Eye of the Storm (25 page)

Cassie sank down to sit on the floor, leaning against Drake’s legs, and pulled the box onto her lap. It wasn’t very heavy, obviously hand-made. She traced her fingers over the carvings that covered it.

“Padraic made it,” Tessa said. “Go on. Open it. See what Rosa and Padraic kept secret all these years.”

With trembling fingers, Cassie undid the latches and raised the lid. Inside, resting on scraps of faded yellow fabric was a leather journal.

“Rosa used a code for the people she helped,” Tessa continued. “Diamonds for the soldiers. Silver for resistance fighters. Pearls for the wealthy, displaced persons—what they paid for their escapes funded so many more, the ones Rosa called her special parcels.”

Cassie lifted the journal out and handed it to Drake. It was old, but the leather had been well-oiled, was still soft to touch. Then she saw what the faded yellow fabric scraps were.

Stars. Six-pointed Jewish stars. Yellow and gold, some faded, some with Hebrew letters in the center, others with the word:
Jude
.

Tears fracturing her vision, she carefully took each star, cradling them in her palm one at a time, and laid them out on the coffee table. Forty-nine total.

“Those are Rosa’s real treasures,” Tessa said. “She and Padraic risked their lives, sneaking into occupied Paris, living like rats in the catacombs beneath the city, came close to being caught by the Gestapo until Rosa led them on a wild goose chase while Padraic spirited their treasure away.”

And Rosa ended up killing the man who had betrayed her: Bernard Lavelle, Kasanov’s father. That’s what started all this, Cassie realized. That and the fact that Bernard never knew what Rosa’s gold really was.

Adeena drew close to the coffee table, kneeling beside Cassie to examine the stars. “This is what Kasanov wanted?”

“Fool didn’t realize there’s things more precious than gold,” Tessa scoffed. “This is the treasure Rosa and Paddy smuggled out of Paris on that last trip. Forty-nine children, their parents sent east to the death camps, none older than ten. They were only meant to bring eleven, ones with families here in the States who’d paid for them to be transported.”

“But they couldn’t leave the others behind,” Drake said, leafing through the leather journal.

“No. So they risked everything to bring them all here.”

“Why the secrecy?” Cassie asked.

Adeena answered, “In 1940, the States had a lot of anti-Semitism. If they were brought here as orphans, adopted by gentiles, their heritage could have serious repercussions, war or no war.”

“Funny to think, but back then, that kind of thing could wreck families, destroy a person’s standing in society,” Tessa said. “Rosa had Paddy record everything the children could remember about their real families. She kept it safe for them in case they or their children or grandchildren ever wanted the truth.”

“Rosa and Paddy never took credit? Never told anyone?” Cassie asked.

“Wasn’t their secret to tell,” Drake said. He laid a hand on Cassie’s shoulder, stroking her hair as he read the journal entries.

“What should we do?” Cassie asked him.

Tessa shifted in her seat. “Rosa said to give it to you and your intended on the day of your wedding. Said between the two of you, you’d know what to do.”

“I think the time for secrets is past,” Cassie said. “These children deserve to be remembered for who they really are. We should donate these to the Holocaust museum. They can reach out to the children, see what they want.”

Drake smiled down at her and nodded his approval.

“As usual, Rosa was right,” Tessa said. She flounced back, folding her arms across her chest, giving them a haughty look. “And the wedding isn’t cancelled. Why should it be? You’re both here, whole and healthy, and so’s your mom, Drake.” She tsked. “Cancel the wedding? Nonsense.”

<<<>>>

DRAKE STOOD AT
the end of the aisle, waiting for Hart. He’d been right about the weather; a clear night sky with a half moon and a million stars graced them with their light. The roses and other flowers perfumed the gathering inside the canopy as the children, Antwan, Bridget, and Colton, raced up and down the aisle, showering rose petals on anyone who smiled at them.

And there were a lot of smiling people in the crowd. Laughter, too. Which was exactly why he’d done this. Hart could care less about an official ceremony; she believed in action more than words. But he’d wanted—he’d needed—this public affirmation. Not to prove to Hart how much he loved her, rather to proclaim it to the world at large.

Adeena appeared, gave him a smile and nod, and the string quartet began to play music Drake stopped hearing as soon as Hart stepped into view. With a dry cleaner’s help, Denise and Adeena had worked magic and Muriel’s dress looked almost as good as new. Where they hadn’t been able to get the stains out or had to hide their mending, they’d added sprays of freshwater pearls that were a close match to the original ones that trimmed the hem and bodice.

The shoes had become a last-minute panic. The white pumps that matched the dress had been forgotten at Tessa’s house. It was doubtful Hart could have worn them anyway with the cuts on her feet, so she’d opted to walk down the aisle barefoot, had even tried to persuade the others it was an old Roma custom.

