannah answered by dropping her head.
Claire slowed the swing to a stop, took the empty bottle out of Hannah's mouth, and placed the container on the floor of the porch. She pushed the letter aside and started to get up from the swing but paused when she saw a black sedan stop in front of the house.
Within seconds, three men, smartly dressed in dark suits and fedoras, exited the vehicle and gathered near the front. None wore smiles.
Claire turned her head, toward the house, and looked through the screened window of David's bedroom. She expected to see her brother enjoying a leisurely morning on a rare day off. When she didn't see him, she called for him in a measured voice.
"David?"
He stirred in his room.
"Yeah?"
"I think you had better come out here," Claire said.
"Why?" David asked.
"Just do it. Do it now."
"OK."
Claire got up from the swing as the three men broke up their meeting and started toward the house. She tightened her hold on Hannah as they moved up the walk.
Claire watched with fear and apprehension as one man moved ahead of the others, left them standing on the walk, and stepped onto the porch. She felt her legs get weak when the man pulled out a badge and introduced himself as Royce Gleason, a special agent with the Federal Bureau of Investigation.
"Are you Claire Rasmussen?" Gleason asked.
"I am," Claire said. "How can I help you, Mr. Gleason?"
Gleason, a handsome man with a Dick Tracy demeanor, tucked his badge away. He glanced at each of his colleagues before turning back to Claire.
"You can start by telling me if you're alone."
"My brother is inside," Claire said.
"Please call him out."
"David!"
"I'm here," David said. He opened the screen door, stepped outside, and joined Claire, Hannah, and Agent Gleason on the porch. "What's this about?"
Gleason eyed the man with the question.
"Are you David Baker?"
"I am."
"What this is about, Mr. Baker, is a warrant," Gleason said. He reached inside his jacket and pulled out two folded slips. "It's about two, in fact."
"Two?" Claire asked.
"That's right, ma'am. I'm here to arrest both of you and bring you in for questioning. You are each being charged with violating Section 2 of the Espionage Act."
"You're making a mistake, mister."
"I don't think so," Gleason said. "Please come quietly."
CHAPTER 55: DAVID
Knoxville, Tennessee – Friday, July 27, 1945
The meeting room in the FBI field office was small, utilitarian, and private. At least David thought it was private. He didn't see anything that looked like a recording device or a two-way mirror. All he saw at four thirty on his second day in federal custody was a friend and employer who was now his attorney in a high-stakes criminal case.
Carter Galloway pulled up a chair opposite David at a small table, opened his briefcase, and retrieved a legal pad and a pen. He seemed calm for a man who had spent the last thirty hours defending two clients in two cities from charges of espionage.
"How are you holding up?" Carter asked.
"I'm all right," David said. "I'm more worried about Claire."
"Then I have news that might put your mind at ease. I managed to convince a judge to let her go home with Hannah this morning. She will remain under house arrest until we can clear this mess up."
"So she
can't leave the house?"
"She can't do a thing," Carter said. "She can't blow her nose without the permission of the gentleman stationed outside your house. Even the phone has been disconnected."
"Why would authorities allow a house arrest in a case like this?" David asked. "Shouldn't we both be in maximum security?"
"I have some theories, but I don't want to waste time going over them. I came here to see what I could do to get these charges dropped."
"I'm all yours."
Carter began writing on his pad. When he finished a minute later, he put his pen aside, brought his hands together, and looked at David like a disappointed father might look at a misbehaving son.
"The first thing I need to do is ask if the charges have merit. So I'll just get it out of the way," Carter said. He took a deep breath. "Are you a spy?"
David snorted and shook his head.
"No, Carter, I'm not a spy. Neither is Claire. Neither is Ron. I'm pretty sure Hannah isn't either, but I haven't kept an eye on her this past week. So anything is possible."
"There's no need for that," Carter said.
"I'm sorry. I'm just finding all of this a little ridiculous."
"So am I."
"What does the FBI have on us?" David asked.
Carter leaned back in his chair.
"It has a lot of circumstantial evidence."
"Like what?"
"Let's start with your correspondence. You and Claire have each written letters and telegrams to a couple the FBI has monitored for years, a couple that seems to emerge out of nowhere every now and then, a couple currently traveling through South America."
"So?" David asked. "Can't people write letters to aunts and uncles?"
"They can," Carter said. "What they can't do is write cryptic messages during a time of war and not expect to draw the attention of federal law enforcement."
"So the feds have read our mail?"
"They have."
David leaned forward.
"Don't they need a warrant to do that?"
"They have one," Carter said. "They requested one after an agent overheard you and Claire discuss some delicate matters at a diner in Chattanooga back in April."
Hannah's Moon (American Journey Book 5) Page 23