Chapter 30

Dear Anne,

We've arrived at Petsamo. Hurry up and wait is the order of the day while officials cross every t and dot every i before they allow us to leave. Our ship, the SS American Legion , sits offshore, bristling with gantries, its hull painted garishly in red, white, and blue. Some consider this scant protection in these dangerous waters, but I'm reminded of my own trusty Ford with the Stars and Stripes flying bravely from the roof and take heart this ship will see us home...

D aisy found the simple mechanics of changing a tire soothing after the turmoil of Heimmel's appearance. She'd not been afraid of dying herself—the man was too smart to create an incident that might prove awkward back in Berlin. But there had been a moment when she feared the Gestapo officer might take his frustration out on Cleo and the lieutenant. Their deaths would have caused far less fuss—at least to either government. Daisy would have carried the guilt to her grave.

With Cleo tending to Bayard in the back seat, Daisy took over for the injured driver. As far as he knew, he'd been knocked out cold in the accident resulting from a blown tire. If he harbored suspicions there was more to it, he was wise enough to keep them to himself. By the time she caught up to the convoy, the other sedan had disappeared, perhaps called off by Heimmel when his plan went south. Daisy pulled into line as if nothing untoward had occurred and followed the line of buses the last few uneventful miles to Petsamo.

She only drew up the car when they reached the final turning that would send them down to the busy harbor, where a faded hotel sat above a huddle of wharves, shops, and sheds. Until the outbreak of war, this was a place where summer tourists gathered, though looking down on it now as clouds hung low and stormy, one could hardly credit the claim.

"Why are we stopping?" Cleo asked.

"It seems fitting to take a moment to mark this journey's end."

Cleo gazed out at the gray chop of waves. "You're not on board yet ."

Daisy tried not to notice that Cleo didn't use the word we . A slip of the tongue? Or was more going on behind her blank stare and nervous hands than the events of the last few dangerous hours? "You did well back there."

"I didn't kill him."

"You saved us. Far more important, if you ask me."

Outside the hotel, Daisy had barely parked the car and straightened the veil on her ridiculous hat before Mr. Whitney swooped in to claim her. "Where have you been? She wants to speak with you."

He didn't have to announce which she he referred to; it was obvious by his state of agitation and the way he practically herded Daisy toward the harbor master's office as if she might bolt like an untried colt if he let her out of his sight. "I wish you'd warned me about this plan of yours."

"What would you have done if I had?"

"Stopped you, of course."

"Exactly why I didn't warn you."

"And how would I have explained it to the president if it hadn't worked as you expected? Tell me that."

"With relish, I should say. And a great many I told her so 's."

He turned away, muttering something about her contrary nature, which had Daisy smiling all the way to the room where Crown Princess M?rtha waited. In her dark blue traveling suit with only a simple set of pearls to adorn her somber, white features trembling on the edge of emotion, Her Royal Highness seemed diminished, as fragile as glass. But her gaze remained clear and depthless as the waters of the fjord, her voice strong. "We are here, and we are safe, Madam Minister," she said, holding out a gloved hand. "You have fulfilled your promise to His Majesty."

Daisy risked a reassuring motherly squeeze of the younger woman's fingers. "Oh no, my dear. Didn't you realize? The promise was made to you . It was always to you."

Later, she climbed the hill to their borrowed lodgings, enjoying the loosening of taut muscles, the worry that had dragged her down for so long she'd no longer noticed the weight until it was lifted. The evening air was sweet and clean, the jeweled sky so close Daisy might reach up a hand and touch the streaky clouds that blew east, unimpeded by checkpoints and guard towers, into Russia.

Cleo was sitting on a wooden bench in the fenced yard behind their house. As Daisy watched, she cocked a shoulder, tilted her head, dipped into a pocket for a cigarette. When did she start smoking Petter?e's? Was it the same time she'd started speaking Norwegian like a native? Did it have anything to do with her strange friendship with Sofia Kristiansen? That woman had all the subtlety of a sledgehammer and wore a chip on her shoulder like a badge of honor, but she refused to admit defeat, finding a way when the world told her there was none, keeping faith when the fight seemed over. Daisy admired that tenacity. A nation of such and Norway might be the knife at Hitler's back. Too late to save their own country, but perhaps the hesitation that would keep England free long enough for a defense to be made. It was the best Daisy could hope for these days.

She caught herself focusing on the flick of Cleo's wrist and the shift of her hips and was reminded of a long ago August night like this one and a conversation with someone who had dipped into a pocket for a cigarette with that same smooth slide of spine and shoulder.

Did Letitia see the similarities as well? Were they a cause for comfort or pain?

"You'd never make a good spy, auntie."

"No. I'm far too vociferous for keyhole listening." Daisy's memories melted under the thin moon and the briny scent of the bay. "If you're watching for the northern lights, they're rarely visible in the summer. Not dark enough."

