“Is he…?” Rebecca rested her chin in the palm of her hand. “Is he happy?”
“Happy? Jordan? We are talking about the same chap, aren’t we? Closed off, I’m afraid.” He knew what she was asking. Had Cole withdrawn from everyone? Bloody fool; more than willing to face the Germans, but let anyone get close to him and he becomes as stoic as a gargoyle.
Rebecca looked sad. “Because of me.”
“No,” Dickie said. “Because he was confused and hurt, and turned away from everything. He is a remarkably bright young man, my dear, and perfectly capable of making decisions on his own. If he decides to be a horse’s arse, you must let him.”
Rebecca laughed. “Dickie, you mustn’t be so unkind. He is your friend.”
“Of course he’s my friend and a damned fine man, but if friends aren’t allowed to be honest with one another, who is?” He shrugged. “He’s a strange case, our Jordan. A good man.”
“It could not have been different. You can see that, can’t you, Dickie? I couldn’t leave my husband, despite my feelings for Jordan. I had to give my marriage a chance. I’d seen what became of my parents and I thought…” She left the sentence unfinished.
“I know that, Rebecca. And perhaps Jordan knows it as well, but he can’t admit it to himself. It is easier for him to be angry. He understands that emotion. He can deal with anger. He simply doesn’t know how to deal with loss or hurt. He’s a bull in a china shop — stumbling around, banging into things; clumsy as an ox.” He cocked an eyebrow. “Is one permitted to mix metaphors when one denounces one’s friends?”
A trace of a smile crossed Rebecca’s face. She hesitated for a moment before speaking, her voice pleading for understanding for herself and Cole. “He’s a good man, isn’t he?”
“He is,” Dickie said gently. “You’re a good woman. I’d give my left arm to end this distance between you. It appears that you two are floating within sight, but never within touch, of one another.” He glanced at his wristwatch. “What time is your train?”
“Four-twenty,” she said. “What time…?”
“We’ve got another fifteen minutes, dear.” She didn’t appear to be in a hurry, Dickie thought, lingering over her tea and conversation as if she were loath to end it. There was a distance about Rebecca lately, some part of her that she held back so that if it were not said, it could not be true. She had always been a gentle woman, Dickie knew. When he had been wounded in a bombing raid she was the nurse who cared for him. A tender soul, but troubled — little china animals all neatly arrayed along narrow shelves where the slightest bump could send them all to the floor and destruction. Then she had met Jordan, and he, it turned out, was just as fragile as she. She was hiding something from him now; Dickie sensed that much during the short time they had been together. Perhaps, whatever it was, she was hiding it from herself as well. Something to do with the marriage or that dreadful husband.
“Gregory is to have the house,” she said, as if reading Dickie’s mind. “It doesn’t mean much to me in any case. It will do him good to have something permanent in his life, I suspect.”
“You’re too good to the blighter,” Dickie said.
“No,” Rebecca said. “It’s only right. I’ll go home and rest up and when I come back to London, I’ll look for a flat.”
“They’re hard to come by, my love.”
She stirred her tea and slipped into a reverie. “It’s funny, Dickie. When I go home, I gain strength. Farley Park has that effect on me. The gardens, the fields, the deep forest near the river. I draw comfort from the place. Do you find that odd?”
“Odd? No. Everyone has a secret hiding place I suppose.”
“What’s yours?”
“Mine?” he said, searching through his memory. He decided to keep that to himself. “Why the boudoir of any willing young lady.”
Rebecca laughed deeply, tears coming to her eyes. “I should have known better than to ask.” A moment passed, and she grew reflective. “I wonder if you would do something for me, Dickie?”
“Anything, love.”
“Would you tell Jordan that I should very much like to see him? As soon as he can get away. It is important and I’m much afraid that I should not be able to get away from Farley Park. At least for some time. Would you do that?”
“Of course. But you know,” he tried to find a way to say what he had to in a way that would cause the least pain. “He might not want to see you. He can be such a blighter at times.”
“I know.”
“He’s very stubborn and he’s been hurt.”
“I know he has been, Dickie. I shall never forgive myself for that. But I want him to come, for both of us. It’s important that we speak. Things should not go unsaid.” She glanced at the clock on the wall over the long bank of grimy windows facing the platforms. “I really must be going.” She stood and gathered her things. Dickie stood and put two pounds on the table.
“I’m feeling extravagant,” he said to no one in particular.
They pushed their chairs under the table and Rebecca slid her arm under his.
“You promised me, Dickie. Make him come to Farley Park, won’t you?”
He patted her hand. “I promised and I shall,” he said, leading her to the door. He knew it would be difficult. Cole was a decent man, and there was no doubt in Dickie’s mind that the American still cared deeply for Rebecca Blair. It was evident that Rebecca knew that as well, but what she didn’t know was that Cole had changed. Three years of war and separation had combined to harden that man. It would not be easy to get Jordan Cole to Farley Park.
The swirling sands along the beach at Yport, picked up by the stiff winds that came across the gray waters of the Channel, peppered the group of Wehrmacht and Kriegsmarine officers. Long ranks of angry waves raced over the shallows and assaulted the men erecting bundles of Belgian gates in the knee-deep water. Beyond them, in deeper water, their snouts thrust above the surface begging for air, were hundreds of other obstacles and beyond them were wooden posts topped by antitank mines. All of these were designed to stop the landing craft that Rommel knew would come by the hundreds. Behind the group of officers who pulled their heads down below the collars of their great coats to keep the sand out, and turned their backs on the wind, were the pillboxes and antitank obstacles. They were linked by snaking trenches that blossomed with machine-gun nests, mortar positions, and firing steps. Thousands of TODT workers — forced labor — swarmed over the fortifications at a pace that drove Rommel mad. “You could lash them, but if you did they grew sullen,” he explained in frustration to his staff. “You could withhold their food, but this only made them resentful. You could shoot them, but then you would have even fewer men than you needed and would have to press more German troops into construction service.”
“You alternately threaten and reward the TODT workers, praising their work and handing out extra food when goals are met. Still, we must raid garrison troops and watch as officers and men string barbed wire and plant mines.”
“In the end, it’s not enough,” Rommel said, turning into the wind to face the two dozen officers at his heels. “There should be a thousand more obstacles there.” He pointed down to the beach, his voice rising above the surf. “And there. There, as well. And more mines, gentlemen. Many, many, many mines.” He began walking again, and the group, with Walters hanging back, followed him dutifully. “Deepen the trenches and build up the firing steps. When the enemy comes in, they will attempt to blast our defenses with cannon fire, from there.” He pointed to the Channel with his marshal’s baton. “They must not get beyond the water’s edge. Is that understood? Stop them here!” His voice became strident and he kicked a clump of sand into the air. The wind snatched it up, scattering the grains into the air. “Here. On the beach. Everything depends upon us denying the enemy time to employ their material wealth. I have seen it, gentlemen. It does not matter that our soldiers are better and our tanks far superior to theirs. They will bury us under a mountain of materiel once they have secured a beachhead. But we will deny them that. Yes?”