The Colonel

by Beau North

  “Can I ask you a personal question?”

  “Shoot,” Ben said.

  “Why did you come back? After all this time?”

  Bang.

  He felt the sound more than remembered it, a sharp ache like a cavity. He didn’t know how to begin telling her about that. Instead, he improvised.

  “I’m writing a book.”

  “Oh yeah? What about?”

  “My father,” he blurted, stunned by his own admission. He had to admit, the idea had legs. Who better to write about a twice-decorated war hero who took two bullets in World War II and lost an eye in Korea? A man who spent his life making every damaged soldier his brother, a man who never married but fathered a child out of kindness? Ben remembered the scores of women who’d shown up to Richard’s funeral, the way his aunt Georgie laughed through her tears when he asked her who they all were.

  “I doubt even he could tell you,” she’d said.

  Keisha was silent for a few moments as they drove through the tree-lined streets of downtown. Finally she said, “I knew him, you know.”

  “No,” he said. “No, I didn’t know that.”

  “My mom used to cook for him sometimes. When I was in high school, he would pay me to come read for him, help him answer his mail. Sometimes he dictated letters to me.”

  “Were you at the funeral?”

  “No, I was already at school.”

  Ben couldn’t have been more surprised. There was some magic to the idea that she’d been put in his path, or he in hers, that perhaps he had been planning to write about his father all along, that he’d opened the drawer that very day, and had still not looked through it. Why hadn’t he just looked through the contents of the desk and then gone for a run? All the loose strands of Ben’s life seemed to be tying themselves into a strange unsolvable knot, and he wasn’t sure if he found it intrusive or comforting. A bit of both, probably.

  His throat impossibly dry, he asked her, “What did you think of him?”

  She was quiet again. He couldn’t guess what she was thinking with her eyes hidden behind a pair of mirrored glasses. Cop glasses.

  “I was fond of him,” she said. “He was very kind to me.”

  They pulled up to the house, each in thoughtful silence. He wasn’t thinking much about scandalizing the neighbors or the sweat now drying on his clothes. He was thinking about her, about what it meant that she was there, if it meant anything at all. The whole world seemed more chaos than order of late. Would it be so unusual that some force of nature would bring them together at this place and time? Is it you, Pop?

  Ben felt an odd self-consciousness as he opened the door for her, sharply aware of her nearness, the sweaty tang of his own body. She looked around with interest.

  “I guess it’s been awhile since you were inside.”

  “I like the curtains. It looks sunnier than I remember.”

  “Can I get you something to drink? I’ve got soda, water, milk, a little wine.”

  “No, I’m fine.”

  “Okay, well...would you mind very much if I grab a quick shower? I’ve ah...smelled better. Feel free to make yourself at home. I’ll just be a sec.”

  “Oh, sure. Go for it.” She waved him off. She seemed a little embarrassed by the question. “I’ll amuse myself.”

  He rushed through his shower, taking care to dig out the expensive Roberto Cavalli cologne, his Christmas gift from Fiona the previous year. He looked at himself in the mirror, seeing the threads of gray in his sandy hair, the deep crow’s feet fringing his eyes, blue like his mother’s. You got old, Benny boy. Don’t forget that when you’re flirting with the pretty cop who is probably half your age.

  He emerged dressed in clean jeans and a t-shirt, his feet bare and hair still damp. She’d found the one comfortable chair in the living room, an old Eames lounger. She was thumbing through a book. His book: Short-Lived Empire: The Rise and Fall of the Confederate States of America.

  “I can give you a copy if you’re having trouble sleeping,” he said.

  She looked up at him and smiled. He wanted to capture the way it made him feel, that smile. The giddy, heart-thumping delight that coursed through him...if he could bottle that feeling he’d never take another sip of alcohol.

  “You’re a good writer. I never thought I’d get pulled into a book about a bunch of dead white folks.”

  He nodded toward the study. “Shall we?”

  She put the book aside and joined him.

  “Oh good grief. What did you do to his desk?” she said, surveying the splintered wood. It seemed like a hundred years since he’d pried it open.

  “We couldn’t find the key.”

  “You ever hear of a locksmith?”

  “Oh.” He laughed, feeling stupid. “Yeah, that would have made more sense.”

  She shook her head. “Okay then. Let’s see it.”

  He opened the drawer. The pistol was still there, like a sleeping snake ready to strike. She took it out, inspecting it with calm professionalism. For himself, Ben hated guns. He always had.

  “Safety’s still on. Clip’s empty.” She popped open the chamber, looked at it in silence. A gravity seemed to settle about her as she looked up at him. “One round in the chamber.”

  “Can you, I don’t know...take it?”

  “What, the bullet?”

  “No, the gun.”

  She looked up at him like he was crazy. “Take your father’s service pistol? Do you have any idea what this thing is worth? I couldn’t do that.”

  He shrugged. “Not really. I’d rather it go to someone who knows how to use it properly.”

  “Tell you what. I’ll take it to my locker at the gun range. When you’re ready, I’ll teach you how to use it. Sound fair?”

  He nodded, knowing that was one date he could easily miss. “Sure.”

