Christmas In Cedar Cove: 5-B Poppy Lane

Five

“You killed Jean-Claude?” Ruth repeated incredulously.

Tears rolling down her cheeks, Helen nodded. “God forgive me, but I had no choice. I couldn’t allow him to be tortured any longer. He begged me to do it, begged me to end his suffering. That was the second time he was captured, and they were more determined than ever to break him. He knew far too much.”

“You’d better start at the beginning. You went into Gestapo headquarters?” Paul moved closer as if he didn’t want to risk missing even one word. “Was that the first time or the second?”

“Both. The first time, in April 1943, I rescued him. I pretended I was pregnant and brought a priest to the house the Gestapo had taken over. I insisted with great bravado that they force Jean-Claude to marry me and give my baby a name. I didn’t care if they killed him, I said, but before he died I wanted him to give my baby his name.” She paused. “I was very convincing.”

“So you weren’t really pregnant?” Ruth asked.

“No, of course not,” her grandmother replied. “It was a ploy to get into the house.”

“Was the priest a real priest?”

“Yes. He didn’t know I was using him, but I had no alternative. I was desperate to get Jean-Claude out alive.”

“The priest knew nothing,” Ruth said, meeting Paul’s eyes, astounded by her grandmother’s nerve and cunning.

“The Father knew nothing,” the older woman concurred, smiling grimly. “But I needed him, so I used him. Thankfully the Gestapo believed me, and because they wanted to keep relations with the Church as smooth as possible, they brought Jean-Claude into the room.”

Ruth could picture the scene, but she didn’t know if she’d ever possess that kind of bravery.

“Jean-Claude was in terrible pain, but he nearly laughed out loud when the priest asked him if he was the father of my child. Fortunately he didn’t have to answer because our friends had arranged a distraction outside the house. A firebomb was tossed into a parked vehicle, which exploded. All but two Gestapo left the room. I shot them both right in front of the priest, and then Jean-Claude and I escaped through a back window.”

“Where did you find the courage?” Ruth asked breathlessly.

“Courage?” her grandmother echoed. “That wasn’t courage. That was fear. I would do anything to save my husband’s life—and I did. Then, only a few weeks later, I was the one who killed him. What took courage was finding the will to live after Jean-Claude died. That was courage, and I would never have managed if it hadn’t been for the American soldier who saved my life. If it hadn’t been for Sam.”

“He was my grandfather,” Ruth explained to Paul.

“I want to know more about Jean-Claude,” Paul said, placing his arm around Ruth’s shoulders. It felt good to be held by him and she leaned into his strength, his solid warmth.

Her grandmother’s eyes grew weary and she shook her head. “Perhaps another day. I’m tired now, too tired to speak anymore.”

“We should go,” Paul whispered.

“I’ll do the dishes,” Ruth insisted.

“Nonsense. You should leave now,” Helen said. “You have better things to do than talk to an old lady.”

“But we want to talk to you,” Ruth told her.

“You will.” Helen looked even more drawn. “Soon, but not right now.”

“You’ll finish the story?”

“Yes,” the old woman said hoarsely. “I promise I’ll tell you everything.”

While her grandmother went to her room to rest, Ruth and Paul cleaned up the kitchen. At first they worked in silence, as if they weren’t quite sure what to say to each other. Ruth put the food away while Paul rinsed the dishes and set them inside the dishwasher.

“You didn’t know any of this before today?” he asked, propping himself against the counter.

“Not a single detail.”

“Your father never mentioned it?”

“Never.” Ruth wondered again how much her father actually knew about his mother’s wartime adventures. “I’m sure you were the one who prompted her.”

“Me?” Paul asked. “How?”

“More than anything, I think you reminded her of Jean-Claude.” Ruth tilted her head to one side. “It’s as if this woman I’ve known all my life has suddenly become a stranger.” Ruth finished wiping down the counters. She knew they’d need to leave soon if they were going to catch the ferry.

“Maybe you’d better check on her before we go,” Paul said.

