by Jane Healey
I dove in, and the salt water that hit my skin was the perfect temperature, refreshing but not frigid cold like the ocean off New England.
“We’re staying here tonight because there’s a great band playing on the patio,” Dottie said when I floated over to them. “Joe and his friends are coming, Harry’s too.”
“Sounds good,” I said. “I think I’ll wear that new white dress I bought yesterday.”
“Are you going to sing, Dots?” Frankie asked.
“Maybe,” Dottie said, smiling. “I’ve been practicing a few new songs with Joe. It depends; some bands don’t like it when someone jumps in.”
“Glenn Miller didn’t mind, why should they?” I said.
“No, Glenn Miller didn’t mind,” Dottie said with a sigh. “God bless poor Glenn Miller.” They had never found his plane in the English Channel.
Dottie got out of the water and went to join our friends lying in the sun. Frankie and I swam out a little deeper, chatting and treading water, enjoying the view of the beautiful beach in the stunning golden light of the late-afternoon sun.
“I talked to Liz about the survey and what I want to do next,” Frankie said as she treaded water.
“Oh?” I said. “And?”
“I’m putting in for one of the Red Cross positions in Berlin.”
“Are you really?”
“Yes,” Frankie said. “And I think you should join me.”
I was quiet for a moment, looking up at the seagulls crying overhead as I thought about it.
“If anywhere, I was thinking of London or Paris. I hadn’t even considered Berlin . . .”
“We’ll be at the center of things if we go there,” Frankie said. “There’s so much to do still, so many soldiers and civilians to help. Liz will give you the highest recommendation, I’m sure.”
“I don’t know,” I said. Like most of the Clubmobile girls, the question of what was next for me had been weighing on my mind. What did I want now that my future was mine alone?
“Promise me you’ll think about it?” Frankie said. “I’d love for you to go with me. And I know you’re feeling a little lost about what to do next, trying to figure out this unexpected future.”
“I am,” I said. “Thank you. I will definitely think about it.”
We got out of the water and joined the group just as Viv returned with bottles of Coke for all of us.
“Well, since we’re here together alone and it concerns all of you, I’ve got an announcement,” Viv said. She was perched on her chair now, wearing a black one-piece, green-framed sunglasses, and a wide-brimmed straw hat, looking movie-star glamorous as she sipped her Coke.
Dottie looked at me; whatever Viv had to say was news to both of us too.
“I’ve decided, instead of going home or to the Pacific after this, I’m going to London. I’m going to work at the Red Cross club there and take some art classes.” She paused as if for dramatic effect, and giving us a sly smile, she added, “Oh, and I’m also marrying Harry Westwood in three weeks.”
Frankie spit out her mouthful of Coke in a messy spray, and the few people sitting around us looked up in horror. Dottie and I gasped, and Blanche jumped up, cheering and clapping.
“Viv!” I said, giving her a hug. “Oh my God, this is huge news. So, wait—are you really going to be Princess Viviana now?”
“God no,” she said. “I haven’t met his parents yet, but they’re apparently getting used to the idea of me. They’re not exactly royalty, just upper class.”
“Isn’t he a duke or something?” Frankie asked.
“Yes. I mean, no. He’s a lord. And he also happens to be the love of my life,” Viv said. “When we reunited in Verdun, I realized it. And being his wife and living with him in London? I want to pinch myself at the thought of it, I’m so happy.”
She had taken off her sunglasses, and her eyes were teary, and I couldn’t recall ever seeing my cool, collected friend so overcome with joy.
“Oh, Viv, I couldn’t be more thrilled for you,” Dottie said, getting choked up as she threw her arms around our friend.
“Details, please,” Blanche said.
“It’s going to be at the Hotel George V in Paris. You’re all bridesmaids—my parents and sisters won’t be able to come on such short notice, so I’m going to need you gals there.”
“Of course,” Frankie said. “Are we wearing our uniforms?”
