Page 22 of When Stars Dream at Midnight (The Midnight Stars Saga #3)

22

MIREILLE

I didn’t see Peter for days after our talk in the kitchen. He was avoiding me, skipping dinner and leaving in the mornings before Betsy and I made it out to the barn for our exercise. On the third morning without him, Betsy broached the topic for the first time.

“Do you want to talk about what happened between you and Peter?” Betsy asked. “It was obvious something was happening when I came into the kitchen. Did you…did he?”

Anger had been bubbling up inside of me for days now. “Why didn’t you tell me how he felt?” I spoke quietly, but it was obvious from the way I bit out the words that I was unhappy with her.

For once, she was without a retort. After a second or two, she tented her hands under her chin, seeming to feel her way through an answer. “I didn’t want to interfere. If Peter wanted you to know, he would have told you.”

“You’re supposed to be my best friend.”

“He’s my brother. And he didn’t want you to know. It wasn’t my secret to share.”

“Peter said George knew how he felt about me. No one told me. Just like my mother and father. Everyone lies to me.”

“It wasn’t a lie. They worked it out as gentlemen do.”

“By keeping it a secret?” I asked. “That makes no sense. I’m not sure why everyone thinks they’re protecting me by concealing the truth.”

Impatience flashed in Betsy’s eyes. “What good would it have done? You’d already chosen George.”

I sat on a hay bale, anger dissipating. “It’s true. I loved George from the very first.”

“What about now? Do you have feelings for Peter?” Betsy asked gently.

I glanced up at the ceiling of the barn. Cobwebs dangled from rafters similarly to those in my muddled brain. “It’s all so complicated. I loved George. Very much. You know that. Letting him go has been excruciating. But Peter had been special to me in a different way. George worshipped me and made me laugh. He was fun and light despite tragedy, and he made me feel that way, too. Peter, though, understood me. Or, rather, understands me. Unlike George, he’s still here.”

Betsy nodded, sitting next to me. “That’s right. He’s not here. You two are. We should move forward, even though it feels like a betrayal to those we lost.”

“These last few months have brought us closer, especially because we’re both grieving our spouses. With him, I can be myself and not have to keep up a brave face. He lets me be. Just as I am.”

Neither of us spoke for a moment until Betsy said, “I always thought it would be Peter. You and George were such opposites.”

“You know what they say about that.” I plucked at the bale, pulling out a piece of hay and twisting it around my index finger. “Would George be crushed to see me moving on? So fast? With his best friend?”

“He loved you both and would want you to have fulfilling lives even though he’s no longer here. Look at the way he died. Sacrificing his own safety to take care of others.”

I sighed, resting my head against her shoulder. “I suppose you’re right. But it may all be moot. I think he’s angry at me. He told me he’s taking a newspaper job and moving into the city. Since the other night, he’s been avoiding me. I miss him. He’s always been there, and now he’s not. I’ve missed him these last few days. The idea that he might move out of the house devastates me.”

“I say we accept Stella’s offer and all go to the beach,” Betsy said. “And you should talk to him. Tell him what you’re thinking, including that you’re conflicted out of loyalty to George.”

“How can I talk to him if he’s avoiding me?”

“I’ll make sure he’s home for dinner tonight.” Betsy patted my knee. “Leave it to me.”

As always, Betsy kept her promise. Peter came home for dinner, joining us all in the dining room for the first time since our talk. He continued to avoid my gaze throughout the meal and was quieter than usual. Betsy and her parents kept up the conversation, but it was uncomfortable for all of us.

Toward the end of the meal, Mrs. Westbrook asked Peter about the newspaper job. “Have you any news? Are you going to take their offer?”

Peter nodded. “Yes, but they don’t want me until the fall. They’ve got a guy retiring from the crime beat and asked me to take his position.”

“Wonderful news,” Mr. Westbrook said. “I’ll miss your help, but I understand this is what you want.”

“Thanks, Father. I’m grateful for your support.” Peter put down his fork and dabbed at his mouth with a napkin. “I’ve found an apartment to rent in the city. I’ll be moving out within the next few weeks.”

