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Part One: Luncheon reunion

Author's note: Like its prequel, Renaissance, this is a story I wrote a decade ago. Recently my muse has inspired me to continue this plot with some new stories, which are still in progress.

As always, feedback is deeply appreciated!

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Saturday 28 March 1942

Christopher Foyle strode swiftly up Steep Lane, hands thrust in the pockets of his overcoat, trilby pulled low over his forehead against the brisk March breeze. On the outside he appeared much as he always did – calm, deliberate, every inch the ranking police officer. Inside, however, he was bursting with the anticipation of a schoolboy on the first day of the summer holidays. At last, he was going to be reunited with Katherine Neville-West. His Katherine, as he had come to think of her.

From December through February they had seen each other every weekend, either for a dinner engagement or for a home-cooked meal at her flat. He had revelled in her company as he'd squired her to quiet restaurants and dancing establishments. No less delightful were the cosy evenings he'd spent at home with her and her young daughter Cecily. They'd enjoyed the sort of simple, homely pleasures that he hadn't experienced since his son Andrew was small – playing parlour games, doing jigsaw puzzles, laughing at wireless programmes. Sometimes he had listened as Katherine read aloud to Cecily in that soft, melodious voice he had come to love. After she had put the child to bed they would sit together and talk, her knitting needles clicking softly as she fashioned yet another sock in Navy black. It had been the happiest winter he'd spent in years. With each passing week, he grew more certain that he wanted to make her his wife.

In March, however, an unfortunate series of events had prevented him from seeing her for several weeks. The first weekend he'd been called away to Yorkshire for Andrew's wedding, an event which had fortunately been aborted.* Katherine had been forced to cancel their plans for the second weekend when Cecily had fallen ill with influenza. A few days later, she reported that the little girl was nearly recovered and happily accepted his invitation for the upcoming Saturday. But after he'd looked forward to this dinner all week, Katherine had come down with a bad case of 'flu herself.

Foyle found, as their separation dragged on, that he'd missed her even more than he would have expected. Oh, he'd telephoned her two or three times a week, but it wasn't the same. He wanted to touch her, to see the warmth in her dark eyes when she smiled, to take her in his arms and kiss her deeply and passionately. He found himself unable to stop thinking about her at odd moments throughout the day, and fretted a good deal about her and Cecily during their illnesses. He had last spoken to her two nights ago from London, where he was attending yet another civil defence conference. "Feeling better?"

"Much better, thanks," she had assured him, though her voice still sounded a bit weak to him.

"Well, this meeting doesn't break up until Friday afternoon, and I doubt I'll get home until late. Think you'll be up to dinner Saturday night?"

"Oh … I don't think so, Christopher. That is, I'm sure I'll feel fine, but I'm on at the canteen. I've already missed the last two Saturdays." She broke off with a deep cough. Katherine volunteered at the WVS canteen at RAF Lympne and she was punctilious about doing her bit. In addition to working daytime hours while her daughter was in school, she worked on Saturday night at least twice a month – the shift the canteen manager found hardest to staff.

He stifled a groan. "Look, this is getting ridiculous! D'you realise it's nearly a month since we've seen each other?"

"I know," she replied. He could hear echoes of his own frustration in her voice. "It does seem the fates are conspiring against us, doesn't it?"

"Well, what about during the day? Could you make lunch on Saturday?"

"Lunch? Yes, I think so. Cecily made a kite at school this week and I've promised her that we'll fly it Saturday afternoon. But we'd love to have lunch with you first." They'd settled on noon at the Sea View Café before ringing off.

Reaching the restaurant ten minutes early he stood waiting for them on the pavement, trying to contain his eagerness. He paid no attention to the glorious early-spring day – high clouds skittering along in the wind, sunlight sparkling off the Channel in the distance – as he waited for mother and daughter to arrive. At last he glimpsed them approaching: Katherine, trim and graceful in her maroon coat and hat, Cecily skipping alongside her, braids swinging, carrying a bright red kite more than half her own size. His heart leapt at the sight of these two people who had become so enormously important to him.

