by Lyz Kelley
He laughed, a deep, melodic laugh full of tender promises. And she couldn’t help going up on her tiptoes and pressing her mouth to his. He groaned and immediately reached for her, cupping her bottom and lifting her to deepen their connection.
Leaning slightly back, she wondered if he merely wanted to pass the time or turn off his mind. But the way he looked at her, his eyes full of desire…this wasn’t about sex alone.
After she kissed him again, he took his time tracing the curve of her lips with his tongue. He maintained his restraint until she sighed and allowed him entry. Then he turned and braced her against the wall, freeing his hands to slide under her sweatshirt. Up and up they slid, until settling right below her breasts.
His eyes flared with the knowledge she hadn’t taken the time to put on a bra.
When his hand cupped her breast, the need she was determined to avoid feeling came rushing back into her.
She didn’t need just sex. She didn’t want just a man. What she wanted was the man in front of her. “Chase,” she whispered.
The plea didn’t go unheeded. He lifted her higher and lowered his head enough to put his mouth on her nipple, playing, caressing, flicking his tongue and sending waves of sensations throughout her.
“Tell me you want this, Ashley.”
She opened her mouth to holler, hell, yeah, but nothing came out. When he started to let her go, she dug her nails into his shoulders. His deep breath created a whole new sensation, and she loved it.
“Do that again,” he demanded, his voice smoky with desire.
She crossed her arms along his back and raked them across, pulling him closer, wanting him to feel the things she felt.
“Woman, you drive me to the edge of sanity.”
He released her body and let it slide down his, then placed his forehead on hers and blew out a frustrated breath.
“Did I do something wrong?” She tucked her arms against her with self-doubt.
“No,” he said simply. He gave her a peck on the tip of her nose and took a step back. “You need to go find that hair trimmer, and I think I need to take a shower. Now. An ice-cold shower.”
Joining him in the shower crossed her mind. “I’ll be upstairs.”
He nodded and again said nothing when she passed. At the top of the basement stairs, she peeked over her shoulder. Sure enough, her eyes met a searing intensity that terrified and tempted her at the same time. She could feel the grip on her will unraveling. Every ounce of common sense told her not to get involved with the soldier, or make something out of nothing. But when she looked into his eyes, she saw a strong but wounded man. He tugged at her heart. She must find a way to stop this insanity before it truly drove her around the bend.
She turned and raced down the hall and up the back steps to put some distance between them. After a quick, fruitless search of the hall closet for the electric trimmer, she moved on to her mom's bedroom, which she’d managed to avoid since the funeral. Her mother’s flowery perfume enveloped her like snow covering the ground. She made a fist, hiding the cut on her finger while placing her other hand on the walk-in closet door handle. Even after she’d taken four truckloads to the thrift or consignment stores, a precision row of blouses, slacks, and suits still lined the shelves.
She scanned the stacks of boxes on the upper rack and settled on a brown carton with potential. She set the dressing room chair in front of the built-in racks and climbed. Once she was eye level with the shelf, she spotted another container she’d never seen before. Curious, she reached for the box, which was wallpapered with forget-me-nots. Hopping down, she sat on the chair before removing the fabric lid. Inside were bundles upon bundles of letters and cards in date order, plus some ribbons, a few coins, and a pressed rose boutonniere. Letters and souvenirs from Dad.
A sealed letter partially addressed to her dad lay on top of the stack. The numbers on the back of the envelope made no sense, but the date underneath was the week prior to her mom’s death. Setting the letters aside, she lifted each bundle, looking at dates. Then she put the box on the floor and climbed back onto the chair, pushing shoeboxes aside until she found what her instinct told her to look for—six more boxes stuffed full of letters. She climbed up and down until the boxes sat in a row on the tan wool carpet, and then she sank to the floor, dragging the nearest box closer. Selecting the ribbon-tied bundle with the oldest date, she opened the first letter to read.
