Wounded Heroes Boxed Set

by Judith Arnold

  Paul weighed her plea before responding. "From what I gather, it didn’t go very far."

  "Paul!" She erupted in full-fledged anger, frustrated by her son’s misbehavior, by her insecurities about her skill as a mother, and most of all by Paul’s reticence, by her failure to have established a cease-fire with him.

  "What do you want from me?" he shot back. "Shane thought you’d be angry with him—rightly, as it turned out—so he came to me. I didn’t give him the third degree, Bonnie. He said he messed around on the girl’s bed for a while—"

  "On her bed?" Bonnie gripped the chrome-trimmed edge of the sill and prayed for strength. "I thought they were just holding hands under an apple tree or something."

  "I think kids are a little more sophisticated these days," Paul observed. Taking note of Bonnie’s apparent distress, he added, "Filling in the blanks, I’d say it was mostly an I’ll-show-you-mine-if-you-show-me-yours type thing."

  "How can you be so cavalier about this?" she yelled. This was the man who’d gone to pieces after sharing a bed with her—and they were two cognizant, responsible adults. Yet here he was, describing her son’s first sexual encounter with a girl as if they were two preschoolers playing doctor.

  He appraised her for a long moment, running his hands along the plastic curve of the steering wheel, mulling over his thoughts. "What are you going to do to him?" he asked, casting a quick look toward the lit second-floor window.

  "I haven’t decided," Bonnie admitted, sounding more helpless than she’d intended. "I don’t know how to deal with this. I wish he’d talked to me about it first, or introduced me to the girl or something. I wish it had happened a little slower. He’s only thirteen—"

  "He’s almost fourteen," Paul reminded her, remaining calm in the face of her obvious panic. "His voice has changed and he’s going to be needing a razor soon. He’s a good-looking kid. I’m sure girls have been admiring him for months, if not years. It’s about time he reciprocated."

  She knew that what Paul was saying made sense, but she was too rattled to assess the situation pragmatically. Never before had she felt so inadequate as a parent; never before had she wanted so desperately to lean on a man. "Spell it out for me," she implored him. "Tell me this is normal and I shouldn’t go off the deep end about it."

  Paul studied her for a minute more, then relented and pulled his keys from the ignition. He climbed out of the truck and ambled around to her side. "Come on," he said quietly, taking her elbow and ushering her across the lawn to the porch. "I’ll fix you a drink."

  "I can’t drink after a day at work," she reminded him, nonetheless grateful that he’d chosen to stay and offer his support. "I might pass out."

  "That’s not such a bad idea," he muttered, guiding her into the kitchen. "Maybe when you wake up in the morning, you’ll have such a whopping hangover you’ll forget all about this other nonsense."

  She gave him a vexed look. "I’m glad you think this is so funny."

  "It isn’t funny," he conceded, leaning against the counter a safe distance from her. "I’ll even go so far as to admit it isn’t nonsense. But what are you going to do? The kid’s got hormones. Something like this was bound to happen sooner or later."

  She let Paul’s words sink in. She took heart not only in their logic but in the soothing warmth of his voice, in the knowledge that, regardless of what else existed between them, he could still be her friend when she needed him.

  "What do you think I should do?" she asked, her anger waning. "Should I ground him for a month, or have a heart-to-heart talk with him, or what?"

  Paul shrugged. "You probably shouldn’t do anything until tomorrow," he suggested. "That would give you both a chance to cool off."

  "I don’t know if I want to cool off," she grumbled, even though it was too late. Her nervous system was no longer pumping extra adrenaline; her stomach was no longer tied in knots. "He did so many wrong things, Paul—hitch-hiking, running away, lying, going to a girl’s house without adult supervision—"

  "And if you come down on him, what he’s going to wind up taking away from it is that sex is evil. Is that the message you want to give him?"

  Bonnie favored Paul with a steady stare. She most certainly did not believe that sex was evil, not when both parties were in agreement about what it entailed and what it implied. She was encouraged to think that Paul was of the same opinion, that perhaps, in time, he would come to acknowledge that what he and Bonnie had experienced together one stormy night hadn’t been evil.

