She looked down at the box. “I don’t understand—he wrote to me? How did you—”
“He spoke those letters out loud, to me. It started after three years of hell, when we got so low we lost all hope. One night, after we’d been left alone, in a new camp, shackled together and bleeding in a tiny shack, in the kind of darkness that is so impenetrable you wonder if there will ever be light, I asked him to tell me about you.
“He did. And we got through that night alive. The next night, I asked again, and that’s when Flynn started the first verbal letter to you.” Max was silent for several long beats. When he spoke again his voice was rough.
“The letter format gave us a connection to home. It made us believe we would not be forgotten, that we would get out. And with each letter, our drive to survive grew stronger, and more focused.”
She smoothed her hand over the box in her lap, her attention riveted on him. But the anger in her eyes had not dissipated.
“As I listened to Flynn’s words, Ellie, you came alive for me. I began to see you in my mind. You became a part of me, too—I felt that you belonged to both of us. Talking to you became like crack. When Flynn ran out of words, I asked him to repeat old letters. Sometimes his words changed a little, but they became burned into my brain. I could call them up at will, and when I got into a bad headspace, I could read them to myself, and it would make me strong again. After I came home, when I was in hospital, I wrote them down. For you. For him. Word for word.”
“That’s not poss—”
“You know what’s not possible, Ellie? Imagining what it’s like to be a PoW. For over fourteen goddamn years. You have no mirror—no functioning society to bounce yourself off. No norms. You don’t know what’s sane, what’s not . . . you do what comes, what you can to survive. And, yeah, maybe you go mad. But Flynn was my rock and I was his. You became our lighthouse, the symbol of home, of why were out there in the first place—to guard our shores. You brought me home, Ellie.”
She looked up at him, really looked, into his eyes, as if searching there for sights he’d seen, for an image of Flynn, for a sense of the pain they’d endured, both physical and mental, lost and forgotten. And Max could see compassion eating away at her anger, her denial.
“I still don’t have proof, Max.”
“I’m it, Ellie. Those letters are it. You’re not going to get more than this. Technically he’s still MIA. And the assignment remains classified. Read them.”
Her gaze went to the box.
Slowly she took the lid off.
Ellie stared at the words on the cover page. Letters to Ellie.
She lifted the page.
My Dearest Ellie . . .
She almost choked on a raw surge of emotion. “That’s how he started?”
“Each night.”
She turned another page.
My dearest Ellie, I fell asleep with your head on my chest that last night we spent together, the night you promised yourself to me. It felt familiar, so warm, so right, and it scared the hell out of me . . .
A tear plopped onto the page, softening ink around the edges. Her vision blurred.
She turned the page. Then flipped faster. With trembling fingertips she touched the words. “I dreamed of you again last night, Ellie, of coming home. You had the porch light on . . .
She choked on raw sob of emotion, then her shoulders heaved quietly as she bent her head, filled to capacity with an overwhelming sense of loss, grief, pain. Max got up, came across the room. He placed his hand on her shoulder. It was large, heavy, comforting—a human connection, and she fought the urge to lean into his touch.
“I thought you were him,” she said quietly, “when you called the show. I thought he’d come home . . . I dared hope he . . . ”
“I’m sorry.”
“I wanted you to be him, Max. I wanted you to be Flynn.”
Why? she wanted to say. Why didn’t you die instead of him—why can’t you be Flynn, here, touching me . . .
The front door burst open suddenly and Max jerked round in shock.
“Mom! I forgot my lunch!” A young teen burst into the living room, palming off her hat, eyes shining, cheeks pinked from cold. She stilled as she saw Max, and her gaze shot to her mother.
Max’s attention remained riveted on the teen.
Her hair was a mass of wild curls, black as a raven’s feathers, her eyes soft gray. Long lashes. Narrow features.
His heart slammed against his chest. It was like looking at an echo of someone else.
Slowly, he stepped forward. Ellie got to her feet, her movements nervous.
“This is Jessica, my daughter—”
“I’m Max,” he said, his attention fixed on her.
