‘Why, thank you,’ she laughed, kissing the tip of his nose. ‘I was hoping you would think so!’
‘Abbra …’ His voice had deepened and he was about to suggest that they drive straight back to the apartment, but before he could she said, ‘I think I’d prefer a walk out on one of the headlands, to the beach or to lunch. Where have we to go? Kilauea Point or Makeheuna Point?’
Makeheuna Point was back the way they had come, and only a few short miles from Poipu Beach. ‘Makeheuna,’ he said unhesitatingly, knowing that from there they could very quickly get back to the apartment and bed.
Not until they were out on the Point, the grass rough beneath their feet, an indigo sea creaming at the base of sandstone cliffs, did she say at last, ‘Tell me everything you couldn’t tell me in your letters, Lewis.’
He looked down at her, an eyebrow quirking. ‘Such as?’
Her arm was around his waist, her head leaning against his shoulder. ‘You know what I mean.’ Her voice was low and soft and full of love.
He hadn’t the faintest idea. He sat down on the coarse grass and pulled her down beside him. ‘You’re not worrying about my fidelity, are you?’ His brows pulled together in sudden concern. ‘Because if you are, there’s no need.’
She stared at him in astonishment. It had no more occurred to her that he would be unfaithful than it had that she would be unfaithful to him. ‘No, of course not,’ she said indignantly. ‘I’m talking about your life in Vietnam. What it is that you‘re doing. What it’s like for you living with the ARVN, under constant fear of enemy attack?’
The rare grin that other people seldom saw creased his hard-boned face. ‘You sound like a newspaper reporter,’ he teased, pulling her so that her back was resting against his chest. ‘I’ve told you what I’m doing. I’m a military adviser to an ARVN battalion. What more can I possibly tell you?’
She pulled free of his arms, turning to face him, sitting back on her heels. His reply was so unexpected, so staggeringly unlike anything she had even remotely imagined, she could only say unsteadily, ‘You are kidding, Lewis, aren’t you?’
He shook his head, his brows pulling together again slightly. ‘No, I’m not, Abbra. There’s very little else to tell you. Most of our time is spent out on patrol, hunting down Viet Cong. It’s hot and it’s wet and the insects are hell. What more can you possibly want to know?’
‘But I want to know everything! I want to know how it feels to march for hour after hour through flooded paddy fields; I want to know what it’s like to be surrounded by South Vietnamese–any one of whom could be Viet Cong; I want to know how it feels when you go into battle or are ambushed, knowing that any moment you might be killed!’
He stared at her as though she had taken leave of her senses.
‘But for God’s sake, why?’ There was more than just bewilderment in his voice. There was revulsion.
Despite the midday heat she felt suddenly chilled. Surely he understood? How could he not understand? She was seized with the crazy notion that she was talking to a stranger. A stranger who was being polite, but who had no insight into her heart and mind.
‘Because I love you!’ she said desperately, leaning towards him and taking his hands in hers, holding them tight. ‘Because I want to share everything with you! I want to share your experiences in Vietnam so that while you are there I can feel closer to you!’
His rising irritation ebbed. She was still scarcely more than a child and had no idea how ghoulish her request had sounded. He drew her towards him, saying gently, ‘Vietnam is a million miles from anything you could ever imagine, Abbra. There’s no way that I can share my experiences there with you. Hell, I wouldn’t want to, even if I could!’
‘But what about your fellow officers? The ones in the ARVN? Can’t you tell me a little something about them?’ she asked, unable to believe that he meant what he said.
He sighed, running a hand through the close-cropped curly thickness of his hair. ‘Okay,’ he said at last, humouring her with deep reluctance. ‘My fellow officers in the ARVN have been fighting nearly all their lives. First the French, now the Communists. Trung, our battalion commander, fought under General Giap at Dien Bien Phu, and over the years he must have been wounded more times than he, or anyone else, can count.’
‘I thought General Giap was a Communist?’ she interrupted, confused.