“Absolutely not,” Viv said. “No uniforms except on the guys. But you can wear whatever dresses you’d like, so that’ll be easy. And we don’t have a lot of time, so I need you all to help me hunt for a wedding dress. I don’t care if it’s twenty years old or made of parachutes, as long as it’s fabulous. I’ve heard of a lot of Red Cross girls getting married in their uniforms lately, but that is just not me.”
“No kidding, Viv,” I said, laughing.
“Well, we are going to celebrate tonight,” Blanche said, standing up from her chair. “I love it, the first of us getting married. Speaking of tonight, ladies, I just realized it’s already four thirty. We’ve got to head up to the hotel to shower and change, because you know the guys will be arriving anytime now for cocktail hour.”
I let Dottie and Viv shower first so I could relax and take my time getting ready. By the time I got downstairs, the terrace was packed with military and Red Cross, the dance floor jammed with couples jitterbugging to the band’s version of “Here We Go Again.”
I saw Joe and Dottie dancing. Viv and Harry were sitting at a table with his friends, and Blanche and Frankie were at the next table with Guy’s. Instead of joining them, I took a walk down the path to the beach.
The bougainvillea on the walls were covered in tiny white twinkling lights that made the gravel path look like it was out of a fairy tale. I took off my sandals and sat on the nearest beach chair, feeling the cool sand between my toes and listening to the sounds of the surf.
I was living a life I would never have recognized two years before. Sitting on a beach in the South of France, after months traveling to the front lines of the war in the European Theater.
“What’s next?” I whispered to nobody but myself and the sea.
Going home didn’t feel right now. I didn’t want to return to my former life; it didn’t even fit anymore.
Like so many others, this war had robbed me of the life I had planned, and of my first love. I decided to chart a new course now. I would stay in the ETO and apply for one of the Red Cross positions in Berlin with Frankie; that would be the best way to honor Danny’s memory.
I was enjoying the quiet when I heard the sound of footsteps on the path. I grabbed my sandals to walk back, assuming it was a couple looking for privacy. Slipping my sandals back on, I stepped onto the gravel again, and when I looked up, I froze.
He stood about twenty feet away from me in the lights of the bougainvillea, still built like a boxer but a few pounds thinner now. I opened my mouth to speak but closed it, looking into his eyes, not quite believing what I was seeing.
He gave me a small wave, tilted his head with that familiar lopsided grin that made my heart burst. I squinted as hard as I could because I didn’t want the tears to fall.
Do fall in love again . . . I remembered the words of Danny’s last letter and silently said a prayer of thanks to him for giving me that blessing. How best to honor those we’ve lost? By not being afraid to live life and take risks, by daring to open your heart to possibility. By taking a chance to begin. Again.
I took a few tentative steps forward, barely breathing. He stood there, waiting for me to decide.
I ran up the path, and he picked me up into his arms and swung me around. And we stayed like that, breathing each other in, making sure of each other.
When my feet touched the ground again, we held hands and stood for a moment.
“My God, you’re really here,” I said, wiping the dampness from my face. “I wanted to find you again, but I was so afraid that I’d learn you were gone.”
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��I almost was, more than once,” he said, squeezing my hands, looking at me, marveling. “I wanted to find you, but I’d convinced myself you were on your way home by now, getting married.”
I looked up at him and just shook my head.
He put his hand on my cheek. “Viv just told me about what happened to Danny. Fiona, I am so sorry for your loss, for all of the pain you’ve gone through.”
“Thank you,” I said, that pang in my chest, a jumble of mixed emotions, the pain of my past love, my planned life, gone for good . . . and then the hope of what was right in front of me.
“It was horrible to hear the truth, to know that, for a time, he was here, alive, but in the end, he was lost,” I said, thinking of the story of the march. “But at least I know now.”
“I want you to understand,” Peter said, taking his hand away from mine, nervous and searching for words. “All I want is to spend some time with you. I’m not trying to push you into anything you’re not ready for . . . And if you don’t want to even do that, well, I . . .”
