She backed the Kia out of her spot and headed north on South Mammoth Road toward their modest house Vinton Street.
When she arrived, she exhaled slowly to realize that Jude wasn’t home yet.
That’s good. It will give me time to think about what I’m going to say and how I word it. Or maybe I should just write it down. That would work! Why didn’t I think to put it in a letter before, just write down exactly what I’m feeling and leave it for him to read while I’m gone one day. That way I can read it before it goes out and not have any regrets.
She wondered why the psychologist hadn’t suggested it himself.
With a renewed sense of purpose, Marseille grabbed her bag from the passenger seat and leaped from the car.
The sun was just beginning to set, and the maples cast brilliant shadows along the well-kept lawn.
Marcus was barking furiously at the bay window, his tail going full force and Marseille waved at him.
Someone is excited to have me home, she thought, laughing at his fervor. He probably has to pee really badly.
As she wandered up the walk, searching for her keys in the depth of her purse, she wondered if Jude had let the Lab out before leaving for his afternoon shift.
It doesn’t look like it, she thought, slightly annoyed. It was another bone of contention which Marseille had with her husband; he didn’t seem to care for animals.
If he doesn’t even take Marcus out for a walk, how can I expect he’d be a good father? She asked herself, staring at the agitated canine.
Marcus looked as if he was about to go flying through the front window, his face contorted in almost rabid rage.
It was at that minute that Marseille realized that Marcus did not have to pee and that something was terribly wrong. She spun to look behind her.
A tall, scruffy man stood five feet from her, his eyes blazing with madness. She barely had time to take in his almost too tall form and filthy dark hair as he ambled up the cobblestone driveway toward the steps.
It was hard to tell if he was olive toned or simply dirty and he was clearly homeless in a faded pair of cargo pants and a dirty red shirt. But it was difficult to reconcile such a character on her quiet, suburban street and yet there he was, ready to rob her.
Marseille’s heart jumped into her throat, and she stepped back, her arms up as the ragged stranger neared her. Her eyes scanned his body for a weapon, but she did not see one.
It doesn’t mean he doesn’t have one. He’s also much bigger than you, and he could take you and snap you like a twig if he wanted. Don’t do anything stupid and give him what he wants.
Any martial arts classes she had ever taken flew out of her memory at that moment, and she became a puddle of fear.
“Can I help you?” she called to him, trying to force confidence into her voice but she could hear the words wavering as they left her lips. His blue eyes widened, and he reached out to her, extending his arms.
Marseille looked about for a weapon to use, but there was nothing she could easily grab without attracting the would-be attacker’s attention. Even if she managed to reach down and get a patio stone, he would have plenty of time to overpower him.
Just distract him by throwing your bag and run to the nearest neighbor, screaming at the top of your lungs. Don’t be a hero, Marseille.
“You can have my purse,” she volunteered, throwing the bag at him. “There’s not much cash, but if you need to buy some food or clothes, I won’t report it stolen until the morning. There’s no need for anyone to get hurt.”
He stopped moving, his lips contorting upward into what could almost be construed as a smile and he parted his mouth.
“I – I don’t want your money,” he said, kicking her purse back toward her. Marseille looked around desperately for a neighbor to signal for help, but there was no one, not even a car driving by. Shivers flew down her spine, and she realized that she was missing something.
There’s something else going on here, she thought, her subconscious trying to tell her what she was overlooking.
She swallowed, stepping back again, her back against the door. Marcus was scratching viciously trying to escape, and Marseille cursed herself for never having put a pet door on the front.
This is Manchester, New Hampshire. Things like this don’t happen here, not during dinnertime on residential streets. How is no one around?
“What do you want?” she whispered, and this time the homeless man did laugh, throwing back his head and chortling loudly enough to startle the birds from the pines.
Instead of being terrified to her core, Marseille’s own lips parted, and she stared at the man in shock.
“Do you know what I want?” he asked, amusement lighting his face and Marseille felt her knees buckle beneath her. She reached out to steady herself against the front door as he approached her again.
Suddenly she understood clearly what her mind was screaming.
“Oh my God,” she whispered. “You…how…?”
He seized her roughly in his arms and placed his mouth to her ear, his gaunt, stubbly face pressed to her smooth cheek.
“You. I want you.”
Chapter Four: Burlington, Vermont - 2011
The alarm clock was blaring, but Marseille could not move.
What ungodly hour of the morning was it?
She refused to open her eyes to acknowledge the clock was telling her, but she knew the annoying device was not going to silence itself.
“Shut up!” she grumbled, rolling onto her stomach and pounding the clock radio. It had always seemed like such a good idea to keep the alarm feature rather than the music one the night before but come the pale light of dawn; she cursed herself for her choice.
Sighing, she forced her golden eyes open and peered toward the window, hoping that the snow from the previous night had let up already.
Hey, look at that! She thought happily. One good thing about this morning.
There was no denying the beauty of the freshly fallen snow, but it was not something Marseille wanted to contend with at six a.m. on a workday. She was not looking forward to shoveling out her car as it was.
