Forming an O with my lips, I blew upward and watched my breath rise like a puff of smoke in the morning chill. Then I turned and went back inside, shut the glass door behind me, and hoped I would find more clarity while I was gathering up my things.
When I entered the bedroom, however, I discovered that I wasn’t alone, as I had initially thought. The bed was unmade, the door to the en suite bathroom was closed, and the shower was running. My heart skipped a beat, because that meant Malcolm was there. He hadn’t left for work yet.
Laying a hand over a sudden bout of nervous knots in my belly, I moved across the plush white carpet and sat down on the upholstered chair in the corner of the room, where I bowed my head and tried to prepare myself for what I would say to him when he came out. He’d be surprised to see me, no doubt. Would he immediately assume that I’d forgiven him and that I’d decided to come home and start over? That I wanted to marry him?
I wasn’t ready for that. I still needed time to think about what had happened at the Guggenheim and test the waters.
The shower stopped. I listened for the sound of Malcolm’s movements across the floor in the bathroom and wondered if I should knock and let him know I was there or just surprise him when he came out. I still wasn’t sure what I was going to say, but I longed to see him. I wanted to know what would transpire when our eyes met. Maybe everything would become clear to me.
Just then, something shiny on the bedside table caught my attention. I stood up and walked across the room to discover, on my side of the bed, a pair of woman’s gold hoop earrings.
Definitely not mine.
I frowned, just as the bathroom door swung open, and Malcolm emerged wearing nothing but a towel.
I stood immobile with the earrings in my hand, staring at him while my blood coursed through my veins like wildfire.
He blinked a few times. “Hey.” His gaze darted uneasily to the tangled sheets on the bed, as if he were checking to make sure it was empty. Then he noticed the earrings in my hand.
His Adam’s apple bobbed, but then he smiled, as if nothing were amiss. “What are you doing here? I’m so happy to see you.”
“Really?”
He started padding around the bed toward me, but I backed away toward the closet door and held up a hand to stop him. He halted immediately and studied my expression.
I tossed the earrings onto the bed. “Whoever she was, she left her earrings here. She might want to come back for them.”
Color rushed to his cheeks. “Gillian . . . it’s not what it looks like.”
I laughed bitterly. “Oh please. Don’t even try. It’s insulting.”
He inclined his head, and I hated the fact that he was so unbelievably attractive with his damp, tousled hair and bare muscled chest. “Just take a minute to calm down and listen to me.”
“I don’t want to listen to you! What I need to do right now is get my stuff and get out of here.”
With a burn in my stomach, I went into the closet and started ripping clothes off hangers. I carried them to the bed and threw them in a pile.
“I didn’t invite her here,” he tried to explain. “She just showed up at the door.”
My insides were on fire, and I was seeing red. “Was it the model from the Guggenheim?”
When he didn’t reply, I had my answer.
“You don’t get it,” he said. “You just don’t get it at all. I was missing you, and I was heartbroken and vulnerable, and she knew that.”
“Oh, I see. So it was all her fault. She seduced you and took advantage of you. Sounds totally plausible.” I tossed another pile of clothes onto the bed and returned to the closet to empty some drawers. “Just tell me one thing—how many others have there been?”
“None. I swear it.”
“You also swore that it would never happen again. Remember? When you put this ring on my finger?” I tugged it off and smacked it down on the bedside table. Then I continued to empty my things out of the closet and went to the entry hall to get the suitcases I’d brought from Gram’s house, which I dragged clumsily back to the bedroom.
By this time, Malcolm was sitting on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands. My own hands were shaking, and tears were pooling in my eyes, but at least I knew one thing: this was exactly the kind of clarity I’d been searching for, and there was no need to waste any more time testing the waters. Malcolm had cheated on me a second time, after he’d proposed and promised it would never happen again. The ring on my finger meant nothing.
When I was certain I had everything and would never have to return, I zipped up both suitcases and said, “Don’t try to call me or contact me. I don’t want to see you ever again. It’s over for good.”
He didn’t argue. He simply nodded in resignation.
A few minutes later, after I lugged all my stuff out of the building, I loaded it into the trunk of Dad’s car. Then I got behind the wheel and turned the key in the ignition. I wanted to tear away from the curb, tires squealing, but then it hit me. Malcolm hadn’t been the man I thought he was. None of it was real. I sat there for a moment, my stomach churning, as I thought of him in our bed last night with another woman. I burst into tears, shut off the car, and cried my eyes out for ten full minutes.
When I finally pulled myself together and wiped the tears from my face, I accepted the fact that it was really over now, irreparably, which was for the best. Shifting into drive, I headed for Gram’s house, confident at least in the belief that I would not be lured back in. At least I knew which way was up.
“I just got off the phone with my boss,” I said to Dad not long after I returned and unpacked my suitcases. “I told her about my breakup with Malcolm, and she was really good about it. She said it was okay if I wanted to take some time off because I have a bunch of vacation time owed to me, so that’s what I’m going to do—take a few weeks for myself, because I need to get over this. Not to mention find a new place to live.”
