A Memory Between Us (22 page)

Ruth murmured comfort in his ear. A broken little boy.

His breath puffed on her neck. “You’re right. Charlie was a good man, too good to blame me.”

“That’s right.” She ran her fingers through the soft waves of his hair. “He wouldn’t.”

“He was so good, so good. He kept me in line, never let me get too full of myself. Except … except …”

“Ssh. Ssh.” He’d lost his best friend. The men had been through so much together and followed each other all over the world. Jack had maneuvered Charlie and May together. Now Charlie was dead, and May, when she accepted it, would be in mourning again. With good reason—Charlie was a fine man. Ruth’s eyes felt wet and sticky. “Poor, dear Charlie.”

Jack nodded against her neck. “At least—at least we know he’s with Jesus.”

Ruth’s eyes stretched wide. She’d heard those words when Pa died, when Ma died, and the sentiment had angered her. What good did it do? She was stuck on earth alone. However, the thought seemed to comfort Jack. His grip lightened, and her heels settled to the ground.

“But what about us?” she said.

“We’ll see him again someday.” Jack’s voice lost its rough edge.

“What about now? What about May and you and me? Stuck here alone.”

“We’re not alone. We have God. We have each other.” His words tingled on her skin.

“I—I suppose so,” she whispered.

Jack pulled taller in her arms. Ruth sensed, almost heard, the swoosh of power shifting. The broken little boy returned to full-grown man.

“Thank God I have you.” His lips nuzzled the spot between her collar and her ear. “What would I do without you?”

Even though Ruth knew better, she leaned into his kiss and played with his hair. “You—you’d manage.”

“I don’t want to,” he said right into her ear. “I love you, Ruth.”

She should have been stunned, but she already knew.

His mouth inched across her cheek, and panic swelled in her chest. “Please don’t,” she tried to say, but he smothered her words with his kiss.

She pushed herself back, and the air tumbled out of her lungs. “Oh, Jack, no.”

“Please, darling, please.” His hands gripped her waist. His eyes, his mouth grasped for a shred of love and joy in all this death and despair.

“I can’t.” She shoved out the words, hating what she was doing to him. “Don’t you understand?”

“No, I don’t. Help me understand, so I can fix it.”

“You can’t. No one can.” She’d prayed for God to forgive her, to fix her, but he wouldn’t remove the punishment she’d earned. She’d kissed too many boys for the wrong reason, and now she couldn’t kiss the man she cared for most.

“But I love you. Let me help.”

The desperation in his eyes made her heart ache. She lifted a shaky hand to his cheek. “Oh, darling, I’m so sorry.”

His gaze steadied, penetrated, comprehended. “You love me too, don’t you?”

Ruth felt her heart would rip in two, torn between the truth Jack had seen and the truth she needed to tell him. “I can’t. Not as you deserve, not as you want me to.”

“But … but …” His arguments dissolved into pain and regret. He pulled her close and sighed over her shoulder. “Oh, darling, I broke my promise. Oh no. I’m sorry.”

“Please don’t. I’m the one who’s sorry.” Why should this wonderful man have to apologize for kissing the woman he loved? Why was he punished for her sins?

25

Bury St. Edmunds Airfield

Monday, October 25, 1943

Jack took a seat in Colonel Castle’s office and crossed his ankle over his knee. After a week’s R & R he was supposed to be rested and relaxed, and he’d do his best to look it, although he’d barely slept the past eleven nights.

The CO stood with his arms crossed and studied Jack. “How was your week?”

He plastered on a grin. “Great. Got the hang of croquet, but now I’m ready to get back to work.” Hard work would take his mind off Charlie’s death, the loss of four planes and forty men, and his love for a woman who couldn’t love him back.

Castle shuffled papers down on his desk. “Bomber Command has made some changes. We’re increasing each squadron from nine to twelve aircraft, and to handle the increase, we need two group executive officers, a ground executive and an air executive.”

A position was open? Now?

Castle tented his fingers on the desk. “This has been a difficult decision. You’re qualified and you’d be an outstanding executive officer.”

Jack gripped his shin so hard it hurt. He’d lost it. First he’d killed Charlie, now he’d lost everything he’d worked for, all due to his stupid pride.

“I can’t give it to you.” Castle fixed a sad gaze on Jack. “Not after Schweinfurt. I can’t reward a rogue decision that cost us four planes. Your men have lost confidence in you.” Jack’s lips felt glued together, but he managed to speak. “I understand, sir.”

