A Rendezvous To Remember

The night was cold and crisp. For once we had no rain, just a wide clear sky above, with the stars floating close enough to touch. I relished my walk home in the dark. This isn’t a Christmas for parties and celebration; it’s one for prayer and hope that our hell will end soon.

I came home from Mass to an empty house. But Henri wasn’t passed out drunk on the sofa, as usual, nor was he waiting to pummel me. A frigid breeze blew through the house and I heard my dog, Belle, barking out back. Henri was always careful to make sure she was outside when he beat me—Belle would have killed him if he’d ever left her in the same room when he hurt me.

Her barks alarmed me with their persistence. I ran through the house to the kitchen door, which stood wide open. I could see a lantern about halfway across the field, which was lit up by the full, full moon. I made out Henri’s silhouette and Belle’s, across from him. But who was the figure next to Belle?

I grabbed one of Henri’s hunting rifles. I may never know why I did; I’d never allowed Henri to find out that I knew how to fire a weapon. He would’ve locked up the rifles, and for some perverse reason I’ve always felt safe knowing they were there. Just in case.

I ran into the field, the frozen mud crunching so loudly beneath my feet that the sound drowned out whatever Henri was saying to Belle, and to the figure. As I neared, I realized with a jolt that Henri wasn’t even aware of my approach. Belle’s barks had helped to cover my steps, but that’s not why he was distracted.

Henri was enraged. But for once, not at me.

“You stupid shit of the earth. Do you think I don’t know who you are, what you represent?” Henri had his rifle up and cocked, pointed at the figure.

It was a man. He wore plain dark clothes and there was a large cloth draped on the ground next to him.

A parachute.

The Group had said they’d use my pasture, but they’d give me advance notice—if they could. Obviously they hadn’t.

“Please, friend, let me explain.” The man spoke perfect Belgian French. Henri started to yell at him in German.

“I’m not your friend, nor am I a friend of any supporter of Churchill’s.”

“I don’t understand,” the man answered, again in fluent French, but I had the sense that he understood Henri perfectly. At this point he’d spotted me, although I noticed he gave away nothing in his expression. He was sitting, both legs in front of him. He held his right ankle in his hands.

“Understand this. You’ll be sorry you didn’t break your neck in the fall.” Henri raised his barrel and from his stance I knew he was a stroke from killing the man.

“Henri, don’t!”

Henri barely started. He didn’t even look at me.

“Shut up, Esmée. Take Belle back in the house before I shoot her, too. You know not to disobey me.”

Disobey him?

I hoisted my rifle and shot Henri in the head.

His body dropped in slow motion, and I wish I could tell you I felt guilt or recrimination or compassion at his fate. But all I felt is what I feel now. If I must suffer in hell for Henri’s blood, better that than letting him spill the blood of more innocent Jewish families. God only knows how many have met their untimely fate at his hands, through his help.

“Nice shot.”

Again, the stranger spoke in fluent French and I responded the same way.

“I just saved your ass and all you say is ‘nice shot’?”

“Merry Christmas?” he offered, and I laughed.

I actually laughed. I, who had just murdered my husband in cold blood, after Christmas Mass. War does strange things to a person, and sadly I’m no exception.

After our laughter stopped, we were left with the still, cold night and the prospect of figuring out if indeed this man belonged here. And what was I to do with him?

I studied him more closely. He looked like any local Belgian. A full beard and spectacles covered most of his face. I couldn’t see much more in the dark, no matter how bright the moon. But he had a quiet, intense presence about him.

“You are Muriel.”

He spoke my Resistance code name. He’d heard Henri call me “Esmée.” Still, he could be an undercover German. A double agent. But at that moment I decided to trust him.

“Yes, I am.”

“I am from across the way.”

This time he spoke in English.

He meant, of course, the English Channel. He was another one of the many Allied operatives who were landing in Belgium to help the Resistance.

I put down my rifle. It ran through my mind that this Ally probably thought I was crazy. That I could stand there having a calm chat with him in my cow pasture on Christmas morning, as my husband’s body lay next to us.

“Did you love him?” His question shocked me. I responded before I could think.

“I hated him.”

“So saving my ass wasn’t too much of a sacrifice, then?”

“No.”

I wish I’d been able to explain to him that I wasn’t a monster. That years of living with this horrible man in a horrible time had left me with no hope for my future. That my only reason for getting up each morning has been to save more people from the Germans, and to save any future victims of Henri’s efforts to aid the enemy.

But all I said was “no.”

Melinda heaved the journal off her lap and placed it on the mahogany end table she and Nicholas had refinished last year.

The conversation they’d had then played in her mind as if it had just happened.

She’d landed a position in Senator Hodge’s local office but she’d been offered one in Washington, D.C. She’d wanted to take it. Planned to take it.