Oh God, and I have to shovel the driveway too, she remembered.
Yawning, she stretched and finally pulled herself into a sitting position, determined not to fall back asleep despite the temptation of the warm blanket calling her name.
Maybe I will just lay back down for one more minute – no! She yelled at herself. Get your butt up and in the shower.
She needed to get to work on time. The past few months she had been slacking, a combination of the winter blues and loneliness affecting her usually stellar work ethic. Her boss at the nursing home was losing his patience with her, and she did not want to push her luck.
I need this job, she warned herself, slipping her toes into a pair of white fuzzy slippers. They had been a gift from her husband at Christmas – or so he claimed. Marseille suspected his mother had more to do with picking them out than he did in Afghanistan.
They lack the usual romance he bestows upon me, she laughed, eyeing the fuzz as she slipped her toes into their warm embrace, crinkling her nose at how rough her feet seemed.
To shower or not to shower? She wondered, again peering outside into the frosty winter day. It was so close to springtime she could almost taste it.
It's all so close to being done, she told herself. Soon he’ll be home, and the snow will have melted. It’s like exquisite torture. And I won’t have to shovel the snow.
He was supposed to have been back the previous week, but there had been some unforeseen setback – or so she assumed. There had been no official word, but Marseille was used to it. Even in the age of internet, the connections in the middle east could be sketchy, and with things so unstable still, she had expected delays.
No shower this morning, she decided. I’ll do it when I get home. I’m only working until six tonight. Maybe I’ll even treat myself to a pedicure after work.
As she turned away
from the window, a car pulled onto the cul-de-sac, and she paused to stare at it. It was odd to see traffic on her street at that hour of the morning.
Curiously, Marseille wondered which neighbor was doing the walk of shame that Wednesday morning but as she observed, the sleek black sedan pulled up in front of her house.
Oh my God! He’s home! He’s finally home!
Marseille tore down the stairs, grabbing at her robe and fastening haphazardly around her waist as she bolted to the front door, throwing it open, a huge smile dying on her lips. She did not know the two men at her door, but she recognized their uniforms well enough to understand they were about to deliver very bad news.
“Mrs. Marseille Cortez?”
“Yes, that’s me,” she breathed, feeling the world slipping away from around her. Suddenly she could only see the man speaking and a black void beyond him.
“Ma’am, I am Captain Robert Lanski…” the remainder of his introduction drowned out by a buzzing which began in her ears.
“Ma’am I am sorry to bother you so early but may we come in for a few moments?”
Marseille looked at the other man uncomprehendingly and back at the captain.
“Where is he?” she whispered. “What happened to River?”
“Please, ma’am, may we at least step inside?”
Numbly, she stepped back and allowed for the men to enter, Marseille staring at them with dead eyes.
“Is he dead then?”
“Ma’am, Lieutenant First Class Cortez was ambushed with other members of his squadron two weeks ago. There were several buildings demolished in the uprising, and we believe that your husband was buried beneath them. Unfortunately, the area is completely inhospitable to American troops presently, so we have no way of determining if his body is there.”
Marseille stared at him uncomprehendingly.
“You’re saying that my husband is laying in a pile of rubble and nobody can get to him to send him home?”
“Mrs. Cortez, we will go back for River,” the other man finally spoke. “You have my word that we will bring him home to rest.”
“Your word?” Marseille echoed. “Your goddamn word? I don’t need your words, buddy. I need my husband! Where is my husband?”
Her voice had become a hysterical pitch, and without realizing it, she began to attack the younger soldier violently with her fists.
Captain Lanski tried to pull her back, but his companion held up his hand and allowed for her to continue to vent her anguish upon him.
Suddenly, she felt her legs buckle, but before she could fall, he caught her in a sobbing heap.
“I’m so sorry, Marseille,” he whispered tenderly in her ear. “He loved you so much. You’re all he ever talked about, all day every day.”
Marseille pulled her head back and stared at him with bloodshot eyes.
“You knew River?” she breathed. “You were with him?”
He nodded his blonde head, hanging his head.
“I was there when we were ambushed.”
“What’s your name?” she gasped.
“Jude Galvin. I was River’s best friend out there, and I promise you, we’ll bring him home to you.”
While Jude had not fulfilled his promise to her on that front, River had somehow still made it back into her arms, six years after disappearing into a pile of debris.
Trembling, she did not know what to do, embracing him tenderly and wanting to push him away simultaneously.
Marseille knew, without a doubt, that it was River squeezing her tightly on the front lawn of the house she shared with Jude but he was not the same man who had left for the middle east all those years ago.
Or is it me who has changed?
Reluctantly, River set her back and stared at her, his blue eyes alight with happiness.
He looks more mature…and haunted.
It was not unlike a look Jude had in his blue eyes also and for a brief second, she felt as if they may have been the same man.
“God, come inside,” she gasped, finally finding her voice. “Tell me where you have been.”
“Is that mutt going to kill me?” River joked, eyeing Marcus who continued to snarl viciously through the window.