  Standing in her kitchen with him awakened memories of how many good moments they’d shared, cleaning the dinner dishes, arguing about the memorial, laughing and philosophizing and simply feeling comfortable with each other. She missed his friendship. She missed that warm camaraderie that had flourished between them.

  She missed him.

  Her gaze traveled from his tousled mane of hair to his high forehead, his piercing eyes, his sharp nose and his thin, sensuous lips. She suffered not the first pang of regret at how dreadfully they’d both managed to botch things. But she wouldn’t ask him to erase the past, to give their relationship another chance. She’d come as close as she dared to asking that of him the last time she’d seen him, and he’d firmly rejected her.

  "I should be going," he said, glancing away. It dawned on her that he’d been gazing just as intently at her, that his eyes had been journeying over her. Had he read her thoughts and shared them, sensed her longing and returned it?

  "I’ll walk you to the door," she offered, taking refuge in etiquette.

  She accompanied him out onto the front porch. "Thanks for talking me down," she said. "I guess I was borderline-crazy for a few minutes, there."

  "No problem," he said.

  She arched her arm around one of the upright beams and gazed out at the star-dappled sky. The air was warm and breezy; the song of the crickets endured, muted but constant. She waited for Paul to escape back to his truck, but he lingered on the top step, just inches from her, viewing the night sky with her.

  "How are you?" he asked after a long silence.

  The hushed quality of his voice informed her that the question had nothing to do with her anger concerning Shane’s transgressions. "I’m fine," she replied.

  "I mean...are you—?"

  "No," she said quickly, aware at once of what he was asking. "I’m not pregnant."

  Still he hovered on the top step, neither leaving nor approaching her. "Bonnie..." He issued a shaky sigh. "I’m sorry. But we both know this just isn’t meant to be."

  "I’m not so sure I know that," she said, even though she was aware that arguing about it was futile.

  "It’s just..." He sighed again. "It’s just that I can’t go forward with anything when I’m still so tangled up in the past. You can understand that, can’t you?"

  "Paul—"

  "And I won’t be able to untangle myself from the past until I build the damned memorial—which you hate, and your husband would have hated—and you still love him, anyway... Don’t you see? It’s a mess."

  His statement made clear, perfect sense. So why, when Bonnie was more than willing to acknowledge the logic in everything Paul had said, did she find herself letting her arm fall, and turning to face him, and taking one small step into his outstretched arms? Why did her head fall back just as his mouth came down on hers, hard and hungry, and why did she moan with joy the instant his lips took hers?

  Sometimes logic had to be defied. Sometimes one had to shut out the questions, the doubt, the words of wisdom, and listen only to one’s heart.

  Tightening her hold on him, parting her lips and drawing him in, Bonnie listened to her heart.

  Chapter Twelve

  * * *

  KISSING HER FELT too good. The texture of her lips, the smooth ridge of her teeth, the erotic motions of her tongue luring him deeper... He felt bewitched, beyond thought, unable to resist. There was something about Bonnie that made him want to relinquish control and let his instincts take ove
r.

  The last time he’d done that, he’d experienced nothing but terror and guilt. This time, despite the warning signals his brain was sending out, he was experiencing only desire, the glorious ache of wanting her. Not just any woman—he wanted Bonnie. He wanted her delicate floral scent to envelop him and her warmth to permeate him. He wanted to drink her in, absorb her, become one with her. He wanted to feel her around him, responding, cresting. He wanted her to gasp with ecstasy this time.

  This time . That nagging alarm sounded in his skull, reminding him of what had happened the last time. Chastened, he pulled back and gazed at her. Her lips were moist, her eyes glittering beneath heavy lids. "Don’t stop," she whispered, sliding her hands up his spine to the nape of his neck and weaving her fingers together.

  His back flexed in the wake of her sweeping caress, and he instinctively leaned into her hands. She twirled her thumbs through his hair and he groaned softly. "We shouldn’t," he said without much conviction.

  "I think we should," she countered, her voice low and hoarse.

