BLITZ!

Her mother grabbed her upper arm and shook her. “Alice, look at me!”

She didn’t flinch; her dilated pupils fixed on the small mirror across the room.

“How could you do this to us… to me?” her mother’s voice increased an octave. “Right in the middle of my campaign—it was page four in the FT, for God’s sake!”

“Rachel, stop it,” her father warned in his most menacing growl. “This isn’t helping.”

“Fine. I’ll discuss it with her doctor.” With a loud huff, her mother marched over and banged the flat of her hand on the padded door. “I’m done here,” she shouted to the orderly in the hall.

The sudden clattering of keys made Alice flinch.

Her father noticed and rested his hand on her slender shoulder.

“My darling girl,” he said tenderly, kissing the top of her head. “I’ll leave this here.” He placed a dark pink dress box at the foot of the narrow hospital bed. “Get some rest. I’ll come back later.” He bent closer and whispered. “Alone.”

She tried to smile—her father understood. She failed.

The door closed with a dull thud. The sharp click of the lock echoed off the industrial blue walls.

She lifted her head from her knees and stretched out her legs, but still her eyes remained fixated on the black-and-white photo her father had taped to the mirror.

The overhead fluorescents suddenly winked out, immersing her in darkness. She instinctively glanced at her watch, but she’d left it on the bathroom floor when she’d climbed into Maman’s clawfoot tub. Solitude washed over her, and she curled up in the fetal position, hugging herself tightly in spite of the pain.

She’d been with her grandmother at the end. Sobbing, she’d sat on the edge of her bed cradling her hand as it grew cold. Finally, she’d texted her father.

Together, they’d sat with Maman, looking through her memory album until their tears ran dry.

At the memorial service, he’d made special arrangements for her—she’d spent an hour alone with Maman saying goodbye.

At the funeral, she’d refused to leave the gravesite, clinging to the metal handle of the ebony coffin in the icy drizzle until only she and her father remained.

That night at her mother’s campaign rally, plastered in makeup to mask the misery, she’d refused to come out from behind the curtains tarnishing her mother’s ‘wholesome family’ persona. “I’m going to lose my seat in the house if you don’t stop playing the victim!”

Her mother’s fuming continued the next day at the solicitor’s office, reducing Maman to nothing more than a price tag. “She left you the apartment in Mayfair—you always were her little pet.” Sobbing, she ran from the office with her hands over her ears, ignoring her mother’s shouting.

Alone at Maman’s apartment—no, it belonged to her now—she sat in the dark, drinking gin straight from the bottle.

Her father texted repeatedly, but she didn’t respond.

When her mother’s name popped up, she hurled her phone into the fireplace.

She staggered into the kitchen, found the shears and hacked her long black hair into a bob, just like Maman’s at her age.

Upstairs, she drew a bath—steam filling the room.

She took off her watch, that much she remembered.

Sharp stabs of pain.

Pink water washing over her pale breasts.

Stranger’s faces.

The shrill whine of sirens tearing through the streets of London.

The lights suddenly flicked on, and every muscle tensed as the charge nurse let herself in.

As she changed the dressings on her wrists, Alice stared at the dress box. She recognized it from the attic—Maman’s ‘lucky’ dress.

The nurse left with her tray of bloody bandages, but the lights stayed on.

Alice reached out and laid her hand on the box—tears trickling down her cheeks.

She let her fingers glide across the burgundy silk with its daring deep vee at the neck. She pressed it against her cheek—it was surprisingly warm, as if Maman had just slipped it off.

She stood and turned her back to the door.

The hospital gown dropped into a puddle on the floor.

Naked, she lifted her arms and let the silk slither down her slender frame.

She stepped to the small mirror above the stainless steel sink and touched the photo of her grandmother in the same dress—young, beautiful, and smiling in spite of the bombed-out buildings behind her.

She stared at her reflection. They had shared more than a name; her grandmother’s hazel eyes stared back at her.

Strains of music began drifting in—a patriotic tune playing on a gramophone.

She turned slowly and stared at the door; the corners of her mouth rising into a timid smile.

From the hallway, a young woman called out. “Alice, it’s Clare, open the door!”

She hurried over, and with a trembling hand, she twisted the skeleton key in the ornate bronze handle.

An attractive young woman with flaming red hair swept into the room—a ghost from Maman’s memory album.

“Oh my God! Alice, you cut your ‘air!” the girl exclaimed, kissing her on both cheeks in the Parisian way. “I LOVE it—it’s so chic!”

Alice grabbed her by the shoulders and for the first time in weeks, she found her voice. “Clare, look at me.”