“Peter, the fact that you’re here today, alive? It feels like a miracle,” I said, reaching for his hand. “And there is nothing I’d rather do than spend time with you tonight.”
He smiled and let out a deep breath, relieved.
“Okay,” he said, looking down at my hand in his. “Let’s go.” He gave me a quick kiss on my forehead, and we walked back up the path to the party hand in hand, glancing at each other with shy smiles. The terrace was even more packed with people, and the band had amped up their sound to compete with the noise of the crowds. Peter stopped when we were on the fringes.
“Do you want to get out of here?” he said, surveying the scene. “I’ve got a jeep; we could go for a ride. There’s this fishing village . . . I even know a hotel we could stay at.” I looked up at him, surprised, and he held up his hand. “I meant in two rooms, I . . .”
“Sounds perfect,” I said. “Let me grab my bag upstairs, and I’ll meet you out front.” I gave him a quick kiss on the cheek, my own cheeks flushed red. I didn’t even stop to see my friends, I just headed straight to our room, stuffed a change of clothes and pajamas in my bag, and left a note on the door for Viv and Dottie.
He was waiting in front of the hotel in the jeep. The valet opened the door for me, and I climbed in.
We drove along the coast of the French Riviera under a star-filled sky. I leaned out one of the windows, and the wind whipped my hair around like crazy, but I didn’t care. Peter occasionally grabbed my hand, and we both kept looking at each other with a little bit of wonder.
“Where are we going?” I asked after we had been driving for over forty-five minutes.
“Villefranche-sur-Mer,” he said. “It’s a village some of the guys who have been here told me about. They took a drive up the coast, stayed there one night on the way to Monte Carlo.”
“When did you get here?”
“Just a few hours ago,” he said. “I’ve been asking around about the Red Cross since I got to my hotel. I had to know if you were here too.” He kissed my hand. “And I still can’t believe you’re sitting next to me.”
Villefranche-sur-Mer was a charming medieval town of terra-cotta and ochre-colored buildings with red-tiled roofs, situated on steep cobblestone streets all leading down to the harbor, the lifeblood of the village. We parked the jeep and found a small hotel with a pale-yellow facade a block up from the water on one of the narrow, ancient passageways only meant for pedestrians.
The hotel owner recommended a small restaurant across from the water, so we walked down to the harbor. The cafés along the waterfront were filled with patrons drinking wine or espresso and enjoying the view and the beautiful spring night.
We arrived at the tiny bistro with the blue awning that the hotel owner had described. A hunched, elderly woman showed us to a corner table outside. She didn’t even give us menus; she just brought us a bottle of red wine and then, a little while later, came out with steaming bowls of linguine and clams.
We talked, and it felt completely strange and yet comfortable sitting across the table from Peter. When the owner cleared our plates, Peter reached across the table and grabbed my hand.
“So, tell me. I want to hear everything that has happened in your life since we said good-bye at the command post.”
I started with the reunion with Group F, tearing up when I shared the devastating news about Martha. I then told him about the party for the orphans and my request to the colonel, moving on to Cologne after Belgium, and, finally, our work with the newly liberated POWs. When I got to the part where I met Danny’s friends and learned about his death on the march from Stalag Luft IV, I felt my voice catch in my throat for the second time since I started talking, and he squeezed my hand harder.
“I heard about those marches,” Peter said, anger in his voice. “There will be a reckoning for those guards; there has to be.”
“I hope so,” I said. “I’m sorry to be emotional, it’s still—”
“No need to apologize,” he said. “No need to ever apologize for that.”
“What’s happened for you since then?” I said. We were holding hands across the table now. “In some ways it feels like years since that night at the command post.”
“Before I start, let’s go back to the hotel before they lock the front door for the night,” he said. “There’s a bar with a patio there.”
Peter went to pay the owner, but she just patted him on the cheek and pointed at his uniform.
