Mrs. Roosevelt's Confidante (29 page)

“I'm honored, sir,” John said, overwhelmed. “But I must insist that my share of any profits be shared with the RAF Benevolent Fund.”

“Fine, fine,” Disney said. “We'll let the lawyers work all that out. So, we have a deal?”

John took a deep breath. “I must discuss it first with Mr. Churchill.”

“Do what you need to do, Stalky! But do it fast! Show business is just that—
business
. This town waits for no man, including Winston Churchill. Give me a call tomorrow after you've talked to him.”

“Yes, sir. Happy New Year, sir.”

When he replaced the receiver, Buddy came over. “Yoo-ah all done there?”

“Can I call out on this?” John asked.

Buddy opened his arms to take in the Polo Bar, the hotel, all of Los Angeles. “This is Hollywood, Loo-ten-ant. The land where dreams are made. Yoo-ah can do anything you want.”

“I'd like to call Prime Minister Churchill,” John said. “At the White House.”

“Yes, Loo-ten-ant. Right away, Loo-ten-ant.”

It took awhile for all of the various lines to connect and for someone to hand the telephone receiver to Mr. Churchill in the Rose Bedroom, but at last they were speaking.

“Lieutenant Sterling!” the Prime Minister boomed. “Just returned from Ottawa. Lovely country, Canada, lovely country.”

“Sir, I—”

“Just thinking of you. I have another mission for you, should you choose to accept it.”

John twirled the pink telephone cord between his fingers as the bartender brought out a silver bowl of macadamia nuts. “Sir?”

“This is a secure line?” Churchill was shouting to David. “Are you
sure
we're on a secure line, Mr. Greene?” When the P.M. was sufficiently reassured, he turned back to the telephone and his conversation with John. “We've uncovered what we think are Nazi rocket launchers, on the coast of the Baltic Sea.”

“What?” John was shocked. He'd known there'd been talk about a possible Nazi rocket program, but as far as he knew it was as real as his Gremlins.

“It's true. We've had RAF pilots fly over and take reconnaissance photographs. We've also had the rocket information confirmed by some of the prisoners of war we're holding. But because we're so sorely lacking in resources, we want to make absolutely sure what we're bombing before we drop anything.”

“How can I help, sir?”

“We need more pilots. I know you're itching to get back in a plane. This would be your chance. Only this time you would be shooting with cameras, not guns. Special cameras, with special film, made to take photos in three dimensions.” There was a pause as the Prime Minister's voice echoed on the line. “But I know you're doing important work there in Los Angeles for us—”

“Yes—”

“This is your decision, my boy. I won't interfere.”

“Yes, sir.”

“However, I'd prefer you to stay in Hollywood, if that Disney chap will have you. Propaganda is one of our biggest weapons in this war, and don't you forget that. The handsome young RAF pilot, making a Disney movie—that's something we can't replicate without you. In other words, I can probably find another pilot, but I can't find another you.”

“Sir, I feel my duty—”

“John,” Churchill said, using the young man's Christian name for the first time. “Do you remember that Charles Laughton movie of Henry VIII?”

John was confused. “Sir?”

Ice cubes clinked; the P.M. was probably taking a swig of his whiskey and soda. “Do you remember the scene with Henry going into the bedroom with Anne of Cleves? And then he turns and says, ‘Ah, the things I've done for England'?”

“Yes….”

“Well, that's what you've got to do, young man. Do what you must for England.”

“Yes, yes, sir. Then—” John knew his next words would change his life, perhaps forever.

One New Year's Eve day, the White House was bustling with preparations.

During the night, the East Room's chandeliers had been lowered so that each crystal globe and gasolier prism could be washed and polished, and then rehung. They glistened, casting dancing rainbows on the wooden floors, rubbed to the highest sheen.

Maggie had asked for her dress to be sent over from the Mayflower and changed in David's room. She was wearing her old pale blue gown trimmed in black velvet, the one she hadn't been allowed to wear the Christmas before at Windsor Castle because “only the Queen wears blue.” It was also the dress she'd worn when John had once proposed to her—which now seemed a very, very long time ago. She dabbed on a bit of lipstick, then slipped into her satin slippers and picked up her beaded clutch. It was time to go.

