The Paris Agent(83)

“Ouch,” I say, wincing.

“Of course, we later learned about the SOE secrecy rules, but you’ll never convince me he couldn’t give her some clue about what was really going on. He disappeared for years after that. Your mother and I graduated and we started our first jobs and she mourned that relationship for such a long time. In early 1944 she finally started seeing a lovely young man and bam, your dad reappears to throw it all into chaos. Again.”

“You’ve never liked Dad much, have you?” I say.

Aunt Kathleen sniffs before she says, “I grew to love him in time especially after he blessed your mother with you beautiful children. But no. For too many years, I was too angry with him to like him.”

“I found letters from a university professor who wanted to interview my dad about his wartime service. Dad had never seen them. Mum hid them in her sanitary napkin basket.”

“Ah,” Kathleen says and I know immediately that this is not news to her.

“She told you?”

“I knew some archivist had been trying to reach your father regarding his service, and Geraldine thought an interview was a horrible idea,” Kathleen says. She pauses, carefully sips her coffee, then admits, “I didn’t know she’d gone as far as to hide letters from him, but it doesn’t surprise me much. She was ruthless in her love for your father right from the minute he resurfaced in 1944, even though he was an absolute mess when he came back.”

“Because of his head injury?” I ask hesitantly. She raises one slim shoulder.

“Partly that. Partly the trauma of the war, I suppose you’d say. And of course, at the time, he was grieving another woman.”

“Another woman?” I repeat, eyes wide.

“Oh yes, darling,” Kathleen says, pursing her lips. “Your lovely father broke my sister’s heart to go off to fight that noble battle for freedom, and while he was in France, found the time somehow to fall in love with someone else.”

“Mum wasn’t put off by this when he returned?” I say, stunned.

“My God, she was so hurt. But he was in desperate need of help and she still loved him. She rearranged her whole life for him—broke up with the new beau, convinced Mum and Dad to let him move into the spare room. I’m not sure how he’d have managed if she hadn’t, to be honest. The SOE just dumped him back in London and left him to his own devices.”

“That’s so unfair!” I exclaim.

“You don’t know the half of it, love. His memory was shot, he couldn’t concentrate to so much as read a newspaper headline, and all he ever talked about was the war.” Kathleen murmurs, “In those first few weeks, he was like a broken parrot—just weeping all the time about his ‘guilt.’” There’s that word again. My heart sinks. “Oh, yes, darling. Whenever we asked him what he’d done, he’d just weep—he couldn’t tell us. Well, he wouldn’t. Perhaps part of the memory loss was the head injury, but I’m convinced a big part of it was that he did not want to remember. Your mum always discouraged him from looking back at the war years not just because she was worried it would set him back, but because we were all terrified of what he’d find if he did.”

“And despite all of this, he and Mum still somehow ended up married?” I say, rubbing my forehead. “At the start of 1946, no less?”

“In late 1945 Gerrie told me they were dating again. The war had just ended and the whole world was celebrating, so I figured they’d just gotten a little carried away and I begged her to take some time to reconsider. I wasn’t just concerned for her, believe it or not. I was still angry with Noah for everything he’d put her through over the war years, but he was obviously vulnerable. You probably don’t want to hear this about your own parents, but they rushed into that second courtship, racing toward the altar like marriage was a competitive sport. It was not a good combination of desires. Noah just wanted to settle down, to have a family quick smart because he was all alone in the world. And Gerrie just wanted to tie him down, probably before he could fall in love with someone else and leave her heartbroken. Again.”

“Aunt Kathleen,” I say defensively. “Don’t say those things. They were madly in love.”

She peers at me thoughtfully, then lowers her cup to the table so she can reach across and squeeze my hand.

“Darling,” she says. “I loved Gerrie with every bit of my heart and I will miss her every waking hour. But surely you know—your dad is not perfect. Hell, your mum was not perfect.” I open my mouth to protest this, but Aunt Kathleen gives me a pointed look. “She was a jealous woman. Controlling. She could be downright mean. She was arrogant—God, I never heard that woman admit she was wrong, not once in fifty-three years! And you know what?” I stare at her, eyes narrowed, but her face softens as she finishes, “I adored her anyway. I don’t need to pretend she was someone she was not in order to honor her, Lottie. Frankly, if I pretend now that my sister was an angel I’d be doing myself a disservice.” She gives me a sad look, and reaches to brush my hair back from my face. “Sweetheart, we have to grieve who she really was, not who we wanted her to be. And she and your dad ultimately built a great life together, but that does not mean it was a healthy relationship, especially right at the beginning.”

“So this is why you never liked Dad? Because you’re convinced he did terrible things during the war?” I blurt. Aunt Kathleen sits back in her chair and sighs softly.