Dad leaned against the kitchen counter. “I hope you know that you can stay here as long as you like.”
“I know, and I appreciate it. Thanks.” I pulled out a chair and sat down at the table. “But it’s a long way from the city. I don’t think I could handle a commute like that. But don’t worry. I’ll be okay. I just need some time to wallow in my heartbreak. Then I’ll regroup and figure something out.”
He poured me a cup of coffee and set it down in front of me. I held it between my hands to warm them.
“In the meantime,” I said, “I can do some more research online and see if we can learn anything about Ludwig. And I’m interested in the London Blitz. I just ordered a book about it. That’ll take my mind off other things for a while.”
Dad nodded with understanding and didn’t press me to talk about how I was feeling. “I’d like to read it too,” he said, “when you’re finished with it.”
“Sure.”
We chatted about what to cook for supper, and I was glad we didn’t talk any more about Malcolm. Sometimes this emotional gully between us was a good thing, because at least Dad knew how to give me space when I needed it.
The book arrived the following afternoon, and I spent the next few days binge reading in my pajamas. I also spent time on my laptop, searching for information about Ludwig, but still, there was nothing to be found. Gram had made it clear that she didn’t want to talk about him, and this I understood. I certainly didn’t want to talk about Malcolm. So, I was quiet in my research, even though I craved information about the man who was my biological grandfather.
Finally, when I hit yet another roadblock, I decided to speak to Dad. He was outside in the front garden, wrapping a cedar shrub with burlap for the winter. I pulled on my down-filled jacket and stepped onto the covered veranda.
“Hi, Dad,” I said as I slowly descended the steps.
He was in the middle of tying a string to secure the burlap in place. “Hi. What’s up?”
“I’ve been thinking . . .”
“About what?”
“About going on a little trip.”
He stopped what he was doing and stepped out of the garden. After removing his gloves, he wiped his forehead with a wrist. “Where to?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe London. And Berlin.”
“Ah. I see.”
“I’ve never been to London,” I explained, “and I’ve always wanted to go. You know how much I love Dickens and Jane Austen. And now, all this reading about the Blitz makes me want to see it.”
“Didn’t Malcolm take you to Europe a few times?”
“Yes, but we went to Paris and Rome. And honestly, Dad, I just want to get away. And I’d like to try and find out more about Ludwig.”
He stared at me for a moment. “Okay . . . but I hope you’re not . . .”
I waited for him to finish, but he couldn’t seem to get the words out.
“Not what, Dad?”
“I hope you’re not just . . . running away again,” he finally said. “I’ve enjoyed having you around, Gillian, and I don’t want you to go off on your own to try and deal with all this. What if I don’t hear from you again for another five years?”
Surprised at his unexpected honesty, I sat down on the veranda steps. Dad sat down beside me.
“Obviously,” I said, “you haven’t forgotten that I have a history of taking off when bad things happen.”
“No, I haven’t forgotten,” he replied. “I remember everything.”
I sighed and looked toward the sky. “I think it’s some sort of flight response. But I promise that’s not what’s happening here.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, because I’ve been thinking about it a lot over the past few days—about some of the bad choices I’ve made in my life. Almost always, they seem to have a basis in what happened with Mom.” I met his gaze directly. “I did run away when I was in college, but then I found myself again, thank goodness. I went back to school and finished my degree and got a decent job that I love. But then I met Malcolm. Now I’m wondering if he was just another form of escape.”
“How do you mean?”
My hands grew cold in the November chill, so I slid them into my pockets. “It’s hard to explain, but maybe deep down, I always knew that he was a playboy and that he wasn’t entirely trustworthy. His first wife divorced him, and it was pretty ugly, and it didn’t take a rocket scientist to realize that he’d cheated on her. But I fell for him anyway, maybe because I didn’t think I deserved any better. Or maybe it was all the superficial trappings of that extravagant lifestyle and how handsome and charming he was. It was a shiny distraction that made it easy for me to forget certain things, like the fact that Mom was no longer with us—which was all my fault.”
“It wasn’t your fault,” Dad said.
I shook my head. “I appreciate you saying that, but whether it’s true or not, I always felt like it was, and even though you never said so, I felt that you blamed me too. I was angry with you for that. That’s part of the reason why I left, I guess.”
Dad looked up at the clouds and let the cool breeze wash over him.
“It wasn’t an easy time,” he said. “In fact, it was pure hell, and to be honest, I don’t know what to say to you right now, except that I’m sorry. Because maybe I did blame you, Gill, and that’s why I let you go when you decided to quit school and leave home. I told myself that you were an adult and it was your decision to make, and that you had to live your own life, make your own mistakes, deal with the pain in your own way. But then, I felt guilty about that—for not being there for you when you needed me. I suppose I was dealing with my own pain, and I was angry that she was gone. But then . . . seeing you fly off the rails made me feel like a terrible parent, so I just distanced myself from whatever you were doing. I preferred not to know, not to face it. But I should have tried to find you and bring you home, Gillian. To get you back on track.”
