Patricia Potter (11 page)

She rose and forced the words. “I have to go.”

The three men all rose with her. “I’ll walk you over,” Brad offered.

She smiled her thanks but shook her head. “You stay here and finish your drinks. And thanks for the tennis.”

“Tomorrow?”

She looked quickly at Michael, whose face was inscrutable although his lips tightened. He didn’t want her to. She knew it. Yet he said nothing.

“Yes,” she agreed.

Brad turned to Sanders and Kay. “Will you play again tomorrow?”

Kay nodded eagerly, although Sanders hesitated, his gaze moving from Michael to Meara with curiosity. “I don’t know,” he said. “Can I let you know tomorrow?”

“Please do,” Meara said suddenly, and immediately questioned her motives. She had never played flirting games before, but an aching part of her wanted to show Michael Fielding that she didn’t care that he had virtually ignored her for the past few days.

“It’s an invitation hard to refuse,” Sanders said.

“Then don’t.”

“I’ll do my best.”

Meara, suddenly, inexplicably formal, turned to Michael. “Good afternoon, Commander.”

He nodded, his dark blue eyes even more enigmatic than usual. “Miss O’Hara,” he said in the same formal tone, but their gazes held, both challenging, and the electricity darted between them with such force that it was obvious to everyone at the table.

He made no move to accompany her, and filled with both confusion and bitter disappointment, Meara made herself move away from the table without looking back. It was almost time for the children’s dinner, and then they would listen to “The Shadow” on the radio. It was Peter’s favorite program, and because he liked it, Tara also clamored to listen although Meara didn’t think the youngest Connor entirely understood the show. Tara’s interests ran more to dolls and princes.

The Connors ordered dinner for Meara and the children, and then went to the clubhouse for the evening. Once Tara and Peter were settled in front of the radio in the study, Meara found a book and curled up on a sofa. But her glances kept darting back toward the windows, toward the path to the clubhouse and the moon she couldn’t see except in her mind, and there it loomed brighter than ever, inviting and seductive.

Uncustomarily restless, she read Tara a story while Peter read a book of his own, and then she tucked them in bed and went out on the porch. She was alone. There was only one servant who had accompanied them, a maid, and she had already retired to the servants’ quarters on the top floor. Meara’s room was next to the children’s; a spacious, comfortable room, it seemed more like a jail cell tonight. Meara wandered out to the swing and watched the sky. A few wispy clouds skittered across a partial moon, sending shadows darting along the ground in their own game of hide and seek. She heard the distant hoot of an owl, and the sound of other night creatures—the croaking of frogs and hum of nocturnal insects. An occasional firefly added its brief glow to the lamps that lit the clubhouse and cottages.

For the first time in years, she felt lonely, unsure of what she wanted. She had been so positive about her life since the year she was eight and wrote her first story. She had wanted to be a writer. She had wanted to be independent. But now the excitement of a career, while still strong and bright, was suddenly not enough.

Through the trees, she saw the lights of the clubhouse and listened to the faint strains of band music. She wondered if Michael Fielding was there with Kay or some other woman, or why, after that kiss on the beach, he had virtually ignored her. Was the caress that disappointing? Was she so inexperienced that he sought excitement someplace else?

Meara had never thought herself pretty. Her hair was too bright, too, well, wild, and her chin too determined. Her eyes were her best feature, but they didn’t make up for the rest, not like Kay with her soft blond beauty. She had never really cared so very much before. She liked being a friend to the boys she met. She liked competing with them with her pen and brain. She liked doing what they did, playing baseball and tennis and running. She had never liked dolls as other girls did, nor had she wanted to play house. She wanted to play cowboys and gangsters.

Until now.

She heard the sound of footfalls, and she looked up to see the Connors, hand in hand, walking toward her. They were unlike many of the other couples who came here, who rarely spoke to each other. They genuinely cared about each other, so much so that Elizabeth had given up the regular November-to-Easter season because Cal was so busy and couldn’t come as often as he did in past years. Instead, she had involved herself in charitable activities on Long Island and in Washington where Cal now spent so much time.

