Ruby and Frank were back in England by the middle of September, arriving in Southampton the very morning her thirty-day war correspondent’s pass expired. There was time enough, as they waited for their train to London, to ring home with news of her homecoming, and when Ruby’s taxi pulled to a stop in front of the house, Vanessa was waiting at the door.
As soon as she’d set her free from a long and nearly smothering embrace, Vanessa pointed Ruby in the direction of the stairs. “I am agog to hear every last detail, but first you must have a bath and something to eat. Jessie is heating up some soup for you now.”
“You’re a mind reader, Vanessa. Thank you.”
An hour later she was ensconced on the sitting room sofa, Simon was curled up on her lap, Vanessa was seated inches away, and it was time to tell the story of her month as an accredited war correspondent, albeit with a few prudent omissions.
Although she’d written Vanessa every few days when she was away, Ruby had saved the telling of Dan Mazur’s ignominious collapse in the operating room for this moment, and if she embellished his faults in the retelling, it was only to amuse her friend. She also took pains to describe, in as much detail as she could summon, the delicious meals she and Frank had eaten in Paris, the beautiful buildings they had visited, and the fierce dignity of the French people.
“You haven’t said anything yet about Bennett,” Vanessa observed. “How was he?”
“Well enough. Alive.”
“That was when you’d just arrived in Paris?”
“Yes. He found me in the crowd. But he wasn’t able to stay for long.”
“Long enough, I hope!”
“Vanessa.”
“Oh, don’t mind me. Although . . . how did you, ah, leave things?”
“He promised to come home to me. And I believe he will.”
“As do I.”
They sat in silence for a minute or so, the two of them listening to Simon’s purr.
“Did you read any of my pieces? The ones from France?” Ruby asked, suddenly anxious for Vanessa’s approval.
“Of course I did—every last one. I adored the story about the American hospital. Simply wonderful stuff. You’ve such a knack for capturing a sense of place. I really did feel I knew those nurses and that doctor by the time you were done. And the poor boys they were trying to save. Just thinking about it, now, brings tears to my eyes.”
“Did you see my piece in last week’s issue?”
“The one about the building where the Gestapo tortured people? Yes. I don’t know how you were able to bear it.”
“After Frank and I were finished there, after we’d seen everything the French wanted us to see, we walked back to our hotel. It was only about a half mile away but it seemed to take forever. I got back to my room and I had to be clean. I had to wash that evil place off my skin. So I went down the hall and ran a bath and I scrubbed and scrubbed until the water was cold and I’d run out of soap.”
Standing outside the unremarkable building on the rue de Saussaies that morning, she’d had only the faintest notion of what she would find inside. The French authorities had said it was a place of detention, of torture, and of execution. She had heard the words clearly enough, but she hadn’t understood.
Not until she had toured through cell after cell, their barred windows offering a monstrous view of the inner courtyard where, after days of unrelenting torture, countless men and women had been tied to a post and shot, did she understand. A reprieve from execution, their guide explained, had meant only a one-way journey to Nazi death camps in the east. No one had escaped number 11, rue de Saussaies. No one.
Many of the cells had writing on their plaster walls; what amounted to epitaphs, Ruby had realized. J’ai peur, one had said. I am afraid. Others offered farewells to loved ones or, defiant to the last, condemned Nazi barbarity. The hardest to read, the one that nearly brought her to her knees, simply said, la vie est belle.
Life is beautiful.
A gentle touch on her arm brought Ruby back to the here and now. “Did you leave Paris after that? Go farther north?”
“No. So much of France isn’t yet secure. And I probably wouldn’t have been given permission to get any closer to the fighting. Frank might easily have gone alone, but he refused to leave me.”
“Such a lovely man. It was a comfort to know you were with him.”
“He was so keen to be back with his wife. I hope he doesn’t come up for air for days.”
“And you?” Vanessa asked. “Will you go back to work tomorrow?”
