In Wilde Country

by Living Wilde (The Gift

  The wedding ceremony was brief and almost businesslike. To offset that he’d brought white orchids and a diamond wedding band with him the day he flew in. He wore a dark suit; Angelica wore a long white satin gown that she’d remade to allow room for her ever-expanding belly, and a white lace veil in her hair.

  She looked beautiful and old-fashioned and sweet, and when he could not get an erection that night, their wedding night, he told himself it was only because he was concerned about hurting her or the baby, and that it had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that he either was or was not married, depending on how the Italian and American courts would interpret the chain of lies he’d created, if it ever came to that.

  Five days later, he flew back to the Netherlands.

  He told Angelica he would send her money every month, that he would come home whenever possible, and that he was, now and forever, her husband.

  And as his plane lifted off and Sicily disappeared from view, what he told himself was that, considering the circumstances, two out of three wasn’t at all bad.

  * * * *

  To his surprise, he was able to put Sicily, Angelica, the baby and what might or might not be a marriage out of his head.

  A month went by.

  He sent money, phoned once a week, assured his wife—what an amazing word—that he missed her and he did, though not enough to fly home on weekends.

  He told her that he couldn’t and she asked no questions.

  The truth was, he just didn’t feel married. Didn’t want to feel married. He’d faced a difficult problem and solved it.

  Why make things more complicated than they were?

  Things were going well.

  Each time he called, Angelica told him she missed him. He said he missed her, too. He asked about the baby. She said her back hurt a little—she was almost six months pregnant—but she felt fine otherwise. He told he would be home for a visit soon, that he had one assignment coming up and then he’d see her.

  That was true enough.

  He’d been called to Washington. He was to be promoted to lieutenant colonel.

  He was to be given his own command in the States.

  It was the most exciting thing that had happened to him, the next step in what he now knew was his path straight to the top.

  In the not-too-distant future, he would become a general.

  Christ, a general! Amazing.

  What would Alden think?

  Alden. Alden, who should have been wearing these oak leaves, one on each shoulder, as he now was.

  The day after he received his insignia, Johnny arranged for a flight to Dallas. He rented a car at the airport. He didn’t want a military escort; he wanted to be alone.

  He drove to Wilde’s Crossing. To the church cemetery where his father and brother lay. He walked past Amos’s grave without stopping. When he reached Alden’s, he saluted. Then he took off his cap, bowed his head, shut his eyes and told his brother how much he missed him.

  “I’ve done everything you wanted to do, Alden,” he said softly. He grinned. “Except it took me twice as long.” His grin faded. “And I’ve done a couple of things you’d never have done. Bad things. I didn’t mean to. I just, I don’t know, I just did. And I regret them. Angelica. The pregnancy. Connie. Yeah, brother. Your girl, Connie. She’s as good a woman as a man could want—well, you knew that. And I didn’t treat her right. I can’t turn back time, can’t make up for it…”

  No.

  But he could set things right.

  Go to see Connie. Tell her that she was, just as he’d said, as good a woman as a man could want. Hell, if he’d done things right, if he hadn’t been so fucking stupid…

  He said goodbye to Alden. Took a pair of shiny silver oak leaves from his pocket and tucked them against the headstone. He put on his cap, gave his brother another brisk salute and returned to his car.

  The drive to the Grimes house took only a few minutes.

  Connie’s parents had died years back. She’d inherited their small house and he assumed she was still living there.

  Would she be home? He hoped so. He wanted to see her, apologize for how he’d treated her. Yes, it was a little late for apologies. He hadn’t seen her in, what, four months? Five?

  “Better late than never,” he told himself as he stepped from the rental car.

  It had started raining. That was good; it meant nobody was on the nearby porches or out walking the family dog. The last thing he wanted was to bump into somebody he knew and have to come up with a meaningless round of Good to see you. What’s new? How’ve you been?

  One last deep breath. One last long exhalation. Then he climbed the steps to her door. He smoothed down the jacket of his uniform, his trousers, tucked his hat under his arm and rang the bell.

  Nothing.

  He rang it again.

  Still nothing.

  OK. She wasn’t home. Half disappointed, half relieved, he started to walk away…

  And heard the door open.

  “John?”

  Johnny felt a muscle knot in his jaw.

  “Oh my God, John, is that you?”

  He cleared his throat. Turned around. “Connie,” he started to say, but the word caught in his throat.

  Connie Grimes was pregnant.

  And he knew, sweet Jesus, he knew without question that the child she carried was his.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Afternoon had given way to evening; the rain had turned into a steady downpour.

  They sat in the tidy, tiny kitchen, two civilized people drinking tea.

  Connie had insisted on making some.

  She’d drunk hers in delicate sips.

  He had forced down a few mouthfuls to keep her from hovering over him and asking if he’d prefer something else.

  The truth was, he never drank tea; he was strictly a coffee guy, but that was how little they knew about each other that she liked tea and he liked coffee, and all her fussing had only increased the tension.

  He understood the fussing.

  It had been to avoid what really mattered.

  The pregnancy. The reality of a situation he could not believe.