‘He is. He’s Ho Chi Minh’s right-hand man. But when the Vietnamese were trying to free themselves from colonial rule, Communists and non-Communists fought together. After the French conceded defeat, Trung crossed to the government side. He hadn’t fought to free himself of French domination in order to exchange it for life under the Communists. Many of the men in the battalion have a similar history. It’s the experience of the older officers, under Giap, that makes them so tenacious in battle.’
She was silent for a moment, wondering how it must feel for them to be fighting against a general they had once fought for and who, if the tone of Lewis’s voice was anything to go by, they still admired.
‘Have there been many battles?’ she asked apprehensively, at last bringing the subject around to the one that preoccupied her.
‘A few,’ he said, the grin back on his face as he rose to his feet and stretched down a hand towards her. ‘Those are the best times, when the adrenaline begins to surge …’
She stumbled as he drew her to her feet, her eyes wide and horrified. Her earlier shock at his amazement that she would want to know about his life in Vietnam was nothing to the shock she felt now. She felt as if a huge weight were on her chest, crushing her.
‘—but for most of the time it’s just tedious monotony,’ he continued, assuming the horror in her dark eyes to be fear for his safety. ‘Most of our time is spent in arduous day-long searches for Viet Cong we never locate. We find their campfires, but ninety times out of a hundred we don’t find them. They vanish. God alone knows where.’ Her hand was in his, and they were walking back to the jeep. ‘Happier now?’ he asked, smiling down at her, feeling that he had indulged her enough.
She opened her mouth and tried to tell him that she had never felt less happy in her life; that she couldn’t believe that his reaction to battle, and to death and killing, were so many light-years removed from her own. As her gaze met his, the words died in her throat and she felt dizzy, as if an abyss were opening at her feet and yawning wide. He was a professional soldier. His attitude to war was never going to be the same as hers. Her horror at his words, if he knew of them, would only drive a wedge between them. The feeling of perfect unity, so important to her, would be lost forever.
‘Yes,’ she lied, her voice little more than a croak. She forced a smile. ‘Yes, of course.’
They had driven back to the apartment and made violent love, but that night, as she lay sleepless in the circle of his arms, his words repeated themselves time and time again. ‘Those are the best times, when the adrenaline begins to surge …’
Scott had been right after all. In some way that she couldn’t possibly understand, Lewis was enjoying his time in Vietnam. It was as if the war between North and South Vietnam, in a country half a world away from his home, was his war, just as the Second World War had been his father’s war. She closed her eyes and tried to sleep, but sleep was a long time in coming, and when it did come, her dreams were disturbed and restless and full of horrifying imagery.
They didn’t talk about Vietnam again. The next morning, when he woke her by kissing her gently on the mouth, she forced all visions of him as a soldier and in uniform to the farthest corner of her brain. The adjustment she knew she would have to make could not be made now. It would have to be made when she was back in San Francisco. Now was the time for loving and closeness. She had to forget about Vietnam, as Lewis was apparently forgetting about it. All that mattered was that they were together and that they loved each other and always would love each other. Not until the day before the end of his leave did reality intrude upon them again.
They had driven up to Waimen Canyon for the day and were walking back to where they had parked the jeep when an open-topped Chevrolet pulled up near them with a screech of tyres and a chunkily built man, his hair as closely cropped as Lewis’s, vaulted out of the car, yelling ‘Whoa, Lew! So this is where you’re hiding! I thought you’d be on Waikiki, soaking up the sun!’
There was a pretty Hawaiian girl in the Chevrolet’s passenger seat, but though her smile was friendly, she made no attempt to walk across and join them. Her dress was low-cut and clinging, her nails, as they drummed idly on the Chevrolet’s door, vividly scarlet.
‘Abbra, I’d like you to meet Des Cawthorn,’ Lewis was saying, and Abbra could tell from the underlying tautness in his voice that he was annoyed by the accidental meeting. ‘Des spent two months on our team at the end of the year. Since then he’s been sitting pretty at staff headquarters in Saigon.’
‘No one sits pretty in Saigon,’ Des Cawthorn said cheerfully, shaking Abbra’s hand. ‘Relax for just a minute and some damned terrorist will lob a bomb through the window. How are you enjoying Hawaii, Mrs Ellis?’