“What? But why?” Mrs. Westbrook asked, clearly dismayed. “You’ve only just come home.”

Peter’s gaze fell to his nearly empty plate. “I need to get on with my life. Being a reporter is what I’ve wanted for a long time. I’ll be more immersed in things if I live in the city, which will make me a better writer.”

Mrs. Westbrook shook her head. “But?—”

Peter cut his mother off. “I’ve decided. It’s for the best.”

After dinner, I stopped him in the hallway and asked if we could talk. He agreed, albeit reluctantly, his pale blue eyes guarded, a thin veil of polite indifference masking whatever he felt.

“Let’s have a drink in the library,” I said.

“Yeah, sure.”

We headed in that direction. The moment we entered the room, Peter marched over to the decanter of scotch his father kept there and poured us both a drink.

I hated to see him distant and angry. He’d always treated me with such deference and compassion that I barely recognized the man before me.

We settled near the window, the light of the evening fading into streaks of pink as the sunset.

“What do you want?” Peter asked.

I flinched at his cold tone. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

“Not true.”

“Why are you acting like this?”

“Like what?”

I sighed in exasperation. “Peter, you asked what I want, and I’m going to tell you. I want you to come to the beach with Betsy and me. It would be a great help to me to have you there.”

His eyebrows lifted slightly, but he shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

“Why not?” I stared directly into his eyes.

“I can’t do this any longer.”

“Do what?” My stomach clenched.

“Be reliable, old Peter. Always there for you even though you love his best friend. You know, that guy you couldn’t even see because of the bright glow that was George?”

“George is gone. Diana’s gone. But we’re still here. And believe me when I say I can see you perfectly well.”

A muscle in his left cheek pulsed, and his eyes glittered. “Don’t. Don’t take pity on me. That’s worse than anything else.”

My heart pounded. I pressed my damp palms together. Just tell him.

“It’s not pity.” I hesitated, swallowing the lump in my throat. “I have feelings for you. Deep ones. But I’m struggling to make sense of it all. How could I love you and George at the same time?”

He froze, his eyes searching mine. “I love Diana. But these are not love triangles. Those are for living people. There are only two of us here, last time I checked.”

“These last few months have been bearable because of you.”

His expression darkened, shutting me out. “Is that all I am? A comfort while you grieve George?”

“You know that’s not true. People don’t share what we’ve shared together and have it be only that.” I closed my eyes briefly, remembering my conversation with Betsy earlier, before looking directly into his eyes. “You understand me in a way George never could. With you, I’m myself. I look forward to our time together more than anything else in my life.”

“I’m not sure what that means.”

“I’m saying you’re not alone in your feelings. I have them, too. Still, I’m recovering from all the shocking changes that have come my way. I’ve lost so much. It’s left me reeling and unsteady. Please, don’t leave me too. I just need a little time.”

Peter stared at me for a long moment, and I wasn’t at all sure what he was thinking. But then, with a small, weary smile, he nodded. “I’ll come to the beach.”

Relief flooded through me, and I reached out instinctively to touch his arm. “Thank you.”

“Under one condition.”

“Anything.”

“I want to kiss you.”

My stomach dropped. He wanted to kiss me. Right here, right now? Was I ready? I gazed at him, taking in his handsome face and his mouth. I’d not kissed anyone but George. Could I open myself up again?

I must live. I must keep breathing. And loving. “Yes, all right.”

Peter hesitated, his gaze locked with mine, searching my face as though he didn’t quite believe what I’d just said. "Are you sure?" His voice sounded hesitant as if to give me a way out.

My heart raced, pounding so loudly I was sure he could hear it. “I’m sure.”

He stood, offering me his hand. I took it, rising to my feet on legs made of pudding. My breath hitched when his hand came up to touch my face, his fingers grazing my jaw. He bent his head, drawing ever closer, his eyes never leaving mine until the very last moment. Our breath mingled, and my lips parted slightly. And then, his lips met mine.

