Sealed with a promise

by Mary Margret Daughtridge

  “The SE­AL.” Fa­ir­c­hild’s lip ac­tu­al­ly cur­led. “How did you get up he­re? The ca­me­ras only sho­wed a wo­man on the sta­irs.”

  The cor­ner of Ca­leb’s mo­uth qu­ir­ked with lazy mis­c­hi­ef. “And yet, he­re I am.”

  Why was he go­ading Fa­ir­c­hild? Em­mie felt her kne­es get we­ak aga­in. She was a ter­rib­le li­ar, but she’d al­re­ady no­ted that Ca­leb was a skil­lful one. If Fa­ir­c­hild qu­es­ti­oned her, she didn’t know what she wo­uld say.

  “Dr. Cad­din­g­ton.” Fa­ir­c­hild tur­ned flinty eyes her way. “I con­si­de­red yo­ur gran­d­mot­her a fri­end, so I can be­li­eve you didn’t me­an to tres­pass. But if this man co­mes in­to this ho­use aga­in, by any me­ans, he will be ar­res­ted.”

  “No, wa­it!” Vicky, who had be­en wat­c­hing the in­ter­c­han­ge bet­we­en the adults, pro­tes­ted. “It was all-”

  “Qu­i­et, Vicky,” Fa­ir­c­hild snap­ped. “I’m not ple­ased with you eit­her. I will ha­ve to ex­p­la­in to yo­ur mot­her yo­ur part in this. You sho­uld not ha­ve ad­mit­ted this man to yo­ur ro­om, and you know it. You sho­uld ha­ve in­for­med se­cu­rity the­re we­re una­ut­ho­ri­zed pe­op­le on the se­cond flo­or.” He ope­ned the do­or to the hall. “Escort Dr. Cad­din­g­ton and this man to the do­or,” he told the se­cu­rity gu­ard who wa­ited the­re. “Do not ad­mit him to this ho­use aga­in, and if you see him an­y­w­he­re ne­ar it, in­form the po­li­ce.”

  “No, wa­it!” Vicky bar­red the do­or with her body. “Ple­ase. It isn’t fa­ir. I’ll tell-”

  Ca­leb to­uc­hed her lightly on the arm. “Mo­ve out of the way, Lit­tle Bit.” At her mu­lish ex­p­res­si­on, he grin­ned. “You’ve got guts, but don’t get in­to mo­re tro­ub­le, okay? It was ni­ce to me­et you.”

  Chapter 23

  “That went well, don’t you think?” Em­mie, ton­gue in che­ek, bro­ke the si­len­ce just as they tur­ned the cor­ner for the fi­nal leg of the trip back to Em­mie’s lit­tle ho­use. “That was the first ti­me so­me­one ever saw me to the do­or in or­der to ma­ke su­re I left.”

  “The­re’s a sa­ying in spe­ci­al ope­ra­ti­ons. Every ope­ra­ti­on go­es to shit thirty se­conds af­ter it hits the gro­und. I’m sorry you got ca­ught in the splash.”

  Emmie wa­ved his apo­logy away with one fi­ne-bo­ned hand. “If I’m ne­ver in­vi­ted to the­ir ho­use aga­in, I’ll be re­li­eved. I told you be­fo­re, the as­so­ci­ati­on was with my gran­d­mot­her. But it just do­esn’t se­em right for you to be dec­la­red per­so­na non gra­ta when, re­al­ly, they sho­uld be ha­iling you as a he­ro. And we only went so you co­uld see Un­c­le Te­ague, and you didn’t even get a chan­ce to talk to him.”

  Do- Lord lo­oked down at the wo­man wal­king be­si­de him. The wind, no lon­ger bloc­ked by ho­uses be­ca­use they we­re on a stre­et per­pen­di­cu­lar to the ri­ver, was stron­ger. The bre­eze flo­ated sil­very pa­le strands of her ha­ir, em­p­ha­si­zing the fey qu­ali­ti­es of her fa­ce.

  It al­so pla­yed with that te­asing, flirty ope­ning down the front of her red dress. He was fa­irly well con­vin­ced it wasn’t go­ing to open and re­ve­al her legs, and yet he co­uldn’t stop wat­c­hing it-just in ca­se it did.

  She re­al­ly was in­cen­sed on his be­half. From the first he’d se­en her lo­yalty and her wil­lin­g­ness to go to bat for a fri­end.

