Into the Night

by Suzanne Brockmann

  “Or a Navy SEAL?” Joan had asked.

  “Yes! Even better, make him a war hero.”

  “I think they probably all are at this point,” Joan had told her.

  She now waited three rings before she picked up the phone. “Hello.”

  “Hi, Joan, it’s Mike. Muldoon,” he added, as if she got dozens of phone calls all of the time from dozens of different Mikes.

  She’d been expecting his call. A man didn’t work his ass off to become a Navy SEAL by lying down and accepting failure. Even if said failure was as insignificant as an inability to be an acceptable liaison to the White House public relations assistant in charge of publicity ops for the president’s unconventional daughter.

  “Okay, Muldoon. Let’s hear it,” she said. “Make it good, expend a little emotional energy, maybe even shed a few tears, and I won’t call your CO in the morning.”

  He laughed with what sounded a lot like relief. Had he really been worried? “Thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me yet, Junior. You’ve got at least fourteen hoops to leap through before you can start thanking me.” She stuck her toe up to the faucet to catch a drip, waiting to see how Junior would go over this time around.

  He didn’t even acknowledge it. “I am sorry,” he said. “It wasn’t my intention this afternoon to frighten you.”

  “Oh, boo, hiss,” Joan said. “You sound completely insincere. Try again. Maybe with a little wobble in your voice. ‘Oh, Joan,’” she demonstrated. “‘Please, please forgive me for being such an incredible, unbelievable asshole today. If you don’t forgive me, why, I’m going to crumple into a little heap right here in the lobby of the Team Sixteen building and cry my little heart out.’”

  He laughed. “I can’t say that because I happen to be calling you from home. But I am really sorry,” he said. He didn’t sound quite as young over the phone. “You were right—you were absolutely right. I was showing off. I wanted to impress you. I wanted to, um…”

  Joan waited, dying to hear this, remembering his voice in her ear. You feel pretty perfect to me. He hadn’t sounded too young then, either.

  He took a deep breath. “Well, I wanted to—”

  But then she didn’t want to hear it. She couldn’t stand to hear it. There was no way on God’s green earth she could have a clandestine fling with a twenty-five-year-old Navy SEAL—even after her job here was over and she officially went on vacation. She couldn’t do it. She would look too pathetic. Because it was too pathetic.

  Sure, she would enjoy it immensely while it was happening, but she’d look back upon it with great embarrassment. After it was over, it would become a total cringe-fest. Especially since said twenty-five-year-old Navy SEAL had been specifically assigned to keep her entertained. She would forever wonder if she had been just a job or a true adventure.

  And so would the rest of the world.

  So instead of hearing what exactly he wanted, she cut him off. “You know, I’ve been thinking about why I freaked out this afternoon, and the truth is, I wouldn’t have been so upset if I didn’t like you so much. If I didn’t already really value your friendship,” she clarified quickly. “I wasn’t lying when I said that it felt like you were my long lost little brother. You’re a great kid, Mike,” she enunciated carefully, heavy on the K and D so he’d be sure to understand, “and I want very much for us to continue to be friends.”

  Silence. Joan closed her eyes tightly, praying that he wouldn’t push the issue. Praying that maybe she had been wrong about the news flash he’d sent her up on that cargo net. She was sure that he had been hitting on her, despite his denial. He couldn’t have sent a more clear message if he’d used semaphore flags.

  But, please God, maybe she was wrong.

  He finally spoke. “Then you’ll meet me for lunch tomorrow? I’m going to be busy right up until about 1130, but what do you say we meet at Bellitani’s at noon? It’s an Italian place right on the water here in Coronado.”

  Lunch was good. Lunch was decidedly the most nonromantic meal of the day. Joan turned on the water, letting more hot into the tub as she refused to be disappointed.

  Well, okay. Honesty time. A very tiny part of her was disappointed. But it was the same small part that had been disappointed that time she went to Niagara Falls and didn’t give in to the urge to jump over the fence and into the water churning below.