My dearest Sally,
I should start off by saying you were right. Officer training is much harder than I thought. I get up at six and don’t finish my day until sometime around midnight. You should be taking these courses. You’re so much smarter than I am.
I understand why you wanted to move back to Elkridge. Yes, to be closer to the cemetery and our baby, who is safe in God’s hands, but I feel you also moved back for me. You wanted to give me time to concentrate on my career. For that, I will always be thankful. I better go study. Know I’m doing this for us. You are always with me.
Your loving husband,
Dale.
Ashley read another letter, and another, frantically searching, hoping to find an answer. She didn’t find another reference to a baby, with the exception of her, but she did discover her dad had a sense of humor.
Who knew?
She’d only known the serious, oppressive, quiet man. After a dozen or more letters, the perception of her father was transformed into something different. She couldn’t find the previously-formed image of him on these pages. The young man who’d written these letters loved her mother—loved her more than anything else. He confided his dreams, fears, hopes. In the letters, he told his wife what Ashley had never heard him say in person.
She gently stroked the yellowing, tattered, tear-stained page. The passion had moved her mother as much as they touched her.
She opened another letter, which had been torn then taped back together.
Sally,
I’ve tried calling for two weeks. Please pick up the phone. We need to talk about this. I know you’re scared. I’ve talked to the doctors here. They assure me you can live years with Multiple Sclerosis. Let me come home. Better yet, come back, bring Ashley, and live on the base. You’ll have better access to medical providers. I want to take care of you and our daughter. We’ll make it work. I don’t care about my recent promotion to Major. You and Ash are the most important things in my life.
Call me. I love you.
Dale.
P.S. Thank my little Ash for the pottery ashtray she sent me for Father’s Day. Tell her, I miss my little Ashtray’s hugs and kisses and think of her every day.
He missed her? Hugs and Kisses? Ashley didn't know the man who’d written such touching and loving prose, but that man, she would have liked to meet. A father who managed to communicate. A man who wanted to be with the love of his life, but was required to attend to his higher calling. A strong yet tormented man. A man torn in half.
She removed her cell phone from the pocket of her jeans. And hesitated. What message should she leave? Hi, Mr. Bryant, this is your daughter. I’m calling to discover who you really are. Or, Hey, mister. I’m calling the FBI because you’re an imposter. Or, Hey, Dad. Why didn’t you ever come home? We needed you.
Do the right thing. Get your dad’s address, and send your mom’s letter. Don’t think about it. Just do it.
She searched the contact list and dialed a number she’d tried to avoid calling for so many years. She held her breath and waited for the answering machine.
A sharp hello startled her.
“Dad?”
“Ashley, is that you? What’s wrong?”
I was only wondering who you are, for real. I mean, I thought I knew, but now I’m not sure. “Nothing’s wrong.”
Whenever calling, she got the inkling he expected her to open with “I’m pregnant,” or “I’m in jail,” or “Please send money.” Under any of those circumstances, she would have to be snacking on cookie crumbs to give him that kind of call, or
any other kind of call, for that matter. He always seemed busy and in a hurry and surprised to hear her voice. She frowned at the phone. The temptation to hang up got stronger, but something stopped her.
She folded her legs underneath her and picked up the unopened letter. “I found your letters to Mom.” She didn’t know what she expected him to say, but listening to silence was a bit tough. “I also found a letter she never sent. It’s dated only a few days before she passed.”
She heard nothing. “Dad? Are you there?”
“I’m here.”
“The bank collection agencies called again yesterday. Did they get in touch with you? They indicated they’re starting foreclosure procedures.” Not that it will do them any good. There aren’t any buyers for the house.
“I spoke with the mortgage lender yesterday. Do you need anything?”
Nothing more than you, in my life, twenty-plus years ago. “Nope, I’m good.”
She picked up the sealed letter, studying her mother’s shaky handwriting on the outer envelope. The thick package created questions. The effort to write such a letter must have been exhausting. Whatever her mother had written must have been important.
“Dad, I need your address so I can send you Mom’s letter.”
