by Teresa Hill
"A date with you involves a weekend in a hotel?"
"It doesn't have to. I'm willing to court you. I'll be on my best behavior, if that's what you want," he offered.
"You would back up, start all over and play hard-to-get again?"
He laughed. "I am not hard-to-get—"
"Because I think I worked really hard for you—"
"For you, I was going to add. Just for you, I'm easy. But if you want me to make you work for it..."
"No, thank you. I'm perfectly happy with our courtship. I don't need dinner in a nice restaurant, and I'd rather we take our clothes off than get dressed up—"
"What a woman—"
"I've even fallen in love with that silly cabin now," she said. "Although pretty soon, the lack of heat, aside from the fireplace, will become an issue. And I won't lie. Room service sounds tempting. Plus, if my family drops by too often here... Okay, the hotel is a possibility."
"You make things so easy. You're so agreeable. I haven't met many women like that."
"There've been a lot, haven't there?" she asked.
"I don't know. What's a lot? I'm thirty-four, but I've spent a lot of time in war zones. The important thing is, I haven't met a one like you before, not even close."
* * *
They were curled up together in her bed later that night, the dog on the floor and pouting, when she said, "You found out something, didn't you? At the college?"
"I did."
"And you haven't told me yet, so that makes me think it must be really bad."
"No, not bad. At least, I don't think so. And I'll tell you whatever you want, whenever you want."
"All of it?"
"All of it. Although I doubt there's anything that's going to come as a surprise to you."
"Okay. Tell me now."
"She's a teaching assistant, not in his class but in the art department. Twenty-two. Blonde hair, blue eyes. You, but not as pretty or as nice."
"Thank you for that."
"It's true," he insisted. "She's just a girl, young and a little silly, overly dramatic and in love with the tragedy of it all—before it became a real tragedy and he died. You know, the whole older, unavailable man thing. She thought he was a brilliant artist, not properly appreciated by the world in general. Perfect, she said. She thought he was perfect. And if you ask me, that was her appeal to him. Sheer hero-worship. To her, he had no flaws. He could do no wrong."
Grace took that in. It was exactly what she expected. A young girl who thought he was practically a god. "How long had they been together?"
"Two months. Not long enough for her to see any of his flaws or make any real demands on him."
Two months? She tried to remember exactly what had been going on two months before Luc died. Had she seen anything? Had anything been different? Anything especially bad or stressful? She couldn't remember.
"Are you going to tell me her name?" she asked a moment later.
"Megan White. I'll pull her Facebook site up on your computer, if you like. You can look at her picture and read all about her. But I swear, honey, there's really nothing there. It was a fling. She hoped it would grow into something more, but reading between the lines from what she said he said to her, she was a nice little ego boost to him. That's it."
"Did he... Had he done anything like that before?" That was a particularly ugly thought.
"Not according to her."
"But he'd say that, right? I mean, any man would say that, wouldn't he?"
"I suspect he would."
She braced herself for the next question. "And what did he tell her about me?"
"The ever-popular and clichéd line about you not understanding him."
"Really?"
"Uh-hm. And that you got married fast, and it was a mistake."
"Well, I can't argue with that."
"Oh, you were right about the sugar substitute. It's hers. She spent her junior year of high school abroad. In France. Loves that fake sugar. She orders it online and has it shipped here. And he had one of those cheap, pay-as-you-go phones that he kept in his car. That's how they communicated. Looks like they kept things pretty private. The head of the art department didn't seem to know. When I asked his secretary about it, she gave me a couple of names of other instructors she often saw Luc with, and I asked them. Only one of them knew. I think if your mother-in-law really wants to do the scholarship thing, she could and probably not find out anything. The girl said she'd keep quiet, and the only person she told who she was seeing was her best friend. Apparently, her parents are very old-fashioned and would have been horrified that she was seeing a married man. What else do you want to know?"
"I don't know. What else do you think I need to know?"
"I swear, that's it. All the highlights."
"Okay. Thank you for doing that for me."
"You're welcome, honey. You okay?"
"Yes. I'm going to let this go. Really, I am. I have better things to do with my life than think about this or be sad about it."
"Yes, you do."
"I'm so glad you're here."
"Me, too, baby."
* * *
She managed to keep him hidden in her house for the weekend and considered it a small miracle, as well as a complete delight.
She worked on a charcoal sketch of him while he slept in her bed, feeling only a little bit guilty about using him as a model without his permission. He looked embarrassed when she showed him the sketch she'd done, and then he got quiet, telling her he was still getting used to looking like this, kind of pale and thin and just not himself.
Then he told her that his physical therapist recommended he try yoga to loosen up his hip and shoulder, so she pulled out her yoga mat and her spare and talked him through some poses. He kept staring down her shirt when she bent over and pretending he couldn't get his body into the right poses so she'd come help him, which involved her having her hands all over him. That eventually ended up with her rolling around on the floor with him while the dog danced and fussed around them, trying to figure out what game they were playing.
