Almost as tough as the question she’d first asked as a ten-year-old. How do you know when you’re in love?
She’d asked Annebet Gunvald one morning, after she’d gone to visit Marte, only to find that her friend had left to tend to an ailing aunt with her mother.
Annebet had been heading to the barn to do her chores and Helga had tagged along, willing as always to help. She would have done anything—even muck out the horse’s stall—to remain in Annebet’s golden, glowing company.
“How do you know when you’re in love?”
Annebet didn’t laugh, didn’t tease. She just kept on sweeping the floor by her father’s workbench. And when she answered, it was slowly. Carefully. As if she were giving Helga’s question great thought and consideration.
“When you look into his eyes, and you’re more alive than you’ve ever felt,” Annebet said. “When the very breath you take sends both fear and joy rushing through you, and you feel as if you might die if you can’t see him again—right now. When you want to shout and laugh and cry and curse all at once, when you burn for him to touch you, to make love to you, even though all your life you’ve been told that you mustn’t, that you shouldn’t, that you can’t. It’s when you feel yourself on the verge of becoming everything you’ve ever dreamed of being, when you can nearly touch your own potential because this other person gives you all of his strength and his power and you know he’d give you the very breath from his lungs if you asked. And you realize that you’ll never be alone again because there’s a piece of him that you’ll carry with you, forever, in your heart. A heart that is infinitely bigger than it was just a week or two ago.”
Helga was silent. Wide-eyed. Terrified. She wasn’t quite sure she wanted to fall in love if it was going to make her feel all that. Fear as well as joy?
“It’s important, mouse,” Annebet said quietly, “that the boy you love feels all these things about you, too. Unfortunately, it doesn’t always work that way. You must be very sure of his feelings before you let him make love to you.”
Make love. Marte had told her all about making love. “Do people really . . . do what dogs and horses do?” Helga dared to ask. “Marte said that men turn into snarling beasts.”
Annebet laughed. “She’s been talking to crazy old Fru Lillilund again. Can you really picture your father—or mine—acting like a snarling beast? And our mothers letting them get away with it?”
Helga hadn’t considered that.
“It’s not like that at all, mouse. It’s beautiful and tender and the most wonderful, special thing, and . . .” Annebet laughed again. “Listen to me. I hope it’s all those things. I’ve heard that it can be. But the truth is, I have no more experience than you.”
She gathered up the sawdust, carrying it to the barrel.
“But you said you love Hershel,” Helga blurted. “And you must know that he loves you. He wants to marry you.”
“If the world were a perfect place,” Annebet said as she hung the broom back in its place on the wall, “I would have gladly made love to Hershel many times by now. But I know that—as often as he asks—we’re not going to be married. And as much of a freethinker as I am, I can’t compromise myself that way. Someday you’ll understand.”
“But . . .” Helga had to ask. As dreadful as the words felt coming out of her mouth, she had to know. “Is it because we’re . . . because Hershel is Jewish? Is that why you won’t marry him?”
Anger flashed in Annebet’s eyes. “How dare you suggest—” She took a deep breath. “No, don’t answer that. And forgive me for shouting. I know why you asked. In this crazy world . . .” She gave Helga a hug, enveloping her in her soft warmth, surrounding her with the marvelous scent of flowers and sweet berries.
“Helga, the prejudices here aren’t mine.” She pulled back to look at her. “I wouldn’t care if Hershel were Muslim or Buddhist or . . . or a pagan sun worshiper. His faith only matters to me in that it’s a part of him—a part that I admire. I love his faith. It’s so deep and strong. It makes him the kind, thoughtful, gentle, loving man he is. I would marry him in a heartbeat if I didn’t know for sure that it would put a rift as wide as all of Denmark between him and your parents. I’m the one who’s lacking here. I’m the one who is less than what they want for him.”
