by Lyn Cote
He chuckled low in his throat. “Still playing the hard-to-get flirt, I see.”
“Well, you’re the one who taught me how.” She started walking briskly up the steep slope around the corner of the hotel, making him fall into step with her. She would set the pace, not Ted. Her silly attraction to him would remain her secret. And she was very good at keeping secrets. “What brings you to Bermuda?”
“I had some vacation time I needed to use up,” he said off-handedly, “so here I am.”
Bette didn’t believe that. The Ted she knew ate, slept, and dreamed the FBI. But then he was good at keeping secrets, too.
“How’s your work coming along here?” Ted asked, keeping up with her. Their footsteps ground crushed seashells and gritty sand as they walked. “Like it?”
“I love it.”
“I hear you’re still wowing the upper echelons.” He unbuttoned his jacket and folded it over his arm. “Discovering a way to make an unknown invisible ink visible—not bad. You’re gaining quite an impressive reputation.”
Bette snorted. “I was always good at chemistry. What do you want, Ted?”
“I don’t know why you never accept compliments, never think I’m serious.”
She shrugged. “What do you want, Ted?”
He took hold of the bare skin just under her short-sleeve, halting her. “To see you.”
Ignoring the wave of sensation traveling up the sensitive flesh of her arm, she stared up at him and studied his expression. Was he serious or not? She couldn’t tell.
She’d recalled his face countless times over the past months. She’d be at her desk reading the mail and some glimpse of Ted—his wicked blue eyes or his devil-may-care smile—would come up, superimposed over the page in front of her . . .
Suddenly she realized he was staring down at her, grinning. She’d taken too long to reply. She slipped her arm free and started off again. “Walk me to my rooming house.”
He fell in beside her again.
“How are we doing in the US?” She had to keep this meeting on her terms. Ted always tried to take the upper hand. “Have you caught any Nazis lately?”
“Had an interesting assignment in New Jersey. It always gets me how Nazi agents think every American who immigrated since the Great War wants to help Hitler.”
“They are single-minded.” She could think of two reasons why Ted had come to Bermuda. Was he here on business, and just teasing her while he was here? Or had he really come to continue to push his attentions on her?
“Yeah, Nazis are stupid. They think German-Americans will sell out their adopted country for an autographed photo of Der Fuehrer.” He made a sound of disgust.
“Well, that kind of cupidity only helps us. What do you want, Ted?” she prompted. Over the past year, the German advance had continued into Greece, Yugoslavia, and finally Moscow. The Nazi Army was like a voracious pack of wolves, devouring Europe.
The road had leveled out and they were walking near a spectacular sheaf of purple bougainvillea cascading over a high wrought-iron fence. Ted pulled her to a stop under the flowering veil. “I want to know why you and Curt failed to tie the knot. I heard you postponed the wedding again.”
“What business is that of yours?”
“You know why.”
She knew she should pull away. He was standing much too close. She stared up at him as he tugged her deeper into the shady natural shelter. The sweet scent of the flowers rushed through her senses. “Well, the one-year draft was extended by one vote—you know that. Curt’s request for leave has been denied twice.” The scent of Ted’s lime aftershave mingled with the fragrant bougainvillea—a heady mix.
“You still don’t see that marrying Curt Sinclair will be a mistake—a big one.”
She pulled out of his grip. “Ted, I’ve been engaged to Curt for five years—”
“So you take longer than most to realize you’ve made a mistake.”
“I’m marrying Curt.” She found herself gazing at Ted’s lips, remembering how they’d felt on hers. Stop it.
“Bette, you won’t be happy being a teacher’s wife. You’ve gotten hooked by the work we do. You aren’t tame anymore.”
He leaned close, his mouth hovering over hers, his voice persuasive velvet. “I understand that. We understand each other. Curt will never understand or appreciate all you’ve done, all you’ve accomplished. I do. Curt will never understand the woman you’ve become. You’re not that shy young woman I met in the Hoover parlor in 1939.”
“If that’s true, then Curt will never be the same either.” She felt the connection with this man begin re-weaving between them, a spider web of shared experience and attraction. No. “Curt’s been in the army for nearly a year, has graduated from officer’s training. Just because we’ve both taken different turns than we ever expected doesn’t mean we still don’t love each other.”
