Beyond the Shadow of War (4 page)

4

It was almost five in the afternoon by the time they arrived in their room at a lovely hotel in the West End. Danny placed Anya’s bag on the folding luggage rack and dropped his small duffel bag on the floor beside it.

She sat on the end of the bed then immediately jumped up, as if she’d just perched on a bed of red hot coals instead of a floral coverlet. She was glad his back was turned so he didn’t see her reaction. She’d felt her heart hammer a little harder with each passing mile on the taxi ride from the train station. She felt so foolish, letting her nerves rattle her like this. Heaven knows, she wasn’t the first bride to be nervous about her wedding night.

“Wait,” she said as Danny started taking off his uniform jacket. He paused, half in, half out of it. “I just realized I’m hungry. Quite hungry. Are you?”

He smiled as he slid back into his jacket. “Sure. You know me. I can always eat.”

“Good. Then shall we?”

“Absolutely.”

Moments later, they were seated in the hotel’s restaurant downstairs.

A tall waiter appeared, dressed in black slacks and vest over a starched white shirt, his posture stiff. “Good afternoon. Might I ask what kind of tea you would like?”

“What would you suggest?” Danny asked.

“That would depend on your taste, of course, though I dare say most of our guests prefer our own house blend.”

Danny looked her way. “How does that sound to you?”

“Yes. Fine. Thank you.”

“Excellent,” the waiter said. “And will we both be having the afternoon tea?”

Danny’s brows drew together. “Yes. I just told you. The house blend.”

The waiter’s smile tightened. “I’m referring to the meal, sir. The afternoon tea.”

“Sure. Yes. Why not? As they say, when in London …”

Anya waited. “When in London?”

“Yes, who says what, sir?” added the waiter.

Danny shrugged. “It’s just a saying. You’ve heard it, right? When in Rome you do as the Romans do?”

“But do
what,
Danny? What do the Romans do?”

“Never mind. Must be an American thing.”

“Quite,” the waiter answered. “Then am I to assume you’ll both be having afternoon tea?”

“Yes,” Anya answered. “Thank you.”

“Very well. I shall return shortly with your tea.” He bowed ever so slightly then left.

Danny raked his fingers through his hair. “You’d think the fact that both Brits and Americans speak the same language, we’d be able to understand each other.”

“Sophie told me she often laughs at the strange way you Yanks talk.”

“Like we say bathroom and they call it the lav or the privy?”

Anya smiled. “Yes, something like that.”

“Or what we call a cigarette, they call a fag?”

“I’ve not heard that one before.”

“Or the way they say, ‘she’s
in
hospital’ instead of ‘she’s in
the
hospital’. Or ‘
at
university’ instead of at
the
university.”

“I have no idea, but at least you can pronounce their language,” she teased.

“Point well taken. I trust you’ve noticed that I’ve avoided all attempts to speak Dutch since we arrived?”

“Yes, and I thank you for that, Lieutenant McClain.”

“You’re most welcome.”

The waiter returned with a sterling silver pot of tea, and cups and saucers of china painted with violets and ivy.

“Let me ask you a question, my good man,” Danny began. “Is afternoon tea just a fussy snack in the middle of the afternoon? Or is it the evening meal? Because I’ll be honest, I could eat a horse about now.”

Two lines deepened between the waiter’s brows as he stiffened his back again. “I beg your pardon? I’ll have you know we do not, and for the record,
never have
served horse meat.”

Danny laughed as he raised his palms. “My apologies. I didn’t mean to suggest any such thing! It’s just an expression. It means I’m really
very
hungry as opposed to not wanting anything to eat.”

“Quite. Then I shall explain. Our afternoon tea, dictated by the hour in which it is served, is a light meal of cucumber, egg, and salmon sandwiches, assorted scones served with clotted cream and jam, along with today’s pastry selection, a delightful Victorian sponge cake. Not as hearty as horse meat, but I should think it might suffice.”

“Perfect. Yes.”

“I’m glad it meets your approval.” Another half bow and he was gone.

Anya was grateful for the distraction as they chatted through their meal. Later, as the waiter removed their dishes, she felt the nerves creeping back in. “Would it be possible to bring us another pot of tea?”

“Anya, are you sure?”

She avoided Danny’s eyes and confirmed her request with a smile and a nod to their waiter.

When he left, Danny reached for her hand across the table. “Anya, look at me.”

She busied her free hand brushing crumbs from the linen tablecloth. When he squeezed her hand, she finally looked up. “Yes?”

“It’s okay.”

“What’s okay?”

He didn’t answer, just looked at her with the same adoring eyes she’d gazed into during their wedding.

“I know you’re nervous. But if it’s any help, so am I.”

She felt the heat burning her cheeks and dropped her eyes to their joined hands. “Danny, I don’t even know‌—‌”

“Neither do I.”

Her eyes found his again. “What? You mean‌—‌”

“Yes. That’s exactly what I mean.”

The tightness in her chest lessened, at least a little. “You’re not just saying that to make me relax, are you?”

“Much to the chagrin of my fellow crew mates, I promise you I’m ‘not just saying’ it.”

A long, pent-up breath slipped through her lips as she found her smile again.

The waiter approached their table with a second pot of tea.

