The Bungalow (27 page)

I set my bag by the door and glanced in the mirror at my red, swollen eyes. I hardly recognized myself.

For a moment, I feared I wouldn’t find him. I squinted as I looked out at the thick and frenzied crowd of men, awash in army green. A small cohort would stay on the island, but the majority, Westry included, had been tapped for new assignments. France. Great Britain. And a lucky few, like me, would go home.

I squinted, scanning faces, and then toward the edge of the crowd, our eyes met.

Ignoring the orders over the loudspeaker for the nurses to begin boarding, I set my bag down by Stella and Liz and ran to Westry. He lifted me into his arms and we kissed.

“Don’t cry, my love,” he said, wiping a tear from my cheek. “This isn’t good-bye.”

“But it is,” I said, running my hand along his freshly shaven face. “We don’t know what will happen out there.” I realized the statement was as much about him as it was about me.

Westry nodded, pulling a nosegay of yellow hibiscus from his bag and tucking it into my hand. A white ribbon loosely tied the blooms in place.
Kitty.
“These flowers,” I stammered. “You gave the same ones to Kitty yesterday, didn’t you?”

Westry looked confused, then nodded. “Well, yes,” he said. “I was—”

Another voice piped through the loudspeaker. “All men proceed to board.”

“Westry,” I said, feeling panicked. “Is there something you need to tell me? Something about Kitty?”

He looked to his feet momentarily and then back at me. “It’s nothing,” he said, “but I still should have told you. A few weeks ago, I found her weeping on the beach. I was on the way to the bungalow, and I invited her to join me.”

My cheeks burned.
Westry brought her to our bungalow—alone, without me?

I shook my head in disbelief. “Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t
she
tell me?”

“I’m sorry, Anne,” he said. “I really didn’t think anything of it.”

I turned to glance at the plane that would take me home. Stella was standing beside it waving her arms frantically at me.

“Anne!” she screamed. “It’s time to go!”

I took a final look at Westry. The wind had tousled his hair. I longed to run my hands through the sandy blond strands the way I’d done a hundred times in the bungalow, to take in the scent of his skin, to surrender myself to him. But this time, something told me no.

“Good-bye,” I whispered in his ear, letting my cheek brush his a final time. I reached for his hand and placed the flowers in his palm before running toward the plane.

“Anne, wait!” Westry shouted. “Wait, the painting. Did you get it?”

I froze. “What do you mean, did I get it? I thought you were going to get it.”

Westry threw his hands in the air. “I’m sorry, Anne,” he said, looking panic-stricken. “I intended to go back, but there just wasn’t time. I . . .” His unit had already boarded the plane, and I could see his commanding officer walking toward him. I turned toward the beach and wondered—if I ran fast—could I make it back to the bungalow to retrieve the canvas before the plane departed?

“Please,” I pleaded with Stella, who was standing at the base of the stairway that ascended to the plane’s cabin. “Please tell the pilot I just need fifteen minutes. I left something on base. I promise, I’ll be quick.”

The pilot appeared behind her. “I’m sorry, ma’am, there simply isn’t time,” he said firmly. “You need to board now.”

My legs felt as though they’d been strapped with lead as I climbed the steps. Before the pilot’s assistant pulled the hatch shut, my eyes met Westry’s. I couldn’t hear him over the airplane’s engine, which was roaring like a monster, but I could read his lips.

“I’m so sorry,” he said. “I’ll come back. Please don’t you worry, Anne. I—”

The door slammed shut before I could interpret his last words. What did it matter, I reasoned, blotting my tears with a handkerchief. It was over. The magic we’d found in the bungalow was gone, and I could feel its spell lifting as the plane gained speed and altitude. I watched as the island grew smaller, until it appeared a mere dot on a map. A dot where so much had happened, and so much had been left behind.

Stella leaned over to me. “Will you miss it?”

I nodded. “Yes,” I said honestly.

“Do you think you’ll ever come back?” she asked cautiously. “Will and I have talked about returning for a visit. When the war’s over, of course.”

I looked out the window again before responding, unable to take my eyes off the speck of emerald floating in the turquoise sea. “No,” I assured her. “I don’t think I ever will.”

I squeezed the locket resting on my chest, grateful for the scrap of wood from the bungalow nestled safe inside. With it, I could always return—in my heart, at least.

“W
e missed you, kid,” Papa said as I climbed into the car, grateful not to see Maxine in the backseat. Even with months to process their affair, the revelation that had destroyed the family unit I belonged to, I still couldn’t make sense of it.

I sighed, leaning back into the soft leather of the Buick as Papa started the engine and began to back away. Here there would be no jeeps, no gravel roads or potholes.

