Clara's Soldier, page 5
She was no war expert, but she’d seen enough films at the theater and read enough newspapers to know what kind of danger American soldiers were facing. Sure, his dreams of being a soldier had been fun when they were children, back when he could run and pretend to fight the Central Powers with guns made of sticks and grenades made of rotten apples. But even as she’d held his hands in that moment, she tried to imagine one of those grenades headed for him.
She must have flinched because the next thing she felt were his fingers gently brushing her cheek.
The wind had died down enough she heard his whisper. “Hey, hey there. Who knows? I may get stuck behind some desk at Fort Bragg. Then you can come see me, and I’ll get the best of both worlds.”
“Or you could get sent across the ocean–”
“I’d rather enlist than get drafted.”
His words were soft as he pulled her to her feet and into his chest. The cold air made the tears on her cheeks sting, and she buried her face in his shirt. “I want to feel like doing the right thing was my choice, rather than an obligation.”
She knew him well enough not to argue. And deep down, she knew that if she’d been in his shoes, she would have wanted the same thing. But that didn’t make what they were about to face any easier.
“Just think,” he said, nuzzling her ear, “maybe we’ll get lucky before I go, and when I come back and this war’s all over, I’ll have two beautiful people to come home to.”
This only made her cry harder.
He held her tight and spoke into her hair. “Unfortunately, I’ll be shipping out to training pretty soon. That probably means you won’t be able to have that big fancy wedding you’ve been planning since you were five.”
She shook her head fiercely. “It doesn’t matter.”
He paused and looked down at her. “It doesn’t?”
“No.” She glared at him as she wiped her face on her arm. “Because we can’t get married.”
For the first time, fear flickered in his eyes. “What do you mean?”
She stepped back and folded her arms across her chest. “You haven’t asked me to marry you.”
He stared at her for a long moment before pinching the bridge of his nose and muttering something about being a fat-head. Then he knelt and reached into the basket once more. He stayed on his knee and opened his hand to reveal a little golden band with a square blue diamond in the center and little white diamonds surrounding it.
“Clara Marie Frost,” he said, taking her hand once more, “will you marry me?”
And in that moment, as she said yes and threw her arms around his neck, despite all she knew they were about to face, she had been happy. Truly and utterly happy. She was going to marry her childhood sweetheart, and as much as it pained her, he could do what was right and fight for those who couldn’t fight for themselves.
But as sweet as his plans had sounded that day on the baseball field, they began to disintegrate almost as soon as she’d said yes. To begin with, Clara’s mother had refused to attend a courthouse wedding.
“At least wait a week so we can have something in the church!” her mother had pleaded tearfully when she heard of their plans.
And though waiting made James nervous, Clara was glad they’d waited when she saw all the ribbons and flowers her mother and aunts used to decorate the church. It would be a small ceremony. But it would be hers.
That was, until the pastor fell sick on the morning of the ceremony, and James was called away to training the next day. A slot had opened up, the recruiter said, and James was next in line. And so with a quick kiss and a mournful look at her single-banded ring, James left in the dark of early morning the day they should have been married.
In a way, she’d been living in that day ever since.
Clara closed her eyes in an attempt to shut out the thoughts of what should have been. She didn’t mean to fall asleep, so the boom of the grandfather clock in the hall jerked her awaken from her half-slumber. But just as she was about to go back to sleep, she remembered her nutcracker downstairs.
After throwing on a robe, she stumbled down the dark hall. What would have happened, she wondered for the millionth time as she padded down the hardwood floor. What if they’d been married as planned, and she hadn’t let her mother talk them out of a courthouse wedding? Would she have gotten pregnant right away? Raising a child without a father would be terrible enough during those early years, let alone for his or her entire life. But at least she would’ve had some part of him to keep with her forever, something more than a photograph and a ring.
The grandfather clock boomed again so loudly she nearly tripped down the stairs. Her ears were still ringing by the time she reached the main floor, but she ignored them and set to looking for her nutcracker.
It had to be downstairs. The last time she remembered seeing it was when her godfather had wrapped his handkerchief around its jaw. He wouldn’t have taken her gift without telling her. But no matter how much she tried reasoning, her fragile sense of calm began to unravel into panic as she searched. But just before she began to despair that one of her younger cousins must have taken it, a strange sound came from what sounded like the back door.
Tiptoeing through the kitchen, she peered out the back window. Snow was falling and quickly blanketing the ground, but that wasn’t what made her gasp.
Drosselmeyer was on his back porch, which was not unusual. He often liked to have a smoke outside on cool evenings. But he was hunched over the railing, his face contorted in what looked like pain. From the way he was leaning against the railing, she was sure his toppling over it was not a matter of if, but when. She sprinted to the front of the house, grabbed her shoes, and dashed out the back door.
“Godfather!” she called, wincing as cold air hit her face. “Are you hurt?” She darted up his back porch and threw an arm around his back. “And what are you doing out here in the middle of the night?”
Drosselmeyer grimaced but refused to lean into her. He groaned and shoved her hands away. “You don’t have much time!”