“I love you,” Ted announced.
The declaration took her by surprise—a sneak attack. Sucking in air, she stared at him and then turned her shoulder. “What do you want from me?”
“Give Curt back his ring. And when the war is over, we’ll marry.”
She should have known. Ted Gaston had gall all right. “So I’m supposed to jilt Curt, who postponed our wedding a year ago and then wait for you who knows how long?”
“No, Bermuda isn’t far from Washington.” Ted feathered his fingers through the hair above her nape. “We can carry on an affair and then marry when the war is won.”
“An affair?” Bette saw red. She slapped Ted’s face. “How dare you?” She drew her hand back to slap him again.
He caught her wrist. “It’s an honest proposal.”
“It’s a proposition and I’m not a woman who enters into affairs.” She tried to pull her hand from his grip.
“I know.” He kissed her wrist. A shockwave of sensation rippled up through her flesh as he gave her a teasing grin. “I just wanted to get a rise out of you. Let’s get a license and I’ll marry you this week.”
“You are impossible.” She ducked out from under the bougainvillea and marched off.
Ted hurried behind her, laughing. “Come on, Bette. You’re going to end up married to me, not the professor.”
She halted and turned to face him. “As soon as Curt can get leave, we will marry at Ivy Manor. You won’t be invited to the wedding.” She started walking away again.
“You’re making a big mistake, but very well.” He hurried to catch up with her. “How about I take you out for dinner tonight?”
“Don’t you ever give up?” she asked in exasperation.
“No. Besides, we both have to eat. Why not together? You know the island. You pick the place.”
“Okay, fine. Just remember I’m marrying Curt. He says there’s a chance he’ll be able to get away around Thanksgiving or at the latest early in December.”
Ted just chuckled.
Very well. He wouldn’t tell her why’d he’d come. She’d have to do some digging to find the real purpose of Ted’s visit.
Honolulu, Hawaii, November 1941
From the Hickman airstrip at Pearl Harbor, Jamie drove along the ocean to the white, sandy street along Waikiki Beach. He parked near the tropical pink Royal Hawaiian Hotel, the jewel of Waikiki. As he strode toward the hotel, he let the gorgeous scene of palm trees, sunshine, bountiful orchids, and hibiscus—all blooming in reds, pinks, whites, and lavenders—make him smile. He glanced around for his friends, a few of the officers who’d made reservations to have Thanksgiving dinner here at the Royal Hawaiian’s oceanside restaurant.
Entering the lobby, he halted, stunned. He’d glimpsed a face he’d never expected to see again. “Aunt Kitty!” he blurted out.
Aunt Kitty turned and stared at him without recognition. She wore a long, slim island dress in a red-and-blue floral print with several orchid leis around her neck.
He yanked off his airman’s cap and smoothed his unruly black hair back. “It’s me, Jamie—all grown up
.”
Shock, then pleasure—lit her brown eyes. She hurried toward him, her arms wide. “Jamie! Whatever are you doing here?” She threw her arms around him and hugged him tightly.
Seeing her brought up images from his memory—a summer house on the beach at Ocean City, Maryland; the orphanage; the first time he met Kitty’s parents, who had adopted him, made him a McCaslin. His throat tightened with emotion. He couldn’t speak.
“Well, who’s this hugging my woman?” A tall, suave-looking man in his middle years came up behind Kitty. He wore white linen Oxford slacks and a casual royal-blue shirt and was smoking a cigarette.
Aunt Kitty released Jamie and turned to the man. “Derek, this is Jamie. I told you about him.”
Some undercurrent passed between Aunty Kitty and this Derek. Jamie didn’t like it or Derek. He sounded drunk and it wasn’t even eleven o’clock yet. Still, Jamie shook the hand Derek held out. “How do you do,” he said.
“You’re a handsome young buck.” Derek looked Jamie up and down. “You could make a mint in Hollywood. Have you ever done a screen test? Louis B. likes your type.”
“Right now I’m working for Uncle Sam,” Jamie turned aside Derek’s words with a grin.
“Soldier, sailor, candlestick-maker?” Derek recited the words like a nursery rhyme.
