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Cadence

1942

I walked up to Peaked Hill with my meager carton of books. The one sentry glanced at my ID card, let me through, and waved toward the silver Quonset hut in the distance. I thought about my night on the beach with Gil, in the cabin of the Tyche, our bodies intertwined. There was no chance he’d been faking his affection for me.

It was strangely quiet up there with everyone gone off somewhere. I walked to the top of the hill and stood on the bluff that overlooked the North Shore, all the way down to Lambert’s Cove Beach. There was a low ceiling of clouds, darkness coming on. They were preparing for something big along the distant coast, where lanterns glowed as twilight fell and trucks drove on the beach. The mock invasion I’d written about? Whatever was happening, it was imminent.

Would Gil leave his men to meet a German U-boat tonight? Not in a million years. It was someone else, I was sure of it. Probably Tyson Schmidt. He wore a uniform but was sort of a hothead. Or it could be someone we hadn’t thought of. Briar claimed she’d vetted the entire island population, but even she had her limits. Or perhaps it was no one at all. Maybe Peter had heard wrong.

I stepped into the Quonset hut, down the hallway toward Gil’s office. There was no sign of him, or anyone else, and it felt like a betrayal to be there, ready to paw through his things. My future husband. Gram and her tea leaves had been right. But this was not the best way to start a life together. It was absurd to think he’d betray America, after training those men with such dedication, and take secrets back to Germany.

He loved his commandos like his own brothers, I was sure of it. But Tom would want me to do all I could to join forces with Briar. For all her faults, she was a genius when it came to puzzles. And there was no greater one than this.

I flicked on the lights, set my carton on the chair, and took in Gil’s office. He had packed up much of it, but I could tell he was a neat sort, which I liked. It looked the same as every other in that prefabricated building, with the government-issued metal desk and the venetian blinds covering the window, but Gil had put his stamp on it with a leather desk blotter and a framed engraving of an English town on the wall next to the closet.

I opened the left-hand file drawers at his desk. In the unlikely event that anyone found me there, I would say I was looking for tape to seal the book box. Rifling through the files, I found nothing out of the ordinary; I felt along the back of the drawer, then moved on to the right side and repeated the same—my hand met leather. I pulled out an empty gun holster. His service revolver. So, he had a gun. That wasn’t particularly surprising for an Army officer.

Next I opened his closet, which smelled like him, of shave cream and some sort of lovely British bay-rum aftershave. Two coats hung in there, both heavy, one a canvas raincoat. Perhaps he’d packed them thinking that August on Martha’s Vineyard would be more like his own island, since England was so rainy. I felt in the pockets of one, finding only a pack of cigarettes. In the pocket of the other I felt a box and pulled it out. It was a white jewelry box, a gold L. E. Briggs sticker on the lid. The necklace Briar saw him buy.

Intended for me? I paused. If it was, I’d be ruining the surprise. I listened hard to make sure no one was about, then lifted off the lid to find a black velvet box. I snapped it open. A necklace. A diamond-covered heart edged with pearls on a gold chain lay there on the velvet. I’d never seen anything so beautiful.

I closed the lid and replaced the box just as I found it. If it was an engagement gift, then why had he not already given it to me? Today’s quasi-proposal would have been the perfect time to do so. And there were pearls. Was it intended for Amelia? Was he still seeing her? What about the Greta person Briar had told me about?

I was ready to give up and head home when I felt inside the breast pocket of his coat and pulled out a letter. Everything sharpened, colors enhanced somehow. It was postmarked Geneva, in handwriting feminine yet bold, and addressed to John Gilbert in care of the Vineyard Haven Post Office. So, John was his first name. It suited him. But why did he not want that letter sent via the usual military post? He hadn’t even read it.

I took a letter opener from the desk and gently worked it under the envelope flap, pulled out the letter, and sat down hard in his desk chair to take it all in.

I opened the folded sheets and a photo slid out of Gil and an attractive woman, perhaps in her early thirties, sitting at a café table. It looked like somewhere in Europe—maybe Switzerland, from the half-timber style of the houses around the cobblestone square. I examined it more closely. There was something else in the background. I swallowed hard: A Nazi flag hung from a building. The letter was three pages long and written in German, certain words so close to English. Gro?vater. Foto. But some were French, as well. Mon chéri.

My whole body felt blank. Briar was right all along: Gil had been compromised. Somehow he’d been just fine behind German lines, toasting with some German woman. Not exactly escaping from his German captors. And what about the mon chéri part? Clearly they were lovers.

I slid the letter into my pocket, hurried out of the building, and found the path down the hill back to the farm. Hopefully Bess, Margaret, and Briar would all be home. Together we’d figure out who tocall.