Take Me Home (9781455552078) (12 page)

What could force you to have to make such a choice?

Olivia caught herself just before she blurted out her thought. She so desperately wanted to know what had happened to him that it was a struggle to hold back her curiosity. Somehow, she managed. It was a welcome surprise when Peter spoke, answering as if she had asked.

“It's…it's still hard to talk about…” he explained with a faraway look in his eye, almost pained, as if he was reliving the memory. “I suppose it's still too recent. But I can say that when I made my decision, it was the most difficult thing I've ever done.”

“What did you choose?” Olivia asked.

Peter paused. “My mother.”

“Over your own happiness?”

He nodded.

“In the end, do you feel like you made the right choice?”

“I don't have any regrets.”

“None?” Olivia asked. “How can that be?”

Peter smiled knowingly. “Because whenever I think about what my mother would have had to endure if I'd chosen differently, I know that I couldn't have burdened her with that much suffering. Even if I could go back, do it all again, I wouldn't change a thing.”

Olivia believed him. The strength of his conviction was admirable. Whatever she finally decided to do about Billy's proposal, whether she chose to marry him or changed her mind and broke his heart, Olivia hoped she would be as resolute about it as Peter was.

For a while, they both fell silent, a state that Olivia found harder and harder to maintain. Every day that Peter had been in her home, Olivia had thought of more questions she wanted to ask him. Over and over, she had to bite her tongue, swallowing down her curiosity. Though she enjoyed Peter's company, he still remained something of a mystery to her. He'd come out of nowhere, a complete stranger, and had sacrificed himself to keep her from harm. But here they were, days later, and she still knew next to nothing about him. He was from Pennsylvania. He had a deferment from the military, though he couldn't talk about why. Truthfully, what he'd just said about his mother was the most intimate detail he'd ever provided. Olivia wanted to know more. Now that she had begun to ask questions, she found that she was standing on a slippery slope.

“So what were you doing here in Wisconsin?” she asked.

Peter looked momentarily startled. “Excuse me?”

“You said that you were from Pennsylvania, but that's hundreds of miles from here. It made me wonder what had brought you here.”

He paused, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. “My job,” he finally answered, but added no details.

His response intrigued her. “Strange then that when we met,” Olivia said, “the only things you had with you were the clothes on your back.”

Peter stiffened slightly, then looked away. Olivia watched his expression closely, but had trouble reading it. This was something that had been troubling her for days. When she had first met Peter, he'd had no suitcase, no baggage, no possessions at all. The clothes he'd been wearing were worn and hadn't fit him particularly well. When Olivia washed them, the only thing she'd found in his pockets were a couple of ratty dollars and a handful of coins. When she'd put them on the clothesline to dry, she half-expected them to fall to pieces. In order to dress him after the doctor's initial visit, they'd had to borrow from her father.

“It's…it's kind of embarrassing…” Peter answered. “Everything I had was taken from me against my will.”

Olivia gasped. “Stolen?”

Peter nodded. “I was on a train coming back from Minnesota when two guys entered my cabin. I woke up and found them rifling through my bag. I tried to fight, but they were too much for me. I'm not sure what happened, whether one of them had a blackjack or just landed a punch, but I was knocked cold. The next thing I know, I'm being thrown off a moving train. When I landed, I must have hit my head because when I came to it was morning. I got up, dusted myself off, and started walking toward the nearest town.”

Olivia had been listening raptly; it sounded just like the serials she liked to listen to on the radio. “Which was Miller's Creek,” she finished for him.

“When I was jumped, all I'd been wearing was my nightshirt. I hate to admit it, but the clothes I was wearing I took from a cabin up in the hills.”

“And that's why you were going to see my father?”

Peter nodded. “A man I met on the way told me where I could find the sheriff,” he said. “I thought I should tell him what had happened.”

“Why didn't you tell me this when I first asked?” Olivia prodded.

“I couldn't remember at first,” he explained. “I was still so groggy from the accident that I had trouble thinking straight. Eventually, it all came back. I suppose that I was too ashamed to say anything.”

“You were robbed. That's no reason to cling to your pride.”

“Maybe you're right.”

A sudden, terrifying thought struck her. “Those men didn't jump you because of what you do for the war effort, did they?” she exclaimed. “You…you're not involved with fifth column spies, are you?”

But Olivia's worries were dashed when Peter started laughing. “My goodness, no,” he said. “I think one of the reasons I woke up when they entered my cabin was how terrible they smelled. They were vagrants, hobos searching for money, nothing more. I was just unlucky.”

“Then it just got worse when Sylvester hit you with his truck.”

“I wouldn't say
all
of my luck is bad.”

