Five Brides (49 page)

She jotted the letters down—
TWX
.

“Three doors down, that way,” he said, pointing with a pen toward Colonel Wooldridge’s office. “Toward the mail room. You can’t miss it; it’s marked.”

“Yes, sir. I remember the rooms now.”

He smiled briefly. “I’ll need you to go down there about this time every morning, and again around fourteen hundred hours, and once again before you leave for the day.”

She recorded the instruction between the wide lines of the steno pad gripped between her fingers. “I’ll do that now, sir.”

Joan found the TWX office easily. Just as General Partridge had said, three doors down, clearly marked, and closed and decorated with a handmade Christmas wreath. She took in a deep breath, drew her shoulders back, and entered.

Out of the six desks in the room—three facing to the left, three facing to the right—only two held occupants. One of the enlisted men sat to the right, nearest the door. The other sat to the left nearest the frost-covered windows overlooking
Fürther Straße
. Both wore Army uniforms. Both—a cursory glance affirmed—were young.

Joan clasped her hands together and turned to the right, announcing with the utmost of poise, “I am here for General Partridge’s messages.”

“By golly,” a voice drawled from the desk near the window, “that’s a Southern girl if I ever heard one.”

She turned—slowly—and stared open-mouthed at the enlisted man who rose from his seat, as if he were unfolding himself to stand tall. Taller.

“Excuse me?”

“I declare, I believe you’re from South Carolina.” His eyes—a delicious shade of blue—twinkled beneath dark brows and a wave of black hair.

“And
where
is South Carolina?”

And with that, he laughed, picked up a short stack of papers, and came around his desk. “I believe this is what you’re looking for, ma’am,” he said, extending the messages. “I’m Private Second Class Robert Zimmerman,” he continued with a wink. “But you can call me Robert.” He paused, then looked over to the officer who stood nearby. “That’s
Unteroffizier
McCorkle over there . . .”

“Harry,” the man said, grinning at Joan. “Sergeant Harry McCorkle.”

“Sarge,” the private said, his voice low. Teasing. “Leave the little lady alone. I’m working here. Ma’am?” Joan looked at him fully again. “When you need the general’s messages, you just come on down here and ask for me.”

Joan blinked, trying to ascertain whether Private Second Class Zimmerman—Robert—had just played her or if he was, by nature, genuinely kind. Either way, his voice had a lilt similar to Evelyn’s and Jackson’s, which brought an odd comfort. A sense of friendship. “Thank you,” she said, tugging the papers from his grip.

His eyes never left hers, and Joan couldn’t have broken contact if she’d tried. “You’re welcome,” he said. Then, leaning closer, he added, “I’d avoid Harry over there if I were you. He fancies himself
a ladies’ man. That pretty wreath you passed on your way in is from one of his local sweethearts.”

She held tight to the papers with her left hand. “I see,” she managed to get out, pointing toward the door with the thumb of her right. “I’ll just take these down to General Partridge now.”

“You do that, ma’am.” He looked at his watch. “And we’ll be seeing you here around fourteen hundred hours.”

“Yes.” Joan turned to leave, clutching General Partridge’s messages close to her chest.

Savannah, Georgia

“Lunch in ten,” Ed said.

Evelyn looked up to see her boss leaning against the doorframe of his private office, glaring down at his watch. “Already?” she asked. She looked at her own watch and frowned. “How did the morning go by so fast?”

Ed stepped closer to her desk and took a seat in one of the padded chairs near the floor-to-ceiling sheer-covered windows. “Surely the time doesn’t pass any more quickly here than it does in Chicago?”

She busied herself with closing the ledgers spread out on her desk. “Oh . . . I don’t know. I guess it’s about the same.”

When he didn’t say anything, Evelyn looked up to see that he watched her intently. The amber in his eyes flashed, causing her to return her attention to stacking the books. “Do you miss it?” he finally asked. “Chicago?”

Evelyn gripped the ledgers until her knuckles turned white, then relaxed as she set them on the left side of her desk. “Not the winters.” She laughed easily, which allowed her the courage
to bring her eyes back up to his. “I’m looking forward to a nice Georgia Christmas.”

He straightened one leg, slid his hand into his pants pocket, and brought out a pearl-handled pocketknife, which he opened, then ran the blade across his thumbnail. His eyes eased back to hers—watching him—then back to his hands. “I have a little hangnail,” he said.

Evelyn brightened. “I have a file if you could use one. Right here in my purse.”

But Ed had already replaced the knife. “No bother. It’s gone.”

A sweet memory fell over her. “My father—I remember my father doing that.”

“Then he must be a good ole country boy like me.”

She crossed her arms, resting them on the edge of her desk. “You know he is. Southern farmers really have to be, don’t they?” She tilted her head. “Somehow you don’t strike me as a country boy, Brother Ed.”

He chuckled. “Trust me. Get me out of this suit and into a pair of dungarees and I’m at my happiest. I’d rather sit in a little fishing boat in the middle of a lake or get up way before the crack of dawn to sit in a deer stand than just about anything I can think to do.” He grinned. “No matter
how
cold it is.”

Evelyn tried to picture George sitting in a deer stand, rubbing his hands together in the freezing cold, or even in the middle of a fishing boat on a warm spring day, but couldn’t. Maybe—if she had enough time and Magda’s imagination—she could see him somewhere over in Africa in an organized big-game hunt, or standing at the bow of a chartered deep-sea fishing boat. Both, of course, would have cost him a hefty sum of money, and neither would be about the fun of the sport, but about declaring himself to be a part of something.

