She lay in bed with her eyes open, watching the sky beyond Robbie’s cowboy curtains slowly grow light. The bunk reminded her of the one she’d slept on as an Auxiliary Fire Service volunteer. She peered at her watch. A few minutes after six. Eve tried to crawl down from the top bunk carefully but the movement awakened Robbie. He sat up, rubbing his eyes.
“Mommy?” He would never go back to sleep now. Eve opened her arms and he went into them for a hug. She loved his sticky warmth, his little-boy smell. “I’m hungry, Mommy,” he murmured into her shoulder.
Had they eaten supper last night? Eve vaguely recalled cooking beans and sausages—hot dogs, the Americans called them—but she couldn’t recall eating any. Her stomach felt the way it had aboard the Rosamunde during the evacuation of Dunkirk, as her mind swirled with thoughts of what to do about Audrey. She wished they would simply vanish. Poof!
Eve needed help with this dilemma, someone to confide in, and the first person who came to mind was Tom Vandenberg. Whenever Louis and Robert talked about the Famous Four, they called Tom their conscience. He’d become a trusted friend to Eve during the past four years, and if her life was about to disintegrate, perhaps he could tell her how to fight back or where she could go or what she should do next. Maybe he’d help her pick up the pieces—if he didn’t turn against her for lying to him all this time.
“We need to get dressed very quietly,” she whispered after releasing Robbie, “so we don’t wake up our guests. Then we’ll ride out to Uncle Tom’s farm and see his new baby lamb. Would you like that?”
“Yeah!” The wooden bed frame creaked as Robbie bounced up and down.
Eve held her finger to her lips. “Shh . . .”
“Shh . . .” He grinned, imitating her. Eve threw on the clothes she’d worn yesterday and helped Robbie into a clean pair of shorts and a striped T-shirt. She was dying for a cup of tea but couldn’t risk waking Audrey. After scribbling a quick note telling Audrey to help herself to breakfast and promising to return soon, Eve grabbed a banana for Robbie and hurried out the door, speeding away in her car like a bank robber fleeing the scene of the crime. She had to find a solution to this problem. For Robbie’s sake.
The twenty-minute drive through the rolling countryside calmed her, as did the sight of Tom’s sheep dotting the green hillside beyond the barn like tufts of cotton wool. Eve rolled down her window and inhaled the scents of hay and manure, the scents of her childhood. Tom’s farm had become a place of refuge for her, the only place where she felt free to be herself. Tom was coming out of his barn with his dog at his side as she pulled into the driveway.
“You’re up with the chickens this morning,” he said with a grin. Eve had never seen Tom without a smile. He reminded her of the film star Jimmy Stewart, with his tall, angular frame and thick hair. He walked with a noticeable limp from a shrapnel wound, but it didn’t keep him from running his family’s dairy farm. She looked away from him to quench the impossible attraction she felt as Robbie ran up to him for a hug. Mum and Granny Maud would have adored Tom. Mum had told Eve to never settle for less than courage, kindness, and laughter in a man—a description that fit Tom perfectly.
“I suppose we are rather early,” Eve said. “I wanted to apologize for being so short with you yesterday. My guests arrived unexpectedly and . . . and I guess they threw me a little off-balance.” She swatted at the ever-present flies that buzzed around the barnyard.
“No problem. You looked a little frazzled yesterday.”
“Are we too early to watch you feed the new lamb? I don’t want to interrupt anything.”
“Not at all. The cows are all milked, and that new lamb will want his bottle right about now. Want to help me, Robbie?”
“Yeah!” He hopped up and down with excitement.
“Come in the house while I fix it.”
Eve followed Tom through the screened-in back porch, waiting while he stopped at the porch sink to wash his hands. The aromas of coffee and frying bacon drifted from the kitchen along with the smell of something wonderful baking in the oven. They stepped into the kitchen, where Mrs. Vandenberg stood at the cast-iron range, pans sizzling as she cooked breakfast. Tom’s father sat at the kitchen table drinking coffee. The room was cozy and warm with blue-checked curtains and whitewashed wainscoting and a worn linoleum floor that groaned when you walked across it.
“Good morning,” Eve said. “I’m sorry we’re here so early. We heard there’s a new baby lamb to feed.”
Tom’s mother turned, spatula in hand. “Well, good morning, Audrey. I’m just fixing breakfast. You want some?” She was a sweet, white-haired woman who reminded Eve of Granny Maud. “The eggs are fresh. Gathered them myself this morning.”
“We don’t want to be a bother.”
“You two are never a bother,” she said matter-of-factly.
“Guess what, Grandma Van!” Robbie said. “I’m going to feed the lamb!” Mrs. Vandenberg had told Robbie to call her Grandma Van after he’d struggled to say her name.
“Come here and give me a hug, sweetie pie.” She bent down as Robbie hurtled toward her, then folded him into her arms. A wave of longing for Granny Maud’s soft arms washed over Eve. If she told the truth about who she was, all of this would be snatched away from her son. He had a family here in America. He was loved. Mrs. Vandenberg was a fine churchgoing woman who would be horrified to learn what a liar Eve was, how she’d deceived her and won her heart by pretending to be someone else. Facing Grandma Van’s disappointment would be like facing Granny Maud’s. Eve could never confess—to her or to Tom. She would have to find another way out of this dilemma.
“That’s wonderful, Robbie,” Grandma Van said, returning to her cooking. “We sure could use your help with that lamb. Get out two more plates, Audrey honey, and some silverware.” Eve was familiar enough with the farm kitchen to do what she’d asked. Tom poured a cup of coffee for himself and one for Eve, then dragged an extra chair to the table.
“You take cream, right, Audrey?” he asked, setting the pitcher near her plate. Eve was certain Tom could read her guilt. She nodded, then quickly turned away.
“What’s baking in the oven?” she asked. “It smells wonderful!”
“I made a batch of biscuits.” Mrs. Vandenberg gestured to a wire rack on the counter where plump white mounds, lightly browned on top, were cooling. “Try one,” she said, “then go ahead and put the rest in that basket.” They looked like coconut macaroons, but the bite Eve tasted wasn’t sweet at all. Instead, it was buttery and floury and seemed to melt in her mouth. Tom had explained once before that British “biscuits” were called “cookies” in America. What his mother made, he’d insisted, were real biscuits.
“You and Robbie sit down now,” Mrs. Vandenberg said. She carried the skillet to the table and dished scrambled eggs onto everyone’s plate. Guilt ripped through Eve’s heart when Tom’s father bowed his head and prayed aloud. God knew the truth about her. Granny Maud said He kept a record of her sins in His book. Her page must be full. Robbie folded his hands and closed his eyes, too, his little legs dangling, his chin level with the table. He loved it here. Loved Uncle Tom and Grandma Van as much as he loved Nana and Grandpa Barrett. And so did Eve. It didn’t seem fair that Robbie would be punished because of her lies.