He cooked for her, and he wasn't bad at it. She pulled out the photo album for him, showing him her favorites from her time abroad and the photos she had of her family over the years, telling him family stories.
And when he slipped out of her house very early Monday morning, it felt every bit as awful as having to tell him good-bye the previous Tuesday when she'd left him at the lake.
Chapter 21
Sneaking around worked well for them, either with Grace at the lake or him at her house, until about six weeks later, when Aidan had to go back to Virginia.
Before he left, he had to do one thing he absolutely dreaded, and he'd asked Grace to join him. Nerves had him out on the road in front of the cabin, pacing, when she pulled up in her little blue hatchback. He opened the door for her, and she stepped out, looking as pretty and classy as could be in a plain, soft, greyish knit dress and a jacket that matched.
"Look at you, all dressed up," he said. "I've never seen you like this."
"It's not too much? Or not enough? I wasn't sure." She looked doubtful.
"No, you're perfect."
He caught her hands in his and just looked at her for a moment. She had her hair up in a knot, dainty little pearl earrings and small pearl necklace, a bit of soft pink color on her lips and her cheeks. She was so beautiful. It still caught him by surprise at times, just how beautiful she was. He'd get used to it, or as used to it as he could get, and she'd just be Grace. Then something would happen and he'd see her anew and be just blown away by how beautiful she was, inside and out, and mostly, that she was his.
He gave her a slow, soft kiss, hating to put her through this, but so damned grateful to have her by his side.
"I've never seen you in uniform," she said, eyeing the dress blues he'd had someone mail from Virginia and then had altered in town because he was still under his normal weight. She put her palms flat over his jacket, a finger trai
ling along the line of ribbons and medals pinned there. "You must have been busy, to have all of these."
"Wartime," he said. "Lots of combat tours. This is what happens."
"No, I think it takes more than that," she said. "We're doing the condolence call today, aren't we?"
He nodded. He'd told her before that one of the medics who died had parents who lived two hours from there. Visiting the other families could wait, but he'd feel wrong about being so close to the medic's parents and not going to see them.
Sometimes these visits turned into this whole big thing, a community honoring a fallen soldier, which Aidan felt was certainly deserved. But Ethan Porter's parents simply weren't up to it. His father was being treated for cancer and had asked that they keep this quiet. Aidan was grateful for the fact that he'd have to face only Ethan's parents and a grandchild they were raising—not Ethan's child, but his sister's.
"You don't have to do this," Aidan said, giving Grace one last out.
She just looked at him. "What did we say before I left that first weekend? That we're going to be the kind of couple who take care of each other. There will be so many things you have to do in the Navy that I can't be a part of, but this isn't one of them. If you're going, I'm going."
Which had the power to make him smile, just a little bit, even then. "I absolutely love it that you look so pretty and soft, but have such a toughness deep down inside."
"So, you say things like that just because you like to see how tough I am?"
"No, it's... I've never really let myself lean on a woman, Grace. I never imagined that I would. So, this is new to me."
"Well, get used to it. I'm going to be here. Not just for the fun stuff or the easy ones."
"Yes, ma'am," he said.
She offered to let him drive, probably thinking—correctly—he could use the distraction of having to pay attention to the road, and she sat beside him calmly, her left hand lying flat on his right thigh just above the knee. It was a warm, soft touch, a connection, that he found immensely comforting, reassuring. He was not alone in this. Having her here was the only thing that made him believe he might actually be able to do it, face Ethan's parents.
"They'll want to hear the story. About that day on the mountain," he warned Grace. "Probably in more detail than what I told you. You can imagine, it's not going to be easy for them to hear or for me to say. But this is about them, not me."
"I understand," she said. "I'll be there for you, and you'll be there for them. You'll do what you have to do."
"They might be angry. You never know with these things. But they get to say whatever they want, whatever they need to say."
"And I shouldn't say anything to defend you, you mean?"
"They get to say whatever they need to say."
"Okay."
The drive went both too fast and too slow. Along the way, he just wanted to get there, to get this over with, and once they arrived, he was filled with a kind of dread deep in his gut that he hadn't felt since he was on that mountain in Afghanistan. If he hadn't been trying to hold it together for Grace, he probably would have turned the car around and left right that minute. It took all he had in him, but he kept moving, getting out of the car, opening the door for her.
The house was mostly a blur, except for the American flag hanging from a pole on the porch. Mr. Porter appeared in the doorway before they could ring the bell, his wife behind him, and a pretty little girl of three or four peeking out from behind Mrs. Porter's leg.
They went into the house, Grace staying close to his side. They shook hands, exchanged polite greetings and sat down. Mr. Porter thanked him for coming. Mrs. Porter was kind, apologetic, but crying softly. Pictures of a smiling young man in uniform hung on the wall and sat on the table in the corner, a young man vaguely familiar to Aidan. He hadn't known him well before the crash.
They made small talk for a few minutes, and then Aidan got the question. What was it like that awful day their son died?