  It felt stran­ge to ha­ve lo­yalty gi­ven to him-es­pe-ci­al­ly when he knew he hadn’t ear­ned it-st­ran­ge, but kind of warm, too.

  “For­get it.”

  “I don’t want to for­get it. It isn’t fa­ir.”

  “In ca­se you ha­ven’t no­ti­ced, li­fe isn’t fa­ir.”

  “It’s true li­fe isn’t, but pe­op­le can be. To say li­fe isn’t fa­ir when it’s pe­op­le who ma­ke de­ci­si­ons not to tre­at pe­op­le even­han­dedly is a cop out. Mr. Fa­ir­c­hild ma­de it cle­ar that he was tre­ating me li­ke I was so­me­body, and you, li­ke you we­re… I don’t know-” Em­mie shrug­ged im­pa­ti­ently. “A cri­mi­nal or so­met­hing.”

  The sky had clo­uded over, brin­ging on an early dusk, and no lon­ger shel­te­red by ho­uses, they co­uld fe­el the full for­ce of the bre­eze from the ri­ver.

  Emmie cros­sed her arms over her chest and shi­ve­red. “It’s get­ting chilly. It’s warm when the sun is out, but as so­on as it starts to go down, you’re re­min­ded this is De­cem­ber.”

  Do- Lord pul­led off his sport co­at and dra­ped it over her sho­ul­ders. Cur­ling his fin­gers in­to the la­pels, he tug­ged her clo­ser. Her wi­de blue eyes re­gar­ded him with cu­ri­osity and mo­re than a hint of fe­mi­ni­ne an­ti­ci­pa­ti­on.

  The kiss they’d sha­red ear­li­er had hum­med bet­we­en them ever sin­ce, tin­g­ling ac­ross ner­ve en­dings, shar­pe­ning his every sen­se un­til the im­por­tan­ce of an­y­t­hing, an­y­t­hing but her, di­sap­pe­ared.

  “For­get it, I sa­id. It’s not im­por­tant.” It cer­ta­inly wasn’t im­por­tant right now. For to­day, he had do­ne all he co­uld in his qu­est for jus­ti­ce for his mot­her. His de­si­re for Em­mie was un­re­la­ted to his pur­su­it of Cal­ho­un, and from now on, he didn’t want Em­mie in­vol­ved.

  Com­par­t­men­ta­li­zing was so­met­hing every SE­AL le­ar­ned to do. Right now, it to­ok no ef­fort to stuff tho­ughts of Cal­ho­un away. De­si­re flo­wed, hot and thick, de­ep in his cen­ter, and his he­art be­at in slow thuds. The only en­de­avor he wan­ted to fo­cus on at this mo­ment was kis­sing her.

  “I want to kiss you.” He out­li­ned her lips with his fo­re­fin­ger. “But the rest of what I want to do co­uld get us ar­res­ted, if we do it in pub­lic.” When his fin­ger brus­hed the cor­ner of her mo­uth she… shim­me­red. It was the only word he knew for the tiny tre­mors of de­si­re he felt flow thro­ugh her. She was so res­pon­si­ve, as if she was al­re­ady tu­ned to his fre­qu­ency. “Be ad­vi­sed: on­ce I start kis­sing you, I’m not go­ing to stop.”

  His words, a pro­mi­se and a war­ning, ec­ho­ed in Em­mie’s he­ad as they con­ti­nu­ed down the stre­et. Chris­t­mas lights, twin­k­ling red and gre­en on por­c­hes, whi­te lights out­li­ning ba­re bran­c­hes, pun­c­tu­ated the dusk of De­cem­ber nig­h­t­fall, and the bre­eze waf­ted smells of sup­per co­oking. By the ti­me they ar­ri­ved at Em­mie’s ho­use she was shi­ve­ring con­s­tantly, but whet­her from cold or an­ti­ci­pa­ti­on or tre­pi­da­ti­on, she co­uldn’t ha­ve sa­id.

  She wo­uldn’t ha­ve sa­id she had ever ta­ken sex lightly. No one ra­ised by her gran­d­mot­her co­uld em­b­ra­ce an if it fe­els go­od, do it phi­lo­sophy. It hadn’t be­en li­ke this tho­ugh. Not this he­art- po­un­ding, palm-swe­ating, bre­at­h­less know­led­ge that she was di­ving over a cliff, and she was go­ing to find out she re­al­ly co­uld fly, or she was go­ing to crash hor­rib­ly-and the­re was every pos­si­bi­lity she wo­uld do both.

