"Your uniform needs a good washing," she told him sternly. "What have you been doing, sleeping in it?"
Yes.
"You're burning with fever." Her hands were so cool against his face, he just wanted to close his eyes and drift away again. But he couldn't.
"I can't go to the hospital. I need to talk to Senator Howard." He focused on her very blue eyes. Despite her efficient demeanor and her seeming inability to smile, she'd been the kindest person in the senator's office. In all the days he'd spent in the waiting room, she'd made a point to greet him each day by name—Private DaCosta, never Vince—and to talk to him. She'd even brought him lunch. Not that he'd had much of an appetite. He'd been fighting this damned fever even then.
He reached for her hands. "Promise—you won't let the doctor send me to the hospital."
"If I do, will you promise to lie still? And to let Mother and me take care of you properly? Those wounds of yours need re-bandaging every day."
God, how mortifying. If he stayed here, then every day she would have to ... He closed his eyes. "Can't let you ... do that. That's ... more than you counted on when you brought me here."
"There's very little I count on these days, Private. We're at war. It helps to have no set expectations." She moved back down to his leg. "This must hurt you very much. It's mostly healed, but it's definitely infected. I'll try to be quick."
Pain seared. "Oh, God!"
"Where did this happen?" she asked. "Where were you wounded?"
"Tarawa," he ground out. She was trying to distract him, and he answered her. Let her think that it helped. "Gilbert Islands. South Pacific."
"I know all about Tarawa," she said darkly. "The Japanese fortifications were so much stronger than anyone expected. The casualty lists were beyond heartbreaking. It must've been awful."
Vince made a noise that he hoped sounded like agreement.
"Thank God you made it back home. Your mother must be so relieved. Which reminds me. You must let me ring your family. I'm sure they're worried about you."
"Mother died... I was nine," he managed.
"I'm terribly sorry."
"Pop's with my sister—I sent a postcard... a couple days ago. No phone. Oh, Jesus, oh, Christ!"
"I'm so, so sorry." Her voice shook, but she quickly regained control. "Part of the old bandage was stuck. It's off now. The worst is done. I promise."
He was crying. God, what a baby. He tried to wipe his eyes, wipe his face, but his goddamn eyes just kept on tearing. The intense pain had subsided, but the accompanying waves of nausea continued.
Charlotte pretended not to notice his tears, the same way she pretended not to notice that she was bandaging him mere inches from his family jewels. Every now and then she tugged the sheet back to cover him more completely, but he got the sense that was more for his sake than for hers.
God, he was completely mortified. And yet things were about to get even worse.
"Sorry." He tried to sit up again. "I'm sorry, but I'm going to be sick—"
She was ready for him. She had a basin in front of him in a split second, and a strong arm around him, holding him up as he lost what little food he'd forced at noontime.
"I'm sorry," he gasped.
"It's all right," she said soothingly, cooling his face with a damp cloth. "Stop apologizing, Private. You're ill. You didn't become ill on purpose, although remind me later to scold you more thoroughly for not taking better care of yourself this past week."
His stomach felt better emptied, but his head was drumming with a new intensity. Vince sank back onto Charlotte's sweetly scented pillows as Edna Fletcher bustled back into the room.
"The doctor's on his way. I had to call the Wendts and then the Fishers to find him, but he should be here in moments." She vanished with the basin as Charlotte put the cool cloth back on his head.
He fought to keep his eyes open, to look up at her. "Please..."
"No hospital," she said. "I know. But our deal is off if the infection doesn't start improving by tomorrow." She put her fingers on his lips. "No, don't argue. Don't bother wasting your breath. I don't know what kind of quest you're on—I'm sure it's very noble—but I will not stand by and help you let the enemy take another American life. Far too many young men have already been cut down and I will not let you die, too."
God, she was magnificent.
And it was then that he knew he could never tell her the truth about Tarawa. She'd already lost too much in this war. The truth about what had happened would be too terrible for her to hear.
No, he had to figure out another way to get her onto his side, to convince her to let him speak to the senator.
And, while he was at it... "Marry me," he whispered.
She gave him that exasperated look that he'd already come to know so well. "Don't be an idiot."
Mother Fletcher came into the room. "The doctor's here."
Charlotte pushed his hair back from his forehead. "Don't worry," she said to Vince in a low voice. "I'll stay and hold your hand while he examines your leg."
She then turned to greet the man.
Vince took it as a very good sign that she hadn't actually said no.
Mary Lou stared at the rows of movie tapes in the video section of the library, wishing they had a section labeled "Movies Guaranteed to Distract You When Your Husband Steps Out."
Haley was in the stroller, happily kicking her feet and chewing on the Clifford the Big Red Dog board book Mary Lou had bought her at Target last week. She'd had a long nap at Mrs. U.'s, and, with the help of a Tupperware container of Cheerios, would be happy as pumpkin pie for most of the AA meeting at the Catholic church.
Mary Lou finally settled on Saving Private Ryan. She'd never managed to see that one—not being particularly interested in gory battle scenes from World War One or Two or whatever it was. But just a few days ago she'd heard Sam telling his friend Nils that he'd loved it. Maybe if she watched it and they talked about it, he'd realize how serious she was about making their marriage work. Maybe he'd see just how hard she was willing to try.
He'd come home tomorrow, and she wouldn't say a thing about Alyssa. She'd keep her mouth shut this time, no matter how hard it was. She'd make sure the house was extra clean, all his laundry done. She and Haley would both get dressed up, and they'd make something special for dinner.