He started reciting his story, watching the helicopter approach, seeing an RPG strike, the helicopter coming down.
"I keep wondering what those moments must have been like, knowing their helicopter had been hit, that they were going to crash," his mother said.
"He would have been concentrating on doing his job, ma'am," Aidan told her. "He knew they were going down, and he was their medic. He'd have his supplies close at hand and in his head, he'd be going through the kinds of injuries he'd expect to see from a hard landing and the protocol for treating those injuries."
"Really?" she asked, as if that hadn't occurred to her.
"Yes. That's what we do. We keep going, assume we're going to make it. He had soldiers in his care. I know he took that very seriously."
"They told us he survived for a while after the crash," Mr. Porter said.
"Yes, he did. When I got to the wreckage, he was conscious and working on another soldier who was bleeding from a head wound. There was a strong smell of aviation fuel, so we started pulling survivors out and onto the ground. As I was helping Ethan get away from the wreckage, the helicopter exploded. We were thrown some distance."
Aidan tried to block out the blinding flash of light, the feel of that force against his body, picking him up off the ground and throwing him forward, the impact of the ground crunching into his hip and shoulder. It was a flash of memory, nothing more, but a powerful, unsettling one.
He'd come to with an overwhelming ringing in his ears from the blast, the dull, dry taste of dust filling his mouth, a deep hit of nausea from the trauma to his body and the disorientation that comes from not knowing exactly what happened at first or how long he'd been out.
But this wasn't about him, so he tried his best to block that all out and do nothing but tell the story.
"When I regained consciousness, Ethan wasn't far from me. He believed his back was broken and was really mad that he needed to stay still and couldn't do more to help at that point."
"He would hate that, when there were people who needed help."
"Yes, ma'am, he did. But he knew a lot more than I do about treating critical wounds, so I brought them to him. We talked through their injuries, and he told me what to do. So he was still helping people, just not doing as much as he wanted at that point."
"That's our boy," Mr. Porter said.
"We settled in at our position, because we knew there were enemy troops out there. We had air cover for a while, until they ran low on fuel and the dust started kicking up. I think the helicopter fire must have taken most of them out, because there were enemy soldiers who showed up, but not many, picking through the wreckage. We'd been thrown some distance away, and managed to find some cover before they arrived, so we stayed quiet and hidden. Starting a firefight with so many critically wounded men we couldn't move..."
"Of course not. You just don't do that," Mr. Porter agreed.
"By morning, Ethan and I were the only ones still alive, and he talked a lot about home, the two of you and his sister, his niece. He loved you all very much, said he'd had a wonderful childhood, that he knew he could be a handful at times and was sorry for all the grey hairs he'd caused you over the years. And he wanted me to give you this."
Aidan held up a small silver coin with an Apollo rocket etched into it, handed it to Ethan's mother, and she clasped both her hands around his and held on as she wept.
"He used to want to be an astronaut, fly the space shuttle," his father said. "We went to Florida one summer when he was a kid and took him to Cape Canaveral, got to see the shuttle go up, see some of the rockets and a capsule from the Apollo flights. He really liked that, got that coin there and thought it was his lucky piece. It's good to have it back."
"You were right there, by his side, when he passed away?" Ethan's mother asked when she finally stopped crying.
"Yes, ma'am."
"Was he in a lot of pain?"
"Honey, he had a broken back, probably a severed spinal cord," Mr. Porter said, but he was looking at
Aidan. "When you're paralyzed, you can't feel anything."
"That's right, sir. The paralysis, the blood loss, the adrenaline pumping through your veins... It's all a kind of anesthetic. Your focus narrows on what you have to do to survive, and there really isn't room for much else. He was a brave young man. You should be very proud."
"We are, son. Thank you."
"Yes, thank you. For being with him in the end. That means a lot, that he wasn't alone over there," his mother said.
"I'll never forget him," Aidan said.
They talked for a while about favorite memories of their son, a bit about his sister, who had left them with the granddaughter to care for. It wasn't easy, but they were happy to have her, especially now that Ethan was gone. Aidan watched the little girl. Heather was shy, but clearly taken with Grace, especially her hair. She wanted to touch it, and then she wanted her own hair up like Grace's. So Grace took her hair down and used the pins from hers to put Heather's up. It was the only time Grace had taken her hand off Aidan since they'd arrived.
He was doing okay, was going to get through this, but then Grace wasn't there anymore. Heather and Mrs. Porter took her into the kitchen with them, leaving Aidan alone with Ethan's father. Then the hard questions started.
"What was your mission that night son? Something important, I hope? And don't lie to me. I want the truth."
"A weapons pipeline, an important one."
"Did you shut it down?"
"It's still a work in progress, sir, but I think, in the end, we'll get it."
"And my son did his duty?"
"Yes, sir. You couldn't have asked more of any soldier in his position."
"And how are you? I knew a lot of guys who never made it home from Vietnam. It's never easy."
