by Lucy Sanna
“Charlotte . . . ?”
Breathing in his salty scent, she pressed into the warmth of his body, felt his muscular thighs hard against her own.
They sank together to the floor, the blanket around them. His fingers threaded through her hair. One of his large square hands held her head firmly against his kiss. The other brushed across the bodice of her dress where her nipples stood erect. He touched the hem of her skirt, slow and easy, moving it up and up.
“Charlotte?”
His strength drew her, scared her. “Yes,” she said, reaching beneath her dress to slip off her underpants. What am I doing?
He unbuttoned his tan trousers and soon he was on top of her, pulsing into her.
We shouldn’t do this . . . We shouldn’t . . . The words whispered around the edges of her mind as she kissed Karl’s open mouth, frantic for him. Her thoughts flickered to the barn, Karl saving her. Drawn to danger, together, saving each other.
Unlike Thomas, Karl didn’t recite poetry from some foreign time or place. No, Karl was physically there with her, all passion, hungry for her. Now, right now. She knew. She felt the difference.
Her skin tingled. A warm sweet river flowed through her body. She slid her hands up under his shirt and scratched at his skin, then down to his buttocks, holding him tight to her hips, her skin alive with desire, the beautiful thick slide of him inside her.
His lips murmuring her name, sweet as a song.
Her hips rising up, up, up to take him deeper into her. “Karl!”
And more and again. And now she was only her body, the heat and flow of her body coming in waves of relief. Tensing and loosening. Set free.
“Karl!”
“Meine liebe!” he gasped.
She fell back, panting.
Karl lay beside her, holding her until her breathing calmed.
After a while, she blinked her eyes open and turned toward him. Lamplight dusted his solid jaw. He kissed her cheek.
“So beautiful you are, Charlotte.” His hand slid gently along the curve of her torso where her dress was spread open.
She didn’t cover herself. She didn’t mind him looking at her nakedness. She felt beautiful under his gaze.
A vision flitted through her mind—Karl coming into her kitchen, sunset, just the two of them. She reached over and smoothed his dark hair, touched his lips.
He touched her face. “I must go.”
Must go. Yes, he must go.
They slipped apart and drew on their clothes. Charlotte climbed the steps and pushed up one of the wooden doors and peeked out. Her eyes took a moment to adjust to the late morning sun. She heard the tractor far off in the orchard. The prisoners were nowhere in sight. She motioned for Karl to leave.
Charlotte folded the blanket and put it back into the barrel. She stood alone at the bottom of the cellar steps for some time, attempting to compose herself. Then she took a big breath, blew out the kerosene lantern, and emerged back into the day.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
BY LATE AFTERNOON, Charlotte had bathed in hot soapy water again and changed her clothes. She tried to focus on making dinner, but she could think of nothing but Karl’s admiring eyes, the feel of his tight muscles under her palms. Her skin tingled from his touch. Her insides contracted with the memory. She luxuriated in the sense of it, imagining it again. And again.
A siren whined in the distance, advancing along County Trunk Q. A loudspeaker blared the sheriff’s voice: “Nazi prisoner escaped. Be on alert. Inform authorities of suspicious persons.”
The siren gave a short toot as the car turned down Orchard Lane and stopped where Thomas hurried to meet it. Thomas and the sheriff spoke for a few minutes before the car sped back to the highway and resumed the alarm.
Thomas came in and threw his hat on the kitchen table. “Ole Weborg’s been shot.”
“What? How?”
“Seems he was out looking for the escapee and Big Mike thought he was a prowler. Shot him in the shoulder. He’ll live.”
Charlotte crumpled into a chair and put her face in her hands. Thomas put a warm palm on her back and slowly rubbed it. He stopped at the sound of a truck approaching.
“Now what?” He went out the door.
Kate came in and washed in the sink. She didn’t look at Charlotte, didn’t say a word. Her body sparked with anger.
