Nightingale (15 page)

“Tell me you don't despise me.”

She applied antibiotic. Lowered her voice to a whisper, wishing it didn't come out as if dragged through a dusty road. “I don't, ever, despise you.” She met his eyes a quick moment before she turned away, grabbed a fresh dressing.

“Tell me why you came to visit me.”

She pressed the cotton mesh to his wound, ignored his wince, then let him hold it in place as she unrolled the bandage around his body, her arms spanning his torso. Why? She gritted her jaw, blinking back the heat in her eyes. “You—you know why.”

“I do.”

Then he reached out and pressed his hand to her check. She closed her eyes, allowing herself the touch of him, the strength in his wide, work-hewn hands. He ran his thumb down her face. “You are like the stars in my dark night.”

She cradled her hand over his on her face. And finally, finally met his eyes.

They could look through her, probably, right down to the jagged, angry pieces of her heart. Blue eyes, with the slightest flecks of gold, and she saw the healer in them, a compassion that made her bite her lip, press her hand to her mouth.

“Please don't cry, Esther.” He touched his forehead to hers. “Please.”

She swallowed, shook her head. “I just—when you look at me, I—my world stops spinning. I feel like I can find my feet. Like maybe I'm not quite so lost.”

The slightest smile tugged at his mouth.

Then, before she could find herself, return to the woman who had a child and sins pressing against her, she let him touch his lips to hers.

His hand cupped her chin, an invitation rather than a hunger. And for a second, she just stood there, tasting something—root beer—probably candy—on his lips. More of a whisper, perhaps, because the kiss ended too soon and left her standing there, wondering if she had imagined it.

“Give me a shot before I do something dangerous.”

She opened her eyes, found him smiling at her. “I know I shouldn't have done that, but…” He gave a shake of his head. “Sorry.”

“You don't look sorry.” She smiled back. “Turn around.”

He slid off the table, leaned over, hooked the waistband of his pants with his thumb, pulled them down just enough to reveal his hip.

She popped him fast with the penicillin shot. He held the cotton swab in place as he tugged himself back together.

His smile had vanished by the time she deposited the needle and turned to meet his gaze.

“Are you going to be okay?”

“That's my question for you.” Her eyes went to the wound. “You're not going to tell me how that happened, are you?”

“Nope.”

Oh, how she wanted to raise herself on her toes, press another kiss to his lips, maybe fling her arms around his neck. For a short, glorious moment, she saw him sweeping her into his arms, charging out through the POW ward into the yard, kicking his way past the guards and out into freedom.

Better, she saw them sitting under the winking stars, hands twined together.

Yes, she'd become a thirsty woman.

She wiped the wetness from under her eyes. “I passed my test—98 percent.”

“Atta girl. I knew you would.” Gathering his shirt, he ground his jaw as he tucked his arm into the sleeve. She helped him draw it up over his shoulder. “May I write to you?”

She averted her eyes from him. “Yes, please. I—I enjoy hearing from you.”

He reached up, directed her chin to him, and wiped another gathering of moisture from her eye. “You're not lost, Esther Lange. Not anymore.”

The dark, cool night dropped around her as she left camp, a thousand eyes winking from the sky, harboring her secret.
You're not lost.

No, for the first time in three years, yes, she felt…perhaps not
so much as if she'd left herself behind, no longer wandering around looking for the woman who'd once believed in herself.

Peter Hess made her feel found.

She pressed her fingers to her lips, still feeling his whisper kiss there, still tasting the sweet root beer candy on his lips, husky, with a licorice tang.

He'd stood in the yard, away from the fence, his hands in his pockets, while the other prisoners played soccer, or smoked cigarettes, or even played cards. Just stood there, the evening draping over his shoulders, smiling as she walked away.

She'd glanced over her shoulder. Still he stood there.

She didn't lift a hand, didn't turn completely. But she felt his eyes on her all the way down the hill as she dropped out of sight.

Atta girl. His simple, easy encouragement filled her chest—she could nearly taste the texture of his words, rich and tangy, and she let them seep into her.

The wind nestled the oak and maple leaves, dark fingers reaching out to her, to wave her home.

She'd finish her training and wait for him. How long before the troops started returning home—and soon the army would grow tired of holding prisoners and send them back to Germany. He would return home, fetch his parents, and then…

Then.

She stopped on the sidewalk. Then.

Then they'd find each other.

She knew it, like she knew her heart would beat, that breath would fill her lungs. She would find him—or he would find her, or…

Then. If she hung on, and believed it, they would have a then. After the war, after the rubble, after the ache. Then.

She could love him through her letters until then.

She hummed the tune she'd heard earlier, the husky tones nourishing her steps back to Caroline's.

