So instead, she recalled the way Whit had forgiven her, time after time, for being distant or unpleasant or selfish. She thought back to their first few months and the look of desire in Whit’s eyes whenever they had a quick moment alone. There had been many situations like today, where other people were in the vicinity, but for a few simple seconds they could gaze openly at each other. Did Whit ever think about those times, and would she ever feel the same again? Kathleen feared she had her answer, as Whit’s normally cocky stance and confident tone had been replaced by an almost shy expression and a voice that sounded a bit dejected.
“Hey yourself,” she answered, trying for a neutral tone.
Whit moved a foot or two inside her office. “I came to thank you for your note,” she said quietly. “And to tell you in person that I wish I could accept your offer, but one of the girls had to leave early, so I’m pulling a double shift.”
This all came out in a rush, like Whit was trying to get it over with, and Kat merely nodded. But she knew when Whit talked like that there was something off, something…wrong. Recalling the rumor she’d heard about the reason that Miriam Boudreaux’s hearing had been canceled, she unconsciously reached out her hand. “More people aren’t getting sick, are they?” A second later she realized her gesture might look overly familiar, so she tried to cover it by gesturing to a chair. “Please, come in and sit down.”
After Whit sat across from her, Kat asked, “Have you seen her?” At Whit’s nonchalant nod, she shivered. How Whit could voluntarily spend time around that woman, especially after what she knew… “Well, I hope your dear friend’s infection won’t go any further.” She couldn’t help the ice in her tone and she knew that Whit would understand the double meaning. Miriam Boudreaux’s unforgivable actions had triggered an outbreak of doubt and dread and humiliation that had spread across the base and had even seeped into their lives. In Kat’s opinion she deserved to suffer greatly for what she’d done to their WAC home, and especially for violating their personal friendship.
“She’s no friend of mine. In fact, I’m just doing everything I can to make sure that…” She looked away as her voice trailed off, lips curving into a strange half-smile. “Miriam Boudreaux’s contamination won’t go any farther,” she finished, her voice harder, though still somewhat remote.
Oh God, Kat had missed that mouth and all that Whit did with it. The night before, as she’d sat yearning for the anguished waiting of Boudreaux’s hearing to be over, it had come to her that she didn’t just miss Whit, she needed her. Just as Whit had first taught her how to overcome the uncertainty of her sexual strangeness, she was the only one who could help her overcome the shame and resentment of that horrible experience in Boudreaux’s room. No amount of bathing could clean the contamination of Miriam’s unwanted advances from her body—but Whit’s touch would. Once she’d reluctantly admitted to herself that she would be completely overwhelmed by Gale Rains’s intensity, the storm of attraction had greatly diminished. And the lure of hypothetical danger that had first attracted her to Rains had all but disappeared as real danger at Fort Des Moines had taken its place. Kat had never thought of herself as a fighter, and her terror during the meeting with Colonel Issacson had confirmed that she never would be. Not like that. But a little spark of determination had formed as she’d made plans to win Whit back, to find what they’d had and rekindle the spark between them. Sighing as she remembered what Whit had told her on an early date, she asked playfully, “And I should trust you because…?”
Whit’s head came up, but she was focused at something in the distance. With no hint of humor, she finished the familiar words in a voice so subdued, it almost sounded remorseful. “I’m an Army medic.”
The only thing Kat hated more than the sadness in Whit’s eyes was the fact that it was there because of her. She searched for the right expression, the perfect words that would tell Whit what she was thinking and feeling. But Whit mistook her hesitation for the end of their conversation. Clearing her throat, she stood. “So, like I said, I hope you’ll give me a rain check.”
Kat stood also, wanting more than anything to move to her, to see if Whit’s breath would catch the way it used to when they were close. She was somehow desperate to know and terrified to find out, all at the same time. Unable to tamp down the sense of panic, she blurted out, “Do you want a rain check, Whit? Do you really?”