  "Great. Now we’ve got something else to disagree about."

  "We don’t disagree about this," Bonnie murmured, pulling his mouth back to hers.

  He could have prolonged the debate. He could have pointed out that they didn’t even agree on whether they agreed. But once again his emotions overruled his mind and he gave himself over to the pleasure of kissing her. His hands journeyed along her back, her sides, the sleek curves of her hips. He dug his fingertips into the flesh of her bottom. Arching against him, she made a soft, purring sound at the back of her throat.

  "I can’t," he groaned. It was almost as if someone else had spoken, some other voice, distant and disembodied. His actions contradicted those two clear, dispassionate words: he continued to massage the round flesh of her bottom with one hand while the other roamed up to her ribs and forward, teasing the underside of her breast. His lips grazed from her mouth to her cheek and then her brow. "This is a mistake, Bonnie," he whispered into her hair.

  "It’s not a mistake." She brushed her lips against his chin, then lifted her eyes.

  He pulled his hands from her. The loss of contact hurt, but if he touched her anymore, he’d never be able to stop. "You love Gary," he reminded her—and himself.

  "Gary’s dead," she said with a finality that surprised him.

  "Not in your heart, he isn’t. Not in your thoughts. You’ve got a million pictures of him on display in your living room, Bonnie. You still worship him. He’s the one you love."

  Her gaze narrowed and she jutted her chin out pugnaciously. "Since when do you know everything?" she asked.

  "Damn it, Bonnie—I don’t know everything, but I do know I’m not right for you. Maybe at this moment it feels right, but..."

  "But what?" she challenged, her eyes blazing with anger. "But I’m not allowed to care for you because we were on opposite sides of a political conflict twenty years ago?"

  "We’re on opposite sides today," he noted quietly.

  "Opposite sides of what, your stupid memorial?" She broke from him and stormed the length of the porch, giving free vent to her rage. "Go ahead, build the damned thing. Build your silly heap of granite. See if I care!"

  Her raving was obviously a result of frustration. Paul was frustrated, too, his body still burning, his mouth still tingling with the taste of her. But beneath her frustration lay an undeniable truth: she did think his memorial was stupid, silly, a damned thing. She and Paul were on opposite sides.

  He cared for her. He cared too much to take advantage of her. If the only thing he felt for her was desire, he’d gather her back into his arms and contrive a way for them to spend the night together. Instead, he was trying to figure out a way to leave, to get away before he wound up hurting her again.

  "I’d better go," he said, wincing inwardly at how blunt he sounded.

  She glowered at him from the far end of the porch. He detected sorrow and bitterness in her expression. Even when he was trying so hard not to hurt her, when he was sacrificing his own yearning in order to protect her, he seemed to have scored a direct hit. It didn’t matter what he did; he was obviously fated to cause her pain.

  Sighing, refusing to give lip service to yet another empty apology, he stepped off the porch and jogged across the lawn to his truck. Before he climbed in, he turned back to the house. He saw Bonnie pivot on her heel and stalk inside. Through the screen door, he heard the sound of something shattering against the hardwood floor in the living room.

  ***

  SHE PICTURED JACQUELINE KENNEDY, Coretta Scott King, Ethel Kennedy—those fine brave women, never allowing their grief to erode their dignity, never going crazy, howling, kicking walls or tearing at their hair. Their husbands had been not just murdered but martyred, and as the widows of martyrs they had assumed a special function, a heroic demeanor. They couldn’t just fall apart and leave it at that.

  Bonnie wanted to fall apart—and she ought to have been able to, once Shane had been safely installed at her parents’ house in Newton. But the airplane was too public, and Tom and Marcie were flanking her, fussing over her every time she let the merest whimper escape. She felt so self-conscious, so utterly exposed. So unnaturally grown-up.

  "I’m going to the lavatory," she told her companions.

  Tom immediately rose to his feet to let her out into the aisle. Marcie rose, as well. "I’ll come with you," she offered solicitously.