Then Drake had remembered the Christmas present he’d found while strolling the Strip District. He’d stumbled upon a booth that had lovely silk dancing slippers with hand-sewn beading. He knew they were something Hart would never buy for herself, too impractical. He’d bought a pair in an exquisite shade of mauve that reminded him of the light at sunrise when he’d watched her sleep after their first night together. Turned out, his woefully impractical gift worked beautifully as bridal shoes.

Her former boss, Ed Castro, at her side, more of an escort than a father figure giving her away, Hart strode down the aisle. She wasn’t the graceful, gliding bride of movies. Rather, she was certain and confident as she moved toward Drake, her gaze fixed on his.

And then she was there. In front of him. Adeena had pinned a spray of the tiny pearls onto a barrette and fastened it to hide the surgical staples holding Hart’s scalp together. Bruises that couldn’t be hidden by makeup blossomed over her cheek and chin and one eye was swollen. But she was there. For Drake no bride—no woman—had ever looked as beautiful.

Somehow, he managed to make it through the ceremony without blubbering, although by the end, even Hart’s eyes were misted by tears and most people, Jimmy included, were audibly sobbing. These were good tears, though. Tears of joy.

Then it was over. They kissed, the crowd cheered, rose petals floated all around them, and they were bound forever as one.

Hours later, after everyone had eaten and toasted and danced the night away and then gone home again, after the musicians played one more waltz for him and Hart alone as they danced beneath the starlight, he sat with Hart on the roof’s parapet, legs dangling over the edge, arms entwined, her head on his shoulder as they looked out at the city’s lights.

“Happy?” he asked.

She made the sound a cat does when it’s too content to bother purring and nuzzled her face against the crook of his neck. “Ecstatic.” She kicked her feet gleefully. “These are the most comfortable shoes I’ve ever worn. I’m never taking them off.”

He turned his face to hers and stole a kiss. “We’ll see about that.”

“I wish it could always be this way. I want to take this one perfect night and put it in a snow globe, keep it forever.”

“We’ll have it forever. And we can make as many nights like this one as we want.”

“That’s right. We can.” She turned her face up, the light and her grin giving her a childlike innocence. Except for her eyes. She had her grandmother’s eyes, ancient beyond her years.

Drake was pleased to see that tonight, in this moment, even those solemn, serious eyes gleamed with a smile.

“We can do anything. As long as we have each other.”

<<<>>>

Thanks for reading EYE OF THE STORM! I hope you enjoyed Hart & Drake’s wedding story and Rosa and Padraic’s adventures in France.

A quick note on the historical facts. Varian Fry, mentioned briefly in EYE OF THE STORM, is a true hero who was responsible for rescuing thousands from Marseilles. He worked with an eclectic team including Albert Hirschman, who infamously said, “I always make it a practice to clear out when the head of a fascist state comes to town.”

Varian and his team were imprisoned on the
Senaia,
as were six hundred other potential “troublemakers” when Marshal Petain visited Marseilles on an inspection tour. Unlike the fictional version of the
Senaia
presented here, the real ship remained docked until Petain departed the city three days later.

There were several rescue routes run by the French and Belgium Resistance, including one run by a girl almost as young as Rosa. Andrée Eugénie Adrienne De Jongh was in her early twenties when she established the Comet line that saved over four hundred people. She was eventually imprisoned in Villa Chagrin, Fresnes, and Ravensbruck.

Also, a group of daring, young Americans did use a purloined ambulance to whisk captured British soldiers and French Resistance fighters from Gestapo- and Vichy-run prison hospitals—not once, but several times. They also worked with Varian Fry for a time.

To learn more about Varian Fry and his adventures, read
A Hero of Our Own
by Sheila Isenberg. More information about the Roma’s entanglements with the Nazis can be found in
The Nazi Persecution of the Gypsies
by Guenter Lewy.

For the purposes of fiction, I have changed many of the situations and none of the characters are based on any real-life person other than historical figures who are mentioned briefly.

As always, thanks for reading!

CJ

<><><>

Thank you for joining Hart & Drake on their adventures! Want exclusive content, news of special deals, chances to win AND a FREE copy of her international bestseller SNAKE SKIN? Sign up for my Thrillers with Heart newsletter
HERE

Join CJ as she returns to her medical thriller roots with a Novel of
Fatal Insomnia:

In the chaos of the ER, functioning without sleep is a prized skill. But even Dr. Angela Rossi will admit that five months is far too long, especially when accompanied by other worrisome symptoms: night sweats, tremors, muscle spasms, fevers. Then a dead nun speaks to her while Angela is holding the nun’s heart in her hand.

“Find the girl,” the nun commands—although no one else in the trauma room can hear, the words drilling directly into Angela’s brain. “Save the girl.”

Aided by a police detective fallen from grace, Angela searches the midnight catacombs beneath the city, facing down a ruthless gangleader and stumbling onto a serial killer’s lair. Her desperate quest to save the girl leads her to the one thing she least expected to find: a last chance for love.