  A blast of self-ho­nesty sho­wed her she’d cho­sen men in the past with whom she didn’t ex­pect se­xu­al at­trac­ti­on to be part of the equ­ati­on. She and they had be­en far mo­re bud­di­es than lo­vers. She had lo­oked at how lit­tle she had as­ked of tho­se re­la­ti­on­s­hips and de­ter­mi­ned to ask for mo­re. In the past few mi­nu­tes she had be­gun to un­der­s­tand how lit­tle the re­la­ti­on­s­hips had re­qu­ired of her.

  She had set out very de­li­be­ra­tely to at­tract Ca­leb, and she had suc­ce­eded mo­re em­p­ha­ti­cal­ly than she had dre­amed of, or pre­pa­red for. When she had as­ked him for com­mit­ment, he had ag­re­ed so re­adily she’d be­en sus­pi­ci­o­us.

  Ho­we­ver, she had se­en at the Cal­ho­un ho­use that he co­uld ma­ke lig­h­t­ning de­ci­si­ons, gi­ve his word in­s­tantly, and then abi­de by it-even when the­r
e was cost to him­self. He co­uld ha­ve in­g­ra­ti­ated him­self with Cal­ho­un by tel­ling on Vicky, and so­me pe­op­le wo­uld say he sho­uld ha­ve. She’d had a li­fe­ti­me of wat­c­hing pe­op­le who swo­re al­le­gi­an­ce to mo­ral po­si­ti­ons, but who­se scrup­les dis­sol­ved the in­s­tant they had so­met­hing to lo­se or ga­in.

  Integ­rity. That’s what she saw in him. He might not be a per­son who pla­yed by the ru­les, but pro­mi­ses he ma­de, he wo­uld ke­ep.

  He had poc­ke­ted her keys af­ter loc­king the do­or be­hind them when they set off, and now he drew them out as they went up the two shal­low steps to her porch. In se­conds he had the do­or open and was dra­wing her thro­ugh it, in­to the de­eper dusk in­si­de, and in­to his warm em­b­ra­ce. At the sud­den he­at Em­mie shi­ve­red even mo­re vi­olently.

  “I ha­ven’t be­en ta­king very go­od ca­re of you,” he mur­mu­red in his burnt um­ber vo­ice, as his hands chaf­fed her arms in long smo­oth stro­kes. “I let you get cold. I sho­uld ha­ve in­sis­ted on dri­ving or ma­de you we­ar a co­at.”

  “I ha­ven’t be­en ta­king very go­od ca­re of you,” Do-Lord whis­pe­red, pul­ling her slight form clo­ser. That she co­uld use a ca­re­ta­ker he didn’t do­ubt. She se­emed so di­rect and gu­ile­less, a re­al lamb among the wol­ves. It was hard to ima­gi­ne how she ma­de her way in the world.

  He had sur­p­ri­sed him­self a lit­tle, when he’d sug­ges­ted mar­ri­age ear­li­er. It wasn’t the kind of re­la­ti­on­s­hip it was ever smart to te­ase abo­ut. Do-Lord was a man ca­pab­le of le­ar­ning from ot­her’s mis­ta­kes. He’d se­en for him­self that mar­ri­age didn’t work for most SE­ALs. He knew men who we­re pa­ying ali­mony to as many as three ex-wi­ves. He’d al­ways as­su­med if he ever got mar­ri­ed, and he fi­gu­red he wo­uld, it wo­uld be af­ter his twenty ye­ars was up. It hadn’t be­en a hard de­ci­si­on to stick to. So­me men we­re pro­ne to fall in lo­ve. So­me we­ren’t. And yet, when she re­j­ec­ted the idea of mar­ri­age, he’d felt as much di­sap­po­in­t­ment as re­li­ef.

  His who­le plan for bre­ac­hing Cal­ho­un’s de­fen­ses de­pen­ded on ha­ving ot­her pe­op­le see them as a pa­ir. To­day tho­ugh, he’d had a small tas­te of what be­ing a co­up­le with Em­mie wo­uld fe­el li­ke, and the funny thing was, he co­uld ima­gi­ne him­self mar­ri­ed to her. Whe­re she ga­ve her lo­yalty, she wo­uld gi­ve it wit­ho­ut stint. He co­uld ha­ve her al­ways with him. Al­ways on his si­de. He co­uld ima­gi­ne co­ming ho­me to a ho­use that smel­led li­ke her. Log­ging on at the end of the day and fin­ding an ema­il from her.