  "You will not," Bonnie said, managing a feeble smile. "I’ll be back in a few minutes." She edged past Tom into the aisle and strode toward the back of the plane. A flight attendant gave herÿa compassionate look as she stepped aside to let Bonnie pass.

  Everybody knew. Gary’s death had received some coverage in the press: Well-Known Peace Activist Struck Down by Hit-and-Run Driver During College Campus Tour . Even if the flight crew hadn’t read about it in the newspapers, they knew that this plane was transporting his body back east for burial, accompanied by his widow and his two friends. Bonnie supposed that such a cargo wasn’t all that unusual for airlines, but whenever she thought of herself as "escorting the body" she felt squeamish.

  Once inside the lavatory, she locked the door, lowered the seat lid and collapsed onto it. The past few days had been a blur, from Marcie’s hysterical three-a.m. long-distance phone call to this plane trip back to Boston. "There’s been an accident, Bonnie," Marcie had choked out. "I’m at the hospital. It’s Gary..." And then Tom’s voice replaced Marcie’s on the line: "I’m sorry, Bonnie. I don’t know how to say this any other way. It’s really bad. You’re going to have to fly out here."

  She had arrived in Fresno late the following day. Tom had been waiting for her at the local airport. Driving into town in his rental car, he’d told her what had happened: "The speech went down weird, Bonnie. There were hecklers in the crowd, a really savage group that kept trying to shout him down. Vietnam veterans, I think. California rednecks. Every time Gary said something bad about the war they shouted threats. They were macho hot-shots, you know the kind—they don’t feel like they’re real men unless they’re carrying a gun. Usually hecklers add some spice to a lecture, but these guys spooked me. They spooked Gary, too. When we left the auditorium, he said he had a feeling we’d be hearing from them again."

  They’d run him down. They had run her husband down and killed him, simply because he believed in peace.

  At least he’d died for something worthwhile, she thought, propping her elbows on her knees and resting her head in her cupped hands. At least he hadn’t died in vain. Like the soldiers who hadn’t survived their tours of duty in Vietnam, Gary was a casualty of war. But his war wasn’t about American imperialism and the support of unpopular foreign rulers; it was about non-violence, about the respect for life and the necessity of finding non-military solutions to the world’s problems. Gary had died for a cause—and somehow, that made his death a little easier to accept.

  Easier, but not easy. No matter how he’d died, or why, he was
gone. Bonnie and Shane were alone, now. Gary had left them forever.

  The tears welled up and spilled over, streaking down her cheeks and leaving damp spots on her skirt. The sound of her muted weeping echoed in the tiny lavatory enclosure, but she didn’t care. She would allow herself one minute to cry, and then she’d wash up, collect herself and return to her seat between Marcie and Tom for the remainder of the trip home. She’d be a fine, brave, dignified widow once more.

  ***

  "YOU SURE I’m not in trouble?" Shane asked meekly.

  Bonnie shot him a quick glance, then turned her attention back to the road. "Why should you be in trouble?" she asked. "Your report card was fine, all except for history. I would have liked to see better than a C-plus for the quarter."

  "My final grade was a B-minus," he reminded her.

  "It would have been a B if you hadn’t slacked off this spring. History is important, Shane. It’s impossible to know where you’re going if you have no idea of where you’ve been."

  "Looks to me like where I’m going is the exactly same place as where I’ve been," Shane quipped, slouching in his seat and propping one sneakered foot against the glove compartment.

  Bonnie gave him another swift look to make sure he had on his seatbelt, and then shook her head, envious of the physical elasticity of youth. If she’d attempted that position, the police would probably have to come and cut her out of the car with the jaws of life.

  It was a summer-warm morning; the sky was scattered with puffy white clouds and the route heading southeast into Boston was relatively free of traffic. Yesterday had been the last day of the school term. Bonnie would be teaching an enrichment reading course over the summer, but the next two weeks were hers to do with as she wished.

  What she’d wished was, as Shane had said, to go back to where she’d been. Her justification for the trip to Boston was to deliver Kevin McCoy’s manuscript back to him in person, to explain her scribbled corrections and comments. But deep in her heart, she knew that Cambridge was really where she wanted to go.