by Skye Taylor
“Elena,” he murmured, his breath fanning her face. Slowly, he withdrew and plunged again. “Making love to you is going to be the best memory of all.” He quickened the pace, no longer in control.
She clung to him as her world began to explode. And then he followed her into the vortex.
Chapter 17
February 2015
Camp Lejeune, North Carolina
PHILIP HIKED HIMSELF up onto Elena’s PT bench, psyching himself up for another painful round of exercises. “Let’s get this over with. I’ve got places to go tonight.” Like the bar to take the edge off the pain minus the drugs and maybe find a couple of hours of sleep without nightmares.
Elena studied the pad of paper as carefully as if he’d written a thesis.
“Earth to Elena?” He curbed his impatience, and spoke in a joking tone to get her attention without making her think he was about to have another meltdown.
When she finally glanced up, her expression was unfocused.
“Are you okay?” Maybe I’m not the only one having a bad day?
Her gaze traveled down his bare torso, then jerked back to his face. “You’re still wearing the cross?”
He stared at her for a moment before the meaning of her question sank in. He touched the battered and scuffed cross that he’d recently returned to the chain with his dog tags.
“Yeah. I never take it off. Well, almost never.”
She opened her mouth, then closed it. She reached toward him, but then drew her hand back. Her eyes looked suspiciously bright. His pulse began to race.
“I thought you forgot about me.” The words were said so softly he almost didn’t hear them. But he had heard them and now he felt a little breathless, too.
Forget about her? Is she kidding? That cross and his memories were all he’d had to hang on to for a very long time. He forced a lightness into his voice that he didn’t feel. “You are a very memorable woman, Elena. Besides,” he lifted the cross away from his chest, “I see it every morning when I shave. It’s been a reminder of some of the best weeks of my life.”
He’d never admit how many times he’d fallen asleep with her cross clutched in his hand like a little kid with a teddy bear. He’d never tell her how he always kissed it before going outside the wire, either. Someone else had removed it somewhere between Afghanistan and Bethesda, but he’d never removed it, even after he’d lost her.
“Why—” Elena began, then stopped as tears slipped down her face.
Philip reached for her, his efforts to remain indifferent forgotten. Her distress tore him up inside. He folded her into his arms, comforting her in spite of his own aching sense of loss and betrayal.
She rested her forehead against his chest, her arms still wrapped tightly around herself. Her tears were warm and wet on his bare skin, but she didn’t make a sound. Tears didn’t scare him, but not knowing why she was crying bothered him big time.
Then Elena shoved herself free of his embrace so abruptly he almost lost his balance. She grabbed a small towel and scrubbed the evidence of her weeping from her face, then tossed it back on the bench.
“I’m sorry.” She turned away for a moment, then back. “I guess it’s kind of an emotional day for both of us. But we’ve got work to do, so let’s get to it.”
Without giving him a chance to ask questions or spend any time trying to figure out what had just happened, she got busy. She was brisk and efficient, putting him through a workout every bit as excruciating as trying to write with crayons had been. Occasionally, she asked about his pain level, but she had put a thousand miles of distance between them emotionally. He was no closer to understanding her emotional reaction to seeing her cross still hanging around his neck when he left a half hour later.
He stepped out into the early evening dusk and headed for the bus stop, his mind and heart still reeling and confused. It had been her choice to move on after he’d gone back to the Peleliu, not his. She would not have expected him to carry a torch for her after she married another man.
Of course, he had more or less carried that torch. He hadn’t been a monk over all these years, but he’d never gotten serious about another woman either. He couldn’t have—his heart still belonged to Elena. And that would have been the case, cross or no.
But somehow, his continuing to wear it had gotten to her. Why?
A hiccoughing sob penetrated the tangled web of memory and confusion.
His head jerked up and he did a rapid perimeter check. Another muffled sob. He stopped walking to listen more carefully and something struck him from behind.
He spun around, instantly on guard. His heart raced like a Kentucky Derby contender.
“I’m s-sorry.” A small, fair-haired woman clutched a cell phone in one hand while she dashed tears from her cheeks with the other. She teetered, trying to catch her balance.
He grabbed an elbow to steady her. “Are you all right, ma’am?”
“I’m—” She sucked in a surprised breath, and a furrow appeared between her brows. “You’re him.”
He swallowed, forcing himself to relax. “Him who?” He’d never met her before, but she seemed to recognize him.
“You saved my husband’s life.”
“I—Do I know you?” Philip struggled to place her.
She shook her head slightly. “I’m Linda Diaz.”
“Rico?” Philip’s breath caught in his throat, and his heart fell. The last time he’d seen Rico Diaz, he’d been sitting in a wheelchair making jokes about his latest prognosis. Had something gone wrong since then? “Is he—how is he doing?”
Linda’s pretty mouth turned up in a brief smile. “He’s doing good. Really good. Thanks to you and a lot of others.”
“Not thanks to me, ma’am. I—”
“You’re our family hero.” She cut him off.
“I’m no hero,” he muttered uncomfortably. It didn’t matter what her family thought. It didn’t matter what his citation said he’d done. He hadn’t done enough.
