The Unsung Hero (35 page)
Tom didn’t know what to say to that.
“Besides, there’s no such thing as an easy marriage,” Joe continued. “I’ve seen a lot of ’em in my life, and the marriages that seem to run smoothly, the ones that last the longest, they’re the ones that are worked on diligently, kind of like an old car. A Model T will last forever if it’s properly maintained. But as soon as you start to neglect it . . .”
Tom leaned back against the railing. “And yet you never got married.”
“No,” Joe agreed. “I didn’t. But it wasn’t because I didn’t ask.”
“Cybele,” Tom said.
Joe glanced over at Charles, who was still sleeping soundly. When he looked back at Tom, he just shook his head.
“I wish you would tell me about France,” Tom said. “And about this Cybele, and about Mr. Ashton and the Fifty-fifth, too. I honestly didn’t know until a few days ago that you were OSS, and I’m—” He stopped, shook his head. “I understand why you didn’t tell me about what you did in the War. There’s an awful lot that I’ve done that I can’t talk about, and even more that I won’t talk about. I’m not going to ask you about it, but if you ever do want to talk . . .”
“Thank you,” Joe said. “But I have to tell the whole story to that writer after the ceremony on Tuesday. I don’t think I can stand to do it twice.”
“You don’t have to do it at all,” Tom countered.
“You know,” Joe said, “you could go into town to the jewelers and buy Kelly a ring. Give it to her before you spend the night with her.”
Oh, God. “Dinner,” Tom said. “We’re starting with dinner.”
Joe nodded. “I won’t wait up.”
“I’ve got work to do on the computer,” Tom told him, beating a hasty retreat into the house.
You don’t have to do it at all, Tom had said about Joe’s plan to talk to that author, Kurt Kaufman.
But Joe did have to do it. Because the story needed to be told before Charles died.
There was a statue in front of the Baldwin’s Bridge Hotel with Joe’s face on it. And it was about time this town knew that that face should have been Charles Ashton’s.
Charles Ashton—one of the richest of the rich in a wealthy town. He could buy and sell almost anyone, coming into money that his grandfather’s grandfather had earned, and doubling it with his fearless investments and his cutthroat financial wizardry. He came off as cold-blooded and standoffish, and few recognized the truth—that risking money meant nothing to him. Not after having lived through the War, after having watched so many risk their very lives, after seeing so many sacrifice so much.
As Charles had gotten older, he’d tried to buy acceptance in the town by donating generously to the hospital fund. But all that had bought him were vague mutterings that he’d probably bought himself a safe position far from the front lines during the War, as well.
Nothing could be further from the truth.
Charles was the real hero of Baldwin’s Bridge. And Joe was finally going to tell the story.
But not the whole story. There were parts he’d never tell anyone. Like the night Cybele had come to his room.
Joe sat on the deck near Charles, who was sleeping more peacefully than he had in a long time. He checked to make sure the blanket was still tucked around his friend’s feet.
This morning, when he’d seen Charles cleaning the guns he’d brought home from the war, he’d been thrown back into the past. It was strange, seeing Cybele’s Walther PPK again after all these years. One look at the thing, and it was as if he’d seen Cybele just yesterday. The clarity of his memories astounded him. He could practically smell her kitchen.
He could nearly feel the roughness of the sheets on his straw-filled mattress.
He could taste her kisses.
He sat back in his chair, gazing out at the water. Looking without seeing.
Remembering.
He’d been asleep, and he’d woken to Cybele’s soft touch. She’d slipped into his arms, begging him to hold her. He would have been content to do just that, only that, but she’d kissed him, she’d finally kissed him, and, oh . . .
The night air coming in through the window had been cool, but it hadn’t been long before their skin was slick with sweat. He’d been delirious, certain that he’d found heaven at last.
After, Cybele had cried. He hadn’t understood. Not then. Not till later. He’d simply held her close to his heart, whispering that he loved her, asking her—again—to marry him, to love him not just that night, but forever. She’d begged him not to speak, asked him just to hold her, and she’d finally fallen asleep, there in the circle of his arms.
He’d slept, too, but when he awoke in the morning, Cybele was gone.
He’d washed and dressed quickly, and went down to breakfast, his heart and step both light. Sure, there was a war on. Sure, the Nazis were still living right down the street. But the Americans were pushing toward Ste.-Hélène. And Cybele belonged to him. There was even a chance that his child—their child—was growing, right now, in her womb.
Henri and Luc Deux were at the table, eating stale bread softened with warm goat’s milk. Cybele and Marie were preparing several baskets of vegetables from the garden. They would take them along when they returned the mending to the Germans, try to sell them, too, earn a few more coins.
As Joe sat at the table, he saw Charles sitting on a bench by the door. He was unshaven and haggard looking, as if he’d had a sleepless night. And he was staring almost sightlessly at Joe.
“Leg bothering you again?” Joe asked him.
Charles gazed at him with his red-rimmed eyes for several moments longer before he spoke. “Yeah. That’s it.”
“I’m sorry,” Joe said, but he was in too good a mood to sound as if he truly meant it. He turned toward the two women, unable to keep from smiling, too filled with joy to try to hide it. He wanted to shout and dance, but instead he merely said, “Good morning, Cybele. You should have woken me to come help in the garden.”
Cybele glanced up at him, then glanced almost furtively at Charles.
“You’re always up at dawn,” she replied, not looking up again as she put the freshly washed beans into the basket. “I thought I’d let you sleep.”
Why wouldn’t she look at him? “I slept quite well last night,” he said, willing her to look at him, to meet his gaze and smile. “Exceptionally well, in fact.”