“Please forgive me,” Anya said, “but I’ve changed my mind. It’s … been a long day.”

“No problem, madam.”

Danny gave her hand a final squeeze as he turned to the waiter. “Check, please?”

“I beg your pardon?” he asked.

“The check? The bill? Whatever you call it, bring it. Please.”

As much as Danny had looked forward to their wedding night, he wasn’t enjoying the prickly sensation of walking on eggshells as they returned to their room. He set the key and his wallet on the dresser and took off his jacket. As he loosened his tie, Anya set her pocketbook on top of the luggage she’d borrowed from Sophie, her hand shaking ever so slightly.

He pulled off his tie and tossed it on the dresser, then took a step closer and reached for her hand. “Come sit with me.”

The lingering scent of her borrowed perfume wafted over him as they sat down, but he fought the urge to take her into his arms. There was no rush. She needed time, and he would give her however long she needed.

If only I could make her relax.
If I could just make her laugh again.

An idea came to him. He leaned over and untied his shoes. “I have a question. What kind of advice do you think Frederic would give us about now?”

“Frederic?” Anya snorted, then covered her mouth at the sound of it. “Of all people, why would you think of Frederic at a time like this?”

“I don’t really know. I guess I always had the impression he was some kind of playboy. A ladies man.”

She rolled her eyes. “I’m not so sure he would be the one to ask.”

“No?” Danny mimicked Frederic’s unique posture and stilted English. “But he was so
suave
and so‌—‌how do you say‌—‌
debonair!
”

“What does this mean? Swa‌—‌”

“Suave and debonair?” he continued as Frederic. “It’s‌—‌how do you say‌—‌someone who’s charming and smooth.
Veddy, veddy
smooth.” He dropped the accent. “Did you know he once said something to me about us?”

“Us? As in, you and me?”

“Yes. It was that day in the safe house when I first saw you, remember?”

“Yes. You were downstairs, laid out on the bottom bunk and looking rather pitiful, as I remember.”

“Hey,
you
try jumping out of a B-17 in the middle of a war. I was lucky it was just my leg that got injured. I could’ve been shot out there or captured by Nazis, you know.”

“Poor American flyboy. How well I remember.”

He shook his head for her benefit. “Do you want to hear what Frederic said or not?”

“Go on. What did he say?”

“He had just come downstairs when you rushed off all mad or crying or something. I can’t remember exactly.”

“I was probably mad at you. I stayed mad at you often when we first met.”

“And don’t I know it? Anyway, Frederic came sauntering over to me after you left. He was puffing on one of those disgusting
cigarettes he always smoked. What was in those things, rolled manure?”

“So awful, weren’t they?” Anya wrinkled her nose. “You’re probably better off not knowing.”

“I’m sure you’re right. So he comes over and takes a puff,” Danny continued, acting out the part, “and he says, ‘You Americans. You, how do you say … fumble?’ And I said, ‘What do you mean?’ And he says, ‘You have Anya here,’ and points his cigarette toward my bed and says, ‘but now she’s gone. So? You fumble.’ He shrugged as if certain I understood.”

“What did you say?”

“I said I didn’t realize
football
was so popular in The Netherlands.” At her confused expression, he added, “Fumble. It’s when one team loses the ball to the other team.”

“Oh, I see.”

“You do?”

“Not really, but did he say anything else?”

“No, as I recall he walked off mumbling to himself, probably about how stupid Americans are when it comes to love.”

“As if he’d know what love is? Frederic thinks he‌ …
thought
he was an authority on all subjects.”

At that moment, Danny remembered the night Frederic and Eduard were killed by German mercenaries. Along with Anya, as part of the Resistance, they’d been transporting Danny and the other Allied crewmen out of the country. Anya was the team’s sole survivor. An involuntary shudder passed over him as the flashback resurfaced. He’d watched Anya snap the neck of a German soldier who’d caught them escaping.

War memories. Great. I’ve done it again.

He could tell she was remembering that night too, and God only knows how many other nights just like it.

He took her hand in his. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bring all that up.”

She shook her head and tried to smile. “It’s okay. It was nice to remember how silly Frederic was.”

“True. He provided some much-needed comic relief in the middle of the war, and that’s always a good thing. But good grief
,
how that man could pass gas.” Danny shivered. “Never saw anyone clear out a room full of people so fast.”

“I know! Wasn’t it awful? Sometimes, when the two of us were in the cab of a truck, it would be so bad, my eyes would water. They would literally water.”

Danny laughed hard, leaning back on his elbows. “Yes sir, he was definitely a colorful guy.”

Anya leaned back too, then turned on her side to face him, resting her head on her hand. He heard the thump of her shoes hitting the floor.

“I remember Frederic once telling me he wanted to go to America after the war to be an American movie star. ‘Like the Clark Gable or the Lawrence Olive.’ Not Olivier, mind you. But Lawrence
Olive.
”

Danny chuckled and fell back on the bed, crossing his arms behind his head. “Just what Hollywood needs‌—‌another Don Juan.”

“I could never get it through his head not to refer to people as ‘
the
Clark Gable’ or ‘
the
Lawrence Olive‌—‌er, Olivier. Frederic was hopeless when it came to things like that. He imagined himself quite the sale … slabe‌—‌”