She put her hand out, palm toward him like a crossing guard.
“If it wasn’t for you, Rico would not be here at all. That makes you a hero as far as I’m concerned.”
“I was just doing my job. I wish I’d done it better.” Discomfort had him tugging at his collar, wishing he could divert the conversation.
She placed her hand on his forearm, her slender fingers strong and warm through the fabric of his uniform. “It’s not your fault, you know. The doctor told us Rico broke his neck when the truck got blown into the air, not when you pulled him out of it.” She squeezed his arm, then patted it before taking her hand back. “We’re going to be okay. It’ll take a while, but we’re going to be okay.”
“But you were—” She’d been crying when she ran into him.
She held up her cell phone. “I just got some bad news . . . about my aunt.”
“Is there . . . anything I can do to help?”
Another brief shake of her head as her eyes clouded with sadness. Then she nodded her head to the side and back. “Well, maybe when Rico gets down here, you’ll come by to visit. He’d like that, I know.”
“He’s coming here?” Rico had mentioned being stuck at Walter Reed for months.
“Next month. I’m here to make some of the arrangements. The ones the Marine Corps doesn’t take care of.”
Philip lifted her phone from her fingers, woke it up, then tapped in his name and phone number. “Call me as soon as he gets here. Call me sooner if there’s anything I can do to help out.” He handed her back the phone. “I mean it. Anything. Any time.”
Linda Diaz suddenly flung her arms about his neck and pulled him down to her level in a tight, hard hug. Then she kissed him on the cheek and set him free. “I can’t wait to tell Rico who I just happened to run in to.�
� She started to hurry past him, then stopped and turned back. “I’m glad I got to meet you finally.”
“The pleasure is mine, ma’am.”
And you are a very special lady. Rico is lucky to have you. He watched her until she disappeared behind panel van in the parking lot, knowing without doubt that tonight he’d be reliving the nightmare that had put Rico in a wheelchair for the rest of his life, no matter how many beers he downed.
ELENA STARED UP at the ceiling, wishing she could forget the cozy little scene she’d run into as she left work. The petite blond woman in a cherry-red coat with her arms wrapped about Philip’s neck. And he’d been hugging her back. With both arms.
The cute little lieutenant from his office? She hadn’t been in uniform, but she’d been cute. And little. And hugging Philip. It wasn’t hard to imagine her tying his tie for him and patting it into place with easy familiarity as she tipped her face up to be kissed.
It did no good to remind herself that he had every right to have a woman in his life. Or that she had no business being jealous. But she was.
It didn’t help to remind herself that she couldn’t get involved with him even if he was interested. It would be a breach of professional ethics. She wasn’t supposed to feel anything beyond empathy for the men and women she worked with. She had to stay emotionally removed so she could give Philip the care he needed and deserved.
But every time he sat on her table, apparently unmoved by her touch, she’d been just the opposite. Touching him kept bringing back old memories and inciting new desires. After every hard workout, as she massaged the knots out of his muscles, the scent of him curled about her, making her want to bury her face in his neck and inhale deeply.
She ached to turn back the clock and tell him she loved him so that he could have taken that fact with him along with the cross. Maybe if she had, he’d have come back to her.
She rolled over and buried her face in the pillow. Her mind drifted away from the woman in red to the words in Philip’s citation for gallantry in action.
“Although grievously wounded, Gunnery Sergeant Philip B. Cameron continued to expose himself to enemy fire until he had brought all of his men to safety . . . his remarkable courage inspired the Marines around him . . .”
Philip’s utter allegiance to the men he served with, the boys he felt responsible for, had almost gotten him killed. He had been hurt so badly it had taken him out of the action. Initially, it seemed that his anger today was simply that. He’d gotten left behind while his unit redeployed. She hadn’t understood the pain lurking in his eyes and under his words. She probably still didn’t get it. Not really.
But now that she’d read the full citation, she realized that his sense of responsibility to be there and make sure his “boys” made it home next time, was what had driven his outburst. More than just frustration with his injuries and more than just being left “ashore” as he put it.
And she was beginning to understand why he’d never come home for Christmas like he’d promised. Terrorists had attacked on American soil, and while it had been a tragedy to her and everyone else, it had been so much more to him and everything he stood for. He was a warrior, and he’d needed to be there alongside the men he called brothers to answer the insult.
She flopped onto her back and glanced at the cool blue numbers of her alarm clock. She was going to be exhausted tomorrow if she didn’t shut down her busy mind, stop thinking about Philip, and get some sleep.
Laying her forearm across her aching eyes, she tried to stop thinking. Stop feeling. But then, against the inside of her eyelids, she saw the cross, scarred and scuffed, nestled among the scattering of curling blond hair with his dog tags. The tears she hadn’t been able to control in his presence began again.
Chapter 18
March 2015
Tide’s Way, North Carolina
ELENA STEPPED OUT onto her brother’s front porch, drawn by the sound of her daughter’s voice. She smiled as Julie leapt into the air and spiked the volleyball hard into enemy territory, chortling with glee. For the moment, at least, Julie had forgotten how homesick she was for San Diego.