Nicholas had rejected her suggestion that they move. His accounting practice was flourishing and, even though he’d have no problem landing a great job in D.C., he didn’t want to leave western New York.

“It’s all we’ve ever known. We’ve been so happy here,” he’d argued.

“Exactly. It’s all we’ve ever known. But it was pretty damned desolate while you were in Afghanistan.”

She’d loathed the entire year he’d been gone, and was grateful he’d returned in one piece.

But the year of separation and isolation had stirred a restlessness in Melinda that she needed to explore. She was like her father, James, who’d worked as a civil servant, first for the municipal government in Buffalo and then in Arizona. She was interested in federal politics. Grammy, like Nick, had thought maybe it was time they had a baby, but the baby never came.

They’d been unable to conceive.

“Honey, we’re in an adjustment period,” he’d said that fall day. “I’ve only been back six months, and we were apart an entire year.” He’d placed his hands on her shoulders, but Melinda couldn’t accept any comfort from him. Not then.

“You’ve only been home for six months but you’re already talking about leaving again.” Her words were spoken quietly but their weight was deadly.

Nicholas dropped his hands from her shoulders and took a step backward.

“You’ve always supported my Reserve training before. Surely you understood it was training for war.”

“Yes, but you seem so eager to go, Nick. It’s as though you have some sort of death wish. I mean, to agree, to volunteer again—”

“Cut me some slack here, Melinda. I’ve been with the same team for the past ten years. We’re like family. I can’t let them down now.”

“What about me? Us?”

“There’s always us. That never changes.”

“You say you want a baby, but how can we work on it when you’re halfway around the world fighting in a war?”

“The same way we’ll work on it while you’re in D.C. and I’m here.” His resentment at her more and more frequent business trips was reflected in his tone.

They’d thrown accusations at each other that day as if words didn’t hurt, wouldn’t stay ingrained on their hearts for a long while to come, if not forever.

On Sunday morning, Nicholas rose with the sun. Mornings were always the toughest time. He had to stretch, put on his prosthesis and remember how to walk with his new leg. Sometimes the phantom pain took his breath away. Not today.

Today he was under the same roof as Melinda. His heartache far outweighed any pain he’d suffered as a result of the IED, improvised explosive device, and the subsequent loss of his leg.

The pain he felt at the loss of his squad mate, Tommy, who hadn’t survived the IED, could still leave him breathless if he dwelled on it. But it didn’t compare to the pain he felt at the thought of losing Melinda.

Waking up in the trauma unit and finding out that Tommy had died, leaving a widow and three kids, was a gut-wrenching blow. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever get over it. He’d certainly never forget Tommy.

But if he lost Melinda, their marriage, he’d lose his most important reason to live.

Melinda was his life, his soul mate. But they’d gone wrong somewhere in their fifteen-year marriage. He intended to right whatever he’d screwed up.

He went downstairs and started a pot of coffee. He was happy to see that Melinda had replaced the Starbucks coffee he’d left in the cupboard seven months ago. While the coffee brewed, he walked to the front door, intent on the morning paper. After he opened the front door and was greeted with an icy blast he realized the paper service had been terminated.

Of course. He’d made the call himself two days before his departure.

A week after Melinda had left.

“You’re up early.” Her voice seemed to touch the tender place inside that he’d thought was dead.

“Habit.” He turned away from her, and went back into the kitchen. But not before he caught a whiff of her morning scent. Shampoo, hair products, perfume. For a split second, all their bitter words dissolved and all he wanted was to pull her into his arms.

Instead, he settled for looking at her.

Big mistake. The IED had taken his leg but, thank God, nothing else. Right now he was acutely aware of his physiological response to her.

Big blue eyes stared at him from behind fringed lashes that he knew to be pale blond when not coated with mascara, as they were now. She’d cut her hair, and as much as he missed the straight, silky length that fell to her shoulders, the new sleek chin-length style was stunning on her.

When she raised an eyebrow, Nicholas turned away. He had to stay cool if he was going to pull this one off.

“Learn anything interesting from Grammy’s journal?” He poured them each a cup of coffee. He was generous with her half-and-half, just the way she liked it.

Melinda’s expression looked as if she’d refuse his attempt at a truce. After a few tense moments, the lines in her face relaxed.

He watched her slim hands wrap around the ceramic mug. She lifted it to her lips and he had to avert his gaze or risk another surge of hormones.

“I’ve—” she narrowed her eyes “—we’ve always known that Grammy was a strong person. But I’m reading about someone I don’t know at all.”

She related what she’d read so far, and while Nick was saddened that Grammy had suffered at the hands of an abusive husband, he wasn’t surprised to learn how resourceful she’d been.

“This guy who landed in her pasture—he was a Brit, I assume? Grandpa Jack?”

