The Colonel

by Beau North

  He buried his face in one hand. “Ugh. Don’t be nice to me. I don’t deserve it.”

  She surprised him by laughing. “Of course you do, you numbskull.”

  He shook his head, picking up the mug of coffee for warmth more than anything.

  “I was terrible to you.” He thought of all those letters he’d written, hidden away in his father’s desk in Annapolis. A mountain of shame and regret.

  “I’m well aware. Just because it happened years ago doesn’t mean I see it in soft focus, you know. But I forgave you, and forgiveness can’t be un-given. You’re a good man.”

  “Slim—”

  She reached out and took his hand in her own. “If you weren’t, you wouldn’t be here now.”

  He squeezed her hand, kissed the back of it, now laced with the fine lines of age. How far they’d come!

  “How long have you known?” she asked, withdrawing her hand with a final, affectional squeeze. “That you were in love with Evie?”

  “For a while now,” he admitted. “Years, maybe.” He remembered the dream he’d had in the hospital, of Evie and Arthur and James.

  We both love her. He’d misunderstood then, but there was no mistaking what sat between them now.

  “It came on slowly. It wasn’t all flash and fire like…well, it was different. More solid, somehow?”

  Elizabeth nodded. “And how does Evie feel?”

  “I think maybe she feels the same. It’s hard to tell, you know, not being there.”

  “Maybe you should pursue it.”

  “I don’t want to scare her off. My track record isn’t exactly flawless.”

  “You shouldn’t deny her the chance to know how it feels to be loved by you.”

  He laughed suddenly, hiding his face in his hands.

  “And what in the Sam Hill is so damn funny?” she asked, which only made him laugh harder.

  He dropped his hands and looked at her. For the ghost of a moment, the old love was visible under the new, more familial affection, a palimpsest of his feelings for her. But the moment passed, and all that was left was the camaraderie.

  “I was just imagining what our younger selves would have thought of this conversation. How calmly the two of us can talk about the wild passion I harbor for another woman.”

  Elizabeth chuckled. “Younger me would be baffled at best.”

  He blew his breath out and rubbed at his eye. The false eye was hard against his hand, something he’d never gotten used to.

  “I just worry, Slim. I worry I’ll be…too much. Again.”

  “I think that love nurtures that which feeds it. You’re not coming to these feelings from a place of pain, like you were with me.”

  “Or Abigail.”

  “Oh, goodness. There’s someone I haven’t thought about in ages. Whatever happened to her?”

  “She married one of her set, then made out like a bandit when he got caught with another woman. I think she does some charity work now but otherwise”—he shrugged―“your guess is as good as mine.”

  “You seem to have kept up with her.”

  “Not me, Page Six.”

  “Ah. Is it terrible if I tell you I actually liked Abigail?”

  “Elizabeth, good god. That relationship was fueled by boredom and mutual torment.”

  “I know, but she made me laugh.”

  “I’m sure Evie will make you laugh. Unlike Abigail, Evie’s jokes don’t require a punch in the nose for a punchline.”

  “Oh I’m positive, I’ll adore her. But Abigail had the additional perk of appealing to my vanity.”

  “Don’t remind me.” He shuddered. “I’ll never forget that New Year’s party for as long as I live.”

  Her face scrunched slightly. Her eyes focused, not on him but back, to the past. “I thought you were dead drunk at that party. I’m amazed you remember any of it.”

  “I didn’t get dead drunk until after I introduced you to Abbie. Right after your husband punched me in the gut.”

  “What!” Elizabeth’s eyes narrowed. “What a thing to say. William wouldn’t do that.”

  Richard laughed again. “When it comes to you, he loses all reason.”

  “Richard, I’m very serious. This isn’t funny.”

  “No, it wasn’t!” Richard agreed. “That doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.”

  She huffed. “You must be misremembering. William would never.”

  “Whatever you say, Mrs. Darcy.”

  35

  5 June 1959

  Dear Richard,

  Your last letter has given me so much to think about. I would be lying if I said I didn’t love you. Not the same love I had for James, as I imagine what you feel for me bears little resemblance for that passion you carried for Elizabeth. We’re old enough to be honest about it. Old enough to know our own minds and our own hearts.

  I don’t know what the future holds. When I read the words you wrote, I could only think about the miles between us, and how when I think of them they only seem to stretch and widen like oceans, like dreams. When I was a girl growing up in Fremantle, we had a summer so hot it softened the paved road that ran through town. That’s what it feels like when I think of the possibilities, like my feet are sinking into soft pavement. I don’t know what it is that holds me back. We have been such faithful friends all these years, but only been in each other’s company a handful of times. I have had children, grown older. A woman wears time differently than a man might. You are probably more handsome now than you ever were. Even your scars make you more alluring. You are like a painting that has been made more beautiful as it crackles with age.

  Do not think I am ashamed of myself, only a trifle more realistic.

  If you decide to come, I will give you the time. I can’t stop blushing as I write this. Me! I haven’t blushed in years. That’s the effect you have on women.