“Merci beaucoup,” she said. “Merci. Bonsoir.”
And we thanked her profusely in English and French as she kissed us both.
The hotel desk clerk was leaning on his elbow, half-asleep when we arrived in the lobby. But he brought wine and a bowl of olives to our table on the patio.
We stayed up talking until late. Peter shared some of his stories from the front, including the news that he had been promoted to major. The Eighty-Second had attacked the town of Bergstein on the Rur River, among others. A couple of times he stopped short of providing details; reliving them was clearly still too much.
“We weren’t even that far from each other,” I said. “I’m sorry I didn’t write; I was afraid I would learn you were gone.”
“And, you know, I didn’t write because if Danny was alive . . .”
“I know. Thank you,” I said. The clock on the wall said one thirty. “I should probably go to bed,” I said, not wanting to leave him but feeling like I was supposed to.
“You’re probably right,” Peter said, disappointment in his eyes as he grabbed my hand and pulled me up. We walked up to the second floor. Our rooms were on opposite ends of the hall.
“Good night, Fiona,” he said when we stopped in front of my door. I could smell the woodsy scent of his cologne. He put his hand on my chin, tilted my head up, and kissed me, our first real kiss since the command post. We kissed slowly at first, both a little nervous, but then he wrapped his arms around me and I leaned into him, and we kissed with a passion that surprised us both.
“I better go to my room,” he said, pulling away, out of breath and looking at me with an intensity that made me feel light-headed.
“Yes,” I said, looking into his eyes and nodding too many times. “You probably should.”
With a quick kiss good night on my forehead, he walked down to his room as if willing himself to go before he changed his mind. I let myself into my own room and put down my purse. The room was clean and neat, with whitewashed stucco walls and a tile floor, and a vase of fresh yellow roses on the nightstand.
I took off my sandals, looked at myself in the mirror, and smoothed down my hair.
With a deep breath, I reached into the pocket of the dress for the Purple Heart and closed my eyes. Before I could change my mind, I ran down the hall in my bare feet. I was about to knock on Peter’s door, but he opened it first, the same intense look in his eyes.
“I was thinking if I didn’t knock, I’d always regret it,” I sa
id, holding up the Purple Heart, stumbling over my words, breathless and dizzy. “I’m in love with you. I should have told you before we said good-bye last time. I love you and—”
Before I could finish he pulled me toward him and scooped me up into his arms. Holding me against his chest, he kissed me with a fierce desire as the dam of longing broke for both of us. He carried me inside and kicked the door of his room shut. His room was dark except for the moonlight streaming through the window. Peter lowered me gently onto the bed, kneeling down on it next to me, his hands tangled in my hair as we kept kissing each other desperately.
“Fiona, you’re shaking,” he whispered, holding my face with his hands.
“Am I?”
“Yes.” He smiled. “Are you sure you want to be here?”
“I’ve never been so sure of anything,” I said, smiling through tears.
He kissed the tears on my face, then moved down to my neck. I lifted my arms as he slowly pulled my dress up over my head, gasping at his warm hands on my bare back. I unbuttoned his shirt, tracing the scar on his chest with my fingers before I kissed it. He let out a quiet groan and pulled me down on the bed until I was underneath him, looking into his eyes again.
“Can we take our time?” I sighed, wrapping one of my legs around his as he leaned down and kissed my collarbone, gently unhooking my bra. “I just don’t want this all to end . . .”
“Sweetheart, we’re going to take all the time you want,” he said, his voice rough as he whispered into my ear. “We’ve both been waiting too long for this night.”
We didn’t fall asleep until the sun was rising. When I woke up at noon, Peter was sleeping, his hand on my back, making sure of me. I wrapped myself in a blanket and walked over to the window. Villefranche was even more beautiful in the daylight, its buildings painted in brilliant shades of orange, gold, and crimson, and I could see a glimpse of the fishing boats in the harbor at the end of our narrow street.