Julie had scoffed at tiny, small-town Tide’s Way. She’d acted like coming down for her cousin’s sixteenth birthday was going to be nothing but a big yawn. Once the gifts and the ice cream and cake were finished, the teenagers had gotten up a game of volleyball, but Julie had hung back, trying to act like she didn’t care. But the older kids had dragged her into the game anyway. Elena silently thanked Bianca for caring enough to notice Julie and get her involved.
She started down the steps, and then hesitated.
Seated on the bottom step, Philip was watching the game, too. He was Bianca’s godfather, so of course he’d be here. After their last session in the PT department, and her sleepless night afterward, she’d tried to avoid him. His tantrum and her own tearful meltdown weren’t something she wanted to think about, or get drawn into a discussion about.
But there was something about the slump of his shoulders that tugged at her heart. He held something in his hands; his finger and thumb rubbed over it repeatedly. With a pang, she remembered that odd habit—rubbing a fold of his clothing or a bit of cloth when he was troubled or anxious.
Ignoring the clanging warning bells in her head, she went down the steps and sat next to him. It was the satiny label of a child’s toy he was fiddling with, but he stopped as soon as he realized he wasn’t alone.
“Last time I found you sitting on the steps brooding was after your gran’s funeral. Did someone else die?” She tried to keep her voice light and teasing.
Philip turned his head in her direction. His intense blue eyes seemed shadowed with some kind of grief, and she immediately regretted her unthinking remark. His mouth stretched into an effort to smile, but it never reached his eyes. Deeply creased lines fanned out from the corners of his eyes. Years spent in hot deserts squinting into the sun had aged him. That, and other things she might never know or understand. He’d always had the laugh lines around his mouth, and crinkles at the corners of his eyes, but they had deepened. Too much worry. Too much brooding. Too much war.
She’d worked with a lot of warriors during her years in San Diego. Many of them had fought through stony silences, withdrawal, discouragement, and despair, but when Philip had first walked into the PT department at Lejeune, he hadn’t seemed withdrawn at all.
After his initial shock at seeing her wore off, he’d been cheerful and inquisitive about her life in the years since they’d dated. He’d been eager to get busy working to rehab his hand and get back to his unit. And he had smiled through what she knew was a lot of pain.
But the longer she worked with him, the more she noticed the less obvious things. Tight little silences when he seemed to be somewhere else in his mind. Too often not the confident, lighthearted man she’d fallen in love with. He’d been a warrior even then and she’d known he had a serious, no-nonsense side to his personality, but she’d seen only the outgoing charisma that drew everyone into his orbit.
In the weeks she’d been treating him, she’d had glimpses of the wounded man that lurked just below the surface of the old Philip. Telling herself her only job was to rehab his hand and his psyche was the shrink’s department had not kept worry from growing. Especially after their last session.
“It’s okay if you don’t feel like talking about it,” she said as the silence stretched, and his fingers resumed their rhythmic rubbing of the child’s toy.
“There was something I should have said the other day and didn’t,” he finally said, tossing the toy aside.
“Oh?” Elena glanced at the toy, a cloth book, meant for a baby with a series of tabs sewn along the edges of its pages. She touched the bit of blue ribbon, imagining the heat of his fingers still lingered.
“I said you were a memorable woman. I—I should have said I ne
ver forgot you.” His eyes met hers, blue and intense. Something heavy lurked in his gaze. “I thought of you a lot. And I missed you more than you know.”
It was on the tip of her tongue to ask if he missed her so much, why had he stopped writing? But she swallowed the retort. “I missed you, too.”
“I—whoa!” Whatever he’d been about to say got cut off when the volleyball thudded into his chest.
“Sorry, Gaddy.” Bianca snatched the ball from Philip’s hands, planted a noisy kiss on his cheek, and dashed back to the game.
“Gaddy?”
“Short for God Daddy.” Philip grinned and this time the smile did filter into his eyes. “I’m having a hard time believing she’s sixteen already. Next thing you know, she’ll be driving a car. Look out, world! Where did the years go?”
“Tell me about it,” Elena agreed. Even though she was considerably younger than the rest of the lithe young people throwing their hearts into the game, Julie was as tall as the rest of the girls and taller than some, taller even than some of the boys. Before she knew it, her own daughter would be begging for the car keys and permission to go on a date.
“I remember when she fit in one hand,” Philip said, holding his big hand out, fingers spread. “The first time I held her, I thought I was going to break her.”
Bianca had been premature. Still in the NICU on the day of her baptism, Mia had insisted that Bianca’s Godfather was going to hold her while the priest baptized her.
With tubes and monitor wires attached to her tiny body, Bianca had looked vulnerable and frail. And incredibly tiny in Philip’s big hands. His thumb was nearly as big as her tiny forehead when he touched it to make the sign of the cross.
“I remember that day,” Elena said softly.
“And look at her now.”
Elena turned back to the game and they watched in companionable silence. A dozen thoughts went through Elena’s mind. Questions, really. Like how different this day would have been had she and Philip not lost touch with each other. Would he have asked her to marry him at Christmas? She definitely would not have been his therapist. Maybe she wouldn’t even have become a therapist if she’d been a military wife, moving somewhere new every couple years.
