The Beantown Girls

by Jane Healey

  “Martha, you are beautiful and smart, and the best damn truck driver I’ve ever met,” I said. “Did you really want to end up with a guy that deals with dead bodies for a living?”

  “Honestly,” Blanche said, eyebrows raised.

  Martha started to laugh. “All right, girls, you made your point. Now I’m really ready for some dancing.”

  We pulled up to the club in the carriage, and we could hear the sounds of the swing band inside. Despite the chill in the air, people had spilled out onto the streets—Allied soldiers, Frenchwomen, and Red Cross personnel, all socializing, in no hurry to go inside. We made our way through the crowd into the club, ducking through a small black wooden door that revealed a much larger space than I’d expected. There was an elevated stage with a dance floor in front and tables and chairs all around the perimeter, reminiscent of the Paramount in London.

  Dottie came running up to me as soon as we walked in.

  “Did you see the band?” she asked me, pulling my arm. “Look—it’s an all-girl orchestra. They’re Americans, and they’ve been touring with the USO. Isn’t that amazing? They’re called the Starlettes. The leader’s name is Joy Sanders, and she’s fabulous.”

  I looked up, and sure enough the entire orchestra was composed of women in smart navy-blue suits, sounding as good as any orchestra I’d ever heard, except for maybe Glenn Miller’s.

  “Wow, they’re so good,” I said.

  “Joe was telling me there’s a few of them that have started around the country since the war,” Dottie said. “He brought me here early to meet them, and I sang and played with them.”

  Joe came over then, gave me a hug hello, and grabbed Dottie’s hand. “Dottie, they’re asking if you want to sing tonight,” he said.

  “I think I do. I’ll meet you backstage; let me go have a drink with the girls first,” she said, kissing him on the cheek.

  I was so happy for Dottie and Viv. But to see them both falling in love made me feel lonelier than I’d felt in a long time, even though I was surrounded by friends.

  Blanche waved us over to a table she had found with Martha and Frankie, and they had somehow already wrangled a waiter to bring us drinks. Viv came over to join us too.

  “Where’s Harry?” I asked. “I want to thank him for the carriage ride.”

  “He’s saying hello to some ‘chaps’ of his,” Viv said.

  “A toast, dear girls,” Blanche said after the waiter had handed us our drinks. “To us and to Paris.”

  “To us and to Paris.”

  As the six of us clinked our glasses, a woman at a nearby table tapped Viv on the shoulder.

  “Excuse me, but I have to ask, are you with Harold Westwood?” She spoke with a British accent and pointed across the club to Harry. The woman had sleek, jet-black hair and was sitting with two other young women. Frankie was eyeing them like she was ready for a fight if necessary.

  “Yes, I suppose I am,” Viv said, amused at the question. “Why do you ask?”

  “And you’re an American,” the woman said, with a catty smile. “Fascinating.”

  “Why is it so fascinating?” I asked.

  “We were wondering who you were, given that you’re with one of the most eligible bachelors in England. I don’t think his family will be happy to hear he’s spending time with an American girl.”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Viv said, sitting up and frowning at them now.

  “That’s Lord Harold Westwood,” the woman said. “He’s a baron. His family is one of the wealthiest families in England.”

  “What?” I said, as I started to laugh. “You’re kidding.”

  “No, I am definitely not kidding,” the woman said, sounding haughtier by the minute. “I’d be careful if I were you; the British upper class can be vicious to outsiders.”

  “Thanks for the tip, but I’ll be fine,” Viv said, her voice cold as she turned her back on them, her cheeks a deep red.

  Princess Viv was seeing a British aristocrat. Of course she was.

  I gave her a sidelong glance. “You didn’t know?” I said.

  “No,” she said. “I’m wondering if they have the right Harry Westwood; he’s never said a word.”

  “Viviana Occhipinti, you just made my night,” Blanche said, passing her a cigarette. “This might be the best gossip we’ve had in the war.”

  “I agree, but what are you going to do?” Frankie said.

