The Unsung Hero (13 page)
She looked at him, at his mismatched socks, his geekoid plaid shorts, his faded Babylon-5 T-shirt, his bad haircut. David Sullivan, the Asian-American Irishman, could have been the spokesperson and poster model for bad hair days. And those glasses . . . Holy mother.
“Too macho for it, huh?” she asked him.
He answered as if it had been a serious question. “No, just ignorant. I like to read science fiction.”
“Now there’s a surprise. The fact that you’re into Babylon-5 was a clue.”
He looked astonished. “How do you know I’m into Babylon-5?”
She pointed at his space vessel–covered chest.
He glanced down at himself as if surprised by what he was wearing. Actually, he was probably surprised by the fact that he had on clothes, period. “Ah. And here I thought you were a mind reader. Instead, you’re just a good observer.”
She rolled her eyes. “Yeah, well, I’ve found it helps when you keep your eyes open and actually focus on something or someone. If you do that, you start to notice little details, like whether they’re a human being or a Boston terrier.”
He actually managed to realize she was ragging on him. “I notice details,” he protested. “In fact, I’m good with details. It’s just my own personal details I don’t pay much attention to.” He tilted the cover of her book toward him again. “Now that I know what to look for, I’m going to have to read a romance novel.”
“Yeah, right.” He’d pinned the bullshit meter with that one. He’d actually read a romance, and her mother would become the governor’s wife. Mallory opened her book, opened her bag, and started to eat and read, pointedly ignoring him.
He stood there for only a few seconds longer and then, to her complete surprise, he walked away.
Wonder of wonders. A geek who actually understood “go away” body language.
But ten minutes didn’t pass before Mallory saw him again, walking back across the lawn toward her. She braced herself, focusing all of her attention on the page of her book, hunching her shoulders, turning slightly away.
She didn’t look up as he walked right up to her. She didn’t say a word, didn’t acknowledge him.
And again, to her surprise, he didn’t stay very long. He didn’t speak, didn’t try to get her attention. He simply set something on the grass next to her and then walked away, toward the marina.
When he was finally far enough away and it was safe to move, Mallory looked up.
He’d brought her a can of soda.
As she watched, he sat down on a bench near the seawall, facing the harbor, and taking a book out of his bag, he began to read, too.
She opened the can of soda and took a long drink. It was cold and delicious. She lit a cigarette—one of her last three. This was going to be her last pack. After this, she was quitting for good.
As she savored both the cigarette and the soda, she looked over at David Sullivan.
He didn’t look back at her, didn’t do anything but slouch there and read.
What a complete weirdo.
________________________________________
Six
JOE FINISHED WATERING the roses. He coiled the hose, gazing up at the rather ostentatious main house.
Charles was alone in there. The cleaning woman, Mrs. Lerner, had pulled out of the driveway about thirty minutes ago. Joe had seen Kelly head into town early this morning and was surprised she wasn’t back yet.
He should go check on Charles, but he was afraid that doing so would raise the man’s blood pressure, ruffle his feathers.
It was funny, there was once a time when Joe had believed Charles to be unruffleable and completely unaffected by any of the drama and danger going on around him.
But that was years ago. That was back during the War, when they both thought they were men, but in truth they were little more than children.
Yet it seemed like yesterday. He could remember it with a clarity that was often disturbing. The 1950s through 80s were a vague blur of changing seasons, but his memories of the War were sharp and clear. He could close his eyes and live it over again.
He could still hear the drip of the water in Cybele’s kitchen, smell the fear of the people hiding in the attic. He could see the brilliance of Cybele’s smiles as she greeted the Nazi soldiers who patrolled the neighborhood, as she pretended to befriend the devil in order to give the angels a fighting chance in hell.
He could remember Charles, not stooped and dying but young and vibrant. He’d been wounded, sure, but the second time Joe met him, he was very, very much alive.
He was sitting up in Cybele’s bed, his right arm in a sling, his side and leg bandaged. Sitting in Cybele’s bed. Cybele, who worked tirelessly for the Resistance, who never shied from taking in, sheltering, and sharing her last turnip with any man, woman, or child in need regardless of race or religion, who would offer anyone who opposed the Nazis the warmth and relative comfort of a pallet on her kitchen floor, but who never, ever gave up the privacy of her own bedroom for anyone less than a woman in labor or a desperately sick child.
Yet she’d given up her bed for this man, this golden-haired American Army officer.
He was playing Hearts with the two Lucs and Dominique, and as Joe stood outside the doorway, watching, he won the hand with a grin. He was pale and slightly peaked-looking with a week’s worth of beard on his chin and dark circles beneath his eyes, but nevertheless he was handsome in a way Joe himself would never be.
Charles Ashton had a certain magic to him. It infused him, lighting him from within, making his eyes seem even more blue and his hair even more golden. It was charisma. Or maybe it came from the money Joe knew he must have in the bank. Piles of money could give a wealthy man the kind of instant self-confidence that a poorer man would have to work hard to find.
As Joe watched, the American took a cigarette from a box on the bed. Dominique lit it for him, and he leaned toward her, smiling into her eyes as she blushed.
Yes, indeed, this one had some kind of magic.
Maybe Cybele hadn’t given up her bed. Maybe she was sharing it with him.
The thought was an ugly one, but Joe was exhausted. His overnight information-gathering expedition had turned into a weeklong nightmare. It was very much a miracle he’d made it back at all.
“Guiseppe?”
He turned to see Cybele coming up the stairs, her face glowing with relief at the sight of him. She launched herself into his arms, and as always when he held her—which he didn’t do often enough—he was amazed at how small, how slender and fragile she truly was.
She was one of their staunchest leaders, and her quiet ability to take charge, her intense calm under pressure, and her limitless stamina made her seem so strong and sturdy.