The kiss was soft, hesitant at first, as though neither of us wanted to shatter the fragile moment. My hands found their way to his chest, resting there as I allowed myself to enjoy every sensation. His spicy scent. The plumpness of his lips. His hard body against mine.

I sighed against his mouth, and he responded by deepening the kiss just slightly, his hand sliding to the back of my neck, holding me in place as though I might slip away. When we finally pulled apart, we stood there, catching our breath. My hands lingered on his chest, feeling his heartbeat. “What now?” I asked.

“I don’t know exactly,” Peter said. “Other than, thank you. Kissing you was better than I imagined, and that’s saying something because I’ve wanted to do that since the day you stepped off that train.”

“All this time?”

“All this time.”

“It won’t be the last time,” I said. “That I can say with certainty.”

He smiled, and it actually reached his eyes, reminding me of the boy he’d been when I first met him.

Betsy, Peter, and I arrived at the Bancrofts’ beach house in Long Island on a sunny, breezy afternoon in early June. Facing the unknown, I was nervous as a cat, jumpy, and easily spooked.

Peter looked over at me with an encouraging smile. “We’re here with you.”

“Yep,” Betsy said from the back seat. “It’s going to be fine.”

“I know. Thank goodness.” I gripped my handbag as Peter turned into the Bancrofts’ driveway.

Peter and I spent time together in our usual fashion since that first kiss. As I’d promised, the first kiss wasn’t our last. We’d had quite a few over the last few weeks. I couldn’t quite get over how these unexpected rushes of feelings I had for him changed everything. I’d fallen in love with him without even realizing what was happening.

Almost every night, I’d dreamt of my dead husband. In my dreams, George, as if he were still alive, was devastated and angry over my relationship with Peter. He shouted at me, condemned me, mystified by my betrayal. I’d wake in a cold sweat and trembling from shame. However, the dreams were forgotten while on the back of Marigold, watching the sun rise over the horizon, painting Peter and the world around us in orange light.

We came to a stop in front of a house positioned at the edge of the dunes. Weathered shingles and crisp white trim blended well with the beach landscape. Wicker chairs and potted flowers decorated the front porch.

“It’s so pretty.” My stomach flip-flopped with nerves. I’d not seen Estelle since our initial lunch other than to exchange a few letters. I had yet to meet my half sisters either, but today was the day.

Stella bounded down the stairs of the front porch to greet us, taking me into her arms for a brief embrace before I introduced her to Betsy and Peter.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you both. I’ll have one of the staff bring your trunks inside. We have a room for you, Peter, in the attic. It’s not large, but I think you’ll enjoy the privacy. Mireille and Betsy, I have you sharing a room on the second floor. Do you mind?”

“We’ve shared a room for much of our friendship,” I said. “It’ll be like old times.”

“Splendid. Now, come inside. Our cook is preparing a light lunch. The girls are anxious to meet you.”

She led us up the stairs and into the house. “Would you like a quick tour before I show you your rooms?”

“Yes, thank you,” I said from a mouth as dry as a salt mine.

Betsy nodded enthusiastically. Peter, as usual, simply nodded and followed along with whatever Betsy and I wanted.

She took us first into a cozy living room centered on a brick fireplace and large windows that looked out to the ocean. It was a room enjoyed by a family, without formality or fussiness. Shelves spilled over with books, seashells, and photographs. Furniture consisted of whitewashed tables, comfortable chairs, and a plush sofa with a faded floral pattern that were not exactly shabby but obviously well-loved. Glass doors opened directly onto a stone patio that led to a sandy path down to the water. I spotted three figures on the beach directly in our line of sight.

“Are those…?” I trailed off, not quite ready to call them sisters.

“Yes, those are your sisters,” Stella said. “I told them to come up in a half hour or so for lunch. I thought you might like a moment to refresh before the chaos that comes with the three of them.”

“That sounds fine,” I said. “Thank you.”