  “Calm down, girls,” Viv said, scanning the crowd for Harry now. “I don’t even know if it’s true.”

  “Yeah, but they wouldn’t really have a reason to lie about something like that,” Martha said. “I mean—”

  “Hey, Fiona,” Dottie said, interrupting her. She was looking behind me at the entrance. She pointed, so I turned to look.

  A group of officers had just walked in. My gaze drifted to the tall, broad one standing in the middle. The one with the thick, dark hair and the smile I would know anywhere. Peter. I gasped and stood up as my cheeks grew warm and I felt butterflies in my stomach at the sight of him.

  He had already spotted me and just mouthed a hello, raising his hand to wave.

  “What? How did . . . wait.” I whipped around to look at my friends, and they were all smiling.

  “Viv and I wrote him a letter,” Dottie said. She patted my hand.

  “What are you waiting for? Go see him. Remember, have fun and don’t overthink it.” Viv gave me a shove.

  I made my way over, through the crowds and tables and chairs, and it was almost impossible to get through the throngs of people. I finally reached the group, and his officer friends parted to make way for me so that we were standing face-to-face.

  For just a second, we stood there awkwardly, but then I got on my tiptoes and threw my arms around him, and he pulled me up into a hug. I could feel his heart beating fast in his chest, and I heard one of his friends let out a whistle, while another whispered, “Moretti’s a goner.”

  When we stepped apart, he was still holding on to my hand. I shook my head and smiled. “I can’t believe they sent you a letter,” I said.

  “And I understand why you didn’t,” he said, leaning down and talking into my ear. “But you’re okay that I’m here?”

  “More than okay,” I said, and he gave me a relieved smile.

  “There’s a café a few blocks down,” he said. “I thought maybe we could go there, somewhere quieter than this?”

  “Yes, perfect,” I said. I went to grab my purse and shawl and say good-bye to my friends.

  “Viv’s right,” Dottie said, giving me a hug good-bye. “Please let yourself have a little happiness tonight for God’s sake. You deserve it, Fi.”

  There were still crowds of people milling around outside of the club. Now a hunched old man in a burgundy sweater was playing an accordion for francs across the street from the door, and there was a tipsy couple laughing and dancing to his song.

  We walked down the street, and Peter held my hand. It felt small and warm in his, and there was an undeniable electricity between us. The cold December air smelled like snow, and the Paris street at night, with its ornate lampposts and beautiful trees, some glistening with ice, was almost too pretty for words.

  I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. Just live. Just live for this very brief, fragile moment in time.

  I opened them again, and Peter was watching me.

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I said. “I think I’m better than I have been in a long time . . .”

  He paused and then, in a whisper, said, “Me too.”

  “I was so heartbroken to hear about Tommy Doyle. About everything that happened in Holland. About everyone you . . . we . . . lost.”

  Peter didn’t say anything; he just squeezed my hand tighter, looked up at the sky, and nodded as the snowflakes started coming down.

  We turned a corner onto a street that was no more than an alleyway. On the right, there was a tiny sign above a
door that said, Chat Blanc, Chat Noir Bistro with a painted picture of a black cat and a white cat intertwined. We ducked inside.

  The café had a checkered tile floor and was sparse but clean, with several French, British, and American flags decorating the wall above the small bar. There were two men in uniform at the bar, and only one of the tables was occupied with two young couples chatting away in French. The owner was a hefty man with wild silver hair, and he welcomed us with an enormous smile.

  “Américains? Bonsoir! Bonsoir, monsieur, madame.” He held his arms out and led us to a table in the corner by the front window.

  We hadn’t even seen a menu when the owner’s wife, a tall, thin, elegant-looking woman, brought over a bottle of red wine and some small plates of olives and nuts.

  “From the bar,” she said in careful English, pointing to the two Allied soldiers sitting there. They held up their glasses to us and smiled, and we held ours up in return, saying our thank-yous in English and French.

  “So much happiness in this city. It makes you feel like the war is already over,” I said.

