One Was a Soldier (14 page)

“Oh, God, I did startle you.” Anne snatched a dishcloth off the rack and turned on the cold water. “I should have—”

“Clare, are you okay? I heard—” Russ came though the swinging doors before Clare could say anything. At least, she thought stupidly, he was wearing a towel slung around his waist. She had discovered that wasn’t always a given.

“—called first.” Anne’s voice was faint.

Outside, birds caroled and chirped in the rustling trees. On the radio, the audience of
Wait, Wait, Don’t Tell Me
was laughing. A puff of hot August air rolled into the kitchen. From somewhere deep within her, Clare’s southern upbringing rose to the occasion. “Russ,” she said, “I believe you know Anne Vining-Ellis.”

Russ’s lips twitched. “Clare, why don’t you shut the door.”

She did so, leaving a trail of egg-white droplets across the floor. Anne abruptly twisted the running water off. She squeezed the dishcloth into the sink. “Um.” She waved the cloth toward the egg carton. “Better get that up before it dries.”

Russ looked at Clare. “Is it all right if I go get dressed?” She nodded. “Okay. I’ll be back in a few minutes.” He sniffed. “Whatever you’re making, it smells great.”

Clare and Anne both watched in silence as Russ disappeared through the swinging doors. Clare listened to the thump and creak of his footsteps going up the stairs. She turned toward Anne. Chair of the stewardship committee. Important donor to the church. Parishioner.
Friend.
She hoped. She took a deep breath. “Well…”

Anne shook her head. “Oh. My. God.”

Clare’s heart sank.

“He is totally hot. Even with the bullet scars.”

“What?”

“What is he, fifty? He’s got to be close to my age, right?” She fanned herself. “Let me tell you, my husband sure doesn’t look like that in a towel.”

“What?”

Anne dropped the wet cloth on the counter and crossed to Clare. She hugged her. “Oh, Clare. It’s not exactly a surprise. I mean, yeah, seeing him here half naked was definitely a surprise, but the fact that you’re doing more than meeting for lunch at the diner isn’t.” She released Clare, grinning. “Besides, everyone knows priests and ministers don’t have sex. So I’ll just assume his shower is broken and he was borrowing yours.”

Clare buried her face in her hands. “I think I need another drink.”

“I’ll join you.”

Clare took down a second tall glass and filled it to the brim while Anne mopped up the broken eggs. “So.” She stood and traded the eggy cloth for a Bloody Mary. “Is this a new thing? I mean, since you’ve been away for a year and a half.”

“When I found out I was being deployed, we…” Clare made a vague gesture. “We only had two weeks, though, and everything was crazy, with me trying to take care of all the details at St. Alban’s and get ready to go and all.” She looked into her drink. “This feels very new. I mean, we’ve known each other for how many years now? But we’ve never actually been out on a date.”

“What are you using for birth control?”

“Good Lord.” Clare could feel her cheeks turning red.

Anne pulled out one of the ladder-back chairs and sat at the pine table. “I’m a doctor. I’m concerned.”

Clare swallowed a large gulp of her Bloody Mary. “I’m on the pill.”

“That’s foresighted of you.”

“I’ve been on for years. Erratic periods and army flight schedules don’t mix.” She dropped into another chair and covered her eyes. “I cannot believe I’m discussing this with you.”

“Then make an appointment and go talk about it with your regular doctor. I know you have this
thing
about medical treatment, but—”

“Anne, what did you come here for?”

Anne paused. “Sorry.” She took the celery stick out of her drink. Tapped it on the rim of the glass. “Sometimes it’s easier to talk about other people’s issues than your own.”

“I know. Believe me, I know.”

Anne looked up at her, smiling a little. “I just bet you do.” She laid the celery stick on the table. “It’s about Will.”

“What about Will?”

“You … know what happened to him.”

“Yes. I’d heard. I haven’t seen him since I’ve been back, though.”

“Of course you haven’t. No one has. He doesn’t go anywhere. He doesn’t do anything. He lets us drag him to physical therapy and to the orthopedist, but he refuses to go anywhere else. Remember how he loved to play his guitar? We’ve encouraged him to get back together with his old band. We’ve offered to pay for shop classes over at ACC—you know how he was always fooling around with cars.”

Clare nodded.

“Nothing. He won’t do anything.”

