The Colonel

by Beau North

  27

  1 June 1954

  Dear Richard,

  I wonder if a day will ever come when your letters cease to astonish me. I think that’ll be the day I can finally say, “Now, I’ve heard everything.”

  What a proposition! What an enormous thing to ask! It must have taken them both a mountain of guts to ask it of you. I hope you won’t mind me also saying, what an honor for you as well. It would be an enormous responsibility, and I don’t mean just fatherhood. Consider Charlotte. The only man she’s ever known in that sense is her husband, who you tell me was all fists and no heart. Imagine if you will, my dear friend, the courage to revisit that side of herself, where she’s known hurt, you could give tenderness. Where she has known shame, you could give respect.

  Were I in your place (and I don’t envy you in making this decision), I should see it as a great honor. And I know in my heart that you will make the most wonderful father. I know your fears, my old friend, and here is what I think: we don’t have to follow in our parents’ footsteps. We can forge our own paths. I know you will do what is best for everyone.

  Arthur says hello. I’ve not told him about this because he’s a bit old fashioned when it comes to these things, but know that he sends his love, as do I.

  Your friend,

  Evie

  Richard frowned at his reflection. His shirt was ironed and his trousers pressed. His shoes were polished to a shine, and his hair was combed neatly in place. He was altogether respectable looking, until a closer look showed the scarred side of his face, the fixed eye which was not glass, not true glass but a sort of hard plastic. They’d done a marvelous job matching the blue-green color of his remaining eye, but the shape was slightly rounder, throwing the symmetry of his face off-kilter. He peered closer in the mirror, seeing threads of silver in his sandy hair, the laugh lines cutting grooves in his face. I’m getting old. He felt older. Tired, but strangely restless, too. He’d lived his life on the straight and narrow since he’d come home from Korea. The occasional cocktail was his only remaining indulgence, enjoyed sparingly. When he wasn’t working, he was reading, or walking through the park, or helping Anne with her gallery. His life was good. Stable.

  Boring.

  Isn’t that why you’re doing this? He wondered. A soft knock on the door startled him.

  “C―come in,” he said, straightening his shirt. He was nervous, proving that life could still surprise him when he least expected it.

  Charlotte entered, wearing a new dress the color of persimmons, no doubt one of her own creations. She’d worked her way up from lowly seamstress to a design assistant since taking her first job at House of Woodhall. Clearly, she knew her business. This new frock made her skin look golden, her eyes look brighter blue, her thick blonde hair a brighter gold.

  “You look beautiful,” he said and meant it. This Charlotte was a far cry from the woman who’d left Meryton with him, the shadow of bruises still coloring her face. Her confidence had made her flourish. She blushed now.

  “Thanks. You too. Look very handsome, I mean.” There was still a soft lilt of South Carolina in her voice.

  He took her hand. “Would you like a drink?”

  “Yes, actually. A drink would be wonderful.”

  He poured her a generous glass of gin, taking none for himself, though he was tempted to reach for anything that would dispel the hovering specter of Anne, absent but still present somehow. And another he didn’t dare name. She must know everything. About Me and Elizab―

  He cut the thought off, pouring himself a glass of tonic water. That was a boundary he no longer crossed, even with himself.

  “Here we are,” he said, handing over her drink. She took it with a grateful smile.

  “Should we toast?” she asked nervously.

  “Sure. What should we drink to?”

  She raised her glass. “A successful endeavor.”

  He raised his glass, touched it to hers. “To your good health.”

  They drank in anxious silence, neither quite knowing how to begin. He put his drink aside and stood, holding a hand out to her. She let him help her up.

  “What are we doing?” she asked.

  “I’d like to hold you, if that’s all right with you.”

  She averted her eyes. “Of course.”