Whit leaned toward her slightly, her fists clenched and her expression more fierce than loving. “I want a lot of things, Kat. But yeah. For now, I’ll take a rain check.”
She turned away, moving quickly toward the door as if she’d said all she had to say. Kat didn’t know what to make of that look or of Whit’s abrupt withdrawal. She only knew she couldn’t let her go just yet. “Then what about tomorrow night?” The insistence in her voice as she pressed the question wasn’t really her style. Normally after a rejection, even a kind one like Whit’s had been, it would take at least a week for her feelings to mend enough that she could revisit the issue. She had never been one to take unnecessary chances, especially with her heart, but right now, it seemed more important that she understand what Whit might be feeling. If she was willing to come back, even just for a simple dinner, couldn’t it mean that she still wanted to try and work things out? Whit stopped but didn’t look back around. She simply stood, as if thinking about her schedule. But Kat sensed she was waiting, as if needing something else, something more. Kathleen Hartley gave up on decorum, settling instead for absolute truth. She took a breath and whispered, “I’ve missed you terribly.”
Whit looked at her then, the little smile back on her face, and Kat knew she’d done at least one thing right. “Actually,” her lover said, slowly, “I think tomorrow night should be fine.”
* * *
Whit pushed away the memory of Kat’s softly whispered words as she poured the measured amount of ipecac into the flask. Just being in the same room with Kathleen Hartley had made her pulse race, and she’d spent the rest of the afternoon on her cot, pretending to sleep while imagining alternative endings to their meeting. All of them began with her gathering Kat into her arms and ended with them making love in her office—against the wall, sitting in the chair, or on the desk (her personal favorite). Would Kat have the slightest interest in hearing her latest fantasies? And more importantly, would she ever be willing to act on them, the way they used to? Whit sighed, aware there were no answers to either of those questions now, and she needed to focus her mind on tonight.
Assuming things went as they had before, Lieutenant Boudreaux would not testify tomorrow either. Licking her dry lips she envisioned, for the hundredth time, how she wanted this round to play out. First, she hoped that after tomorrow the higher-ups would tire of Boudreaux’s inability to appear and offer her a medical discharge under honorable conditions. Then Whit’s play would be to do her level best to convince Miriam that it was the best deal she could hope for. The wild card here was whether or not Miriam would ultimately value saving her long-term reputation over the temporary power she’d have to hurt those she disliked. If she chose to go with dignity and her character relatively intact, everyone remaining in the game would win. Should she indicate her intention was to wait until she healed enough to go before the board and give others’ names…well, Whit wasn’t sure what her move would be at that point. There were more pernicious alternatives to ipecac, and the thought of them regularly crossed her mind whenever she recalled Kat’s tearful story of Miriam’s inexcusable behavior. But her father had always told her that two wrongs didn’t make a right, and what she was doing felt wrong enough as it was. She capped the flask and checked her watch. Yeah, she’d taken the night off to slip in to the hospital late, and Boudreaux was expecting her. Keeping her waiting might skew the game against her, and Whit needed all the luck she could get.
Chapter Nineteen
It took about an hour to make a dent in the bottle they’d started last time, back before she’d gotten sick, but now Miriam Boudreaux
was feeling no pain. She’d been restless and a little shaky while she’d waited for Whit to show, and the aspirin they’d grudgingly given her after she’d complained three times about her headache hadn’t helped much. But she’d held her temper, knowing it might make a difference if someone read whatever they were writing on her chart. When Whit finally slipped in, checking behind her as she’d closed the curtain around the bed, Miriam was torn between wanting to slap her for taking her damn time and wanting to kiss her when Whit slid the bottle out of her coat. Now it felt almost like old times, except that Whit wasn’t even trying to keep up with her, drinking-wise, and she wasn’t laughing at her jokes like she used to.