“Is he acting depressed?”

“No! I mean, not to my face. If he has to interact with anyone, he behaves as if everything’s fine. He cracks jokes, he carries on a conversation, but it’s all an act. When no one’s around … I can hear him, in his room. Just sitting there. No music. No movement. Like a machine that’s been turned off.”

Clare laid her hand open on the table. Anne took it. “I’ve tried to talk to him about seeing a psychiatrist, but he wouldn’t listen.”

“Can you place him in treatment? Without his consent?”

“Only if he’s a danger to himself or to others. And I’m afraid—” Her voice broke. “I’m so afraid that by the time he shows he’s a danger to himself it will be too late.”

“How can I help?”

“Will you come talk to him? Not officially or formally. Just come for dinner and then, you know, casually talk to him.”

“Of course, but Anne, I’m not a trained mental health professional. If you think he’s suicidal—”

Anne shook her head. “I don’t think it’s his mind. I think his soul has been wounded, and souls are your profession.”

Clare held out her other hand, and Anne squeezed both of them, hard. There was a polite throat clearing at the doorway. Russ stood there, barefoot, in jeans and an untucked shirt. “Am I intruding?”

“No.” Anne released Clare’s hands and stood up. “I am.” She smiled at Russ. “I’ll leave you to enjoy your brunch, Chief Van Alstyne.”

“I think you ought to call me Russ, all things considering.”

“You got it. Clare? Tonight? Six o’clock?”

“I’ll be there.”

Anne opened the door, letting in another puff of warm air. “Thanks. Sorry for the eggs and all. As for you”—she pointed to Russ—“if you’re going to eat this woman’s food and run up her water bill, the least you can do is take her out on a date.”

The door clicked shut behind her. In the kitchen, the coffee press whistled faintly and the sausages popped in the skillet. Russ looked at her. “No more sleeping over.”

“Noooo!” She stood up, nearly knocking over the remains of her Bloody Mary.

“Yes. We’ve gotten away with it for eight weeks. That was too damn close for comfort.”

Clare flung an arm toward the door. “Anne’s fine with it! She’s happy for me.”

“Dr. Anne’s fine with it because she’s your friend. What if it had been one of the conservative guys on the vestry, like whatsis-name, with the scarf?”

“Sterling Sumner.”

“How do you think he would have reacted? What if it had been Elizabeth de Groot?”

Clare winced. Her deacon, who was tasked with keeping Clare on the straight and narrow, had a serious thing for clerical reverence and priestly authority. “She’d be on the phone to the bishop right now.”

“Damn right she would—and I don’t think his reaction would be ‘Fine, I’m so happy for you.’” He reached out and pulled her into his arms. “Would it?”

She shook her head against his chest. “It’s not fair.”

“It’s your organization, darlin’. I may not be a member, but I know we gotta play by the rules.”

“But I sleep better with you here!” It was true. She had used prayer and sleeping pills and warm milk and brandy, but the only thing that centered and settled her was Russ. Curled against the warm solidity of his back, she could let down her guard. She was safe.

When did it stop being safe to fall asleep?
She shuddered.

He tightened his hold on her. “Just for a while.”

“It’s not going to stop being an issue.”

“It will if we’re married.”

Married.
He had asked her once, the night they had found out she was leaving for Iraq. It was a spur-of-the-moment proposal, an age-old instinct to seize the moment when war was howling outside the door. She had turned him down, gambling that they would have a second chance. Confident that when he truly put his wife’s death behind him, they would both be ready.

“Clare?” His lips were curved slightly, but his eyes were wary. He was, she realized, unsure of himself. It wasn’t an expression she was used to seeing on Russ Van Alstyne’s face.

“It’s just … we haven’t talked about that. Marriage.”

He jammed his hands into his jeans pockets. “We have to be realistic. Living together isn’t going to be an option.”

“That’s not what I meant.” She was barefoot, wearing her old summer pajamas. Sausages sizzled and popped in the skillet. NPR had moved on to
Car Talk.
Even at her most down-to-earth, this wasn’t what she envisioned when she thought of a proposal. “I mean we haven’t discussed the issues. The details. Marriage is a big, huge deal.”

His mouth quirked. “Believe me, I take marriage very seriously.”