“Captain in the Navy Air Force.” Jamie pointed to his stripes. “I’m stationed here near Pearl.”
“Impressive. Very impressive. Well, we must be going. Invited to Thanksgiving dinner with—” Derek halted and looked around the lobby. “Can’t tell you,” he murmured. “Very hush-hush. Don’t want reporters to know they’re on the island.” Derek looked very self-important.
Jamie didn’t have a clue what the man was talking about, but he wouldn’t ask either. “Then I’ll wish you Happy Thanksgiving.” He turned to Aunt Kitty. “How long are you staying in Honolulu?”
Derek took Aunt Kitty’s arm. “Give Kitty your phone number. If she has time, she’ll give you a call. But we’ve tons of invitations and I have to get back to Hollywood sooner than later.” Derek hurried Kitty toward the hotel entrance.
Aunt Kitty looked back at Jamie apologetically and mouthed, “Call me here. Tomorrow.”
Jamie watched Derek steer Kitty outside and hail a taxi. Seeing Aunt Kitty had brought back a rush of memories. But the most poignant one—one he’d never gotten over—was of the day she’d departed, leaving him in the care of her parents at the McCaslin house in Maryland. He’d always be grateful to Kitty’s parents, Miss Estelle and Mr. Thomas, for adopting him. But he’d never understood why Aunt Kitty left.
Who was this Derek, anyway? Was he the reason she never came home to visit?
Sunday, December 7, 1941
In a simple dark-wool skirt and white blouse, Bette sat in the noisy parlor at Ivy Manor. Today was the day of her wedding. She’d repeated that to herself several times, but it didn’t feel real. This long-awaited event couldn’t possibly be taking place on this very ordinary chilly December day, could it?
But everyone in her extended family—save Gretel and Jamie—were there around the parlor: her parents, brothers, Ilsa and Drake and their children, and Drake’s parents. And everyone was chattering and laughing. Curt was over at his house with his parents and out-of-town family. She’d only shared a few moments with him yesterday when he stopped on his way to his parents’ house.
And when he’d kissed her, she’d pictured Ted in her mind. That wasn’t right.
But Ted was never very far from her mind, no matter how hard she tried to stop herself. She’d never been able to find a motive for Ted’s visit to Bermuda. Could it really be true—had he just come to spend time with her? She also hadn’t taken his proposal any more seriously than she’d taken his proposition. She couldn’t imagine . . . She halted that line of thought. I love Curt, not Ted. I’m marrying Curt.
Outwardly, she knew she looked cool and possessed. She’d learned how to do that working with Ted. Inside, she felt only confusion. I know what I want. I do. Soon, she and mother would go upstairs and she’d put on her wedding dress and they’d all drive off to church for the two o’clock wedding. Most of the county would be attending the ceremony at St. John’s, the Carlyle family church.
As usual, her mother was the most beautiful woman in the room. She already wore her mother-of-the-bride dress. A lavender-blue silk sheath with a high Mandarin collar and short flared jacket—nothing like the dowdy dresses other mothers wore at weddings. But then how many mothers had kept their figures as trim as her mother had?
Ilsa was looking more lovely every time Bette saw her. When Ilsa had hugged Bette on arrival, the other woman had whispered, “I hope you and Curt will find the same happiness Drake and I have. I nearly let what had happened in Germany destroy our chance for love. Don’t let this war spoil your wedding. You love Curt and he loves you. That’s all that matters.”
Easier said than done, Bette had thought but not said.
The phone rang in the hallway. Was someone calling with last-minute regrets? Rory, her eleven-year-old brother in his first formal suit, hurried out to the hall and picked up the phone. “Bette!” Rory called. “Come on! Jamie’s on the phone for you! All the way from Hawaii!”
Bette thrilled with sudden excitement. She hurried into the hall and grabbed the phone from Rory’s hand. “Jamie! Where are you?” She choked back a sob.
“Still near beautiful Honolulu. It’s only morning here, but I figured it was almost time for you to be heading for the church.” His voice was faint and the connection was scratchy, but to Bette he sounded wonderful.
