“NOOOO!” Rip screamed and jerked forward after his too-brave-for-his-own-good friend. But George disappeared in an instant, replaced by a looming wall of beige. Rip’s legs regained their mobility and kicked the blanket of snow from his body.
So cold, yet so hot at the same time.
It’s just my bedroom, he realized, surveying his surroundings with caution. Then why did it still feel so much like he was back in Korea? Why’d he feel as if he’d never left the country, never left that single moment in time when he…and George…?”
He had to escape. Somehow he had to find a way to shake off the guilt that clung to him like a bad cologne, following him everywhere, reminding him of his failure to act, of the mistakes that had cost another’s life.
Why couldn’t he get away? Why couldn’t he scrub his conscience clean once and for all?
Well, thinking wasn’t getting him anywhere. He needed to act instead. Rip attempted to clear his mind—or at least to dull George’s screams to a whisper—as he pulled on a shirt and padded outside into the pre-dawn air.
He walked slowly, hesitantly at first, then all of a sudden he was running—as if moving fast enough could turn back time, make everything different, better. In time, he found himself at the lake. He’d heard there was one nearby but hadn’t cared enough to find it before now. Luckily, its glistening coolness was exactly what he needed to wash away the guilt, the fear, the anger.
He stripped off his shirt and shorts, wanting to feel the redeeming current glide over every inch of his body, allowing nothing to stand between him and a bit of relief. The clothes came off, and he ran again, straight into the arms of the waiting lake, its water dark and calm under the light of the few remaining stars. The water took him, held him, and for a while he did feel better. But soon his lungs began to burn, forcing him to return to the surface and face the larger world once more.
As soon as he did, something felt…wrong.
He spun around, searching the horizon for the source of danger he sensed so acutely. Small ripples pushed through the water and approached his exposed body. He followed them back until he found the source. There, just a few feet farther into the lake, a woman stared at him, eyes large with shock, mouth parted ever so slightly, wet hair plastered to her shoulders.
The muffin woman had definitely just gotten to know him on a far more intimate basis.
* * *
First shock, then humiliation, and final arousal buoyed inside Deborah as she treaded water and stared at Sargent Rip Rockwell, here and very much in the flesh.
So that’s what a naked man looks like, she thought. Not bad. Not bad at all. Don’t stare now. He’s probably embarrassed too. Say something… Anything!
But words wouldn’t come, and even though his intimate bits had been on display but a moment as Rip darted from the shore into the cool water, they had definitely made a lasting impression on Deborah. Everything about him seemed immaculately put together, as if his body were a fine work of art that had taken its maker years to sculpt. Tiny ripples moved through the water, crashing into his biceps and disappearing. Droplets of water clung to the ends of his eyelashes, giving him a vulnerable appearance she rather liked. His face, though, remained a mask devoid of any real emotion.
Deborah weighed the options in her mind. She could make a break for it, pretend this awkward encounter never happened. But still, her swimming costume didn’t leave an awful lot to the imagination, and traipsing back up the shore while he watched would only compound the embarrassment for both of them—of that much, she was sure. She’d done nothing out of sorts here. She could respond with grace under pressure, put him at ease, as if it were no big deal she’d seen his privates, first class though they were.
Well, this is ridiculous. One of us has to say something. But what? Deborah chose to go with the first thing that popped into her mind.
“A war injury?” she asked, clutching a hand to her chest, marking the place where his skin had been silvery and rough.
He shook his head and looked toward shore, then answered so quietly she almost didn’t make out his words. “I don’t like to talk about it.”
Heat bloomed in her chest. Of course, he didn’t want to talk about it. Now she was the one being rude. It wasn’t her place to pry, nor was it her place to demand anything of a man who had so selflessly served their country in their time of need.
“Did you like the muffins?” She smiled to show she truly meant no harm.
He laughed, and somehow the whole sky lit up in response. “I ate four of them for supper last night. Best damn muffins I ever tasted.”
The response didn’t surprise her, but still she was happy to hear the enthusiasm in his voice. “Oh, good. Mother will be so pleased.”
“Yes, please give her my thanks and accept my apologies.” His voice dropped to a whisper once more. “I didn’t think anyone else would be out here this early. I obviously didn't mean to—”
“Don’t worry about it. Could happen to anyone. Well, maybe not anyone, but still.”
Now they were both laughing. The vibrations of which created even larger ripples. She hadn’t felt so light, so carefree, since her night with James. Of course, thinking of James brought guilt, which immediately soured her mood.
“Well, it was nice, uhh, seeing you, Sargent Rockwell. I really best be off. Would you mind…?” She twirled her finger in the air to motion for him to turn around.
“Oh, oh, yes, of course.” He swam off toward the opposite shore, and Deborah raced to her towel. “Have a nice day!” she called back to Rip as she started on the path toward home.
Chapter 5
After his swim, Rip returned to his new house and took up with George Orwell, but he found it difficult to focus on Animal Farm and all its not-so-subtle symbolism, because his mind kept running back to the girl, back to Deborah.
