The Diplomat's Wife(103)

“There, there,” Delia says, stroking my hand. “You’ve been through a lot. It’s all catching up with you.”

I look up at her, puzzled. How much does she know? I consider telling her that it is the stress of caring for Simon’s aunt and getting sick. Then suddenly I can lie to her no longer. “Delia, I need to tell you something. When I was gone, I wasn’t actually caring for—”

Delia raises her hand. “I know.”

“You do?”

She nods. “Simon isn’t a terribly good liar.”

“I’m sorry for not telling you the truth. It was government business.”

“My dear, there is no need.”

“Anyway, while I was gone, I saw…” I hesitate, studying her face. I should stop there, I know. But I have to tell someone about what happened in Germany, to make it real and make sense of it all. And Delia was with me when I lost Paul the first time. “Do you remember Paul, the American soldier whom I was supposed to marry?”

“Of course.”

“He’s alive!” I blurt out.

Delia’s jaw drops. “I don’t understand.” Quickly, I tell her how Paul had survived the crash, followed me to Prague and rescued me from the bald man. Watching her eyes widen, I realize how unbelievable my story must seem.

“Oh, my goodness!” She brings her hand to her mouth. “That is really quite remarkable. Where is he now?”

“At one of the U.S. military bases. And the calls,” I say, gesturing to the phone on the wall. “They weren’t wrong numbers.”

“I see.” She studies my face. “He still has feelings for you?” I nod. “And you?”

I hesitate. “I’m married.”

“Yes, and you have a daughter…” Delia stops, remembering. “Rachel was premature. That is, she really wasn’t, was she?”

“No,” I admit. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you at the time.”

“I understand,” Delia replies quickly. “But you don’t have to be ashamed. You were young and in love.” I bite my lip. I cannot bring myself to tell Delia that I was with Paul again in Germany, that I betrayed my marriage. “Does Paul know that Rachel is his?”

“I don’t know. I tried to tell him on the ship, but he was half conscious at the time.”

Delia looks away, staring out the window. “You’ve never asked me why I didn’t marry or have children.” She raises her hand before I can reply. “Oh, don’t worry. I know you were just being polite. I was in love once many years ago. We wanted to get married, but my father wouldn’t hear of it. He said he would disinherit me if I shamed the family by marrying a man who worked as our butler.”

“Charles?” I interrupt, surprised. I had known for some time that their relationship was more than a working one, but I had no idea the history went back so many years.

Delia nods. “My father fired him over the affair. Charles begged me to leave with him, but I was too afraid. So he left, married, had children. And I remained alone. Years later, after his wife died, he came back to me. My father was long since gone by that time. We never married; it would have been too painful for his children and it wasn’t something either of us needed. We just wanted to be together, and we’re quite happy now. But when I think of all the years we missed, the family we might have had together…I don’t know, Marta. I can’t tell you what to do. You have stability here, a good life. But second chances don’t come often. And when they do, well, you kind of have to wonder.”

We sit, neither of us speaking, for several minutes. The clock in the parlor begins to chime. “It’s seven,” Delia remarks, sounding surprised. “I had no idea it was so late.”

“You should go,” I reply. “Charles will be worried.”

Delia does not respond but walks toward the door and begins putting on her coat. For a minute, I worry that she is angry with me, judging my feelings for Paul. But then I see that she is lost in the memories of her own past. “Delia?” She turns back to me. “Thank you. For telling me, I mean. And for understanding.”

She smiles. “Good night. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

After the door closes behind her, I sit for several minutes, thinking. Delia’s words echo in my mind: second chances, what might have been. It all happened so fast. I think of Paul and me in the Meierhof cellar, clinging to each other desperately, and I ache with longing. But not with guilt, I realize suddenly. Except for my hesitation at telling Delia, I have not felt at all badly about what happened between us. What kind of woman am I, to betray my husband and feel nothing?

It was a moment, I tell myself now. Old lovers caught up in memories. But even as I think this, I know that it is not true. Our feelings are still as real as they were two years ago. And now he is gone again, just as quickly. I hear his voice in my mind, desire slicing through me anew. How can I bear to be separated from him again? I stare at the phone, fighting the urge to try to call him. What could I possibly say that would change things, not make them worse?

A noise at the door jars me from my thoughts. “Hallo?”

Simon. I wipe my eyes with the back of my sleeve, straighten my hair. “In here,” I call.

“Hello, dear,” Simon says as he enters the kitchen. “Good day?” he asks. A faint clover smell tickles my nose as he bends to kiss me on the cheek.