Nine

Ava

While Ava waited for James to investigate the matter with her neighbor, the nip of her unease began to grow teeth. Finally, the afternoon arrived for them to meet at Café A Brasileira in Chiado. Her nerves drove her to arrive early. Instead of merely waiting in the opulent café with its warm notes of ochre and red and gold throughout, brass fixtures polished to a reflective shine, she went to the long wooden counter and ordered coffees for them both.

In the time she'd been in Lisbon, she'd come to appreciate the petite cup of powerful coffee, taking not only one in the morning, but also in the afternoon as was an endemic habit of the locals.

The two saucers and small cups obtained, she settled into a high-backed chair facing the door and freely poured sugar into her bica. Even as the white grains spilled into the tan foam atop her coffee, the action felt wrong. Almost gluttonous.

But in Lisbon, there was no restriction on how much coffee she could drink or sugar she could consume. Bakery windows were filled with delectable pastries glittering with sweet granules sprinkled liberally over their surface and baked into gooey delicious custard centers.

A lean, masculine figure in the doorway caught her attention. She sat up in her seat, bica forgotten as James crossed the black-and-white-checked marble floor.

He took off his fedora with a pinch of his middle finger and thumb and settled it on the empty spot beside him as he slid into the chair opposite her. "His name is Diogo Silva. He runs a newspaper kiosk by Pra?a Luís de Cam?es."

Ava knew exactly the square he spoke of with its statue of Luís de Cam?es, Portugal's greatest poet. "So, he needed the magazine to sell then?" she asked. "For the Germans or Japanese to purchase as we do?"

James poured his usual helping of sugar into his bica. "I'm not certain, but his kiosk has been shuttered since he was taken."

Ava pulled in a breath. "What happened to him?"

He shook his head and held the handle loop of the tiny cup in his fingers. "I don't know, but your conversation with the Nazi had nothing to do with his disappearance."

Ava nodded and masked her uncertainty with a sip of coffee. James had put himself at risk enough for her sake. Any additional digging would need to be done on her own. At least now she had a name and a place to investigate and could hopefully Dick Tracy her way to getting more information.

Another familiar figure entered the café, one with prominent ears. Ava waved to Alfie and slid over so he might join them.

He rushed forward, his face paler than usual as he thunked into the vacated seat. "I just heard..."

"What's happened?" James asked.

Alfie put his palm to his brow, his long fingers curling like marble against his red hair. "Leslie Howard is dead."

"Leslie Howard?" Ava repeated the familiar name and the recognition quickly followed. The actor who had played Ashley Wilkes in Gone with the Wind. She hadn't seen the movie herself, but all of its stars had been plastered on every newspaper and magazine for months before and after the film's release.

Alfie's hand slid down his face and fell into his lap. "It happened just this morning." His chin quivered, and Ava couldn't help but notice how very young he looked in that vulnerable moment. "In the most awful way."

"Alfie," James said, his voice level and confident. Much in the way he had spoken her name to her the day they'd gone out for capilé, when he had promised to look into her neighbor's disappearance. "What's happened?"

"His plane," Alfie croaked.

Chills skittered across Ava's skin. "What about his plane?"

"The Germans...they shot it out of the sky." Alfie swiped at his large, brown eyes. "They attacked a civilian aircraft as it was flying over the Atlantic."

James's cheeks went red. "That's a war crime."

Ava held on to the table, both hands gripping the edge as if it might be the only thing keeping her tethered to the earth. Though her physical person was locked in place, her emotions spun her into another time when her parents had not returned from France.

That could have been her plane when she flew to Lisbon. That could be one of Daniel's at any moment.

Cold sweat prickled at her brow.

"Can you imagine?" Alfie said, his voice choked.

She could. She had. A countless number of times, transporting herself to the cloud-dotted expanse of endless blue sky when the turbulence gave way to violent, unforgiving jerks, that drop of the stomach as a rapid descent began. The screams. The terror.

"Enough." James's voice cut through her thoughts, and he gave her a concerned look.

Alfie touched her hand and she leaped.