When she opened the door, she saw David standing there, just about to knock. They both gasped, surprised, then laughed. He wore a black dinner jacket and black tie. A sprig of red holly berries adorned his lapel. His face lit up when he caught sight of Maggie. “There you are!” he said. “You look dazzling, as always.”

“You clean up well, too,” she retorted as he caught her gloved hand and bowed to kiss it. Maggie realized there was music spilling out from the ballroom—a small orchestra, from the sound of it. “Shall we go?”

David offered his arm. “Your wish is my command.” But before they could, the telephone rang. He returned to the room and picked up the receiver. He was momentarily taken aback but then handed it to Maggie. “It's for you,” he told her. “I'll give you some privacy.”

“Hello?”

“Happy New Year!” came John's voice.

“Happy New Year!” Maggie echoed. “How are you? I've missed you.”

“I'm good,” John said, “great, even. But I wanted to talk to you. I have some news.”

Maggie felt her stomach drop and wrapped her free hand in the telephone cord. “Oh, really?” she asked, affecting nonchalance.

John strained his voice to be heard over the sound of the crowd. “Well, apparently, Walt Disney himself likes my Gremlins. He's made an offer to buy the rights, and wants me to stay in L.A. until the project is up and running.”

“That's fantastic, John! Congratulations!”

“Thank you.”

“For how long?” she asked, heart humming. “How long do you think you'll stay in L.A.?”

“Six months, at least. Maybe more. The Boss has given his blessing. Says I'm more use as a storyteller than a fighter pilot—I'm saving him a front-row seat for the premiere. I figure I can completely recover here, then go back to the RAF when this winds up. Although I'm not sure when that will be.”

“I see.”

“What I want to say, Maggie, is that I don't want you to wait for me. I know you'll be in Washington, or back in London—or wherever. And I don't want you to stop living your life.”

“Because you haven't?” Maggie asked, her tone sharp. “With that divorcée who was in the paper with you?”

There was a long pause, and in it Maggie could hear the crowd at the bar singing “Auld Lang Syne.”

“That's not— No, I'm just saying, Maggie, that life is short and—”

She didn't want to hear any more. She didn't want to know. “Good-bye, John.” Swallowing back a sob, she hung up the telephone.

Outside, in the hallway, David was waiting. “Are you all right?” he asked, seeing her face.

“I—I think John and I just broke up,” she managed.

“I'm sorry, love—and I'm sorry about the timing of this request, but the Boss would like to see you.”

“Now?” Maggie said, wiping away a stray tear with her fingers.

“Afraid so.”

“I noticed there was a suitcase in your room,” Maggie said, trying to change the subject. “Are you running away to join the circus?”

“I have plenty of circus right here, thank you, but I am off to Florida, with the Boss.”

“Florida?”

“Yes,” he answered. “Somewhere on the coast.” David brightened. “I've never been to Florida. I hear it's warm enough to swim in the ocean there at this time of year! But, by the way,” he added, looking as petulant as possible, “Beth died.
Died
. And Jo doesn't marry Laurie. He marries the awful Amy and Jo marries Professor Bhaer, who's old and ugly, and chews with his mouth open.”

Maggie nodded. “I know.”

“It's a
dreadful
ending!”

“A novel set in wartime. Not everyone's going to get what she wants.” Maggie kissed his cheek. “Thank you for everything, darling David. I do adore you, you know.”

He bowed low, and offered his arm. “It would be quite impossible not to, I should think.”

As Maggie and David passed the door to the Rose Bedroom, they spied the Prime Minister's doctor packing up his stethoscope in his leather satchel.
Mr. Churchill's heart? Is there something wrong with his heart?
Maggie and David exchanged looks, then peeked inside. The P.M.'s face radiated exhaustion, and he was already in his pajamas and dressing gown—highly unusual. Even on an ordinary night, the Boss often stayed up working until one or two in the morning. Now, on the night of an important ball, he was already in bed.

