The Pieces We Keep(84)

Too bad Jack’s helmet was too small to crawl into. She pictured her tongue as knotted as a leash.

“Actually,” Tess said, saving her, “we were all out here, trying to adjust the scooter. And—” She turned. “It’s ‘Sean,’ right?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said.

“Well, Sean was kind enough to help us raise the handlebar. Apparently he and Jack had already met.” Tess gave her a discreet look that not only acknowledged Sean’s identity as “the soldier” but also demanded to know why his physical description had been omitted.

“Mom, can we go?” Jack posed a sneaker-clad foot on the scooter, ready to push.

Grace was swinging the bag of bread heels around like a lasso. “Yeah, I wanna feed the baby ducks.”

Tess widened her eyes at Audra, nudging an invite for the unplanned guest.

Clumsily, Audra asked him, “Would you want to? Join us?”

Sean perked at first but shook his head. “I’d hate to intrude.” He picked up a manila envelope on the ground beside him. “Why don’t I leave my number so we can talk . . . about things, when it’s a better time?”

He seemed to choose his words carefully, with no offer to leave the packet. Over the past several days, perhaps he’d unearthed information best delivered in person.

“Shoot, you know what?” Tess interjected. “I just remembered, I need to swing by the dry cleaner before they close.”

At only one in the afternoon, the excuse couldn’t have been more transparent.

“Are you sure?” Audra asked, an auto reply.

“Yeah. Cooper’s got a game later, so we actually need to be back for that too. You all go to the park though. Grace and I will join next time.”

“But Mom,” her daughter protested. Her bread bag now hung limply at her side.

“Sorry, Gracie. If you hurry and get in the car, I’ll swing through Dairy Queen on the way home.”

That one did the trick. Duck feeding was nice, but sundaes were a gold mine. With the power and speed of an F-4 tornado, they handed off the food bags and jetted away, leaving the group behind like a pile of debris.





38


“Well, look who’s here,” Luanne announced, alerting Vivian of their unexpected company.

In the hallway, Gene strode over to where they stood, just outside the switchboard room.

“Gene,” Vivian said. “What a surprise.”

“Are you joining us for lunch?” Luanne asked.

“Sorry, Lu. Another day.” He turned to Vivian. “Could we go somewhere and talk?” With his officer’s hat in his hand, there was no shielding the grimness in his eyes. “I won’t keep you long.”

“Yes, of course,” Vivian said, and told herself not to read into his words.

“I’ll save you a seat,” Luanne said to her, then bid good-bye to her brother and continued toward the civilian mess hall. Her expression gave away nothing.

Gene gestured for Vivian to go first. She led him outside, focusing on her steps, navigating the minefield that had formed around her. The torture of waiting for the blast could not be worse than enduring its aftermath.

Two doors down, with a tally of fewer words, Gene guided her to the backside of a building. A handful of enlisted men were indulging in a smoke break. One of the privates glanced over. At the recognition of Gene’s rank and towering build, he pitched his cigarette and snapped to attention. The others followed, a few of them striking salutes, bodies straight as rods.

“You boys clear out,” Gene growled. It was a voice Vivian didn’t recognize.

“Yes, sirs” overlapped as the guys scampered away like mice. Smoke lingered in their wake.

Gene hitched his hands on his hips. His gaze settled on Vivian. “I need to talk to you,” he said, “about the friends you’re trying to help.”

She nodded, not missing the way his tone dropped on the word friends.

“Are you sure ...” He paused, started again. “Are you sure the names you gave me were right?”

At the unforeseen question, she stared for a moment, reshaping her focus. “I believe so.” The list of names. From Isaak. She had copied them directly. “Yes. Yes, I’m certain they were.”

“The reason I ask is, I did some checking. Turns out, these people were already in the files.”

She would have taken this for a promising update, a prerequisite to a swift solution, if not for his demeanor.

“Sweetheart, your friends probably seemed like real nice folks. But they’re not the sort you ought to worry about.”

“Why? I don’t understand.”

He appeared to be weighing how much to confide. “Vivian,” he said, “they’re all Nazis.”