“It’s good to be home,” I said, taking in a deep breath of the temperate Seattle air. The return trip had been a harrowing one, with multiple flights and a four-day sea passage. It gave me time to think, to get a grip on the loose ends that plagued my mind, and yet when I stepped out of the airplane onto the airstrip in Seattle, my body trembled with uncertainty.

“Gerard’s home,” Papa said a little cautiously, as if to test the waters.

I looked at my hands in my lap, hands that had loved Westry, still loved Westry. Hands of betrayal.

“Does he want to see me?” I asked.

“Of course he does, sweetheart,” Papa said. “Perhaps the real question is
do you want to see him
?”

He could read my heart. He always could. “I don’t know, Papa,” I muttered, beginning to weep. “I don’t know what I want anymore.”

“Come here, honey,” he said. I inched closer to him in the front seat, and he draped a firm arm around me, one that told me that despite everything, I would be fine. I only wished I could believe it.

Windermere looked untouched by time, by war. As we passed the familiar estates, however, I knew that appearances were deceiving. The Larson home, for instance, still had its beautiful lawn and exquisite garden with the elaborate urns and the cherub fountain in the center of the circle drive, and yet I knew that heartache clung to every wall, every surface. The twins weren’t coming home. Terry had died in a fight near Marseilles; Larry in a plane crash two days later—on the way home to comfort his mother.

The Godfrey mansion also kept up appearances, even though I knew there was a bigger story lingering behind the gates. As we drove past, I held my breath, remembering the night of the engagement party, Kitty’s face, and how we’d sat on the curb outside making plans for the future.
If we’d known the way things would turn out, would we have gone anyway?

The memories pierced, and I looked away quickly.

“He came home Friday,” Papa said. “Got sent home a bit early on medical leave.”

I stiffened. “
Medical
leave?”

“Yes,” he said. “He took a bullet to the arm and shoulder. He may never regain functionality in his left arm, but in the scheme of war wounds, that’s no tragedy.”

Waves of emotion rolled through my body. Papa was right. Boys were getting maimed, dying. Gerard’s injury hardly compared, but for some reason the news made me grieve in a way I hadn’t expected.

“Don’t cry, dear,” Papa said, stroking my hair. “He’s going to be fine.”

“I know,” I cried. “I know he is. It’s just that—”

“It’s hard to take,” he said. “I know.”

“This war,” I cried, “it’s changed everything, all of us.”

“It’s true,” Papa said solemnly, pulling the car into the familiar driveway. Everything was the same, of course, just as I’d left it. But it wasn’t; I knew that. And I could never get it back to the way it had been.

I heard a muffled knock on my bedroom door.
Where am I?
I sat up and tried to get my bearings. The old lace curtains. The big trundle bed. Yes, I was home.
But what time is it? What
day
is it?
The darkness outside the window told me it was late.
How late? How long have I been asleep?
The rain pelted the roof overhead, and I closed my eyes, remembering the rainstorms in the tropics, particularly the way Westry and I had showered together in that downpour on the beach. I could still feel his embrace, smell his soapy skin. I blinked hard.
Was it only a dream?

I pulled the blanket tighter around my body and ignored the knock that sounded again at the door, this one a bit louder. I couldn’t face Maxine. Not yet.
Go away. Please go away. Leave me to my memories.

Moments later, a slip of paper slid under the door along the wood floor. I stared at it for a while, trying to ignore its presence, but it seemed to pulse, to flash like a bright light I could not block from my view. So I sat up, forced my feet to the floor, and retrieved it.

I held the square of beige stationery in my hands and took a deep breath as I took in the familiar handwriting.

I wrapped my fingers around the cold doorknob and turned it slowly, opening the door far enough to see Maxine standing in the hallway outside, her hair pulled back in the usual fashion. An apron, pressed neatly, encircled her slim waist. She held a tray of sandwiches. A single pink rose rested inside a glass bud vase, and puffs of steam seeped from an ivory mug. I could smell the Earl Grey.

I released my grasp on the doorknob. “Oh, Maxine!” I cried.

She set the tray down on my bedside table and took me into her arms. The tears erupted with volcanic power, first in little spurts, then in great big heaves, pouring out of my heart, my soul, with such ferocity, I wondered if they’d ever stop.

“Let it all out,” she whispered. “Don’t hold back.”

When the tears had subsided, Maxine handed me a handkerchief and the cup of tea, and I leaned against the headboard, tucking my knees to my chest under my pink cotton nightgown.

“You don’t have to talk,” she said softly, “if you don’t want to.”

I looked into her eyes for the first time and could see anguish residing there.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, “about the letter I sent. I should never have sent it. I should have let your father tell you. It wasn’t my place.”

I reached for Maxine’s hand. Her fingers felt cold. “You have always been honest with me,” I said. “You were right to send it.”

“Will you ever forgive me?” Her thick accent made her sound meeker, more vulnerable somehow. “Will you ever love me the way you once did?”