“Of course not,” Marseille breathed. “I’ll go put him in the back though just in case.”
“I guess he thinks I’m a mugger too although I shouldn’t blame the dog. If my own wife doesn’t recognize me…”
The words sent sparks of alarm through her body, and she didn’t know how to respond.
Does he know about Jude and me? How did he find me here?
She turned to unlock the door and grab Marcus before he could attack, ushering the usually good-natured dog into the backyard.
“It’s all right, Marcus. He’s a friend.”
The Lab looked at her uncertainly and barked again as she slid the glass doors closed.
She glanced furtively around the house, looking for pictures of her and Jude together.
The only one on the main floor had mysteriously shattered earlier in the week, and Marseille had yet to reframe it.
Exhaling quickly, she rushed back toward the front door, allowing her first husband to enter.
“You look amazing, Marce,” River told her tenderly as he slowly walked across the threshold. “You’re exactly how I imagined you after all this time.”
“God, River, what the hell happened to you? They told me you were dead!”
He nodded agreeably.
“They had good reason to think so,” he replied quietly. “I should be.”
She ushered him inside, and he looked uncomfortably at the pristine furniture.
“I shouldn’t sit on that,” he said, embarrassed. “I’m filthy.”
“I don’t care about the fabric!” Marseille cried, suddenly bursting into tears. “Sit down! Tell me where the hell you’ve been!”
Instantly, she was in his arms, and he was stroking her hair lovingly.
“Shh, don’t cry,” he begged. “I’m here now. I’m safe. Please don’t cry, Marseille. I have dreamed of this moment every day for six years, and I never envisioned you miserable in any of my dreams.”
She sniffled and tried to subdue her sobs but being in his much thinner arms, inhaling the scent of his masculine smell, it was more than she could bear.
This is so wrong. I shouldn’t allow myself to be hugging him like this.
But how could she stop? River was home, the man she had pined for, had literally lit a candle for was back in her arms where she had wanted him for so long. How many times had she prayed to God for that exact moment as she struggled to keep herself from falling into a million pieces.
“Sit down. You must be starving. I’ll make you a sandwich, and we’ll have dinner in a bit, okay?”
“Baby, food is the last thing on my mind right now.”
“I don’t care. I need to do something with my hands,” she replied. “Come in the kitchen with me.”
River didn’t argue and followed her into the back of the house, studying her face as if trying to memorize her every feature with as much detail as possible.
She wrenched open the fridge and removed a package of sliced chicken breast and mustard.
“Do you still like chicken and cheese sandwiches?” she whispered, and his eyes lit up.
“You remembered that I like those, huh?”
She stopped and stared at him.
“You think I have forgotten one single detail of our life together?” she demanded. “Tell me where you have been and don’t make me ask you again.”
River took a deep breath and smiled shakily.
“It’s a long story, and I don’t know how much of it you’ll believe, but I will try to tell you what I know the best way I know it.”
Marseille stared at him, her eyes wide as she made a sandwich, almost on autopilot.
“There was an ambush in 2011. Our platoon was taken by a surprise attack, and someone dropped a sequence of grenades on the Qalla in
which we sat.
Most of the men got out from what I understood, but I was trapped in the debris for days. Blessedly, the day it happened, it rained for the first time in weeks, and I could sustain myself on puddles of rainwater which I stored in a makeshift carafe beneath this pile of mud and brick. I probably would have died from exposure otherwise, but I guess it wasn’t my time to go.”
Marseille choked back the lump in her throat, determined not to let her emotions override her listening ability.
“I am not sure how many days I was there in total, but I was eventually dug out by a group of men who had been fleeing their own home in a nearby occupied town and chanced upon the abandoned city where we had been. By then both the insurgents and US troops had moved on by that point, and truthfully, I thought I was dead when they found me. My Pashto was not good at the time, but from what I could glean, most of them wanted to leave me behind. The man who was leading them, a kind father of six who had left his family to find a safer home for everyone, took pity on me and convinced the others to bring me along.”
“If you had been caught by the insurgents or Taliban…”
“Oh everyone was aware of the risk, but somehow, Anwar managed to keep the men from killing me in my sleep.”
“No! Was it that bad?”
Her heart was sick thinking about the danger he faced day after day.
River chuckled and winked.
“No, they weren’t going to kill me, I’m sure, but they really wanted to drop me. They tried every argument in the book to get Anwar to leave me in a poppy field somewhere, but he would not allow them to abandon me.”
“How long did you travel like that?”
“Long enough that I began to assimilate. I learned both Pashto and Dari fluently. If I did not speak much, I was never glanced at twice as I dressed like these nomads and lived like them. No one looked at us much, thank God. I was dark enough to pass for one of them although another one of the men complained my blue eyes were a sure sign I didn’t belong. Still, we continued on.”
River paused and stared at Marseille as if he could not believe he was looking at her.
“God, I had forgotten exactly how beautiful you are, Marce.”
The Lost Seal: A Seal Romance Page 4