She ran and grabbed a pen off her mom’s nightstand when he began rattling off a memorized APO address. But then the silence on the other end of the line returned. She wished things could be different, but time continued to tick away, and after all this time, he wouldn’t want to change. She’d accepted the facts long ago. No matter how much she wished for something different, longed to experience the Disney version of the father-daughter dance, it wasn’t meant to be.
“I’d better go,” she said.
“Ash?” Was that a plea in his voice?
“Yeah, Dad?”
There was a moment of silence, as if he was trying to gauge whether or not she was truly okay. “It’s good to hear from you.”
Her chest ached and she closed her eyes. She would trade her boxes of tea sets to hear him call her ‘Ashtray’ one more time. He probably assumed she’d outgrown the nickname, but she longed to hear the affectionate word, even once. She missed the early days, when he'd taken her fishing, or propped her on the toes of his boots, teaching her to dance. She wanted those special times back. She missed him, but didn't quite know how to tell him. The years of resentment and loneliness had burned the bridge that connected them once.
“I’ll get this letter in the mail. Take care, Dad.”
“Call anytime. I have to get back to my meeting.”
Phone works both ways, Dad.
The line went silent, and she lowered the phone. All her life she’d been waiting to hear those three little words, but they never came. The word love wasn’t in his vocabulary, not when associated with her, anyway. She didn’t know why she waited, but she still did.
“Ashley?” Chase's voice echoed up through the stairwell.
She hurried to the landing and peered over the railing at the freshly showered man. “Is something wrong with Lucky?”
“Lucky’s fine. I checked on him a minute or two ago. But there’s some woman, a Rachelle, out front. Says she’s a friend of yours.”
Rachelle Clairemont. Must be a record. The temptation to check her watch was well-nigh irresistible.
Chasing men, especially ineligible men, had become a hobby for Rachelle. With a high-fashion-model body, she didn’t have to try hard to turn a few heads. Rachelle’s brother, Brad, must have tipped her off. Heaven forbid she set foot in the café. That would be slumming, and Rachelle would tarnish her high-nosed reputation. The diner was several pegs below Miss Fancy Pants’s couture tastes.
“Would you please tell Rachelle I’ll be out in a minute?”
Chase headed for the door, and she ducked into the bathroom to check the mirror. She brushed her hair, pinched her cheeks, applied lip-gloss, and snatched a shirt and pants from her mom’s closet. Anything had to be more appropriate than shapeless sweats. She wasn’t thrilled with the result, but given what she had to work with, they would do. She couldn’t compete with the pageant queen, but she sure wasn’t about to let the woman leave footprints on her back as she sauntered over her to get to Chase.
Skidding to a stop, Ashley adjusted her shirt before opening the front door, where she saw Rachelle, propped against the powder blue Mercedes, tilt her head back and laugh at something Chase said.
The way she twisted the blonde strands of hair around her index finger reminded Ashley of how she loved to twist men around her little finger. Ashley didn’t understand why guys tripped over themselves to do her bidding. Rachelle was way too thin, way too perky, way too everything. The oversized augmentation her daddy had paid for with his real estate money didn’t help. The women in the town referred to her as a stick with tits. Ashley agreed. The description was fitting.
She jumped down off the front porch and joined the laughing couple. “Rachelle, fancy seeing you here.”
“Hey, Ash. I stopped by the shop, but you weren’t there. I thought I’d deliver your Christmas Bazaar fliers here instead.”
Since when have you ever stopped by the shop? Didn’t know your car could find its way to that end of town.
“You didn’t need to do that. You could have left them with Jenna since we’re splitting the booth.”
“Yes, but I wanted to personally make sure you got them.”
Rachelle made one of those fake giggling sounds, a grating cascade which scraped the nerves. When Rachelle won the sixth-grade play lead Ashley coveted, that was bad enough, but stealing Ashley’s boyfriend in high school had triggered an all-out war. She’d give anything to be a pebble in Rachelle’s high-heeled shoe about now. Grasping for any excuse to send Rachelle packing, she remembered her irrational fear of dogs.