'Cuz you, my dear,

You're my everything,

You're the song I sing

When my nights are starless.

Although, suddenly they didn't seem quite so starless.

The light to the boardinghouse spilled out over the porch, onto the groomed, cool lawn. Crickets seesawed into the night, and the door creaked as she opened it.

The lamp's glow from the parlor pressed into the hallway. She moved through it then stopped.

Bertha sat in the rocking chair, Sadie curled asleep in her arms. Her fawny hair lay like a halo around her chubby face.

Bertha hummed softly and looked up at Esther's step.

Esther stopped at her expression. She'd been crying—the skin on her cheeks angry and red. But Bertha's eyes—they were lit from within, and a smile unlike any she'd seen before emanated, as if, after barely flickering for three years, a flame had stirred to life.

“What is it? Is Sadie okay?”

“She's fine.” Bertha got up, gathered the child close, then trundled her over to Esther. “But—you have to come home.”

Esther took her daughter, pressed a kiss to her forehead. She smelled of bubble bath, her skin powdery soft. “I am home.”

“No, I mean, back to the Hahns'.”

Esther met her eyes. “No. Mrs. Hahn made me leave. I don't… No, Bertha. That life is over. I'm on my own now.”

You're not lost.

Bertha reached out, and in a gesture that stopped Esther's heart, touched Sadie's cheek, running her finger down it. “Sadie needs her father.”

Esther didn't move.

Bertha then sighed, a smile at the end. “He's come home, Esther. Linus has come home.”

Lullaby,

I'll be your lullaby,

And your sweet moonlight,

And you'll never have to fear again.

One look could change his entire life.

Peter let the image of Esther leaving the camp, the twilight behind her, turning her hair to gold, a light in her blue eyes as she smiled at him through the barbed wire, melt into him, strengthen him.

Stir his hope.

I enjoy hearing from you.

Her soft voice, the touch of her lips, the softest hum she gave as he brushed his lips over hers—yes, he let that soak into him too. Quench the parched places inside.

“Hess!”

Peter lowered the canteen, wiped his mouth with his bare arm. The touch left a sting where he'd begun to burn. He handed the water back to Arne then rolled the cuffs of his shirt down. He had about ten cords of wood to finish chopping, then he could tuck himself into the long shadows of the barn and rest before the trucks came to haul the POW crew back to the Roosevelt camp.

Where maybe—he could barely breathe with the hope of it—Esther might come and visit him.

Arne splashed water over his bare shoulders, down his chest. The kid had filled out with the hard work, the nurture of the sun, the pale hue of the long German winter flushed out of him. One might even say that prison camp had saved his life.

And, days like this one, with the sun pouring life into their bones, the air fresh with the oats in the field, the tang of the white pine that ringed land, Peter touched freedom.

“Stop hogging it—” Fritz grabbed the canteen with his beefy hands. He poured the remainder of its contents over his oily black hair, wetting his gray undershirt, the back of his canvas pants.

“We can fill up it up at the pump. Mrs. Janzen said—”

Fritz shot him a shut-up look and Arne shrank into himself. Their guard probably couldn't understand their German, but after spending six months with them, he may have picked up the meaning of a few words, if not Fritz's tone.

“Now I'll have to go fill it.” Fritz's eyes flicked over to Peter, a smirk up one side of his face.

Oh no. And his wound had just begun to heal. “Just leave it, Fritz.”

“You saw how those farmers' daughters were looking at me.” He shucked his hair—much longer than when they'd been hauled out of Germany six months ago—back from his face.

“This is a good gig, Fritz. The Janzens like us—”

“Hurry up, krauts.” Their lone guard, a doughy man named Bert, who had been aboard a boat in the Pacific, came toward them, his uniform sleeves rolled up, sweat caught in the creases of his neck. “The Janzens offered to feed you lunch.”

Fritz tucked in his T-shirt but didn't bother to put on the green POW-designated shirt. It hung over the rail of a corral fence, flapping in the hot July breeze.

“I told you that blond one was sweet on me.” Fritz grinned, a wolfish look that pushed a thumb into Peter's gut.

“Behave yourself.”

“What, you think you're the only one who can find a little fraulein to pass the time? I saw you standing out by the fence yesterday, watching her. Everyone knows if you could, you'd march right over Bert and the rest of the guards, track her down, and disappear with her over the border.”

Peter glanced at Bert, his Winchester he'd left propped against a water barrel while he washed the grime of the day from his face. More than once he'd laid the shotgun down in the fields, helping them haul out boulders or load trucks. Yes, Bert would be easy to walk over.

Then, yes, he'd find Esther and…disappear.

A guy like him, without an accent, looking like an Iowa farm boy… He'd blend right in to the Wisconsin horizon.