“I could.” The idea raced and wove together. Two nations, two women, divided by an ocean, united by ideals. Ideals not fully reached, not by any means, but ideals to strive for, and in striving for, to sometimes achieve.
“You, my Lille Havfru”—he pressed a kiss to her temple—“are brilliant.”
Else held Hemming’s arm as they made their way along the deck to the gangway at the tail end of the jostling, grinning crowd.
With a fresh haircut, most of the brown had disappeared from Hemming’s blond hair. His sores and scabs had healed, although scars remained, would always remain. In his overcoat and fedora, he looked breathtakingly debonair.
But still her Hemming. She’d tried calling him Henrik, even Henning. But Hemming stuck. He didn’t seem to mind.
When they reached the gangplank, Hemming ushered her before him, and she headed down the jangling path. A Red Cross table at the base greeted the servicemen, but only a few civilians awaited. How could they when no one could communicate when they’d arrive?
“It can’t be,” Hemming said.
“Hmm?” She looked over her shoulder.
He stood still, staring down at the dock. “It can’t be.”
“Henning!” a man called, echoed by another male voice, “Henning!”
A grin broke out on her husband’s face, and he laughed and waved. “It is. Peter Lang—Paul Aubrey.”
“Your friends from Harvard?” Else sought the source of the voices.
A bespectacled blond man in an Army officer’s cap and olive drab overcoat waved, as did a dark-haired man in a gray coat. Two smiling women stood beside the men.
“How did they know?” Else asked.
“I have no idea.” Hemming motioned her onward. Down on the dock, he clasped the hand of the Army officer. “Peter Lang. How on earth did you know when my ship was coming?”
“That’s my doing.” The brunette by his side tipped up a mischievous smile. “I’m a reporter. I have my sources.”
“My wife, Evelyn,” Peter said.
“I’m pleased to meet you.” Hemming turned to Else with a smile warm with pride. “May I introduce my wife, Else.”
Else greeted the Langs and shook hands with them.
“Paul Aubrey.” Hemming gripped hands with the dark-haired man, who wore a giant smile. “I’m glad you’re here.”
“It’s good to see you, Henning. It’s been too long. And this is my wife, Lucie.”
“Lucie?” Hemming’s lips warped in a small frown, then he smiled and shook the hand of a petite lady with light brown hair and a dreamy expression.
Paul’s face grew serious. “Simone passed away in 1940. Cancer. Lucie and I have been married almost two years now.”
Else chewed on her lip, then stopped herself. Between the occupation and Hemming’s secret life, communication had been completely cut off—and so had friendships.
But no longer.
Paul gestured down the dock. “We booked three suites at the Plaza. My mother is watching all our children there. I hope you don’t mind. It was Peter’s idea.”
“It’s our five-year anniversary.” Peter held out his elbow to his wife. “We had our honeymoon at the Plaza.”
“And on theAquitania.” Evelyn smiled up at the ship. “Memories.”
Else stayed by her husband’s side as they walked, but she indulged in one last nostalgic look at the ocean liner.
Hemming turned to Paul. “I’m glad you left Paris before the Nazis came.”
