“Did you see the band?” she asked me, pulling my arm. “Look—it’s an all-girl orchestra. They’re Americans, and they’ve been touring with the USO. Isn’t that amazing? They’re called the Starlettes. The leader’s name is Joy Sanders, and she’s fabulous.”
I looked up, and sure enough the entire orchestra was composed of women in smart navy-blue suits, sounding as good as any orchestra I’d ever heard, except for maybe Glenn Miller’s.
“Wow, they’re so good,” I said.
“Joe was telling me there’s a few of them that have started around the country since the war,” Dottie said. “He brought me here early to meet them, and I sang and played with them.”
Joe came over then, gave me a hug hello, and grabbed Dottie’s hand. “Dottie, they’re asking if you want to sing tonight,” he said.
“I think I do. I’ll meet you backstage; let me go have a drink with the girls first,” she said, kissing him on the cheek.
I was so happy for Dottie and Viv. But to see them both falling in love made me feel lonelier than I’d felt in a long time, even though I was surrounded by friends.
Blanche waved us over to a table she had found with Martha and Frankie, and they had somehow already wrangled a waiter to bring us drinks. Viv came over to join us too.
“Where’s Harry?” I asked. “I want to thank him for the carriage ride.”
“He’s saying hello to some ‘chaps’ of his,” Viv said.
“A toast, dear girls,” Blanche said after the waiter had handed us our drinks. “To us and to Paris.”
“To us and to Paris.”
As the six of us clinked our glasses, a woman at a nearby table tapped Viv on the shoulder.
“Excuse me, but I have to ask, are you with Harold Westwood?” She spoke with a British accent and pointed across the club to Harry. The woman had sleek, jet-black hair and was sitting with two other young women. Frankie was eyeing them like she was ready for a fight if necessary.
“Yes, I suppose I am,” Viv said, amused at the question. “Why do you ask?”
“And you’re an American,” the woman said, with a catty smile. “Fascinating.”
“Why is it so fascinating?” I asked.
“We were wondering who you were, given that you’re with one of the most eligible bachelors in England. I don’t think his family will be happy to hear he’s spending time with an American girl.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Viv said, sitting up and frowning at them now.
“That’s Lord Harold Westwood,” the woman said. “He’s a baron. His family is one of the wealthiest families in England.”
“What?” I said, as I started to laugh. “You’re kidding.”
“No, I am definitely not kidding,” the woman said, sounding haughtier by the minute. “I’d be careful if I were you; the British upper class can be vicious to outsiders.”
“Thanks for the tip, but I’ll be fine,” Viv said, her voice cold as she turned her back on them, her cheeks a deep red.
Princess Viv was seeing a British aristocrat. Of course she was.
I gave her a sidelong glance. “You didn’t know?” I said.
“No,” she said. “I’m wondering if they have the right Harry Westwood; he’s never said a word.”
“Viviana Occhipinti, you just made my night,” Blanche said, passing her a cigarette. “This might be the best gossip we’ve had in the war.”
“I agree, but what are you going to do?” Frankie said.
“Calm down, girls,” Viv said, scanning the crowd for Harry now. “I don’t even know if it’s true.”
“Yeah, but they wouldn’t really have a reason to lie about something like that,” Martha said. “I mean—”
“Hey, Fiona,” Dottie said, interrupting her. She was looking behind me at the entrance. She pointed, so I turned to look.
A group of officers had just walked in. My gaze drifted to the tall, broad one standing in the middle. The one with the thick, dark hair and the smile I would know anywhere. Peter. I gasped and stood up as my cheeks grew warm and I felt butterflies in my stomach at the sight of him.
He had already spotted me and just mouthed a hello, raising his hand to wave.
“What? How did . . . wait.” I whipped around to look at my friends, and they were all smiling.
“Viv and I wrote him a letter,” Dottie said. She patted my hand.
“What are you waiting for? Go see him. Remember, have fun and don’t overthink it.” Viv gave me a shove.
