To avoid leading the police to the Bertrams, Ivy had abandoned her car a mile from Fauvic amongst some trees, and she’d run to the beach, unsure of the actual embarkation point.
Her chest heaved from the run, from the terror.
She’d missed them. They couldn’t see her.
By now, the police would have released Fern and realized Gerrit wasn’t in his hotel room—but his uniform was. They’d be searching for both of them.
Clamping her mouth shut so she wouldn’t scream, Ivy waved again. Even if they’d seen her, they couldn’t turn back, could they? The moon was edging over the French coast, and the boat needed to get far from land, far from sight.
Everything in her strained toward the boat, toward Gerrit, toward her brother. She plopped onto the sand, untied her shoes, stuffed her socks in her medical bag, and tied her shoelaces to the handle of her bag.
She’d swim to them. But how could she catch a boat rowed bygrown men, in the dark, in the cold water? She’d have to leave her coat behind, her bag. When found, her belongings would point to her actions as surely as Charlie’s bag had.
A sob ripped up her throat, and she clapped her hands over her mouth to contain it.
If she swam, she might incriminate Deputy Bertram and his family by her proximity. If she stayed, she’d be captured and might incriminate the Bertrams and numerous others. To go into hiding would require contacting Joan or Dr. Tipton—in St. Helier, where the German field police were searching for her.
“Oh, Lord.” The words pummeled her fingers.
What had her father told her the day he evacuated to England? “In times of peace, we choose amongst many good and pleasant paths, but in times of war...”
Ivy had replied, “No path is good or pleasant.”
“Not pleasant, no. But you can still choose the good. You must.”
Sitting on the damp sand, with a chilly breeze ruffling the hair at the nape of her neck, Ivy stifled another sob. “There is no good path. None.”
Her only path was to evade arrest as long as possible and to bear up under interrogation and torture. “Lord, help me stay silent. Protect Charlie. Protect Gerrit. Protect Bernardus.”
The boat’s silhouette appeared larger, and she frowned. Between rowing and the tides, they should be moving farther away each minute. They weren’t. They were coming to shore.
For her!
She sprang to her feet and stifled a cry—of joy this time, of relief, of life.
When the boat pulled closer, Ivy sloshed into the water to meet them. She clambered over the side, and Gerrit helped her, embraced her, kissed her.
“No time for that,” Bernardus said in a low, sharp voice. “Get down.”
Ivy crouched low, and Gerrit shoved off, the oar scraping the sand below.
Gerrit passed the oar over Ivy’s head to a dark-haired stranger, and the stranger and Bernardus rowed hard.
The waves bumped beneath her, and Ivy knelt beside Charlie and smoothed his hair. “Hallo,” she murmured.
“Missed me so much, you couldn’t stay away?” A teasing tone lit his feeble voice.
She pressed a kiss to her brother’s burning forehead and squeezed her eyes shut. When they were farther out to sea, she’d give him some aspirin.
“Oh no.” Gerrit squatted in the stern with his hand on the tiller. A black cap covered his fair hair. “A patrol.”
A curse from the stranger, and the pace of oars on water quickened.
Shouts arose to the west. Pops—gunfire?
“They spotted us,” Gerrit said. “Ivy—take the tiller. I’ll start the motor.”
“Not until we’re three miles out,” the stranger said.
