“It smells like it.” He spotted Chaisley and he couldn’t contain his smile. What that woman did to him... wow.
But instead of greeting him with a smile, deep lines creased her forehead, and her mouth turned down.
“What’s wrong?” He was at her side in an instant.
“While we were waiting for you, I was checking up on all the letters we’ve sent. There are a number of contacts who haven’t responded.”
That was odd. He studied the stacks in front of her. “Haven’t we always received a response?”
“Yes. That’s what bothers me.” She ran her fingers over the braille on the sheet to her right. “As of right now, there are five who haven’t written back. One, I worry about their safety. Two, what happened to the letters or what kept them from responding?”
He placed his hands on his hips and shook his head. “It was too good to be true to think that the Nazis weren’t paying attention to our correspondence. But at this point, I think it’s best to assume that someone has caught on and those letters have been intercepted.”
Melanie’s eyes widened as she sat at the table. “That’s an awful thought.” She shivered. “No offense, Rick, but I don’t like the idea of spies. Well, the bad guys having spies.”
“Me neither.” He took the chair next to Chaisley. “All right, so let’s hash this out. How easy would it be for them to read what you’ve sent out?”
She leaned back in her chair. “They’d have to have someone who was an expert in braille. Someone who had studied all the different dot languages from the beginning. Frankly, now that I’m saying it out loud again, I don’t think there are very many that could do that. Especially not those who would willingly help the Nazis.”
“What you’re saying is that they probably can’t decode anything. Right? At best, they might have a few snippets of information?”
She nodded. “I think it’s time we switched all correspondence to all contacts over to only using the musical braille code I developed. It’s much harder to decipher, and they’d have to have not only someone who understood braille, but someone who has aworking knowledge of all the facets of music, and musical braille on top of that. Then that person would have to figure out my system.” With a shrug, she leaned forward. “In my estimation, that could take months.”
“I think it’s time I master this more complicated code.” Rick studied the braille sheet in front of Chaisley. “What do we have to do to inform everyone that we’ve switched? Are they aware of it?”
“Yes, Dr. G visited each contact personally over the last few months. He said it was paramount to plan ahead. He has a code word that he will use to call everyone, and they will know to switch.”
“Sounds like it’s time.” He tapped the paper. “I should probably fill you in on what is happening right now.” After he relayed what he knew about the meetings in Munich, they dug into the now lukewarm food.
But the company was great. The food was better than anything he could cook for himself. And Melanie was no longer eyeing him with suspicion.
Rick took the moment to study Chaisley. The woman fascinated him more each day. And she took his breath away any time she turned her face toward him. He blinked and forced himself to focus on his food. Time to face facts, he was head over heels. Not that he could do anything about it.
When he looked up from his plate, Melanie pinned him with a stare and quirked an eyebrow up.
Most likely with the same question that was on his mind.
When would he tell Chaisley that she’d stolen his heart?
Friday, September 30, 1938
The next morning dawned drizzly and gloomy—Chaisley didn’t need her sight to recognize that.
Rain pelted the windows, and the wind blew in angrysforzandobursts throughout a tranquil melody.
She shuffled her way to the breakfast nook and yawned. “Good morning.”
“Good morning.” Mel’s tone was a bit like the weather. Gloomy. “Your tea is steeping on the table.”
“Thank you.” She found her seat and reached for the china cup that her friend always placed in the two o’clock position. Wrapping her hands around it, she allowed her fingers to warm on the sides. “I smell toast.”
“That you do.” Her friend’s laugh was light. “And there should be great rejoicing, because this time it isn’t burnt.”
“Aw...” She did her best to cover her giggle. “But I was just beginning to like it burnt. Although, I’d always prefer a croissant.”
A knock sounded at the door—a rhythm she recognized. Rick.
“I’ll get that.” Melanie moved from the table. The door opened. “Come on in. I made toast.”
