Wounded Heroes Boxed Set

by Judith Arnold

  Paul wasn’t that bad. Not once in the six years of his marriage had Kathy demanded that he seek therapy. Of course, it hadn’t been her style to admit that anything could be wrong. She had turned a blind eye to his dissatisfaction with his work, his restlessness in their marriage and his fitful sleep habits. When he’d tried to talk about his unhappiness, she’d refused to listen. "Things are fine," she’d argue. "I don’t know what you’re complaining about."

  He gazed at the pattern of light the moon cast against the wall. Why was he thinking about it? Why was he thinking about the jungle nights, the fear, his ill-fated marriage?

  Bonnie.

  He settled back against the pillow and closed his eyes, this time laboring hard not to drift toward sleep. Instead, he forced himself to picture her magnificent hair, her poignant smile, her clear, beautiful eyes. He used to become enraged when some holier-than-thou anti-war maniac started sounding off—and his initial reaction to Bonnie’s description of her husband had been to pick a fight with her. But that reflex had faded when he’d realized how sad she was, how lonely and grief-stricken her husband’s death had left her.

  He’d wanted to gather her into his arms, to whisper that he’d also lost people he’d loved. He’d wanted to give comfort, and receive it. He’d almost kissed her.

  Some things you just know.

  He heard the words in her hushed voice and felt for a moment as if he understood everything about her.

  She wasn’t the sort of woman he ought to get involved with. She had a son; she was still in mourning for her husband. She despised the things Paul had done with his life in the past, just as he despised the things she’d done with hers. Merely spending an evening in her company brought back the dreams.

  Ten years after becoming a widow, she was still living with too many memories. So was he.

  Chapter Four

  * * *

  BONNIE LEANED AGAINST the chain-link fence and stared across the street at the town green. Behind her, a hundred third- and fourth-graders romped in the school yard; the air was filled with happy shrieks and giggles and the scuffling sounds of sneakers as the children darted from the swings to the slide, from the jungle gym to the jump ropes. After having spent three hours indoors at their desks, they had surplus energy to burn, and they were making the most of their recess period.

  She listened for calamities and heard none: no whining, no sobs, no howls of pain or anger. A quick scan of the playground revealed nothing out of the ordinary, and she returned her gaze to the green. Shoving up the sleeves of her cardigan, she rested her arms on the fence and surveyed the rolling rectangle of lawn, the stately trees shading it, the sidewalks spanning it, the formal New England architecture of the buildings surrounding it. At the far end of the green stood the old war memorial, a stark ten-foot spire of stone on a concrete pedestal.

  Twenty-five years ago, the United States didn’t need another war. And today, Northford didn’t need another memorial.

  "You look like a lady deep in thought," said Claire Collins.

  Bonnie turned to find the school librarian sidling up to the fence beside her. "Not terribly deep," she admitted. "I was just thinking about how many books you could buy with the money Northford wants to spend on a stupid military statue."

  "Don’t I know it," Claire grumbled, her gaze paralleling Bonnie’s across the street to the green. "I just got word this morning that my budget’s going to be trimmed by ten percent again this year. Meanwhile, Mike tells me his men are all gung-ho about the memorial. They’re setting up a collection to raise money for it." Claire’s husband Mike was the town’s police chief.

  "I always thought that when they took up a collection, it was for a police widow or some child in the hospital."

  "Guess again. Rumor has it that the town council’s going to start soliciting bids on designs and construction costs for the memorial. The guys at the police station figure that if they contribute something toward it, it’s more likely to get built. And then, of course, with Paul Tremaine kicking in so much money out of his own pocket, there’s no way the thing isn’t going to happen."

  Bonnie sighed. She’d spent a great deal of time since Saturday thinking about Paul’s generosity regarding the birch tree he and Shane had planted for her. She wondered whether he was the sort to throw his wealth around on a whim—whether, for that matter, he was especially wealthy. "Do you know Paul Tremaine?" she asked Claire, trying not to sound too interested.

  Claire grinned. "After living in this town for thirty years, I know everybody."