Spotting him, the little girl ran ahead, beaming. "Hello, Mr Foyle!" He was touched when she threw her free arm round him and hugged him awkwardly about the waist. He returned her greeting, marvelling as always at her liveliness, but all the time acutely aware of her mother's presence. Just the sound of her soft voice speaking his name sent a ridiculous thrill through him.

"Katherine. So good to see you. Been far too long." He wanted very much to kiss her but of course the proprieties didn't permit such displays in public, even if her seven-year-old daughter hadn't been present. He gestured toward the door of the café. "Shall we go in?"

The meal was a jolly one. Christopher's heart warmed with the pleasure of being with them again. Cecily kept them entertained with chatter about school and her small world and the conversation flowed easily. In response to his query, Katherine assured him that she was quite recovered from her 'flu, though he thought she still looked rather pale. "How is Andrew?" she asked.

"Fine, last I heard." He'd had no contact with his son since his trip to Yorkshire three weeks ago, but there was nothing particularly unusual in that, since the lad was a poor correspondent at the best of times. They smiled at each other, their eyes locking for a long moment. Soon, Christopher promised himself. Very soon now, I'll ask her.

Lunch over, they set off together to fly Cecily's kite. Foyle knew the perfect venue, a wide, open meadow near one of his favourite fishing spots at the river. He had taken Andrew kite-flying there many times in years past. The spring sunshine and the delightful companionship made him feel relaxed and light-hearted, and mother and daughter seemed equally happy.

After an hour or so, Cecily tired of her kite and wandered over to the riverbank where she became entranced by a flock of ducklings paddling along in their mother's wake. Squealing with glee, she danced along the bank in pursuit. Christopher and Katherine followed some distance behind, walking more slowly. His eyes drank in her heart-shaped face, her beautiful dark eyes, her cheeks pink from the exercise. God, how I've missed her! It took all his self-restraint not to pull her into his arms and hold her close.

"I'm glad we've got a few minutes to talk," Katherine said. "There's something I wanted to talk to you about."

"Oh?"

"Do you remember Charlie Sutcliffe, that American we met a few weeks ago at the Royal Victoria?"

Christopher's already erect posture straightened imperceptibly. "Yyyyes," he said in a carefully noncommittal tone. He did indeed remember Colonel Sutcliffe. Only too well, as it happened.

On St. Valentine's Day, some six weeks before, Christopher had taken Katherine out to dinner and dancing at the Royal Victoria Hotel. It was a more formal setting than most of their dates, other than the time he'd taken her to the Carlisle back in December. Katherine had looked especially beautiful that evening, he remembered, in a sleek black cocktail dress, glowing with quiet pleasure. Watching her covertly while they waited for a table, Christopher had wondered if the time had come for him to tell her how he felt. Was she ready to hear it? Might she even be ready to reciprocate?

The hush of the elegant hotel lobby was interrupted by the entrance of five or six American army officers. Talking and laughing loudly, flat accents reverberating, the group made its noisy way toward the bar. Then one of the officers did a double take and stopped, turning in their direction.

"Kathy? Kathy Morgan?" he called, squinting at Katherine.

She turned quickly toward him, her face registering stunned surprise. "Good Lord," she murmured. "Charlie?"

The man closed the space between them in a few long strides. "Kathy!" he bellowed, sweeping her into a bear hug and kissing her full on the lips. "What the hell are you doing here?" Next to her, Christopher's back stiffened. What the devil …

"Why, I … I live here," she said, cheeks slightly pink as she wriggled out of his embrace.

"That's right, you married an Englishman, didn't you? Some professor?"

"Yes, yes, that's right." Foyle thought her voice sounded strained.

"So this is him, huh?" boomed the American, turning to Foyle and pumping his hand vigorously. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with wavy dark hair, a wide, loose mouth and an air of brash confidence. "Pleased to meet you. Charlie Sutcliffe. I'm an old friend of Kathy's from her college days."

Katherine blushed. "Actually, I go by Katherine now," she corrected him. "Katherine Neville-West. This is Christopher Foyle."

Foyle waited for the man to notice the different surname, to realise that he wasn't her husband. It didn't happen.

"Quite a surprise, seeing you here," Katherine said, her soft, melodious voice contrasting sharply with the man's strident tones. "And in uniform … major, is it?"