She agreed and hurried out of the kitchen. Her grandmother’s eyes opened briefly when Ruth entered the cool, silent room. Reaching for an afghan at the foot of the bed, Ruth covered her with it and kissed the papery skin of her cheek. She’d always loved Helen, but she had an entirely new respect for her now.

“I’ll be back soon,” Ruth promised.

“Bring your young man.”

“I will.”

Helen’s response was low, and at first Ruth didn’t understand her and strained to hear. Gradually her voice drifted off. Ruth waited until Helen was asleep before she slipped out of the room.

“She’s sleeping?” Paul asked, setting aside the magazine he was reading when Ruth returned to the kitchen.

Ruth nodded. “She started talking to me in French. I so badly wish I knew what she said.”

They left a few minutes later. Absorbed in her own thoughts, Ruth walked down the hill beside Paul, neither of them speaking as they approached the foot ferry that would take them from Cedar Cove to Bremerton.

Once they were aboard, Paul went to get them coffee from the concession stand. While he was gone, Ruth decided she had to find out how much her family knew about her grandmother’s war exploits. She opened her purse and rummaged for her cell phone.

Paul brought the coffee and set her plastic cup on the table.

Ruth glanced up long enough to thank him with a smile. “I’m calling my parents.”

Paul nodded, tentatively sipping hot coffee. Then, in an obvious effort to give her some privacy, he moved to stand by the rail, gazing out at the water.

Her father answered on the third ring. “Dad, it’s Ruth,” she said in a rush.

“Ruthie! It’s nice to hear from you.”

Her father had never enjoyed telephone conversations and generally handed the phone off to Ruth’s mother.

“Wait—I need to talk to you,” Ruth said.

“What’s up?”

That was her dad, too. He didn’t like chitchat and wanted to get to the point as quickly as possible.

“I went over to see Grandma this afternoon.”

“How is she? We’ve been meaning to get up there and see her and you. I don’t know where the time goes. Thanksgiving was our last visit.”

How is she? Ruth wasn’t sure what to say. Her grandmother seemed fragile and old, and Ruth had never thought of her as either. “I don’t know, Dad. She’s the same, except—well, except she might have lost a few pounds.” Ruth looked over at Paul and bit her lip. “I…brought a friend along with me.”

“Your roommate? What’s her name again?”

“Lynn Blumenthal. No, this is a male friend.”

That caught her father’s attention. “Someone from school?”

“No, we met sort of…by accident. His name is Paul Gordon and he’s a sergeant in the marines. We’ve been corresponding for the past four months. But Paul isn’t the reason I’m phoning.”

“All right, then. What is?”

Ruth dragged in a deep breath. “Like I said before, I was visiting Grandma.”

“With this marine you’re seeing,” he reiterated.

“Yes.” Ruth didn’t dare look at Paul a second time. Nervously, she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and leaned forward, lowering her voice. “Grandma was in France during World War II. Did you know that?”

Her father paused. “Yes, I did.”

“Were you aware that she was a member of the French Resistance?”

Again he paused. “My father said something shortly before he died, but I never got any more information.”

“Didn’t you ask your mother?”

“I tried, but she refused to talk about it. She said some things were better left buried and deflected all my questions. Do you mean to say she told you about this?”

“Yes, and, Dad, the stories were incredible! Did you know Grandma was married before she met Grandpa Sam?”

“What?”

“Her husband’s name was Jean-Claude.”

“A Frenchman?”

“Yes.” She tried to recall his surname from the poster. “Jean-Claude…Brulotte. That’s it. He was part of the movement, too, and Grandma, your mother, went into a Gestapo headquarters and managed to get him out.”

“My mother?” The question was loud enough for Paul to hear from several feet away, because his eyebrows shot up as their eyes met.

“Yes, Dad, your mother. I was desperate to learn more, but she got tired all of a sudden, and neither Paul nor I wanted to overtax her. She’s taking a nap now, and Paul and I are on the ferry back to Seattle.”

Ruth heard her father take a long, ragged breath.