  Bonnie gazed across the street, attempting to picture what the green would look like adorned with not one but two monuments to death. "Do you know why he’s so eager to have a new memorial built?"

  Claire meditated for a moment. "He’s a private man," she said, leaning against the fence beside Bonnie. "Northford sent maybe fifteen boys to Vietnam, and three didn’t make it back. I don’t know that any of them was a particular intimate of Paul’s, so I doubt that’s what’s motivating him."

  "What’s your guess?" Bonnie pressed her.

  Claire shrugged. "Beats me. He didn’t come home straight after the war. He only moved back to town maybe ten years ago. People talked about how he’d been a big hero over there, he’d seen a lot of action. But you can’t believe everything people say."

  "Laura Holt told me she thought he must have killed lots of enemy troops," Bonnie muttered, grimacing.

  "A lot of men did a lot of things back then," Claire remarked philosophically. "Paul Tremaine seems like a nice guy, what little I know of him. From what I gather, he sometimes has a couple of beers and shoots pool down at Max’s with some of the guys from the police station, but he mostly keeps to himself."

  "Is he married?" Bonnie asked. Given that he’d accepted a spur-of-the-moment dinner invitation from her, she assumed he wasn’t, but it didn’t hurt to get confirmation.

  Claire shook her head. "I’ve heard tell he got married after the war, but as far as I know he’s living alone these days. He doesn’t date much, either—at least nobody local. I can think of a few women who wouldn’t mind getting him into bed, but if he’s dating anyone she must live somewhere else." She eyed Bonnie curiously. "Why do you ask?"

  "Know your enemy," Bonnie answered, echoing what Paul had said the first time they’d met.

  She didn’t really think of him as her enemy, though. Quite the contrary, she was delighted to learn he was single—although her delight unsettled her. She had no ambition to become yet another local woman who hoped to get him into bed. "So, how serious are these rumors about the town council soliciting bids for the memorial?" she asked, choosing to concentrate on the issue that would always come between her and Paul.

  The air was riven by the shrill peal of the school bell announcing the end of recess. Claire and Bonnie turned to watch the children gravitating sluggishly toward the school door. "The best way to find out is to talk to someone on the council," Claire answered.

  "I will," Bonnie resolved. As long as she remained focused on the memorial, she wouldn’t have to worry about succumbing to Paul’s allure. "Do me a favor, Claire, and put together some library budget projections for me—before and after the ten-percent reduction. I’d love to march into town hall with a list of books the school desperately needs and can’t afford. Maybe that’ll make them realize how ridiculous their priorities are."

  "Dream on, Bonnie," Claire murmured under her breath as she and Bonnie joined the students at the door. "Dream on."

  ***

  TWO AND A HALF hours later, Bonnie left the town hall building, a copy of Claire’s library budget tucked unread inside her briefcase and Councilman Edwin Marshall’s platitudes ringing in her head.

  He’d been oh, so cordial, clearing his desk and listening attentively while she explained her position to him. He’d told her that, while her passionate speech opposing the memorial at the town council meeting a couple of weeks ago had given everyone in attendance a lot to think about, the
town’s budget for the memorial was totally separate from the school library budget, so even if there weren’t going to be a memorial the library budget would still be subject to a ten-percent reduction. Then he’d told her that his neighbor’s daughter was one of her students and that he’d heard that she was an excellent teacher, and he’d asked her to call him Ed.

  She stood in the parking lot behind the town hall building, reviewing her encounter with him. She knew she hadn’t made a dent in his opinion. If only Gary had been around to present the anti-memorial position, the silver-haired councilman would have been moved to rethink his position. Her husband had been so forceful, so articulate. Compared to him, she was utterly inept.

  The closest she’d gotten to undermining Ed’s certainty was when she’d said, "If Paul Tremaine weren’t putting up so much of the money for the memorial, Northford wouldn’t be so enthusiastic about the thing." After squirming for a moment in his massive leather chair, Ed had gone on about how he and Paul Tremaine’s father had been classmates together in the very same elementary school where Bonnie now taught. He’d pointed out that the Tremaine family had deep roots in town and that most folks were darned glad that, after so many years away, Paul had chosen to return home. He’d been a hero in the war; he’d served his country with honor and he deserved this small token of the town’s appreciation.

