Escapades of an Erotic Spy - Part 1 A Spy is Born Read Online Free

right to do this. Beau's note made it all
right.
     
    Dear B,
    I'm 17. But I'll be 18 on New Year's Day.
You could say each New Year is a new year for me.
    I liked your description of the moon. I wish
I had seen it. But I suppose I probably retired to bed early that
night. I needed to work the next morning, and there was no 4th of
July party for me. Maybe next year. Meanwhile, I'll try to remember
to look for the moon when it's full again.
    I do enjoy swimming. Although I haven't been
to a—
     
    "What's with all the writing lately?" My
mother plopped down next to me, interrupting my composition. She
was holding a drink that smelled of some type of cheap alcohol.
"You writing a book?"
    I quickly folded the paper and stashed it
under the folds of my dress. I hadn't intended to share it with
anyone other than Beau.
    "Can't a girl have a moment alone?" I
moaned.
    "Why? You got secrets?"
    "What if I do?"
    My mother squinted at me. Her eyes weren't
as strong as they once were, but they were as dark and lovely as
ever. I took after her in that respect. I also had her hair, nose,
cheeks, and full bosom. I like to think I got the best of her. Not
quite forty, she was still an attractive woman. Although her
usually pinkish hued face was currently reddened by too many hours
spent hanging laundry in the summer sun. That was her job, you see.
She and a neighbor—the one who got me my first job—took in other
people's laundry and hung the clothes out to dry in the neighbor's
backyard. It brought in money, so I'm not criticizing. I'm just
saying the sunburn did nothing to improve my mother's appearance or
her disposition.
    "Secrets can get a girl into trouble." My
mother wagged a finger in my face.
    "So can snooping," I shot back.
    That ended the conversation. My mother
retreated to the relative cool of the front steps of our apartment
building, and I returned to writing my secret message.
    I won't bore you with the word-by-word
details of every puppy love note that was traded through the
pillowcase that summer. Let it suffice to say the notes grew longer
and more personal with each exchange. I treasured every page, every
sentence, every word. Over and over, I would read them, spread them
out before me, fondle them. I would even hold them to my nose in
the hope of catching a faint whiff of the scent of my beloved.
    Then came a day in August
when I was about to slip my note into the pillowcase, only to find
another piece of paper already in there. Had Beau not retrieved my last note? Were my heart's feelings still buried within the linen and
unread? But, no! It wasn't my previous
note. It was a brand new one—from Beau to me. Rather than wait for
his "turn," he leapt ahead and wrote me another message. Whiz-bang! From that
point forward, we exchanged a letter from each of us
weekly.
    Until September.
    School was beginning again. Beau was off to
college, and I was crestfallen. Beyond that—I was devastated. My
love was leaving me to return to the University of Virginia, all
the way in Charlottesville—so much farther than a trolley ride. He
was out of my reach. I moped for days. His return to college was
hardly a surprise, but I suppose I just hadn't prepared myself for
it. Now the day had arrived, and I felt deserted. I felt hollow.
There were two full moons in September 1917, and both of them made
me cry.
    Autumn was a dreary stretch of prolonged
misery. Friends and acquaintances noticed. Even Mrs. Eldridge, who
typically paid no mind to my moods, commented that I was "looking
rather glum lately." Glum was a colossal understatement. Gloomy and
depressed were far more accurate. I suppose I did my job
efficiently since none of my employing families fired me. However,
it was a grim efficiency that sustained only my need for an income
and none of my needs as a girl in love.
    Thanksgiving and Christmas were neither
festive nor merry occasions. Not for me, anyway. Although I must
admit that enough time had passed to allow for some of