  Richard folded her into his arms. It wasn’t a seductive gesture or even a particularly romantic one. They’d hugged this way several times. Like when he’d come home with his injuries. Or the last time she’d tried to contact her sister Maria while she was at college, only to have the girl return her letters unopened. Or half a year ago, when he’d gotten the call that his mother had passed in her sleep. He wanted her to feel comfortable with the idea of him first. Still, he could feel the swift pounding of her heart as he held her. The strangeness of what they were doing kept him in check, even though he found that he liked the way her body felt against his, liked the flare of her generous hips, the soft press of her breasts.

  He pulled away slightly. “Can I take your hair down? Please?”

  She blushed a deeper scarlet but nodded. His careful fingers removed the pins holding her hair in place. It spilled into his hands, a heavy curtain of gold. He’d always been fascinated by her hair and the way it moved. It was thick and straight and felt like silk in his hands.

  “Beautiful,” he murmured. She surprised them both by laughing suddenly.

  “It’s all a little absurd, isn’t it? To go through the motions.”

  He frowned. “I disagree. I care for you and respect you a great deal. The last man to touch you did not.”

  Her expression soured. “No. He didn’t.”

  “I’m sorry to have brought it up.”

  She waved his apology away. “It’s okay. At least I know…what to expect.”

  It was his turn to laugh then. He rubbed a hand across his brow.

  “What did I say?”

  “You have no faith in me,” he said, still laughing. He took both her hands now, caressing them. “Charlotte, forgive me for saying so, but you do not know what to expect. This is what I do, and I do it very well.”

  She averted her eyes but allowed him to step closer. His fingers caressed the underside of her jaw, tilting her face up to his.

  “What you’ve asked for,” he said, “it’s…hell, Char. It’s a goddamned honor, and I don’t just mean the part that ends with knit booties and diaper changes.”

  “I did consider that, you know. It’s part of the reason why I asked you first.”

  His brows raised. “You had an alternate?”

  Her nose wrinkled. “Kelly.”

  Richard laughed. “I’m flattered I outranked New York’s Finest.”

  “He wouldn’t have done it anyway. Too upright. Also…the red hair.”

  “Enough about him,” Richard said, still amused. “I’d like to kiss you now, Charlotte.”

  “You don’t have to ask my permission for every little thing.”

  “It’s for my sake as much as yours. I like knowing that I won’t do anything you don’t want. It makes it…better. For both of us.”

  “Okay then. You can kiss me.”

  He brought his lips to hers, slowly and carefully, in a soft, dry kiss. He felt the warmth of her breath against his skin as she waited for more. His tongue swept her lips, and they parted for him like petals to the sun. He could taste the gin on her tongue, and spearmint, and another deeper, sharper taste that brought to mind the particular way her skin smelled when he had hugged her on those previous occasions. She sighed and melted into him. He pulled back and looked down at her, her cheeks flushed pink and her lips still slick from his kiss. He wanted to kiss her again, and the thought occurred to him that it wasn’t the first time he’d wanted to kiss her. She was a lovely, healthy woman, and the thought had flitted across his mind from time to time. When she laughed or made a quiet yet devastating crack at his expense. If anything surprised him, it was how natural it felt to kiss her.

  �
��Where should I kiss you next?” he wondered aloud. She bit her lip and tilted her head to the side, giving him access to the smooth, fragrant skin of her neck. He leaned down an inhaled in that sensitive spot just under her ear, making her shiver against him. She smelled of ivory soap and ocean salt, and for a moment, he felt strangely homesick for Annapolis and the cool, clean breeze coming off the bay.

  He straightened and peered down at her. “I think you must be a bit of a witch.”

  “I bet you say that to all the girls,” she said while batting her eyelashes. He grinned.

  “You’ve certainly cast your spell on me.”

  He leaned down and kissed her again, this time less cautiously. Her fingers curled in his hair as she pulled him closer, her own kiss as reckless as his own. She pulled away long enough to whisper in his ear.

  “You feel so good.”

  Innocent enough words, but their effect on him was instant, volatile. Electric fire sparked in his belly and tore through him, racing up to his jackhammering heart and down into the throbbing ridge of his cock. It wasn’t just that he’d been without a woman for so long—since Abigail—but that he was wanted. Accepted. She turned around, still in the circle of his arms, putting her back against his chest. At first he didn’t understand, until she moved her heavy hair over one shoulder, exposing the zipper of her dress.