Charlotte peered out as the Army truck rumbled in. An officer got out. Thomas wasn’t one to get emotional, but he was waving his arms, pointing, as he talked with the man in uniform. More talking. Then his posture slumped. He led the man toward the migrant camp.
“Mother, we have to tell him,” Kate cried.
Charlotte leveled her eyes at her daughter and spoke the words slowly: “We tell no one.”
Thomas came into the kitchen. “They’re taking the PWs back to prison.”
Charlotte’s scalp bristled. “Taking them away! What about the harvest? We can’t lose the harvest!” And Karl!
“Until they know what’s happened to Vehlmer, no PWs will be allowed outside locked gates. Might be some sort of secret communications with the enemy, others may be involved. That’s what they fear most.” He glanced out the window. “Unless I put metal gates around the camp, they’re all going.”
“Then put up the gates, damn it!” Charlotte yelled.
“Mother!” Katie cried.
Thomas stared at Charlotte with a stricken look. She had never spoken to him in such a harsh way.
She hugged him. “Thomas, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” What’s happening to me?
He put his arms around her. “I know.” He kissed the top of her head.
“It’s not fair, Thomas. It was just one man. The rest aren’t like that—”
“We don’t know. There are prisoners assigned to farms all over the county. The Army is taking them all. The growers are angry with me for being so careless.”
“It wasn’t your fault!”
“Yes, it was, Char. I called Vehlmer to fix the tractor and then sent him off across the orchard alone. I trusted him to go directly to the work crew on the other side. And now families are terrified about what he might do.”
“Thomas!” She clung to him.
He loosened his hold on her. “Listen to me, both of you. You are not to leave the property. Stay close to the house. Keep the doors locked.”
“For how long?” Charlotte asked.
“Until he’s found.”
“But what if he’s not found?” Kate said, her eyes flashing to Charlotte.
“Mind me. Stay close. Make do with what you have here—eggs and milk, vegetables from your garden.”
After Thomas left, Kate whispered, “It’s crazy to go on like this. They’ll never find him.”
“If they knew what that Nazi tried to do to me, it would be even worse. And what I did . . .” Charlotte’s mind reeled with images—Vehlmer in the barn, Karl in the root cellar. She could barely breathe.
“I can’t watch Father going out with his gun, and everyone so afraid . . . afraid of nothing!” Kate’s blue eyes were wide and teary. “Mother, we have to stop this! A man has been shot!”
“Do you want me to go to jail?” Charlotte grabbed Kate’s shoulders and shook them. “Do you?”
Kate pulled away. “Maybe I do!”
Charlotte reeled back in shock. “Kate . . . ,” she pleaded. But she could think of nothing more to say.
Kate turned and hurried away from the kitchen.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHARLOTTE HAD BATHED AND douched with vinegar, but when she got into bed beside Thomas, she still felt soiled, unworthy.
Lying on the sheets, her body remembered Karl. His face in her hair, the scent of his labor. His large hands. Meine liebe. What did that mean?
He would be leaving soon. She would never be with him again. Never, never.
When she sighed, Thomas put an arm around her. She turned away in shame.
She longed to go back to the way things were befor
e. Before the prisoners came, before Ben left. Before she wanted Karl.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
KATE COULDN’T SLEEP. Long before sunrise, she pulled on her overalls and headed out to the barn. A bat fluttered near her hair. Branches rustled all about. Vehlmer’s ghost whispered through the trees.
She forced the heavy doors open and switched on the electric light, breathing hard.
It happened here. Somewhere in here. She scanned the butchering tools and imagined the huge meat hook slicing into Vehlmer’s guts. There must have been a lot of blood. She shuddered and pulled her sweater close around her.
Her eyes skittered across the floor. There! A newly scrubbed patch with a faint stain. Not something anyone would notice unless searching for it. She edged away. She wanted to run and scream and run and run and fall into her father’s lap and confess everything and feel his big hands smoothing her hair and hear his gentle voice telling her everything would be fine. She wiped her nose with the sleeve of her sweater.