"Maybe I'll have to stick around, then." Her cigarette held loosely between her lips, Cleo flicked her wrist as she struck the match against the bench, cupping a hand over the flame, the cap of her hair curved against her jaw. Daisy felt her breath catch in her throat, an old pain flaring along with the burning tip of Cleo's Petter?e's. If only that long-ago conversation on that long-ago night had ended differently, how changed their lives would be, especially that of this young woman, whose unspent love had nearly broken her.

Light shifted and flickered over Cleo's face, gleamed in her eyes. She seemed older. Harder. Wiser. "Does Her Royal Highness know what you did?"

"What we did?" Daisy answered. "No. That's best left between us, don't you think?"

"So it's just as if none of it happened." Cleo almost sounded disappointed.

"That depends. Every moment shapes us. It's how we use those moments, how we build on them to create a life of purpose, one we can look back on with pride." Even to Daisy's own ears, it sounded trite, like something a carnival fortune teller might offer for the price of a penny. Hardly inspiring words. More likely Cleo would ignore them as the ramblings of a dotty old woman. If this was Daisy's second chance, she was letting it slip away.

She waited for Cleo to dismiss her with a laugh. Instead, she exhaled a thin stream of smoke, her expression indecipherable in the deepening blue and shifting shadows of twilight.

"Good night, Aunt Daisy."

Her words weren't a dismissal. Instead, they seemed like a decision, and Daisy found her way to bed in a lighter mood than was appropriate after the day she'd had. She might have flubbed the execution, but the sentiment remained. Their lives were built on moments—choices big and small. Cleo's choices had led her here. Where would they take her next?

Like father, like daughter.

Daisy smiled, imagining her late cousin's surprise—and his pride.

It might even be as great as her own.

C leo watched from the window of her bedroom as the crown princess and her children, along with their small retinue, boarded ahead of the rest of the ship's company. The launch motored through the choppy gray waters toward the American troop ship. Sailors crowded the docks and landing stages to watch the spectacle, caps doffed in respect.

"Yes, we love this country as it rises forth, rugged, weathered, over the water."

The singing grew and strengthened as more voices joined, the sound rolling across the water like deep rumbles of thunder. Her Royal Highness sat ramrod straight as her countrymen saluted her with the national anthem, her gaze set firmly on what lay ahead, the children equally somber.

"Talk about a rousing send-off." Bayard's voice was thick and raspy with sleep. "That's one for the books."

Cleo turned to where he lay in bed, arms behind his head, the soft light shifting watery over the ceiling and across his chest. His brown eyes crinkled at the corners as he studied her, standing in nothing but a quilt she'd dragged from the bed to wrap around her shoulders.

"Even women stood up and fought as if they were men. Others could only cry but that soon would end."

The song swelled in her chest. She recalled Aunt Daisy's story of the peasant women she'd seen during the troubles on the Mexican border. How they left their cooking pots and laundry to take the place of their fallen sweethearts, unafraid, holding the line, doing what needed to be done.

Were they any different from the women of Aunt Daisy's generation who had brought their talents and money, energy and determination to the battlefields of France during the last war? Then turned around and fought for peace with equal enthusiasm?

An army of heroines, Aunt Daisy had called them.

They would need such an army this time around. Women like Sofia with the strength to take up arms, as well as those like Mrs. Thorson to do the work of piecing broken lives back together.

"You're going to freeze," Bayard said. "Come back to bed."

He took her by the hand, leading her to the cocoon of quilts and duvets piled high and soft like whipped cream. She curled her body into his and closed her eyes, allowing herself to imagine a future of similar mornings, but other images crowded out the dream. Other moments crashed across the backs of her eyelids like fireworks. Every slight. Every sorrow. Every unfairness. Every terror. Her teeth chattered and she felt nervous and sick. What was happening to her? Who was this person? She felt brittle and broken, cracks splitting apart the girl she'd been from the woman she was becoming.

"See? I told you. You're shivering."

His hand slid down her ribs, over her hip, along her thigh. Desire danced along her skin like electricity. It would be so tempting. No one would question it. She had history and form. The kind of girl that played with fire and never learned from her mistakes. But the last year had burned her badly.

"Cleo?" There was a new tautness at the edges of Bayard's gaze. "What's going on?"

"I'm staying."

"I'm really hoping you mean here in bed with me." His smile held more regret than pleasure. "But it's not, is it?"

Cleo didn't answer. Instead, she burrowed deeper into his shoulder as if she could imprint everything about him on her memory: the way he smelled, the smooth feel of his skin, the sound of his breathing. She needed to be able to recall those things in the months ahead when he would be so very far away.

"Does Mrs. Harriman know?" he asked.

