The Last Embrace Read Online Free
reported for duty.
To her surprise, Lily enjoyed learning how to shadow people, use firearms, steam open letters, and crack safes. She took to the rough-and-tumble of OSS life, the tours of duty in Athens, Berlin, and Berne, even meeting the great spymaster Allen Dulles himself. There was a swashbuckling feel to the work that she thrilled to, a Great Cause to sacrifice for, and she grew used to bivouacking in a crumbling castle outside Cologne one month, a requisitioned apartment in Marburg the next. She was good at getting people to confide in her, knew when to shut up and listen, could ferret out sensitive information with a smile. She thrived on the male attention, swore and told jokes and blew smoke rings with the best of her colleagues, and no one ever suspected that she occasionally locked herself in the women’s room and sobbed, overwhelmed by all that she’d seen. In time, Lily learned to anesthetize her fears with booze and calm her night terrors in the arms of Joseph Croggan. In his unassailable midwestern decency, thousands of miles and an ocean from home, she thought she’d found a refuge and a new life. Instead, here she was, alone, adrift, and feeling ancient in her bones at twenty-six, back in L.A., a place she thought she’d left behind forever.
At Centinela, the cab turned and Lily gripped the seat and cried out. Her old block was gone. A bulldozer lumbered, grading the dirt where houses had once stood. At the edge of the lima bean fields where farmers had planted a windbreak of eucalyptus trees fifty years earlier, men with chain saws were hard at work. The denuded trunks lay like piles of bones.
Lily swallowed hard.
“I’ve changed my mind,” she said, pulling out Doreen’s address. “Hollywood, please.”
CHAPTER 3
T he taxi pulled up to a two-story Spanish-style house set back from the street. The architect had supplied whimsical touches—leaded-glass windows, balconies, a high turret. Above the front door, an ornamental iron sign read WILCOX BOARDINGHOUSE FOR YOUNG LADIES.
In the big unkempt garden, Lily saw fruit trees, bougainvilleas, giant birds-of-paradise with prehistoric orange and blue beaks, a pink hibiscus that had grown into a tree. Ivy wound around sycamore trunks like garlands and velvety blue morning glory vines climbed a trellis. Accustomed to the grays of northern Europe, where winter had already taken hold, Lily found the color intoxicating.
“Here we are.”
The cabbie turned, revealing a scar from mouth to ear. Lily blanched and he grinned, making the dead purple flesh pucker unpleasantly. “Okinawa,” he said, catching her stare. “But at least I made it home, which is more than some of my buddies.”
“Y-yes,” Lily stuttered, and tipped him a dollar.
“Bring young ladies here from time to time,” he said, depositing her suitcase. “Actresses, every one. But it’s an okay joint. Unlike some a them.” He tipped his hat. “Good luck in Hollywood,” he said, getting back into his car. “I’ll look for you on the silver screen.”
Don’t bother, she wanted to call, annoyed that the cabbie had mistaken her for another starlet in the making. But he was already gone.
Lily walked up the flagstone steps, feeling the grounds stir, rustling and twittering in welcome. The familiar odor of sage hit her, perfumed and almost smoky. The smell of hiking trails and chaparral lashing her bare legs, the hot sun of her childhood.
Lily rapped the iron knocker three times against the heavy oak door. With a creak it swung open, revealing a middle-aged woman with hair pulled into a bun. She was rangy and long-limbed, with an unruly bosom that strained the seams of her pale yellow dress. A smell of perspiration and bleach came from her.
“What can I do for you?” the woman said, the grit of Oklahoma thick on her tongue. Her eyes dropped to Kitty’s feet, spied the suitcase. “We don’t have any rooms to let right now, though we…” Wiping her hands on her apron,
To her surprise, Lily enjoyed learning how to shadow people, use firearms, steam open letters, and crack safes. She took to the rough-and-tumble of OSS life, the tours of duty in Athens, Berlin, and Berne, even meeting the great spymaster Allen Dulles himself. There was a swashbuckling feel to the work that she thrilled to, a Great Cause to sacrifice for, and she grew used to bivouacking in a crumbling castle outside Cologne one month, a requisitioned apartment in Marburg the next. She was good at getting people to confide in her, knew when to shut up and listen, could ferret out sensitive information with a smile. She thrived on the male attention, swore and told jokes and blew smoke rings with the best of her colleagues, and no one ever suspected that she occasionally locked herself in the women’s room and sobbed, overwhelmed by all that she’d seen. In time, Lily learned to anesthetize her fears with booze and calm her night terrors in the arms of Joseph Croggan. In his unassailable midwestern decency, thousands of miles and an ocean from home, she thought she’d found a refuge and a new life. Instead, here she was, alone, adrift, and feeling ancient in her bones at twenty-six, back in L.A., a place she thought she’d left behind forever.
At Centinela, the cab turned and Lily gripped the seat and cried out. Her old block was gone. A bulldozer lumbered, grading the dirt where houses had once stood. At the edge of the lima bean fields where farmers had planted a windbreak of eucalyptus trees fifty years earlier, men with chain saws were hard at work. The denuded trunks lay like piles of bones.
Lily swallowed hard.
“I’ve changed my mind,” she said, pulling out Doreen’s address. “Hollywood, please.”
CHAPTER 3
T he taxi pulled up to a two-story Spanish-style house set back from the street. The architect had supplied whimsical touches—leaded-glass windows, balconies, a high turret. Above the front door, an ornamental iron sign read WILCOX BOARDINGHOUSE FOR YOUNG LADIES.
In the big unkempt garden, Lily saw fruit trees, bougainvilleas, giant birds-of-paradise with prehistoric orange and blue beaks, a pink hibiscus that had grown into a tree. Ivy wound around sycamore trunks like garlands and velvety blue morning glory vines climbed a trellis. Accustomed to the grays of northern Europe, where winter had already taken hold, Lily found the color intoxicating.
“Here we are.”
The cabbie turned, revealing a scar from mouth to ear. Lily blanched and he grinned, making the dead purple flesh pucker unpleasantly. “Okinawa,” he said, catching her stare. “But at least I made it home, which is more than some of my buddies.”
“Y-yes,” Lily stuttered, and tipped him a dollar.
“Bring young ladies here from time to time,” he said, depositing her suitcase. “Actresses, every one. But it’s an okay joint. Unlike some a them.” He tipped his hat. “Good luck in Hollywood,” he said, getting back into his car. “I’ll look for you on the silver screen.”
Don’t bother, she wanted to call, annoyed that the cabbie had mistaken her for another starlet in the making. But he was already gone.
Lily walked up the flagstone steps, feeling the grounds stir, rustling and twittering in welcome. The familiar odor of sage hit her, perfumed and almost smoky. The smell of hiking trails and chaparral lashing her bare legs, the hot sun of her childhood.
Lily rapped the iron knocker three times against the heavy oak door. With a creak it swung open, revealing a middle-aged woman with hair pulled into a bun. She was rangy and long-limbed, with an unruly bosom that strained the seams of her pale yellow dress. A smell of perspiration and bleach came from her.
“What can I do for you?” the woman said, the grit of Oklahoma thick on her tongue. Her eyes dropped to Kitty’s feet, spied the suitcase. “We don’t have any rooms to let right now, though we…” Wiping her hands on her apron,
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