“I’ve actually never seen them during the holidays. Though I’ve wanted to.” Political festivities always consumed her family’s calendar, barring any plans that time of year to venture out of DC.
“Then I’ll take you.” Isaak spoke so decisively, as if Manhattan were across the street, not halfway around the globe. America seemed light-years away.
Suddenly Vivian recalled her pressing news, of her plans to leave in a week. She stamped out the thought, a dried leaf beneath her heel. For the time being, she would allow herself to indulge. She closed her eyes to visualize the scenes, to cling to a feeling of safety.
“What else shall we do while we’re there?”
He kissed the top of her head and she could feel the upturn of his lips. “Why, I’ll take you shopping, of course. Buy you the loveliest hat in Manhattan.”
“Only a hat?”
“A dress-three dresses. A whole wardrobe.”
She smiled.
“Have you been to the Empire State Building? It wasn’t built when I was there.”
“Just a few times.” She looked up at him. “Why? Would you like to go?”
He paused. “King Kong doesn’t actually cling to the top, does he?”
“Not usually.”
“In that case, we’ll add it to our list.” His fingers moved to her cheek. It was a triangular caress, as though mapping their tour on her skin. “From there, we’ll ice-skate in Central Park and take a carriage ride through the city. And we’ll have coffee and pastries every week at my favorite cafe in town.”
“Where is that?” she asked.
“It’s in Brooklyn, near Prospect Park. Called Cafe Labrec. It has a small French courtyard with flowers that bloom in every color. Darling, you’ll feel drunk on the scent of their croissants alone.”
She imagined the smell of baking dough, the chocolate smothered over buttery delights. “How heavenly,” she sighed, and that’s when the siren stopped.
The air raid was over. The silence was sobering.
“Thank God,” he murmured.
Ironically, Vivian felt anything but thankful. She had no desire to leave the virtual world they had constructed.
Isaak shifted, about to stand.
“Not yet.” She grasped his arm, and a solution emerged from the cellar of her own mind. She had been so afraid to throw her life off-kilter. Now she knew: What she had viewed as the firm foundation of her future would be but a feeble stage without him.
In the quiet, Isaak cocked his head, questioning. The lantern cast him in shadows.
She rose onto her knees to fully view his face. Her lingering adrenaline emboldened her. “Come to America with me.”
His eyes sparked with levity, a continuation of the fantasy, then dimmed as he registered her intent.
“The date’s been set,” she said. “Just this morning my parents told me. My mother and I are scheduled to leave next Sunday.”
“Sunday?” he said. “In just a week?”
She nodded, allowing her suggestion to soak in. He looked away, shoved his fingers through his hair. There was no trace of excitement. But then, it was a large proposition that required more detail.
“Don’t you see? It’s a perfect idea. After all, you’re an American. You belong there,” she said. “With me.”
He turned to her. Slowly he shook his head. “My life is here, Vivian. My classes, my work. My family.”
Concerns over his relatives were a given. She would expect nothing less. All the same, a pang shot through her chest from his low ranking of their relationship, below even schooling and a job. Both of which were doomed in a wartime climate.
She drew back onto her heels. “So what would you do instead? Sit in your classroom and wait for the bombs?”
“Of course not.”
“What then? Enlist in the service? Fly with the RAF?” She threw out the exaggerations based on his boyish fascination with newsreels but immediately regretted the scoff. His expression displayed serious mulling of the options.
“You’d be fighting against your own family.”
“No. I’d be fighting the Nazis.”
Incredulous, she blew out a breath. England wasn’t even his country.
“Vivian, there’s nothing wrong with wanting to do my bit. The evils of what they’re doing-they have to be stopped.”
She had heard enough political reasoning to last fifty lifetimes. Each conflict, in reality, could be traced to the same distinct villains: male pride and ego. All arguments to the contrary were fluffy justifications.
“The truth of it is,” she said, “if you truly loved me, you wouldn’t even consider such a thing.”
The statement hung between them, bare in the darkness. His lips parted but crafted no reply. Not even a request that she stay in London. No suggestion that they evacuate, like so many lovers would, off to a spot in the countryside. Rather, he would choose war and death over her.