“Thorup will be air exec, and Jeff Babcock will be ground exec. He hasn’t been informed yet. I wanted you to hear the news from me.”

“Thank you, sir.” Babcock—insult to injury.

Castle sat down and folded his arms on the desk. “Your tour is almost up.”

“Yes, sir.” Eight meager missions to undo the damage. Impossible.

“You have two options. You could take a noncombat position here, at the division level, or stateside. With your credentials, a single reprimand won’t affect your career.”

A bureaucratic job away from planes and command? A part of his life drained away, same as it did when he contemplated a life in the ministry.

“The other option would be to take a month furlough, spend Christmas at home perhaps, then return as squadron commander. You’d have another chance for promotion in the future.”

Another tour? His chance of survival would be next to nothing. He swallowed hard. “I want to command, sir, and I need to fly.”

The first smile Jack had seen that morning. “I thought so. I hoped so.”

Jack left the office and forced his shoulders straight. Babcock passed him on his way to get the news Jack should have gotten. Jack gave him a nod, glad he didn’t have to congratulate him yet.

Then he escaped, out of HQ, out into the cool fog. He drank it deep. How many hits could he take before he went down? He was skimming the deck. He had to fight his way up and gain some altitude.

First, with Ruth. He was meeting her today, and it was time for an honest talk. She said she couldn’t love him—not that she didn’t, but that she couldn’t. Why? Because of her family? But he’d be honored to care for them.

She couldn’t love him as he deserved? Did she think she wasn’t good enough for him? Baloney. And she couldn’t love him as he wanted her to? That was his fault, pushing for a kiss. It didn’t matter. He could be patient and wait until she was ready.

Jack turned onto the road to the communal sites. His other order of business was to earn back the men’s respect. If he had to remain a squadron commander, he’d be the best ever and he’d start right now at the mess hall.

He entered the back door into the kitchen, which smelled of chicken and dumplings and peas. Pots clattered and spraying water hissed. Since the men weren’t combat personnel, they still respected Jack, and their smiles did him more good than a dozen games of croquet.

Private Reynolds was back. The kid couldn’t keep himself off KP. His sergeant was fed up with him, but Jack knew he was the sort motivated by encouragement, not punishment.

“Hi there, Reynolds.” Jack leaned back against the counter next to the sink where the private washed dishes. “How are things going?”

“Sick of KP, sir. Bad enough Sarge has it out for me. Now the MPs are on my case.”

Jack hadn’t intended to discuss his infraction, but now he had no choice. “What happened?”

“Ah, they call it ‘drunk and disorderly.’ I call it ‘a little fun in town.’”

Jack sighed. He hated to play disciplinarian when Sergeant Masterson did such a stern job of it. “Look at things from the British point of view. Their quiet country town has been overrun by three thousand brash young Americans, all wanting a little fun.”

Reynolds shrugged. “Still, it ain’t fair, getting KP ’most every day. A man gets sick of all this warshing and scrubbing.”

Warsh. Jack smiled at the chance to change the subject. “So, where’s home? The Midwest?”

“Chicago. Filthy slum near the stockyards.” He gave a tray a partial wipe with a rag.

“Yeah? I have a friend from that area, Ruth Doherty.”

Reynolds squinted at the ceiling. “Knew some Dohertys, but I don’t remember a Ruth. Dated one of them in eighth grade. Wow, what a dame.”

“Yeah?” Jack settled back against the counter a safe distance from the splashing.

“Gorgeous redhead. Too smart for a girl, you know, but boy, did she love to kiss.”

Jack smiled grimly. There the similarity ended.

Reynolds plunged a pot into the sudsy water and slopped the rag inside. “In fact, she was so good at it, she turned it into a business.”

“A business? Kissing?”

“Yep. Needed the money. Family had more kids than cash. Something wrong with her dad, couldn’t work. Kissing lessons, she called them. Gave the boys pointers.”

“Kissing lessons?” Jack shook his head. The stupid things people did for money.

Reynolds set the pot upside-down on the counter, and suds ran down the side. “Yeah. The boys would line up in the alley after school for lessons. Charged ten cents for ten minutes. Ten-Penny Doherty, we called her, ’cause her name was Penny. Wow. I haven’t thought of her for years.”

