Brave Hearts (8 page)

“Crossing the Atlantic?”

“We'll go back to the States on our way. I'll spend a week in Washington, being briefed. You can stay with Ted and Betty; then we'll be on our way to San Francisco. We'll ship out from there to Manila.”

“Manila.” She could scarcely take it in. They'd spent their lives in European capitals. She'd never been to the East, and she couldn't imagine what it would be like, but she smiled happily. It didn't matter to her. For the first time in years, she would make her own choices, her own decisions. No one in Manila would even remark about Spencer coming to his new post without his wife. After all, a stint as a special envoy was never permanent. It was a post assigned in response to a particular problem. The emphasis would be upon Spencer's skills, not his family.

He was smiling, too. It is odd, Catharine thought, how little we know one another. Spencer assumed she was happy because of his advancement.

He reached out and squeezed her shoulder. She realized it was the first time Spencer had touched her in a long, long time. He beamed at her. “You are a good wife, Catharine. The ambassador was worried that you might not be willing to go, but I told him there wouldn't be any problem.”

Catharine felt a sudden, terrible emptiness. She listened to Spencer's bright, happy words, and her own happiness drained away as water seeps from a cracked vase.

“Of course, you'd come with me. You've always come, and this time it's essential. Winant said the Filipinos mustn't feel there's any danger of the Americans pulling out on them. As the ambassador said, what can be more reassuring than for diplomatic personnel to bring their families with them.”

“The ambassador especially wanted to know if I would come?”

He heard the constraint in her voice. He looked at her sharply. “Yes. It's imperative, Catharine.”

She stared at him, her face pale but composed. For an instant, happiness had seemed within reach. Images whirled in her mind, of Jack, his face dark with anger, of Spencer, sleek and satisfied, absorbed in the excitement of his future.

If she went to Manila, she would close the door on the only happiness she'd ever known. It had been such a short spell of happiness, days snatched out of fear, brief moments filled with life and love.

Spencer needed her.

Jack loved her.

But Spencer needed her. He didn't have Charles. He didn't have her love. All he had was his career.

She knew Spencer didn't love her, but could she shrug away his long-ago kindnesses to her in Paris when they first met, his gentleness after Charles's death that brought her back from black despair, and all the skeins of commitment between a man and a woman, whether they were in love or not? If Charles were alive, everything might be different, but Charles was dead and Spencer had nothing left but his career.

Deep inside, she heard her own cry of need. She would have nothing, nothing at all. With Jack there was life and the beginning of true healing with her willingness once again to love.

Catharine lifted her chin. “Of course, I'll come, Spencer.” She heard herself speak as if from a long distance and marveled at how easy the words sounded, how simple. There was nothing in her tone to suggest that her heart was breaking. Oh, Jack, Jack!

Spencer heaved a sigh of relief. “God, Catharine, you had me worried there for a minute.” He smiled again, his good humor restored. “I know Manila sounds like to hell and gone, but this will only be the beginning. If I handle this one right, there'll be no stopping me.” Then he glanced at his watch. “Look, Catharine, I've got a million things to see to, but I didn't want to spring this on you over the phone.” He glanced around the apartment living room at the rented furniture. “I never thought I'd be glad we didn't have anything, but it's going to make our move a lot simpler.” He gave a half-laugh.

She nodded numbly.

“So you can be ready to leave in the morning, can't you?”

“In the morning?” Her voice rose.

Spencer grimaced. “I know, it's short notice, but we're very important, Catharine. They've squeezed us onto a convoy that leaves tomorrow night. Isn't that something?”

“Yes. Yes, Spencer, that's really very impressive.”

He was Spencer again, controlled, intense, but with the new, vital excitement flaring just beneath the surface. His face spread in a wide grin. “Dammit, Catharine, I still have trouble believing it. Me, a special envoy.” He shook his head a little. “I've got to get back to the embassy. You'll see to everything, won't you? The packing won't be much.”

The door slammed behind him. Catharine stood in the middle of the room where he'd left her. She still wore her hat and gloves. Slowly, she reached up, took off her hat, then slipped off her gloves.

Tomorrow.

Jack wouldn't be back until next week. She'd thought they'd be together on Wednesday. Her mind fumbled with thoughts; there was so much to see to, but none of it touched the core of pain within her.

She would never see Jack again. Never.

She moved then, one slow, painful step at a time, to the upright desk in the corner of the room. She sat down on a hard straight chair, pulled out a drawer, and lifted out note paper. She picked up a pen and stared down at the empty sheet.