  He tho­ught he un­der­s­to­od now what the at­trac­ti­on to fal­ling in lo­ve was.

  He slid his hands un­der the jac­ket he’d pla­ced aro­und her sho­ul­ders and let it fall un­he­eded to the flo­or. He fo­und the cro­ok of her sho­ul­der with his lips. “How’s yo­ur sho­ul­der?”

  “A lit­tle stiff. I start physi­cal the­rapy next we­ek. Un­til then, I fol­low the ru­le of: ‘Ke­ep yo­ur hands whe­re you can see them.’”

  “Okay.” He mo­ved from the slight co­ol­ness of her che­ek to the cro­ok of her sho­ul­der on the ot­her si­de. “So no put­ting yo­ur hands abo­ve yo­ur he­ad or be­hind yo­ur back. I can work with that. An­y­t­hing el­se I ne­ed to know?”

  “Wa­it.” Em­mie squ­ir­med away. “Why are you as­king? What’s go­ing on?”

  “What do you think I me­an?” Do-Lord la­ug­hed in dis­be­li­ef, let­ting her pull away, but not out­si­de arm’s re­ach. “You know whe­re this is go­ing. We’ve both be­en re­ady for ho­urs.”

  Emmie blus­hed, her cle­ar whi­te skin suf­fu­sed with rosy co­lor. “Well, yes, but… You know when you as­ked me ear­li­er if the­re was an­y­t­hing el­se? I knew the­re was, but I co­uldn’t think of it. But I just re­mem­be­red. We can’t. Re­al­ly. Not yet.”

  “Why the hell not?” He so­un­ded testy. Hell, he was testy. No me­ant no. A girl didn’t ha­ve to ha­ve a re­ason, but he co­uldn’t be­li­eve he had re­ad her so wrong. And this was the se­cond ti­me she’d cal­led a halt, when he’d tho­ught all the sig­nals we­re go.

  Emmie ga­ve him her wi­de-eyed lo­ok. “Pic­kett says wo­men sho­uldn’t ha­ve sex on the first da­te.” She tho­ught. Vi­sibly. “I can’t re­mem­ber if she sa­id men co­uld ha­ve sex on the first da­te”-her brow cle­ared-“but I think the ru­le wo­uld be the sa­me for men, don’t you?”

  All the blo­od must ha­ve left his bra­in to fill his gro­in. Pic­kett, first da­te-he co­uldn’t even think of whe­re to start. “Pic­kett?”

  Emmie nod­ded sa­gely. “Pic­kett is smart abo­ut pe­op­le. She’s usu­al­ly right abo­ut the­se things.”

  His mind was cle­aring. “But this isn’t our first da­te. We’ve se­en each ot­her se­ve­ral ti­mes.”

  “You me­an at all the par­ti­es be­fo­re the wed­ding? That didn’t co­unt. We we­re to­get­her the­re whet­her we wan­ted to be or not. It’s not li­ke you as­ked me.”

  “Co­uld I talk you in­to ma­king an ex­cep­ti­on to Pic­kett’s ru­le? Just this on­ce?”

  Emmie lo­oked at him a long ti­me, an ex­p­res­si­on he co­uldn’t re­ad in her eyes. “Yes, you pro­bably co­uld.”

  Shit. Why co­uldn’t she be flirty and silly li­ke most girls? Why co­uldn’t she act te­asing and sexy and ma­ke it cle­ar she was go­ing for a go­od ti­me?

  Be­ca­use she wasn’t li­ke ot­her wo­men, that’s why. Over and over he’d wat­c­hed her re­act to events in a way that was com­p­le­tely her own. He no­ti­ced a warm fe­eling in his chest and an up­ward pull on his lips as if he wan­ted to smi­le, tho­ugh only a damn fo­ol wo­uld be smi­ling at a mo­ment li­ke this. He sho­uld be ac­ting on the ad­van­ta­ge she just told him he had-any SE­AL worth his salt wo­uld. A SE­AL mot­to was: “Ne­ver fight fa­ir.”

  He ca­re­ful­ly pus­hed a strand of pa­le ha­ir be­hind her ear. For many ye­ars he hadn’t de­si­red the trust of an­yo­ne ex­cept anot­her SE­AL.

  The ro­om was warm and dusky. The last rays of the set­ting sun co­ming thro­ugh the plan­ta­ti­on shut­ters pa­in­ted gold stri­pes on the wall, whi­le sha­dows in the rest of the ro­om de­epe­ned.