“I hope you’ll make yourselves at home here,” Stella said. “We’re not formal here by any means. Other than we take our meals together, mostly we do as we please. My daughter Isabella loves games, so there are often evening scrimmages.” She gestured toward a stack of games, including Monopoly, Scrabble, and Parcheesi, plus several boxes of weathered playing cards. “And you’ll be introduced to competitive games of charades, whether you want to or not. It’s a favorite of Isabella. She’s my lively one. Hates to lose. We’ve had many nights where I’ve had to give her a talking-to about good sportsmanship.”

Stella led us into a spacious kitchen where a plump middle-aged woman stood at the stove, preparing something in a pan that smelled of fresh peas and garlic. I quickly took in the wide windows and weathered wooden countertops before Stella introduced us to her cook. “This is Mrs. Porter. She’s with us in the city and graciously comes to the beach with us every summer.”

Mrs. Porter smiled pleasantly, pushing aside a salt-and-pepper curl from her forehead. “Pleasure to meet you. Please, call me Agnes. If you’re ever hungry between meals, you help yourself to whatever you can find. The jar there always has cookies, albeit they’re made with the tiny amounts of sugar I can get my hands on, so they’re not up to my usual standards. Before the war, we had Coca-Colas and lemonade in the icebox, but they’re hard to come by these days, as I’m sure you know.” She said this with a sad shake of her head as if she herself had created the shortages.

“We’ll be fine, I’m sure,” Betsy said. “But thank you.”

Stella took us up to the second floor next, where there were three bedrooms in total, including the guest room Betsy and I were to share. “The girls all bunk together here at the beach. They prefer it that way, since it’s what they’ve always done. When Clara and Leo come, they usually stay in the attic room. I’ll take you there, Peter, if you like? Ladies, you may unpack and freshen up. Lunch will be served at noon.”

Peter nodded and followed her out of the room, turning back to give me a wink before disappearing into the hallway with Stella.

“This is lovely,” Betsy said, flopping onto one of the twin beds. “I think it’s just what we need.”

Sunlight flooded through the open window that let in the sound of waves crashing to shore. The walls were painted a buttery yellow, pairing well with patchwork quilts in pastel colors spread over the beds.

Betsy and I unpacked, hanging our dresses in the wardrobe and putting the rest of our clothes, including dungarees and blouses, into the dresser.

“You look just like her,” Betsy said.

“I know. All this time, I thought I looked like my Papa.”

She squeezed my hand. “Are you going to be all right here?”

“Yes. I think so.”

“We can go home at any time,” Betsy said.

“Yes, I know. But as you said, it seems like we’ll have a restful and fun time. All three of us could use a break from work and worries.”

With that, we headed downstairs for lunch.

A long table covered in a crisp white linen had been set for lunch. Betsy and I walked out to the sun-drenched patio and were greeted by three young women huddled together near a flowerpot. Curiosity and apprehension glittered in equal measure from their widened eyes.

“Hello, I’m Mireille. And this is Betsy.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Betsy said.

The tallest of them, a dark-haired beauty with wide-set green eyes, leapt forward first, moving with an athletic grace. “I’m Isabella. Middle sister. Often tortured by my well-mannered, oftentimes boring, sisters.” A flowery sundress, gathered at the waist, flattered her slender figure. “You’re absolutely gorgeous. And you look just like Mama.”

“Hi, Isabella. Thank you.” I blinked, startled by her exuberance and scrutiny, feeling a little like a bug under a glass case.

“I’m Evelyn.” Petite and delicate, she brought to mind a porcelain doll I’d had when I was a child. That is, other than the flaming red hair. What a color it was, too—golden copper that shone under the sun. Freckles dotted her nose and cheeks like flakes of nutmeg in cream. “It’s not true what they say about redheads. I’m quite tame.”