  "If he wants a memorial, we’ll do whatever we can to find the funding for it," Ed had declared.

  Apparently, the town’s support for the project had less to do with dollars and cents than with small-town allegiances, Bonnie concluded as she climbed into her car and shut the door. The only way to get the memorial concept dumped was to get Northford’s local hero to back away from it.

  It wasn’t that she wished to enter into combat with Paul. All she wanted was to convince him to see things her way so they wouldn’t be on opposite sides of this matter. If only he agreed with her, she would be free to...

  To what? Venture into a romance with him? Follow through on her mind-boggling attraction to him? No, of course not. She had no interest in engaging in an affair with him, and anything deeper than an affair was impossible. He wasn’t Gary; she could never love him.

  Her sole aim, she assured herself, was to prevent the creation of a war memorial. The only way to accomplish that would be to get Paul to withdraw his support for it. That would be difficult, but not impossible. They did share some common ground, after all—they both cared about Shane. She remembered the warmth of Paul’s hand closing briefly around hers, and his pensive smile when he’d said that he hoped her son would never have to confront the horror of fighting in a war.

  For Shane’s sake. That was why Paul should abandon the idea of a memorial.

  Tremaine Nursery was located in the eastern part of town on a rural road that bordered a couple of pastures and an old tobacco farm. Bonnie had never had any reason to do business there—given her meager salary, she had considered replacing the sickly dogwood with a new tree beyond her means—but she’d driven past the nursery numerous times while taking a short-cut to Lowell. Now that Shane was going to be working at the nursery, she imagined she ought to get used to the place.

  The broad gravel parking lot was crowded when she arrived. Coasting between the two pickups parked near the largest greenhouse, she braked, turned off the engine and climbed out of her car. The air smelled even cleaner here than in town; the fragrance of damp earth and greenery was leavened with a whiff of pine mulch. From a forest in the distance came the melodic chirping of birds, offering a lilting counterpoint to the nearby rumble of a tractor. On the other side of the parking lot stood row after row of trees and shrubs for sale, their roots wrapped in burlap and their branches adorned with price tags.

  Shoving her hands into the pockets of her cardigan, Bonnie entered the greenhouse. Plants were displayed on long, neat tables, many of them with identifying tags or illustrations. People browsed among the tables, fingering the leaves and squinting at the prices. Bonnie searched the crowded shop for Paul, but she didn’t see him.

  A woman was posted by a cash register not far from the entrance, wearing a shirt with "Tremaine Nursery" stitched above the chest pocket, like the one Paul had had on both times he’d been to Bonnie’s house. "Excuse me," Bonnie addressed her. "Can you tell me where I might find Mr. Tremaine?"

  "He’s in the garden center," the woman said, nodding her head toward a double-door entry into an adjacent warehouse.

  Bonnie thanked her and wove among the tables to the warehouse, which contained a vast assortment of garden equipment for sale. She spotted a cluster of men engaged in a lively discussion near a row of power mowers, but Paul wasn’t among them. One of the men was wearing a Tremaine Nursery shirt like Paul’s, but his hair was streaked with white and his face was lined.

  She wandered over to the group and waited until the man in the Tremaine Nursery shirt was done expounding on the many features of a particular mower. He glanced at her and smiled. "Can I help you?"

  "I was told I’d find Mr. Tremaine in here," said Bonnie, offering the other customers a contrite smile for having interrupted them.

  "I’m Mr. Tremaine," the man said. "What can I do for you?"

  He was too old to be Paul’s brother and too young to be his father, especially if Paul’s father had been a classmate of Ed Marshall’s. Yet the man’s dimples reminded her of Paul’s. "I’m looking for Paul Tremaine," she clarified.

  The man nodded. "He’s probably in one of the other greenhouses. Would you like me to page him?"