Jessica’s eyes went to the open box of letters on the ottoman, shifted back to her mother.
“Will you give us a moment, Jess?” Ellie said. “Max and I have something discuss.”
Uncertainly crept into Jessica’s features. She looked at Max. “You going to be okay, mom?”
“Of course. Why don’t you get your lunch and get back to school. I’ll explain later.”
“She’s Flynn’s daughter,” Ellie said after Jessica had left.
“He never told me.” His voice came out hoarse.
“He didn’t know.”
Max’s gaze went to a photograph on the bookshelf. It was of Ellie, Jessica and some guy who had his arm around them both. It had been taken on what looked like a family ski vacation—they were in snow, holding skis, laughing.
“It happened the night Flynn left,” she was saying.
That night changed everything . . .
“A week later I got news he was MIA. It was much later I learned I was pregnant with his baby.”
His gaze shot to her, and his heart hurt. “Does Jessica know?”
“That her father is a hero? Yes, she does.”
His attention went back to the photo on the shelf, to the smiling family.
“I . . . should go.”
She said nothing—didn’t ask him to stay, and it cut like a blade. He hobbled to the door. Hand resting on knob he hesitated, then said quietly. “I’m at the Three Pines Motel, room 206. I’ll be leaving tomorrow.”
She made as if to move forward. Her hand rose slightly, then it fell back to her side.
And he left quickly.
Outside, thank God, it was raining—no one could see that a PoW of more than fourteen years, a soldier, could cry. Max limped back to his motel feeling as if his guts had been ripped out. He’d been living towards this moment. This moment had kept him alive. Now it was over. He’d fulfilled his vow, he’d transcribed and given Ellie the letters. And it was done.
What in hell’s name was left for him now?
He stopped at a store, bought a fifth of Scotch, went back to his room, sloshed three fingers into a glass, swigged it back, and followed with another. When he felt the beginnings of a slight buzz, the edge dulled a little, and he began to pack the few possessions he’d brought into his bag.
She was as beautiful as Flynn’s words had described, and while the last fifteen years had ravaged him, killed Flynn, time had been good to Ellie Winters.
I imagine coming home to you, Ellie. I imagine what you’ll look like. How your arms will feel as you fling them around me. I imagine the smell and shape of your body under my hands . . . .
Max stilled, then cursed. What in heaven’s name had he even been thinking? She was married—untouchable. And fuck, it hurt. He hadn’t realized just how deeply he’d loved the idea of her, how much she’d become to him, until now. Seeing her was like seeing a woman he’d known half his life.
Christ, there was no manual for this. No twelve-step how-to. He and Flynn had done what they could to survive. They’d endured things no man should, while seemingly forgotten, left to die in some hell hole jungle. How did one convey any of that?
How did one come back from that? Would he always walk an outsider along the edges of existence now?
That night, after explaining to Jessica that Max McDonough had been with her father when he died, after comforting her daughter when she cried, Ellie climbed into her own bed with the box of letters.
Rain ticked against her windows and the conifers outside twisted in the wind. She pulled her duvet close, switched on her reading light, and opened the box. When she saw Max’s handwriting again, guilt swamped her.
Until she’d started reading these letters, she’d been nervous of him, unsure whether she could trust him, unsure of the feelings he’d stirred in her. She’d let him walk out into the rain without a word, and she hated herself for it.
She’d gone to the window, watched him limp down the street, his posture still proud. A broken soldier. And she’d let him go, even as something inside screamed inside her to run out after him, stop him.
Ellie started to read. At 2 AM, she was still reading, a pile of crumpled Kleenex at her side, her eyes thick and raw, her chest aching with unfathomable emotion.
My dearest Ellie, today is you birthday, I think. It’s hard to tell so near to the equator what time of year it is. Nightfall and daybreak come like clockwork every twelve hours, year round. We guess we’ve been in captivity five years now. Sometimes I don’t know who I am, or even if our captors remember why they have us, why they move us from jungle camp to camp. Max tries to count days. It was him who said it was time to do you birthday letter. He helps keep you alive in my mind. He makes me believe I’ll come home to you.