  “Are you…are you sure?” he asked.

  She ducked her head, hiding her face, but when she spoke, the word was a simple, plaintive, “Please.”

  He traced the back of her neck with his fingertips. Hovering for a moment just over the zipper before gripping the metal toggle and pulling it down ever so slowly. His lips kissed the newly exposed skin, following the zipper’s path all the way down to the small of her back. He noticed, somewhat surprised, that she wore no brassiere.

  He straightened, keeping her back to him. His hands gripped her arms, crushing the silky fabric of her dress.

  She turned around, eyes down, holding the bodice of her dress up.

  When he spoke, his voice came out low and rough. “Let me look at you, please?”

  She nodded mutely, hair falling to hide her face. He placed his hands on her neck, pulled her closer for another languorous kiss.

  “Would you feel more comfortable if I went first?”

  She looked up at him, bright-eyed. He was relieved to see that she wasn’t upset or disturbed, merely shy.

  He reached up to unbutton the shirt he’d so carefully ironed earlier, but her hands stopped his.

  “I want to,” she said.

  He swallowed the lump that had risen in his throat. Her hands, skilled at dressing and undressing, slipped his buttons loose in quick, efficient motions. She worked his cufflinks off and set them on the low table next to her forgotten glass of gin. He shrugged off the shirt and tossed it aside before pulling his undershirt up over his head.

  He supposed he should have prepared her more. Her eyes widened at the scars, the round divot over his left breast, an empty patch in the short, golden hair that grew on his chest. And then there was the raised, slightly puffy scars on his abdomen, always unsightly. Her fingers hovered over the one on his chest.

  “Ghastly, I know,” he said, brushing away the strand of hair that fell in his eyes. “You can touch it if you want.”

  “Does it hurt anymore?”

  “No. I’m long healed.”

  She didn’t touch the scar. When she stepped back, he was worried that he’d said something wrong, that it was all too much for her. But she surprised him by sliding her arm out of one sleeve, then the other. She didn’t let the dress fall but stepped out of it, carefully draping it across the chair she’d been sitting in previously. His eyes devoured the sight of her: the slightly rounded softness of her belly, the nip of her small waist, a provoking contrast to her hips, the thick curve of her strong thighs. Her breasts were small and well-shaped, the taut nipples a brownish rouge. She stepped out of her shoes, a pair of low-heeled pumps, and stood there bare but for a pair of silky white drawers.

  “Christ, Charlotte,” he said, taking her in. She was beautifully curved and womanly, flushed pink and slightly quivering where she stood. “You’re so beautiful.”

  She stepped closer, placing her palm across the flat plane of his stomach. A low moan escaped from deep inside him, a sound of pure wanting. Her hand went to his belt, tugging shyly at it. He helped her with the box-frame buckle, something he’d grown accustomed to wearing in the army. It slithered out of his belt loops. She looked around for somewhere to put it.

  “Just throw it on the floor,” he rasped.

  “This is good leather,” she protested. “I don’t want to scuff it.”

  It was such a Charlotte thing to say, and so endearing he couldn’t help but take her in his arms again, nuzzling her neck. She let the belt fall to the floor as he tasted the skin of her neck, his hands stroking her back. His wandering hands and teasing lips coaxed little gasps from her. He walked her backwards to the bed. She stopped when she felt the quilt against her thighs.

  “There’s no hurry,” he said, rubbing a thumb over her swollen lips. “We can do exactly what we’re doing now, just lying down. If it gets too much, just say stop, and I’ll pump the brakes.”

  She shook her head. “No, it’s not too much.” She sat on the bed while he remained standing, placing himself between her open knees. Her hands came up again, tugging at the waist of his trousers. He smiled.

  “Shall I?”

