The Last Night in London by Karen White (reading list .TXT) 📕

with the phone. I found it refreshing. “It’s my father,” he said as he answered it.

I busied myself picking everything up and returning it all to my backpack. When I heard the word good-bye, I asked, “Any news?” I reminded myself not to hold my breath.

“Nana is awake but not completely coherent. She’s asking for you.”

“For me?”

“Yes. Come on, I’ll drive you.”

He took my pack, then placed a gentle hand on the small of my back, leading me out of the room toward the stairs. At the bottom I stopped to face him. He raised an eyebrow in question.

“Precious told me she doesn’t like to talk about her time with the Resistance during the war because people would ask why.”

“I don’t follow.”

“She told me that no act of heroism is done for truly altruistic reasons. That every good deed is done in penance. To repay a wrong.”

He kept his steady gaze on me for a moment. “Every time I think about our questions, all the answers seem to swirl around what became of Eva and Graham. Everything seems to come down to that, doesn’t it?”

I nodded. “I’m not sure we’ll like where this is going.”

“Neither am I. But I think we need to find out the truth. Not for us. For her.”

His cell phone rang again. After a brief conversation, he hung up. “Father says they have the photo of Graham. And Nana is asking for the dolphin.”

I squeezed my brows together. “It’s in the purse—I’ll bring it.”

I made to move past him, but he gently pulled me back. “There’s one more thing.”

I met his gaze.

“The photograph of Graham. With ‘Sweet dreams, darling’ written on the back, supposedly by Eva. That doesn’t really make sense, though, does it?”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Well, if I were to give you a photograph of me, I’d write something on the back, to you from me. Not the other way around.”

“Then why would Eva have written that on the back of Graham’s picture?”

Our eyes met in mutual understanding. I swallowed. “Because she knew he was already dead.”

He didn’t look away. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“Me, too.” It was as much a confession of my feelings as I would allow myself to share.

He continued to regard me closely, his eyes searching mine. I turned away and headed toward the door. I stood on the front steps while he locked up. I stared into the garden across the street without really seeing it, wondering to what lengths a person might go to seek atonement.

CHAPTER 35

LONDON

NOVEMBER 1940

In early November, a day after an evening of heavy bombardment, Eva and Precious walked to work, sidestepping the rubble of buildings and roads closed because of unexploded bombs. They paused at a bare spot on Wimpole Street, where a dress shop had stood only the day before. A woman swept the sidewalk of debris, broken pieces of furniture being used to display what wares she’d been able to rescue. A crudely made sign propped against her make-do sales counter read BOMB SALE. Next door, at the damaged greengrocer, another sign read BUSINESS AS USUAL, MR. HITLER.

People were going about their daily lives, taking pride in their ability to thumb their noses at the Nazis to prove their unwillingness to surrender at any cost. But the smell of fire and smoke and unspeakable burning things couldn’t be erased from Eva’s nostrils, no matter how much Vol de Nuit she saturated her skin with. Or how much whisky she drank.

“You don’t look well,” Eva said as they picked their way through broken glass. Dark circles ringed Precious’s eyes, and in the dim light of the overcast day, her skin looked sallow.

“Of course I don’t. I was serving tea in the shelter all night. And listening to people complain that the twopence a cup we were charging was twice as expensive as at ground level. I told one man that if he didn’t stop complaining, I’d spill hot water on him and give him something to complain about.”

Eva smiled. “Oh, Precious—did you really?”

Precious gave her a wan smile. “I did. I’m not proud of it, but I’m just so give out. I can only hope that Mr. Danek can do his magic with his cosmetics.”

“I heard you retching again this morning. Are you sure you’re well? I can always fill your spot. It’s not as if we have many customers right now anyway.”

Precious shook her head. “No. I need to work. To take my mind off of . . . things.”

“Is it Paul?”

Eva knew that Precious’s beau was away now, on a ship somewhere avoiding German U-boats, but when he was able to get leave, he’d come to London. Eva had met him only once. He was large with dark curly hair, affable yet completely forgettable. At least he seemed to make Precious happy. Or if not happy, then at least content.

“No, it’s not Paul.” She walked ahead of Eva, signaling that the conversation was over.

Eva was glad for Precious’s unusual silence, wanting to go over in her mind her own problems. She hadn’t seen or heard from Graham since that strange evening in Chester Terrace, and the entire exchange lingered like an unanswered question. She needed to know why he’d been there and why he’d asked her if she knew the residents. Even if she was afraid of the answer.

They reached Hanover Square and stopped, disoriented. For a moment Eva thought they’d turned down the wrong street. Rubble filled one side of the square, the branches of the trees in the central garden shorn and singed, the ground bleeding with leaves. The three buildings were now piles of stone and brick, smoke rising from the ruins like unleashed demons.

A woman stood on the sidewalk, her mouth open like a baby bird’s. At first Eva didn’t recognize Madame Lushtak, doyenne of the House of Lushtak, the woman whose mere presence instilled fear and admiration in her models. This stranger seemed diminished in size and stature, as