  “I wish it was, but I know better,” Peter said with a rueful smile. “We’ve got some work to do still.”

  I just looked at him. Up close, you could see that Holland had taken its toll. There were a few more grays in his dark hair.

  “I don’t know how you do it, how you keep going,” I said. “I don’t know how any of you do it.”

  He looked up at me, surprised. “Me? How do you do it?” he said. “I think about that; you didn’t have to come, and yet here you are, helping us. I’m sorry that I ever doubted that. I’m in awe of the fact that you volunteered. I had to come, but you chose this.”

  “I did and I didn’t,” I said. “I feel in some ways like it chose me.”

  “Maybe it did,” he said. He took a sip of wine and then grabbed my hand across the table and held it tight. We sat there looking out the window, enjoying the moment.

  “I’ve missed you,” he said, gazing into my eyes. “And I’ve worried about you. And being here with you tonight reminds me of what it is to actually have a life outside war.”

  “I’ve missed you too,” I said. I pulled my hand away, so I could put my purse on the table. I pulled out his Purple Heart.

  He stared at it for a long time, then took my hands in his.

  “We’re both leaving again tomorrow,” he said. “Let’s just try to enjoy this beautiful city for a few hours. Try to enjoy this?”

  “My thoughts exactly,” I said. I held up my glass. “To tonight.”

  “To tonight,” he said, clinking it. “And now, Fiona Denning, I want to hear about you. Tell me more about Boston and your family, your sisters and your schools. Tell me about your favorite flavor of ice cream and that job with the mayor. Tell me everything.”

  “Oh well, if I’m going to do that, you’ve got to reciprocate,” I said. “I want to hear all about the legendary boxing career that all your soldiers keep bragging about.”

  “Ha! Not exactly legendary, but yes, I will tell you,” he said. “It’s still early. We’ve got time.”

  We sat by the window at the little café table with the snow falling outside, and we talked and laughed for hours, the owner bringing over another bottle of wine and more small plates of food and even a basket with freshly sliced baguette, which felt like a luxury. I learned about Peter’s life growing up in New York City, about his Italian parents and his younger brother Anthony and his little sister Danielle.

  I told him about being the oldest of four sisters and what I loved about Boston, the neighborhoods and the Red Sox and the Common and the Charles. I talked about how Viv, Dottie, and I became friends at college and all the crazy issues I had to deal with at the mayor’s office on a daily basis.

  We were a couple. Except that we weren’t at all. We were like so many others, Americans living together inside the war. We all used every mental trick and emotional stop valve we could muster to get through it, not unscathed, but at least in one piece. We used music and dancing, laughter and drinks, and if we were really lucky, we used a night like this to help us survive.

  Right now, Peter and I were in our own separate space outside of everything, living for this brief time together because it made us feel hopeful and human. And tomorrow we would go back to the war and hope for another moment like this in the future, though there were no guarantees there would ever be one.

  We stayed at the café until they started shutting off the lights, and then we found a horse-driven taxi to take us back to where we were staying—the Hôtel Normandy for me, Paris’s new Red Cross Rainbow Corner for him. He put his arm around me protectively, and I closed my eyes and leaned against his chest, wishing the night didn’t have to end.

  “When I saw you in the club tonight wearing this dress?” he whispered in my ear. “I’ve never seen anyone look so beautiful.”

  “Thank you. I wanted so much for you to be there.” I smiled. “I owe Dottie and Viv for sending you that letter. I’m sorry I didn’t do it myself.”

  Our faces were so close I could feel his warm breath on my cheek. I lifted my head, and we were face-to-face, his look of longing mirroring mine. We both leaned in, but right before our lips touched, he pulled away, a tormented expression on his face.

  “Fiona, I have to tell you something,” he said. “I should have . . .”

  “Shh . . . ,” I said, putting my finger to his lips. “Not yet. Please. Kiss me.”