"Forgive me, Miss Harper," he said in his gentle manner. "I didn't mean to upset you."

"Go back to the embassy," James said to his young colleague. "I'll join you soon."

Alfie nodded and cast another worried glance toward Ava. "I truly am sorry."

Any attempt to carve a smile on her wooden face to set him at ease was impossible.

"Ava," James said softly. "Are you well? Shall I call Peggy?"

The thought of Peggy seeing her thus was enough to snap Ava from her trance. She shook her head and swallowed the thick ache that swelled in the back of her throat. "Those poor people."

"Alfie shouldn't have been so detailed." James stood up and took the chair beside Ava. He rested a warm hand over hers where she still clutched the table. Her grip loosened under his touch and released the hard ledge.

"Are you sure you're well?" he asked again.

"My parents were killed in a plane crash when I was a girl." It was the first time she'd said those words aloud to anyone: killed in a plane crash. It was such a violent and terrible death, a wound in her soul that had never fully healed. "And my brother is a soldier, parachuting out of them all the time. Hearing about the attack today, thinking it could at any time be him..." Her throat tightened around the words, cutting them off.

"Ava, I'm so sorry." James didn't say it in that way most people did when they found out she was an orphan, in a detached, "sorry something bad happened to you years ago" sort of way. His eyes met hers with sincerity, and he spoke as though her parents' deaths had just occurred along with the doomed aircraft that morning.

The clatter of dishes and murmurs of conversation filled the space between them.

"Thank you," she said. "My brother took me in after. We'd never been close as he was eight years older than me. We are now though."

"Yes, I imagine you would be."

"I am here for him," Ava said. "To do what I can to end this war. He's sacrificed so much for me. Too much." She touched her hand to her brow and found it damp with perspiration. "He always wanted to go to college, to be an engineer, but he had to take on a job to care for me. I wanted to go to college too, and when I finished high school, he told me he had enough savings for both of us to enroll."

Tears burned in her eyes. She didn't know why she was telling James all of this, or why she was even putting words to the ache inside her after all these years. However, once started, she couldn't seem to stop.

"When I left for Pratt, he joined the Army." Ava sniffed, and a handkerchief appeared in front of her. "There wasn't enough for the two of us. Only one."

She accepted it from James and wiped her nose. The cloth was warm from his pocket and held the faint familiar scent of him. "My brother is in this war because he sent me to pursue the dream we both wanted." She stared at the table, noting a small dark crack in one corner. "At that point, it was too late to undo any of it, so I continued on. Now I want to use everything I learned in college and after to help bring him home." She released a shaky exhale. "That's why I'm here."

Someone dropped a dish in the background, splintering upon impact with the marble floor. Ava glanced around the busy café whose patrons had tripled in the time since she'd arrived. The realization of having lost control of her emotions in so public a place hit her.

She lowered her face. "I'm sorry for bringing this up here. It's not the place, I know."

"I wasn't at all put out by it." James made a point of glancing at the surrounding tables and standing customers putting in their orders. "Nor was anyone else. I'm grateful you told me, in fact."

"I don't know why I did." Heat scorched her cheeks as she lifted her bica in the hopes its fortitude would bolster her own wits.

"Sometimes the things we hold inside of us need to be let out. No matter where you are or who you're speaking with." James smiled with a delicate understanding, then respectfully returned to his own seat and took up his cold coffee.

His finger tapped the side of the small cup, as if vacillating over something. "I have someone I'd like you to meet," he said suddenly. "What are you doing tonight?"

Her plans included a meal of grilled fish and settling down with Wuthering Heights. "My evening can be rearranged if I have good reason," she replied noncommittally.

"Perfect." He sat back in his chair. "I want you to come to Estoril with me for a dinner party."

Ava swallowed a mouthful of coffee and set her cup down, grateful to have been vague about her plans. "A dinner party? I haven't a thing to wear."

"Peggy can help you with that."

"I couldn't impose."

James chuckled. "I assure you, she would jump at the chance."

Ava cast him a skeptical look.

He put his arm over the back of the chair next to him. "You asked for something that might aid the refugees. The man I intend to introduce you to knows many people. And trust me, Peggy will be delighted."

