Woman in Red (12 page)

She knew then why his name had struck a chord. “Wait. I know you. You’re
that
William McGinty. The artist.” There was usually a mention of him in travel articles about the island, and recently there had been a show of his paintings at Darvill’s bookstore downtown. “I’ve seen some of your work,” she told him.

“What did you think?” he asked, as if honestly interested in her opinion.

She thought back to that day. She’d been out shopping, with a half hour or so to kill before she had to pick up Lucy from school. She’d ducked into Darvill’s, where she’d become captivated by the display of paintings on the walls, landscapes mostly, scenes from around the island, rendered in such detail it was almost as though she were looking at them through a window. “There was one in particular, of a deer standing at the edge of a clearing, with snow falling. It was so . . . I can’t explain it . . . It made me feel so peaceful.” She felt herself warming. “But what do I know about art? I only know what I like.”

“When you get right down to it, that’s all that really matters,” he said.

She sensed he was being sincere. Before she knew it, she was saying, “Would you like to come inside? I was just about to put on some coffee.”

“If you’re sure it’s no trouble,” he said.

“No trouble at all.” Eleanor had an ulterior motive. She was hoping to distract him long enough for Lucy to wake up. A whispered word to her daughter to take the wash down, and he’d be none the wiser about the skivvies. “You take yours black, I hope,” she asked as she ushered him inside.
“I’m fresh out of milk. It’s such a long way into town, I usually wait until I have a whole list of things to get.”

“Black is fine,” he said. They were passing through the hallway on their way to the kitchen when he paused to take a closer look at one of the family photos lining the wall, of Joe in uniform. “Your husband?”

“Yes.” She felt a little flutter of panic. Suppose he put two and two together and realized men’s clothing didn’t belong on the line with her husband away at war.

“A navy man, I see. Where’s he stationed?”

“Last I heard, the Philippines. It’s hard to keep track. Sometimes weeks go by without a single letter, then we’ll get a whole bundle all at once.” Even then, the letters would be riddled with holes where the censors had snipped out any mention that might be considered classified information.

“He’s fighting for his country. I guess that’s all anyone needs to know.” William’s expression hardened all of a sudden. “I tried to enlist, but they wouldn’t take me on account of this.” He rubbed a hand over his bum leg, grimacing a bit as if it pained him, though she sensed whatever pain he felt was more mental than physical. With nearly every ablebodied man his age off fighting in the war, he had to feel the frustration of being sidelined.

“How did you injure it?” she asked, looking down at his leg.

“I broke it skiing when I was in college. Shattered near every bone. Damn thing never healed right.”

“Consider yourself lucky.” The words flew out of her mouth, and she saw a flicker of surprise cross his face. It was an unpopular view in these times, to say the least, but hadn’t there been enough death and destruction due to war? Myra Brookbank had lost her son Ernest in the battle of
Tobruk, and just last week Nellie Gerard had gotten word that her husband’s plane went down at Bataan. Eleanor herself prayed nightly for Joe’s safe return.

“I’m not sure my wife would agree. These days, having your husband around can be a bit of a liability.” He spoke lightly, but she caught a trace of bitterness in his voice. Eleanor was appalled. What kind of wife would prefer a dead hero to a live husband?

They exchanged a meaningful look; then they were in the kitchen and she was lighting the stove, the moment past. “Have you had breakfast?” she asked, as she was filling the coffee pot at the sink. “I could fix you something to eat.”

“Thank you kindly, but I’ve already put you to enough trouble,” he replied, looking ill at ease, as if he weren’t used to being fussed over. But she didn’t miss the look of longing on his face as he eyed the fresh-baked loaf of bread on the counter.

She insisted, “It’s no trouble at all. I may be short on supplies, but the one thing I have plenty of is eggs.” She explained that she’d invested in laying hens, intending to sell the eggs to earn extra cash, but that due to rationing, she and Lucy ended up eating most of what the chickens laid.