How could she say that? “No, you’re—”
“They’re right,” Annebet told her. “I understand them. Hershel has a great future as a doctor, as a researcher at the university in Copenhagen. Marrying me would put that into jeopardy. He would be talked about, looked at sideways, passed over for promotions. He would be that fool with the fortune-hunting shikseh for a wife.”
“You don’t care at all about his money!”
Annebet smiled, pushed Helga’s hair back behind her ear. “You know that and Hershel knows that and I know that, but no one else knows. Including your parents. He’s rich, I’m not. He’s Jewish, I’m not. The world will see it the way they want to see it.”
“But . . . Hershel has no future in Copenhagen while the Germans are here. You’ve said so yourself.”
Annebet hugged her again. “You’re full of fight today—Mouse the Mighty.”
Helga was on the verge of bursting out crying. This wasn’t fair. “But you love him!”
“I do,” Annebet agreed, tears in her eyes, too. “I love him so very much. Enough not to marry him. Someday, sweet girl, you’ll understand that, too.”
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Thirteen
Stan spotted her on the hotel stairs. “Lieutenant Howe,” he called. “Got a minute?”
“I’m wearing my jacket.” She gave him a smile as she turned to greet him. “See?”
The warmth of her smile made him hesitate. Christ, what was he doing? After going to all that trouble to make sure she’d have dinner tonight with Muldoon, he should be keeping his distance.
Still, seeing her with Rob Pierce, the Brit from the SIS, had made Stan realize that last night’s little game with Gilligan and Izzy had been off base. Teri wasn’t really threatened by guys like Iz and Gilligan. Or Jay Lopez. Guys like them would never be disrespectful to a woman like her. And she didn’t hang out in bars where nice guys got drunk and turned into assholes.
What Stan really needed to do was coach her through a confrontation with someone like Pierce. Someone older. Someone in authority. Someone with the power to take advantage of her. Someone she looked up to.
Someone like . . . Stan.
Damn, what a thought that had been. But try as he might, he just couldn’t shake it.
“Impressive job out there today,” she said when he’d caught up to her. “You must be exhausted.”
“Exhausted’s not in the vocabulary, remember?”
She laughed. “Right. Although I hope sleep is on your list of things to do this afternoon.”
“Shower, food, sleep,” he told her, ticking them off on his fingers. “Definitely. Then at 0230 we go back and run the drill again until the sun comes up.”
“I know,” she said. “I volunteered to fly you out there.”
He stopped walking. “What, are you nuts? Here’s a hot tip, Teri. You’re supposed to volunteer for the glory assignments, not the grunt work. Who’s your favorite movie star?”
She blinked at his change of subject, but went along with the conversational shift willingly as Stan forced himself to keep moving. As nice as it was to stand in the stairwell with Teri Howe, it wasn’t very private. And for what he intended to say and do, he wanted privacy.
God help him.
“I don’t know.” She scrunched up her face as she considered his question. “I guess . . . Russell Crowe. Yeah.”
It was his turn to be surprised. “Really?”
“Uh-huh. Or Tom Hanks.”
Wasn’t that interesting. She didn’t go for the pretty-boy actors like Tom Cruise or Mel Gibson or what’s-his-name—the guy who married that TV star.
“Here’s the deal,” he told Teri. “When Russell Crowe gets permission to sit in the observers’tent, that’s when you should step forward. You volunteer to fly the visiting movie star wherever he wants to go. You don’t volunteer for the 0230 helo-load of grumpy, sleep-deprived SEALs.”
She glanced at him. “I’d rather fly you than Russell Crowe any day.”
Oh, baby. The double entendre in that one couldn’t have been intentional, could it? Surely that had been a plural you.
“Russell Crowe only pretends to rescue the hostages,” she continued. “You guys do it for real.”
Yes, she’d definitely meant that as a plural. The double entendre was just his dirty mind doing its nasty thang. And the bitch of it was, Stan didn’t know whether to be disappointed or relieved.
“Here’s my floor,” she said.
He opened the door for her. “I’ll walk you.”