"Suspects, I think. Not much gets by her."

"She must be proud."

Cleo smiled. "It's a nice change."

"Where will you go?" She was surprised and relieved he didn't start by trying to talk her out of it. Explaining to her how it was a bad idea. That she was woefully unsuited to such an undertaking. How she must be crazy to even contemplate remaining behind in Sweden. It made her love him all the more.

"Back to Haparanda to start," she replied. "Then maybe on to Stockholm. Mrs. Thorson kept my place at the Refugee Office open for me."

"You've known this whole time you weren't going to take the ship for home?"

"No, but Mrs. Thorson hoped I would reconsider." She laid her head on his chest, smiling at the slow beat of his heart.

"And if I asked you to go home? With me?"

Was this how her father had felt when he'd enlisted? Had it been a drunken spur-of-the-moment action? Had he tried to explain himself to his wife? To make her see what was in his heart? Had she tried to listen? Or was she too caught up in her own loss to understand his feelings?

"Please don't ask. I'd have to turn you down and that would break my heart." She looked him in the eye. "Please."

He hugged her close. "How about if I say that we'll meet again when all this is over."

She closed her eyes. "Save a dance for me."

T hey stood on the wooden dock, water slapping at the pilings, spray speckling their faces. The clouds were low, turning the hills around the harbor to granite. A ship's horn cut through the thickening fog. The launch waited for them; a sailor stood at the bottom of the wooden ladder to help them into the boat.

They would be the last to board. Already, a path was being charted through the mine-infested waters off Petsamo harbor. Passengers were settling into their crowded berths; families and elderly were allotted cabins while the rest jammed themselves belowdecks on hammocks slung side by side.

Cleo tried not to think about the stories of ships exploding off the coast of Norway, a choice between a fiery death or a watery grave. She took her cue from Aunt Daisy, who remained stoic as ever, staring down her long eagle nose at Cleo with a look she couldn't read.

Mr. Whitney scuffed at the warped decking, his hands shoved into his pockets. There was a new look in his face and his mouth had lost its bracketed sourness. He held out a grudging hand and dropped a set of keys into her palm.

"The Ford? Really?" Cleo closed her hands around the cold metal, squeezing until the jagged teeth cut into her flesh. A pain to take her mind from the dull ache under her ribs.

"How else do you suppose you'll get back to civilization? Reindeer sledge? It's a good car, and I ought to know." He cleared his throat as if his tie were strangling him. "She'll see you safe wherever you're headed."

"You don't think I'm tilting at windmills?"

His eyes widened before his furry brows curled low, his jaw clenched as if to say the words was painful. "I think you're an idealistic fool who's going to make a hash out of things, but who listens to me? I'm just a pompous windbag."

"I'd never call you a windbag, Mr. Whitney." She laughed at his deepening scowl. On impulse, she leaned in for a kiss on his bristly cheek. "Take care of Aunt Daisy for me? You know what she's like. She'll be going a mile a minute until you reach New York Harbor unless she's forced to stand down."

"I've never managed it before. Not sure what makes you think this time will be any better." He shot Aunt Daisy a grim shake of his head before busying himself with passing on the last bags to the sailor waiting in the boat.

Aunt Daisy's embrace was warm and scented with perfume. She held Cleo as tight as a mother might farewell a child. "Are you sure this is what you want?"

"You know boats and I have never got on."

"Not since that ridiculous Van Speakman boy's ketch. I remember that summer." Aunt Daisy sniffed, her eyes watery. "Right. Stay safe and out of trouble. Think you can manage that much?"

Cleo's throat closed around a lump. "Is that what you told my father when he stayed behind?"

"Something similar and equally useless. He did what he wanted... and so will you." Her eyes swam with tears, but the corners crinkled with delight. "I notice the lieutenant has made himself scarce."

"We said our goodbyes earlier."

Aunt Daisy eyed Cleo with one of those schoolmarm looks that made a person feel two inches tall. "He's a good one, Clementine. Don't leave it too long."

"Just as long as I'm needed and not a minute longer."

"You'll find soon enough that the need never ends. But I'm sure you'll both be counting those minutes." She gazed around her as if taking one last look at a country she'd grown to love and admire. "Ethel was right. It was one hell of an adventure."

Helped into the boat, she sat at the bow, her coat folded around her, her gaze long as if she was already looking ahead to the next challenge. "What will I tell your mother?"

"Tell her I'm my father's daughter. Just as she always wanted."

Cleo stood and watched as the lines were released and the boat moved away from the dock. She struggled to keep warm against the wind and the cold of second thoughts.

The space between them widened, the chop hitting the pilings. The boat circled. Aunt Daisy waved then cupped her hands around her mouth.

"What did you say?" Cleo shouted. "I can't hear you!"

"I said welcome to the army, Clementine Verquin!"