He placed the book down on the arm of his chair and tried to conjure her image in his mind. The large, blond curls, the smooth, pale skin with a sun-kissed blush, the slope of her long neck, her slender frame which appeared far more buxom in her swimming costume than it had the afternoon before. Yes, Deborah Walker was a looker all right, and oh how he wanted to be able to look again.
Their meeting that morning, though, had been brief, and they hadn’t made plans to meet again. He’d already thanked her for the muffins, so arriving at her doorstep to thank her again was out of the question. Besides which, he didn’t even know where her doorstep might be.
He read about Snowball and Napoleon some more, but the words weren’t sticking. Damn.
Well, he couldn’t sit here all day and do nothing. Thoughts of Deborah were driving him crazy, and he was already crazy enough on his own. He had to find her, if only to satisfy his blistering desire to see her again.
Perhaps that would be enough.
But as he laced up his Oxfords and put on a light jacket, he knew this wouldn’t be the case. Something about Deborah had reached a part of him—which part? Well, that had yet to be determined. Only time—and perhaps another impromptu run-in—would tell.
Rip strolled through the neighborhood and headed downtown. He didn’t know this town well enough yet to know where to look, so he decided to go wherever his feet took him. After all, they had delivered him to the right place earlier that morning, right?
The soda shop drew him in with its checked floors and shiny metal accents. Fresh grilled burgers and fried potatoes filled his nostrils and made his stomach growl. He made a note to return later. Perhaps with Deborah, if she’d have him.
But she wasn’t there now, so he continued through town in search of her.
He smiled at another wounded vet and held the door open for him so he didn’t have to struggle with his crutches. Must be nice, Rip thought, having your injuries visible for all to see. But then he immediately felt guilty. This man was hurt same as him, and it wasn’t his place to judge—the same way he didn’t want others feeling sorry for him when they found out about his head or his h
eart.
That’s when he realized he hadn’t thought of George the entire morning, not since running into Deborah at the lake. Instead, his constant, terrifying flashbacks had been replaced with Deborah’s laugh, Deborah’s smile.
He’d assumed a woman was the last thing he needed. Could it be that a woman—and not just any woman, but Deborah—was the only thing he needed to finally become his self again?
I will find her. I will, he told himself as he continued to weave through the tiny downtown area. Soon the buildings began to fade, giving way to greenery—trees, rose gardens, and daffodils. He walked past a large retaining wall that helped to separate the park on his right from the traffic on his left.
Just as he was about to turn around and begin his search anew, he spotted her. She sat on a bench seat staring up at a statue of the town’s founder while nibbling the end of her ink pen. A journal sat open on her lap, which was covered with a sunny, yellow dress—a dress Rip liked very much. He liked everything about her, actually. He hung back to watch her and to think of how he might get her to return his affections.
How hard could it be to attract a woman’s interest?
* * *
Deborah’s shift ended early that day. The seniors were having a special in-home sock hop that afternoon, and, even though they’d begged her to stay, she hated to intrude on their fun. She also didn’t want to steal a spot in the partner line-up when the women already outnumbered the men at least three to one.
So, instead of staying or heading straight home, Deborah decided to visit Huxtable in the park downtown. Ever since James had left for war, she’d come here often to think of him and the kiss they’d shared in this very spot. When he went missing, she began coming here even more often to retain a connection with him…and to mourn.
She’d tried so many times to write a poem about their love story, but she always came up short. Was that because their story hadn’t finished yet? Or because her heart was too broken to make sense of what they’d had?
“Well, old Huxtable, it seems you are the best friend I have left,” she told the statue in her mind. “Thanks for always being here.”
The stone face of the town’s founder stared over her head, an unmovable expression on his face. Although she never expected him to answer, it still made her sad when the stone man failed to come to life and reciprocate her friendship.
“Why can’t I ever find the right words to describe James?” she continued to carry on the one-sided conversation in her head. “I can write about everything else, so why not the one thing that matters most? Between you and me, I feel like a sham of a writer. But I also can’t stop trying, no matter how bad the block gets. Silly me.” She sighed and stared down at her empty notebook again.
“Deborah!” a man called from across the way.
She blinked up at Huxtable, confused until she saw Rip striding toward her.
“H-hello,” she answered, rising to face him and tittering nervously. “We can’t keep meeting like this.” Somehow the blank pages of her journal embarrassed her, as if Rip could sense the words she’d wanted to confide in its pages yet had failed to find.
“Hi. Mind if I join you?” he asked, motioning toward the bench.
She sat back down and crossed her legs at the ankles, then patted the seat beside her. “Sure. Have a seat.”
“Were you writing something?” he asked. “I mean, I don’t want to pry, but you just looked so thoughtful. I didn’t want to interrupt, but I also did want to interrupt, know what I mean?” He smiled, showing off two rows of glistening white teeth.
Deborah thought she caught a wink, but had a hard time reconciling the forward, flirty man before her with the one she’d met on either of their two previous run-ins. “I…Well, I was trying to, but—”
“Writer’s block?” He seemed almost too eager.
“Unfortunately, yes.” She groaned. “My creativity’s been a bit lacking since…”
This time the silence lingered between them.
“Since the war?”
Deborah nodded.