"Major! Hell no, Kathy! Lieutenant Colonel, US Army Air Forces. I came over last month to plan new air installations. There's gonna be a lot more of us over here before long."

"High time, too," she replied, her words carrying an emphasis that Foyle didn't miss. "How are your children, Charlie? It's been so long since I've seen them."

"Oh, they're great, great! Jack started at Hotchkiss this year, you know. Chip off the old block. Rows sculls just like his old man. And Todd goes next fall."

"And Ginny?"

"Prettiest little thing you ever saw! She's gonna break some hearts, that one."

"And … how is your wife?" Her voice had a slightly crisp edge.

The man's bonhomie faded somewhat. "Oh … well. That didn't quite take. We split up last year."

"I see," said Katherine quietly. "I'm sorry to hear that, Charlie."

"Well, what'cha gonna do?" he shrugged, flashing her a saucy grin. "Plenty more fish in the sea, anyway, right?"

"If you say so," she replied coolly.

"Say, why don't you two join me for a drink? Talk about old times. We can catch up …" Sutcliffe gestured expansively in the direction of the bar.

"I don't think so, Charlie," she said firmly. "I'm afraid our plans don't permit it. But it's been quite a surprise, running into you like this. Good luck." She extended her hand in a gesture of farewell that even the brash American couldn't miss.

"Yeah, sure. You take care of yourself, Kathy." After a quick handshake, Sutcliffe strode away and disappeared into the bar. A moment later a burst of loud male laughter echoed across the lobby.

Foyle looked at Katherine, who was still flushed. "I'm sorry, Christopher," she said, sounding abashed. "He married one of my old college friends. I haven't seen him in years."

"It doesn't matter," he assured her, wishing he knew exactly what was distressing her. Was she embarrassed because he'd mistaken Foyle for her late husband? Or was there some other reason? Was he an old beau, perhaps, who had dropped her in favour of her friend? Her obvious discomfort suggested more than a casual relationship, but it seemed better not to pursue the topic. "So … Kathy Morgan?"

She smiled and he could see her relax. "Yes. Also a long time ago. Morgan was my maiden name, and I'm Kathy to my Wellesley friends. There were three Katherines in my dorm freshman year, you see, so we all wound up with nicknames. I never really liked it, though. I've been Katherine to one and all ever since I moved to England."

"What about when you were growing up?"

"Mrs Oliver always called me 'Miss Katherine' – probably why I've always liked the name. And Dad called me Katie. What about you? Did you ever go by Chris? Or Kit?"

"No, never been one for nicknames. My father called me Chris when I was small sometimes, but it never really took."

"I can see that. It doesn't suit you." Just then the maitre d'hotel signalled that their table was ready. Once they were seated, the conversation turned to other matters and neither of them mentioned the American officer again. The incident with Sutcliffe, however, had left a strangely bitter taste in his mouth, and he decided that the time was not yet right to disclose his feelings.

Now, walking beside the river on this blustery March afternoon, she had brought him up again. Why? Really, it was ridiculous for him to feel jealous over some boyfriend of long ago, wasn't it? Even if he was tall and handsome and assured? And – his stomach twisted – unattached? Christopher willed his features into a carefully neutral mask as she continued.

"Well, he rang me up a few days ago. It seems he's come over here to set up air bases for the American army. Bomber bases. It's quite complicated, apparently – they need to work with the local authorities to get clearances, hire local workers to construct hangars, runways … anyway, he's found he needs someone who understands English ways and can work with the local community to help smooth things. And he thought of me."

Foyle's eyebrows shot up. "You're saying he's offered you a job?"

"Yes. I must say, it's everything I've been looking for. Something that could make a real difference in the war effort. He's even willing to let me work only while Cecily's in school. And the timing is – well, providential."

He struggled keep his distress from his face. He didn't like the idea at all. She'd be working closely with that odious man, day after day, following his orders … his stomach contracted harder as he remembered how he'd kissed her at the Royal Victoria, so confidently, so possessively. "Well, well," he said noncommittally.

"There's just one thing." She sounded slightly hesitant now. "This job, Christopher – it's in Norfolk."

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*For the backstory behind this, read my story The Breakup.