  He let out a sigh and took my face in his hands, and finally our lips touched, and we kissed. We kept kissing, long and slow, and I leaned into him as he pulled me in close. There is nothing like the euphoria of a first kiss, one that I hadn’t even realized I’d been waiting for so desperately. It felt like my heart might burst from my chest.

  The driver cleared his throat, and I realized that we were in front of the Hôtel Normandy far too soon. Peter helped me out of the cab and walked me inside the hotel. It was so late nobody was at the front desk.

  “My carriage just turned into a pumpkin,” I said as we walked inside. “I know you have something to tell me; I think I’ve known all night.”

  It was true. In our hours of talking about our lives at the café, I had purposely not mentioned Danny once, and neither had he. Danny had been there, though, as a shadow, a question left unanswered, a hole in my heart that hadn’t yet healed.

  “I . . . I just wanted this night for us,” I said. “That’s why I didn’t ask sooner.”

  “That’s why I didn’t tell you earlier,” he said. He put his forehead on mine before he pulled away and took a letter out of his pocket. He brought me over to one of the lobby sofas and sat me down.

  “I finally got this letter from Hank at the IRC.” Peter looked at me with compassion and so much more. I crossed my arms and braced myself. Here was news that was about to change my life. Again. “They found him, Fiona. Second Lieutenant Daniel Barker is at a POW camp in East Prussia for Allied airmen known as Stalag Luft IV. He’s alive. At least he was alive as of this report two months ago.”

  “How many are at this camp?” I asked, simply because I didn’t know what else to ask or how to process this information.

  “Over six thousand,” he said.

  I sat there staring into space. Trying to remember Danny’s voice, his face, the last words we said to each other. I put my head in my hands. Danny hadn’t died a year ago like I thought he had. He was alive just two months ago. He might still be alive today.

  I wanted to cry, but I knew if I did I wouldn’t stop, because not only would I be crying for Danny, I would be crying for everything lost in this war. For Tommy Doyle and Monty and the rose on every grave and the thousands of families grieving. Selfishly, I would be crying for myself and Peter, caught in this purgatory between war and real life.

  “You asked me to find out, and I did. I thought at least if I can’t have you, I can do this one thing for you. You deserve to know where he is. To know he’s alive.”
/>   I looked up at him and grabbed his hand.

  “Thank you,” I whispered. “Some men would have thrown the letter in the trash and not told me.”

  “I could never do that,” Peter said, his expression pained.

  “This war has changed my life forever, it’s changed who I am,” I said. “I was wrapped up in my grief at home, and then I came here and threw myself into this job, and it’s turned out to be this crazy, fulfilling life that I wouldn’t trade for anything. And it’s led me to you. But before all this, Danny was the man I was going to marry, and I owe it to him to try to find him.”

  “I understand,” he said, looking down at my hand, and we sat there in silence for a few moments.

  “Do you . . . will you still marry him?” he asked, looking up at me. “You know what? Forget it, don’t answer. If he was lucky enough to love you first, he’s probably lucky enough to make it through this war.”

  To love you first. Those words hung in between us, and I knew they were true. Peter loved me. And now I knew that it was possible to be in love with two people at once.

  “Peter, I need you to know, I feel . . .”

  This time he put his finger to my lips and took my face in his hands once more and kissed me, a more desperate, passionate kiss as we pressed against each other, all of our emotions and questions wrapped up in it.

  “In another life . . . ,” I said.

  “In another life, we would leave the Normandy and I would whisk you away to a romantic hotel with a view of the Eiffel Tower.” He looked at me with an intensity that made me blush.

  “And I wouldn’t hesitate to go,” I said, because I couldn’t deny it.

  We looked at each other, thinking of what that night would be like, until he broke the spell.

  “But in another life,” he said, letting out a deep breath, “you wouldn’t have a fiancé who’s in a POW camp, holding a black-and-white photo of you, the one thing that’s kept him going all this time.”

  I had pictured that very scene in my mind. Poor Danny. What had he endured? And again, I was overcome with grief and guilt. If he knew what I was doing right now, it would devastate him. I nodded, feeling my eyes fill with tears.