“All these years and she’s never said a word to me. My dad did, as I told you, but he didn’t give me any details, and I never believed Mom’s involvement amounted to much—more along the lines of moral support, I always figured. My dad was over there and we knew that’s where he met Mom.”

“Did they ever go back to France?” Ruth asked.

“No. They did some traveling, but mostly in North America—Florida, Mexico, Quebec…”

“I guess she really was keeping the past buried,” Ruth said.

“She must realize she’s getting near the end of her life,” her father went on, apparently thinking out loud. “And she wants us to know. I’m grateful she was willing to share this with you. Still, it’s pretty hard to take in. My mother…part of the French Resistance. She told me she was in school over there.”

“She was.” Ruth didn’t want her father to think Helen had lied to him.

“Then how in heaven’s name did she get involved in that?”

“It’s a long story.”

“What made her start talking about it now?” her father asked.

“I think it’s because she knows she’s getting old, as you suggested,” Ruth said. “And because of Paul.”

“Ah, yes, this young man you’re with.”

“Yeah.”

Her father hesitated. “I know you can’t discuss this with Paul there, so give us a call later, will you? Your mother’s going to want to hear about this young man.”

“Yes, Daddy,” she said, thinking with some amusement that she sounded like an obedient child.

“I’ll call Mom this evening,” her father said. “We need to set up a visit ourselves, possibly for the Memorial Day weekend.”

After a quick farewell, she clicked off the phone and put it back in her purse.

Paul, still sipping his coffee, approached her again. She picked up her own cup as he sat down beside her.

“I haven’t enjoyed an afternoon more in years,” Paul said. “Not in years,” he added emphatically.

Ruth grinned, then drank some of her cooling coffee. “I’d like to believe it was my company that was so engaging, but I know you’re enthralled with my grandmother.”

“And her granddaughter,” Paul murmured, but he said it as if he felt wary of the fact that he found her appealing.

Ruth took his hand. “We haven’t settled anything,” he reminded her, tightening his hold on her fingers.

“Do we have to right this minute?”

He didn’t answer.

“I want to see you again,” she told him, moving closer.

“That’s the problem. I want to see you again, too.”

“I’m glad.” Ruth didn’t hide her relief.

Paul’s responding smile was brief. “Fine. We’ll do this your way—one day at a time. But remember, I only have two weeks’ leave.”

She could sense already that these would be the shortest two weeks of her life.

“By the time I ship out, we should know how we feel. Agreed?”

“Agreed.”

He nodded solemnly. “Do you own a pair of in-line skates?” he asked unexpectedly.

“Sure, but I don’t have them in Seattle. I can easily rent a pair, though.”

“Want to go skating?”

“When?”

“Now?”

Ruth laughed. “I’d love to, with one stipulation.”

“What’s that?”

Ruth hated to admit how clumsy she was on skates. “If I fall down, promise you’ll help me up.”

“I can do that.”

“If I get hurt…”

“If you get hurt,” Paul said, “I promise to kiss you and make it better.”

Ruth had the distinct feeling that she wasn’t going to mind falling, not one little bit.

Six

Helen Shelton

5-B Poppy Lane

Cedar Cove, Washington

April 23

Dearest Charlotte,

Forgive me for writing rather than calling. It must seem odd, since we’re neighbors as well as friends. It’s just that sometimes writing things out makes it easier to think them through….

I have some news, by the way. You haven’t met my granddaughter, Ruth, but you’ve heard me speak of her. Well, she was over last week with a soldier she’s been writing to, who’s on leave from Afghanistan. He’s a delightful young man and it was easy to see that her feelings for him are quite intense. His name is Paul Gordon. When Ruth first introduced us, I’m afraid I embarrassed us both by staring at him. Paul could’ve been Jean-Claude’s grandson, the resemblance is that striking.

For the past few weeks, I’ve been remembering and dreaming about my war experiences. You’ve encouraged me for years to write them down. I’ve tried, but couldn’t make myself do it. However…I don’t know if this was wise but I told Ruth and her young man some of what happened to me in France. I know I shocked them both.