“Did you lose somebody you loved?” he asked. Genuine sympathy shone in his eyes despite the fact she could bet he’d lost far more than she.
“That’s the thing.” Her voice caught. “I don’t know. James was declared MIA about a year ago, and I haven’t heard anything since. Sometimes I wish I could at least know one way or the other, rather than waiting in this constant purgatory, but then I feel guilty, as if it would be my fault, if…”
“You don’t have to finish. I understand.” Rip smiled at Deborah and swung his feet back and forth in an attempt to lighten the mood.
“Look at me.” She forced a laugh and swiped at her eyes. “Crying in public like this.”
“It’s okay. I understand. The war’s been hard on us all.”
“Oh, God, I didn’t even—I mean, you must have—”
“Really, it’s okay. And you’re right. It’s been hard on me too. I lost my best friend, couldn’t do anything to stop it, though I tried. And whenever I close my eyes, I see him taking his final breath. I see him falling to the ground and not getting back up again.” The smile vanished from Rip’s face and his eyes, which had been focused on her, stared blankly across the park.
“Now they say I have shell shock, that I’m unfit to serve when serving is the only way I can make things right again.”
Deborah nodded. As much as the war had hurt her, she knew she could never fully understand what Rip was going through. All she could do was be there for him as he tried to work things out.
The ease with which she realized her need to support this new man in her life startled her. She was still in mourning for James, yet she so easily found herself interested in the literal next man who came along and showed her even the smallest bit of kindness. “What was his name? Your friend?”
“George,” Rip answered, having difficulty speaking the name aloud.
“Tell me about him.”
If he was surprised by her request, he didn’t let on. Instead Rip’s face came back to life as he recounted tales of his and George’s childhoods. “We did everything together,” he said. “Even enlisted together. The only thing we didn’t do is come back home together. Makes me wonder why I’m still here, why I would survive when he didn’t.”
“Like there’s some greater purpose?” Deborah prompted.
He shrugged. “I don’t know about that. But it’s nice to think maybe… I don’t know. Surviving feels like a huge burden, as if it’s up to me to make the most of my life as well as what his could have been.”
“Like you can never be free again?” she asked. “I know what that feels like too.”
Rip looked up at her. The tenderness left his expression, and his features scrunched together. “Jeez, I’m sorry. You were probably having a perfectly nice afternoon, before I came over here and unloaded my problems on you. I’ll let you get back to your writing.”
Watching Rip fret forced Deborah to realize she could either resume living her life or she could keep things forever on hold while she awaited news of James, a man she had loved but who was no longer here.
While she took solace in Huxtable’s company, she didn’t want to be like the old statue. She was still young, alive, full of life, and completely capable of living it.
Rip stood to go, but she placed a hand on his wrist. “Stay.”
“You wouldn’t mind?”
“Not at all. Despite what you think, you’re good company. Sit back down, or actually…have you ever been to the cliff?”
“The cliff? Which cliff?”
Deborah giggled. “The cliff, and I’ll take it you haven’t been. C’mon, we’re going to change that right now.” She grabbed his hand and pulled him up again, hesitating when it was time to let go. She so liked feeling the warmth of his fingers between hers, the sound of his voice in her ear, the simple pleasure of his company.
Maybe she could fall in love again after all.
Chapte
r 6
Rip followed Deborah up the incline, admiring the way her skirt swished about her calves. They exited the forest path and found themselves in the middle of a huge open field adorned with rocks of all shapes and sizes. The slope of the hill they’d climbed cut away, revealing a shining lake beneath.
“Well, here we are,” Deborah announced, glancing back at him from over her shoulder, the joy in her expression barely contained. “Don’t you adore it? When you were telling me about George and about feeling trapped, I knew I had to bring you. I feel freer here than pretty much anywhere else in the world.”
She ran through the grass with her arms at her sides like wings. “C’mon.” She reached her hands toward him and motioned for him to join.
He grabbed hold of her soft fingers for the second time that afternoon. He hadn’t realized he’d been so tired, not until her touch jolted him awake. Something about Deborah energized him in a way nothing had been able to since the war had broken out.
She pulled him forward and swung herself in a kind of dance, laughing as the breeze tousled her curls, then spun away and headed toward the edge of the cliff. “The best part is the moment between when you jump and when you hit the water, because it’s just like flying.”
“Did you bring your swimming costume?” Rip glanced at the small purse she’d brought with her.
“Nope. Don’t need one, but do me a favor and turn around.”
She wasn’t going to…?
“No peeking!” she cried.
She was, she was actually disrobing right in front of—well, actually right behind—him.
“Okay, now turn around. But keep your eyes closed!”
She came close and he could feel her breath on his face. He considered leaning in for a kiss, but something told him the time wasn’t right just yet. Instead, he did as he was told and kept his eyes firmly shut.
“Good. Now take off your shirt and pants,” she instructed.
He chuckled. “Will you close your eyes?”
“Of course not. Somebody’s gotta make sure you keep yours closed. Besides, I've already seen …well, you know what happened this morning. Now off with your pants, let’s have them.”
Cupid's Bow: The First Generation Boxed Set Page 3