  Bonnie hesitated. She didn’t want Paul dragged away from important work in order to be subjected to one of her diatribes on the necessity for setting peaceful priorities for the next generation. If there was any chance that he might agree to withdraw his plan for a memorial, Bonnie suspected that he’d be more likely to change his mind in private.

  "Don’t bother paging him," she replied. "I’m sure I’ll be able to find him."

  "Those greenhouses aren’t open to customers."

  "I’m not here as a customer," Bonnie explained. "It’s a personal matter."

  As soon as she spoke she realized her mistake. The man’s eyebrows shot up, and one of the customers nudged the other in the ribs. The man chuckled and gave her a wink. "In that case, I don’t suppose there’d be any problem, as long as you don’t mess with the merchandise." He shoved open a back door and pointed her toward the greenhouses behind the warehouse. "Check the one on the left first—I think you’ll find him there."

  "Thank you," Bonnie muttered, trying to ignore the flush of embarrassment that warmed her cheeks. She hurried outside, picked her way across a dirt lane carved with tractor treads, and pulled open the door of the greenhouse.

  This greenhouse was much smaller than the main one; the interior was warm and humid, the concrete floor damp and the roof steeply peaked. Shelves lined the outer walls and a narrow table bisected the long room. Every square inch of horizontal space was covered with potted seedlings.

  Paul stood at the far end of the greenhouse with his back to Bonnie, spraying the seedlings with mist. She watched him manipulate the heavy black snake of hose along the narrow aisle, his shoulders stretching the cotton of his shirt smooth across his broad upper back. He had on his uniform shirt and a pair of faded work dungarees; she could discern his lean hips and legs through the weathered denim. His hair curled along the collar of his shirt, and droplets of water trapped in the hair of his exposed forearms glistened beneath the fluorescent overhead lighting. The muscles at the base of his spine flexed as he leaned across the table to spray the plants adjacent to the glass wall.

  What he was doing wasn’t exactly strenuous, but it struck Bonnie as remarkably physical. Feeding seedlings was a gentle, nurturing activity, yet when Paul did it it seemed supremely manly, the very opposite of Gary’s cerebral theorizing.

  Why was she comparing the two men? Another blush heated her cheeks as the obvious answer came to her. Clearing her throat, she shouted abo
ve the hiss of the water: "Paul?"

  He shut off the nozzle and turned. He seemed to exert himself not to appear startled by her unexpected intrusion, but she sensed his surprise in the subtle widening of his eyes and the smile that whispered across his lips. Setting down the hose, he pulled a dark blue handkerchief from his pocket, dried his hands on it and then shoved his mussed hair back from his brow. "Hi," he said, wiping his right hand a second time before he extended it to her.

  She accepted it, cautioning herself that if his enveloping grip seemed a bit too possessive, it was only her imagination. When he released her hand she hid it safely within the pocket of her cardigan. "I’ve just met a man who said he was Mr. Tremaine," she told him, pleased by her light tone. "Is he a relative of yours?"

  "My Uncle Steve," Paul told her. "He’s my partner here in the business."

  He gave her a dazzling smile. The air suddenly seemed too steamy in the greenhouse. He seemed too close.

  "How’s the birch tree?" he asked when her silence extended to a full minute.

  "It’s fine." She raised her chin in a posture of courage, but tilting her head only forced her gaze into alignment with his. His eyes were so profoundly dark, so spellbinding. She lowered her gaze to his throat and found herself equally taken by the oval of his Adam’s apple, the harsh lines of his jaw, the powerful width of his shoulders.

  She struggled to remember why she’d come here. To persuade him not to go forward with his war memorial, that was it. To persuade him to do something more worthwhile with his money, instead—to donate it to the school library.

  "I should have telephoned you to thank you for dinner the other night," he said before she could state her purpose. "It was nice of you to invite me."

  "It was nice of you to bring me the tree," she countered, silently chiding herself to get on with it, to say what she’d come to say. If only his gaze wasn’t so penetrating, if only he wasn’t standing so close, if only the golden skin of his arms and face wasn’t so damp. If only the atmosphere wasn’t so steamy, the ceiling so low, the air so redolent with the aromas of fertile soil and budding life.