Brave Hearts (12 page)

Again a physical sensation of pain moved in her chest.

Usually, she didn't allow herself to think about it, to look ahead and see the passing years and herself following Spencer from post to post, Peggy Taylor, the efficient, successful secretary. Her mother's friends remarked that Peggy sure did have an exciting life, all those foreign places, but when was she going to come home and marry Rowley? Why, surely that pretty little Peggy wasn't going to be a spinster?

Tears burned behind her eyes. She knew how they talked in her little Georgia town. She knew how the bright, curious eyes probed her mother's face.

This afternoon, she could see, a touch of sickness in her throat, the long years passing, the apartments here or in other cities—and Spencer.

Spencer loved her.

She knew that was true, knew it with certainty.

But he didn't love her quite enough.

That was the thought she'd never admitted to herself—the thought she'd buried, refused to face and think about. But today it slid out from the dark recesses of her mind and throbbed with an angry, aching pain.

He loved her, he needed her, he wanted her, but he loved his career more.

Peggy once again put the photograph on the table and picked up an unopened letter that had arrived yesterday with the package of gifts. She hadn't opened it because she knew what it contained. Rowley had such a distinctive hand, small, neat printing in block letters.

She could go home to Stone Mountain and Rowley and one day there would be babies.

But Spencer . . .

She heard his key in the lock. She hadn't expected him to come this holiday evening. Usually, she jumped up and moved eagerly toward the door when he came, but today she sat in the wicker chair, her shoulders slumped, Rowley's unopened letter in her lap.

The overhead light flickered on.

“Peggy, why are you sitting in the dark?” He hurried across the room and looked down at her with concern. Then he bent forward. “Honey, are you all right?”

She bit her lips to keep them from trembling. She couldn't say a word to him or she would cry. Was she all right? No, she was all wrong; her life was all wrong.

Spencer reached out and touched her shoulder. “Honey, what's happened?”

She shook her head. How could she tell him it was the Thanksgiving dinner with sets and sets of husbands and wives, the sound of children playing on the front lawn, a picture of a solemn ten-year-old girl, and an unopened letter from a man who loved her in a steady, quiet way? She shook her head again. Tears spilled down her face.

Spencer knelt beside her and took her hands in his. “Peggy, tell me what's wrong.”

She swallowed jerkily, her lips trembled, and she could scarcely see him through the blur of tears. “Spencer, I want to have babies.”

He went rigid, as if an electric shock coursed through him. His face looked suddenly drained and white. Slowly, he stood, pulling her to her feet. They faced each other, but he didn't speak.

She broke the taut silence. “I'm going to go home.”

She hadn't planned to say it, hadn't even thought it before. The words came without warning. Deep inside, she waited for Spencer to say no, to say he loved and needed her, to insist that she not leave him.

He looked down at her and said nothing.

Peggy made a noise, a deep animal noise of hurt. She turned away, jerking her hands free, and began to walk blindly across the room, one hand outstretched as a blind woman might.

Spencer fought tears, too. His throat ached as he watched Peggy blunder across the room. She bumped into a table and fumbled with the knob to the bedroom door. Her shoulders heaved and he knew tears ravaged her face, that she was choking for breath. Still he stood, unmoving. The bedroom door slammed, and he was alone in the hot, still living room. He could hear the hard, racking sounds of her sobs through the thin wooden door. He wanted to go after her, to comfort her, to take her in his arms and to love her.

But if he did, she would stay, and he felt a deep, primal conviction that she should go back to the United States as soon as possible. Manila had received the alert this morning, a war alert sent to all United States naval and army forces in the Pacific. A war alert. The Japs might attack anywhere in the Pacific within the next two weeks.

He'd had friends in Nanking when the Japs invaded there. He knew what the Japanese did to conquered women.

The harsh, broken sound of her weeping battered him. Tears filmed his eyes. He began to move toward the door, one halting step at a time. He reached the door and touched the knob.

If Peggy went home, if she left now, she would be safe.

There wouldn't be any light or laughter left in his life, but he had to stay in Manila and complete his assignment. It was the best assignment of his career, and it mattered, it was very important. Who knew where he would be sent from here if he succeeded, and he was succeeding. He might be returned to London at a higher rank, or perhaps he would be attached to the secretary of state's personal staff in Washington. He would have proven his worth—if he finished the task here, if he meticulously accounted for all the gold and silver in the islands and made provisions to have the treasure safely removed should war occur.

He couldn't ask Catharine for a divorce until this task was completed. His wife had to be here, had to be part of the effort to reassure the Filipinos.

If he told Peggy he would get a divorce, she would stay here, but once again that primal instinct flared. Get Peggy away. Get her out of the Philippines. He'd reserve a berth on a ship to San Francisco, take the first vacant cabin.

His hand dropped away from the knob. He walked stiffly across the room and opened the front door, carrying the sound of her tears in his soul.

