Chapter 29 Ada #2
threats, the promise that he will come. Like the promise he made when his fingers were sticky with her own blood.
Every time you look in the mirror. Every time another man touches you. Every time you try to forget, you will remember: You
belong to me.
She carries him with her in her mind and on her body. She doesn’t belong to him, though. She belongs to no one, not even to
herself. How can the girl whose soul died during the war or the woman whose life is built on lies belong to anyone?
Sowerby paces, agitated by her distress, so Ada gathers his warm little body against her chest. Not even his usual comfort
is enough. Since Arnhem, she can’t be alone. Because when she is, she returns. To the war, to the house, to her sister’s absence,
to the Oranjehotel.
Ada releases Sowerby, who runs off while she finds the telephone. She calls the Biltmore, fighting to steady her breaths.
“Ingrid van Essen’s room,” she says when the receptionist answers. “This is Ada Worthington-Fox. Tell her it’s urgent.”
Ada waits, flinching when sudden movement proves to be Sowerby scurrying into the room. All will be well when Ingrid gets
here. When she’s no longer by herself.
“Miss Worthington-Fox?” the receptionist prompts. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Van Essen didn’t answer.”
The sinking feeling that accompanies those words is almost too much. Ada barely hears as the receptionist offers to take a message; she mumbles a refusal and hangs up. Ingrid must be out, perhaps having dinner somewhere.
Security isn’t here; neither is Gordon or Ingrid. Mother is all the way across the property. Ada can’t be here without company,
not feeling like this. Because, while there’s a chance the rattling was caused by a small earthquake, by the wind blowing
or the house settling, by something entirely harmless, there’s also a chance it wasn’t.
She could call the police—and say what? I’m hunting a Nazi war criminal, and I believe he’s hunting me as well. I heard a noise that might have been anything, so
would you kindly look around the property for him? That story would certainly find its way into the papers.
No, she can’t do that. Instead she places a different call. This time, she receives an answer.
“Ada? Is something wrong?”
Vince’s familiar timbre settles the shake in her hands, the tension in her fingers gripping the phone cord, the clench in
her jaw.
“No,” she replies quietly. “Everything’s fine.”
It’s all she wanted. To hear his voice. One that always makes her feel like she’s not so alone.
His voice comes again, steady, assured. “I’m coming over.”
She can’t ask that of him, not with the way things are between them, not when it’s her own fault for letting her worries put
her in this state. Neither does she want to refuse.
A quick visit will be all right, won’t it? Just enough to settle herself. And for those blessed few minutes, she will not
be alone.
When Ada answers the door for Vince, one look at her deepens the crease in his brow.
Likely his mind is on the note she received this afternoon coupled with Gordon’s absence, which she had mentioned earlier when leaving their radio appearance.
She can’t bring herself to say more, though.
Not even after he’s come. Because one explanation might lead to another.
Instead she clears her throat and proceeds to the living room. “Please come in and—” She breaks off when she senses his firm
grasp on her wrist, then he pulls her around to face him.
And then all formality is gone, the liminal space is gone, cast aside by the fierceness in his grip, the concern in his eyes,
in his voice.
“Are you all right?”
That look steals her ability to reply. So she nods.
Then he blinks and it’s gone, banished as usual. He releases her and looks her over, still clad in her bikini and beach jacket,
and smirks.
“You didn’t tell me there was a dress code.”
Normally she would laugh; he’s always known how to lighten her mood. Instead, as his eyes spark with humor, something inside
drives her toward him, then she kisses his cheek.
“You really shouldn’t have come, Vince. But I’m delighted you did.”
The look overtakes him while the feeling overtakes her, the ones they always suppress, the ones that drove them together in
the library, and all at once they are dangerously, dangerously close to another moment of weakness.
Ada mutters something about changing and invites him to help himself to the wine she selected from the wine cellar, then retreats
upstairs. Has she no common sense, no self-control? Did she not resolve to keep such moments from happening again? He came
as a favor to her, and if they aren’t careful, the distance between them might become worse than it has ever been. No need
to let that happen, not when they are perfectly capable of being friends and professionals.
Once dressed in shorts and a striped bolero top that ties at her bust, Ada rejoins Vince, who sits in the living room with two glasses of wine and an array of papers spread on the coffee table. When Sowerby jumps on the sofa next to him, he offers the first page to Ada. One with Vince’s name on it.
“Do a reading with me? Tell me if it’s any good?”
“Is this one of your scripts?” she asks. “What’s the premise?”
“A man is accused of murdering his wife, but he has no memory of the night it occurred, so he’s trying to determine why he
can’t remember and if he really is responsible.”
“Sounds thrilling.” She sits beside him and eagerly accepts the paper. “You play the main character, and I’ll play everyone
else.”
Vince passes a hand along his jaw and takes a long sip of his wine. Then they begin. Once they reach the end, the wineglasses
are empty and, for a moment, Ada is too impressed to find adequate words.
“It’s wonderful, Vince, really. How have you not sold a script when you write like this?”
“Because acting doesn’t scare me as much as scriptwriting does,” he says with a wry smile. “I never would have pursued it
as a career if you hadn’t encouraged me. Since then, I’ve worked on a few projects, including this one, but I haven’t tried
to sell any.”
“You must. If this script came across Gordon’s desk, I would beg him to put me up for it.”
“Not bad for a kid from the Midwest who played sports, wrote stories, and auditioned for his school play—anything to avoid
his homework. Although I still hate watching myself in a picture or hearing my work read aloud.”
She lets out an incredulous laugh. “Then why did we just read your entire script aloud?”
“This job is about the audience, not me. If my work can entertain them, move them, distract them from their worries, then
it’s worth it.”
He puts the script away, avoiding her gaze, prompting her to realize what he’s not directly saying.
This was for her sake. To take her mind off her reason for calling him.
Because the man she once loved has always known what she needs, even now when they are nothing more than friends, and she wishes she could find the words to express what such a gesture means to her.
Suddenly she is acutely aware of how alone they are, of the lack of distance between them as they sit too close, of the way
he could easily tangle his hand in her hair, pull her lips to his. She would not be entirely opposed if he did.
Except she has promised herself no more moments of weakness.
He has succeeded, though. He has taken her mind off her fears. Nothing has been amiss since he arrived, so when he goes, perhaps
she will take Sowerby and stay in the guesthouse with Mother, citing loneliness as her reason for seeking company. For now,
as he refills their wineglasses and leans back against the sofa, the silence that falls over them is not charged, not tense.
It’s a silence that might nearly be called comfortable.