The Diplomat's Wife(113)
Hearing this, I pictured the faces of the other men in the department—Ebertson, Fitzwilliam, even the D.M.—how many of them were really communist spies? I worried that someone might come after me and Paul, seek revenge for what we had done. But the investigators assured me that they would all be arrested. Paul said, too, that the Soviets would no longer be interested in me. But I was still glad to be putting an ocean between us.
Dava’s face appears in my mind once more. Her betrayal is the hardest to believe. I remember her as she had been in Salzburg, caring and kind. It had all been a lie. I hate her for what she did to Rose, and I want her to go to prison, to suffer. I will never forgive her, but in a strange way, I can almost understand. She was blinded by her love for Simon. And she did not let him kill me in the end. If it was not for Dava, I wouldn’t be standing here today.
I look up at Paul, wanting to pinch myself to make certain that it is real. We have been so lucky. Though the cut Simon gave him had not touched any major organs, the struggle had caused internal bleeding at the site of his gunshot wound. I clung to his hand as they loaded him into the ambulance that night, fearful that if I let go, he would disappear again. “Come back to the States with me,” he suggested before they closed the ambulance doors and took him away. He repeated the invitation as his first words when he woke up in the hospital following surgery the next day.
I hesitated. Going to America with Paul was a long-forgotten dream, something that had died years ago. But what did I have left here? I could hardly go back to the Foreign Office after all that happened. And our house, Simon’s house, held nothing but painful memories. Delia was here, of course. But even she was talking about moving on, getting married at long last to Charles and retiring to the south of France. “Life’s too short,” she explained. Too short indeed. That night I told Paul I would come with him to America. We stayed in London just long enough to finalize affairs: I arranged for the sale of the house through an agency Delia recommended and Paul secured visas to America for Rachel and me. A few weeks later, we were ready to go.
Before we left, I sent Emma a letter, too, telling her what had happened and giving her Paul’s address in America. I wrote that if she wanted to come to America, I would try to arrange papers for her and the children. I wonder if I will get a response.
“Happy?” Paul asks now, jarring me from my thoughts. Still staring out at the sea, I hesitate. I am still getting used to all that has happened, trying to convince myself that it will not fall apart. I am too scared to be happy. But I nod, anyway. “I have something for you,” Paul says.
I turn around to face him, the wind whipping my hair across my face. “What is it?” Paul reaches into his pocket and pulls out a box, then starts to lower himself to one knee. My breath catches. “You’re asking me to marry you?”
He nods. “Again.” Then he opens the box to reveal a white-gold band with a solitaire diamond on top.
“It’s beautiful.” I lift the dog tags that hang around my neck. “But I kind of like these.”
He smiles. “You should have had a ring then, too. I was such a dumb kid.”
“We were both kids.”
“So is that a yes?”
I laugh. “I feel like we’re already married.”
“Me, too. But I think we should make it official as soon as we get settled. I want everyone to know that I’m your husband and Rachel’s father.”
I do not answer. That is how the whole mess started in the first place. If I had not been worried about appearances, I wouldn’t have married Simon just because I was pregnant with Rachel. Enough, I think. That is all in the past now. Everything that happened, for better or worse, contributed to where we are right now. Happy. Together.
I look down at Paul, who is staring up at me, the ring box still held in his palm. “I’d love to,” I say. “Yes.”
He takes the ring from the box and slips it on my finger. Then he stands up, drawing me into an embrace. Suddenly, I laugh aloud. “What is it?” he demands. “Don’t you like the ring?”
“The ring is perfect,” I reply quickly. “It’s just that this all seems so ordinary. So wonderfully, perfectly ordinary.”
Paul shakes his head. “That,” he replies, brushing my hair back and kissing my forehead, “is the one thing I doubt we’ll ever be.”
“True,” I say, suddenly exhausted. “I think I’ll go upstairs to the cabin for a nap.”
He looks down at me, his expression worried. “Are you all right?”
“Fine, just a bit tired. Want to come with me?”
“I don’t think you’ll get much rest if I do.”
“Agreed. Want to come with me?” He hesitates, looking over at the nursery. “Rachel is fine with the other children,” I add.
“Let’s go.” As he takes my arm and leads me across the deck, it finally seems as though our journey together has just begun.