  “Great,” she said. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Great,” Muldoon echoed. “Oh, and Joan?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Next time you call me Junior, I’m telling Mom.”

  “That was Joanie on the phone, calling from Coronado—” Vince stopped short at the door to their bedroom.

  Charlie was fast asleep, curled up on their bed, surrounded by a packet of old letters tied up with ribbon and a small pile of cloth-covered books.

  Letters from James.

  And her journals.

  The first time he’d seen that notebook with the roses on the cover was decades ago, as she hurriedly cleared her things from her bedroom to make room for him there.

  That was after he’d done a nosedive onto the Persian rug that covered the worn floorboards of Senator Howard’s office. It had been day four of waiting for five short minutes of the man’s nonexistent time.

  Vince had protested as stridently as possible as Charlotte brought him home with her in a taxi, which perhaps wasn’t very strident considering he was shaking with fever and unable to stand on his own two feet. Aside from going to a hospital, the last thing he’d wanted to do was to remove her from her own bedroom, in her own home.

  “Our spare room is very small,” she informed him as she helped him slowly climb the steps to the front porch of her apartment. It was a two- or three-family house—he couldn’t tell how many apartments it held just by looking—and although the entire place needed paint, it was neat as a pin. “We can’t possibly take care of you in there—not much fits besides the bed.”

  The spare room was sized to hold a baby’s cradle, he’d later found out. It was a room Charlie and her husband James had never gotten around to using, thinking they had all the time in the world to start a family.

  “Mother!” she shouted as she maneuvered him around the screen and pushed open the door to the house. He looked up to see a gold star hanging in the front window. Someone in this house had lost a son in the war. “Edna! I need help!”

  A woman came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel. “Oh, dear Lord!” She rushed toward them.

  “I just need to sleep,” Vince said, as Charlotte and her mother-in-law half carried, half pushed him up the stairs of their house. “I don’t want to trouble you any further. Please, you’ve already been more than kind bringing me here.”

  “He flat out refused to go to a hospital,” Charlotte told her mother-in-law. “I didn’t know what else to do.”

  “He’s barely a child,” Mother Fletcher said. She was a large-boned, gray-haired woman with a booming voice that reminded Vince of the nuns in his grammar school.

  “I’m twenty-one,” he felt compelled to say. “Old enough to—”

  “Old enough to go to war and get shot, apparently,” Charlotte finished for him tartly. “Like most of the young men in America today. In here. In my room, Mother.”

  It was two against one, and together they efficiently removed his overcoat and gently pushed him into Charlotte’s bed.

  God, the sheets smelled just like her. He just wanted to close his eyes and sleep forever, with Charlotte Fletcher’s sweet perfume giving him beautiful dreams.

  “That uniform’s got to come off,” Mother Fletcher told Charlotte in that voice that would have been perfect for the stage. Now, however, it only managed to drill its way deep inside his throbbing head. “Where are your injuries, young man?”

  His right leg and his hip, in places that were private. There was no way he was going to let either of them see the bandages, let alone his wounds. “Just gotta sleep,” he said, as
the room swam. And both Charlotte’s and the elder Mrs. Fletcher’s faces—one young and one old, but both lined with worry—swirled and faded.

  Vince came to as naked as the day he was born and only slightly more lucid. Lucid enough, though, to realize that he was partially covered by a sheet, but, God, only partially.

  Mother Fletcher was wiping his forehead with a cool cloth, and Charlotte—oh, shit! She was rebandaging his thigh. Jesus, it hurt. But the pain was nothing compared to the sheer embarrassment.

  “He needs a doctor,” Charlotte said. “He needs penicillin.”

  “I’ll call Dr. Barnes.” Mother Fletcher disappeared. Leaving him alone in the bed of the woman of his dreams—who literally had to move his balls aside to bandage his leg.

  “No,” he said. “No doctor.”

  Charlotte looked up at him, startled. Her eyes were so blue. “You’re awake.”

