Brave Hearts by Carolyn Hart Page B

into the lock and banged the door open.
    â€œCatharine . . .”
    The window that looked out to Regent’s Park was closed. The curtains hung limp. The room was hot, stuffy—and empty.
    Jack stood in the doorway; the eagerness died. He frowned. She knew he was coming back today. He looked down at his watch. It was almost five. He walked inside and shut the door. Then he felt a quickening again. She’d be here soon. He’d open the window, freshen things up a bit so the place wouldn’t be stale when she came. Catharine liked things to be bright and lovely.
    Jack was pulling up the window when he saw the note on the card table. He’d never seen Catharine’s handwriting before, but he knew at once the fine, looping script was hers. The cream-colored stationery with his name on the envelope looked cool and remote. Slowly, he reached out and picked it up. It had a film of dust on it.
    His mind registered all these things. A sense of impending disaster welled up inside him. He didn’t open the envelope. He reached out, yanked up the telephone, and dialed. Finally, after several rings, he hung up the receiver.
    The envelope wasn’t sealed. He slid out the single sheet of note paper.
    Â 
    Dear Jack,
    Â 
    When you read this letter I will be in the mid-Atlantic . . .
    Jack read the first sentence, and the words moved in his mind like heavy stones falling through dark water, down, down, down. His chest ached as if he’d run miles and miles, but the end wasn’t in sight and there was no more breath left in him. The next sentence was smudged and uneven.
    Jack, please don’t hate me. I couldn’t bear it if you hated me, because I love you so much. This is the first time I’ve ever written those words to you. I love you, Jack. I love you. I can see you now, standing by the table, holding this letter, and I can feel my heart breaking. Silly words, aren’t they, words people use casually, meaninglessly, but now I know what they mean and how it feels to have your heart in agony. Spencer has been posted to Manila. He came in just a little while ago to tell me. He is to be briefed in Washington, then travel to Manila. At first I thought this would be my opportunity. I listened to him, and I practiced the words in my mind, how I would tell him that I wanted to be free. He was so excited about the posting. It is a promotion, an important one. I thought it would mean he no longer needed me. I listened and waited for the moment, but the moment didn’t come. The ambassador made it clear. I had to come as Spencer’s wife to reassure the Filipino government that Americans can be counted on, that they are coming to Manila and bringing their families. So, I have to go—because I am Spencer’s wife. That hurts, but so many people hurt around the world today. I can’t claim special privilege. I don’t know if you are still reading. I don’t know if you are terribly angry. Please, Jack, don’t be angry with me. Let’s remember our wonderful days together. I will remember them always. And perhaps someday, if we have very great fortune, we will be together again.
    Â 
    All my love,
    Catharine
    Â 
    The paper was crumpled. A tear had splashed down upon those last lines, and the words were smudged.
    Jack licked his quivering lips. Catharine was somewhere on the Atlantic Ocean, on her way to the Philippines. He clenched his teeth until the muscles in his face ached.
    Somewhere in the mid-Atlantic a convoy thrust its way west.

    Peggy fished a piece of spearmint gum out of her purse. She slipped it into her mouth, and the mildly minty flavor eased the queasy rumblings in her stomach. It had been an exciting find, the box of gum in the ship store, a decided treat after months of rationing, and so welcome now. She could take the up-and-down plunging of the ship, but the long, slow roll from one side to the other threatened to make her sick.
    She