Nick took a long sip of coffee and watched her across the kitchen table. The sun was rising and sent slanted beams of light across Melinda’s face.

“I haven’t read that far yet. They always said they met during the war, didn’t they?”

“Yes, but neither one of them ever told me the full story. They were experts at enjoying today, the here and now.”

Nicholas longed to share the last conversation he’d had with Grammy. But not now. Not until Melinda was ready to hear him out. After he’d told her about his leg.

Melinda sighed.

“It’s weird. I thought I was coming home to take care of Grandpa Jack. You know how lifetime couples often pass on very close to each other? I’ve been expecting to hear Grandpa’s gone, too. Instead, I come home to find him in his garden, working away, and he gives me these journals to read. Tells me they’re very important.”

She swished her coffee around in her mug.

“I keep thinking I should feel more grief or an extra closeness to Grammy as I read this. But like I said, it’s as though I’m reading the story of another woman’s life.”

She stood up and went to the refrigerator.

“Most of us don’t see our parents or grandparents in an objective light, the way the world sees them.”

Nick smiled to himself as Melinda pulled out eggs, cheese, vegetables and Tabasco sauce. She was making them an omelet. Did she realize how easily they’d slipped back into their Sunday-morning breakfast routine?

Minus the lovemaking, of course.

“True. But, Nick, she killed a man!”

Melinda’s voice snapped him back.

“I see what you mean.” He shook his head. “Hell, she wouldn’t even let me kill the slugs that were eating her prize tomatoes two summers ago. She said ‘just let me take them down to the creek.’”

“Right, exactly.” She cracked two more eggs against the ceramic mixing bowl.

He studied Mel’s movements about the counter and stove. God, he’d missed her grace, her warmth.

“You know, Mel, We’re all capable of things we wouldn’t have any reason to think about unless—or until—we’re faced with the circumstances.”

What would Melinda think of him if she knew he’d killed? Even in self-defense, in war.

What if she knew about the hatred he’d carried in his heart for the person or persons who were responsible for the IED that killed his friend and blew his leg off?

Chapter 5

“Have you ever had to kill anyone, Nick?”

Her question sucked the air from his lungs. She’d never asked about his time in Afghanistan. After his first return, she’d spoken only of the future, mostly about her desired transfer to D.C.

This new intimacy wasn’t much, but he’d take it.

“I’ve been in a war, Melinda. What do you think?”

He saw her shoulders tense. She stopped whisking the eggs and turned to look at him.

“I suppose you’ve had to do things I don’t want to know about.”

“You’re correct.”

Melinda turned back to the counter. A few minutes later, she sat down with two full plates of omelet, sliced melon and rye toast. Drool threatened to drip from the sides of Nick’s mouth as he stared at their meal.

“This is incredible, Mel.” He hadn’t had a homemade meal in, what, seven, eight months?

She dug her fork into the fluffy omelet and raised it to her lips. Only then did she meet his gaze, and laughed.

“You act like you haven’t eaten in years, Nick.”

“It was a long trip home.” He couldn’t say any more or he’d scare her with his newfound devotion to their marriage.

So he shoved a forkful of egg into his mouth.

This was going to be far more difficult than he’d imagined. He didn’t want to overwhelm her with his emotions. Their marriage had broken down over a long time. He didn’t expect to mend it in one conversation.

“Let me warm up our coffee.”

She went to the counter and he was grateful for the reprieve. There was so much at stake here. Because if he didn’t win Melinda back before the divorce was final, he’d lose the biggest part of himself.

The best part.

“I’d appreciate it, thanks.” He needed to switch gears or his emotions were going to become obvious.

“Have you heard from David?” Melinda’s half brother still lived in Buffalo but rarely came around. He was always too busy with the next deal in local real estate.

“Not since the funeral.” She sipped her coffee. “He isn’t as close to Grandpa as I am. Besides, he and Tari spend a lot of time with the kids.”

Kids we never had.

Nick sighed.

“Just because they’re raising children doesn’t mean you can’t ask for some help if you need it with Jack.”

Melinda’s face was relaxed, her expression thoughtful. This was how it was supposed to be between them. How it had been, before they’d both screwed things up.

“I’m not afraid to ask him, if that’s what you’re getting at. But I don’t see any need to bother him at this point. Grandpa’s doing fine from what I saw yesterday. He’s even cooking for himself.”

“Did the casseroles from the neighbors run out?”

Melinda laughed.

“The original round, yes, but several of the widows keep bringing him a fresh meal every few days or so.”

“No one’s asked to marry him yet?” Nick smiled at her. There’d never been anyone but Esmée for Jack. And the widows knew it, too. Still, they couldn’t resist feeding the neighborhood’s most eligible senior.

“I hope not. That’s the last thing he needs.”