Unexpectedly, Peter reached out and took Olivia's hand. She had to suppress a gasp; he held the one on which she wore Billy's engagement ring. Every time she was with him, she'd taken great pains to keep it out of sight. But she'd been enthralled by his story and had forgotten.

“This is pretty,” he commented, rubbing his thumb over the band.

“It's nothing,” she lied.

“Compared to
your
beauty, you're right.”

Olivia's heart began to race. As time crawled slowly past, their touch lingered. She remembered what had happened with Billy beneath the evergreen tree, how things had quickly spiraled out of her control. Olivia suddenly realized how it would look to be seen like this, alone with a man who wasn't her fiancé, their hands entwined, so she tried to move away, but Peter held her fast, unwilling to let what they shared end. She looked up to find his eyes searching her face.

“Thank you for all you've done,” he said.

“You may have saved my life,” she replied. “I don't know if I can ever repay what I owe you.”

He smiled. “In the end, I think that
I'm
the one in
your
debt.”

Without warning, Peter leaned forward and kissed her. As with Billy, Olivia was caught completely unaware; but
unlike
then, this time, she felt her heart leap so hard that it felt as if it was going to burst out of her chest. Her thoughts raced; she was unable to fully believe what was happening, but thankful for it all the same. Emotions she'd been struggling to grasp, to understand, refused to remain unheard. Their kiss was tender, a soft touch that felt almost fragile, as if it was precious, but it was undeniably powerful, a sudden storm that shook the ground she walked on. Olivia held her breath and closed her eyes, giving herself over to the moment. Her hand, still in his, squeezed tightly. But then, just as quickly as it had begun, it was over. Her eyes fluttered open to find him smiling at her.

Feeling a bit rattled, Olivia stood up and went to the door, wondering if her face was as red as she imagined. Peter made no move to stop her, but she was certain that his eyes never left her. At the door, Olivia stopped and looked back; as when they'd held hands, their gaze lingered. Neither of them spoke; she wondered what she could possibly say. To Olivia, there was much about Peter that remained a mystery, but there was no doubt that he had kindled a fire inside her, something completely unexpected.

But maybe the greatest mystery of all was what she was going to do next.

P
ETER STOOD IN THE YARD
behind the Marstens' house and stared into the sky. Brilliant, warm sunlight washed over him as the breeze pushed a couple of clouds across a mostly clear sky. Birds chirped as the squirrels scurried around, digging up the nuts they'd buried back in the fall. Somewhere nearby, a dog barked. Closing his eyes, Peter breathed deeply, inhaling the sweet scent of pine.

Absently, Peter ran his fingers over the cuff of his shirt. True to her word, Olivia had gone through her father's closet and found him a couple of outfits. Though everything smelled of mothballs, he was happy to have them all the same. Other than the musty clothes he'd taken from the cabin, it had been a long time since he had worn something other than the garb of a soldier or the prisoner he'd become. Years, by his count. Even though he was still a fugitive, he felt somewhat normal. He supposed that, by outward appearances, he looked American.

Slowly, a smile spread across his face. Never in his wildest imagination would he have thought he'd be here. As confusing a turn as his life had taken, Peter knew it could have been much worse; he could be dead, crushed in the train wreck or killed on the battlefield. A different twist of fate and he never would have seen this beautiful day. He was glad that he'd listened to Olivia's advice and gone outside; it was the first time he'd done so since the accident.

It was also the first time he'd been by himself.

Olivia and her father had gotten up early and headed into town for work. Peter had no idea where Grace had gone; he'd heard her holler to her mother, followed by the kitchen door slamming shut, and then her girlish shout as she almost certainly leaped from the porch on her way to whatever mischief awaited. Elizabeth had worked around the house for a couple of hours before she'd knocked on his door to tell him she was going to run some errands.

So now what…?

Not for the first time, Peter considered running away. It would be easy to go back inside, grab some food, scrounge around for whatever money he could find, and head for the train tracks. With luck, he'd be gone before anyone even realized he was missing.

But that meant leaving Olivia behind.

Guilt gnawed at him. It felt to Peter that, ever since he'd met Olivia, everything he'd told her was a lie; the only truth had been what he'd said about his mother, something he'd never shared with anyone before her. But whenever she asked him a question about who he was, where he'd come from, or why he'd been traveling with nothing more than the clothes on his back, there was nothing for him to do but make something up. He wished that he didn't have to lie to her, but what other choice did he have? He
couldn't
tell her the truth. How would she react to discovering that he was an escaped German soldier, a prisoner of her nation? He remembered what she'd said about his mother's people,
his
countrymen, about how they deserved whatever punishment they got. How could he hope to convince her that he hated Hitler and the Nazis as much as she did, and that the only reason he'd joined the army was out of a fear of what might happen to his mother if he refused?