Mia balked when Kate tried to coax her onto the stanchion and bellowed when Kate half-lifted her and tied her in place. The goat kicked toward the milk pail that Kate put beneath her. Was it because she sensed Kate’s anxiety, or did Mia too feel the evil lurking in the shadows?
“Shh. Calm down, little girl.” How could Kate calm the goat when she herself was so skittish? She jumped at the sound of the two cats darting in and out of the barn. The goat jumped as well. “It’s okay. Just your friends, Lulu and Ginger Cat.”
Mia gave only half a pail of milk, and when Kate opened the pen, the goat bounded out to the yard.
It was the same with the chickens. They hadn’t laid any eggs, and they too were eager to escape.
Outside, the sun came up big and round. Blood-red.
UP IN HER BEDROOM, Kate felt her little world closing in.
Yesterday she had hurt her mother with cruel words, and now guilt washed over her. She had never spoken so sharply to anyone. No, she didn’t want Mother to go to jail. How awful it must have been to have that madman attack her. Kate recalled how frightened she had been when Vehlmer came after her on her bicycle. Imagine him actually touching her . . . tearing at her clothes! Mother had always been strong, fearless even. But now, for the first time, Kate realized how vulnerable her mother really was. Poor Mother! But I would have told the truth. And Mother would be better off if she had told the truth, harvest or no.
Kate longed to get away. To get on her bicycle and ride until she was too exhausted to remember any of this. Ride into her future with Miss Fleming and the girls in the dorm. And Clay. Dear Clay. If only she could talk to Clay!
At the sound of a motorboat, she peered out her window. Josie’s father? He was pulling up to the dock.
He tied his boat to a post and marched up the lawn toward the front door. Three hard knocks.
“Mr. Lapointe!” Mother’s voice.
“I must speak with Mr. Christiansen.” His tone was demanding, unfriendly.
Soon Father was on the porch with the lighthouse keeper, right below Kate’s window.
“A body washed up on the island,” Josie’s father said. “Let’s hope it’s your prisoner. I’d have killed him myself if I had found him alive.”
After a pause, Father said, “Let’s go have a look.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHARLOTTE WAS IN THE YARD hanging laundry when she heard the boat, Thomas returning from the island. She dried her shaking hands on her apron and hurried down to the dock to meet him. “Was it Vehlmer?”
Thomas nodded. “We don’t have to worry about him anymore.”
Charlotte’s heart beat fast. This was a good thing, wasn’t it? The hunt would be over. But would they know he’d been murdered? Were there clues to lead them here, to the barn, the knife? She crossed her arms to hold in the trembling.
Thomas maneuvered the boat onto the track and hooked it on the ring. Charlotte followed him into the boathouse, where he turned the winch.
“The prisoners can come back then?” Her dry mouth gave her words a sticky sound.
Thomas’s jaw clenched. “I don’t know, Char. Listening to that lightkeeper, he’s going to do all he can to rile up everyone against their return.” After a pause, he added, “The sheriff was there. He’s on his way now.”
“He’s coming here?” Just then she heard a car door closing.
The sheriff walked down the lawn to the dock, his badge prominent on his round, rimmed hat. It was that heavyset German, Sheriff Bauer. At the county meeting he had said the prisoners were no different from “our boys,” just on the wrong side. He had voted for their release to work. He was on their side.
“Morning, Mrs. Christiansen.” He took off his hat. “Sorry to bother you, but I need to ask Mr. Christiansen a few questions.”
“Please come in, sheriff.” Charlotte led him up to the house, through the front door, into the living room. She offered him a deep, upholstered chair, the most comfortable one in the room. She sat on the couch and smoothed her dress to keep her hands still. Thomas sat beside her.
The sheriff put his hat on the end table, and when he turned to face them, he raised an eyebrow. “Mrs. Christiansen, looks like you had a bit of an accident there.”