“Still, it has to be a welcome distraction from his grief.”

Melinda looked at him, her eyes large.

“When did you get so introspective?”

“Every now and then I actually do reveal some human characteristics, Mel.”

Esmée’s Journal

February 1, 1943

The man with the broken ankle will only tell me his name is “Mac.” But I doubt that’s his real name. I went through all his clothes as I washed them but there’s no identification, no indication of who he is or where he came from.

I’m almost positive he’s RAF, or an agent for the Brits. No matter, as we’re all on the same side. We speak in a mixture of French and English.

Philippe from the Resistance Group has become invaluable to me. He and three other members came and took care of Henri’s body. Philippe told me to tell my neighbors, family and friends that Henri went away on Christmas Eve and never came back. He wouldn’t be the first Belgian to disappear in the middle of the night. No one questioned my explanation.

I live in fear of a German soldier rapping on my door, demanding to know what I’ve done with Henri, but so far it hasn’t happened.

I should worry more about how I’ll explain my new visitor. Yet none of my neighbors even know of him. Since I helped him into the house that night only a little over a month ago, he’s remained hidden from them.

I’ve been able to keep Maman and Papa away thanks to the cold weather. I don’t want them implicated in any of my doings.

February 3, 1943

I’ve seen him looking at me. At first his glances were questioning, as though he was trying to figure out how I could have shot my husband. He speaks to Philippe in quiet, hushed tones whenever he stops over. Philippe tells me nothing except “You’re doing a great patriotic service to your country, Esmée.”

When I joined the Resistance I understood that I’d be given many tasks I would not be able to ask the why or how of. That lack of information is to protect our cause, ourselves and our Allies. Even if we’re captured and tortured, we can’t give the enemy what we don’t know.

But I long to find out more about Mac. Where is he from? What lies behind those dark blue eyes that watch me with such intense interest through the coldest months of the year?

His eyes reveal more to me than he realizes. When he first arrived, during those terrible days after Henri died, his eyes would glaze over with pain, or from fever, and show me his need. Need for healing, for comfort, yes, but I saw more in his eyes. I saw his soul.

This is a good man, perhaps haunted by something, some need I can’t identify.

I haven’t craved a man’s touch in so long. When my marriage to Henri went sour early on, I sometimes fantasized about having a husband who really loved me, whose caresses I cherished. But as my reality became more and more gruesome, it wasn’t worth the pain to tease myself with fantasies of a happy relationship.

The longer Henri is gone, the more aware I become of my own needs. I’m twenty-one years old. I’m no longer a girl. I know what goes on in the marriage bed, physically if not emotionally and spiritually. I can imagine how a true joining would be.

But to imagine it with Mac—have I lost my mind? Perhaps one of Henri’s slaps or punches wiped out my sanity and common sense.

A man’s touch, other than my father’s, has only brought me suffering.

Yet my fingers itch to touch Mac.

I did touch him, when I cleansed him, and when he had the fever. I told myself it was to soothe him, but even in his sweat-drenched sleep I wanted to touch him. To feel that the skin over his bones was real. That he was real. That my nightmare with Henri had ended.

I protected his privacy, of course. I helped him with the bedpan as much as he needed, but kept my eyes averted.

All right, I did get a glance. Or two.

Mac is an attractive man.

Or would I find any man who isn’t beating me attractive?

February 4, 1943

Mac’s socks are taking longer than I expected. I keep dropping stitches when he speaks, which has been more often lately. I speak to him of my hopes for the future, always careful to leave it simple. To let him think that I have my own life to get back to after the war.

He is so endearing, even when the pain or his restlessness makes him cranky.

I had to put my pen down a minute—I thought I heard Mac’s bell tinkling from his room. But he’s still sound asleep. It’s twelve-thirty in the morning and I can’t sleep. I should be exhausted these days. The simple act of bathing myself, of using the bathroom, is a strain in the cold. We have an indoor toilet, but it’s off the kitchen and not heated. I dread removing even one layer of clothing, let alone stripping down to wash. Each day I have to make sure my windows are blackened so the house won’t draw the attention of the Germans.

There’s only one explanation for my desire to remain awake, to savor every minute of every day.

Mac.

His steps are stronger and his complexion looks healthy now. Even on the meager potatoes and scraps of pork I manage, he’s healed.

I can’t think about his departure. It’s crazy, I know. When this man dropped into my life, I was already deciding to leave Henri. Instead, I killed him.

Yet Mac seems to like me. He’s never judged me for my sin.

Whenever I see Mac, I can’t help feeling all warm inside. His presence makes me aware of my body as I’ve never been before. My hands tremble, my skin tingles, and I swear, I can feel my blood’s heat as it courses across my breasts and down my stomach…No one’s ever made me feel such things before.

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