“What’s with you, pal?” Miriam asked. “Trouble in paradise?” When Whit’s jaw clenched, it dawned on her that referencing Kathleen Hartley might not have been a good idea. She wondered what, if anything, Hartley had revealed about their little encounter. The redhead may have been less than satisfied, but that was her own fault, given that she hadn’t given Miriam the chance to demonstrate the full range of her expertise. Or maybe Hartley had already shown Whit the door and was just waiting for the opportunity to finish what they’d begun. Boudreaux shifted on the bed, trying not to look overly interested in the subject.
Whit sniffed. “Everything’s fine. Why wouldn’t it be?”
Boudreaux suppressed a smile. Like all amateur card players, Whit had a tell. Hers was that sniff, or a rub of her nose. Something was up, and Miriam looked forward to figuring out exactly what. But not now. Acting completely disinterested, she changed the subject. “You bring me the miniature size for tomorrow’s morning shot?” Whit pulled the flask from her other pocket. Miriam shook it and gave a half-smile, apparently satisfied. “Anyone in my situation could use a little liquid courage,” she muttered, half to herself. “But I gotta take it easy tomorrow so they won’t smell it on me.”
Whit followed her movements as she tucked the flask under her pillow. “You never did say what you decided to tell them,” she remarked, her casual tone sounding noticeably forced as she took a sip from the remaining whiskey.
Imagining how many WACs that were anxious for her answer, Boudreaux laughed. “Well now, since I wasn’t able to attend the earlier meeting, I don’t know exactly how it’s gonna go with little Miss Spillman. And since I don’t know what my options will be, I don’t know how many bargaining chips I’m gonna need.”
“How many do you figure you have?” Whit asked, leaning forward slightly.
Their eyes locked and Miriam waited a beat, wondering if Whit would flinch first. When she didn’t, Miriam knew she was all in. Perhaps it was time to put her own cards on the table. Getting violently sick like that had really scared her, and even though she had no actual memory of her parents’ illness and untimely deaths, that such a thing could happen to her too was like a bad dream. Increasingly, the idea of going home had become a lot more appealing. She’d begun to consider that despite her carefully crafted story, her days in the Women’s Army Corps might be numbered. And it was probably just as well, since taking orders and following regulations was getting old anyway. The trick would be to leave with as much as she could get. “Depends on what they offer me. If they pay per name, well, there could be lots of broken hearts.”
Whit’s brow furrowed. “I don’t think they pay at all. I think you’re expected to testify on your honor and that’s it.”
“Maybe so, or maybe they want to know what I know enough to bend the rules. Just this once, you know?” Miriam winked, expecting Whit to laugh like she usually did. Instead, she stood and began putting on her coat.
Miriam hurried to finish off the whiskey. Whit tucked the empty back into her pocket, saying, “I’ll stop by late tomorrow night and make sure you’re raring to go.”
Something in Whit’s tone made Miriam’s nerves twitch. But before she could say anything, there was a light knock and a nurse came bustling in. “Can you excuse us for a moment, Lieutenant Whitman? We need to collect a urine sample.”
“Another one?” Miriam groaned.
Whit grinned at her and ducked out into the hall. She returned after the nurse had left, and once Miriam emerged from the bathroom, she pointed to where the flask was hidden. “Remember not to start on this one till Friday morning,” she cautioned. “You okay with that?”
“Yeah, yeah.” Boudreaux waved her hand casually as Whit turned toward the door. “See you tomorrow night.” Whit could be a pain, but her company was better than none, which was what she’d had after the guys heard she was sick. She hoped Whit was wrong about the money, though. She couldn’t very well go home after three years in the Army with nothing to show for it but a few extra pounds and some good stories.
* * *
Whit had slept fitfully on her cot, and getting up at 0500 didn’t help her mood. Her anxiety grew as she made her way to the hospital in the gray, pre-dawn light, hoping things had gone according to plan. When she saw the commotion of nurses and attendants around Miriam Boudreaux’s room, she fought to hide her smile.