He waved an unlit cigar from his supine position. “Miss Hope, come in,” he began, as the doctor let himself out. “Not you,” he barked, pointing at David with his cigar. “Just Miss Hope.”

When she had closed the door behind her, he said, “I know you and Mr. Greene must be on your way to the ball. And I know you young people don't have much of a chance to enjoy yourself these days, and I am sorry.” This admission was huge coming from Mr. Churchill, who rarely acknowledged life outside of his own sphere.

“It's fine, sir. How can I help you?”

“Sit down, sit down,” he growled. “Excellent work on the Prentiss situation.”

“Yes, sir.” She took a seat on a pink silk chair. “Thank you.”

“First, some good news, Miss Hope. As you so cheekily requested, as a condition to work for me again, we've located your half sister.”

For a moment, Maggie couldn't breathe. “Is she—is she alive?”

“She is. She's at Ravensbrück concentration camp, as a political prisoner. We're working on the best way to extract her.”

“Thank God,” Maggie said, breathing once again. “And thank you, too, sir.”

“Although, she won't tell them what they want to hear—won't give up her fellow resistance fighters.” He gnawed at the cigar. “Elise Hess may be German, but she's no Nazi. And she seems to be on the side of Right.” He picked up his monogrammed silver lighter. “Miss Hope, you should be proud of her.”

Maggie was indeed proud of her. She wondered if her sister would ever be proud of
her
. “Yes, sir—but if she's being held at Ravensbrück…” Maggie had heard of what went on in the camps. “She may not be alive for much longer.”

“Exactly. Which is why I have some of your fellow Baker Street Irregulars in Berlin standing by. If things go as planned, Miss Hess will be out of the damn camp soon. And she will be able to meet you in London.”

“London?” Then, “When? When can I see her?”

“You leave tomorrow,” he told her. “I've had Mr. Greene make travel plans for you. The SOE officers will be coming with Miss Hess as soon as they can.” He waved her away. “I'm tired now. I'll see you in London, Miss Hope. And Happy New Year.”

“Happy New Year to you, too, sir. And thank you.”

“He looks terrible,” Maggie whispered to David, when she caught up with him downstairs.

“I know,” David said. “But the doctor's been looking after him. And Florida will do him good. And, as Mr. C probably told you, I've arranged a train trip for you tomorrow from here to New York, then a seat for you on the Boeing 314 Clipper, from New York to Lisbon. You'll be traveling with a group of American entertainers—singers, dancers, comedians, and the like en route to entertain our troops. You'll fit right in.”

“Oh, ha-ha and ha.”

David smiled. “From Lisbon, we'll get you on a jump flight to London. Gubbins at SOE is glad to hear you're coming back. He has a particular job in mind for you.”

Maggie quirked an eyebrow. “What is it?”

“There are secrets in this world, even from me,” David intoned, eyes lifted heavenward. “You'll find out when you get there.”

“And Elise will meet me in London?”

“We're doing everything in our power to get her out of Germany and safely to London. You know we can't make any promises—”

“I know—I know. And thank you.” The music from the ballroom swelled. “Would you like to dance, David?” she asked impulsively.

“I would like nothing better.”

Camera flashbulbs exploded, lights gleaming on ladies' satin gowns and heavy jewels. When Maggie reached Mrs. Roosevelt in the receiving line, the First Lady favored her with a wink.

The East Room seemed magical—illuminated by chandeliers and candles, decorated with red roses and poinsettias. An orchestra played on a stage as couples twirled and spun to the music. There were small linen-covered tables set up around the dance floor, and people sat and drank champagne as uniformed waiters, colored men all, passed hors d'oeuvres on silver trays.

“I hear this is where President John Adams's wife, Abigail Adams, hung the laundry to dry, back in the day,” Maggie said to David.

He chortled. “I've always suspected you Americans were odd birds—now I know for sure. Can you imagine our Queen hanging laundry in a ballroom?”

