A Lasting Love

by Mary Tate Engels

  The alternate solution to his leaving was far from reasonable to Loren. Thoughts of uprooting her entire life, everything she had worked for, everyone she knew, the career she had built, everything that was familiar, were certainly less than appealing. Worse yet, it was something she had vowed to herself never to do. She wouldn't break that vow six years ago and couldn't break it now.

  But, suppose . . . just suppose, there was another solution. Strange thoughts milled around in her mind, but even they were unsettling. It was not the kind of life she would ever, ever choose. Or was it?

  No. She just couldn't.

  And yet, was it so different from what she was doing now? From her past relationship with Reid? Oh, no. She had a different purpose then. She had hope. And now? Was there no hope for them? Was this alternative life-style one she could live with? Possibly, if it were the only way she could have him, the only way she would ever see him. Occasionally.

  Oh, dear God. Am I crazy? What am I thinking?

  Loren walked the floor and raked loose strands of unruly tawny hair back from her face. Agonizing images wracked her brain as she tried to sort them out and reach an equitable settlement. At least attain a solution she could live with. And yet the singular idea kept approaching her from all sides. The only way to have Reid, on both their terms, was to be his mistress.

  Could she live like that? Live with herself? Be happy? Would she be satisfied to have him whenever he came to Washington? Was her love that strong? To reserve it just for him? At his whims? Or at hers? Maybe . . . maybe it wouldn't be so bad. She would have plenty of time to pursue her career, her own particular life-style. And still she would have his love, if only occasionally. Perhaps . . . perhaps it would work. Conceivably she would have no choice.

  Loren trudged into the bathroom and adjusted the faucet. She dropped her clothes and gazed down at her slim form. She was proud of her ability to remain slender. But, then she had always taken good care of her body, almost as if she were saving herself. For what? Motherhood? Seemed unlikely after the last disaster. For whom? Reid? Possibly ... in her heart.

  And she had done just that. Except with Mark. And that was usually a disastrous night of intimacy. Loren kept her secret that Reid was the only man with whom she could achieve complete fulfillment. She was so concerned, that she had postponed her marriage to Mark. . . indefinitely. And now she knew that she would never marry Mark. With a ragged sigh Loren acknowledged that she would have to settle for being Reid's mistress.

  She stepped inside the shower stall, letting the water rain on her head, her well-shaped shoulders, her full breasts, the slim hips and straight, firm legs. And her tears joined the spray that trailed her cheeks and body to wash away down the impartial drain.

  During the next few days Loren vacillated between jubilance and anguish in anticipation of seeing Reid again. She couldn't seem to keep her feet on the ground, and she felt ridiculously like a young girl in love. Wild, giddy, inebriated.

  Then Loren contemplated her bizarre solution to their love, and wondered if she should tell Reid. It was so unlike her, even in opposition to what she would recommend for her clients. And yet it was the idea of a solution—albeit a bizarre one—that kept her eagerly looking forward to a continued relationship with Reid. That and the fact that she couldn't help herself.

  Whenever she was with Mark, Loren couldn't resist comparing Reid's rugged virility with Mark's suave sophistication, Reid's sincerity against Mark's sarcasm, Reid's sensuous kisses to Mark's perfunctory efforts.

  The man who met her at the door on Sunday was rakishly western. Loren couldn't deny his appearance was very anti-Washington, but she delighted in the way he looked. Reid was himself—different, special. And she loved him, loved the sight of him, the masculine fragrance he emitted, the virility of his touch. All of her femininity melted in his presence, and Loren desired him with deep aching the moment she saw him. She longed to throw herself wantonly against his rock-hard body.

  Looking at him now, she wasn't sure she could ever let him leave her again. But she held herself in check and reveled in his splendid appearance. His finely tailored gray jacket squared broadly across his shoulders but tapered narrowly to fit his waist. It fell casually open to reveal a luxurious slate-blue silk shirt, caught at the neck with an elaborately etched silver Concho western tie. The navy slacks hugged his slim hips and topped gray lizard boots. The old, scurfy boots were gone. These were impeccable and gorgeous. In fact, his total look was expensive and marvelous.

  "Well, howdy partner," she drawled with a grin.

  Wordlessly Reid stepped inside her small historic town house, his ebony eyes never leaving hers. Within another breathless moment she was in his arms, inhaling everything that was Reid Mecina, drowning in his flood of kisses. It felt so good, so right to be with him, in his arms, absorbing his essence. Loren wanted to press him into every cell, into her very soul. Whatever the solution to their dilemma, she knew she had to have him. Even if it was occasionally, she wanted him in her arms.

