The Keeper of Happy Endings(53)

Dawn. Ten hours.

I look at him, eyes pleading. “Let me stay. I’ll leave the hospital. I’ll go out to the country, somewhere they can’t find me. Please.”

“I can’t. I need to know you’re safe and taken care of. It’s done. But we still have tonight.”

His words are like a knife, slicing into my flesh. “I don’t want tonight. I want forever. I know we never said it, but I thought you did too. Now, after everything, I’m supposed to just walk away, not knowing where I’ll end up or if I’ll ever see you again.”

He stares at me, his face a stunned blank. “That’s what you think? That I plan to just hand you off and that’s that? We’re through?”

“It happens,” I whisper, thinking of Maman and Erich Freede. “People get . . . separated.”

“That isn’t going to happen to us.”

“You can’t know that.”

“But I do. I’ve arranged to get you to the States, though it won’t be easy for you. I’ve written a letter for you to mail when you get to Lisbon—to my father. I told him we’ll be getting married as soon as I’m home—if that’s all right with you.”

“Married . . .” The word is like a pair of wings unfurling in my chest, threatening to lift me off the ground. I’ve never said it aloud, but I’ve dreamed it hundreds of times. “Yes,” I whisper hoarsely. “Yes, it’s all right with me. But are you sure it’s what you want? When I said forever, I wasn’t asking . . . Are you sure you want to marry me?”

“I was sure ten minutes after I met you, Soline. I love you.”

Love.

I’ve been so careful about not using that word. Until tonight. Not because I don’t feel it but because I feel it so keenly. Perhaps Maman has made me superstitious with her talk of curses. I can’t help thinking of Lilou—widowed two weeks after speaking her vows—because she dared to love. But it’s been said now and cannot be unsaid, even if I wished it. Nor can it be allowed to hang between us, unanswered.

“I love you too,” I say thickly. “More than I ever thought I could let myself love anyone. And I want to marry you. But are you sure this is right? What will your father say when I show up on his doorstep, a stranger, expecting to move into his home?”

“I explained it all in the letter. Or as much as I can explain. He doesn’t know what I’m doing over here. And he can’t. No one can. I mean that, Soline. No matter what you hear or how bad things sound, you can’t breathe a word about what we’ve been doing. Too many people would be put at risk. The safety of one person can never be allowed to jeopardize the entire cell. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“For now, all my father needs to know is that I drive an ambulance, I’m crazy about you, and I plan to make you a Purcell the minute I’m back on American soil.”

He grins at me, taking both my hands in his. “I can’t wait to show you where I grew up and introduce you to everyone. My sister will fall in love with you the minute you open your mouth. She’s a sucker for all things French.”

I manage a smile, but there’s something niggling at the back of my brain, a talk we had once about his father, how he could be a hard man at times, with strong ideas about respectability and duty, and I can’t help wondering if those ideas extend to his son’s choice of a wife.

Anson frowns, trying to read my expression. “Please don’t be sad. I’ll be home before you know it, and then we can start a real life together. But until then, I’ll know you’re safe.”

“And what about you? You’ll still be here—with them.”

He cups my face, kissing me tenderly. “Nothing will keep me from getting home if I know you’re waiting for me.”

“But how are you managing this? It’s all we can do to get men over the border, let alone to America.”

“The Purcells have been navy men since the days of John Paul Jones—until me, that is. Anyway, I dropped dear Pater’s name and called in a few favors. I doubt he’ll be any too happy about it—he prefers to wield the power in the family—but that’s a fight for another day.”

“I’m afraid,” I say softly.

“I know. But you’re brave too.” He kisses me again, and I can taste my tears on his lips, bitterness and salt, and suddenly every moment, every touch, is precious. Because they’re all I will have to take with me when the sun comes up again.

He pulls away, holding me at arm’s length. “I should go. You need to pack a few things, bare-necessity stuff. One small case. And then you should try to sleep. I’ll be back before dawn.”

“What about you? You’re exhausted.”

“I’ll go back to the hospital, try to grab a few hours.”

I reach for his hand. “Stay with me. Please.”

“You know I can’t.” His voice is thick, his eyes churning like a hungry sea. “We’re not . . .” He swallows hard and tries to step away. “There are rules, Soline.”

I shake my head because suddenly it all seems absurd. Men are being shot in the street and butchered on battlefields, women and children packed into trains like cattle and shipped to death camps. But this—two people in love, spending what might be their last night together—is against the rules. I can’t make sense of it. And then I remember something I heard Lilou say to my mother the night she ran away to marry her Brit. I refuse to let someone else’s rules cheat me of my bit of joy.