“I want you to understand,” Peter said, taking his hand away from mine, nervous and searching for words. “All I want is to spend some time with you. I’m not trying to push you into anything you’re not ready for . . . And if you don’t want to even do that, well, I . . .”
“Peter, the fact that you’re here today, alive? It feels like a miracle,” I said, reaching for his hand. “And there is nothing I’d rather do than spend time with you tonight.”
He smiled and let out a deep breath, relieved.
“Okay,” he said, looking down at my hand in his. “Let’s go.” He gave me a quick kiss on my forehead, and we walked back up the path to the party hand in hand, glancing at each other with shy smiles. The terrace was even more packed with people, and the band had amped up their sound to compete with the noise of the crowds. Peter stopped when we were on the fringes.
“Do you want to get out of here?” he said, surveying the scene. “I’ve got a jeep; we could go for a ride. There’s this fishing village . . . I even know a hotel we could stay at.” I looked up at him, surprised, and he held up his hand. “I meant in two rooms, I . . .”
“Sounds perfect,” I said. “Let me grab my bag upstairs, and I’ll meet you out front.” I gave him a quick kiss on the cheek, my own cheeks flushed red. I didn’t even stop to see my friends, I just headed straight to our room, stuffed a change of clothes and pajamas in my bag, and left a note on the door for Viv and Dottie.
He was waiting in front of the hotel in the jeep. The valet opened the door for me, and I climbed in.
We drove along the coast of the French Riviera under a star-filled sky. I leaned out one of the windows, and the wind whipped my hair around like crazy, but I didn’t care. Peter occasionally grabbed my hand, and we both kept looking at each other with a little bit of wonder.
“Where are we going?” I asked after we had been driving for over forty-five minutes.
“Villefranche-sur-Mer,” he said. “It’s a village some of the guys who have been here told me about. They took a drive up the coast, stayed there one night on the way to Monte Carlo.”
“When did you get here?”
“Just a few hours ago,” he said. “I’ve been asking around about the Red Cross since I got to my hotel. I had to know if you were here too.” He kissed my hand. “And I still can’t believe you’re sitting next to me.”
Villefranche-sur-Mer was a charming medieval town of terra-cotta and ochre-colored buildings with red-tiled roofs, situated on steep cobblestone streets all leading down to the harbor, the lifeblood of the village. We parked the jeep and found a small hotel with a pale-yellow facade a block up from the water on one of the narrow, ancient passageways only meant for pedestrians.
The hotel owner recommended a small restaurant across from the water, so we walked down to the harbor. The cafés along the waterfront were filled with patrons drinking wine or espresso and enjoying the view and the beautiful spring night.
We arrived at the tiny bistro with the blue awning that the hotel owner had described. A hunched, elderly woman showed us to a corner table outside. She didn’t even give us menus; she just brought us a bottle of red wine and then, a little while later, came out with steaming bowls of linguine and clams.
We talked, and it felt completely strange and yet comfortable sitting across the table from Peter. When the owner cleared our plates, Peter reached across the table and grabbed my hand.
“So, tell me. I want to hear everything that has happened in your life since we said good-bye at the command post.”
I started with the reunion with Group F, tearing up when I shared the devastating news about Martha. I then told him about the party for the orphans and my request to the colonel, moving on to Cologne after Belgium, and, finally, our work with the newly liberated POWs. When I got to the part where I met Danny’s friends and learned about his death on the march from Stalag Luft IV, I felt my voice catch in my throat for the second time since I started talking, and he squeezed my hand harder.
“I heard about those marches,” Peter said, anger in his voice. “There will be a reckoning for those guards; there has to be.”
“I hope so,” I said. “I’m sorry to be emotional, it’s still—”
“No need to apologize,” he said. “No need to ever apologize for that.”
“What’s happened for you since then?” I said. We were holding hands across the table now. “In some ways it feels like years since that night at the command post.”
“Before I start, let’s go back to the hotel before they lock the front door for the night,” he said. “There’s a bar with a patio there.”
Peter went to pay the owner, but she just patted him on the cheek and pointed at his uniform.
“Merci beaucoup,” she said. “Merci. Bonsoir.”
And we thanked her profusely in English and French as she kissed us both.
The hotel desk clerk was leaning on his elbow, half-asleep when we arrived in the lobby. But he brought wine and a bowl of olives to our table on the patio.
We stayed up talking until late. Peter shared some of his stories from the front, including the news that he had been promoted to major. The Eighty-Second had attacked the town of Bergstein on the Rur River, among others. A couple of times he stopped short of providing details; reliving them was clearly still too much.
“We weren’t even that far from each other,” I said. “I’m sorry I didn’t write; I was afraid I would learn you were gone.”
“And, you know, I didn’t write because if Danny was alive . . .”
“I know. Thank you,” I said. The clock on the wall said one thirty. “I should probably go to bed,” I said, not wanting to leave him but feeling like I was supposed to.
“You’re probably right,” Peter said, disappointment in his eyes as he grabbed my hand and pulled me up. We walked up to the second floor. Our rooms were on opposite ends of the hall.
“Good night, Fiona,” he said when we stopped in front of my door. I could smell the woodsy scent of his cologne. He put his hand on my chin, tilted my head up, and kissed me, our first real kiss since the command post. We kissed slowly at first, both a little nervous, but then he wrapped his arms around me and I leaned into him, and we kissed with a passion that surprised us both.
“I better go to my room,” he said, pulling away, out of breath and looking at me with an intensity that made me feel light-headed.
“Yes,” I said, looking into his eyes and nodding too many times. “You probably should.”
With a quick kiss good night on my forehead, he walked down to his room as if willing himself to go before he changed his mind. I let myself into my own room and put down my purse. The room was clean and neat, with whitewashed stucco walls and a tile floor, and a vase of fresh yellow roses on the nightstand.
I took off my sandals, looked at myself in the mirror, and smoothed down my hair.
With a deep breath, I reached into the pocket of the dress for the Purple Heart and closed my eyes. Before I could change my mind, I ran down the hall in my bare feet. I was about to knock on Peter’s door, but he opened it first, the same intense look in his eyes.
“I was thinking if I didn’t knock, I’d always regret it,” I said, holding up the Purple Heart, stumbling over my words, breathless and dizzy. “I’m in love with you. I should have told you before we said good-bye last time. I love you and—”
Before I could finish he pulled me toward him and scooped me up into his arms. Holding me against his chest, he kissed me with a fierce desire as the dam of longing broke for both of us. He carried me inside and kicked the door of his room shut. His room was dark except for the moonlight streaming through the window. Peter lowered me gently onto the bed, kneeling down on it next to me, his hands tangled in my hair as we kept kissing each other desperately.
“Fiona, you’re shaking,” he whispered, holding my face with his hands.
“Am I?”
“Yes.” He smiled. “Are you sure you want to be here?”
“I’ve never been so sure of anything,” I said, smiling through tears.
He kissed the tears on my face, then moved down to my neck. I lifted my arms as he slowly pulled my dress up over my head, gasping at his warm hands on my bare back. I unbuttoned his shirt, tracing the scar on his chest with my fingers before I kissed it. He let out a quiet groan and pulled me down on the bed until I was underneath him, looking into his eyes again.
“Can we take our time?” I sighed, wrapping one of my legs around his as he leaned down and kissed my collarbone, gently unhooking my bra. “I just don’t want this all to end . . .”
“Sweetheart, we’re going to take all the time you want,” he said, his voice rough as he whispered into my ear. “We’ve both been waiting too long for this night.”