  Evie

  June 15, 1959

  Darling Eve,

  How difficult would it be for you to get to Brighton? I’ve arranged it all already. Be at the Seaside Inn on Thursday, August 14. Two months and change. In diplomatic circles, it’s what they like to call Neutral Territory, where neither your past nor mine can intrude. I loved your anecdote about the road and understand now exactly how you feel. You know this face has been as much of a curse to me as anything else. I saw my father grow old and know what I have to look forward to. Every time I look in the mirror, I get caught in this tangle of loathing and regret and vanity, but as long as you like it, than I am happy. I want to please you always, in every way. You do not need to worry about what I will think of your figure. I have always thought of you as lovely, but lately I’m convinced that no woman has ever (or will ever) match you. I want to kiss every freckle on your face and then see if I can find more to kiss. Are you freckled everywhere, Evie? I can’t wait to find out.

  Please say that I will see you in Brighton.

  Richard

  31 June 1959

  Richard,

  I will be happy to meet you at the inn in Brighton, freckles and all.

  I’m blushing again. I didn’t know that I would love to see these words from you―but I do. Make me blush some more.

  Evie

  July 11, 1959

  My sweet, sweet Eve,

  If blushes you want, then blushes you’ll get. Please don’t hold any of this against me later. I’ll die of shame.

  When I think of you, of being with you, I imagine us dissolving like sugar in warm water, mouth into mouth, heart into heart, sex into sex.

  I want to see you, all of you. Do I embarrass myself and tell you how long I’ve wondered about the shape of your breasts, what color the tips? I’ve thought, so, so often, of your hands, so gracefully formed, and how I want to watch them stroke and pet me until I lose all thought. I want to see you open to me like a river rushing to meet the sea.

  I will also say that I am only testing the waters here, Evie. I don’t want to scare you with the words I’m actually thinking. I
promise to give everything its true name by whispering the words in your ear when I’m buried deep in you.

  Are you blushing yet, Eve?

  Richard

  25 July 1959

  Richard,

  All right, my old cobber, you can give me all the names then, in that moment and no sooner. I want you to fill me with everything you know, everything you are. I will do everything you ask of me, though it may take a little courage.

  I feel like a schoolgirl getting carried away, and I love it. I love you. I will see you in Brighton.

  Your Eve

  August 14, 1959

  Dear Evie,

  Forgive the messy writing. I feel like I’ve been on this damn bus for days and the driver seems determined to hit every bump on the road. We just passed the sign declaring it is now thirty miles to Brighton. I’d rather the strike was ended and I was on the train where I could get up and amble, go have a cigarette and a glass of gin to steady myself. Since I can’t, I’m doing the only thing that could calm me right now, and writing this letter to you.

  Silly to write a letter to someone I’ll see in a short while, I suppose, but it does seem to be the best way to get my thoughts in order. Maybe I’ll ask the desk clerk to post it on my way in.

  Passing that sign, the one declaring the actual, oceanless distance between us, my heart starts to beat a little faster. I don’t know what this means, or what will happen. I only know that in a few short miles, I’ll see you again. Not as James’s girl or Arthur’s bride but as Eve, a woman in her own right. Not the first woman, as it turns out, but the best and truest one of the lot. Adam’s confessor, his helpmate, his partner in sin. Is it strange that I feel like a schoolboy again?

  Every mile stretches until I see the sea reflected in your eyes.

  Richard

  In the end, all his talk came down to exactly that—talk. When she opened the door, he couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. Everything in his heart spilled out all at once, choking him, freezing him in place on the threshold while she looked back at him with wide, wondering eyes. She was beautiful, even in her wrinkled traveling clothes, but it was more than that. She was more than the luster of her flaming hair, more than the freckles that dusted her pale skin. It was her strength, her vulnerability, the clear-eyed calm that barely disguised the tremor of anticipation as she extended a hand, her fingers curling around the lapel of his coat. Evie glowed like she was lit from within, a light that beckoned him home at last.

  “You’re here,” she said, the long e’s of her native tongue stretching the word. Hee-ah.

  His suitcase fell at his feet with a muffled thump that still seemed too loud in the hushed hallway.

  He followed it down, crashing to his knees in front of her. He caught her flash of surprise before his arms wound around her waist, her hesitation before her fingers slid through his hair, her capable hands cradling his head. She bent over him, placing small kisses on the crown of his head.

  “Oh, Richard,” she sighed after a moment. “Always making the grand gestures.”

  “Eve.”

  “Come in, love.” She tilted his head up and kissed him sweetly. “Come on in.”

  “What happens now?” he asked, his mind still swaddled in cottony happiness and physical exhaustion.

  “Well, I’ve a mind for tea, so I suppose that happens next.”

  He laughed, a gentle a sound as he’d ever made. “No, Eve. I meant what happens now with us?”

  She got up, pulling on her robe. It was a dusty pink silk with a design of huge leaves of emerald green and enormous clusters of small yellow flowers. Latanas, the woman at the shop had told him when he bought it for her birthday three months ago. He’d loved the sound of the name more than anything; it had conjured images in his mind of sparkling turquoise waters and fragrant breezes. He saw now what an obvious overture it had been, how nakedly he’d worn his feelings for her. It seemed he’d been the last to realize, because this love hadn’t come to him with its usual straightforward hammer-stroke but in between the lines of all the letters they’d exchanged. For years, this had been growing in him, across oceans and over every boundary that had stood in his way. His love for her had flourished quieter and more stubborn than the thicket of kudzu that choked the hillside. It was like nothing he’d experienced since the whirlwind that had been Elizabeth, a feeling so profound that at times it went beyond desire, and he felt content just to bask in its warmth for an hour, in a place where nothing was needed or lacking.