She ignored his efforts and pulled him into a chair.
“Leave me be!” He coughed, falling back into the cushions. “Go to him!”
“Who?” Clara stared at him. Should she wake her parents?
Drosselmeyer pointed down the alley. “Him!”
She looked to where he was pointing, down the alley on the other side of her.
In the newly fallen snow were four figures. One was on the ground, and the other three standing over him were not attempting to help. She ran to the edge of the porch to get a better look. Should she scream for her father or call the police?
Then the man on the ground rolled over. And when she caught a glimpse of his face, her heart stopped beating.
She bolted down the porch steps and went flying across the snow-dusted backyard. Sense caught up with her heart, however, and she stopped short of the men.
The three men were hunched over and all dressed in black. One stepped into the light of the moon, just enough for Clara to make out shiny black boots.
She was strong compared to most women, but she would be no match for them, no matter how hard she hit. Fighting the men, whoever they were, was not an option. But if she could use the element of surprise, just maybe….
She looked around to find something to use to scare them off. The first thing she noticed was that her neighbors had stacked a large pile of tin cans in the alley to donate to the war effort before it ended. Then she spotted Fritz’s baseball bat leaned against the edge of her porch. If she could throw the bat at the cans, it would create a ruckus. But when she stepped into a small snowdrift, some spilled into her shoe.
Shoes would fly better than bats.
Leaning against the porch, she removed her shoe and said a prayer as she took aim. Then she threw the shoe.
The shoe hit the pile of cans with a tremendous crash. The three men in black jumped and looked around wildly. Two of them darted into the night before the cans even finished scattering, but the third stood his ground. For one petrifying moment, he looked directly into her eyes. Then he gave her the slightest grin before following his friends.
She stood frozen in place as she watched them go, and she might have remained that way if not for the unmistakably familiar groan coming from the man on the ground.
She stumbled toward him in the snow, pausing only to grab her shoe and slip it back on as she fell at his side. She trembled as she gently took his face in her hands.
“James,” Clara whispered.
She was dreaming. She had to be. How else did she explain her fiancé being attacked by three ruffians in the alley behind her house? The fiancé who had disappeared in Europe, no less. And yet, here she was, touching his face, tracing the same lines and angles she’d known all her life. He still wore his olive-drab uniform and heavy brown boots, and his hair was cut close to his scalp. Oddly, his usually clean-cut face was covered in shadowy stubble. A few unfamiliar scars crossed his cheeks, neck, and forehead, and new lines crinkled the corners of his eyes and mouth. But without a doubt, it was him. Something akin to common sense said she should help him back onto the porch, for she was mildly aware of the wet snow seeping through her nightgown, but all she could do was stare at him, frozen in place and time.
“James?” Her voice rose with fear as he stayed still in her arms, his eyes shut. “James?”
Just as she was about to start screaming for someone to help them, his chest rose and his blue eyes fluttered open and settled on her. He smiled at her, looking sweet and tired, but as the sleep cleared from his eyes, his lips parted, and his eyes widened. He sat straight up. Then, as he scrambled to his feet, pulling her with him, he grabbed her shoulders and his eyes frantically searched hers. With one hand, he traced the shape of her face while he buried the other in her hair.
“Clara!” His words sounded strangled and uneven. “Are you—how?”
She was breathing so hard she could barely laugh for joy. But it didn’t matter. Because James was here. He was here and breathing and holding her tightly as though she might run away from him. As if she could ever walk, let alone run from him.
His thumb came dangerously close to her lips, and she leaned in closer. His jacket smelled of... well, she couldn’t tell what it smelled like. There were too many scents to name one. She didn’t have time to examine him any further, though, because he closed the remaining distance between them and before she could react, he was pressing his lips against hers.
His kiss sent a wave of heat from her lips to her chest, and she clung to him as he pressed his hand against the small of her back. He was taller than she remembered, and his chest and arms had filled out in ways that sent shivers across her shoulders.
As he kissed her, she tried to remember all the sentimental things she had planned to tell him. Not a night had gone by when she didn’t imagine their reuniting. And in those fantasies, she thought up a hundred clever, romantic things to say. Now, though, as he crushed her against his chest, she couldn’t think of a single one. Her mind was spinning like a broken record.
He’s home.
He’s alive.
He’s home.
His other hand moved from her face to her shoulders, to her neck and back up to her face, as though she might disappear at any moment, and he kept whispering the beginnings of sentimental thoughts, but he never got more than a few words out before beginning again. She did, however, make out the gentle way he uttered her name over and over again between the fragments.
“Clara. Clara. Clara.” Each word was a caress, blending in her mind with the way he was holding her gently, yet fervently. And each word made her squeeze tighter as she wrapped her arms around him and pressed against his chest.
Much too soon, though, he pulled back, his brows drawn quizzically. “But how did you get here?”
“What do you mean?” In her elation, she could hardly find words to speak, despite the wet snow seeping into her shoes. “We’re here. At my house.”
He looked around as though just noticing his surroundings. Then he turned his gaze back to her, his expression softening into a gentle smile. “You are so beautiful,” he breathed, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear.