My son phoned later the same day, and John was quite upset with me, especially since I’d told Ruth and not him. I tried to explain that these were memories I’ve spent most of my life trying to forget. I do hope he understands. But Pandora’s box is open now, and my family wants to learn everything they can. I’ve agreed to allow Ruth to tape our conversations, which satisfies everyone. I’m afraid you’re right, my dear friend—I should’ve told my children long ago.

Do take care of yourself and Ben. I hope to see you soon.

Bless you, dear Charlotte,

Your friend always,

Helen

“I want you to meet my family,” Paul said a little more than a week after their first date. They’d spent every available moment together; they’d been to the Seattle Center and the Space Needle, rowing on Lake Washington, out to dinner and had seen a couple of movies. Sitting on the campus lawn, he’d been waiting for Ruth after her last class of the day. He stood when she reached him, and Ruth saw that he wasn’t smiling as he issued the invitation.

“When?”

“Mom and Dad are at the house.”

“You mean you want me to meet them now?” Ruth asked as they strolled across the lush green grass toward the visitors’ parking lot. If she’d known she was meeting Paul’s parents she would’ve been better prepared. She would’ve done something about her hair and worn a different outfit and…

“Yeah,” Paul muttered.

Ruth stopped and he walked forward two or three steps before he noticed. Frowning, he glanced back.

“What’s going on here?” she asked, clutching her books to her chest.

Paul looked everywhere but at her. “My parents feel they should meet you, since I’m spending most of my time in your company. The way they figure it, you must be someone important in my life.”

Ruth’s heart did a happy little jig. “Am I?” she asked flirtatiously.

A rigid expression came over him, betraying none of his feelings. “I don’t know the answer to that yet.”

“Really?” she teased.

“Listen, Ruth, I’m not handing you my heart so you can break it. You don’t want to be involved with a soldier. Well, I’m a soldier, and either you accept that or at the end of these two weeks, it’s over.”

He sounded so…so military. As if he thought a relationship could be that simple, that straightforward. Life didn’t divide evenly into black and white. There were plenty of gray areas, too. All right, so Paul had a point. In the back of her mind, Ruth hoped that, given time, Paul would decide to get out of the war business. She wasn’t the kind of woman who’d be content to sit at home while the man she loved was off in some faraway country risking his life. Experiencing dreadful things. Suffering. Maybe dying.

“You’d rather I didn’t meet your family?” she asked.

“Right.”

That hurt. “I see.”

Some of her pain must have been evident in her voice, because Paul came toward her and tucked his finger beneath her chin. Their eyes met for the longest moment. “If my family meets you, they’ll know how much I care about you,” he said quietly.

Ruth managed to smile. “I’m glad you care, because I care about you, too,” she admitted. “A lot.”

“That doesn’t solve anything.”

“No, it doesn’t,” she said, leaning forward so their lips could meet. She half expected Paul to pull away, but he didn’t.

Instead, he groaned and forcefully brought his mouth to hers. Their kiss was passionate, deep—honest. She felt the sharp edges of her textbooks digging painfully into her breasts, and still Ruth melted in his arms.

“You’re making things impossible,” he mumbled when he lifted his head from hers.

“I’ve been known to do that.”

Paul reached for her hand and led her into the parking lot. “I mentioned your grandmother to my parents,” he said casually as he unlocked the car doors.

“Ah,” Ruth said, slipping into the passenger seat. “That explains it.”

“Explains what?”

“Why your family wants to meet me. I’ve brought you to my family. They feel cheated.”

Paul shook his head solemnly. “I really don’t think that’s it. But…speaking of your grandmother, when can we see her again?”

“Tomorrow afternoon, if you like. I talked to her this morning before my classes and she asked when we could make a return visit.”

“You’re curious about what happened, aren’t you?” Paul asked as he inserted the key into the ignition.

“Very much,” Ruth said. Since their visit to Cedar Cove, she’d thought about her grandmother’s adventures again and again. She’d done some research, too, using the internet and a number of library books on the war. In fact, Ruth was so fascinated by the history of the Resistance movement, she’d found it difficult to concentrate on the psychology essay she was trying to write.