She flinched. The swelling had subsided, but yellow-green bruises lingered, especially on the right side. “I tripped over a rake in the barn,” she said, maybe too quickly.
“Must have been some fall. Bruises on both sides.”
“It looks worse than it is.” She saw that he was staring, waiting for more. “Fell onto . . . onto sacks of feed.” She tried to keep her voice steady. She hadn’t thought this through. She laughed. “I should have put ice on it right away.”
“And your neck?” His eyes fixed on a bruise that started on her throat and ran down under her dress.
Charlotte tugged on her collar. “From the rake.” She shrugged her shoulders.
“I see.” He squinted at Thomas as if waiting for confirmation.
Thomas gave Charlotte a questioning look, scratched his head. “Been meaning to move those feed sacks. They’re sitting on a metal grate near the garden tools.”
The sheriff eyed Thomas’s hands. “You a lefty?”
Thomas flexed his left hand, weathered with work. “Yeah. Not very convenient. Every tool . . . everything designed for right-handers. Why do you ask?”
The sheriff picked up his hat and twirled it. After a pause, he said, “A man would hardly blame a husband for rescuing his wife.”
“What?” Thomas leaned forward, eyebrows up.
“Were you with Mrs. Christiansen?” he asked, his fingers circling the rim of the hat, “when she tripped in the barn?”
Thomas shook his head. “I was in the orchard all afternoon, taking Brix measurements.”
“Brix?”
Thomas sat up to his full height. “We use a hydrometer to test the specific gravity of the fruit and enter that into a Brix table. That measures the sugar content and . . .” He stopped and looked at the sheriff. “It’s how we know when to harvest.”
“Ah.” Bauer opened a notebook and wrote something down. After a pause, he said to Charlotte, “Mrs. Christiansen, have you ever had any contact with this man, Fritz Vehlmer?”
“Contact?” Feeling the spotlight, her face went hot.
“Maybe a word between you, eye contact, anything like that?”
“The PWs work off in the orchard, away from the house,” she said. She had to leave, get away before he noticed her color, her shaking hands, her thin voice. She pretended a sneeze. “Excuse me.” She rose and hastened out of the room.
She stood in the kitchen, bracing herself against the counter, trying to calm her breathing. If she didn’t go out there, they would know something was wrong. The sheriff would know, Thomas would know. She pretended another sneeze, then blew her nose.
Kate came in through the back door. “Why is the sheriff here?” she whispered. “Did they find out what happened?”
“Fine? How can anything ever be fine again?” Kate spun around and left the room.
Charlotte heard Kate’s footsteps hurry toward the staircase and up to her bedroom. Charlotte returned to the living room and sat next to Thomas on the couch. He patted her hand. Her guilt surged. Thomas thinks I’m as innocent as he is.
“Defensive knife wounds,” the sheriff was saying. “Must have been a hell of a struggle. The victim looks to have been pretty strong.”
“That he was,” Thomas said. “I wouldn’t have wanted to be on the other side of that fight.”
After a pause, the sheriff’s voice fell to nearly a whisper. “Vehlmer had his trousers down around his ankles.” He paused. “Pretty strange, don’t you think?”
Thomas nodded. “Thought the same myself.”
“We’ll check the prisoners’ privy for blood . . .”
Thomas put up a hand. “Sheriff, please. Not in front of my wife.”
Charlotte was avoiding Bauer’s eyes when he pointed a question at her. “I know this is a delicate subject, Mrs. Christiansen, but were you aware of the details of the—”
“I had no idea.” She put a hand to her mouth. “It’s horribly vulgar. I do not wish to imagine it.”
“Of course,” the sheriff said. After some silence, he squinted toward Thomas. “That island with the lighthouse, it’s about half a mile north of here?”
“About,” Thomas said.
“And the current flows north?”
“Depends. It could go either way.”
Bauer sat forward. “So it could have been going north.” He twirled the hat in his hands.
Charlotte stiffened. North from here, he’s thinking.
“Well, Ole’d know,” Bauer said.