I considered that for a moment. “I don’t think it would have made any difference, Dad. I was angry and defiant, and I didn’t want to be at home where the memories were. I think I needed to hit rock bottom before I could bounce. And I certainly did hit rock bottom.”
We both chuckled softly at that. Then we grew quiet again and listened to the wind whispering through the evergreens. A dog barked somewhere down the road.
“When Malcolm came along,” I said, “he swept me right off my feet. I think I just wanted so badly to be happy and feel like I’d moved on. And life was certainly exciting with him. He was so perfect on the surface, and he was always making me smile. But how could I have been so blind?”
“There was no way for you to know how it would turn out. You had to give him a chance, get to know him.”
“I suppose. But here’s the kicker, Dad. Even if it was a blind love, it was still love.” I shivered in the cold. “And I’m heartbroken right now, because of what he did. He really hurt me.”
Dad wrapped an arm around me, and I rested my head on his shoulder.
“I don’t want you to hurt anymore, baby girl.” He kissed the top of my head. “You’ve always been a good person, and you don’t deserve all this pain. As for you and me, I think it’s time we forgave ourselves and each other. That’s what your mom would have wanted.”
A painful lump rose up in my throat, and my voice broke. “Yes. It’s what she would have wanted.”
I turned to hug my dad and took comfort in his arms, while I imagined her nearby, perhaps over by the large evergreen, watching us from a distance.
When we drew apart, he cleared his throat. “Do you still feel like you need to go to London?”
I wiped the tears from my cheeks and nodded. “Yes. But I promise I’ll be back.”
“Okay. When will you leave?”
“That depends. If I can find a place to stay, I’d love to get on a red-eye tomorrow. I could spend a few days in London, then head to Berlin. There must be archives that would have information about soldiers during the war. Surely I’d find something about Ludwig.”
He reached for my hand and squeezed it. “I wish I could go with you, but I wouldn’t feel comfortable leaving Gram on her own for that long.”
“It’s all right. I’d rather go by myself anyway. I need some time alone to lick my wounds. I’ll just be a tourist where nobody knows me. I’ll take selfies in front of Buckingham Palace. Then I’ll head to Berlin.” I thought about that for a moment. “You know, Dad . . . I think part of the reason I want to know more about Ludwig is because I want to understand how Gram was able to fall for a man like him—if he was as bad as she thinks he was—and how she was able to forgive herself afterward and move on.”
If she ever truly did move on.
I was desperate to know, because I wanted to move on too.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
The bells in Westminster Abbey were ringing over Parliament Square as I emerged from the Underground station and headed toward the Churchill War Rooms. I’d been in London for only a few days, and I was still a bit jet lagged, but so far, I’d visited the Tower of London, the London Eye, the Charles Dickens Museum, and Kensington Palace, where I enjoyed afternoon tea. The previous day, I had gone shopping on Regent Street for blue jeans and a pair of sneakers, because I’d done far more walking than I’d ever expected to do.
I also found my way to Trafalgar Square, which was a short distance from Craven Street, where Gram had lived with Vivian and Theodore during the Blitz. Most of the street was as it had been for centuries gone by, with Georgian town houses built of brick, standing in neat rows with black iron fences out front. Other sections of the street, however, had modern postwar architecture, for obvious reasons.
I stood on that street for a long while, imagining what it must have been like for my grandmother to live there during the war years. It made me realize how fortunate I was, even with my love life in the crapper back home. At least I wasn’t running for shelter every night to escape bombs that were falling from the sky, and my loved ones weren’t being dragged away
to Nazi extermination camps, never to be heard from again. I lived in a free world, and for that I was grateful.
A light rain began to fall as I turned onto Horse Guards Road, but I didn’t bother to dig out my umbrella because I was nearly to the Churchill Museum, and I already had my ticket.
I spent two fascinating hours in Churchill’s underground bunker, touring the cabinet war rooms with an audio guide and looking at the displays about Winston Churchill’s life. It was not until the very end of my visit that I came upon a short video about the Special Operations Executive, also known as Churchill’s Secret Army. I’d almost wandered past it without realizing what it was, but something drew me over. As soon as I finished watching it, I hurried outside to call my father.
“Dad, you’re not going to believe what I just saw,” I said when he answered.
“The queen in a Ferrari?” he asked.
“No!”
“William and Kate?”
“No!” I said with a laugh. “Listen! It’s better than that. I just came out of the Churchill Museum, and there was a short video about the SOE. There wasn’t anything about Gram, but there was footage from a remembrance ceremony just last year where they hung a wreath on a plaque commemorating the agents who died in the war. Guess who was hanging the wreath?”
“Who?”
“A former agent named Daphne Graham.”
He paused. “Could that be Gram’s friend Deidre? Didn’t she say that her real name was Daphne?”
“That’s exactly what I’m thinking. How many other Daphnes would there have been in the SOE?”
He was quiet for a moment. “What are you going to do?”
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