“Thanks for calling, Jamie.” She swallowed tears. Where had all this emotion burst from? “I was just thinking about you.” And about Gretel. She wouldn’t say that—grind salt into Jamie’s wound. “Are you okay?”
“Oh, yeah, it’s rough duty here—tropical breezes, palm trees, hula girls.” Jamie chuckled. “I just wanted to wish you and Curt the very best before I head to the mess for morning chow.”
“Oh, Jamie, thanks. It means a lot to hear from you.” She clung to the phone as if it would bring her close enough to touch Jamie.
“Well, we’re still best friends, aren’t we?”
“Yes, yes, always.” And Bette began to weep because she knew Curt had wanted Jamie to stand up with them as she had wanted Gretel to be her maid of honor. Now Jamie was serving in the Navy so far away and who knew where Gretel was? She’d never answered letters, written, or called. Bette wiped her moist face with her hands.
Chloe came up behind Bette. She interrupted Jamie, “Here’s Mother—”
A sound like a muffled explosion came over the line.
“Jamie?” Bette frowned at the phone. “Jamie?”
“What’s wrong?” Chloe asked.
“The line went dead.” Bette wondered about the noise she’d heard. Had it just been the telephone line? So she stood there holding the phone against her ear, waiting for the operator to come on the line. When she did, she merely said that the line had been disconnected and asked Bette to please hang up. Bette did. “I’m sorry, Mother, we were cut off.”
Chloe looked pained, but nodded. Then she walked back into the parlor.
Bette waited by the phone. Surely Jamie would try to call back. But would he be able to get another long distance connection? Minutes ticked by until Chloe came into the hall and paused beside her. “Bette,” she murmured, “it’s time we went up to dress. It’s time to go to the church.”
Bette nodded and followed Chloe up the familiar staircase, hoping that Jamie would call again soon.
At the front of St. John’s Episcopal, flanked by Drake in a dark suit as best man and Ilsa in lavender silk as matron of honor, Bette held Curt’s icy hand and recited her vows, “For richer for poorer in sickness and health, for better for worse.” In war and in peace, she added silently. Did Curt have the same thought? They were different now, but their love hadn’t changed, had it? “Till death do us part.”
As handsome as ever in his dress uniform, that of an infantry lieutenant, Curt said his vows with a solemn expression. Each important word pierced Bette like a hot dart.
Ted’s laughing face came to mind. She pushed it away. If I’m thinking of Ted, should I be marrying Curt? No, I don’t love Ted. I love Curt. Why couldn’t we have married last year when I was still sure we should? What’s going to happen to us now? When will he leave for real war, not just more training? Lord, Mother says there’s always hope, but I don’t feel that. This should be a happy day. But I feel like this is a funeral, not a wedding.
And then it was over. She and Curt were joined now till death parted them. The priest pronounced them man and wife and they turned hand in hand toward the beaming congregation. Everyone was smiling. Except for Chloe; she was weeping at Father’s side. Yes, her mother would understand all the ramifications of what was happening here today. After all, she’d lost Bette’s father in 1917.
With a beribboned cake knife held in both their hands, Bette and Curt posed by their wedding cake, a lovely white three-tiered confection, baked and decorated by Curt’s mother. The wedding photographer had posed them carefully and everyone was watching, murmuring encouragement to them. Bette felt like a store mannequin. Or the celluloid bride atop the cake.
Suddenly the doors into the church hall burst wide. “They’ve bombed Pearl Harbor! I heard it on the radio! The Japanese have bombed Pearl Harbor!”
Bette released her hold on the knife and sagged against Curt. He dropped the knife; it clattered to the floor. She turned in his arms. This is what she’d been dreading all day—really the last three years. “Jamie called me today. I heard a loud noise over the phone and then it went dead. It must have been a bomb exploding. Oh, Curt. Jamie could be hurt.” Could be dead. “Oh, Jamie.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
After a light supper at the McCaslin house where they would spend their two-day honeymoon, Curt sent Bette up to the master bedroom. With Mr. Thomas passed away and Jamie overseas, the house stood empty with the housekeeper and her husband as caretakers. Jamie had known she wouldn’t want to spend her brief honeymoon in a hotel, so he’d written that they use it till Curt’s leave was up.