  “Christ,” he’d said when she’d opened that door, “Christ almighty, Connie…”

  They’d stared at each other. She looked tired. Worn. And, of course, pregnant.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” he’d said. “Why didn’t you call me? Write to me? Dammit, why?”

  His voice had risen. She’d put her hand on his arm and drawn him inside.

  “Don’t you want to know if the baby is yours?”

  John’s jaw had tightened.

  “Don’t play that game, dammit! It’s mine and we both know it.”

  Her shoulders had sagged.

  “I didn’t know how to find you,” she’d said wearily, “and besides, what was the point?”

  “The point,” he’d said sharply, “was that I knocked you up.”

  She’d flinched at his coarse words.

  “And what would you have done if you’d known, John?”

  “The right thing, dammit! That’s what I’d have done.”

  “Exactly. And the last thing I wanted, was for you to change your life by marrying me.”

  “The choice isn’t yours to make! I made you pregnant. I’m responsible. I’m—I’m—”

  I’m already married to a woman who is pregnant with my child!

  The room had started to spin.

  Connie had led him to a chair. Told him to sit.

  “I’m OK,” he’d said, fending off her offers of a cold compress, of aspirin, of water. “I know it’s a terrible shock,” she’d said, and he’d wanted to laugh, to cry, to put his fist through the wall because there was no way in hell she could possibly know what a shock this really was.

  “I’ll make some tea,” she’d said, and he’d nodded, followed her into the kitchen, sat down at the old-fashioned maple table and tried to get his head to function as she put on the kettle, g
ot out mugs, napkins, spoons…

  Then they’d sat across from each other, mostly in silence, the patter of the rain filling that silence, but they couldn’t go on in silence any longer and he knew it.

  “I never meant…” He cleared his throat. “I never meant for this to happen.”

  “I know that.”

  “I wore protection.”

  She flushed a bright pink. “I know that, too. Sometimes—sometimes, the doctor says, those—those things don’t work.”

  “What doctor are you seeing?”

  “You wouldn’t know her. She’s in Dallas. Not here.”

  John nodded. Of course, not here. Yeah, this was the ’80’s and kids were being born to single women everywhere in the U.S. of A., but this was Wilde’s Crossing…and that led to the next obvious question.

  “What are you living on?”

  He knew without having to ask that the school board had surely fired her once her condition showed.

  And it showed.

  God, did it show.

  She was not as big as Angelica, but then she wasn’t quite as far along as Angelica, and—and shit, shit, he couldn’t think about that now.

  “I have some savings.”

  She said it with quiet dignity, and he knew this wasn’t going to be easy.

  Hell, how could it be?

  Connie was a proud woman.

  And he—he had a wife in Sicily—well, maybe not exactly a wife because he’d handed in a fraudulent Dichiarazione Giurata…

  Jesus.

  His head was going to explode.

  “I’ll see a lawyer tomorrow. Somebody in Dallas.”

  “Why?”

  “For the same reason you chose a Dallas doctor. I don’t want you to have to deal with gossip…” He stopped, their eyes met and he groaned. “I’m an idiot,” he said softly. “You’re dealing with it already.”

  “I can’t stop people from talking.”

  Her voice trembled. Without thinking, he reached across the table for her hand. It was small and fragile within his.

  “But I’ve told them nothing. It’s no one’s business but mine.”

  “But ours,” he corrected, and he brought her hand to his lips.

  Her eyes glittered. She looked down at her tea, but not before he saw the tears on her cheeks.

  “Connie. Don’t cry. I’ll take care of you. I’ll see a lawyer, set up funds for you and the baby.”

  “I can take care of myself!”

  Johnny smiled. No, she wasn’t fragile. She was feminine. There was a difference.

  “I bet you can. But I’m part of this. The baby…”

  Connie tore her hand from his and shot to her feet.

  “See? This is exactly what I didn’t want to happen. I don’t want you involved in this, John. I’ve already made arrangements. I’ve sold this house. I’m moving to Austin.”

  “Austin?” He stood up, too. “Who do you know in Austin?”

  “Nobody. That’s exactly the reason I’m moving there. The baby and I will get a fresh start.”

  “Goddammit!” His hands closed on her shoulders. She stood stiff and unyielding under his touch. “The baby and you,” he said, turning her towards him. “What about me? This is my child, too.”

  He could almost see her thinking through those words.

  “Yes,” she finally said, “you’re right. If you want to see him from time to time, I won’t object.”

  “Him?”

  Her expression softened. “I’m having a boy.”

  “We’re having a boy,” he said.

  And he knew, as he said those words, that there was only one “right thing,” just as he knew precisely what that right thing was.

  How could he not have seen it sooner?

  Constance Elizabeth Grimes, the girl he’d thought of as his brother’s drab little mouse, was neither mousy nor drab.

  She was a woman of courage and conviction.

  If Alden had lived, if his life had gone as planned, he’d surely have married Connie on his graduation from the Point despite Amos’s disapproval.

  She’d have been at Alden’s side ever since, making the kind of home to which he could have brought his friends—officers, diplomats, even General Halvorson himself. She’d have been on his arm at parties, as comfortable at casual staff gatherings as at the most prestigious of events and wherever she went, she’d have dressed properly, talked properly, shown the correct table manners.