She went to the icebox and took out a bowl of eggs, some still dotted with feathers. At the kitchen counter, with its cracked porcelain tiles that Joe hadn’t gotten around to replacing, she took out half a dozen of the largest ones, wrapping each one in newspaper before placing them in a paper sack. She handed the sack to William. “These are for you take home. No charge,” she said, when he offered to pay. He started to protest, but she held firm. “It won’t do you any good. I always get my way.”

“Always?” One of his brows quirked up in bemusement.

“Most of the time, anyway.” Eleanor smiled, almost forgetting her purpose in inviting him in. It felt good, having him in her kitchen—another adult with whom to observe the morning rituals. It made her feel less lonely. “It’s easier when the only one around to talk back is less than half your size.” Though Lucy could be as stubborn as she at times.

They talked while she sliced bread and set strips of bacon in the pan to fry. William told her a story about his son, when Danny, at age five, had been learning to ride a bike, falling off it more times than he’d stayed on but not quitting until he’d gotten the hang of it. Listening to him speak, the tender look on his face making it appealing in a way that had nothing to do with good looks, Eleanor felt suddenly self-conscious of her own appearance as she moved about the kitchen in her robe and slippers, setting out plates and napkins, pouring coffee.

She was about to go wake Lucy, who was showing no signs of rousing on her own, when the back door swung open unexpectedly. Eleanor froze at the sight of Yoshi. The boy looked equally startled. Seeing the strange man seated at the table, he came to an abrupt halt in the doorway, the empty bucket he was carrying, to collect the scraps he mixed with the dogs’ food, slipping from his hand and clattering to the floor. Eleanor, jolted into action, clapped a hand over her mouth, letting out a muffled cry.

William leapt to his feet, planting himself in front of her, as if to shield her. But she was quick to clear up any misunderstanding. “It’s not what you think. He’s . . . he’s a friend. It’s all right, Yoshi,” she reassured the boy. “You’re safe.” She swung around to fix William with a hot gaze, as if challenging him to dispute it. The moment hung there like something swollen about to burst, William staring at Yoshi as
comprehension slowly sank in, Eleanor praying that he wouldn’t do anything rash. At last, the silence was broken by William.

“What’s your name?” he asked the boy, not unkindly.

Yoshi, his head hung low, didn’t reply. At eighteen, he was a boy still, with a boy’s slight build and unevenly cut bangs that hung in a ragged fringe over his forehead.

“His English isn’t very good. But he’s harmless, I promise,” Eleanor explained, tripping over her words in her haste to get them out. Yoshi had worked for Joe on his fishing boat before the war, an orphan who’d become almost like a son to them. After Joe had gone off to battle she’d allowed Yoshi to continue sleeping on the boat, paying him to do odd jobs for her. Then, last month, word had come that Japanese Americans were being shipped off to internment camps, and she’d taken the bold move of hiding him in her barn. When Sheriff LaPorte had come looking for Yoshi, she concocted a story about his having run off. She knew the risk she was taking—she could be charged with treason—but she couldn’t bear the idea of Yoshi being locked up when he’d done nothing wrong.

She cast William a beseeching look. “You won’t tell anyone, will you?”

Until now she’d entrusted the secret only to Lucy. Could she honestly expect this man whom she’d only just met to keep it as well? A man not fit to wear a uniform who, for all she knew, might wish to snatch some glory for himself, if only to become a hero to his wife.

Her heart sank as William slowly shook his head, wearing a look of disgust.
We’re done for
, she thought.
This is where he’ll tell me I’m a disgrace to my husband and my country.
She felt herself growing angry in anticipation of his words. What
right did he have to judge her, or Yoshi? He hadn’t seen how hard the boy had worked for little pay, hauling in nets that would have bowed the backs of men twice his size. Even now, he remained grateful for every scrap, uncomplaining in the face of what most people in his shoes would consider an outrage. And what was so patriotic, anyway, about locking up innocent people.
American citizens
, for God’s sake. Everyone who went along with it ought to be ashamed. And if she were to be punished for it herself, then at least she’d go down with a clear conscience.

When William spoke, it was a moment before his words filtered through the storm of recriminations gathering in her head. “What kind of a person do you take me for?” he asked.

“I wouldn’t know,” she replied, thrusting her chin out.