  “Can’t go to the hospital. They’ll send me away from Washington. I…need my clothes. Where are my clothes?” He tried to pull his legs away from her while still keeping that sheet covering him. He tried to sit up, but she pushed him back down, pinning his shoulders.

  “Your uniform needs a good washing,” she told him sternly. “What have you been doing, sleeping in it?”

  Yes.

  “You’re burning with fever.” Her hands were so cool against his face, he just wanted to close his eyes and drift away again. But he couldn’t.

  “I can’t go to the hospital. I need to talk to Senator Howard.” He focused on her very blue eyes. Despite her efficient demeanor and her seeming inability to smile, she’d been the kindest person in the senator’s office. In all the days he’d spent in the waiting room, she’d made a point to greet him each day by name—Private DaCosta, never Vince—and to talk to him. She’d even brought him lunch. Not that he’d had much of an appetite. He’d been fighting this damned fever even then.

  He reached for her hands. “Promise—you won’t let the doctor send me to the hospital.”

  “If I do, will you promise to lie still? And to let Mother and me take care of you properly? Those wounds of yours need rebandaging every day.”

  God, how mortifying. If he stayed here, then every day she would have to…He closed his eyes. “Can’t let you…do that. That’s…more than you counted on when you brought me here.”

  “There’s very little I count on these days, Private. We’re at war. It helps to have no set expectations.” She moved back down to his leg. “This must hurt you very much. It’s mostly healed, but it’s definitely infected. I’ll try to be quick.”

  Pain seared. “Oh, God!”

  “Where did this happen?” she asked. “Where were you wounded?”

  “Tarawa,” he ground out. She was trying to distract him, and he answered her. Let her think that it helped. “Gilbert Islands. South Pacific.”

  “I know all about Tarawa,” she said darkly. “The Japanese fortifications were so much stronger than anyone expected. The casualty lists were beyond heartbreaking. It must’ve been awful.”

  Vince made a noise that he hoped sounded like agreement.

  “Thank God you made it back home. Your mother must be so relieved. Which reminds me. You must let me ring your family. I’m sure they’re worried about you.”

  “Mother died…I was nine,” he managed.

  “I’m terribly sorry.”

  “Pop’s with my sister—I sent a postcard…a couple days ago. No phone. Oh, Jesus, oh, Christ!”

  “I’m so, so sorry.” Her voice shook, but she quickly regained control. “Part of the old bandage was stuck. It’s off now. The worst is done. I promise.”

  He was crying. God, what a baby. He tried to wipe his eyes, wipe his face, but his goddamn eyes just kept on tearing. The intense pain had subsided, but the accompanying waves of nausea continued.

  Charlotte pretended not to notice his tears, the same way she pretended not to notice that she was bandaging him mere inches from his family jewels. Every now and then she tugged the sheet back to cover him more completely, but he got the sense that was more for his sake than for hers.

  God, he was completely mortified. And yet things were about to get even worse.

  “Sorry.” He tried to sit up again. “I’m sorry, but I’m going to be sick—”

  She was ready for him. She had a basin in front of him in a split second, and a strong arm around him, holding him up as he lost what little food he’d forced at noontime.

  “I’m sorry,” he gasped.

  “It’s all right,” she said soothingly, cooling his face with a damp cloth. “Stop apologizing, Private. You’re ill. You didn’t become ill on purpose, although remind me later to scold you more thoroughly for not taking better care of yourself this past week.”

  His stomach felt better emptied, but his head was drumming with a new intensity. Vince sank back onto Charlotte’s sweetly scented pillows as Edna Fletcher bustled back into the room.

  “The doctor’s on his way. I had to call the Wendts and then the Fishers to find him, but he should be here in moments.” She vanished with the basin as Charlotte put the cool cloth back on his head.

  He fought to keep his eyes open, to look up at her. “Please…”

  “No hospital,” she said. “I know. But our deal is off if the infection doesn’t start improving by tomorrow.” She put her fingers on his lips. “No, don’t argue. Don’t bother wasting your breath. I don’t know what kind of quest you’re on—I’m sure it’s very noble—but I will not stand by and help you let the enemy take another American life. Far too many young men have already been cut down and I will not let you die, too.”