She grabbed one of the few male attendants, hoping he would respect her rank and medic designation. “What’s going on in there?”
He grimaced. “That lieutenant has relapsed. She’s puking all over the place.”
“When did that start?”
He shrugged. “I just came on, but I think it was late last night or early this morning.”
Just as she’d expected, Miriam hadn’t waited to get into her flask. Whit put on a stern expression. “But she’s due to testify at 0900 tomorrow. Will she be recovered by then?”
Looking back toward the private room, he shook his head. “I’m not a doctor, but if you ask me, it would take a miracle for that to happen.”
Whit nodded and he walked quickly away. She lingered one more minute, hoping Boudreaux had been able to hide the flask before the nausea had hit her. She doubted the episode had come from the ipecac she’d slipped into the water pitcher, but the morning shift should have switched that out in any case. Glancing at her watch, she hurried out and toward the parade grounds. She’d find Kat after reveille and confirm their date for tonight. Hopefully, the guilt she was accumulating would be overshadowed by the promise of the evening to come.
* * *
Kathleen Hartley couldn’t seem to manage her nerves. She’d hosted formal dinners for eight on several occasions and held numerous parties attended by dozens and dozens of friends and strangers and had never been this anxious. It’s just Vic, she told herself, but something inside her rejected that just part. Two hours from now they would either have a new start or the beginning of the end, and both options seemed equally terrifying.
Lying alone for yet another night in what had been their bed, she’d tossed and turned, unable and unwilling to escape the images of Victoria Whitman as partner, lover, confidante, and friend. As she searched her mind and her heart for what she really wanted, her mad crush on the unattainable Gale Rains began to feel almost juvenile. Had she foolishly succumbed to the thrill of a chase because there was something irresistibly exciting in the unknown? Had her ego simply wished to succeed at a challenge, having been spoiled by years with reliable Whit, who had been available to her from the start? She’d considered and discarded several similar explanations before coming back to a familiar suspicion—despite Vic’s sweet declarations, she knew she wasn’t worthy of love. She’d known it since she was a child. Had she pursued someone who would never love her in order to push Vic away before her lover realized Kat’s flaws would always outweigh any virtues she might think she’d seen?
From a young age, she’d wondered about this hollow feeling, this intuition of lacking she’d had no words for. As she grew older, she’d begun to see as well as sense the difference between her own mother and other women with children. Marion Hartley never showed her any affection, tenderness, or even pride. There were expectations—demands, even—but no warmth or closeness of any kind. She’d wondered many times about the reason for this forsak
ing of motherly devotion that had influenced so much of her own past behavior…and maybe her present as well? Had she used a meaningless mental affair to push away the person she cared most about because disconcerting childhood experiences had festered, making her unable to believe she deserved what Vic gave her?
Determined to confront her mother once and for all, she went to the phone and dialed their familiar number as she glanced at the clock. Almost 5:30—her mother should be home from her errands or whatever club she’d attended. But her father answered, his hello a bit unsteady.
“Dad, it’s Kathleen. What are you doing home at this hour?” Kathleen blurted out. “Don’t tell me you finally hired someone you actually trust to manage the office?”
She’d worked for her father for years, both before and after her marriage, and his approval of her performance there had been wonderfully gratifying. He’d been the mainstay of support for her during her adult years at home, and she was much closer to him now then she’d ever been to her mother, though they never spoke of it.
Her father chuckled. “No chance of that since all the good ones are in the service.”
She felt a rare flash of cheerfulness as she smiled. “Thanks, Dad.”
“No, I had to close up shop early today to take your mother to the doctor.” His tone had turned serious.
That was odd. Her mother was perfectly capable of getting herself anywhere in the city. She must be very ill. “What’s wrong?”
He cleared his throat. “Uh, some…uh…female problems. The doctor thinks it may be related to the trouble she had years ago. Before you were born.” He hesitated for a second. “After the other one.”
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