The young woman stopped and stared, her bright green eyes narrowing, then she reached up and pinched both of her cheeks. “Alice darling, you’re deathly pale. You’re not ill are you?”

She shook her head, glancing at the delicate watch circling her bare wrist. “My nerves are a bit frazzled, that’s all.”

Clare pulled away. “I’ve got just the cure—Billy brought his roommate, and I promise, you’re going to adore him!” She rushed over to Maman’s majestic mahogany armoire.

Alice smiled. It had been her refuge as a child, reading by flashlight, safe from tea parties, recitals, and her mother’s condescending friends.

After a moment of rustling around, Clare emerged holding a pair of ballet slippers. “Here,” she said, “put these on.”

Alice looked down at her blood-speckled hospital slippers and shuddered. “Thank you, Clare.”

“Tout de suite,” her new friend demanded, dragging her off the loveseat, “the boys have to be back to base by midnight!”

Together they scampered down the elegant marble staircase, sounds of merriment rising to greet them. Alice stopped a step shy of the landing. Across the room, a silver punch bowl dominated the mahogany sideboard, guarded it seemed by two officers in the distinctive blue worsted wool uniform of the Royal Air Force. Clare rushed up to the shorter one and slipped her arm around his waist. She said something to the other flight officer and he turned.

Alice’s stomach lurched.

Another ghost.

Her grandfather was a head taller than she and Clare—black hair brushing the top of his stiff collar, wide set eyes, high cheekbones, and a dimpled chin. Only the deep scar across his left cheek blemished his rakish good looks, but defending London was taking its toll—dark bags puffed beneath his eyes.

As she padded across the room, he studied her like an artist considering a commission and she felt color rising in her cheeks.

Clare quickly introduced them. “Alice Spencer, je te présente Roger Blackburn,” then, just as quickly, grabbed Billy’s hand and pulled him through the heavy blackout curtains onto the private balcony.

Her flyboy watched them go. “I get the distinct impression we’re not invited,” he said then turned to her with a tired smile. “Alice Spencer, would you care to dance?”

“Why, Captain Blackburn, I’d be honored,” she said, holding out her hand.

He led her to the center of the wide parquet floor as “In the Mood” began blaring from the gramophone.

Not surprisingly for a military pilot, he moved with the grace of a jaguar, spinning her about in perfect time with the popular swing tune.

She was out of breath but grinning from ear to ear when someone replaced Glenn Miller with a soft, slow tune more conducive to conversation.

They started with the basics. They were both only children. He was from Portsmouth; his father was an admiral battling U-boats in the North Atlantic.

“Yet, you joined the RAF?”

“Flying has always fascinated me,” he explained, “also, I wanted to avoid my father’s long, dark shadow, if that makes sense.”

She nodded, having been raised by a mother that eclipsed the sun.

“Well, your father’s job is important, but you and your mates are the real heroes of this war.”

He looked away, embarrassed.

“You have a beautiful home,” he said, his eyes sweeping the great room. “Such unusual décor.”

“My mother is a bit of a Bohemian.”

She caught him eyeing her dress.

“Yes, Captain,” she said sternly, “I come by it honestly.”

He laughed, free and easy.

“Am I being mocked?”

His deep blue eyes brightened. “Oh, far from it,” he said, guiding her into a twirl that showcased her dress from all sides. “I’d have noticed you in Charring Cross at rush hour.”

As he pulled her back into her arms, she felt a warm glow inside.

“Are you flirting with me, Captain?” she asked trying to suppress a smile.

“That depends,” he said with a wink, “is it working?”

Now it was her turn to laugh. “Maybe,” she admitted. “But if it’s my knickers you’re after, you’re going to be deeply disappointed—because I’m not wearing any.”

“Is that so?” A mischievous grin lit up his face. “I hadn’t noticed.”

Lifting a page from her favorite novel, she stomped her foot and huffed indignantly. “Then you have no business being in a cockpit!”

The spark she’d conjured in his eyes faded. He grabbed her hand and led her back towards the punch bowl.

“I’m sorry, Roger, did I hit a nerve?”

He said nothing as he grabbed the ladle and filled her cup.

“Forgive me,” he said finally, “it’s not your fault.”

She laid her hand on his and he looked up.

Their eyes met.

He was crying.

“My best friend bought it yesterday, over the Channel—and I’m next—I can feel it.”

She wrapped her arms around him and laid her head against his chest. “Then let’s live for the moment!”

He choked back a sob, then tenderly kissed the top of her head. “Clare was right,” he whispered, “you’re an angel.”