Penny. Penny Doherty. Jack’s stomach filled with something heavy and cold and slimy, as if he had swallowed mud. He spoke over the thick slab of his tongue. “What happened to her?”

“Ah, who knows? Probably running her own brothel. I heard one of the fellas at the plant call her Dollar Doherty. Did it all for a buck. Best buck he ever spent, he said.”

It couldn’t be. It could not be. Mud oozed up his throat, choked him, blinded him, polluted his mind. He had to get out, had to clear his mind.

He pushed for the door, his feet mired in the mud, past the kitchen staff and out the door, took gulps of moist air to cleanse his mind of the filth, the invasion of filth.

Jack made his way down the crowded road and barged into a spinney of trees. He had to pull himself together, get to the hospital, and straighten it out with Ruth, his Ruth, his virtuous Ruth who hated kissing, hated it.

He gripped a tree and pressed his forehead hard against the bark, as if the roughness could scrape away the mud, let him see it was all a misunderstanding.

Couldn’t be the same girl. Could not. Chicago was a big city. Real big. There had to be two Penny Dohertys, maybe even more. It couldn’t be her. Not Ruth, not his Ruth.

Smart. Gorgeous. Redhead.

Jack’s fingers dug into the tree bark. Coincidence, just coincidence.

Boyfriend in eighth grade. Big family. Dad couldn’t work.

His grip tightened and pried off chunks of bark into his fists. Too many coincidences. Too many.

She hated the name Penny. She’d gone by Ruth ever since she left home.

A sound arose, deep and animal and raging, and expelled all the mud until he saw clearly, thought clearly for the first time in months.

26

Redgrave Park

Trees emerged from the fog on either side of the road as Ruth walked to the park gate. “I’m surprised Jack isn’t here. They can’t be flying.”

“Maybe he has too much paperwork after his R & R,” May said.

“Maybe.” Ruth’s sigh blended with the mist. This was her last day off before she left. If Jack didn’t come today, she would only see him Sunday at church, maybe an evening if he could spare one, or she might not see him at all. She needed to see how he was doing.
Please, Lord, help him in his grief. Help him stop blaming himself.

If only she could have comforted him instead of adding to his pain.

He loved her. This wasn’t the infatuation of one of her patients based on her looks. She’d never known this kind of love from someone who knew her well.

Ruth made out a silhouette on the road with Jack’s build and gait. “There he is.”

“Good. I could use an afternoon to catch up on my letters. I’ll see you later.” May retreated toward Redgrave Hall. Poor thing. Unable to accept Charlie’s death, she wrote daily letters to mail when she found out where he was imprisoned, or to hand him when he returned to England. She still couldn’t forgive Jack for what she considered betrayal at best, a lie at worst.

Gravel crunched under Jack’s shoes, and Ruth wanted to rush into his arms. But then his face became clearer—the hard set of his jaw, the cut of his mouth, the steel of his eyes.

Contempt.

Her heart stopped. Her feet stopped. He couldn’t know.

Jack marched off the road and between the trees into the grass beyond. “Over here.”

His voice sliced through her. He knew? How could he know?

Once she’d seen a movie where a woman was led to the guillotine. Ruth had wondered why the woman didn’t run, fight, go limp—anything. Yet Ruth now walked in the same resigned manner.

Jack faced her, a good ten feet away in the dewy grass. Coldness remained in his eyes, but his expression rotated between confusion, hurt, and anger.

Ruth pinched her cape together as if to keep her secret shrouded.
Please, Lord, no. Please.

“Does …” He paused and made a face. “Does the name Ed Reynolds ring a bell?”

Not a bell, but a gong crashing in her head. Her hands flew from the folds of her cape to her clanging temples. Eddie Reynolds! She’d seen him in London, seen the Eighth Air Force patch on his sleeve, but there were two dozen groups in England, thousands of men at each base. Why? Why did he and Jack have to meet?

A desperate plea pierced through Jack’s fury. “Please tell me he’s a liar.”

“Oh-h-h.” Her moan merged into the fog, heavy and gray.

Jack registered her response with a grimace and a sharp turn of his head.

“No, no, no,” she said, over and over, in time to the gong in her head.

His face worked as if to twist his emotions into words. “All this time, all this time I thought you were virtuous, too virtuous to date, too virtuous to kiss. I thought you didn’t like kissing. Boy, was I a fool. You just don’t like kissing me.”