Charles laughed as he stood up abruptly, turning away to look out the open door.
And Cybele rinsed more of the beans as if she were angry, her movements quick and fierce.
“I wouldn’t have minded if you woke me,” Joe continued, looking from Cybele to Charles.
They were both tense, both tightly wound, both careful not to look at the other. Too careful.
His joy was no longer quite as bright. It was accompanied by a slightly queasy feeling. What was going on here?
Perhaps Cybele had once again turned down Charles’s request to be returned to the Allied side of the line. They’d argued over that in the past.
“What did I miss this morning,” Joe lowered his voice to ask Henri, “by sleeping so late?”
Henri shook his head. “Dunno.”
Charles turned away from the door, using his cane to shuffle toward the front of the house. “I’ll be lying down.”
Cybele threw down the beans and stormed after him, out of the room.
Joe pushed himself to his feet, not certain whose rescue he was going to—Cybele’s or Charles’s. But he stopped, just inside the kitchen door, at the sound of Cybele’s voice.
“How dare you?”
“How dare I what? Close my eyes? Try to rest?” Charles’s voice got louder with barely restrained anger. “Heal this goddamned leg so I can leave here for good?”
“How dare you act as if I’ve injured you in some way!” she cried. “You told me to—”
She broke off as Joe stepped into the hallway, wishing she hadn’t stopped and at the same time certain he didn’t want to hear what she had to say.
“I told you,” Charles said as he stood by the closet he’d claimed as his bedroom. Although he spoke quietly, his voice shook. “But I didn’t know it would make me feel like this.”
And as Charles looked at Cybele, Cybele looked back at Charles in a way that Joe knew she had never, ever looked at him. Not even last night, when she was naked in his arms.
And he knew the truth.
Cybele loved Charles. And it was glaringly obvious that Charles loved her, too.
Joe had merely been a pawn in a game he hadn’t even known they all were playing.
He turned silently and walked out of the house. When he heard Charles follow him, he ran.
He couldn’t remember much of that day, wasn’t sure where he’d been, what he’d done. All he knew was that he came back. As much as he wanted to, he couldn’t stay away. There were people depending on him, and one of them was Cybele.
Whom he loved. Still.
She was waiting for him in his room, curled up asleep on his bed, with all her clothes on.
He sat on the edge of the bed, and the movement of the mattress woke her. He hadn’t lit a candle, but the moon shining in through the open window was bright enough to light her face.
“Giuseppe, I’m so sorry,” she said. Her apology was sincere. Not that it made it hurt any less. “I’m not as terrible as you must think. I honestly thought last night would . . . I don’t know . . . save me, maybe. Don’t you see? I can have nothing I truly want. I thought if I could make myself want something I can have . . .” She bowed her head. “It was wrong and I’m sorry. The last thing I’ve ever wanted was to hurt you.”
He was silent. What could he say?
“I do love you,” she whispered. “Just not the way you want me to.”
“Not the way you love Charles.” He had to know for sure. Maybe hearing the truth would make him stop loving her. God, he wanted to stop loving her.
And she didn’t deny it. “I’m sorry.”
Anger sparked. Frustration. Jealousy. “He’s married.”
“I know.”
“Is it his money that—”
“No!” She was vehement. “I don’t care about that. It means nothing to me. I own this house now. I’m a wealthy woman, too.”
“I don’t understand why—”
“I don’t, either,” Cybele said. “All I know is he pretends so hard not to care about anything or anyone. He says he doesn’t remember going back into the church, risking his life for that child. He says he’d never do it again, but I don’t believe him.”
“And you think he could . . . save you somehow?” His voice sounded rough and harsh to his own ears, but he had to know. He had to stop loving her.
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “But just sitting with him, just looking into his eyes, makes me feel both despair and hope. And it’s been so long since I’ve felt anything but despair.”
Her breathing was ragged, as if she were crying, but her face and her eyes were dry.
“Every breath I take hurts,” she whispered. “It’s so heavy, so suffocating. If it weren’t for the anger and the hate I feel for the Nazis, I’m sure I would die.
“And I know I’m not alone. I know I’m not the only mother who lost a child in this war. There must be millions of us—” Her voice broke. “And oh, I think, what an army we’d make. All that outrage, all the anguish making us invincible. But then what? After we completely crush the Third Reich, what then? What will we have won?”
Joe couldn’t answer.
“A chance for Marlise’s baby to live more than two years. That’s the best I can hope for. There’s nothing I can do that will bring Michel back.”
And still Joe couldn’t speak.
“I’ll win this war against the Nazis,” she told him fiercely. “I’ll win or I’ll die. But when I win, I’ll die anyway, because without an enemy to hate, I’ll be completely alone with only the despair.”
“You’re not alone,” he told her. “I’m here.” He reached for her, but she pulled away. She didn’t want him. God, that hurt.
“I wish I could love you,” she said wistfully.
When Joe looked at Cybele, he, too, felt hope with his despair, despite his hurt, despite his anger. “Maybe someday you will.”
She gazed at him a moment longer, her beautiful eyes ancient looking and weary, as if she foresaw her own future and believed she had no someday to look forward to.
She closed his door gently behind her, leaving him loving her still, and suspecting that he always would.
________________________________________
Fourteen
KELLY CAME INTO her bedroom at full speed, singing a pop tune at the top of her lungs—baby, keep me up all night.
And taking off her clothes.
Tom was at her computer, and he didn’t have time to warn her he was there. She spotted him at the exact same moment she flung her dress over what should have been her computer chair, hitting him full in the face.
“Oh, my God!”
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