Into the Darkest Day

“We’re only a hop, skip, and a jump from General Eisenhower’s headquarters,” Tom explained as he put his arm around Sophie and they headed into the ballroom, where a full orchestra was playing a lively tune and the dance floor was packed. “This really is the place to be.”

It certainly seemed like it. Lily’s eyes nearly popped at the sight of so many elegantly clad women and dapper men jitterbugging on the dance floor, a far cry from the shabbier dance halls nearer to home that she and Sophie had gone to, where the press of bodies lent a smell of boiled wool and stale sweat to the air, and the only drink on offer was watery beer or weak lemonade.

Tom found them a table on the edge of the dance floor, and they all crowded onto the velvet banquette while he went in search of drinks.

Sophie gazed around the crowded room with greedy delight, even as she already began to adopt an air of worldly self-assurance, resting her elbow on the back of her seat, her chin tilted at a haughty angle, as if she had been to a thousand places like this before, when Lily knew very well that she hadn’t.

“Champagne?” Sophie exclaimed when Tom came back, triumphantly brandishing a bottle. “You darling. I haven’t had so much as a sip of champagne in years. How ever did you manage it?”

Tom rubbed two fingers together as he gave Sophie a brazen wink. “If you know the right people, all it takes is a little lettuce.”

Sophie wrinkled her nose. “Lettuce?”

“Money,” Tom answered with a laugh as he poured them all fizzing glasses. “Don’t you watch any American movies?”

Sophie’s eyes danced as she took a sip of her champagne. “You’re going to have to teach me all the American slang,” she said. “I’m sure it will become the rage here once you boys have won the war for us.”

“Sophie,” Lily interjected, stung by the remark, and Sophie shrugged one bare shoulder.

“What? Everyone knows it’s true.”

Lily pressed her lips together. Not the boys who gave their lives for this war, she thought but couldn’t work up the nerve to say it with Tom and Matthew there. She thought of the letters she wrote, day after day, dozen after dozen. Dear So-and-so, It is my painful duty to inform you that your son, Sergeant X, has been reported Missing believed Killed as the result of operations… Those faceless men had certainly done their part in winning this awful war. She reached for her glass of champagne but found she couldn’t take a sip.

“Oh Lily, don’t be such a bore,” Sophie exclaimed. “You’re not, really. I know you’re thinking of all those poor boys, but I didn’t mean them. You know I didn’t.”

“What poor boys?” Matthew asked.

“Oh, Lily’s job. It’s wretched, worse than mine.”

“It isn’t—”

Sophie leaned over the table, lowering her voice to a melodramatic hush. “She writes letters to the families who have sons who have been killed in action. Sons or husbands or brothers. Every day, all day. Can you even imagine? Nothing but death. At least I get to type up lists of ammunition and battle plans and permissions for leave.” She let out a rather sharp laugh and tossed back her champagne.

“It isn’t wretched,” Lily stated with dignity, and she caught Matthew’s eye. He didn’t smile, but somehow she felt as if he had.

“Let’s dance.” Sophie had finished her champagne and Tom sprang up from his seat to take her hand.

Lily watched them head to the dance floor in a blur of silver and army green, and the silence that fell on the table felt like a raincloud, or perhaps a thunderclap. Lily sneaked a glance at Matthew and saw him staring at the blur of motion on the dance floor, his face expressionless, one hand resting flat on the table. Any sense of a smile had vanished completely. The evening, she feared, was going to be interminable.

“Do you dance much?” she asked, simply to break the heavy silence, only to realize it might sound as if she were fishing for an invitation from him. “I’m afraid I don’t.”

“Nor do I.” Matthew glanced at her, his lips twitching in what could almost be called a smile. “I’m what Lieutenant Reese would call a dead hoofer.”

The wry glimmer in his dark eyes made Lily’s heart give a strange squeeze. “A dead hoofer?”

“Two left feet.”

“Ah. Well, I suppose that’s what I am, as well. I try, but I really can’t manage it. If you asked me to dance, I’m sure you’d regret it, or at least your feet would.”

“Ah, well.” Matthew gave a nod, his eyes still glinting with wry humor. “There are more important things in life than dancing.”

“I’m not sure everyone out there would agree.” She cocked her head towards the dance floor. “But I don’t mind not being able to, honestly.” Even though she realized she would have liked him to have asked.

He smiled then, the tiniest thing, but it felt like a spark had leapt across the table from him to her, as if she’d caught it in her bare

hands. “I know you don’t,” he said.

The warmth in his voice surprised and thrilled her, and, discomfited, Lily reached for her champagne, simply to have something to do with her hands. The bubbles tickled her nose and made her cough.