George Volbrecht, she realized, couldn’t just
be
for no reason other than to enjoy the process. Everything George did, he did to
gain
something. Everything, including turning her into his protégé.

Melancholy threatened the mild happiness she’d managed to grab hold of over the past nine months. How could it be that
that man
still managed to dominate her thoughts daily, even after all this time?

“Evelyn?” Ed asked, startling her. “Did I lose you?”

She sighed as heat rushed across her cheeks. “Sorry. I was just thinking of someone I knew back in Chicago.”

“A special someone?”

She started to say yes, but stopped herself. To answer affirmatively might entice Ed—who by profession assumed the role of pastoral counselor—to ask further questions. Questions she didn’t want to answer.
Couldn’t
answer.

“No,” she said, her voice only a fraction above a whisper, knowing full well her tone exposed the lie. She took off her glasses and set about in an unneeded task of cleaning them with the hem of her sweater. “He was just a friend.”

Nuremberg, Germany

The afternoon had turned unseasonably warm for December, and Joan planned to heat up a can of soup for dinner. But when she got home, she realized she’d eaten the last of it on Saturday. After checking the time, she decided to drive to the PX, a part of Nuremberg’s military base—the
Kaserne
—about fifteen minutes past the Palace of Justice.

Evening had already fallen around the city, hiding her battle scars with Christmas lights and the gaiety of crowds dining out.
Sweethearts walked along the streets, hand in hand, in front of buildings both partially and fully restored. A deeper chill had also begun to descend, but only slightly. Not so much as to drive people into their homes, but enough that wearing something heavier than a sweater became necessary.

Joan arrived at the Army base, passed through security, and, as usual, flew over the narrow roads until she found a parking spot near the PX. She took a moment to collect her purse and adjust her gloves and jacket, then exited the car while straightening her skirt. American music played in the distance.

“Well, I’ll be!”

Her head shot up.

“Hey, Joan.” Robert walked toward her, wearing a military jacket over his uniform and carrying his hat in his hand.

“Robert Zimmerman,” she said, looking up to gauge the kindness in his eyes.

He half turned toward the PX and the small coffee shop nestled in front of it. “My friends and I are just having a cup of coffee. Want to join us?”

She looked over. Three enlisted men sat at a small table outside the building where four cups of coffee sent steam curling into the night air. The three men waved, and Joan waved back.

“That’s Bob McPherson sitting on the right there,” Robert pointed out. “And that’s Leo Poitras on the left and Harold Moss in the center.” Robert smiled down at her. “Would you like to join us?”

“For a cup of coffee?”

“Yeah. For a cup of coffee. We’re just hanging out. Enjoying this little bit of a warm snap we’re having tonight. Supposed to get
really
cold tomorrow. The coffeehouse brought out the tables and chairs today, so . . .” He smiled. “We’re taking advantage of it.”

He took a step and Joan joined in beside him, feeling quite natural in doing so. “I’d not heard that,” she told him. “About it getting colder.”

“Oh, yeah,” he said, guiding her to the outdoor tables and chairs. “Supposed to get cold and icy.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Be careful on these streets in that little car.”

The men stood as they arrived at the table, each of them extending their hands, which Joan shook one by one. “I can run inside and get you a cup of coffee,” Robert said, already moving toward the small shop in front of the three-story, M-shaped building. “Have a seat and I’ll be back in a minute.”

Joan took a seat at the table in the courtyard of the PX. “So,” she said, placing her handbag in her lap, “where are you gentlemen from?”

Bob pointed to himself. “Hope, Arkansas.”

She then looked to Leo. “Boston, Massachusetts.”

And then to Harold. “Kansas City, Missouri.”

“Missouri? I would have thought Kansas City to be in Kansas. Much like Dorothy’s farm.”

The three men grinned and nodded. “It is,” Harold said. “But it’s also in Missouri.”

“I had no idea,” she told them. “I’ve only lived in Chicago in the States, and to tell you the truth, I haven’t ventured out much from there.”

“You don’t sound like you’re from Chicago,” Harold said, wrapping a beefy hand around his coffee and easing it to his mouth.

Robert appeared then, Joan’s coffee in hand, just in time to chime in with, “That’s right. I suspect she’s from South Carolina.”

Joan reached for the cup. “I looked up this South Carolina,” she said. “It’s near Georgia. I have a friend in the States from Georgia.”

Robert bent at the waist, his eyes capturing Joan’s. “I wasn’t sure how you like your coffee. I can run back in and add some cream and sugar for you, if you’d like.”

“No, no,” she mumbled. “That’s all right. I drink it black.”

“A real woman, Zimmerman,” Bob said. “I said she was, didn’t I?”

Robert sat next to her, picked up his coffee, and smiled. “So, where
are
you from, Joan? Because I’ve only been teasing about South Carolina.”

Robert Zimmerman might have caused her brain to go fuzzy, but she at least knew
that
much. “Leigh, Lancashire. England. But I was born in Chicago and I returned there a couple of years back to work.”

“Chicago?” Robert leaned forward. “I’ve done some work in Chicago.”

“Really? You lived in Chicago before you joined up?”

Robert laughed. “No. I said I did some work there.” He looked from one friend to another. “And as these guys know, I didn’t
exactly
join up.”