“I’d invite you in, but I have a sick dog inside.”
“My brother did mention something about you finding a half-dead mutt. Brad was surprised you didn’t put the poor thing out of its misery. Guess you don’t mind seeing things suffer.”
Ashley’s jaws clamped because nothing would be more satisfying than taking a bite out of Ms. Perfect, the woman who stole boyfriends, got her kicked off the cheerleading squad, and spread nasty rumors about her.
Then again, any attempt to damage Rachelle’s perfectly styled hair or makeup might result in her calling the sheriff. Ashley didn’t stand a chance against those flashy blue eyes, man-made hooters, and her dad’s extra-large bank account. But then again, she had nothing to lose. She took a step forward.
Chase effectively cut her off. “We were about to head out.”
Rachelle had clearly heard we because her eyes got a beady, squint-eyed look. “Then I won’t keep you. Don’t forget your promise, Chase.”
The way she smiled at him made Ashley want to plant a boot against Rachelle’s perfect chin.
She couldn’t claim either Chase or the dog as her own. However, she certainly wasn’t about to let Rachelle get her paws on either one. She needed to protect them. Rachelle had a way of destroying everything crossing her path, busting things into tiny pieces like her grandmother’s china.
Chase stepped away from the car. “I won’t.”
Ashley snapped her head in his direction. “What promise?”
“To help unload boxes at the Bazaar.”
Typical. Rachelle couldn’t have designed a better man-trap. Ashley watched the car back out of the drive before scooping snow into her hand, balling it, and throwing it as far as she could.
She was standing, legs apart, hands on hips, glaring at the tire tracks, when she heard an unfamiliar sound. Chase was laughing. When she glared at him, he laughed harder. Not a simple tee-hee laugh, but a full-blown, shoulder-shaking, belly-wracking, eye-watering laugh. He bent over and put his hands on his knees.
“What’s so darn funny?” she demanded.
He pointed. “You’re jealous.”
“Am not. I was doing you a favor. Rach
elle’s a first-class bitch.”
“A favor? By putting me in the middle of two she-cats doing their best to claw each other’s eyes out?”
She wanted to tell him different, but couldn’t argue with the truth. “It’s not nice to laugh at someone else’s expense.”
“Sorry. I really couldn’t help it.”
Whichever way she sliced it, jealousy had motivated her actions. Trying to find something witty or intelligent to say would only make her look defensive, or worse, catty. His laughter settled into a muted smirk. She’d stifled his joy and somehow felt bad for doing it.
Knowing where he had been, she wondered when or if he’d had an occasion to laugh with such unfettered freedom. She reveled in the pure joy beaming from his face and wished she could experience the same. She hadn’t had cause to laugh, not in that deep, penetrating way, not in days, maybe weeks or months. Except with him. The least she could do was give the soldier a reason to laugh.
She nudged the gravel with the toe of her boot. “You should laugh more often. It looks good on you.”
“Why’s that?”
“Laughter makes you look less…”
He wiped the corner of his eye with the back of his hand. “Angry?”
She shook her head. “Haunted. For a moment, I saw the real you, not a ghost. You’re a hard person to read sometimes.” Embarrassment made her look away. “My dad always said I was too generous with my heart. Maybe if I could learn to be a little more protected, like you, I’d be better off.”
“Don’t say that.” The anguish in his voice grabbed her attention. “He’s right. You’re the most giving and caring person I know. You shouldn’t ever want to change.”
A tingle of heat coiled through her, warming her extremities. She hadn’t felt warm in ages, but only now realized how long she’d felt cold to her bones and uncomfortable in her skin. She couldn’t name the jumble of feelings that filled her now, many of them awkward, yet satisfying at the same time.
She finally felt visible. He saw her.
“I’d better get moving. Lots to do.” She turned toward the house, then paused. “If you want, you can stay here again tonight. I mean…Lucky is healing, but it’d be nice to have some help.”
