He gave her a look of assurance. Lydia knew they were stirring the same thoughts, yet he seemed so calm. Perhaps the war had something to do with it. He must have seen unimaginable terrors. A tragedy like this must barely register. Yet the guilt rested like an anchor on Lydia's very soul. While he'd been out fighting, she'd been —
"It's all right," he said, as if reading her anguished thoughts. "This war has turned a lot of lives upside down. At least we made it through."
With that, he drew her closer. She felt his breath on her neck as he whispered into her ear. "It's all right, Lydia. It's all right." Alex put his lips gently to the side of her forehead, lingering much longer than he should have. Lydia knew she should pull away. She didn't. Not until she heard footsteps on the marble outside the library. She pulled back just as her father appeared. Lydia tried to compose herself as he paused at the door jamb.
"Father, do you remember Alex?"
Sargent Cole studied them a moment before breaking into a smile.
"Well, I'll be damned! How could I not? He beat the pants off me on the tennis court for a week straight."
Lydia s father strode over and shook Alexs hand.
"He's just back from the war," she said.
Alex clarified, "It's a temporary reprieve. I'm off to the Pacific in a few weeks."
"Good! Good! Give 'em hell, eh?"
"Father, I've asked Alex to stay for a few days. Is that all right?"
He eyed her before answering. "Sure. Let's show him a good time. But I will insist on a rematch, Alex. Have you been practicing?"
Alex replied breezily, "The last time I played was here."
"Christ, that was years ago. You have been busy. But it might give me a chance."
"Perhaps — although one likes to believe in the constancy of things."
Lydia remembered that Alex was the only person she'd ever known who could goad her father and get away with it. Evans materialized with a tray of Scotch and tumblers — her father's presence had superseded the request for coffee — and he poured without asking.
"So," Sargent asked, "kill any Germans?"
"Father!"
As the guest, Alex was offered the first Scotch. He took it and ran a sample over his palate. "Three," he said indifferently.
Even Sargent fell quiet.
Lydia, not wanting to think about such things, changed the subject. "Father, let's put Alex up in the East Room." It was the biggest guest room, with stunning views of the ocean.
"All right," her father agreed. "Evans, something special for dinner tonight. A warrior's feast!"
Evans acknowledged the order.
"I've already played today, but it was an easy two sets of mixed doubles. What do say, Alex — two o'clock?" "I don't think I brought the proper clothes, sir." Sargent waved it off. "No excuses, now. We'll dig something up for you."
"All right," Alex said. "Done."
Chapter 12
Braun stood trancelike, staring out the third-floor window of the East Room. Outside, four men, two very young and two very old, groomed the shrubbery with hand shears. The landscaping was impeccable, a well-designed layout of gardens and walking paths, with lovely arcing lines and nice proportions. The entire arrangement flowed pleasingly away, ending abruptly two hundred yards off, where a rocky cliff gave way to the roiling Atlantic. It was a study in contrast, a masterpiece of the controlled against the uncontrolled.
In Brauns hand was yet another tumbler of Scotch, this one on the rocks. He rolled it slowly, ice tinkling gently against the glass. The thoughts in his head tumbled far more energetically. Lydia married. It had never crossed his mind. She was so malleable and timid — her father must have arranged it. If Sargent had wanted her married, he would have found an Edward, a pathetic little man who would be as easy to control as she.
But now what? Braun wondered. With Lydia unavailable, what options did he have? A week or two here would be pleasant, but each day would bring more raised eyebrows — the long-lost suitor returning to find the object of his affections taken. And the longer he stayed, the more agony Braun would find in leaving. The exquisite meals, the games, the servants. The leisure of it all.
He'd been so close. It was like taking a sumptuous appetizer, only to find that you would never be served the remaining courses.
Perhaps there was a God after all, he thought, some supreme being who kept him alive for mere sport, to see what tortures one man could withstand before breaking. When Braun had gone to Europe, his father had made him join the German Army. And not just any unit, but Paulus's 6th, doomed to extinction at Ivan's hands. Starvation, escape. Back to the fight in Berlin, then again, salvation. And finally a deliverance to America, the home to which he'd never imagined returning. Braun had endured the Russians and the Nazis. But now the royalty of Newport were inflicting the most wicked wound of all.
He whipped around and threw his glass crashing into the fireplace, crystal shards scattering back onto a rich marble floor. What now? His pockets were nearly empty. His old connections from school were of no use. The war had affected everyone. Marriages and love, death and loss. No one could pick up where they'd left off in the halcyon days of the Ivy League in 1940. Everyone had different tangents now, different lives. And what did he have? Memories of a hell no one here could imagine. And a few useless scraps of information. Die Wespe. Santa Fe. A place called Los Cuates in a few week's time. A vital mission for a cause that was now lost.
A knock on the door interrupted.
"Come in."
A young maid, prim and slender, stepped into the room.
"Dinner in ten minutes, sir."
Dinner, Braun mused. Conventional measurements of time meant nothing here. Instead, the sequences of the day revolved around games and meals. Newport War Time.
"Thank you," he replied.
The maid said, "Is there anything I can — oh, dear! You've had an accident!" She scurried to the fireplace.
Braun turned away, his gaze fixed again on the ocean. "Yes. Silly of me."
"Not at all, sir."
He heard her dropping pieces of broken glass into her hand.
"Shall I send for another drink?" she offered.
Braun closed his eyes and rubbed his temples using a thumb and trigger finger. Gradually, the ill thoughts dispersed. Calm reemerged, and he cocked his head around to see the slim girl bent at the fireplace.
"Yes. Yes, another Scotch would be most enticing."
Clad only in a form-fitting slip, Lydia studied herself at the full-length dressing mirror in her room. Her hips were bigger than five years ago, rounder. Some men liked that, she reasoned. Her breasts were bigger too, but gravity was taking its toll. She sucked in her gut, stood on her tiptoes, and turned to the profile. Not bad. More mature. But what would happen if she ever had children? She lumbered to her dressing table and sank into the chair, twisting a strand of dark hair around a finger. How had she worn it back in college? Good God — two months ago she'd found her first gray. At twenty-five!
Lydia closed her eyes and sighed. Such thoughts. Stupid, stupid girl What did it matter? Edward was the man in her life. Her husband. Alex would stay and chat for a few days, just to be decent, then he'd be gone.
She pulled a brush through her hair as memories swept in. Alex had been so different from the other boys she'd met — a young man at odds with himself. Calm yet exciting, cultured but primitive. And he had come back to her. He had finally come. She tugged harder with her brush, raking until it hurt. Now he'd go back to Wisconsin or Minnesota, or wherever it was he was from, find some slim Scandinavian beauty and together they'd raise a perfect little flock of blond children. Lydia would never see him again.
She dropped the brush to the floor and broke down in despair. Her chest heaved and her face crumbled as tears began streaming out. Why? she thought. Why hadrit Alex written? If only she'd known he was alive —