Dust swirled in an orange-red haze. Jack pulled himself up to look over the convertible's windshield at the traffic stacked up ahead of them. “Damn, this is going to take hours. I guess we won't go to Baguio today.”

Catharine shaded her eyes against the metallic, blistering sun. The long line of dun-colored tanks stretched as far as the eye could see. The hatches were open and the crewmen draped over the copings, waving and whistling to the spectators. Filipinos by the hundreds lined the road and waved tiny American flags.

“Where are they all going?” she asked.

“Fort Stotsenburg. They're from a convoy that landed yesterday.” He looked at Catharine soberly. “They're another reason I want us to leave on the Galveston tomorrow.”

“The tanks? What do they have to do with us?”

“Washington didn't send those tanks out here to cut the grass, Catharine. That's just another sign that war's coming.”

He maneuvered the car so it was half-turned now. With a final twist, the convertible nosed around and headed back for Manila. “There's a nice beach out past Cavite. We'll go there.”

Catharine laughed. “You've only been in town for a week, but you already know the good beaches, the best restaurants, and the bars that serve the best whisky.”

He grinned lazily. “You bet. An advantage of living with a newspaperman.”

“Not the outstanding advantage,” she said demurely.

He shot her a quick look, then exploded with laughter. “For a woman who looks like the epitome of the prim and reserved American, you have quite a bawdy mind.”

“Do I shock you?”

“You shock me. You delight me.”

They chattered happily all the way down the narrow two-lane road to Cavite. They spoke lightly, but their eyes were soft and warm. There was so much between them that was unsaid, that didn't need saying. Catharine didn't even mind the usual blazing sunlight or the ripe jungle growth that crowded against the roadway. She didn't worry about tomorrow or regret yesterday. She was existing for this very moment, for now, for being with Jack.

When they reached the end of a sandy trail that led down to the beach, Jack hired a Filipino in a vinta to take them to one of the deserted islands that lay close offshore. When they stepped out of the boat, Jack arranged for the boatman to return at sunset.

Catharine carried the picnic basket, and Jack carried the blanket. They went to the bay side of the island, the tiny, deserted island, and spread a patchwork quilt on the hot white sand.

Catharine smiled at Jack then and said softly, “When we're together, everything is wonderful.”

He looked up at her and slowly smiled, but said nothing. Her heart sang in gratitude. Let them have this afternoon, and, if it were going to be the last afternoon, let it be a happy one without any quarrel. He'd made it clear last week. She was to come with him tomorrow. All this week, when they'd met and loved in the afternoons, it had been implicit, unstated. Now they were together the day before the S.S. Galveston was to sail.

She couldn't go.

Jack would argue that she shouldn't feel guilt, but she did and she would. She had to balance it out in her own mind and heart. What did she owe Spencer? There were the years they'd spent together, there was Charles, and there was the importance of this assignment to Spencer. Moreover, if she left, it could be a signal to the Filipinos that the Americans were wavering.

She couldn't go.

She watched Jack with hungry eyes. She watched the way his soft cotton shirt stretched across his shoulders as he bent forward to lift their sandwiches out of the hamper.

“Hungry?” he asked.

“Starving.”

“How about a turkey sandwich? This will be our Thanksgiving.”

She'd spent yesterday at the Residence, at the marvelous Thanksgiving feast for the diplomats and their wives and the staff, but she'd picked at her food and talked desultorily.

This afternoon, the sandwich tasted wonderful. Jack opened two bottles of beer and handed one to her. It tasted wonderful, too, dark and slightly acrid.

They ate hungrily, talked eagerly, and drank their beer, then stretched out on the red-and-white quilt—and still they talked. There would never be enough time in the world for them to say everything.

Catharine propped up on one elbow and looked at him quizzically.

“What are you going to do when you get back to the States?”

“Go by Chicago; then I think I'll hit Washington.”

“Why Washington?”

“Somebody ought to need a newspaperman.”

She stared at him, not understanding. She knew, of course, that he'd left INS, but she'd assumed he was with another news service. For the first time, it occurred to her that he didn't have a job.

“Jack, aren't you working for somebody now?”

“Nope.”

“Do you mean you don't have a job at all?” She looked stricken. “Did you quit your job to come here?”

“Sure.”

“Oh, Jack. I assumed you'd gotten a job with one of the other news services.” She frowned. “Didn't you come here by military flights and then on the Repulse,”

He nodded.

She was still puzzled. “How could you do that if you weren't working for a news agency?”

His grin stretched all the way across his face. “Easy. I flashed my correspondent's papers. Nobody asked if I still worked for them. The military PIO offices are so swamped they don't know which end is up.”

“You came all that way illegally?”

He was still laughing. “It could be so described.”

She began to laugh, too. “Jack, you're awful.” His delight was contagious, irrepressible.

“Yeah.”

“You think it's a joke.”

“Sure.”

