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“Your wife.” Tears filled her eyes. “Oh, Gianni! Gianni…”
“People here can know, but nobody else.”
“I do not understand. Our marriage is to be a secret?” Her lovely eyes flashed. “I am not good enough for the world to know I am your wife?”
He wove the story easily. She had been correct; he was a spy. It was the reason he spent his holidays in Sicily, where no one was likely to recognize him. No, he could not tell her in what city he was stationed; in fact, he never worked out of any one city for very long. And no, he could not take her to live with him. It would be too dangerous for her. For their unborn child. And, when she still protested, he sighed and said he didn’t wish to worry her, but it would also be dangerous for him.
“You and our child could be the threat an enemy could use to get me to do whatever they wanted. Do you understand? If they, if anyone knew I had a wife, a family, I would become terribly vulnerable.”
She nodded.
This was a tiny mountain village in a place forgotten by time, but she had seen movies. She understood that spies led lonely, deliberately isolated lives.
Johnny thought of the endless intelligence officers he’d met over the years, of how visible they often were; he thought of how only the few who lived in the dark underbelly of the profession that no one ever talked about lived the kind of existence he was describing.
He thought of how monumental his lies were, and then he thought of how necessary they were for Angelica, for himself and for their child, and he helped her up, rose to his own feet and led her up to the house, where he took her to bed and they made gentle love.
* * * *
They were married a little more than two weeks later.
He had feared marriages had to be performed by priests, but they didn’t.
The mayor of the village said the necessary words.
The only possible problem was in the documentation he needed. His passport. His birth certificate. He ended up using the real ones; he could not imagine that either document would somehow transmit information to the embassy, the army or to Halvorson.
But he needed to fill out something called a Dichiarazione Giurata and it required not a lie, exactly.
It required creativity.
One of the benefits of his job was that he worked with all kinds of people and all those people had contacts. He made up a tale about a friend of his, an American who needed a document notarized—the Dichiarazione Giurata—verifying that there was no legal reason he, the friend, could not marry.
“He’s divorced, it’s all legal, but he’s afraid his ex will go crazy if she finds out he’s getting married again,” Johnny explained, and the guy he was dealing with nodded in sympathy and put him in touch with someone who could help him.
A forger, basically, but he tried not to think about that.
The wedding ceremony was brief and almost businesslike. To offset that he’d brought white orchids and a diamond wedding band with him the day he flew in. He wore a dark suit; Angelica wore a long white satin gown that she’d remade to allow room for her ever-expanding belly, and a white lace veil in her hair.
She looked beautiful and old-fashioned and sweet, and when he could not get an erection that night, their wedding night, he told himself it was only because he was concerned about hurting her or the baby, and that it had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that he either was or was not married, depending on how the Italian and American courts would interpret the chain of lies he’d created, if it ever came to that.
Five days later, he flew back to the Netherlands.
He told Angelica he would send her money every month, that he would come home whenever possible, and that he was, now and forever, her husband.
And as his plane lifted off and Sicily disappeared from view, what he told himself was that, considering the circumstances, two out of three wasn’t at all bad.
* * * *
To his surprise, he was able to put Sicily, Angelica, the baby and what might or might not be a marriage out of his head.
A month went by.
He sent money, phoned once a week, assured his wife—what an amazing word—that he missed her and he did, though not enough to fly home on weekends.
He told her that he couldn’t and she asked no questions.
The truth was, he just didn’t feel married. Didn’t want to feel married. He’d faced a difficult problem and solved it.
Why make things more complicated than they were?
Things were going well.
Each time he called, Angelica told him she missed him. He said he missed her, too. He asked about the baby. She said her back hurt a little—she was almost six months pregnant—but she felt fine otherwise. He told he would be home for a visit soon, that he had one assignment coming up and then he’d see her.
That was true enough.
He’d been called to Washington. He was to be promoted to lieutenant colonel.
He was to be given his own command in the States.
