Page 40 of Beehive

It was heartening to see that the war and this new conflict we faced hadn’t robbed us of our most prized possession, our friendship. Seeing Arty smile and hearing Will laugh tore the worry from my grasp, if only for a moment.

Will made another smart-ass remark, something about Arty’s squeaky voice and Elizabeth’s endless patience. A smile found its way to my lips as Arty shoved Will’s shoulder and nearly knocked my half-drunk partner off his chair.

How could anyone not love Arty?

He was the nerdiest, smartest, funniest guy I’d ever met. His smile was infectious, and his laugh was even more so. In many ways, he was the glue that held our little found family together.

He was also the boy who would never age.

In college, he appeared no older than a freshman in high school, and was often teased about his boyish features. Now, at the ripe old age of twenty-seven, tufts of gray poked through the wiry black on his head. Each of us had aged, in our own ways, though his were more visible than the war’s lingering touch on Will and me.

I supposed that was the way of things. Everyone aged. Still, a part of me was saddened to see adulthood overtaking Arty’s perpetual youth. He deserved to stay young forever.

We all did.

“I would love to sit up all night,” Arty said, stretching his arms over his head like some cat about to settle into a warm blanket.“But I’m exhausted, and you two have to invade the Soviet Union tomorrow. We should get some sleep.”

Will hopped up, grabbed Arty beneath his armpits, and hauled him up into a tight hug, lifting the scrawny man off his feet.

“I missed you, Arty bug.” Will’s voice was muffled against Arty’s shoulder, but there was no mistaking the affection between them. Arty scowled at first, then a smile bloomed, then his features eased and he surrendered to Will’s embrace.

“God, I missed you, Will. I wish we could just go home.”

My heart swelled.

When they pulled apart, Arty looked toward me. “There’s a bed in the room through that door. I’m upstairs, above the dining room. If you need anything—”

“There’s not enough time to need anything,” I said, reaching out and pulling Arty into a hug of my own. “But thanks. It’s good to see you again, Arty.”

I was surprised at how tightly he clung to me.

We’d been friends through Will, more in-laws than direct relatives. His unbridled affection flowed into me, filling me with a warmth I hadn’t felt in far too long: the warmth of family.

“Bring him home safe, okay?” Arty whispered in my ear before stepping back, his eyes glistening.

My throat caught. “I’ll do my best, buddy.”

Moments later, Will and I sat on the edge of a creaky bed in a room whose walls were lined with wooden crates. A few bore markings in French. I was fairly certain they contained something other than bottles of wine as described on the outside but wasn’t curious enough to root around inside them. The postwar resistance had clearly not given up their mission of arming and protecting France, despite the fall of the German Reich.

“You sleepy?” Will asked.

“A little,” I said, reaching over and rubbing circles on his back. “Tomorrow’s going to be a long day.”

“It’s already tomorrow.”

I grunted. “Yeah, so it is.”

“What do you think about all this?” he asked, standing and unbuttoning his shirt.

“I don’t know what to think. Clearly, the Ruskies are agitated about something. They’re flooding the zone over it. What I can’t figure out is why our agents haven’t been able to identify what they’re hunting. Our guys are good, and they’re deeply embedded.”

Will tossed his shirt on a chair scooted beneath the desk and began fiddling with the button on his pants. “It’s almost . . . I don’t know. It feels liketheydon’t know what they’re looking for.”

I sat upright. “Okay, I’m listening. How so?”

He stepped out of one leg, then the other, turning to face me in nothing but his tighty-whities. “It’s like you said; our guys are good. They picked up on ‘the Keeper,’ whatever that means. It just seems like we should know more.” His brow furrowed. “What if wedoknow more? What if Manakin isn’t telling us everything?”

“Babe, you’re jumping at shadows.” I took his hand and pulled him onto the bed beside me. “I’m sure Manakin told us what he knows—or, at least, what he can.”

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