“She’s a saint,” Isabella announced. “Nauseatingly so.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw that Peter had arrived for lunch. I couldn’t greet him, however, because the third sister had stepped up to introduce herself. “I’m Emmeline.” She had her dark hair pinned neatly back from her fair, round face. Sharp, thoughtful hazel eyes swept over me, but her smile, although shy, seemed sweet. “I’m glad to meet you. Thank you for coming. It means the world to Mama.” She had an air of quiet authority, like someone who measured her words carefully before speaking. I thought of Miss Mayfair, our headmistress, all those years ago when I’d first arrived in America.

“It must be strange to meet us,” Isabella said.

“For you, as well?” I asked.

“We’ve known about you all our lives. Mama always celebrated your birthday,” Evelyn said. “Every year. We’d have cake, and all pray that someday you would come to us.”

That brought tears to my eyes. “It seems your prayers have been answered.”

“Indeed they have.” We all turned to see Stella standing next to Peter and Betsy. “And now we will enjoy our first meal together. Come sit, everyone.”

After lunch, Stella and I walked barefoot along the water’s edge. She told me stories about my mother from when they were children and shared details about her life and work in New York. I hung on her every word, taking it in like a nearly starved woman at her first feast.

“When you’re ready, you can read the letters your mother sent over the years,” Stella said. “She was generous to write to me so faithfully. I didn’t know what to think when they stopped coming. I didn’t want to assume the worst, but it seems I should have. I wish I could have seen her one more time. We were very close as girls, especially after our baby brother died. He died when he was a toddler. My mother never got over it.”

“Can you tell me more about her?” I asked. “My grandmother?”

“Yes. Not today, but soon. I still find that time difficult to talk about. Especially the part about my mother.”

She changed the subject back to me, asking me questions about my work at the translation office. We walked and talked for an hour before returning to the house, where a lively game of Old Maid was being played by Betsy and my sisters on the patio. Peter sat in a rocking chair with a book open in his lap, watching me. The love in his eyes nearly made my knees buckle.

I glanced around at the scene quickly, taking it all in, a strange sense of familiarity rising in my chest. I’d not been here before, not in this exact moment, and yet it seemed as if I had. And it hit me—I wished I’d been able to grow up in all three of my families. One here with this family, and another with my mother and father and our beloved vines, and still another with the Westbrooks.

How lucky. To have three families to love. I must remember to think of it this way. Abundance instead of scarcity.

All three of my worlds had now combined.

For a second, an image of my dear mother passed before my eyes—standing on our porch with a bottle of our wine in her hand, laughing about something Papa had said to her. She’d been young and lovely before the war stripped her of everything good. But in that moment, she’d been perfectly happy. It was only a memory now, but a rebellious part of me wanted to shout into the wind that evil men and pointless wars could not take that from me. We had loved each other deeply, and that had to count for something.

One afternoon, while several of our merry party napped, my sisters asked if I would like to take a walk with them on the beach. The late afternoon sun was low on the horizon, and gentle waves rolled to shore. Cool breezes tugged at my hair, salty air mingling with the scent of seaweed. I walked between Emmeline and Isabella, with Evelyn trailing just behind us, our bare feet sinking lightly into the wet sand. Seagulls called to one another overhead, their cries echoing across the quiet beach.

Isabella bent down to pick up a perfectly smooth, flat stone. “Oh, look at this one. It’s perfect!” Her voice bubbled with excitement. A tone that almost never wavered. She was full of life and quick to smile. Her infectious energy and sparkling, mischievous eyes worked their way into my own soul. I found it impossible not to smile when I was with her. Today, her chestnut-brown curls tumbled loosely beneath a practical sun hat, framing her youthful, freckled face, and she wore a playful floral dress that danced in the sea breeze.

She reminded me of George. Not the dress, obviously, but her spirit.

“I collect these every summer,” Isabela said. “I have loads of glass jars full of them.”

“No one knows why,” Emmeline said.

“I think it sounds like a lovely hobby,” I said diplomatically.

Emmeline tucked a strand of dark hair behind her ear. “She tried to get us to collect, too, so that we could have contests about who had chosen the best one.”

“They never let me have any fun. But oh, isn’t this a glorious day?” Isabella spread her arms out wide and spun around, her bare feet making prints in the wet sand.