  She made a fuss of arranging the robe, pulling her fingers through her thick auburn hair. He sat up on his elbows.

  “Evie, talk to me.”

  She sighed and sat down beside him, stroking his cheek.

  “I do love you, my darling. You’ve taken my heart many times over.”

  “But…”

  “But, your kite string is always just out of reach. You go where the wind blows you. As does your heart. I love you for it, truly I do. But could you settle? In one place, with one woman, for the rest of your life?”

  “I want to.”

  She dropped her hand and looked away. “You want to now. What happens the next time Elizabeth needs you? Or some bright young creature catches your eye? You’re the most romantic soul I’ve ever known, but I can’t live for romance alone. I’ve children, Richard. They need stability, practicality. I need those things too. I need to know that when you’re with me, you’re really with me.”

  He wanted to argue that this time was different, this woman, this love, this was all different. He could be different to. But it was Evie, and after decades of him pouring his heart and soul out to her, she knew him better than anyone.

  Instead, he asked, “Couldn’t we try?”

  Her smile was tired. “And when it all goes off? I don’t know how many more times my heart can break.”

  “Evie. I’d never disappoint you.”

  “I know you’d never mean to. I believe that with my whole heart. But it’s not enough.”

  “So…what then?”

  She leaned down and kissed him. “We have this time. And I refuse to feel guilty or ashamed of it. We owe ourselves this small piece of happiness.”

  “Eve…”

  She slipped off the robe, sitting astride him. He wanted to talk more, to plead his case, to beg if he had to, but in his way, he knew she was right. And it was impossible to think with her bare breasts grazing his chest, with her trailing kisses down his neck.

  “No more talking, darling. We’re here now, so love me now.”

  He wrapped himself around her, arms, legs, and rolled them over. Her hair fanned out like a flame, the freckled ivory of her skin tinged pink with desire. His fingers traced the shape of her eyes, round and slightly hooded, the curve of her lips, full and pink from kissing, the silken column of her neck. His thumbs gently caressed the dip at the base of her throat, which he’d learned from one of the nurses in Frenchay Hospital was called the suprasternal notch. He sat back on his heels, his hands taking their own methodical inventory of her body. His eyes followed his hands, counting every scar, every mole, every freckle on her pale skin. Her chest rose like ocean tides as his fingers grazed the stiff peaks of her nipples. He circled the dusky red areola with his thumb. Her back arched up toward his hand, wanting more of his touch. He withdrew slightly, making her whimper. His fingers glided down the ribcage, the dip of her waist, and the generous curve of her hip. Pale lines stood out where her skin had stretched during pregnancy. He’d had lovers who’d had children. Many of them preferred to do their lovemaking with the lights off, perhaps thinking themselves imperfect, scarred. That wasn’t what Richard saw. They were all goddesses, these women who’d created and sustained life, that had experienced pain and pleasure. And Eve, bold and unashamed, was the greatest of all of them.

  He slid down the bed, his erection a stiff exclamation. Eve lay before him, breathing heavy. The patch of hair below her belly (round and soft and lovely) was a darker red than that on her head,
a triangle of soft curls.

  “Eve. Let me see you. Let me see all of you.”

  Her face went from pink to bright red; her lips popped open in surprise.

  “Please. You’re a goddess. I want to worship you.”

  Blushing furiously, she turned her head toward the wall as she parted her legs. Her sex was beautiful, dewy pink and all in perfect symmetry.

  “Look at me, Eve.”

  Her head remained turned toward the wall, but her eyes found his. He understood the sudden shyness. He doubted anyone had ever asked her to show herself so intimately.

  His hands slid up and down her thighs, closer and closer to that pink perfection, before drawing away again. He could feel her beginning to tremble under his touch, her eyes becoming slightly wild.

  “You’re beautiful, Evelyn.”

  “Richard…please…”

  “Shhh. Stay just as you are, love.”

  He lowered himself to her, his arms holding her legs just so. When he put his mouth to her sex, tasting, exploring, she cried out, nearly bolting off the mattress. He felt a surge of pride. If she was determined that this was all they’d have, he was going to make damn sure she remembered this.

  The rest, he decided, they could sort out later.

  They ate dinner in the little restaurant in the hotel, which was busier than the hotel itself. He ordered white wine for them both, and it came in a glass bottle cloudy with cold, but it was sweet and sharp as autumn apples. While they drank and laughed, he could forget the things they’d said, forget her frank opinions. Maybe it would take time, and she’d see what she truly meant to him, she’d trust that he only wanted to spend his life making her happy.

  After dinner they linked hands and walked on the beach, their fingers slipping into a cats-cradle as they drifted apart, only to come together again like a portcullis slamming against the cobblestones.