  God, she was magnificent.

  And it was then that he knew he could never tell her the truth about Tarawa. She’d already lost too much in this war. The truth about what had happened would be too terrible for her to hear.

  No, he had to figure out another way to get her onto his side, to convince her to let him speak to the senator.

  And, while he was at it…“Marry me,” he whispered.

  She gave him that exasperated look that he’d already come to know so well. “Don’t be an idiot.”

  Mother Fletcher came into the room. “The doctor’s here.”

  Charlotte pushed his hair back from his forehead. “Don’t worry,” she said to Vince in a low voice. “I’ll stay and hold your hand while he examines your leg.”

  She then turned to greet the man.

  Vince took it as a very good sign that she hadn’t actually said no.

  Mary Lou stared at the rows of movie tapes in the video section of the library, wishing they had a section labeled “Movies Guaranteed to Distract You When Your Husband Steps Out.”

  Haley was in the stroller, happily kicking her feet and chewing on the Clifford the Big Red Dog board book Mary Lou had bought her at Target last week. She’d had a long nap at Mrs. U.’s, and, with the help of a Tupperware container of Cheerios, would be happy as pumpkin pie for most of the AA meeting at the Catholic church.

  Mary Lou finally settled on Saving Private Ryan. She’d never managed to see that one—not being particularly interested in gory battle scenes from World War One or Two or whatever it was. But just a few days ago she’d heard Sam telling his friend Nils that he’d loved it. Maybe if she watched it and they talked about it, he’d realize how serious she was about making their marriage work. Maybe he’d see just how hard she was willing to try.

  He’d come home tomorrow, and she wouldn’t say a thing about Alyssa. She’d keep her mouth shut this time, no matter how hard it was. She’d make sure the house was extra clean, all his laundry done. She and Haley would both get dressed up, and they’d make something special for dinner.

  But what?

  She didn’t even really know what her husband liked to eat. He shoveled it all in with the same grim lack of enthusiasm. He always thanked her for cooking and politely said it tasted good. But he said the exact same thing on the nights she opened a can of corned
beef hash and fried up a couple of eggs on top of it.

  Okay, so she’d ask him about his favorite food. She’d call him at work—not to check to see where he was, not to see if he was even there, but simply to see what he’d like to have for dinner tomorrow night.

  And if he wasn’t there, she wouldn’t freak. She’d just leave a very calm message, asking him to call her when he got the chance.

  And then, when he came home, they’d have that dinner and discuss how much they both enjoyed watching Saving Private Ryan.

  Even if she hated the battle scenes as much as she suspected she would.

  “Hey, aren’t you the sweetest little thing?”

  The man in front of them in the library’s checkout line had, like most people on this planet, fallen instantly in love with Haley.

  She grinned up at him, all curly golden hair and big blue eyes and soft, chubby cheeks that were just perfect for smooching.

  He looked at Mary Lou then, giving her the same warm smile that most people usually reserved for her daughter these days. “How old is she?”

  “Thirteen months,” she told him.

  He looked like Heath Ledger’s older, sexier brother—chiseled jawline, amazing cheekbones, light blond hair and all. As she smiled back at him, she was glad she’d taken the time to brush her hair before leaving the house.

  “That’s a great age,” he said in a voice that reminded her of Jack Nicholson. It was a jarring combination with that face and hair.

  “Yes, it is,” she said.

  “She’s beautiful. She takes after her mother.”

  He was spreading on the bullshit a little thick, but Mary Lou gave him another smile.

  The sensation of a pair of male eyes on her, actually looking at her as if she were a desirable woman, was nice. She smiled again, determined to enjoy it while it lasted. There was no harm in that. Any second now he would turn back to the counter, check out his book, and walk out of her life.

  “Are you really going to read all of those?” he asked, gesturing with his chin to the stack of books she was carrying. Struggling to carry. He noticed, and moved toward her. “Let me get them for you.”