If Olivia knew the truth, she'd hate him.

Then run! Or do as you'd intended and tell her father who you are!

But he couldn't. Not now, not after kissing her.

Spending time with Olivia made his heart race. Every time he saw her, she seemed more beautiful than before. When she smiled at him, he was dumbstruck, staring at her so hard that he worried she would feel uncomfortable. Yesterday, when he'd taken her hand in his own, the desire to kiss her had been intoxicating, overpowering. His heart had urged him forward, wanting, needing their lips to touch; when they had, her skin hot and moist against his, all of Peter's many worries had vanished, replaced by a longing for that moment to go on forever. His head counseled caution, warned him about the mess he was making, about all of the lies he had spun, but he ignored it, embracing his heart and its desires, damn the consequences. Later, he wondered if Olivia had secretly wanted the same thing, to kiss him; from the look on her face when their kiss finally ended, a shocked, faraway depth in her eyes, he imagined that she had.

But what was he to do now? What kind of future did he think he could have with Olivia? No amount of hoping could change who he was,
what
he was. Eventually, his haphazardly constructed charade would crumble, and then what?

Off in the distance, Peter heard the shrill whistle of a train; the sound made him think of how he'd arrived in Miller's Creek, which in turn caused him to wonder about Otto. Even though the man was cruel and heartless, embodying everything Olivia feared and detested about the Nazis, Peter still wished he knew what had happened to him. Where was he? Had he been recaptured? Was he still alive? Just then, as if in answer, a gust of cold air washed over him, sending a shiver racing across his skin.

It left him with the feeling he was being watched.

Glancing around, Peter was shocked to discover that his suspicion was right. Someone
was
watching him. An elderly woman stood on the wraparound porch of a neighboring house, looking toward him. She was short, with a thick head of curly white hair, her body wrapped in an overcoat that was too long for her, the tails bunched around her feet.

Tentatively, Peter raised his hand and waved, but the woman gave him no reply in return, no acknowledgment, and just kept staring.

Feeling uncomfortable with the attention, Peter decided to go back inside. But as he began walking across the yard, he noticed the woman's gaze following him intently. Nervously, he stopped. He'd come closer to where she stood and was surprised to see that she wasn't looking right at him, but rather just behind him. As he watched, her head turned one direction and then another; he had the impression that she was
listening
for something.

“Hello?” Peter called out. “Are you all right?”

The woman turned to look straight at him. “Of course I am,” she answered. “Who wouldn't be on a beautiful day like this?”

“No one, I suppose,” he said, ever so slightly taken aback. “The sun's a little bright but I can't complain about how warm it feels.”

At that, the older woman let out a hearty laugh. “I reckon I'll have to take your word on the first half of that.”

Immediately, Peter understood what was different about her. She was blind. That explained the absent, faraway look she'd given him in the yard. It also told him why she hadn't reacted when he'd waved. When he'd started back toward the house, she hadn't been watching him, but rather listening to his footfalls, reacting when he stepped on fallen sticks and leaves.

“I'm Ruth Pollack,” she said, introducing herself.

“Peter. Peter Baird,” he answered, his fictitious last name still sounding uncomfortably foreign to his ear.

“I heard you when you first came outside,” Ruth explained. “I might not be able to see, but I reckon that even if I was deaf, I'd still be able to hear the Marstens' kitchen door slam shut. That thing's loud as thunder!”

“I'm sorry if I made too much noise. I didn't mean to disturb you.”

“Don't you worry none. I've been living next door to that family for going on twenty years now. I know each and every noise they make,” she said. “Hearing you didn't bother me. Rather, it made me curious.”

“Is that right?” Peter asked cautiously.

Ruth nodded. “The Marstens all make different sounds, some noisier than others, especially Grace. That girl hollers like the devil himself was chasing her,” she explained with a laugh. “But they all greet me each morning without fail. It might be nothing more than a quick hello, a comment on the weather, or an offer to come sit awhile and gossip, but they do it all the same. Then today, you came outside,” Ruth said, pointing her wrinkled finger right at him. “You didn't say a word, which made me interested.”

Peter didn't answer.

“You're the one who kept Olivia from being run over by that old drunk Sylvester, aren't you?” she kept on.

“You heard about that?”

“There isn't a person in town who hasn't by now,” Ruth answered. “Maybe even a couple of towns over, too. I think half the company I've had lately has really come by in the hopes that they'd get a glimpse of you. Delores said you were a handsome one, but whatever good looks you have are lost on me,” she said with a smile. “With the way every­one's carrying on, I suppose that for these parts, you're what passes for famous.”