“Dear Jack,” she wrote.

Tears filmed her eyes so that she could scarcely see. Scratchily, unevenly, she began to write.

Ann's lips pressed together in disapproval. She stood with her arms akimbo and watched Peggy try to wedge a pair of shoes in one side of her bulging suitcase. Finally, Ann couldn't stand it any longer.

“Peggy, don't be a damned fool.”

Peggy looked up at her roommate, then shook her head and pushed harder on the shoes. When they were jammed in, she smiled brightly at Ann.

“Peggy, you listen to me.”

Peggy pushed down the lid on the suitcase. “I don't know how I'm going to shut this.”

Ann marched across the room and stood beside her friend and the suitcase. “Peggy,” she pleaded, “he's just using you, can't you see that?”

Peggy stiffened and turned away.

Ann felt a mixture of helplessness and anger. Her pleasant face settled into unaccustomed lines of determination. “Look, I know it's not any of my business, and maybe you didn't realize I knew, but, my God, anybody with half an eye would know. You light up when he comes into the room. You light up like a damned Christmas tree.” She shook her head and wondered how in the world a girl as nice as Peggy could fall for a prick like Spencer Cavanaugh. “Peggy, you're too nice to get involved with a married man. A very married man.”

Ann hated the look of pain in Peggy's eyes and the look, too, of shame and misery, but she was determined to speak out.

“Honey”—Ann's voice was soft now and cajoling—”tell him you won't go. He can't make you go.”

“He doesn't make me do anything,” Peggy replied. “I know what you think, Ann. You think I'm cheap.”

“No, no, no,” Ann objected furiously. “I don't think anything of the sort. You're not cheap. That's what makes me so mad. If he were involved with Louise or Candy, I wouldn't give it a second thought, but why does he have to pick on you? You're just a kid and he's not, by a long shot.”

“It isn't like that,” Peggy said quietly. “It isn't like that at all. Spencer's not just fooling around. He really cares for me, Ann. I know he does.”

Ann bit her lip. Damn Spencer Cavanaugh, the good-looking, slimy, selfish, self-absorbed prig. Ann gritted her teeth, then said reasonably, “If he cares, why doesn't he divorce his wife?”

Peggy's blue eyes widened. “He can't do that. He just can't. It could ruin his career.”

“So?”

Peggy looked utterly shocked. “You don't understand, Ann. Spencer's very important—his new post is so important we can't even talk about it.” Her voice dropped. “It's just really, really secret and special. He's so excited, and he'll be wonderful. I know he will.”

Ann sighed, but she didn't give up. “That nice boy in the code room, Tom Biggers—he wants to go out with you.”

Peggy looked down at the suitcase and once again pushed hard on the lid. This time it snapped shut.

“He's really nice,” Ann continued. “Why don't you give him a chance?”

Slowly, Peggy stood. Her round, cheerful face was serious and determined. “I'm going with Spencer, Ann. You see, I love him.”

Jack's fingers jabbed at the typewriter keys. He used two fingers on each hand, and they attacked the machine in short, erratic bursts as he punched out the stories from his five-day tour of coastal defenses.

“England's coastal defenses are all in place, barbed wire, dynamite, mines, but the best guess now is they won't be necessary because of the German push to the East.”

Jack paused, took a deep drag on his cigarette, then continued; but in the back of his mind, behind the words so carefully arranged in the story, a refrain sang; I'll see Catharine in only a little while, I'll see Catharine in only a little while . . .

Finally, he ripped the last sheet from his typewriter and took the pile of copy to the bureau chief. “There you go, Sam. Everything you ever wanted to know about coastal defenses and more.”

Sam took the copy, then looked up at Jack. “Getting bored? Not hot enough for you here?”

Jack shook his head quickly. “No complaints, Sam.”

“Is this the Jack Maguire I know? I thought you'd be pressing me to be on the next boat to Africa. You getting old?”

Jack understood Sam's surprise. There was a day, not so long ago, when he would have pushed to be in the thick of the action. Part of him still wanted to be in the Western Desert right now.

But Catharine was in London.

“There are plenty of stories in London, Sam.”

“Sure.” There was still surprise in Sam's voice. “How about a drink, Jack?”

“Rain check, Sam. Got a date.”

He knew Sam looked after him with sudden interest, but he didn't care. Catharine would be at the apartment—surely she would. She knew he was returning today.

He took a cab and all the way to Greenwood Courts he thought of her and what they would do and say. He felt a mixture of tenderness and passion. There had been many women through the years, but there had never been anyone in his life like Catharine. Her cool, distant beauty masked a passion equal to his own.