  She stowed the weapon in hard plastic case she’d brought from the trunk of her cruiser. There was nothing but unhurried expertise in the way she handled the weapon.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  She looked up at him. He wanted to kiss her right then and there, while she was still in uniform and holding his father’s service pistol between them.

  “Can I take you to dinner?” he blurted, hopeful as a teenager asking a girl to the prom. Wariness clouded her expression.

  “You don’t need to make it up to me.”

  “I want to. I…I know we only just recently met, but I like you. You’re smart, you’re beautiful—”

  “I’m armed,” she joked.

  “Tell you what. I’ll make a reservation at Treaty of Paris for Saturday night…say, seven thirty. If you want to have a good meal and get to know me, feel free to meet me there. If you don’t, that’s fine too.”

  He stood still under the measuring weight of her gaze, letting her see that he meant what he said.

  “I’ll think about it,” she said finally. He couldn’t say for sure, but he thought she seemed pleased.

  He walked her to the door, opening it for her.

  “Until Saturday?” he said with a smile.

  Her eyes twinkled as she stepped over the threshold and out into the plush purple evening.

  “I guess we’ll see.”

  3

  BEN

  May 11, 2002

  The Treaty of Paris

  Annapolis

  Keisha Barnes was a vision in a crisp black one-shouldered dress that was fairly conservative for all its flair. Not conservative. Classy. Classic. Her mad cap of hair had been pulled into a low twist that clung to the nape of her neck. He stood, bending to kiss her cheek. Her skin was silk against his lips, perfumed with delicate scents that recalled sunlight on seawater. She smelled of home.

  “You look beautiful.”

  She smiled, her eyes traveling up and down the length of him. “Thanks. So do you.”

  He managed not to puff up like a peacock under her gaze. Instead, he smoothed his tie and pulled her chair out for her.

  �
��Nice place,” she remarked as she took her seat.

  “Have you been here before?”

  She shook her head, her long gold earrings swaying with the motion.

  “No, never.” Her eyes cast around the candlelit room. “This is above the paygrade of the men I usually date.”

  “Ah.” Ben wondered if he’d made the right call, suggesting this place. He wanted to give her the best of everything but not at the expense of her comfort.

  “Cops,” she explained. “My last two relationships were other cops.”

  “Weird, mine too.”

  “Ha, ha.”

  He hesitated a moment before asking “Is this…is it okay? We can go somewhere else if you prefer.”

  Her brows shot up. “Are you crazy? And pass up that lobster?”

  They laughed softly before lapsing into silence. He leaned forward.

  “Is it weird? This?”

  Her lips parted in a smile. He wanted to kiss her right then, wanted to nibble her full bottom lip, to taste the silken promise of that mouth.

  “Not for me, it isn’t. You?”

  “The only weird thing about this is how weird it isn’t.”

  She exhaled in a rush. “Thank god. I thought it was just me.”

  He reached a hand across the table, taking her hand in his own. Her fingers felt cool and strong in his hand.

  “No. It isn’t just you.”

  Ben was in trouble.

  Wonderful, beautiful trouble that looked like heaven and smiled like sin. You’re smitten. He was unwilling to admit that it was more, even more than that. Utterly and completely smitten.

  The more he learned about her, the more he liked her. Keisha Barnes was the daughter of a rather renowned local cook and a retired postal worker. She had a sister, Chantal, and two nephews. She’d grown up with a passion for investigation. “By the time I started high school, I’d read every Agatha Christie twice,” she said nonchalantly as she scooped the last bit of lobster risotto onto her fork. “And that was before someone introduced me to Alexander McCall Smith a few years ago. I must know the Mma Ramotswe books by heart by now.”

  “I’m impressed,” he said. “I think when I started high school I was still reading Lord of the Rings.”

  “And yet you didn’t make it your life’s work to be an elf.”

  He laughed. “I’m just flattered you didn’t say goblin.”

  “Well, time will tell.”

  The waiter came and cleared their plates, offering coffee and dessert. They ordered a creme brûlée to share.

  “Did you always want to be a cop?” he asked.

  She shrugged, looking uncomfortable. “I wanted to be a detective. But the longer I’m on the force, the clearer it gets that they already think the two black female detectives they have are plenty.”

  “No upward mobility then?”

  “In a town this white? Doubtful. I could move to Baltimore and would probably make detective soon enough. They’d have me out shagging ass with the women in Vice.”

  “Have you thought about being a PI?”

  “Maybe…I dunno. I’d have to pass the exam which probably wouldn’t be hard, but the state licensing fees are steep.”

  Ben decided to change the subject.

  “So since you’re a professional sleuth, I should tell you what I found in Dad’s desk after you left the other night.”

  She tapped her fingertips against her lips, something she did when she seemed to be considering something. He found it adorable.

  “Hmm. A landmine? Uzi?”

  “A different kind of explosive. That drawer was stuffed with letters. I only looked at a few but they seemed very…personal.”

  He could see the spark of excitement in her eyes as she took this in. His mouth went dry.

  “Who were they from?”

  “As far as I can tell, most of them were from him to some lady or other. My dad got around back in his day.”

  “Were your parents divorced?”

