—
After meeting and greeting more of the guests, Maggie retreated to the kitchen on the pretext of getting another drink—but really, she needed to collect her thoughts. She glanced around: The room looked unchanged. The floor was tiled with a chessboard of black and white squares, and blackout curtains protected the windows. It had been in this very room that Maggie had first begun to feel at home in London, waiting for her coffee to brew and listening to the wireless or eating and reading a book at the wooden table. Now, as she stood at the counter, adding bitters to another glass of gin, Max Thornton entered.
“Here, let me do it for you.” He’d rolled up his sleeves, revealing thick wrists covered in dark, matted hair.
“It’s fine, I have it,” Maggie replied, setting the bottle down. She took a swallow of her drink. It’s not helping, she noticed with irritation.
“You may have heard of me,” Max was saying. “I was a war correspondent in Spain, then Berlin. Fought in Norway back in ’forty, but was transferred to Intelligence, then referred to Churchill.” He gave Maggie a significant look as he moved closer, pinning her against the counter. “I can pinch-hit for John Sterling in any number of situations.”
“Good for you.” Maggie moved away. “And also, no thank you.”
“Are you sure?” He sounded genuinely surprised.
“Quite.”
“Well, well, well—how did you become such an independent young woman?”
Maggie gave a tight smile. “I went to Wellesley College.”
His forehead creased. “What’s that?”
“Like Paradise Island for the Amazons.”
He looked even more confused. Obviously he hasn’t read Wonder Woman. “It’s like St. Hilda’s at Oxford—but in the U.S.,” she explained.
Max shook his head and poured himself the last of the gin. “Devil take you modern overeducated women,” he chided, shaking a finger, “a bunch of whining radical spinster tartlets, the lot of you. Speaking of which, have you heard about this new Ripper?”
Maggie thought she’d misheard him. “What?” Then she remembered the article Brody had mentioned at the office. An SOE agent had been murdered.
“Rumor has it there’s a killer loose in London—and he’s aping Jack the Ripper, butchering young girls.” Max leaned against the counter as if it were a bar in a pub. “The press is trying to keep it quiet for now, but of course we hear everything in the P.M.’s office. The papers have dubbed him the ‘Blackout Beast.’?”
Maggie felt a chill and swallowed yet more gin. It still wasn’t helping.
“May I pour you another?”
“No.” Maggie knew from unfortunate personal experience that too much gin, too fast, was an extremely bad idea.
He looked disappointed. “Then why don’t we dance?”
Dancing was the last thing she wanted to do, especially with him. “No.” Then, trying to be polite, “Thank you.”
He stepped over and pulled her close, close enough that they were eye to eye and she could smell the alcohol on his breath. “Then how about a kiss?”
Maggie pushed off his arm and backed away. “No!”
He shrugged. “You say no now, but we’ll see by the end of the night.”
Maggie had endured enough. “You need to leave.” She strode to the swinging kitchen door, then turned to face him. “Let me be quite clear—this is my house and you’re not welcome here. I’m going back to the party and you’re going to say your goodbyes. The next time I look around, you’ll be gone. Do you understand?”
She left without waiting for his answer.
—
“Your new friend’s a real charmer,” Maggie remarked to David. “And by charmer, I mean snake charmer.”
“Well…” David shrugged. “He works hard at the office and the Boss likes him well enough. Went to Harrow with Max’s father—the old-boy network.”
“Seems a bit hairy at the heel. And I’m going to have to needlepoint the moniker ‘Spinster Tartlet’ on a pillow someday. Speaking of Number Ten, any news from—” John.
“Mags, I’m not the best letter writer,” David admitted, “as you well know. But I’ve had a few postcards from our man in L.A.—cartoons mostly. He sounds well enough. You’re not in touch?”
Maggie gnawed her lower lip, recalling their breakup over the telephone in Washington. “We left things with a full stop this time.”
“Well, with you in London and him still in L.A., I can understand. Still, I always thought the two of you…”
Maggie’s smile was wan. “Like Jo and Laurie?” She’d given David a copy of Little Women for Christmas.
“Indeed! And not the horrible Mr. Bhaer. I shudder at the very thought. And while we’re on the topic of the shudders, are you still in touch with your American mick?”
Maggie poked his shoulder. “I’ve told you not to call him that! Tom O’Brian is quite well, thank you. And yes, we do write, occasionally. He’s stationed at Fort Bragg, in North Carolina, now. He says his unit will be shipped off soon.”
“Atlantic or Pacific?”
“Don’t know. I don’t even think they tell the boys until they’re on board ship.”
Sarah and Freddie reappeared, walking arm in arm. “That’s horrible!” Freddie was saying. “No wonder she couldn’t come back here—” He stopped when he saw Maggie. “Sarah told me why you didn’t return—” He gave a small bow. “You’re both extraordinary women.”
“I helped, too!” David interjected, taking two sausage rolls from a Vic-Wells dancer passing by with a plate. “I was downright heroic, you know!”
“Yes, you were,” Maggie agreed, patting his arm. “But you know, it’s getting late—where’s Chuck?”
“I told you, she’s a mother now,” David said, chewing his roll. “The minders of the tiny humans are never on time.”
“Chuck’s the most punctual person I know,” Maggie rejoined. “She’s never late. Ever. I’ll ring.”
“I already did, Mags, with the intention of telling her to buck up. But there’s no answer—she must be on her way.”
“Well, let’s try again, just in case.” But they didn’t have to. The doors opened, and there stood Chuck in her wool coat, holding baby Griffin in her arms, her chestnut hair windblown.
“Chuck!” chorused the group.
Her eyes were wild and her usually rosy cheeks ashen. She took a few wobbling steps forward.
Alarmed, Maggie ran to her. “Chuck! What’s wrong?”
The brunette couldn’t speak.
“All right, come sit down,” Maggie urged, leading the mother and child to the sofa in the library. She locked eyes with David. “A glass of water, please? And a cool cloth?”
David sprang into action: “Righty-o!”
“Here, let me take the baby.” Sarah reached for Griffin. He gave a gummy grin and grabbed for her dangling gold earring. “Oh, no, my young friend,” she chided, pulling away. She looked, and tucked in his blanket were two dolls—Mr. Punch and his wife, Judy. “I think these are much better playthings than Auntie Sarah’s earrings,” she cajoled, handing them to him.
When David returned with the water and cloth, Chuck stirred. “I don’t suppose you have any whiskey?” she managed. “Jameson’s, not that bloody Protestant stuff.” Chuck was Irish, and Catholic, and proud of it. And inordinately fond of profanity.
“I’ll see what we have.” David raced back to the kitchen.
“Gone.” Chuck fought back her tears. “Our home is gone,” she whispered. “Gone.”
“What do you mean, ‘gone’?” Maggie was confused. The bombings were over, at least for the moment. What Chuck was saying didn’t make sense.