Last year on your birthday—I won’t lie, they take pleasure torturing us—my face was beat up so bad and I’d lost so many teeth, I couldn’t talk to you. So when our captors had passed out shitfaced, the night thick as hot velvet, the crickets, and jungle noises drowning our whispers, Max began to recite your birthday letter for me. I think he loves you now, Ellie, as much as I do . . . She heard Jessica get up and go to the bathroom. A few moments later her bedroom door inched open.
“Mom? I saw your light. You okay?”
“Come here.” Ellie patted the empty side of the double bed.
“They’re making you sad,” she said about the pile of letters.
“And happy.” Tears welled again. “Just knowing how much he cared, that in a way I was there for him until the end.” She blew her nose. “God . . . it’s so hard to bear, all in one go.”
Jessica curled up beside her. “Can I read them?”
“Let me finish them first, okay?”
“And that guy, Max, wrote them all down, for my father?”
Ellie nodded.
“That’s incredible.”
“It is,” Ellie whispered. “I think he must be an incredible man.”
Jessica fell asleep curled next to her. Ellie touched her hair. Dark, almost blue-black like her father’s. Same eyes. In a way, she thought, Max had brought them all closer. He’d given Jessica a gift, too.
Leaning back against the headboard, Ellie closed her eyes
She lay there thinking about the man who had come back. Flynn had shared his love for her with Max. It’s what had brought Max to her door. He’d brought closure in these words, these letters. Ellie inhaled deeply, feelings she didn’t know still existed reawakening in her, like someone thawing after years of being suspended in ice.
Did you not have someone waiting at home for you, Max? Did you not share your own stories with Flynn?
She shook her daughter’s shoulder softly. “Jess, you need to go to your bed. You’ve got school tomorrow.”
Jessica pushed her thick curls back from her face, her eyes sleepy. “You going to be okay, Mom?”
Ellie smiled. “Yeah. I’m going to be fine, sweetie, thank you.”`
But she wasn’t sure about Max.
At 4 a.m. she dialed Max’s number, torn by fear he’d leave before she could speak to him, and that she’d never see him again, desperate to connect with him after reading these letters. To thank him. The call went straight to voicemail. Ellie listened to his message, his voice deep, rough like gravel, flavoured with a hint of North Carolina, of home.
She killed the call, glanced at the clock. Panic kicked her pulse into sudden overdrive.
Ellie yanked on her clothes, shrugged into her coat, and drove to the Three Pines Motel. She got out her car and stood on sidewalk, rain coming down on her, impossible things pulling at her.
Max had brought an end to the wondering, the never knowing. But he’d also made it real, raw again. He’d thrust her back in time, started a process of profound grief. He’d stirred passions, needs, in Ellie that she’d put on ice for over a decade. She began to shake, her hair plastering wet against her cheeks.
A dull yellow glow came from behind blinds in room 206. It was the only light in the strip of darkened rooms. Ellie stared at the glow, unsure of herself, of why she was really standing out here. She almost turned to leave, but something deep and burning compelled her to take the steps up to 206. She knocked.
He opened the door. She stood there, the corridor lights bleaching her complexion, her hair plastered wet against her face, her eyes dark with a need and confusion he recognized. A silver sheen of rain drummed down behind her, splattering in the parking lot.
Max’s hand tightened on the doorknob, his heart pounding against his ribs. He knew what he looked like—he was shirtless, his torso sliced with scars, and he’d been drinking. He didn’t trust himself. “Ellie?” his voice felt thick.
She stepped closer, crowding him. Max kept his hand firm on the door, blocking access, not ceding ground. She raised her hand, lightly touching a scar on his chest. He quivered at the coolness of her fingertips against his hot skin, and his mouth went dry.
“They tortured you,” she whispered.
“And Flynn.”
“I read about it, in the letters.”
