Pulling on boots, Max said, “Another air raid. The Boche are in a hurry to blow us to smithereens before American troops can come to our rescue.”
I slid my feet into satin mules, and Max held my jacket so I could slip it over my pale pink robe d’intérieur. This he did with great tenderness, and hearing the familiar rumble of the guns, we stared out my windows to see flashes and sparks of antiaircraft fire light up the sky. Sometimes the kaiser’s dark birds of night didn’t get to the heart of Paris—instead dropping bombs on the outskirts before mounting higher in the skies and sailing back to their cruel nest. Still, Max insisted we descend the stairs to the cellar for shelter.
These air raids, night after night, were hard on us all, but no one complained. More often, people would sigh and say, “C’est la guerre!” Still, my heart went out to the little boys and girls hastened from their beds each night, blinking and terrified. I was grateful my own boys lived relatively charmed lives, and after five months apart, I missed them unbearably. In a dark corner of the musty cellar, Max lit a candle, made a place for us on a pile of sandbags, and opened his arms. I wanted to melt into his embrace and fall asleep there, but I murmured, “I have to go home.”
In the dim light, he rubbed his chin. “If you wait a little longer, I’ll have more than a month’s leave.”
It was too delirious a thing to contemplate. I imagined a string of long days with him. Taking a newspaper over coffee in the balcony window, strolling the shopping arcades in the afternoons, opera in the evening. I wanted more of Max, but my faults as a mother were not boundless. “I should have gone back already.”
“What if I came with you?”
“What a lovely dream . . .”
As the air raid sirens wailed, he explained, “Your friend LaGrange mentioned I could be of assistance in wrapping up the mission in New York. It would only be a short assignment, but I could volunteer to go.”
Could it be possible to bring happiness home with me? I thought of leaving Willie behind and sailing off with my cavalier, but instead of feeling overcome with guilt, or even a need to say good-bye, I felt relief. Beset with the memory of my husband at our last luncheon with the sneering and pitching of prosthetic legs, I knew that Max would never do such a thing. They were, in fact, such different men, I no longer believed my heart could be divided.
I wondered what the future had in store for me with regard to this last actor to appear on the scene.
Well, I would take Max home with me and let the Fates decide . . .
* * *
—
In the privacy of my stateroom as our ship came into the harbor, Maxime wrapped his arms around me and asked, “Will you be jealous if I love her?”
“Yes,” I replied, gazing up with him at the towering Lady Liberty. “She’s too beautiful, even if scarred and under repair.”
“These days I think we’re all scarred and in need of repair.”
Except for fear of mines and submarines, our journey had been idyllic. We’d been able to dine together every night without causing a sensation. We’d listened to a musical concert together. We’d stood on deck and stared at the stars. On the seas, far from the sound of the guns, far from my husband, far from responsibilities, we had been suspended in a bubble.
But now we had to contend with the needle of reality.
Within hours of coming ashore, Max reported for duty at the French consulate in lower Manhattan. Meanwhile, I went directly to the Vanderbilt Hotel, where the overjoyed desk staff told me I could find my boys in the old offices of the Lafayette Fund.
“Billy! Ashley!” I smothered them with kisses until both boys squirmed with embarrassment. How was it possible for them to grow so big in only six months? “I’ve missed you beyond the power of expression.”
“Where is Daddy?” Billy asked.
“In Paris, darling. A sea voyage would be too difficult for him just now.”
Ashley’s eyes welled. “We wrote him a letter. He hasn’t written back yet.”
I kissed his freckled nose. “Your father is busy just now. Still, he cherishes all of your missives! He asked me to tell you to keep writing, and once the war is done, he wants you to come for a visit.” Such lies were a kindness. “Whatever are you doing in the office on such a beautiful summer day?”
“You’re early,” Emily chirped from the back of the office, where she sat toiling over a typewriter, like old times. “I told your boys that as soon as I finished this letter, I would take them for ices.”