"All right." Ava tilted her head, unconvinced and certainly determined not to beg if Peggy declined.

James, however, was right, Peggy did not say no. He was also correct when he said she would jump at the chance. She did so—quite literally—in a squeal of excitement that made Ava nervous at having asked.

Before Ava knew what was happening, she was hauled over to Peggy's apartment where her friend studied her with a discerning eye as she pressed a finger to her lower lip in thought. Peggy's place was small, like Ava's with far more color splashed about. Persimmon-colored roses sat in a bright green vase on the counter, a splay of aubergine pillows propped on a sunshine yellow couch that matched the drapes layered over the open windows.

"It's a shame we didn't have the opportunity to put your hair in pin curls." Peggy tsk-tsked. "But I'll see what I can do."

The next hour consisted of Ava's tresses being brushed and tugged, her face being powdered, prodded, and painted until Peggy stepped back with a smile and a proud nod.

"This really wasn't necessary," Ava objected, feeling rather silly.

"Trust me, you'll be glad once you're in Estoril. Everyone there is filthy rich, and the rules are much stricter."

"What do you mean?"

"I was nearly arrested once for wearing a two-piece bathing suit." Peggy rolled her eyes. "It was when I first arrived and had no idea policemen would be crawling all over the beach with their little rulers."

"Rulers?" The thought of policemen patrolling the beach to measure swimwear was far too ridiculous.

"Here's the kicker—I bought the suit at one of the shops in Estoril." Peggy threw her hands up in exasperation. "I had to practically threaten bodily harm for them to take it back."

"I think it's a good thing I don't have to worry about bathing suits."

Peggy chuffed a laugh. "You've got that right." She picked up a handheld mirror. "What do you think?"

The woman reflected back at Ava was elegant, older in a more sophisticated way. Her dark hair was gently rolled back from her face, her lashes darkened slightly but not to the point of being obvious, her skin smoothed by powder. In truth, she looked just like her mother.

Ava had been worried Peggy might try to turn her into something she wasn't, but instead Peggy had made her into the very person Ava had always secretly wished she could be.

"Oh, Peggy," she breathed. "Thank you."

Her friend beamed at her. "Now wait till you see the dress." She spun around so fast to retrieve the garment that her pink skirt belled out around her knees.

She was only gone for a brief moment before her footsteps echoed back down the unseen hallway. "I have to attend all sorts of events with the ambassador, so I have an extensive wardrobe. I'm glad to share some of these." Peggy emerged with a jewel green gown. "They're far too beautiful to leave hanging in a closet."

Ava pressed her lips together, careful not to muss the Victory red sheen on her mouth. "Is that silk?"

Peggy waved her hand dismissively. "It was bought before the war. As soon as you asked, I knew this was the dress for you with your dark hair and green eyes." She shifted the gown from her arms, and the length of it slid to the floor like shimmering liquid. It was beautiful, with a sash that tied in a bow at the cinched-in waist, the skirt loose and free-flowing. And it was strapless.

"I know," Peggy said when Ava's eyes caught the top of the dress. "Just put it on." She thrust it toward Ava and pointed down the hall.

Ava took the gown to Peggy's neat bedroom, as resplendent in jewel tones as the living area, and slipped the garment on. The fabric was cool as it glided over her skin, a sensation she hadn't expected to experience until after the war.

"It was bought before Japan joined the Axis," Ava reminded herself, smoothing her hand down the front as she turned to the full-length mirror. The cut was beautiful and fit her like it had been made for her, bare shoulders and all.

Peggy squealed from the doorway. "I knew it would be perfect. Here." She handed her a pair of long white gloves. "You can show off any skin you want so long as you have gloves."

Ava pulled them on, and Peggy gave a low whistle. "You are dazzling."

"Because of your exceptional skills and this gorgeous dress."

"Because you're a beautiful woman."

Ava's face went hot. Compliments always left her with an internally squirming sensation, like she needed to wriggle out of her own skin that always felt so unworthy of praise. "I don't know..."

"Well, I do." Peggy put her hands on her hips.