Abbra didn’t know if he was joking about the bombs in Saigon or not. She hoped he was. She had spent the last few months praying that Lewis would be transferred to a desk job at staff headquarters.
‘I think it’s wonderful,’ she said truthfully, her eyes drawn against their will back to his waiting companion, a sudden frown marring her brow.
Des saw the direction of her thoughts and had the grace to look slightly abashed. ‘Well, I guess I’ll be getting along and let the two of you enjoy your last day together,’ he said, taking a step or two backwards. ‘Nice meeting you, Mrs Ellis. See you on the plane in the morning, Lew.’ With a grin and wink he turned on his heel, striding back towards the Chevy. As he slid behind the wheel, the Hawaiian girl circled his neck with her arm and Abbra said uncertainly, ‘That was the Des Cawthorn who flew with you from Saigon, wasn’t it?’
Lewis nodded, turning and walking in the direction of their jeep. She hurried after him, slipping her hand into his. ‘Didn’t you say that he was married?’
‘Yes, his wife is a high school principal in Pittsburgh.’
‘But that wasn’t his wife, was it?’ she persisted, distressed.
‘No,’ he said tersely, wishing fervently that the encounter had never taken place.
She climbed into the jeep silently, and then said in a small, bewildered voice, ‘Is that why so many men choose Taipei and Bangkok? Because of the girls and … and things?’
He sighed, running a hand through his tight, short curls. ‘I guess so, Abbra. It’s hard to explain, but five days isn’t long enough for most men to unwind from ’Nam. They have to use girls and booze and dope. The way they spend their leave is as far removed from their real lives as the rest of their time in ’Nam is.’
She wanted to say to him that if he would only talk about Vietnam to her, then she might very well understand. And she wanted to ask him if he, too, sometimes sought release in girls and booze and dope. The words remained strangled in her throat, but he saw the agony in her eyes and took her hands in his, saying fiercely, ‘For Christ’s sake, Abbra! I’m not Des Cawthorn! I’m not a grunt in ’Nam against my will! I’m a professional soldier, carrying out a job I’ve been trained for! I don’t need to seek oblivion in sex or drink or drugs, and if I did, I sure as hell wouldn’t choose to find it with a whore!’
His voice was raw, his gold-flecked eyes dark with urgency. ‘I love you, Abbra. Don’t you understand that? Don’t you know what it means? I don’t want other women, and I don’t make love to them. There’s only you, Abbra. Only you. Always.’
Tears of shame for even allowing such thoughts to enter her head glittered on her eyelashes. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered contritely. ‘I didn’t really believe … it was just seeing Des Cawthorn with his Hawaiian girl … Knowing that his wife was probably missing him and longing to be with him just as much as I missed and longed to be with you. I know you’re not like him, Lewis. You’re honourable and true and I will never doubt you again. Not for a moment.’
Gently he wiped the tears away from her face. ‘That’s good,’ he said huskily. ‘Let’s cut this trip to the canyon short and go back to the apartment.’
She nodded, too full of emotion to speak without bursting into tears.
He rammed the jeep into gear, speeding away from the canyon, on to the route south. She hugged his arm, leaning against him, terrifyingly aware of how little time was left to them. When she remembered how she had allowed his remarks about battle to come between them, the shame she felt at having even imagined he would be unfaithful to her deepened. What did it matter how he felt when he was in battle? How could she possibly understand something so removed from her own experience? What mattered was that he loved her in a way few women were fortunate enough to be loved. She was lucky. Lucky. And she would never allow anything to come between them ever again.
The sun was still high in the sky when they returned to their apartment, but they closed the shutters and retired to bed, showing each other in every way they knew how, just how much they loved each other, and how much they would miss each other during the coming six months.
When she awoke among the crumpled sheets, the knowledge that time had nearly run out on them engulfed her and filled her with a panic she could scarcely control. For the first time she understood why some wives preferred not to have a reunion until their husbands’ time in Vietnam was completely over. To have been together again, only to be parted so swiftly, was almost unbearable. He turned toward her, opening his eyes sleepily, and she fought down the panic, afraid that he would see it and that it would spoil their remaining few hours.
