The Cherry Harvest (19 page)

CHARLOTTE WOKE WITH A MOAN, HEAVING
. Her bruised body ached. She slipped from under the covers and hurried down to the kitchen.
The burning eyes, sweaty hands clamping hers to the wooden floor
. She vomited into the deep porcelain sink. Stomach tight, aching.
The grip on her ankle
. She tried to will the images away, but they were there. They would always be there.

She pushed back from the sink and doused it with water, then bleach. She had to keep going. Move forward. She started a fire in the stove, heated water for a bath in the tin tub. Clean. Would she ever be clean again? Wrapped in her wool flannel robe, she returned to the bedroom and put on a fresh dress. She wanted to lie down again, but Thomas was there and she couldn't bear to be touched right now.

She could lie on the couch. Warmer downstairs. Dizzy, Charlotte held to the oak banister.
Make yourself tea
. In the kitchen, she heard herself moan and grabbed the counter for balance.

She'd go crazy if she held this in. She had to talk to Karl. He was the only one who would understand.

When Kate came into the kitchen, Charlotte struggled to control herself. She needed her daughter to see she was strong.

Kate fumed about, doing her chores, not even looking at Charlotte. She took her breakfast out to the porch, and when she was through, she stomped back upstairs to her room.

Thomas came down, ate his breakfast, scanned the morning paper. Charlotte could barely contain herself until he finally left for the orchard.

She was washing the breakfast dishes when Karl came to the window. “Mrs. Christiansen, does Kate have any lessons for me?”

A ruse, of course.
He's as eager to speak with me as I am with him
. “I'm going to the root cellar,” she whispered. “Make sure no one sees you.”

After Karl left the window, Charlotte went to the back of the house and pulled open one of the wooden doors that led down under the kitchen. Like a cave, the dark stone-lined room was always cool, even on the hottest summer days. She lit the wick on the kerosene lamp she kept there, and the dim yellow light revealed rows and rows of empty jars and bins.

This was where the family sheltered from the occasional tornado. Charlotte had stowed emergency provisions—a small barrel of water and tin cups, plates, and eating utensils, woolen blankets, a bottle of kerosene, matches. Except during seasonal storms, she was the only one who came down here.

Soon Karl stepped in and pulled the wooden doors closed above them. Charlotte held up the lantern to show him the way.

He moved quickly toward her. “Your cheek, it is swollen.” He reached out and touched her face.

She put her hand on his and the tears came. “Karl, I'm so scared.”

When she started weeping, he put his arms around her. She was shivering now. “Mrs. Christiansen, you are cold.” He unbuttoned his tan PW shirt and put it around her shoulders.

“There are blankets . . .” she pointed to the tall barrel.

He moved away to take the cover off the barrel and pull out a woolen blanket. Holding it behind her, he wrapped them up together, pulling her in against his thin undershirt, his warm broad chest. He held her to him, comforting. “It's better?”

She felt his heartbeat and looked into his eyes, so close to hers. “Karl?”

“We share a secret, Mrs. Christiansen.” His lips came soft on her swollen cheek.

With his muscled arms encircling her, she felt oddly safe. No longer alone. In his protective embrace, she could cry openly, and she did. She sobbed, and he held her and rocked her. Letting out so much she had held in. “Oh, Karl! You saved my life!”

“Mrs. Christiansen.” He rubbed a hand on her back.

“Call me Charlotte,” she murmured.

“Charlotte.” He said her name carefully, as if it were a delicate blossom.

And then she recalled Ellie's words, and Kate dressing up and sitting at the picnic table, waiting for Karl. Where did they meet? What did they do? Since that morning with Ellie—the same day Vehlmer attacked her—Charlotte had been consumed with the murder, the cover-up. But now it all came back. She pulled away. “What of your secret meetings . . . you and Kate—”

“Secret meetings?” He looked stricken. “No, no. We meet only in your kitchen. For her lessons.”

Could she believe him? She held his gaze for a long moment, but his eyes never wavered from hers.

The romance must be all on Kate's part, one of her fantasies. And yet, Charlotte remembered that Kate had not been the least bit concerned when she suggested that Karl might be hanged. Maybe Charlotte had been imagining things, worrying for nothing. Maybe Ellie Jensen was wrong about Kate having a boyfriend.

“How could you think it was Kate?” Karl grabbed her arms. “It is you, Charlotte. You.”

She trembled. Before the murder, she would have pushed him away, reluctantly perhaps. But now, the secret they shared, dark and shameful, bound them together. He had fought for her, killed for her.
If he hadn't been there . . . !

“Charlotte . . . ?”

Breathing in his salty scent, she pressed into the warmth of his body, felt his muscular thighs hard against her own.

They sank together to the floor, the blanket around them. His fingers threaded through her hair. One of his large square hands held her head firmly against his kiss. The other brushed across the bodice of her dress where her nipples stood erect. He touched the hem of her skirt, slow and easy, moving it up and up.

“Charlotte?”

His strength drew her, scared her. “Yes,” she said, reaching beneath her dress to slip off her underpants.
What am I doing?

He unbuttoned his tan trousers and soon he was on top of her, pulsing into her.

We shouldn't do this . . . We shouldn't . . .
The words whispered around the edges of her mind as she kissed Karl's open mouth, frantic for him. Her thoughts flickered to the barn, Karl saving her. Drawn to danger, together, saving each other.

Unlike Thomas, Karl didn't recite poetry from some foreign time or place. No, Karl was physically there with her, all passion, hungry for her. Now, right now. She knew. She felt the difference.