Maggie thought about the current Queen Elizabeth, how strong she had been during the early days of the Blitz—refusing to send the young Princesses to Canada or to leave the King. “I can, actually, if it would help the war effort.”

David was scanning the crowd. “Your favorite mick is here,” he said, catching sight of Tom.

“Be nice,” Maggie warned. “He's been through a lot in the last week.”

“As have we all.”

She gave a harsh laugh. “As have we all.”

Tom reached them, bowed to Maggie, and shook David's hand. “May I have this dance?” he asked Maggie.

“Do you mind?” she asked David.

“Go, go,” he said with mock annoyance.

She smiled as she took Tom's arm. The conductor raised his baton, and the orchestra segued into a dreamy rendition of “Winter Wonderland.” Light sparked off the lead singer's sapphire drop earrings as she took a deep breath and began to sing. Her creamy alto voice was vibrant and rich, reminiscent of Ella Fitzgerald's, and Tom was an excellent dancer. For a moment, Maggie relaxed as they turned around the floor in a slow fox-trot.

“Maggie, I'd like to step out with you.”

She couldn't help it—a laugh burst from her throat.

“What's so funny?” he demanded, spinning her around. “It's not exactly the response a red-blooded American man about to go to war wants to hear. I'm making you a sincere offer. In fact, I'd like to take you out to dinner tomorrow night.” He dipped her and, when he pulled her back up, continued. “
Not
Chinese, either, I'll have you know.”

“I adore Chinese,” Maggie said, breathless. “But I'm sorry, Tom.” She did her best to collect herself. “It's all so implausible! First of all, I'm leaving tomorrow to go back to London. And you're leaving for basic training—and then goodness only knows where we'll be and what we'll be doing.”

“All over this country, people are doing their duty. But that hasn't stopped them from asking a special girl to hold a place in her heart. Maybe write a few letters.”

“I'm happy to write to you, Tom, but you do remember I'm not Catholic, yes?”

“Yes.” He spun her around again. “But you could always convert.”

Maggie rolled her eyes. “Unlikely. Maybe, someday, something along the lines of Thomas Jefferson's beliefs.”

Tom shuddered. “Relativism incarnate! That's not real religion, you know. You might as well join a country club.”

Maggie thought of Elise, who had once wanted to become a nun but quite liked young men. “I do know of someone who'd be perfect for you. Maybe—just maybe—after this blasted war is over, I can introduce you. Her name is Elise. Elise Hess.”

“How do you know her?”

She's my half sister.
“We met in Berlin. But she's meeting me in London. At least, I hope she is.”

“And she's Catholic?”

Another twirl. “Quite.”

“Oh, Emma Woodhouse….I don't want a matchmaker. But tell me—this Elise…” This time, a dip. “Is she pretty?”

Maggie looked up at him. “Beautiful.”

“Not as beautiful as you, though.”

Maggie blushed pink.

Tom put his hand to the small of her back and guided her to one of the gilt chairs. “By the way, I have something for you.” He took out a rolled, thin book from his jacket's front pocket. It was tied with a blue ribbon. “Oh, my goodness,” Maggie said. “What's this?”

“Merry Christmas—open it and see.”

Maggie untied the bow and unrolled his gift. It was a comic book
.

“It's brand new,” Tom told her. “The first book in a new series with a girl, er, woman, as the hero. Heroine. You know what I mean. Wonder Woman is an Amazonian warrior princess who fights for justice, love, and peace. Like someone else I know.”

“Wonder Woman!”
Maggie exclaimed. “Thank you, Tom!”

They kissed. It was a perfect kiss, absolutely perfect. As they pulled apart, Maggie remembered what John had said. And he was right. “Life is short,” she said to Tom.

“It can be,” he replied.

“I'm serious. Life is short—anything can happen. At any time.
Carpe diem
.” She kissed him again, longer this time. “And
carpe noctem,
as well. Would you like to go back to the Mayflower with me for a nightcap?”