“Thank God,” she murmured. “We’d heard rumors of your arrest, but I could get no one to tell me where they had taken you.” She pulled back to look at him, her eyes filled with emotion. “Are you really all right?” She ran her hands across his shoulders, down his arms. “All in one piece?”
“I’m just tired,” he told her, also speaking her native French. “And very glad to be back.”
“What happened?”
“I was stopped by the Nazis, and they demanded to see my papers.” His forged papers. If there had been a chance to run, he would have. But there was nowhere to go, no way to escape. Running would have meant death. Of course, being exposed as an American spy would mean death, too. Death—but only after gruesome torture as the SS attempted to extract from him the names of the brave men and women who fought alongside him, who opposed the Nazi occupation. But Cybele had assured him his papers were the best she’d ever seen, so he’d handed them over, praying she was right.
“I was detained,” he told her, “but not because my papers didn’t pass their scrutiny.”
He hadn’t known that at first. He’d been led away at gunpoint by guards who’d barked at him in a Swiss-Italian dialect that he didn’t understand. And then he was locked alone in a room, waiting for a deadly interrogation that never came. He didn’t know what was going on until he was loaded onto an already too-crowded railroad car.
“The Vichies have become upset by the food shortages,” he explained to Cybele. “Because my papers say I’m Italian, I was part of a roundup of nonnationals who were being deported.”
Cybele laughed in disbelief. “What?”
“I was being sent back to Italy because the Vichies don’t want me eating their Brie. And they’re just stupid enough to think that as the situation gets worse, the Nazis won’t take every little last bit.”
He’d been in the railroad car for close to nine hours before he’d had the chance to escape—by jumping from a speeding train. His bruises were nothing compared to the broken neck he might have gotten with a little less luck.
“After I got free, I had to travel carefully—my papers were still held by the Nazis, on the train. It wasn’t easy.” That was an understatement, but he didn’t have to go into detail. Cybele had traveled to places she wasn’t supposed to be. She knew full well how dangerous and frightening that was. “I’m sorry I couldn’t get back here sooner,” he told her.
“It doesn’t matter now,” she said. “I’m just so glad you are back.”
She hadn’t yet pulled out of his arms, and as he held her, gazing down into the bottomless midnight of her beautiful eyes, he couldn’t help himself. He bent his head to kiss her, to actually taste the lips he’d dreamed about so many nights.
But Cybele turned her face away, pressing her cheek against his shoulder, and he ended up with his nose buried in her hair.
It had been a stupid move. But when she’d looked at him that way, he’d foolishly dared to hope she’d finally welcome his kisses. He felt doubly foolish as he looked up to find the blond American watching him through the open doorway, amusement dancing in his eyes.
“Nice try,” the man said dryly, the first American English Joe had heard in months that wasn’t from a BBC radio broadcast or from his own mouth as he tried to teach Cybele the language. “But she’s definitely not interested. I’m not sure what the story is, since my French is sketchy, but I think there’s a husband somewhere.” He looked from Joe to Luc Prieaux and Luc Lambert. “And none of you have the foggiest idea what I’m saying. Not that it really matters—as long as no one’s speaking Deutsch, we’ll all get along just fine.”
Cybele had gently pulled free from Joe’s arms, and she now looked up at him expectantly, waiting for him to translate.
But the American didn’t give him a chance to speak. He pointed to himself. “Charles Ashton,” he said, enunciating clearly. “You must be the boss—the one who was missing. Things got a little tense around here when your friends thought you’d been taken by the Nazis. You’re a little bit younger than I expected, but c’est la guerre, right?” He lifted his right arm, then winced, and looking down at his sling, he held out his left hand. “Let’s see if you understand my high school French better than these other frogs. Germ appell Charles.”
Joe stepped into the room. “I know your name is Charles Ashton, Lieutenant.” He folded his arms across his chest, purposely not taking the other man’s hand. “I took your dog tags off you last week when you were brought in. These frogs saved your life.”
Charles was completely surprised, but he only let it show for maybe a tenth of a second. He lowered his hand. “Whoops. I guess you do understand me—a little too well.” If he were at all embarrassed, it was short-lived. He shifted painfully so he was sitting up in the bed. Behind his lazy, half-closed eyelids, his gaze was sharp as he looked at Joe with intense interest. “You have a New York accent. Where the hell did you learn to speak English like that?”
“In Brooklyn,” Joe replied.
“My God, you’re American.” Charles laughed. “I never would have known from looking at you. No offense.”
“Unfortunately, I can’t say the same about you.” Joe turned to look at Cybele, at Luc Lambert. “Why isn’t he up in the attic? If the Germans were to search the house . . .” He realized he was speaking English and repeated himself in French.
Luc shrugged expansively, looking to Cybele.
“The heat,” she told him. “I couldn’t bear to hide him up there. Not with his wounds. Not after what he’s done.”
Charles followed her French. “I’ve done nothing,” he protested in English. It was obvious to Joe they’d had this discussion before. “Tell her whoever she thinks I am, she’s mistaken.”
“He’s a hero,” Cybele told Joe.
“She’s wrong,” Charles told Joe. He turned to Cybele. “You’re wrong. I’ve spent the weeks since Normandy keeping my head down. My goal is to get home to Baldwin’s Bridge, Massachusetts, in one undamaged piece. I’m thinking the sooner you can get me back to my unit, the sooner I’ll be shipped back to the States. I’m more than happy to let the rest of the Fifty-fifth chase Hitler out of Berlin. I just want to get back to my summerhouse, make myself a dry martini, and sit watching the sun go down.”
Looking at him sitting there, cigarette dangling between his fingers, it was easy to believe he meant every word. Even dressed in ragged clothes, he looked more like a wealthy aristocrat than a common farmer.
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