Right from the start they had agreed that she would not drive with him to the airport to see him off on his flight back to Saigon. Her own flight did not leave until six hours later, and she was going to tidy up the apartment, return the key, and hire a taxi for her own trip to Lihue. Not until then was she even going to admit to herself that their idyll was at an end. She was going to imagine that he was leaving on a fishing trip, a golf trip. Anything that would allow her to enjoy every second of their time together.
She made a special breakfast of papaya and mangoes, smoked salmon and scrambled eggs, champagne and freshly squeezed orange juice.
‘Abbra,’ he said thickly, stretching a hand out to her across the flower-decked table, and for a moment the tears she was holding in check nearly overwhelmed her.
‘No,’ she said, smiling fiercely, ‘please don’t say it, Lewis! Please don’t say anything! Please let’s pretend for just a little longer.’
It wasn’t until she was searching her shoulder bag for her flight ticket that she found the unopened envelopes she had scooped up so hurriedly from the hall table the morning she had left San Francisco.
‘What are those?’ he asked teasingly, circling her waist with his arms. ‘Letters from admirers? Movie offers from Hollywood?’
She laughed, leaning back against him, grateful for the fleeting sensation of normality that the unopened mail had given. ‘Whatever they are, I hope they aren’t important. I’ve been carrying them around all week.’
The first letter was from a book club; the second was from an aunt in Nebraska; the third was a letter of acceptance from the fiction editor of the magazine to which she had sent her short story so many months before.
She stared down at it incredulously. ‘Oh, my goodness! I’ve done it! I’m going to be published! Oh, Lewis!’ She twisted around in his arms, hugging him tight. ‘I can’t believe it! I’m an author! Isn’t it great?’
Still holding her with one arm, he took the letter from her. ‘What on earth did you write that they would want to publish?’ he asked, amusement in his voice. She was about to say that she had written about an army wife, apart from her husband, but in a moment of blinding revelation, as instantaneous as Paul’s on the road to Damascus, realized if she did so, his reaction would be hor
ror, not pride.
‘I wrote a … a love story,’ she said weakly, disappointment rushing so hard on the heels of elation that she felt physically light-headed.
‘Just as long as no one knows about it,’ he said easily, pulling her towards him again, his mouth hot and sweet against her temples.
She swallowed, unable to think clearly. Surely other people would know of it? Surely her name would be beneath the title in the magazine? Surely he wanted other people to know of it? To admire her? Damn it. She wanted other people to know of it! She said fiercely, ‘It was a very well-written love story, Lewis. Otherwise the magazine that I sent it to wouldn’t publish it. They have millions of subscribers and …’
His amusement deepened at her indignation. ‘Okay, okay,’ he said, conciliating, rocking her against him. ‘I didn’t mean to sound insulting. It’s just that as an army wife you have to be a little careful, Abbra.’
‘But why on earth …’ she began, and then she remembered the precious minutes ticking away, and horror at how near they were to spending them arguing stopped her short.
‘Yes?’ He tilted her face towards him, his warm brown eyes alight with the love he felt for her.
‘Nothing,’ she whispered. ‘Oh, hold me, Lewis! Tell me that nothing is going to go wrong between us. Not ever!’
‘Nothing will ever go wrong between us, sweetheart,’ he as said, his voice so full of certainty that her fears died as quickly as they had arisen. For a long time he held her against him, feeling the slamming of her heart against his, the softness of her hair against his cheek. At last, his voice suspiciously hoarse, he said gently, ‘It’s ten-thirty, Abbra. I have to go.’
The floor seemed to tip and tilt beneath her feet. She took a deep, steadying breath, reminding herself that she was an army wife; that partings such as these were a part of their life together; that the last thing he needed was for her to be upset.
‘Yes,’ she said unsteadily. ‘Please go quickly. Please go quickly and stay safe.’
White Christmas in Saigon Page 11