"I don't think I take compliments well," Ava admitted sheepishly.

"Most women don't. We always think we're not good enough." She lifted her shoulder, and the resignation behind it told Ava that even gorgeous, confident, say-whatever-came-to-mind Peggy was also plagued by the same monsters as Ava.

"Do me a favor," Peggy said. "When someone tells you that you look beautiful tonight—and they will—don't you dare bring my name up or offer any self-deprecating remarks. You look them dead in the eye and all you say is ‘thank you.'"

James arrived in a sleek black car, wearing a suit fine enough to pass pre-ration standards with dark trousers creased sharply down the center, a fitted jacket and a starched white shirt. This look was complete with a black bow tie and a freshly shaved jaw that unhinged a few inches as she exited the building.

"You look stunning," he said, his eyes wide.

Her cheeks burned, and it was on the tip of her tongue to admit Peggy had polished her from a dull stone into something shiny.

Instead, she met his gaze and simply said, "Thank you."

He grinned.

"You clean up pretty well yourself," she offered truthfully.

The grin grew wider.

Ever the gentleman, he opened the passenger-side door for her, and she slid onto the smooth leather. He put the car into gear, and they took off, turning this way and that to navigate the streets of Lisbon. Soon the twists and turns of the city gave way to a long stretch of road and the ocean came into view, the moon glinting off distant waves like flecks of diamonds sparkling in the great, dark sea.

They didn't stop until they came to a brilliantly lit hotel called the Palacio, golden light spilling out from large glass doors. After leaving the car with the valet, he led her into the building with its glossy marble floors and windows that stretched up the length of the walls.

The architecture was as much a work of art as the painted canvases strategically placed throughout the building. It was beautiful and elegant, and she felt terribly exposed.

She resisted pulling at her strapless décolleté and, recalling what Peggy said about the gloves, edged them a little higher up her arms. Hopefully the police didn't have rulers for dresses, or the top of hers might result in a fine for indecency.

Music, delicate laughter, and conversation tinkled all around as finely dressed men and women chatted in the lounge area and inside the bar.

They were led to a ballroom with four large columns framing the middle of the room where the black-and-white-checkered marble tiles became a lovely pattern of circles and geometric lines. A long table was at its center, framed by chairs, its surface set with elegant gold-rimmed plates and white rose centerpieces that probably cost more than Ava made in a month.

All around them, people were engaged in light banter. Men wore dinner jackets and bow ties similar to James, while the women were like sparkling jewels amid all the black, their gowns brilliant in color, the sheen of silk as prevalent as the precious diamonds glittering on every neck, wrist and finger.

A delicate flute of bubbling champagne found its way into her hand, and the aroma of savory food wafted above the blend of costly perfumes that scented the air with flowers and musk. Ava took a sip from the slender glass and let the bubbles tickle down her throat.

Live music played at an ambient volume on one side of the room where the marble transitioned to a low-pile dark carpet and created an atmosphere that was as effervescent as the quality champagne.

It was surreal, this place where she suddenly found herself. One bathed in opulence and means, while so many in Lisbon lined up around the embassy and languished in front of cafés.

"Ah, James." A tall, slender man approached them, his thin dark brown hair swept neatly to the side, his skin tanned a healthy gold from the beach that was only a short walk from the hotel. "Who is this lovely creature at your side?" He spoke with a heavy French accent.

"This is Miss Harper." James indicated her first, then the man. "And this is Monsieur Blanchet."

The man took her hand and kissed the back. "Enchanté."

"Miss Harper is the woman I mentioned," James said.

"Ah, oui." Monsieur Blanchet nodded. "La bibliothécaire américaine."

The American librarian.

James casually lifted a finger at someone across the room. "Do excuse me a moment."

"By all means," Monsieur Blanchet said smoothly.

James glided off, leaving Ava with the Frenchman.

"It is a strange place, is it not?" he asked in French as he surveyed the room. "What is your opinion of all this?"

"It appears to be a glimpse of heaven amid the hell of war," Ava responded back in French.

"A glimpse?" His brows rose.