That first time he'd seen her, he'd wondered about the dark and beautiful woman he'd glimpsed in the shiny surface of the pillar. Now, he knew. He knew her long, soft black hair could fall forward, its silky strands brushing against his skin, framing their faces as their lips touched, screening out the world. He'd wondered how she would love. Now, he knew, but he knew more than their love; he knew that each time they came together it was a unique union of passion and delight. He knew her love, and yet he knew that never, not if they loved a thousand years, would he be able to define the depth and range of her love.

Was it this complexity that fascinated him, that made their encounters so magical and distinct? He smiled and wondered how she would love him today. Gently, with the faraway look of a wood nymph? Passionately, with a bawdy light in her eyes? Slowly? Or quickly, desperately, hungrily?

When the cab nipped into the curb, he handed over his bill, then pushed out, impatient now. He didn't wait for the slow, creaking elevator. He'd had only three hours' sleep the night before, ridden a jolting troop carrier back to London, and hunched over his typewriter for five hours, but he ran lightly up the steps, two at a time, his heart pounding with anticipation.

He was hungry to touch her hair, to frame her face with his hands. He wanted to make her a part of him, hold her so closely and tightly that they breathed together and he would feel the thudding of her heart against his chest. He jammed his key into the lock and banged the door open.

“Catharine . . .”

The window that looked out to Regent's Park was closed. The curtains hung limp. The room was hot, stuffy—and empty.

Jack stood in the doorway; the eagerness died. He frowned. She knew he was coming back today. He looked down at his watch. It was almost five. He walked inside and shut the door. Then he felt a quickening again. She'd be here soon. He'd open the window, freshen things up a bit so the place wouldn't be stale when she came. Catharine liked things to be bright and lovely.

Jack was pulling up the window when he saw the note on the card table. He'd never seen Catharine's handwriting before, but he knew at once the fine, looping script was hers. The cream-colored stationery with his name on the envelope looked cool and remote. Slowly, he reached out and picked it up. It had a film of dust on it.

His mind registered all these things. A sense of impending disaster welled up inside him. He didn't open the envelope. He reached out, yanked up the telephone, and dialed. Finally, after several rings, he hung up the receiver.

The envelope wasn't sealed. He slid out the single sheet of note paper.

 

Dear Jack,

 

When you read this letter I will be in the mid-Atlantic . . .

Jack read the first sentence, and the words moved in his mind like heavy stones falling through dark water, down, down, down. His chest ached as if he'd run miles and miles, but the end wasn't in sight and there was no more breath left in him. The next sentence was smudged and uneven.

Jack, please don't hate me. I couldn't bear it if you hated me, because I love you so much. This is the first time I've ever written those words to you. I love you, Jack. I love you. I can see you now, standing by the table, holding this letter, and I can feel my heart breaking. Silly words, aren't they, words people use casually, meaninglessly, but now I know what they mean and how it feels to have your heart in agony. Spencer has been posted to Manila. He came in just a little while ago to tell me. He is to be briefed in Washington, then travel to Manila. At first I thought this would be my opportunity. I listened to him, and I practiced the words in my mind, how I would tell him that I wanted to be free. He was so excited about the posting. It is a promotion, an important one. I thought it would mean he no longer needed me. I listened and waited for the moment, but the moment didn't come. The ambassador made it clear. I had to come as Spencer's wife to reassure the Filipino government that Americans can be counted on, that they are coming to Manila and bringing their families. So, I have to go—because I am Spencer's wife. That hurts, but so many people hurt around the world today. I can't claim special privilege. I don't know if you are still reading. I don't know if you are terribly angry. Please, Jack, don't be angry with me. Let's remember our wonderful days together. I will remember them always. And perhaps someday, if we have very great fortune, we will be together again.

 

All my love,

Catharine

 

The paper was crumpled. A tear had splashed down upon those last lines, and the words were smudged.

Jack licked his quivering lips. Catharine was somewhere on the Atlantic Ocean, on her way to the Philippines. He clenched his teeth until the muscles in his face ached.

Somewhere in the mid-Atlantic a convoy thrust its way west.

Peggy fished a piece of spearmint gum out of her purse. She slipped it into her mouth, and the mildly minty flavor eased the queasy rumblings in her stomach. It had been an exciting find, the box of gum in the ship store, a decided treat after months of rationing, and so welcome now. She could take the up-and-down plunging of the ship, but the long, slow roll from one side to the other threatened to make her sick.