She leaned closer again in anticipation, but before their lips met, his eyes flicked over her shoulder, and he froze. He grabbed her hand and pulled her against the wall into the deepest part of the shadow, out of the moonlight that was now bright and free of clouds. “They brought you here, too?” The deep timbre of his voice was intoxicating.
She laughed nervously. “No one brought me here. I told you, we’re at my house.” She leaned in. “The question is how did you get here?” She peered down the street, trying to catch a glimpse of whoever might have dropped him off. “And why didn’t the army tell us you were—”
“Stop.”
“What?”
“Stop talking,” he hissed. His grip on her arm tightened, and he kept her pressed against the wall. “They’re here.”
Clara stared at him. “Who?”
He swallowed and continued to scan their surroundings. “Did you see the rats?”
“The rats?”
He nodded, his jaw tight. “The Nazis that were following me?”
She shuddered again, this time, from the memory of the man in the shiny black books. And from the look in James’s sharp eyes, he noticed. “The muggers?” She tried to make her voice light. “James, you’re in Eagle Head, North Carolina. How on earth would Nazis have followed you all the way over here?” She paused. “And why are you calling them rats?”
He let out a gusty breath and buried his face in his hand. “Great.”
She moved away from the wall to stand directly in front of him. “Come inside. We’ll wake my parents and tell them about the muggers. Father will know what to do.” She took his hand and squeezed it. “You’re home,” she said in a softer voice, drinking in every bit of him as he stood in front of her. But to her surprise, instead of smiling back or looking relieved, he shook his head.
“I’ve been fighting this war for too long.” His grip tightened, and he took a step closer. “I’m not going to let them drag you into this, too!”
Clara blinked. “I don’t know who those men were, but the war ended three months ago.” How did he not know this? Especially if he was home. The voyage across the Atlantic wasn’t a short trip one might nap through by accident.
As she watched him study the alley behind them, something akin to fear niggled at her mind, the feeling that something wasn’t right as he glowered into the darkness. She tugged him toward the door. “It’s Christmas Eve,” she said. “Let’s go inside. We’ll call the police, and we’ll work this all out.”
A look of longing touched his face as he glanced down and seemed to take in her nightgown for the first time. Then he frowned.
She looked down, too, but instead of her snowy side yard, she stood on a street. Her shoes had dried, and she gasped as her nightgown changed into Aunt Pearl’s blue dress right before her eyes. “What in the world….” When she looked up to see why he hadn’t answered her, she found him again scanning their surroundings. And just as her nightgown had turned into something new, so had her neighborhood. Gone was her brick house with its blue trimming and the houses of her neighbors as well.
Instead, where the familiar snow-dusted gingerbread-like houses had stood in neat, clean lines, she and James were standing on a wide stone street across from a large building with red window frames beneath a slanted roof. Dirty snow was piled up against the building and at the edges of the street. Raucous laughter floated from the open door as several American soldiers stumbled out, girls on their arms. Though the street was dark, for the moon had disappeared along with her house, the lights inside were bright. The chaotic sounds of off-key Christmas carols drifted out the front door.
Clara’s knees buckled and she would have fallen if James hadn’t caught her. Her head swam as she clutched his sleeve and tried to stand again. What was wrong with her? She had never lost her mind, at least that she was aware of, but what if the anxiety of the evening had pushed her over the edge of sanity?
“What just happened?” she whispered.
Instead of answering, he took her hand and pulled her toward the building with the red window frames, throwing one more wary glance behind them. “Come on. We need to get you inside.”
6
Trust Me
“Why?” Clara panted as he hurried her across the street.
“They don’t come out in public. They’ll watch, but they never attack in places with more than two or three witnesses.”
“Who?” She tried to make sense of what he was saying, but the fact that they had just traveled between worlds and the familiar sensation of his hand in hers was more than a little distracting.
And yet, as her sense of equilibrium returned, her heart broke. It had all seemed so real at first. He was there with her, just the way she had prayed for years. And he seemed so real. The way he smelled, the feel of his fingers intertwined with hers. But now….
This was a dream. It had to be. She was with James. In the middle of the night. Without a clue as to where she was. And if she looked closely enough over her shoulder, she was able to make out the silhouettes of men scurrying after them, darting from shadow to shadow.
“James?” Dream or not, she leaned in closer and shivered, but not from the cold. “Behind us—”
“Keep moving,” he said tersely. “They won’t follow us inside.”
He put his hand on her back, and she relaxed a little. The gesture was so reassuring, so familiar, it made her want to cry and laugh at the same time. This was a cruel dream, teasing her with her greatest desires, and she was playing right into its clutches. She was letting him touch her, following his directions, hanging on his every glance and every word. And what would she have to show for it in the morning but a splotchy face and a Christmas full of longing for what she could never have?
She should wake up. She should put this foolishness away before it broke her heart. Especially since it was more real than any dream she’d ever experienced before. But could she wake up now? Wasn’t the surefire heartbreak worth another hour in his presence?