But what?
She didn't even really know what her husband liked to eat. He shoveled it all in with the same grim lack of enthusiasm. He always thanked her for cooking and politely said it tasted good. But he said the exact same thing on the nights she opened a can of corned beef hash and fried up a couple of eggs on top of it.
Okay, so she'd ask him about his favorite food. She'd call him at work—not to check to see where he was, not to see if he was even there, but simply to see what he'd like to have for dinner tomorrow night.
And if he wasn't there, she wouldn't freak. She'd just leave a very calm message, asking him to call her when he got the chance.
And then, when he came home, they'd have that dinner and discuss how much they both enjoyed watching Saving Private Ryan.
Even if she hated the battle scenes as much as she suspected she would.
"Hey, aren't you the sweetest little thing?"
The man in front of them in the library's checkout line had, like most people on this planet, fallen instantly in love with Haley.
She grinned up at him, all curly golden hair and big blue eyes and soft, chubby cheeks that were just perfect for smooching.
He looked at Mary Lou then, giving her the same warm smile that most people usually reserved for her daughter these days. "How old is she?"
"Thirteen months," she told him.
He looked like Heath Ledger's older, sexier brother— chiseled jaw line, amazing cheekbones, light blond hah" and all. As she smiled back at him, she was glad she'd taken the tune to brush her hair before leaving the house.
"That's a great age," he said in a voice that reminded her of Jack Nicholson. It was a jarring combination with that face and hair.
"Yes, it is," she said.
"She's beautiful. She takes after her mother."
He was spreading on the bullshit a little thick, but Mary Lou gave him another smile.
The sensation of a pair of male eyes on her, actually looking at her as if she were a desirable woman, was nice. She smiled again, determined to enjoy it while it lasted. There was no harm in that. Any second now he would turn back to the counter, check out his book, and walk out of her life.
"Are you really going to read all of those?" he asked, gesturing with his chin to the stack of books she was carrying. Struggling to carry. He noticed, and moved toward her. "Let me get them for you."
"Oh, that's okay. I'm going to have to carry them to my car and..."
But he took them anyway. He got close enough to brush her arm with his fingers, close enough for Mary Lou to catch a whiff of his cologne. Oh, baby, he smelled terrific. Sam never wore cologne. She'd bought him a bottle back when they were first married and it was still in the medicine cabinet in the bathroom, unopened.
"Thank you," she said, as the blond man put her books and the movie on the counter. "And yes. I'll probably be done reading those day after tomorrow."
"No kidding." And now he was looking at her as if she were some kind of genius. God, why couldn't everybody be this nice? Why couldn't Sam look at her like that? "That's impressive."
"I like to read."
"Obviously. That's wonderful."
It was his turn at the counter. He turned away, but only for a moment, only to give the librarian his book and his card.
"I'm just getting a travel guide," he told Mary Lou. "I'm going out to New York City and I've never been, so..."
New York ! "I've always wanted to go there."
"Sir." The librarian was holding out his book and card.
"Thanks," he said, stepping out of Mary Lou's way as he slipped his library card back into his wallet, and his wallet back into his pants.
He was wearing a business suit with a red-and-blue tie atop a crisp white shirt. He'd loosened his tie though, and unfastened the top button of his shirt. Some men looked sloppy when they did that. He wasn't one of them.
"I hope you have a nice trip," she told him as the librarian checked out her stack of books.
He smiled at her. "Thanks, but I'm not leaving for another few weeks." He reached down and gently squeezed Haley's foot. "Be good for your mommy, sweetheart. But I'm sure you are, aren't you? Aren't you? Yeah, I bet you are." He looked up at Mary Lou. "Need some help carrying that entire shelf of the library out to your car?"
She laughed. "No. Thank you. I wouldn't dream of imposing."
He gently shook Haley's foot, making her smile. "Your mommy thinks that spending a little more time with two gorgeous women would impose on me. She's crazy, isn't she?"
Haley laughed out loud. Baby laughter was such a pure, clean sound. Even the grumpy librarian smiled.
And the man looked up at Mary Lou again. He was smiling, but she could see pain in his eyes. "Your husband is a lucky guy. My wife filed for divorce and moved to New York, taking my two-year-old son with her." He straightened up. "I haven't seen him in three months and it's killing me. I used to put him to bed every night, tell him a story, take him to the park every Sunday afternoon after church ..." He shook his head. "I even miss changing his diapers. Believe me when I say it's really no imposition if I help you carry a couple of books to your car."
It was unreal. Who in their right mind would walk away from a man like this? An attentive, handsome man who obviously loved children? Whoever his ex-wife was, she was completely addled.
He was determined to help, scooping up her books before Mary Lou could take them herself.
"Thank you," she said.
He followed her outside and over to her car. "It's unlocked," she told him, and he put the books on the floor of the front passenger's side while she strapped Haley into her car seat.
When she straightened up, he was attempting to fold her stroller. And getting it completely wrong.
"Sorry," he said, with a laugh. "The one we had was a different model."
She closed it with a snap. "It couldn't have been that different."
"My wife was into things from Europe. If it didn't cost a thousand dollars, it wasn't good enough for Ethan. That's my son."
"That's a nice name." Mary Lou tossed the stroller into the trunk.
Because the trunk was broken—anyone could open it by sticking their finger in the hole where the lock used to be— she had to lean on the lid a certain way to get it to latch.
Lately it had been popping open by itself. She'd come out of work just this past week to find it not quite closed. It was annoying, but not worth the money to get it fixed.