“Tell me what your plans are after the summer?” I asked.

“Emmie’s in college,” Evelyn said. “Did Mama tell you that?”

“She mentioned you’re going to be a teacher,” I said.

“She’s very smart,” Evelyn said.

Emmeline gave a modest shrug, her thoughtful eyes scanning the horizon. “I’m never happier than when I’m learning something new. I figure teaching will mean I can learn for the rest of my life.”

“It’ll give your life purpose and structure,” I said. “What about you, Evelyn?”

Evelyn brushed aside strands of her red hair that had stuck to her cheek and looked over at me from under the brim of her straw hat. “I’m graduating from high school this spring. After that, I hope to become a nurse. Like our mother and grandmother. They’ve helped Papa with his patients since before we were even born.”

“They didn’t go to school for nursing,” Isabella said, sounding proud. “But they know more than most doctors, I’d guess.”

“Have you spoken to Betsy about nursing?” I asked Evelyn.

“Oh, yes. In fact, she said I could volunteer at her hospital if I wanted, and Mama said I could as long as I keep up with my schoolwork.”

“And you, Miss Isabella?” I asked.

Isabella rolled her eyes. “I’m the only one who isn’t serious in this entire family. Papa says I’m around to make sure everyone still has fun during all their worthwhile pursuits. I wish I could have a job where I could be outside all day. Playing. Aren’t I terrible?”

I laughed. “Not terrible. You remind me of my late husband. He was more fun than anyone I’d ever met.”

“Really?” Isabella asked. “Tell us about him.”

I hesitated, surprised she’d asked. Most people seemed to want to avoid speaking of the dead. “He used to make me laugh so hard I couldn’t breathe.”

“Do you miss him a lot?” Evelyn asked.

“I do. But I have a lot of memories. We knew each other a long time.”

“I’m sorry.” Evelyn took my hand and we walked like that together, for a bit, all of us quiet.

“What about your mother?” Emmeline asked. “And Pierre. What were they like?”

I described my mother’s sweet, vibrant personality. “Everyone loved her. Her last act on this earth was helping a little boy. She was killed for trying to protect him.”

“Oh, that’s so sad,” Isabella said mournfully. “Was the little boy all right?”

“That I don’t know,” I said. “There’s a lot I don’t know. I’m not sure if my father’s still alive in some prison camp, but no one seems to think there’s much chance of that.”

“I know it’s not the same, but we’re here,” Evelyn said. “If you want us, that is.”

“Your mother told me, ‘There’s room in the human heart for many loves.’ I’m starting to understand that better with each passing day.” I told them about my new feelings for Peter and how the death of our dear spouses had brought us closer. “At first, I wasn’t sure if I should allow myself to fall for him. Your mother’s thoughts on the matter helped me to move things around a little in my heart, keeping a spot for George but making room for Peter, too.”

“That’s beautiful,” Emmeline said.

“Mama’s the smartest person in the entire world,” Isabella said before skipping ahead to chase a wave, then squealed as another crashed gently to shore.

“It’s true. She’s very wise,” Emmeline said. “I never really understood why she was so soulful until I learned about you. She missed her sister and the baby she had to leave behind. I think it broke her heart permanently. But it’s as she said, one can miss the baby they had to give away while still loving the ones who came after.”

“Does it make you feel jealous, knowing about us?” Evelyn asked.

“Not jealous, no. But I have to wonder why my mother didn’t send me to live with your family instead of to a boarding school. I’m still grappling with some of this. Regardless, I’m not resentful of the three of you. If anything, I’m delighted. I have sisters now. Which makes me feel very blessed and abundant.”

“Betsy’s like a sister, though, isn’t she?” Evelyn asked.

“Yes, she is.”

“And you wouldn’t have met her had you not gone to boarding school,” Emmeline said.

“You’re right. Or my George. Or Peter, for that matter,” I said. “You have your mother’s wisdom, I think.”

Evelyn dropped my hand and threw herself into my arms. “We’re sorry for everything that happened, but we’re glad to have you.”