  She nodded, watching him with half-lidded eyes as he stepped back, unbuckling his pants and letting them fall. He stepped out of them and kicked them aside, his eyes never leaving hers. He was glad he hadn’t bothered to put his socks on yet.

  He touched the elastic waist of his loose boxers and gave her a questioning look. She nodded, lips parted, and watched as he pulled those off too. He didn’t know what he expected, but it wasn’t for her to carefully study his nudity, tilting her head one way, then another. He felt exposed but deliciously so. Unable to help himself, he took himself in hand, giving himself one long stroke from base to tip. Her eyes widened. She looked up at his face.

  “Sorry. Is that too much?”

  She shook her head, her face and neck flushing scarlet. “No,” she said in a raspy voice. “No, I…I liked it.”

  He laughed and came closer to her. She parted her knees for him, letting him settle himself back into that space. He took her hand in his and brought it to his mouth, his tongue lapping at her palm, making her knees cinch his thighs, her hips thrusting closer to him.

  He brought her hand down to his sex, letting her touch him for herself. Her touch was tentative at first brushing the satin skin lightly with her fingertips. When her fingers circled and stroked, he had to put his arms on her shoulders to keep himself upright.

  “You’re making me question things about myself,” she admitted quietly. “I shouldn’t enjoy this quite so much.”

  “You don’t have to be any one thing, Charlotte,” he said, trying to keep himself in place, letting her lead. “You can just let yourself feel.”

  “All right then,” she said, taking his mouth in her own kiss. He yielded to her, letting her explore him by taste and by touch until he felt dizzy with need, intoxicated by her.

  She let him go and lay back against the pillows, shedding the silky underdrawers as she did. She held out her hand to him, beckoning him to her.

  “Are you absolutely certain?” he asked again, for good measure. “Once we do this, we can’t undo it.”

  She gave him a soft smile and held out her hand again. “Come to bed, Richard.”

  And so, he did.

  “Are we crazy for doing this?” she asked, staring up at his bedroom ceiling. Richard gave her a wan smile.

  “Maybe,” he admitted. “But I know one thing. Not everyone deserves to be a parent, but you definitely do.”

  She rolled onto her side, fingers tracing the scarred side of his face. It was done gently rather than aff
ectionately.

  “What was it like?” she asked.

  “Getting blown up? I wouldn’t recommend it.”

  She shook her head. “No, I meant, what was it like over there?”

  He rolled over to face her, hand under his cheek. “Hot. And cold. That’s what I remember most. How vile I smelled for most of it. In the winter, my clothes turned into a shell. Like a turtle.”

  She smiled. “I’m trying to picture it.”

  “Don’t. It was unsightly.” He slid a heavy lock of her hair between his fingers, fascinated by the texture of it.

  “Imagine layers and layers of flannel and wool slowly hardening with sweat and skin. I felt like I could have spent a month taking bath after bath, shower after shower, and it’d never be enough to get the grime off my skin. I was worried they’d have to sandblast me in the end. And our faces all turned red as beets, whether it was from sunburn or cold; I thought I’d be tomato-faced forever. But that was just us.” A faraway look came into his eyes. “The people who lived there…they got it much worse.”

  “I’m sorry to have brought it up.”

  He flopped back onto his back and the sheet slipped, revealing the motley scars on his torso and chest.

  Her fingers grazed them gingerly. “I know it’s been years but…”

  “I know. They still look awful. The bit of ugliness I’ll always carry on the outside. Maybe it’s punishment for what I carry here.” He tapped his chest.

  Her face turned serious. “You should forgive yourself and move on.”

  “I’ve moved on,” he assured her. “The rest will come.”

  “What happens now?” she asked.

  He pulled her to him, her head coming to rest on his chest. “Now we hope for the best.”

  “Don’t you think you should slow down?” Kelly asked as Anne downed another beer.

  “Why? I like beer. And you already said I could stay over.”

  “Christ, Annie, you’re killin’ me. Why do you want to stay in my shoebox in Chelsea when you can afford the Waldorf?”

  “Because the Waldorf is too quiet. And right now I need noise. And beer.”