She had given offense. "Pardon, Monsieur Blanchet. I only mean that it is so small a place in times such as ours."

"Please," he said genially, "call me Lamant. And you are not wrong, so I am not offended. You needn't worry." He cocked his head. "This is a mirage, a shimmering promise on the horizon that disappears once you grow closer. I was curious on your opinion on the matter."

"Well, that's it exactly." Ava looked at the room again, at the hip bones jutting through silk gowns, at the strain lining men's smiles, at the heavy pours of amber liquid into the cut crystal glasses. "It doesn't seem real."

"It is not," Lamant agreed. "We all left our homes where we were starving. We are here until we no longer have the money to afford a room, biding our time for visas and passes as generations of inheritances trickle through our fingers like sand through an hourglass. We are safe, yes, but for how long?"

The rhetorical question lingered in the air between them, neither having an answer despite both wishing they did.

"James said I would like you and he was not wrong," Lamant said. "I have something I think you will find interesting. Something that may help. There are newspapers printed beneath that preposterous mustache of Hitler's. Men and women who risk their lives to publish the truth. I brought them with me from Lyon when I was smuggled out and have been wanting to ensure they fall into the right hands. James has told me you are such a person."

The grandeur of the room fell away, and she focused the whole of her attention on Lamant. There had been mention of these clandestine papers at the embassy, but she had failed to acquire any thus far. "I can promise you if I am given those newspapers, I will personally ensure they are seen to properly."

"It is as I figured." A grateful smile stretched over his thin lips.

James made his way back toward them from across the room.

"I will have them delivered to your car while we dine," Lamant said. "I also have ways of acquiring more if you like. Mademoiselle Harper—" he bowed over her hand and kissed the back of her glove once more "—it was a genuine honor."

He left as James approached, a silent nod shared between them. "Forgive the interruption," James said. "I hope you found Monsieur Blanchet as interesting as anticipated."

He led her to dinner where they were served soupe à l'oignon, coq au vin and ended with a decadent chocolate soufflé. Ava ate until the narrow waist of her dress began to squeeze at her full stomach. When they had finished and the mix of a fine port weighed down the airy sips of her champagne, they departed the Palacio.

Ava's pulse quickened as the car was brought around, a large manila envelope evident on the passenger seat. She practically fell into the vehicle in her haste to see its contents. Conscious of the valet nearby, she left the packet in her lap, its heft seemingly significant. Or perhaps that was simply her imagination.

Once James pulled away, however, she opened the flap and drew out several pages of newsprint. They were smaller than expected, the size of a piece of office paper, with Combat written at the top with the familiar Cross of Lorraine emblazoned across the bold C. There were eight issues inside, their dates two weeks apart. The contents detailed the Nazi wrongdoings in France, mothers whose bread rations weren't enough to feed their babies and the failure of a program called relève, which claimed to send captured French soldiers home as it exhorted free labor from the women wanting to save their men. One newspaper from April even detailed a horrific event in which the Nazis set up a trap to capture Jews on the one day a week they were allowed the charity of food and medical assistance.

She couldn't help but recall the American newspapers with buried articles about Hitler trying to eradicate the Jews. The mention of numbers killed had been exorbitant to the point of disbelief for those in America who were so far removed from the crises.

But Ava had always suspected there was something candid and awful in those harrowing words that others refused to believe. Reading Combat now made those seeds of trust sprout, the roots settling deep within her.

"This is incredible," she murmured to herself.

"I knew you would find Lamant helpful." James glanced at her as he drove.

"Very much so." She lowered the stack of precious pages. "But why give them to me when you could be using them?"

"My assignment here is a little different," he replied easily.

Before she could press him for more details, he continued, "Theo and Alfie are too busy for me to send these their way and they don't read French. I thought you could truly appreciate them."

"It is such an honor to be entrusted with these." She glanced down at the collection of clandestine newspapers in her lap.

What she now held in her hands was the real truth. This was a newspaper men and women risked their lives to write, to create, to distribute. One that could actually change the tide of war.

This was why she had agreed to come to Lisbon, to do something for America and all the rest of the world.