I don’t look at Catherine at all while Anne talks, and Catherine fortunately doesn’t interrupt her. I’m vaguely aware of her pouring herself a glass of strawberry lemonade at one point, but other than that, I pretend she isn’t sitting on the porch with us.
I get lost in Anne’s fascinating stories about a woman I feel like I’ve gotten to know almost better than I know Anne. “And she never married here in the States or had any children?”
“No,” Anne says, and my heart breaks for Iris. “She didn’t have time to date when they first moved to the States, and after the loss of her sister, Hazel, my mother became the most important person in Auntie Iris’s life. She didn’t want to risk falling for a man who couldn’t love her niece the way she did. I think as courageous as Auntie Iris was, she was afraid of loving someone who wasn’t Lizzie—other than me later on. She had lost her sister and brother-in-law. I think she was afraid to risk her heart to anyone else and have it crushed when she lost them too.”
That I can relate to only too well. Iris had been pregnant when the Gestapo captured her. The conditions of the war would have been enough for anyone to lose their baby. She was in love with her unborn child. Had that loss scarred her in the way losing Amelia has made me scared of giving my heart to yet another person?
My heart aches for Iris, and if she were alive, I would hug her. Hug her and thank her for all the sacrifices she made, especially during the war. I can only begin to imagine how much it changed her…like my past has changed me.
Anne’s phone rings on the coffee table. She checks the screen and stands. “Sorry, I have to get this.” She answers the phone and walks into the house—leaving me with Catherine.
“So, Jessica…” Catherine draws out both words. They roll unpleasantly from her tongue. If I didn’t know better, I’d say she bit into an underripe lemon doused with paint thinner. “My husband is a retired cop.” She glances briefly toward Anne’s house.
I nod, having no idea what she expects by way of an answer. Congratulations? Good for you? I’m sorry?
“He’s a good man. Hard working. Put his life on the line so many times to protect our community from scumbags.” Her eyebrow rises on the last word.
She knows. She knows who I am…or was.
I have no idea where she’s going with this. Okay, I do know. She’s clearly on the Savannah-Townsend-killed-her-husband side of the fence, but I don’t get what point she’s trying to make.
I open my mouth to defend myself, but nothing comes out. Mostly because I know it won’t make a difference. It won’t change her mind.
“We used to have a little boy,” she goes on, her voice turning into cracked ice. “He was the sweetest thing. But then one day a stray bullet struck him down. He died in my arms.”I almost stop breathing at the last part. If there’s one thing I can relate to, it’s losing a child.
Not once does her voice soften while she’s telling me that. If anything, it grows harder. Colder.
I close my eyes for a beat, searching for my own voice, her pain a screwdriver turning in my chest. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
She releases a noise that’s somewhere between a snort and a huff. “I’m sure you are. Your type generally is, aren’t they?”
“My type?” The words barely make it past my suddenly parched mouth.
“My son died when an ex-convict decided money was more important than my son’s life.” She stands abruptly. “Does Anne know who you are, Savannah?”
I slowly nod.God, please tell me my being here won’t end up hurting Anne.
The door to the house opens, and Anne steps out. “Sorry about that.”
The coldness on Catherine’s face washes away, and she smiles at Anne as if she and I didn’t just have that conversation. “I need to get back home. It was nice meeting you, Jess.” Catherine’s voice is, once more, that of a perky chickadee.
I nod again, the movement robotic this time. “You too.” I stretch a smile on my face, which I hope doesn’t look anywhere near as awkward as it feels.
Anne seems to buy it. She says goodbye to her friend and resumes telling me all kinds of stories about Iris.
I shove my hands under my thighs so she doesn’t see they’re shaking. It takes me a few minutes, but I eventually push my conversation with Catherine aside and focus on what Anne says, laughing along with her. I decide not to tell her about Catherine. It’s best not to make a big deal out of it—but I won’t visit Anne again here and risk making things difficult for her.
It’s getting dark by the time I drive home, my thoughts full from everything Anne told me. I focus on that and only that. There’s so much Anne doesn’t know yet about her great-aunt. So many things involving Iris the world has no idea about.
Things the world should know.
There are books published about some of the more well-known female SOE and OSS agents: Virginia Hall, Nancy Wake, Odette Sansom, Andrée Borrel, Lise de Baissac, Yvonne Rudellat, and so many others. But so far, I haven’t seen Iris’s contribution to the war mentioned.
The journalist in me—the one responsible for the World War II research I’ve done to date—wonders if I could write a nonfiction book about Angelique’s time in France. But that would require me traveling to London and France and possibly even Austria and Germany to locate as much documentation as possible. Some of it might even need to be translated to English. I can’t rely on only the journals to write Iris’s story.
It would require me leaving my safe haven of Maple Ridge. I’m not ready for that yet. Maybe I won’t ever be.
And the idea of writing a nonfiction book sounds daunting, especially if it’s based on history.