She’d had several days to become accustomed to the idea of Helen’s exploits during the Second World War. And yet she still had trouble imagining the woman she knew as a fighter for the French Resistance.

“She loved Jean-Claude,” Paul commented.

Ruth nodded. Her grandmother had loved her husband enough to kill him—a shocking reality that would not have made sense at any other time in Helen’s life. And then, at some point after that, Helen had met her Sam. How? Ruth wondered. Helen said he’d rescued her, but what were the circumstances? When did they fall in love? Family history told her that Sam Shelton had fought in the European campaign during the Second World War. He’d been in France toward the end of the war, she recalled. How much had he known about Helen’s past?

Ruth could only hope her grandmother would provide some answers tomorrow.

The meeting with Paul’s family was going well. Ruth was charmed by his parents, who immediately welcomed her. Barbara, his mother, had an easy laugh and a big heart. She brought Ruth into the kitchen and settled her on a stool at the counter while she fussed with the dinner salad.

Paul and his father, Greg, were on the patio, firing up the grill and chatting. Every now and then, Ruth caught Paul stealing a glance in her direction.

“I want to help,” Ruth told his mother.

“Nonsense,” Barbara Gordon said as she tore lettuce leaves into a large wooden bowl. “I’m just so pleased to finally meet you. It was as if Paul had some secret he was keeping from us.”

Ruth smiled and sipped her glass of iced tea.

“My father was career military—in the marines,” Barbara said, chopping tomatoes for the salad. “I don’t know if that was what induced Paul to join the military or not, but I suspect it had an influence.”

“How do you feel about him being stationed so far from home?” Ruth asked, curious to hear his mother’s perspective. She couldn’t imagine any mother wanting to see her son or daughter at that kind of risk.

Barbara sighed. “I don’t like it, if that’s what you’re asking. Every sane person hates war. My father didn’t want to fight in World War II, and I cried my eyes out the day Greg left for Vietnam. Now here’s my oldest son in Afghanistan.”

“It seems most generations are called upon to serve their country, doesn’t it?” Ruth said.

Barbara agreed with a short nod. “Freedom isn’t free—for us or for the countries we support. Granted, in hindsight some of the conflicts we’ve been involved in seem misguided, but unfortunately war appears to be part of the human condition.”

“Why?” Ruth asked, although she didn’t really expect a response.

“I think every generation has asked that same question,” Barbara said thoughtfully, putting the salad aside. She began to prepare a dressing, pouring olive oil and balsamic vinegar into a small bowl. “Paul told me you have a problem with his unwillingness to leave the marines at the end of his commitment. Is that right?”

A little embarrassed by the question, Ruth nodded. “I do.”

“The truth is, as his mother, I want Paul out of the marines, too, but that isn’t a decision you or I can make for him. My son has always been his own person. That’s how his father and I raised him.”

Ruth’s gaze followed Paul as he stood with his father by the barbecue. He looked up and saw her, frowning as if he knew exactly what she and his mother were talking about. Ruth gave him a reassuring wave.

“You’re in love with him, aren’t you?” his mother asked, watching her closely.

The question took Ruth by surprise. “I’m afraid I am.” Ruth didn’t want to be—something she hadn’t acknowledged openly until this moment. He’d described his reluctance to hand her his heart to break. She felt the same way and feared he’d end up breaking hers.

There seemed to be a tacit agreement not to broach these difficult subjects during dinner.

The four of them sat on the patio around a big table, shaded by a large umbrella. His mother had made corn bread as well as the salad, and the steaks were grilled to perfection. After dinner, Ruth helped with the cleanup and then Paul made their excuses.

“We’re going to a movie?” she whispered on their way out the door, figuring he’d used that as a convenient pretext for leaving.

“I had to get you out of there before my mother started showing you my baby pictures.”

“I’ll bet you were a real cutie.”

“You should see my brother and sister, especially the nude photos.”