Slowly, her smile faded. “If you don't have a job, how can you afford to be here and how did you buy those tickets?”

“Oh, one way or another,” he said evasively.

“And the car,” she pressed. “How did you buy it?”

“You want to know?”

She nodded.

“You really want to know?”

She nodded vigorously.

He rolled over on his elbow, too, and their faces were close together.

“There was this joe on the flight to Singapore,” he said confidentially.

She waited.

Jack shook his head a little. “He thought he knew how to play poker.” He began to grin again. “Actually, he has a lot to learn and lessons are expensive.”

“You gambled?”

“That's what poker's all about.”

Catharine pushed herself up and stared down at him, amazed.

“My God,” she said simply. “You hook rides on fake papers, and they'd probably shoot you for it if they found out. You don't have any money so you gamble. Jack, you're crazy.”

“Yeah.”

“I love it.” And she did. In all of her life, she'd never met anyone with Jack's insouciance. He was stronger than any man she'd ever known. He didn't need security or station or any of the supports others clung to. He wasn't afraid to dare or challenge or risk. “You're a madman—and I love you.”

He grinned. “And you'll run away with me tomorrow.”

She'd known they couldn't skirt the issue forever. She knew this moment had to come. She reached out, took his hands in hers, and clung to them tightly.

“I won't come with you tomorrow, but I will go anywhere in the world you want me to go when I am free.”

He looked up at her somberly, the happiness gone from his face. “When will you be free?”

She leaned down toward him, her eyes pleading.

“It won't be long, it really won't. Spencer's assignment may be finished as soon as January. It will be February by the latest. Don't you see. Jack, that's hardly any time at all. Next week is December. So it's only a matter of weeks. As soon as we leave Manila on our way back to San Francisco, I'll tell Spencer. When we dock in San Francisco, I'll go directly to Reno. Six weeks later, I'll be divorced and then I'll come to you, Jack, anywhere in the world that you want me.”

“Why don't you tell him now?” Jack demanded.

“It isn't going to be easy.” Then, quickly, as Jack's face hardened, she continued, “No, I don't mean it that way. I don't care. It would be easier if I did; perhaps then I wouldn't feel so guilty, so . . .”

“Catharine, stop that. You don't have any reason to be guilty. If he loved you, I wouldn't say that, but he doesn't love you.”

Catharine looked away, looked out at the brilliantly blue water and, far away, at the thumb-shaped smudge that was Corregidor.

“He doesn't love me,” she said slowly, “but he's counted on me all these years—and now I'm going to desert him.” She swallowed. “And he doesn't have Charles.”

Jack reached up, pulled her down, and held her tight. He pressed his mouth against her hair. “Don't, honey, don't.”

Tears rimmed her eyes. “But I'll come to you, Jack. I'll follow you. I'll . . .”

“Oh, shut up,” he said gruffly. “I'm not going to go off and leave you. I cashed in those damn tickets yesterday.”

“Yours, too?”

“Both of them.”

She began to shake her head. “But you need to get back to the States. You need to find a job and . . .”

“Shut up, Catharine.” But his voice was soft now.

His lips moved gently across her cheek, and he molded her body to his.

She could feel the fire of desire, but still she had to talk, had to insist that he look to his own future. “Wait,” she said breathlessly. “I can't let you sacrifice for my sake. You laugh, but I know you care about what you do.”

He pulled back just far enough to look down into her face. “You're damn right I care, but I care more about you. They can take all the jobs, all the wars, and all the columns ever written and stuff them into a sinkhole, and I'll still love you.”

She stared up at him, her eyes wide.

“Yeah, you're right. I'll write. I'll always write. I have to. I have to take the world, all the wonderful and horrible bits of it, and put it into words, make my own sense of it, give it some structure and meaning. I'll write whether I'm here or in London or Reno or wherever the hell. That's part of me, but, most of all, I've found you, and I'm not going to lose you. There'll be a job for me somewhere. I don't worry about it—but I'm not going to lose you.”

She smiled even though tears filmed her eyes, and she couldn't see him very clearly. She slipped her hands behind his neck and drew his face to hers. They kissed, and she felt the flare of passion, the swift hot sweet ache that only he could ignite and only he could satisfy. As their tongues touched and tasted, they slipped free of their swimsuits, and their skin was warm and soft as they moved together. She welcomed the touch of his hands, and she pulled him hard against her and within her. There was the pulsing warmth of union and the wonderful surging ecstasy as they moved together in an explosion of delight.

When, finally, they lay quietly and waited for their thudding hearts to ease, Catharine smoothed his thick dark hair and rested her cheek against his face. Jack wasn't going to leave her. It was going to be all right. She had quit believing in tomorrow, but now tomorrow was hers again, a wonderful and certain tomorrow. She could see the days spinning by. Next week it would be December and, as sure as the stars moved in the heavens, the days would pass and it would be January.