She felt the sting of tears and bit her lower lip, but he lifted her chin and looked into her hazel eyes. “May I call on you again tomorrow?”

Before she could answer, a distant wailing rose above the gramophone. Nervous energy swept the room. Clare and Billy burst in from the balcony. Clare grabbed a bottle of champagne and thrust it in the air. “Let’s show these Nazi bastards we’re not afraid. Grab a friend and follow me!”

Everyone cheered.

No, not everyone.

Roger snatched a bottle of claret off the sideboard and grabbed her hand. “Let’s go.”

The silvery moonlight cast shadows on the rooftop terrace as they stepped into the chill night air. Roger noticed she was shivering and draped his jacket over her shoulders. He lit them both a cigarette, but the raw smoke burned her lungs and she coughed. He handed her the claret.

Far to the east, sparkling pinpricks burst to life and slowly drifted down towards East End’s vast network of warehouses.

“Incendiaries,” Roger said solemnly, wrapping his arms protectively around her. “Beacons for the bombers.”

Brilliant shafts of light stabbed the sky and moments later the British guns opened up. Lusty cheers filled the terrace, momentarily drowning out the sirens.

“Give ‘em hell boys!” Clare howled.

Moments later, the first bombs began peppering the warehouses. Like rocks cast into a mill pond, they blasted plumes of debris skyward. All over the East End, fires sprang to life.

The flashes arrived first followed by distant rumbles she felt in her chest—just like the thunderstorms she’d hidden from as a child when she’d gotten caught in the garden.

The first wave of bombers droned overhead.

Alice looked up and shuddered—imagining the bombardier’s crosshairs placed squarely atop them.

“It’s okay,” Roger assured her. “It’s okay, they’re only hitting military targets.”

But that wasn’t true—the blasts were inching their way across the city, fingers of flame creeping closer and closer towards Mayfair.

The garden!

She turned to Roger. Distant bursts of flak danced in his beautiful blue eyes.

“Roger, there’s a shelter in the garden.”

He responded without taking his eyes off the growing conflagration brightening the eastern sky. “I’d rather see it coming than get buried alive in a shelter.”

The drone of Nazi bombers grew louder, eclipsing the thundering in her chest.

“I’m scared—for the first time, I’m truly scared. Please, Roger?”

He looked down at her. “Of course,” he said without hesitation, then grabbed her hand and quickly retraced their steps.

They cut through the vacated kitchen, then dashed across the patio—the roar of arial artillery growing louder.

“Hurry!” she yelled as she led him through the twists and turns of the shrubbery maze.

Her breath was ragged by the time he pried open the door.

Using his cigarette lighter, he scrounged up a box of wooden matches and lit an oil lamp.

Bombs were falling closer—she could feel the shudder through the thin soles of Maman’s ballet slippers.

Roger swept her into his arms and held her, their shadows merging into one on the rough-hewn stone wall. She was trembling, a confusing mixture of fear and desire coursing through her system.

“Better?” he asked tenderly.

“Better,” she said, turning her face up to his.

Their eyes met.

His lips were warm and tasted of tobacco and wine, but she couldn’t. She put both hands on his broad chest and gently pushed him away.

“Roger, now isn’t a good—”

A tremendous spasm rocked the ground and they both went flying.

The bed cushioned her fall, but Roger crashed into a storage rack and collapsed to the floor.

“NOOOO!” she screamed, dust and smoke from the shattered oil lamp beginning to foul the air. “You can’t have him yet!”

Struggling to breathe, she stripped off his jacket and used it to beat out the flames.

Plunged into darkness, she crawled over to her grandfather’s prone body and laid her head on his chest. She listened for a moment to the steady rhythm of his beating heart, then climbed to her feet—he needed a doctor.

She groped along the wall until she found the door, but as she reached for the handle, she realized the glowing dots of Maman’s watch were gone.

A blinding light suddenly flooded the room and her eyes slammed shut. When she opened them, she was staring at her reflection in the mirror above the stainless steel sink.

Behind her, keys rattled and the door opened. The night nurse. He was carrying a stainless steel tray filled with little vials of medication.

“Nice dress darlin’,” he cooed, undressing her with his eyes, “but it’s time to go night-night.”

Her eyes dropped down to her feet, at the grass-stained ballet slippers.

“Thank you Maman,” she whispered hoarsely.

He sidled up behind her, so close she could smell his aftershave.

She spun around.

Over his shoulder, her mother’s face appeared in the doorway.

“My name isn’t darlin’,” she sneered as her open palm exploded against his cheek. “It’s Alice.”