It was the most exciting thing that had happened to him, the next step in what he now knew was his path straight to the top.
In the not-too-distant future, he would become a general.
Christ, a general! Amazing.
What would Alden think?
Alden. Alden, who should have been wearing these oak leaves, one on each shoulder, as he now was.
The day after he received his insignia, Johnny arranged for a flight to Dallas. He rented a car at the airport. He didn’t want a military escort; he wanted to be alone.
He drove to Wilde’s Crossing. To the church cemetery where his father and brother lay. He walked past Amos’s grave without stopping. When he reached Alden’s, he saluted. Then he took off his cap, bowed his head, shut his eyes and told his brother how much he missed him.
“I’ve done everything you wanted to do, Alden,” he said softly. He grinned. “Except it took me twice as long.” His grin faded. “And I’ve done a couple of things you’d never have done. Bad things. I didn’t mean to. I just, I don’t know, I just did. And I regret them. Angelica. The pregnancy. Connie. Yeah, brother. Your girl, Connie. She’s as good a woman as a man could want—well, you knew that. And I didn’t treat her right. I can’t turn back time, can’t make up for it…”
No.
But he could set things right.
Go to see Connie. Tell her that she was, just as he’d said, as good a woman as a man could want. Hell, if he’d done things right, if he hadn’t been so fucking stupid…
He said goodbye to Alden. Took a pair of shiny silver oak leaves from his pocket and tucked them against the headstone. He put on his cap, gave his brother another brisk salute and returned to his car.
The drive to the Grimes house took only a few minutes.
Connie’s parents had died years back. She’d inherited their small house and he assumed she was still living there.
Would she be home? He hoped so. He wanted to see her, apologize for how he’d treated her. Yes, it was a little late for apologies. He hadn’t seen her in, what, four months? Five?
“Better late than never,” he told himself as he stepped from the rental car.
It had started raining. That was good; it meant nobody was on the nearby porches or out walking the family dog. The last thing he wanted was to bump into somebody he knew and have to come up with a meaningless round of Good to see you. What’s new? How’ve you been?
One last deep breath. One last long exhalation. Then he climbed the steps to her door. He smoothed down the jacket of his uniform, his trousers, tucked his hat under his arm and rang the bell.
Nothing.
He rang it again.
Still nothing.
OK. She wasn’t home. Half disappointed, half relieved, he started to walk away…
And heard the door open.
“John?”
Johnny felt a muscle knot in his jaw.
“Oh my God, John, is that you?”
He cleared hi
s throat. Turned around. “Connie,” he started to say, but the word caught in his throat.
Connie Grimes was pregnant.
And he knew, sweet Jesus, he knew without question that the child she carried was his.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
AFTERNOON HAD GIVEN way to evening; the rain had turned into a steady downpour.
They sat in the tidy, tiny kitchen, two civilized people drinking tea.
Connie had insisted on making some.
She’d drunk hers in delicate sips.
He had forced down a few mouthfuls to keep her from hovering over him and asking if he’d prefer something else.
The truth was, he never drank tea; he was strictly a coffee guy, but that was how little they knew about each other that she liked tea and he liked coffee, and all her fussing had only increased the tension.
He understood the fussing.
It had been to avoid what really mattered.
The pregnancy. The reality of a situation he could not believe.
“Christ,” he’d said when she’d opened that door, “Christ almighty, Connie…”
They’d stared at each other. She looked tired. Worn. And, of course, pregnant.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he’d said. “Why didn’t you call me? Write to me? Dammit, why?”
His voice had risen. She’d put her hand on his arm and drawn him inside.
“Don’t you want to know if the baby is yours?”
John’s jaw had tightened.
“Don’t play that game, dammit! It’s mine and we both know it.”
Her shoulders had sagged.
“I didn’t know how to find you,” she’d said wearily, “and besides, what was the point?”
“The point,” he’d said sharply, “was that I knocked you up.”
She’d flinched at his coarse words.