  “No, they never married. It’s…kind of a weird story, but let’s just say there are enough skeletons in the old Fitzwilliam closet to put the cemetery to shame.”

  He could tell she didn’t quite believe him.

  “Okay, okay. Maybe it’s not as bad as all that. I honestly don’t know as much as I should. I was such a part of my mom’s world, growing up in New York with her and my aunt Anne and all of Anne’s art world buddies…I only spent summers with Dad, and he was never the most forthcoming guy.”

  “So these letters…you think this is a way for you to get to know him better?”

  “Yeah, exactly. I’d been thinking about writing the book about our family, but now I feel like I kind of have to.”

  “Be careful, Ben. There are some things we can’t unlearn.”

  He nodded. “Believe me, I’ve considered it. But that’s not why I brought it up. I was wondering if…if maybe you might want to go through them with me? Some company would make the murky waters of the family history a little less intimidating.”

  She rolled her eyes. “You writers, always embellishing.”

  But he could see the gleam of excitement around her like a nimbus of light. To hell with it. Be bold, Benny boy. It was his own thought, but spoken in his father’s voice, so close these days, in his head.

  “I’d offer to show you tonight, but I don’t want you to think I’m making some excuse to get you to go home with me.”

  “Truth? I was going to be disappointed if you didn’t make an excuse. But just so we’re clear, I’m only going for the letters.”

  “Hey, I get it. I’d never invite a beautiful woman home unless it was to read my dad’s horny missives.”

  She laughed, a full-bodied, joyful sound that trapped Ben’s heart in his throat. His body felt trembling and flushed all over at the prospect of having her near, for just a little longer.

  “Well, that settles that.”

  They’d wasted no time in walking along the waterfront or any other romantic first date activities. She’d gone home to change while he drove straight back to Fitzwilliam House, feeling like he was flying the whole way. He’d been waffling on whether to open a bottle of wine or put on a pot of coffee, deciding to wait and let her choose. She’d knocked on his door a half hour later, this time wearing a t-shirt and jeans that looked velvet soft with age. She’d opted for coffee―“Just to settle all that rich food.”

  Now they were looking at a pile of papers that Ben could only call daunting.

  “I can’t tell if he had these in any kind of order.”

  The papers in the desk were all letters. Some were loose, some still in their envelopes. There were some envelopes that were still sealed, bearing no name or address.

  “Here, if you see these, let’s put them in a separate pile,” he said.

  “Is that everything?” she asked a few minutes later.

  “Not quite.”

  He reached into the back of the drawer and brought out the last item. It was an old cigar box, faded and frail with age. He put it on the desk among the heaps of pages. What the hell, Pop?

  “So where do we start?” she asked.

  He opened the box and peered inside. There were more letters, older than the rest, some photos and scraps of paper, random baubles, and a few that weren’t so random. Gently, he took out two medals and placed them on the blotter.

  “Are those…”

  “Purple hearts,” Ben said. “One belonged to him and the other to my uncle James. He died way before I came along. I’m named after him. Well, my middle name is James.”

  She reached out to touch one. Ben wouldn’t have minded, but she drew her hand away at the last second, as if she were afraid to. There were photos too. A picture of Ben’s grandparents, people he’d never met and knew almost nothing about.

  “Wow, you look like him.” Keisha nodded to the photo in his hand.

  “Dad did too.”

  He put the photo aside. There were notes and keepsakes, a heavy
class ring, dog tags, a compact address book. There was a charred remnant of a photo, Ben could see a womanly pair of legs and the slightest glimpse of the hem of a dress. He turned the photo over but if there was ever anything written there it had been burned away.

  “Who is that?”

  Ben shook his head. “I have no clue. He had girlfriends but I always got the feeling that he was pining for someone. Some long-lost love.”

  Keisha made a sound in the back of her throat. “That’s...weirdly romantic.”

  He looked across the desk at her. “You don’t think it’s sad?”

  She shrugged. “Sad and romantic aren’t mutually exclusive.”

  He had to admit, she had a point. There was an odd sort of romanticism to his father. I mean, who else would keep a locked drawer full of letters and photos? You can’t get much more romantic than that.

  He put the box aside and reached for one of the plain sealed envelopes, carefully tearing it open. He recognized his father’s handwriting immediately. A sharp sense of longing and loss fell over him, and Ben was astonished to feel his eyes filling with tears. This time, it was Keisha who reached across the desk, her large brown eyes soft with sympathy.

  “Are you okay?”

  Ben nodded, not trusting his voice. He gripped her hand gratefully before releasing it again.

  “This, ah...this letter is dated 1951.” Ben cleared his throat and began to read.

  “Dear Slim,

  I’m writing this as I wait for you to come to me. You very well may not, considering what I said to you earlier today. I take it back. I’ll take it all back if you give me this. I’ll take it to my grave, Slim. I’ll never breathe a word of it. Tonight may be the very last time we see each other in this life.”

  Ben looked up at Keisha, who had her mouth covered in surprise, her eyes wide. “Oh my,” she said, fanning herself. “That was so―”

  “Confusing,” Ben said at the same time that she said, “Romantic.”

  “Who was the lady? Slim?”