“You know I like dogs.” He retrieved the bucket Yoshi had dropped and handed it to him. When William straightened, she saw that he was smiling.

Eleanor remained distrustful nonetheless; she wasn’t a woman to be won over by a charming Irishman with a quick wit and a ready smile. “So does Hitler, from what I’ve heard.”

“You really think I’d turn him in?” He flicked a glance at Yoshi.

“You might see it as your patriotic duty.”

“Patriotic?” He snorted in contempt, and turned to address Yoshi. “You can relax. I won’t breathe a word of this to anyone.” The boy eyed him in confusion as William went on, more sternly, “But you’re going to have to be a lot more careful from now on. If it had been someone else who’d spotted you, it would have been a different story.” Yoshi nodded slowly in comprehension, looking very pale. Eleanor could imagine how it must have happened, the boy
not quite awake yet, stumbling around back, not paying attention to William’s Packard parked in the drive.

He’s right
, she thought: They’d grown lax, and had nearly paid a steep price for it.

“I . . . am most grateful to you, sir,” Yoshi managed in his halting English.

“You can drop the ‘sir.’ My friends call me William. Or just plain Will. Now,” he turned toward Eleanor, his stern look melting, “why don’t you set an extra place for Yoshi here? Seems to me we ought to get to know each other if I’m going to be in on this.”

“In on what?” she asked warily.

“You don’t expect me to just walk away and pretend I never saw anything?” he said in disbelief.

She tensed. “What are you suggesting?”

“Well, for starters, you don’t want people asking questions, so I’ll be bringing your supplies from now on,” William went on, as if he’d had it all figured out in the time it had taken her to catch her breath. “All it would take is one nosy Parker wanting to know why you’re buying enough to feed three people for the home guard to come sniffing around.”

“Wouldn’t they be suspicious of you?” she asked.

He shrugged. “Maybe, but I have nothing to hide.”

She tipped her head back to look up at him, this tall, austere-faced man with his great head of black hair in need of combing. She felt a curious mixture of gratitude and lingering mistrust. Why was he doing this? He barely knew her, and Yoshi was a complete stranger.

“Even so, if you were to get caught, you could get into a lot of trouble,” she cautioned. “Why stick your neck out?”

“Maybe it’s to make sure there’s a pup in that litter with my name on it,” he said, breaking into a grin. “Or maybe I’m just plain crazy. Who knows? But you’re hardly in a position to refuse.”

“So much for winning every argument.” She threw up her hands in surrender.

Without further ado, William sat down at the table, unfolded his napkin, and smoothed it over his lap. “I take mine over easy,” he said, as she cracked eggs into the skillet.

A minister’s daughter, Eleanor had been nineteen and pregnant with another man’s child when she married Joe Styles. He was ten years older than her and nobody’s idea of a catch. A working man, a fisherman by trade, with hard, callused hands and a face as creased and weather-beaten as an old tarp. But he had one shining attribute: He’d gladly taken her when no one else would. In fact, Joe acted as though she were the one bestowing this great favor on him, not the other way around, never once making her feel dirty or ashamed, as her parents had. And when Lucy was born, he’d loved her, too, as if she were his own. So Eleanor told herself it didn’t matter that she felt no passion for him. Passion was what had gotten her into trouble. Joe had given her something far better: unconditional love.

But there was no denying that her life with Joe wasn’t what she’d imagined for herself when she’d graduated from secretarial school at the age of eighteen. Her first and only job had been with the firm of White and Conner and though a whiz at typing and shorthand, she’d been utterly ignorant about the ways of the world. Her new boss, on the
other hand, was a man of the world. Lowell White was handsome in the louche way girls found so thrilling, with an air of late nights and cocktails and ruby-lipped women that swirled about him like smoke from the cigarettes that were forever dangling from the corner of his mouth. He was also an astute businessman. Most of his family’s fortune had been lost in the Great Depression, but Lowell had used that very slump to his advantage, little by little buying up real estate while it was dirt cheap and selling at a profit when prices went up. By the time Eleanor had come to work for him, he already owned vast tracts and was rich beyond imagining, with the grandest house on the island and a fifty-foot yacht.