I made my way over, through the crowds and tables and chairs, and it was almost impossible to get through the throngs of people. I finally reached the group, and his officer friends parted to make way for me so that we were standing face-to-face.
For just a second, we stood there awkwardly, but then I got on my tiptoes and threw my arms around him, and he pulled me up into a hug. I could feel his heart beating fast in his chest, and I heard one of his friends let out a whistle, while another whispered, “Moretti’s a goner.”
When we stepped apart, he was still holding on to my hand. I shook my head and smiled. “I can’t believe they sent you a letter,” I said.
“And I understand why you didn’t,” he said, leaning down and talking into my ear. “But you’re okay that I’m here?”
“More than okay,” I said, and he gave me a relieved smile.
“There’s a café a few blocks down,” he said. “I thought maybe we could go there, somewhere quieter than this?”
“Yes, perfect,” I said. I went to grab my purse and shawl and say good-bye to my friends.
“Viv’s right,” Dottie said, giving me a hug good-bye. “Please let yourself have a little happiness tonight for God’s sake. You deserve it, Fi.”
There were still crowds of people milling around outside of the club. Now a hunched old man in a burgundy sweater was playing an accordion for francs across the street from the door, and there was a tipsy couple laughing and dancing to his song.
We walked down the street, and Peter held my hand. It felt small and warm in his, and there was an undeniable electricity between us. The cold December air smelled like snow, and the Paris street at night, with its ornate lampposts and beautiful trees, some glistening with ice, was almost too pretty for words.
I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. Just live. Just live for this very brief, fragile moment in time.
I opened them again, and Peter was watching me.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said. “I think I’m better than I have been in a long time . . .”
He paused and then, in a whisper, said, “Me too.”
“I was so heartbroken to hear about Tommy Doyle. About everything that happened in Holland. About everyone you . . . we . . . lost.”
Peter didn’t say anything; he just squeezed my hand tighter, looked up at the sky, and nodded as the snowflakes started coming down.
We turned a corner onto a street that was no more than an alleyway. On the right, there was a tiny sign above a door that said, Chat Blanc, Chat Noir Bistro with a painted picture of a black cat and a white cat intertwined. We ducked inside.
The café had a checkered tile floor and was sparse but clean, with several French, British, and American flags decorating the wall above the small bar. There were two men in uniform at the bar, and only one of the tables was occupied with two young couples chatting away in French. The owner was a hefty man with wild silver hair, and he welcomed us with an enormous smile.
“Américains? Bonsoir! Bonsoir, monsieur, madame.” He held his arms out and led us to a table in the corner by the front window.
We hadn’t even seen a menu when the owner’s wife, a tall, thin, elegant-looking woman, brought over a bottle of red wine and some small plates of olives and nuts.
“From the bar,” she said in careful English, pointing to the two Allied soldiers sitting there. They held up their glasses to us and smiled, and we held ours up in return, saying our thank-yous in English and French.
“So much happiness in this city. It makes you feel like the war is already over,” I said.
“I wish it was, but I know better,” Peter said with a rueful smile. “We’ve got some work to do still.”
I just looked at him. Up close, you could see that Holland had taken its toll. There were a few more grays in his dark hair.
“I don’t know how you do it, how you keep going,” I said. “I don’t know how any of you do it.”
He looked up at me, surprised. “Me? How do you do it?” he said. “I think about that; you didn’t have to come, and yet here you are, helping us. I’m sorry that I ever doubted that. I’m in awe of the fact that you volunteered. I had to come, but you chose this.”
“I did and I didn’t,” I said. “I feel in some ways like it chose me.”
“Maybe it did,” he said. He took a sip of wine and then grabbed my hand across the table and held it tight. We sat there looking out the window, enjoying the moment.
“I’ve missed you,” he said, gazing into my eyes. “And I’ve worried about you. And being here with you tonight reminds me of what it is to actually have a life outside war.”
“I’ve missed you too,” I said. I pulled my hand away, so I could put my purse on the table. I pulled out his Purple Heart.
He stared at it for a long time, then took my hands in his.