I lean back once more, looking across the room to the fire that burns brightly in the fireplace. It has been nearly three weeks since I woke up in the hospital. Simon was right—there was nothing wrong with me other than a little dehydration, and I was discharged the following day. I could have gone back to work almost immediately, but Simon insisted that I take a few weeks off to rest and recover. At first I resisted, thinking of Jan and the others, the promises we made to help them. “You’ve done your part,” Simon said. “Let others pick up the baton.” So reluctantly, I agreed to a brief sabbatical. Delia still came every day, again at Simon’s insistence, to keep me company and help care for Rachel. But I spend almost all of my time playing with Rachel or watching her. She seems completely unaffected by my absence, which bothers me a bit in a selfish way. She does not understand how close I came to not making it home. I will go back to work in time, but I know that I will never leave her like that again.

A few minutes later, I watch as Delia scoops up Rachel and carries her into the house. Rachel pouts, her tiny upper lip quivering. “What’s wrong, darling?” I ask as Delia brings her over to me.

“She didn’t want to come in.” Delia answers for Rachel who, still bundled, points out the window. “She was hoping that Sammie would come out and play with her after he returns from nursery.” Sammie, the little boy across the street, is almost three. I look at Rachel in amazement. Can she really have a crush at her age? Delia continues, “But the sun is going down and it’s getting colder. She needs a bath before bed.”

I smile. Delia keeps Rachel’s schedule with the efficiency of a general. “You can play outside again tomorrow,” I say to Rachel. “Maybe Mama will even join you. Now, give me a kiss.”

Delia lowers Rachel and I kiss her cold cheek, inhaling the smell of fresh earth in her dark, curly hair. In the kitchen, the telephone rings. Delia looks over her shoulder. “I should get that.” I know she worries about Charles, home alone all day with only Ruff for company.

“Here,” I say, taking Rachel from Delia. “I’ll hold her.” Rachel settles against my chest, babbling.

“Hello?” I hear Delia say in the other room as I unbutton Rachel’s coat. “Hello?” There is silence followed by a click. A moment later, she reappears in the doorway.

“No one there?” I ask. She nods. “Strange.”

“It happened once yesterday, as well,” she says as she crosses the room to me. “I meant to tell you.”

I shrug. “Probably just a wrong number. If it happens again, I’ll call the phone company.”

“Bath for you, young miss,” Delia says to Rachel, taking her from me and carrying her to the stairs. “There’s a roast in the oven,” she calls over her shoulder. “I’ll fix you a plate after I put her down.”

I start to reply that it is not necessary, but Delia disappears up the stairs, talking to Rachel. I look back at the fire, still seeing my daughter’s face. She reminds me more of Paul than ever since I came home. Suddenly I see him as the medics carried him away from me on the dock, face pale, eyes closed. A few days ago, Simon told me in an offhand way that he had news of the American. “He made it through the surgery and is recovering at one of the military hospitals.” I was barely able to contain my relief. “He’s to be shipped back to the States as soon as he’s well enough to travel,” Simon added. I wondered if this last part was true. Paul told me that he never goes back to America; he will surely head out on his next mission as soon as he is well enough. My heart ached at the thought of him leaving England. “If you’d like to send a note to offer your good wishes, I have the address of the hospital,” Simon offered.

“I’m sure the Foreign Office has thanked him sufficiently,” I replied. What would I say? That since coming back from Germany, I have thought of him every waking moment? That when I do sleep, I see him endlessly in my dreams? The truth is unspeakable. And to say less would feel like a lie. No, I decided, a note from me would just hurt him more by reminding him of everything that could never be.

The phone rings in the kitchen, jarring me from my thoughts. “I’ll get it,” I call to Delia, standing. There is a second ring as I cross the parlor to the kitchen. I pick up the receiver. “Hello?” I say. There is no response. I think then of the two earlier calls Delia had mentioned. “Hello?” A wrong number perhaps, or a bad connection? But I can hear breathing on the other end of the phone. There is something familiar about the sound, the way the caller inhales, breath seeming to catch and hold for a second. My heart skips a beat. “Paul?” I whisper.

“I’m an idiot,” he says remorsefully. “Calling like I’m a twelve-year-old boy with a crush.”

At the sound of his voice, strong and deep, warmth rises in me. I swallow, forcing myself to breathe. “How are you?”

“I’m fine,” he replies quickly. “I called earlier but someone else answered so I hung up.”

“That was Delia.”

“I figured. And just now, well, I guess when you answered, I almost lost my nerve. I know I shouldn’t be calling. But I couldn’t help it.” He pauses. “I needed to hear your voice.”

I bring my hand to the mouthpiece. “Me, too,” I whisper, my voice cracking. I clear my throat. “I thought you were still in the hospital.”

“That’s the official story. We’ve said that because…” He stops, catching himself. Is he afraid of speaking openly on the phone, or of telling me too much? In Germany, we were a team. But now, back in our separate worlds, there are things that cannot be said.

“I’m glad to know you’re well,” I say.

“I’m not,” he replies. “That is, physically I’m on the mend. But I can’t stop thinking about us, about…” His voice trails off.

“Me, neither.” I pause as a vision of the cellar in Berlin, Paul’s torso beneath me, flashes through my mind. Then I remember Delia and Rachel, just one floor above me. Simon could be home any minute.

“But we can’t do this, Paul.”

“I know. I’m sorry,” he says, his voice choked. “Goodbye, Marta.”

“Paul, wait…” There is a click and the line goes dead. I stare at the receiver for several seconds. Paul called me. He has not forgotten. Tears fill my eyes. Impulsively, I pick up the receiver once more, ring the operator. “I’d like to get the last number that called this line,” I say. There is a pause. I jot down the numbers that she recites on a pad of paper. I start to dial, then stop again. What would I say to him? Calling Paul will only make things worse for both of us. But he sounded so upset when he hung up, and the notion of him being sad or angry with me is unbearable. I start to dial the number.

Suddenly, there is a noise behind me. I drop the receiver, which clatters to the counter, and turn. Delia is standing at the entrance to the kitchen. “Y-you startled me,” I say, picking up the receiver and replacing it on the hook.

“Another empty call?” she asks, crossing to the stove.

“Yes,” I reply, feeling guilty at my lie. “I was just going to try to get the number from the operator.”

Delia does not respond but turns on the stove burner beneath the tea kettle. Then she opens the oven door and begins pouring some of the juices that have formed in the bottom of the pan over the roast. “Rachel went right down,” she says a moment later, closing the oven door. “Nearly fell asleep in the bath.”

“She was more tired than she knew.” I sink to one of the chairs at the table.

“More tea?” I shake my head, still reeling from my conversation with Paul. Suddenly, unable to hold back any longer, I burst into tears. “What is it, dear?” Delia asks, startled. She rushes to the table and sits down beside me. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m sorry,” I say through my sobs.

“There, there,” Delia says, stroking my hand. “You’ve been through a lot. It’s all catching up with you.”