Final impact

Mercifully he rolled over and went back to sleep. She hurried across to the ancient narrow spiral staircase that led to the floor below. More tears came as she descended, and she slapped a hand across her mouth to smother any sounds that might escape. She could hear other people moving around the house, and wondered whether Ronsard’s colleagues were billeted here. They hadn’t discussed it last night in the hot drunken rush to be free of their clothes. She almost ran into the tiny bathroom at the end of the second-floor hallway. It was small and disgracefully dirty in the French fashion, but there was a latch on the back of the door that she fumbled into place just before a torrent of silent moans broke over her like a wave.

She slumped to the floor, arms wrapped around herself, her whole body shuddering with spasms of violent grief to which she could give no voice. The effort of restraining herself, of staying silent while this emotional hurricane blew through her, felt like a crushing weight on her chest. But she refused to lose that last vestige of her control. She had to have something to hold on to, after losing everything else because of her own stupidity: her husband, their baby, a far, far better life than the one she was currently living.

And so she curled into a tight fetal ball on the cramped floor of the bathroom, raking furrows in her own flesh and refusing to utter even the smallest squeak in protest over the desolation she could feel spreading inside her.

D-DAY + 25. 28 MAY 1944. 1014 HOURS.

CALAIS.

“Are you certain you cannot stop in Calais for a while?”

Ronsard was preparing a toasted baguette as he spoke, spreading the rich yellow butter with such loving care that Julia suspected he hadn’t eaten real food in a long time, at least not until the previous evening’s meal. With knobs of melting butter still floating on the warm bread roll, he scooped strawberry jam out of a small stoneware pot and plopped a generous dollop at one end before closing his eyes and slowly biting into it.

When she didn’t answer he opened his eyes as if from a very happy dream. “Not even a little while?”

Julia smiled and shook her head. “I’ll get my ass kicked if I don’t get up to the front and file some copy soon. I got held up by the Turkey Shoot, and my editor’s convinced Patton’s gonna be in Berlin by the end of the week.”

Ronsard curled his lips down in a very Gallic gesture. “That long, eh? And here it is only Wednesday.”

They sat on the small balcony of Ronsard’s room, overlooking a park that was pockmarked with craters from multiple mortar rounds. All the trees had been stripped of their leaves, but a few birds still sang on the bare branches. It was a fine morning, and promised to be a glorious day.

The Frenchman hadn’t asked her anything that indicated that he was aware of her little meltdown, but she was certain he knew. Still, people often went to pieces around combat zones, and each dealt with it in his or her own way. Julia didn’t give off a needy vibe-at least she hoped she didn’t-and Ronsard seemed happy to respect her privacy. Instead of pawing her and fussing about when she’d returned to the bedroom, he had simply busied himself with rustling up a marvelous breakfast. Fresh oranges, boiled eggs, the baguettes, butter and jam. And a pot of freshly ground coffee from fuck-knew-where. It was exactly what she needed.

“Thank you, Marcel. You’ve been a dream. But we both have work to do. Or I assume you have work to do. The Brits don’t normally hand out those sandy berets to slackers.”

She nodded in the direction of the light tan beret with a winged dagger badge, hanging from a bedknob behind him. The Special Air Service was recognized as an elite force, but it hadn’t yet become shrouded in myth and mystery, as was the case in her day.

Ronsard didn’t bother looking back over his shoulder. He just spooned more jam onto his baguette.

“I have another few days before I have to get back to England,” he said. “So I thought it might be nice to spend it with a beautiful woman.”

“You know, Marcel, I think you’d be just as happy spending it with your baguette. Here, now, don’t Bogart the fucking jam.”

He passed the small pot over with a grin. “It is good to have you making fun of me, again. You have your-what is the word-mojo back.”

“Maybe if I were an Austin Powers fembot, but thanks. I’m feeling better.”

“Would you stay if I could get you back to Scotland? To do a story on the regiment?”

“On Harry’s Own?” she said, suddenly interested. “I might be. I’m supposed to link up with a Captain Prather this afternoon. He’s going to give me a ride up to the front on a Super Sherman. He helped design them, you know. I was going to cover the Seven Sixty-first.”

“Ah, the Negro tankers.”

“African American.”

Ronsard shrugged. “But of course.”