She flushed. She of all people had reason to know “divorce” wasn’t in his vocabulary. Which, when you got down to it, was the reason for the sinking feeling in her stomach. The fact he was mentioning marriage for the first time after being caught with his pants down smelled unpleasantly like
shotgun wedding.
With her vestry, instead of her father, holding the 12-gauge. Russ loved her. She knew that. She just didn’t know if in some deep well of emotion he was still choosing Linda over her. “Maybe this isn’t the time or place for a big ‘what do we want out of marriage’ discussion.”

He got that expression again. The uncertain one. “Is there that much to discuss? ’Cause I can tell you what I want in under five words. You as my wife.” He shrugged. “The rest of it, I figure we’ll make up as we go along. That’s pretty much how it goes, in my experience.”

“Why do you want to get married? I mean, other than the sex thing.”

“There has to be more than sex?” He grinned. “It’s not because I’m chomping at the bit to be the preacher’s husband, I can guarantee you that.” She laughed a little. He ran his hands up her arms and rested them on her shoulders. “I want to be married because I like those easy-to-understand, boring definitions. Husband. Wife. I want to be married because life is short, and I want to spend whatever I have left of it with you, every day, every night. I want to be married so that everything I have and everything I am is yours, and everything of you is mine. And I want to be married so I can lay you out on the dining room table if I feel like it and have you six ways from Sunday in the middle of the afternoon and if one of your parishioners walks in on us, it’s tough titties for them.”

She started laughing.

“I’m not a complicated guy, Clare. I keep trying to dress it up with flowers and stuff, but that’s what it all comes down to with me.”

She touched his cheek, smooth from his morning shave. She was afraid her heart would break open from feeling too much. “I told you. You don’t ever have to dress anything up for me. Just be yourself.”

*   *   *

The phone hanging on the wall between the door and the window rang before he had the chance to ask her the same question. What did she want out of marriage? Specifically, marriage to a guy fourteen years older, who thought God was a myth and whose job could get him killed.

Clare sighed and crossed the floor. “Hello?”

Maybe he was pushing it. She didn’t talk about Iraq, but he had held her while she thrashed around with bad dreams. He had seen the fatigue on her face as she tried to be everything for everybody in her church. Of course, that might argue for the two of them getting married as soon as possible. He knew he’d do a damn sight better job of drawing boundaries than she did.

Maybe he should just ask her right now. Get the damn thing settled. But Christ, the ring was back at his mother’s house, and she deserved something special. Memorable. Not him blurting it out before breakfast. Maybe he could make an excuse to swing by his mom’s place. He could take her on a picnic. Picnics were romantic, weren’t they?

Clare looked at him oddly. “Um. Certainly.” She handed the phone out. “It’s Harlene, for you.”

“What?” He took the receiver as if it might be booby-trapped. “Van Alstyne here.”

Clare went to the stove to check the breakfast. “Sorry to bother you and the reverend,” Harlene said.

“That’s all right,” Russ lied. “What’s up?” Clare drew a long meat fork out of the utensil canister and started pricking sausages. He tried to remember if the IGA sold picnic lunches.

“Eric’s called in sick, and Noble’s gone up to Tupper Lake for the weekend. We’re short and we need coverage.”

“Have you tried Paul?” Russ watched Clare take down a glass bowl and open the carton of eggs. They’d need sunscreen—and bug dope. Bug dope definitely wasn’t romantic.

“Well, I’m sure I could get ahold of him, but he’ll be on overtime. You want me to try him anyways?”

The magic word, “overtime,” brought his full attention back to Harlene. “No. No. I don’t want to give the alderman anything else to complain about.” He pointed at the egg Clare had picked up. He shook his head.
Don’t bother.
“I’ll be there in twenty minutes. And call Duane to see if he’ll be available just in case. Last weekend before the holiday, we might need him for traffic and parking.”

“Let’s hope he remembers to turn his darned phone on so I can at least leave him a message. Unlike you.”

He slapped the front pocket of his jeans and drew out his blank, inactive cell phone. “Sorry.” He thought for a second. Did he want to know? “Harlene? Why did you call Clare’s number to reach me?”

She laughed in his ear. “I may be old, but I haven’t forgotten what it’s like. I figured you two would be making up for lost time.”

“Oh.”

“And Erla Davis mentioned to me that she saw you walking down her street and getting into your truck real early last week when she was headed out to open up the diner.”