Her hand moved to another scar, below his pecs. Max felt his groin harden. “Ellie,” his voice was coarse, his need so raw it scared the hell out of him. “You should go.”
“I came to say thank you, Max. I was terrified you’d leave before I could, and that I’d never find you again.”
He stared her mouth, trying to avoid what he could read in her eyes. She came a little closer and he could smell the shampoo in her hair. Perspiration beaded along his lip. He grabbed her wrist, held. She flinched, a flutter of fear touching her face, then something darker took over. Her lips parted and her breathing became light.
He moved her hand away from his chest. “You’re married,” he said.
Her eyes widened. Slowly she extracted her wrist from his grasp. Gaze holding his, she removed her gold band and held it out to him.
“Read the inscription, Max.”
He took the ring from her fingers, stepped back into the room, and held it up to the light. Engraved around the inside circumference were the words, Forever, I will wait.
His gaze flashed to hers. Rain drummed. Small drops glittered like jewels on her lashes.
“I’m not married, Max. Lord knows I tried, but I could never stop waiting. It wasn’t fair to continue. I wear that ring for Flynn.”
Emotion punched through his stomach—relief, a hot thrill, things he couldn’t even begin to understand raced through his chest.
“What about Winters? The man in the photo on your shelf? The name on your mailbox?”
“Are you going to ask me in? I need to explain it to you. After those letters . . . I need to tell you everything. I want you to understand.”
He stepped back.
Ellie entered the small motel room. It was hot inside. She began to remove her coat.
“Thermostat doesn’t work,” he explained, closing the door and helping her with her coat. He hung it over the bathroom door, gave her ring back.
Their fingers brushed and Ellie’s pulse jackhammered. Time seemed to stand still, the room too small, too warm, too confined. Slowly she looked up, met his eyes, and she swallowed at the rough edginess she saw there, the sense of danger and
physicality.
Gingerly Ellie seated herself of the edge of the bed—it was the only place to sit. She pushed the wet hair back off her face. “You went low budget accommodation, huh?” She tried to smile, but it felt wrong.
He said nothing, just stared at her, almost devouring her, perspiration gleaming on his scarred and honed torso. Heat rose in Ellie’s cheeks. Half naked he looked even more ruggedly powerful to her than clothed. And she knew how he felt about her, from the letters.
In turn, Ellie felt she knew aspects of Max McDonough intimately. All she wanted to do was hold him, feel that hard, scarred body in her arms, have him hold her back. She wanted to connect with the beautiful mind she knew lived inside him. Her eyes began to burn.
Slowly, she reached up, took his hand in hers. “Sit beside me, Max.”
He did, not too close, but close enough that she could feel the warmth rolling off his body. His scent was male—a hint of aftershave, of whiskey. Something stirred low and hot in her belly.
“I waited, Max,” she said, her voice going husky. “For seven years I waited for Flynn to come home. People tried to help me move forward, tried to get me to believe he was gone, but there was this hole in my heart, this feeling he was still out there, alive.”
“He was.”
Ellie nodded. “You showed me I was right. But I was young, and I had a small daughter, and . . . Greg Winters was there for me. He gave me my first job at a radio station. He’s a good guy, Max. He loved me, asked me to marry him. He said Jessica needed a father, a family. I did it for her, I think. I tried to love Greg back, and in a way, maybe I did. But he knew he was sharing his life with the ghost of Flynn. He thought I’d get over it. I didn’t. Our marriage just fizzled. Lasted all of two years. I thought it best to let him go—it wasn’t fair on him.”
Ellie looked down at her hands.
“I kept the name Winters,” she said softly, “because I’d started to build a brand in the industry. The ring—it was a signal I was unavailable, I suppose. I didn’t need anyone, Max, not after the screw-up with Greg. I had Jessica, the rest of me was . . . dead.”
Max saw her shoulders sag, her energy suddenly wane. “Until now,” she whispered. “Waiting for Flynn defined me. Now that I know he’s gone, I don’t know who I am.”
SEAL of My Dreams Page 42