“Meara.” Elizabeth’s voice sounded light and happy. “Why don’t you go over and join the young people?”

“I might go for a walk,” Meara replied.

“Good,” Elizabeth said. “We’ll see you in the morning then.”

Meara stood. She wished she knew what she wanted to do. She didn’t want to go by the clubhouse. She did not want Michael to believe she was pursuing him. But she didn’t want to go to bed either, and she didn’t want to read.

Holy Mother, but the world had turned upside down.

Halfheartedly, she swung for a while longer while debating what to do. She finally shook her lethargy and took the road down to the beach. Perhaps a long walk would help her sleep tonight.

Michael had spent a miserable evening. Every self-appointed matchmaker at the club had introduced him to a woman. Sanders Evans kept his eyes on him with a curious intensity. Christ, but he wanted to be with Meara.

He was quietly pleased he had an excuse not to dance. He had been spied alone at a table by the Connors and invited to join them. The Connors’ table was frequently visited by other members of the club who swapped news of friends and of the war, and speculated who else might arrive for the Easter holidays.

As the hour grew later, his interest waned. He had to leave by eleven. The sub was expecting his transmission at midnight. He had already carefully plotted the coordinates for the U-boat’s arrival at Jekyll. His carefully phrased questions had revealed that the only possible approach was through Jekyll Sound, and even that was dangerous given the tides and shallow waters in this area.

Michael hated each step of the deception. He hated what he was doing. He hated it more each day as he met, and usually liked, most of his anticipated targets, particularly Cal Connor. He had to think of them as targets, objectives, not people or victims. He comforted himself with the fact that they would only be interned, probably in fairly comfortable surroundings. If all went well, there should be no casualties, not according to the elaborately drawn plans.

But deep in his gut, he knew Hans did not have similar scruples. He also knew that the best laid plans often went awry.

When the Connors finally left for their cottage, Michael went up to his room, anxious to rid himself of the tuxedo which was required dress. He very quickly replaced the formal clothes with a pair of slacks and a sweater, and made his way down the hall to the stairs, taking a quick look to find them empty before descending. He cursed his limp briefly. It slowed him, and he still hadn’t quite adjusted to the slower pace. The doctors said it was a matter of time, but he often chafed at the slowness. The leg did seem much better than it had been a month or two ago, and he actually needed the cane less and less, usually when he had overly strained it.

The bicycle was where he left it, and once more he looked around before mounting it. The clubhouse fairly blazed with lights, and he was grateful that there was a chill in the air this evening. It had kept most people inside.

He didn’t see anyone as he pedaled down the road to the beach. The dark water of the creek and the darker shades of the marshes beyond reflected silver from the moon. There was just enough light to see the white crushed-shell path he was taking, and he moved steadily down to the crossroad that ran along the water. He finally veered off onto the beach itself, stopped and left the bicycle. The high tide was in, rushing over the hard packed sand that usually supported wheeled vehicles. He moved along the sand dunes, stopping occasionally to glance out at the water, and then turning his head back, scanning every part of the beach and dunes for any movement.

Satisfied, he continued on, glancing occasionally at his illuminated watch. The moon slipped entirely behind the clouds. He was close now to where he had hidden the radio.

Michael had secreted the wireless yesterday, carrying it from the clubhouse in a wicker picnic basket he had ordered and then emptied in his room, replacing the food with the radio. He had once more driven the little red bug, finally locating a lonely, protected site along the south beach where he had covered the radio with loose dirt and leaves. He had not wanted to risk transmitting from the clubhouse.

Michael had spent the remainder of yesterday doing what he had been told to do: charm. He had played bowls with one group, billiards with several men who were there without wives. He also went swimming in the pool, working on endurance, on strength until he could barely move. The water was cold, but then he was used to the cold waters of Europe and Canada. He went an entire day fighting his attraction to Meara, denying the need to see her. He’d felt lonely but triumphant until this afternoon when he returned from skeet shooting just in time to see Meara and the others playing on the tennis court.

