Johann would most definitely be dead by now. Or over a hundred years old.
“That’s why his books are so popular, even with people who work in the field. His attention to detail makes his stories feel so real.” Troy leans back on the couch. “So are you going to give me a hint what your story’s about? Or are you gonna drive me crazy wondering about it?” His gravelly-rough voice drops low, as if he’s seducing me into telling him.
But do I really want to open myself up by letting him in on this secret?
The answer comes easily. Yes. I know he won’t mock me or make me feel foolish like my late husband would have. Troy is the kind of man who supports people’s dreams. Who cheers them on. Who does what he can to make their lives easier, fuller, richer. That’s why he’s part of the Wilderness Warriors group, why he specializes in modifying homes for people with special requirements.
My late husband wouldn’t have even believed women were capable of doing what the female SOE agents did during the war—the same sexist attitude shared by most men in Germany and the UK at the time. The Germans underestimated what women could do, which ended up being the best thing for the war.
If not for the ingenuity and courageousness of the female SOE agents and female resistance fighters in occupied countries, the war would have lasted a lot longer and thousands more lives would have been lost.
“It’s about a female spy during the Second World War who works for the SOE. The British Special Operations Executive.”
He nods at my laptop. “Can I read the scene?” The heated, seductive tone is back in his voice, and my insides go fluttery.
Warmth rushes to my cheeks. “Are you sure you want to do that? It might suck.”
The question is, amIcertain I want him reading it? Sure, he’s read my PTSD articles based on the interviews I’ve done, but this is different. Somehow, it’s more personal.
“I bet it won’t suck,” Troy says. “And I would love to read it. But only if you’re okay with that.”
The hope in his voice embraces me. Solidifies my decision. Tells me I have nothing to fear from sharing this part of me with him. “As long as you remember I’m still working on it.” I grab my laptop from the coffee table and power it on.
A few minutes later, Troy is reading the scene about when Angelique met with Allaire in Paris to discuss getting a wireless operator for her region.
Fear and panic and eagerness clutch and claw at my stomach. I want to know what he thinks about it and I don’t want to know. I’m curious and I’m twitchy…more so than I ever was when handing in a journalism assignment.
I redirect my attention to the chanting outside the living room window. It does nothing to calm the emotions storming inside me. If anything, it makes them worse, but in a different way.
I itch to get up and pace, but if I can’t handle Troy reading the scene, how will I survive Anne reading the book?
“Wow,” he says after a long moment. “I knew your writing was good, but this is something else. Everything felt so real. You’ve gotta keep writing this. I want to know what happens next.”
A wave of dizziness surges in me. Not a bad dizziness, like the kind before a dead faint. This is more like…relief. Joy. Doing cartwheels in the street. “Are you sure? You’re not just saying that because I’m your girlfriend?”
“I’m saying it because it’s true.”
My grandmother and my professors always told me I was a talented writer. But it’s one thing to write nonfiction articles; it’s another to write a novel.
It’s one scene. That’s all Troy has read. All that I’ve written so far. But the honesty in his words ignites something in me I haven’t felt in a long time. Passion and excitement. Desire. A desire to exercise my voice. To challenge my own thoughts and convictions and prejudices.
Prior to reading Angelique’s words, I thought all Germans and their allies had supported Hitler. Had supported his hatred for Jews and his ugly, twisted beliefs. The more research I’ve done on World War II, the more I realize how wrong I was. There were those who didn’t agree with the war or his politics. There were those who tried to make a difference, who tried to bring down the regime, who were brave when they had no reason to be.
Okay, maybe I could be exercising my voice when it comes to prejudices abused women and inmates face. Specifically, inmates who have been wrongfully convicted or made a mistake they regret. For some—like the one friend in Beckley I’d had for a short time—their situation left them feeling like they didn’t have a choice and they took the wrong path.
Yes, I could exercise my voice for those causes, but those traumas are too fresh for me. I’m not looking to be an advocate for anything I’ve been forced to deal with. Not yet, anyway. Besides, first things first. I need to write Angelique’s story.
I brush my lips along Troy’s mouth. “Thank you. I appreciate your vote of confidence.”
He cups the back of my head, keeping me close, and kisses me deeply. His other hand guides my body so I’m straddling him.
“The story…” His warm breath mists over my mouth. “Angelique’s story. It’s important to you, isn’t it?”
I nod.
“I can tell. I can’t explain it, but there’s something different about the way you are with this writing compared to when you were doing the photos for Theresa’s wedding. You seemed happy to be doing that, but nothing like this.” He trails kisses along my jaw. “I get it now.”
“Would you still be supportive if I spent a little less time with you so I could work on the book?” I hold my breath, waiting for his answer. Waiting to see if he really does understand how important this is to me.