Peter was glad the blind woman couldn't see him frown; the last thing he wanted was to attract attention.

“I did what I had to,” he replied. “I didn't want anyone to get hurt.”

Ruth turned her head a bit, just as she'd done when he'd been walking across the yard. “Where are you from?” she asked.

“Pennsylvania,” Peter answered nervously. “Why do you ask?”

“You have any German blood in you?”

The blind woman's question made Peter's blood run cold. He was sure that all the color had drained from his face. “My…my mother's family came to Pennsylvania from Bavaria…originally…” he managed.

“That would explain it,” Ruth said with a nod.

“Explain what?”

“Your accent,” she explained. “I've been blind since I was five so I never had a chance to get good at studying people's faces. I've learned to pay attention to their voices instead. You can tell an awful lot about someone just by listening to them talk. If they're happy, nervous, or angry. Whether they're young or old, even if they're too heavy because of how hard they breathe. If I listen close, I can tell where someone's from. Even though my friend Rita DePasqua has lived here most all her life, she still sounds as Italian to me as she surely did the day she stepped off the boat. With you, I hear German.”

Peter didn't know what to say. To his own ear, his English sounded perfect, the same as his father's. “My grandmother used to speak it around the house,” he finally spat out.

“That explains it,” Ruth said. “Although it must be hard for you, what with the war and all, one family fighting against another. You should hear all the terrible things Rita has to say about Mussolini.”

Desperately, Peter tried to think of a way out of their conversation. It amazed him that in all the time since he'd left Otto at the cabin, the person who had come the closest to divining his true identity was a blind woman. But as he considered which excuse he'd use to get back to the safety of the Marstens' home, he was rescued by an unlikely source.

From the street, a car horn honked. Peter turned to see a police car pull into the Marstens' drive. For a moment, he thought he'd been discovered, that the law was coming to get him; his heart raced and he chastised himself for not running when he had the chance. But then he saw John behind the wheel, waving out the open window, and his anxiety subsided a bit.

“Afternoon, Ruth,” the sheriff said once he'd joined them, unnecessarily tipping his hat in the blind woman's direction, surely out of habit. Peter tried to stay calm, but the sight of the badge pinned to John's shirt unnerved him just as much as the gun strapped to the man's waist, maybe even more so. “I see you've met Peter.”

“I have,” she answered. “We were having a nice conversation. He was telling me about where his family originally comes from.”

Peter's heart thundered, but he didn't say a word.

“Then I'm sorry to interrupt,” John replied. “I hope you don't mind if I take him off your hands.”

“Not at all.”

“Much obliged.” Turning to Peter, he said, “Olivia mentioned that you might be up and about today, so I thought that I'd come by and offer to take you to lunch. Goslee's Diner isn't fancy but they make a darn good plate of food. Besides, I'm sure you're sick of being cooped up,” he added, nodding toward his own home. “This will give us a chance to talk and maybe I can show you around town a bit.”

Peter stumbled for an instant, leery. The sheriff's offer might very well be genuine, another way of offering his gratitude for keeping his daughter from harm, but Peter couldn't help but wonder if there wasn't more to it; maybe he saw a chance to dig a little deeper into the life of the stranger staying in his home. Either way, Peter knew that turning down the invitation would only make the lawman more suspicious than he might already be.

“I'd like that,” he answered.

John must have noticed his hesitation. “You sure you're feeling up to it?”

“Really, I'm fine.”

“All right, then.”

They said their good-byes to Ruth and headed for John's police car. Just before he got inside, Peter looked back toward the blind woman.

She was staring right at him.

“What do you recommend?” Peter asked.

“I'm partial to the hash and eggs,” John answered. “But there isn't a bad choice to be made.”

With the number of people crowded into Goslee's Diner, Peter figured that the sheriff was probably right. Just a little past noon and almost every seat was filled, including all those running the length of the diner's long countertop, people wedged in elbow to elbow. When they'd arrived, most everyone they met had greeted them; Peter assumed they did it to be friendly or out of respect for John's position in town. Bits of conversation and the clinking of silverware mixed with the faint sound of music coming from the kitchen. The smell of grease was everywhere.

“Here we are, fellas.”

Denise Goslee set down a couple cups of coffee, pulled a worn notebook out of her short apron, and tugged out a pencil that had been wedged behind her ear. According to John, Denise and her husband, Sam, had been fixtures in Miller's Creek for decades. Many a belly had been filled with their food; from the roundness of Denise's waist, it was clear that she wasn't above sampling the dishes, either. She quickly scribbled down their orders. Just as the waitress was about to leave, she nodded at the open newspaper John had begun to peruse.