Her skin tingled. A warm sweet river flowed through her body. She slid her hands up under his shirt and scratched at his skin, then down to his buttocks, holding him tight to her hips, her skin alive with desire, the beautiful thick slide of him inside her.

His lips murmuring her name, sweet as a song.

Her hips rising up, up, up to take him deeper into her. “Karl!”

And more and again. And now she was only her body, the heat and flow of her body coming in waves of relief. Tensing and loosening. Set free.

“Karl!”

“
Meine liebe!
” he gasped.

She fell back, panting.

Karl lay beside her, holding her until her breathing calmed.

After a while, she blinked her eyes open and turned toward him. Lamplight dusted his solid jaw. He kissed her cheek.

“So beautiful you are, Charlotte.” His hand slid gently along the curve of her torso where her dress was spread open.

She didn't cover herself. She didn't mind him looking at her nakedness. She felt beautiful under his gaze.

A vision flitted through her mind—Karl coming into her kitchen, sunset, just the two of them. She reached over and smoothed his dark hair, touched his lips.

He touched her face. “I must go.”

Must go. Yes, he must go
.

They slipped apart and drew on their clothes. Charlotte climbed the steps and pushed up one of the wooden doors and peeked out. Her eyes took a moment to adjust to the late morning sun. She heard the tractor far off in the orchard. The prisoners were nowhere in sight. She motioned for Karl to leave.

Charlotte folded the blanket and put it back into the barrel. She stood alone at the bottom of the cellar steps for some time, attempting to compose herself. Then she took a big breath, blew out the kerosene lantern, and emerged back into the day.

BY LATE AFTERNOON
, Charlotte had bathed in hot soapy water again and changed her clothes. She tried to focus on making dinner, but she could think of nothing but Karl's admiring eyes, the feel of his tight muscles under her palms. Her skin tingled from his touch. Her insides contracted with the memory. She luxuriated in the sense of it, imagining it again. And again.

A siren whined in the distance, advancing along County Trunk Q. A loudspeaker blared the sheriff's voice: “Nazi prisoner escaped. Be on alert. Inform authorities of suspicious persons.”

The siren gave a short toot as the car turned down Orchard Lane and stopped where Thomas hurried to meet it. Thomas and the sheriff spoke for a few minutes before the car sped back to the highway and resumed the alarm.

Thomas came in and threw his hat on the kitchen table. “Ole Weborg's been shot.”

“What? How?”

“Seems he was out looking for the escapee and Big Mike thought he was a prowler. Shot him in the shoulder. He'll live.”

Charlotte crumpled into a chair and put her face in her hands. Thomas put a warm palm on her back and slowly rubbed it. He stopped at the sound of a truck approaching.

“Now what?” He went out the door.

Kate came in and washed in the sink. She didn't look at Charlotte, didn't say a word. Her body sparked with anger.

Charlotte peered out as the Army truck rumbled in. An officer got out. Thomas wasn't one to get emotional, but he was waving his arms, pointing, as he talked with the man in uniform. More talking. Then his posture slumped. He led the man toward the migrant camp.

“Mother, we have to tell him,” Kate cried.

Charlotte leveled her eyes at her daughter and spoke the words slowly: “We tell no one.”

Thomas came into the kitchen. “They're taking the PWs back to prison.”

Charlotte's scalp bristled. “Taking them away! What about the harvest? We can't lose the harvest!”
And Karl!

“Until they know what's happened to Vehlmer, no PWs will be allowed outside locked gates. Might be some sort of secret communications with the enemy, others may be involved. That's what they fear most.” He glanced out the window. “Unless I put metal gates around the camp, they're all going.”

“Then put up the gates, damn it!” Charlotte yelled.

“Mother!” Katie cried.

Thomas stared at Charlotte with a stricken look. She had never spoken to him in such a harsh way.

She hugged him. “Thomas, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.”
What's happening to me?

He put his arms around her. “I know.” He kissed the top of her head.

“It's not fair, Thomas. It was just one man. The rest aren't like that—”

“We don't know. There are prisoners assigned to farms all over
the county. The Army is taking them all. The growers are angry with me for being so careless.”

“It wasn't your fault!”

“Yes, it was, Char. I called Vehlmer to fix the tractor and then sent him off across the orchard alone. I trusted him to go directly to the work crew on the other side. And now families are terrified about what he might do.”

“Thomas!” She clung to him.

He loosened his hold on her. “Listen to me, both of you. You are not to leave the property. Stay close to the house. Keep the doors locked.”

“For how long?” Charlotte asked.

“Until he's found.”

“But what if he's not found?” Kate said, her eyes flashing to Charlotte.

“Mind me. Stay close. Make do with what you have here—eggs and milk, vegetables from your garden.”

After Thomas left, Kate whispered, “It's crazy to go on like this. They'll never find him.”

“If they knew what that Nazi tried to do to me, it would be even worse. And what I did . . .” Charlotte's mind reeled with images—Vehlmer in the barn, Karl in the root cellar. She could barely breathe.

“I can't watch Father going out with his gun, and everyone so afraid . . . afraid of nothing!” Kate's blue eyes were wide and teary. “Mother, we have to stop this! A man has been shot!”

“Do you want me to go to jail?” Charlotte grabbed Kate's shoulders and shook them. “Do you?”

Kate pulled away. “Maybe I do!”

Charlotte reeled back in shock. “Kate . . . ,” she pleaded. But she could think of nothing more to say.

Kate turned and hurried away from the kitchen.