He’d stood there and watched. She’d been fast and graceful, and he secretly applauded her final volley. He remembered it now, seeing her stand victorious in the short white dress. She’d hugged Brad with enthusiasm, and Michael felt that increasingly familiar spasm of jealousy that was so surprising. But that brief jolt had been nothing compared to the swift anger that flooded him when he saw Sanders Evans at the table with her, his gaze seldom moving from Meara’s face.

Michael cursed himself for thinking of the woman when he should be thinking only of the radio transmission. He hoped to hell that there were no tracking stations to pick it up. It still amazed him, this lack of security on the Americans’ part, the confidence that their shores wouldn’t, couldn’t, be invaded. Yet if some ship in the vicinity happened to find this particular frequency, he could be in very deep water himself.

He had no illusions about his fate if discovered. Spies were executed. He wasn’t quite sure whether America hung or shot spies, but neither prospect appealed to him. The fact that kidnapping was involved would do nothing to mitigate his fate. He cursed again, this time including Canaris and everyone else connected with his selection for this particular mission. When he returned to Germany, he would find some way to get his mother and brother out of the country and Canaris would lose his hold. Hold? Goddamnit! His weapon.

Finally reaching the hiding place in the woods, he extracted the small flashlight he carried in a pocket and quickly uncovered the radio, his hands working quickly and mechanically.

He glanced at his watch. Five minutes before the scheduled transmission.

Michael sat, listening carefully for any sounds other than those normal for the forest and surf, but there were none; only his own harsh breathing sounded alien. Exactly at midnight, his fingers moved rapidly over the keys. Receiving immediate response, he sent the coordinates for the submarine to approach the island and confirmed through code words that all was going according to plan. Within three minutes he was through, and in another two had camouflaged the radio to his satisfaction.

Michael looked at his watch. He had enough time to return before the evening was over at the clubhouse. It was Friday night, and he’d been told dancing extended into the morning.

Michael emerged from the woods onto the beach and walked toward where he’d hidden the bicycle.

Meara had started down the beach. She didn’t know how long she’d been walking, but she could no longer hear the music from the open windows of the clubhouse, the often bittersweet romantic songs that had now assumed new significance.

The beach hid secrets tonight, she thought, as lace clouds continued to turn the moonlight on and off like some faulty light switch. Light gray foam rode atop waves washing up on the beach, leaving a jagged trail of silver in their wake. The air was cool, but she wore a sweater and she enjoyed the crisp feel of the breeze sweeping off the sea. It made her feel alive, alive and tingly and again curiously full of anticipation. As if something was going to happen. She knew she should go back; it was getting late, but there was no fear on this island. Everyone here had been well-screened. Violence was something that never happened. Still, she knew she couldn’t sleep this night. So she trudged on, as if guided by some invisible force.

Suddenly, the form appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, appearing as one of the clouds released the moon. Meara immediately knew who it was by the determined set of the shoulders and the limp Michael Fielding never allowed to hold him back. She saw the cane, but he was using it sparingly, determined, she assumed, to strengthen the leg as much as possible. She had seen pain etched in his face several times toward the end of a day.

She stood there, silent, still. She’d had no way of knowing he was here, and yet somewhere deep inside she realized she had, in some way, expected him. Wish fulfillment, perhaps. Had she really wished so hard that he’d materialized out of air?

But no, he was quite solid as he approached, his head cocked to a certain inquisitive angle as he saw her. The moonlight, now mischievously quite bright, shone down on his dark blue eyes, on the hair silver-gold in its glow. His lips were not welcoming, nor were they hostile. More perplexed, as if he too were mystified by this coincidence. Or was it fate? More and more, Mear was becoming to believe in fate. Perhaps that was why she couldn’t drive him from her mind. Perhaps that was why she felt such a strong sense of belonging with him.