Touched by her sweet gesture, my chest ached, and tears made everything blurry. “I’m glad too.”

We turned to walk back toward the house. Betsy had been my sister since the day I met her. Now, I would have three new sisters. It mattered little that we hadn’t spent time together growing up. We were here now. We had the rest of our lives to get to know one another.

Our days at the beach passed in a golden blur of salt air and sunlight. Mornings began with Agnes bringing out platters of fresh fruit, warm scones, and scrambled eggs. We would linger over coffee at the breakfast table, the windows thrown open to let in the cool breeze. After our meal, we would wander off in pairs or solo, reading, playing games, or walking on the beach. Afternoons were spent swimming in the surf, the cold water refreshing in the summer heat. Dinner was always lively, with discussions ranging from books, to politics, to stories from my sisters’ childhood. Several evenings, we gathered around a driftwood bonfire, the flames crackling and sending sparks into the darkening sky.

Peter and I found stolen moments together. We’d wander down the beach at dusk, the sky painted in streaks of orange and pink. He would pull me behind the dunes, where the seagrass swayed in the breeze, and kiss me, the scent of salt and his cologne filling my nose.

On our last evening, we all sat around a bonfire, passing around a tin of Agnes’s cookies. At one point, after a full moon had risen in the inky purple sky, Peter leaned close, asking if I would walk with him.

Peter’s hand found mine as we walked side by side, sand cool beneath our feet. The beach stretched out before us, soft and endless, bathed in silver from the full moon overhead. Moonbeams created a shimmering path on the ocean, highlighting the curves of dunes and jagged cliffs. The ocean appeared almost black, with tips of the waves glowing faintly white as they reflected the moonlight. I’d fallen in love with this beach, this house, this family. I hated to leave. But I must return to work. To duty. Until this war ends, we must remain diligent.

We stopped at a small dune, settling onto the blanket I hadn’t noticed him grabbing. Above us, stars shone faintly, unable to compete with that fat moon. Almost dreamlike, those stars, as if not quite sure how to show their brilliance.

Peter leaned back on his elbows, his gaze fixed on the heavens. “In London, on many nights, I couldn’t see the stars because of the smoke. And then there were the blackouts. Just darkness upon darkness. I never imagined I’d be sitting here with you, under this sky.”

“Here we are. Survivors.”

“Yes. Survivors.”

Peter sat up, his eyes reflecting the moonlight. “We’ve been spared. The question becomes, what do we do with our lives to honor those who died working to protect all of this?”

The raw emotion in his voice brought tears to my eyes. I reached for his hand, threading my fingers through his. “Yes, we’re still here. We have to really live. Make their sacrifices worth it.”

He exhaled deeply. “Do you think you could ever love me enough to marry me?”

“Yes,” I whispered. “You’re no longer a precious friend, but the man I want to share my bed with, make a family with. A family like yours and the Bancrofts.”

Peter lifted my hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to my knuckles. “Tell me more.”

I smiled, my gaze drifting back to the moon. “A house with enough room for a family. Maybe somewhere not too far from your parents so we can see them whenever we want. I’d like to have children—at least two. Maybe three.”

Peter chuckled, a deep, warm sound that made my chest ache with happiness. “Maybe four?”

“Why not?” I laughed.

“And I want to write. Not just for the paper, but a book someday.”

“A novel?”

“No, a history book. Maybe about the war. Who knows? Time will tell.”

“It will be remarkable. I know it will. Just like I know we’re going to be happy together.” I placed my fingers against his cheek and gently kissed his mouth.

He placed his hand over mine, trapping it against his jawline. “You, here with me? It feels like a dream.”

“It’s not. We’re here. Where we belong. Right next to each other.”

Peter pulled me into his arms, holding me tightly as waves lapped to shore and the hazy stars competed for attention against the flamboyant moon. How lucky I was, to have had the moon and stars shed their light upon me all these years. Whatever tomorrow brought, I carried their brilliance inside me.