“I will. I sent Kaz a telegram a few days ago, just to let him know we were on our way home. He sent me one by return that said he’d had a letter from my old editor at The American. Apparently Mr. Mitchell is wondering when I’ll be returning to the States.”
Vanessa looked as if she were about to cry. “Please don’t tell me you’re even considering it. I can’t bear it.”
“I’m not. I love my country, I do, but everyone who matters to me is here. If I go back to New York, I’ll be alone again.”
“And we can’t let that happen,” Vanessa said, blinking back tears.
“No. I’ve come too far for that.”
THE NEXT MORNING, still shy of eight o’clock, Ruby was back at PW. After a jubilant greeting from Evelyn, she made the rounds of the office with promises to share her stories later that day. And then, before she knew it, she was standing in front of Kaz’s open door.
“I’m back.”
“I know. Come in and sit down while I finish this thought.” She sat, watching him fondly as he scribbled away. At last he set down his pen and looked up at her, his pale eyes aglow with affection. “It’s very good to see you. Did you have a happy reunion with Vanessa?”
“The happiest.”
“And Bennett?”
“He was well, or at least he was when I saw him last.”
“Does he have any notion of when he’ll be home?”
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “Though I can’t imagine it will be before the end of the war.”
“Yes—the end of the war. Have you given any thought to what you want to do?” Kaz the editor was back, and there was something in his serious expression that made Ruby sit up a little straighter in her chair.
“I have,” she said. “Is this about the letter you got from Mike Mitchell?”
“In part. You know he’s keen for an answer as to when I’ll be sending you back. The man seems to think you have a bright future at The American. As do I, for that matter. Assuming that’s what you want.”
“What if I don’t?” she countered. “What if I want to stay here?”
“You certainly can. You know you’ve a job with me as long as you want one. You ought to know, too, that I don’t enforce any sort of marriage bar here at PW.”
It was a good thing Ruby wasn’t given to blushing, otherwise her face would have been fire-engine red. “A marriage bar?”
“Yes. The antediluvian convention whereby women are given the sack upon marriage. I never—”
“I know what it is. I just don’t understand why we’re talking about it now.”
It was Kaz’s turn to blush. “I do beg your pardon. I had assumed that you and Bennett had, ah, come to an understanding.”
“We haven’t. I mean, not in so many words. Oh, please—can we talk about something else?”
“Of course. Let’s focus on your having a job here as long as you want one. Will that do?”
“Yes.”
“And that’s what you want? When this war is over and done?”
“I think so. I mean . . . I’ve never thought beyond the end of the war. I know I want to stay here, and I know that I love Bennett. But that’s all I can be certain of right now.”
“That’s everything, though. Everything that matters. You’ve a home here, friends who care for you, work that you love. Don’t you see?”
“I do.” And the realization of it, the certain knowledge that Kaz was right, made her heart grow tight in her chest. “Do you remember my first day? How nervous I was? I’d no idea of what sort of writer I wanted to be, let alone what kind of person I wanted to become.”
“And now?”
“Now I know. I was so unsure of myself back then. As if I had everything to prove, and nothing to lose.”
He nodded, his expression warm with understanding. “But that was five years ago. How do you feel today?”
“Excited. Still a little nervous. Ready for what’s next.”
“Good,” he said decisively. “So—shall we have an editorial meeting? Just to bring you back up to speed? And then lunch at the Old Bell?”
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
A TELEGRAM WAS waiting for her when they returned from lunch. She knew not to panic, for bad news about Bennett would never come by telegram. He’d told her as much when he’d kissed her goodbye that morning in Paris.
“I’ll send you a telegram each week, plus or minus a day if I can’t get to a dispatch office. If anything does happen to me, you’ll find out from Harry, who’s just as likely to saddle Kaz with the news. So don’t be alarmed when the first telegram makes its way to you.”
She opened the envelope with care, for she didn’t want to tear the flimsy piece of paper inside. It was the same message he’d sent her three times already, and once again it comforted her beyond measure.
DEAREST R. ALL IS WELL. I WILL COME HOME TO YOU. B.