  She’d have given him strong, smart children.

  She was even good in bed.

  Not exciting, like Angelica. Not wild. Connie was sweet and soft and tender, and if he could not imagine her fucking him on a beach, at least he could not imagine her fucking him over in life.

  He knew his thoughts might seem cold, even calculating, but until now he’d followed the male compass otherwise known as a penis, and look where that had led him.

  He put his hand under her chin and raised her face to his.

  “Connie,” he said softly. “Sweetheart. You’re a brave, wonderful woman.”

  Another of those sweet blushes swept across her face.

  “I only wish you’d let me know that we were having a child.”

  “John. Johnny—“

  “It’s John.” He dipped his head, brushed his lips lightly over hers. “That’s who I am, who I want to be.”

  Her eyebrows lifted. “I don’t understand.”

  He smiled and kissed her again. This time, he felt her mouth soften under his.

  “Understand this, honey. You’re not alone anymore. And you’re not moving to Austin, you’re moving to D.C. Or to Virginia. Maybe to Maryland.” He chuckled at the expression on her face. “I haven’t given much thought to where to settle and now I’m glad of that because part of that decision will be yours.”

  He could see dawning awareness in her eyes.

  Such gentle brown eyes, nothing like the hot black of Angelica’s.

  Hell.

  No way was he going to think about Angelica right now. She was the past; Connie was the future. OK. Angelica couldn’t stay in the past; he knew that. But she would never be what Connie would be to him.

  Yes, there’d be…difficulties.

  Difficulties? How about impossibilities? Yes, but he’d work them out.

  He wasn’t actually married to Angelica. Why not admit that? He’d always take care of her and the child she was carrying, of course; money would not be a problem, especially now that he’d inherited El Sueño. He’d visit her from time to time; he’d want to, because he’d want to be part of his child’s life…

  “What are you saying, John?” Connie asked, and he drew her close, kissed her until she gave a little sigh and responded to the kiss.

  “I’m saying that we’re getting married. In the church here, at Wilde’s Crossing, with the whole town watching,.

  “But—”

  “No buts,” he said firmly. “We’re getting married, and that’s that, and I don’t want to delay our wedding a minute longer than it’ll take us to get a license.

  He smiled. It took a little while, but finally she did, too.

  He gathered her close against him.

  As for problems… If the Point, the army and life had taught him anything, it was that no problem was insoluble.

  Married men had affairs. They had mistresses. They had illegitimate children. Even high ranking army officers. Nobody talked about it, but everybody knew such things happened despite it being grounds for dismissal.

  He was Johnny.

  He was John.

  Either way, he was smart.

  There was no reason he wouldn’t be able to keep his two worlds from colliding.

  An American wife in the States. An American son.

  And, in Italy, a Sicilian not-quite-a-wife. An Italian son. Or daughter. Whichever, he’d provide for that family, too.

  He’d manage the details.

  Manage them with care and thought and skill.

  And,
for a long time, he believed that…

  Believed it, for more than thirty years.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Texas, the El Sueño ranch, July 2014

  Dawn.

  The sky blazed with tendrils of pink and crimson.

  The world was on fire, and the sight hurt General John Hamilton Wilde’s eyes, but then he’d never been a particularly good drunk and, man, he was drunk to the eyeballs. To his dried out, sand-filled, aching eyeballs.

  Yeah, but that didn’t stop him from wanting another drink.

  Hell, no.

  Another shot of Jack was what he needed. Trouble was, he’d emptied the second bottle to the very last drop and though he wanted to check and see if maybe there was one more bottle he’d missed finding, he’d have to get up.

  And getting up was out of the question.

  As it was, he sat with his hands clinging to the arms of his big leather chair . Otherwise, the chair would spin the way the room was spinning and he’d fall out of it, squarely onto his ass.

  You couldn’t have a four-star general doing that.

  Right.

  But he had to do something. The housekeeper would be stirring pretty soon. Or one of the guests tucked away in the ten trillion bedrooms upstairs might come wandering down for a cup of coffee.

  Guests?

  The general laughed. Tried to, anyway, but the sound came out a groan.

  There were no guests at El Sueño this weekend. The house was filled with family. His sons. His daughters. Five sons, five daughters, and half had never known the other half existed until last night.

  FUBAR. Old army slang. Fucked Up Beyond All Recognition.

  Jesus, what a freaking disaster.

  Bile rose in his throat.

  OK. He had to do something. Get out of this chair. Haul himself to the bathroom. Take a piss. All that whiskey was having an effect on his bladder. And he had to find a way to sober up fast. Poke through the medicine cabinet until he found some of those fizzy antacid tablets. Run some water into a glass, drop one or three or six tablets in the water and see if he could keep down the resultant brew.

  The general leaned hard on the arms of the chair. Tried to stand.

  “Shit,” he said, and fell back.

  What would his men say if they saw him now? Drunk. Disheveled. He knew what they called him behind his back. Hard-nosed. Hard-assed. A martinet. Wilde the perfectionist.