She laughed as she went through to the hallway. “You’re stalling aren’t you?”
He didn’t follow. “Stalling?”
“So that the dining room will clear out before you get down there,” she said. He must’ve looked perplexed because she laughed again. “Does the word karaoke mean anything to you?”
“Oh, Jesus.” He cringed. He’d forgotten. “You heard about that, huh?”
“Yeah, and I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
“Oh, please,” Stan said. “Please miss it.”
“Not a chance. What are you going to sing?”
“Not ‘New York, New York.’ That’s for damn sure.”
She tried not to laugh and failed. “Can you sing?”
“I can fake it.”
Her eyes were dancing. There was no other way to describe it. Her smile was so beautiful, she was so beautiful, she just sparkled with life and amusement. Her hair was a mess of wind-tousled curls, such a rich, dark shade of brown and so soft to the touch. He didn’t have to reach for her to know that—he remembered. She had a smudge of something on her cheek, probably grease from running the flight checklist. She was as dusty and hot as he was—hotter probably, since Kazbekistani customs prevented her from rolling up her sleeves even when the temperature broke one hundred.
She had delicate features, elegantly shaped eyes and mouth, eyebrows that were dark and graceful against her skin. But, really, it was her laughter that made her truly beautiful. When she laughed, it was with her whole heart, her whole self.
“So, are you going to shower before dinner?” she asked. “Because if you’re not, then I won’t either. I really don’t want to miss this.”
“Yes, I’m going to shower first. I stink. And that’s even before I start to sing.”
She laughed as he finally came through the stairwell door, and they started walking again. But slowly. As if she wasn’t in a particular hurry to get to her room either.
There was no one else in the hallway, so he cut to the chase. To the reason he wanted to talk to her privately, with no chance of someone stumbling over them.
“I was watching you when you left with Rob Pierce earlier today,” he told her. “You know, the Brit.”
“Yes,” she said. “I know.”
She was instantly tense, and he wanted to punch the wall. Or Pierce. “What’d he do?”
Teri shook her head. “Nothing.”
“Nothing,” he repeated, letting his exasperation ring in his voice as they stopped outside of her hotel room door. “You’re suddenly tense as hell simply because I mention this guy’s name, and you expect me to believe he did or said nothing?”
“You didn’t say ‘what’d he say,’ you said ‘what’d he do.’ ” Teri searched through her bag for her room key.
Christ. Fine. “What did he say to you?”
The door swung open. “Nothing.” She glanced at him. Probably because he was making a choking sound.
“Teri,” he managed to grind out.
“All right, all right. I mean, sure, he let me know he was interested in recreational sex, okay? Big deal. And I’m paraphrasing—he was far more smooth and sophisticated, so stop looking as if you want to wring his neck. He wasn’t offensive—it was kind of funny and flattering if you want to know the truth.”
He just looked at her.
“All right,” she admitted, “it wasn’t flattering at all because he probably hits on every female under forty that he ever meets, and you’re right, it made me angry because there are a lot of women who wouldn’t have understood his double-talk. They’re out there, and he’s going to seduce them because he’s handsome and charming, and they’re going to end up thinking he wants to start a relationship when all he really wants is a quick screw in the backseat of his car. And I’m sure he’s married to some poor woman who fools herself into believing that he’s faithful and I find that incredibly offensive. Along with the fact that he’s practically old enough to be my father—isn’t that old enough to know better?”
It was a rhetorical question. Since she was obviously not finished, Stan didn’t bother to answer it with the best wisdom he could offer, which was that some men just never stopped thinking with their head that didn’t have the brain in it. It was, no doubt, exactly what she didn’t want or need to hear right now. If ever.
“But what really pisses me off,” Teri continued, “is that I didn’t say a single thing. I didn’t tell him any of that. I wimped out. That’s what I do. You were so right about me, Stan. I suck. I just . . . I run away unless I’m cornered. I run away, and then I hate myself for days—weeks—after.”