  His hand, which had ne­ver left her wa­ist, se­emingly wit­ho­ut any di­rec­ti­on from him, ref­le­xi­vely stro­ked and kne­aded the cur­ve of her hip. The soft wo­ol of the dress slid over the sa­tin li­ning, and un­der­ne­ath that he co­uld fe­el the warm sup­ple flesh he cra­ved.

  If he won now, she wo­uld reg­ret it la­ter. He didn’t think he co­uld stand that. Slowly, slowly, he wit­h­d­rew his hand and let it fall to his si­de.

  Emmie rin­sed her hands far lon­ger than ne­ces­sary be­fo­re she fi­nal­ly met her own eyes in the bat­h­ro­om mir­ror. Her fa­ce lo­oked as stran­ge as she felt, which wasn’t re­as­su­ring. Her eye­lids we­re lo­wer than usu­al, the pu­pils lar­ge and un­fo­cu­sed. Her lip­s­tick was go­ne, and her lips lo­oked sof­ter. Co­lor that had not­hing to do with ma­ke­up glo­wed un­der the skin of her che­eks. This bu­si­ness of be­ing cap­ta­in of her fa­te wasn’t easy. And her ti­ming was at­ro­ci­o­us. What on earth had ma­de her de­ci­de to be­co­me less pas­si­ve, mo­re self-de­ter­mi­ned, just when she fo­und a man she co­uld sa­fely turn ever­y­t­hing over to? She co­uld let him set the pa­ce, and he’d ma­ke it go­od.

  All day long she’d lo­oked at how pas­si­ve she’d be­en, and it had ma­de her a lit­tle qu­e­asy-be­ca­use she wasn’t that way! Not in any area of her li­fe ex­cept the most per­so­nal. Now that she had se­en it, she co­uldn’t go back, tho­ugh she had no idea whe­re the ro­ad for­ward wo­uld ta­ke her.

  Emmie had do­ub­ted her pla­ce in the world sin­ce the day her mis­si­onary pa­rents had sent her �
�ho­me” to Wil­min­g­ton, North Ca­ro­li­na, a pla­ce she’d ne­ver be­en. No pro­mi­ses to be go­od or to put the mis­si­on work first, eit­her to them or to God, had chan­ged the out­co­me. On the twen­ty-eight ho­ur flight hal­f­way ac­ross the world, her te­ars had dri­ed. With her ex­t­ra­or­di­nary ca­pa­city for lo­gi­cal tho­ught, evi­dent even then, she’d ac­cep­ted that the­ir work was es­sen­ti­al. She was an ex­t­ra in the­ir li­ves.

  Con­su­med with bit­ter ho­me­sic­k­ness, Em­mie’s first ye­ar was ma­de hi­de­o­us by her fe­ar for her pa­rents’ li­ves and her re­sen­t­ment of the­ir de­di­ca­ti­on, mi­xed as it was with gu­ilt be­ca­use she co­uldn’t ac­cept God’s will. The­se fe­elings we­re com­p­li­ca­ted by bur­ge­oning hor­mo­nes and fas­ci­na­ti­ons she was at a loss to ex­p­la­in. She do­ub­led her pra­yers and study of the Bib­le, sin­ce her gran­d­mot­her told her re­pe­atedly all the an­s­wers she ne­eded we­re the­re. When not­hing se­emed to chan­ge, she ad­ded fas­ting, sin­ce that was the met­hod re­com­men­ded by the Bib­le.

  She grew thin… and then thin­ner. At first she li­ked the fe­eling of lig­h­t­ness, of em­p­ti­ness. She li­ked the we­ak­ness and let­hargy. She co­uld drift thro­ugh her days ca­ring lit­tle abo­ut an­y­t­hing.

  One day she fa­in­ted. The­re had be­en a co­up­le of ne­ar mis­ses, but she’d al­ways aver­ted them. On this day tho­ugh, she was wal­king ho­me from scho­ol one hot af­ter­no­on in May. Thun­der­c­lo­uds we­re mas­sing be­hind the ste­ep­le of the Pres­b­y­te­ri­an church, ma­king it gla­re whi­te aga­inst the pur­p­le-black of the sky as if she sho­uld re­ad a por­tent. Her he­art be­gan to po­und in slow thuds, and swe­at dam­pe­ned her fo­re­he­ad. She pul­led off her swe­ater, and when that didn’t help, she un­but­to­ned her blo­use to ex­po­se the long-sle­eved T-shirt she’d ta­ken to we­aring to mask her sha­pe and her thin­ness.