  "I've missed you this week, baby," he murmured. "I can't tell you how good it is to see you. To be with you. You fill a deep void in my life."

  "Somehow you managed very completely for six years without me," she answered wryly.

  "There was always an emptiness without you, and your sweet love, Loren. I didn't realize just how bare my life was without you." He sighed, his hand moving possessively over her soft breasts and up to her face.

  She turned her face away. “Honestly Reid, why do you think you can step back into my life and just pick up that love again?"

  "Oh, baby, I don't. I just—"

  "Want me, I know," she finished.

  He folded his arms across the expanse of his chest. "No. That's not so. Not totally. Do you want me to prove it?"

  She glanced around at him, curiously amused. "How?"

  "We'll spend the day together... and I won't lay a hand on you. I won't touch you again until you suggest it."

  She laughed aloud at his droll suggestion. "I don't think you can."

  "Of course I can, woman. Don't you think I have any willpower at all?" He stood defiantly, arms akimbo, legs spread apart.

  Damn, he looked good to her. Loren wondered if she had the willpower to resist him. "Of course you do, Reid." She giggled, delighted with his new approach. So, he would try to drive her crazy? Well, she could play the game too. "We'll see how you manage today, Mr. Mecina. This is a test."

  He crooked an eyebrow. "A test? For me—or for you?"

  "For you, silly."

  "And the prize for the winner?"

  "Just your own personal satisfaction." Loren propped her hands on her hips.

  “Not enough.” Reid's hands slipped through her arms to lock around the back and pull her close. "There's only one thing that will give me complete satisfaction. You."

  "Now, Reid, you promised." She grabbed his hands and brought them around to the front.

  "Well, then, get ready. If I can't have you totally and completely, we certainly aren't going to hang around here." He swatted her on the rear as she scurried upstairs to finish dressing. Giggling like a schoolgirl, Loren realized that she was as bad as he. She had been prepared for his intense lovemaking and her own unequivocal reception this afternoon. But Reid had turned the tables on her. Just what in hell was he trying to prove?

  Angel sat on the edge of the bed, watching Loren fluff her hair and finish her makeup. Maybe out of guilt, Loren stopped to give her a pat before hurrying out of the room. Disappointed, Angel curled on the food of the bed and dozed.

  Reid was engrossed in the newspaper when she returned, wearing a navy and white silk sundress. It was one of her summer favorites. The jacket was slung casually over one spaghetti-strapped shoulder and her hair was brushed back, tucked behind one ear with a silver clip.

  Reid whistled admiringly. "You look fantastic! Maybe I'll rescind my promise, gorgeous."

  She wagged a finger teasingly. "Oh, no, you don't. It's too l
ate now. The vow is made. Anyway, I'm all dressed, makeup, hair, everything."

  He stood up, expelling his breath slowly. "You certainly are. There is only one vow I want to make to you, mi amor. ..."

  But Loren laughingly handed him the key before preceding him out the door. "Where to, Jeeves?"

  "Hmmm? Oh, I don't know. What sounds nice?"

  She smiled enthusiastically. "The country. Let's go out to the country."

  He opened the car door. "A sus órdenes, mi señorita bonita."

  They drove along the beautiful George Washington Memorial Parkway, stopping first to walk across the bridge to the tiny island that served to commemorate Theodore Roosevelt. Here was the privacy they sought on the small, elusive island with its thick green growth of trees and underbrush. However, the steady stream of treetop-skimming jets approaching the airport drove them away, probably along with all the wildlife that was supposed to find refuge there.

  Continuing along the turnpike that followed the Potomac, they ended up at Great Falls, Virginia. They shared a cold drink, then walked along the tree-shaded paths. This place, where the Potomac crashed and rushed among giant boulders, was like a different river from the one that lapped lazily along the wharfs of old Alexandria. They talked and teased, enjoying the warm summer day and each other to the utmost.

  Loren found that Reid had not changed so much after all. He worked hard for what was important to him—his family, property, and homeland in Arizona. She couldn't fault anyone for that. She felt the same way.

  Reid was impressed with how much change had taken place in Loren. She had a remarkable amount of drive, her accomplishments were amazing, and yet, she was still beautiful woman. Oh, so beautiful. They could have talked forever, but for the Navajo Code Talkers' reception.

  They drove back into town in silence, each savoring the day and their precious little time together. A large gathering milled around the formal rose garden. Some of the Navajos looked uncomfortable but others were smiling, shaking hands, making an effort to meet everyone there. Obviously it was a typical Washington reception and a politician's field day.

  "I recognize the Arizona senators. And there's a representative from New Mexico," Loren whispered.

  "Oh, yes," Reid agreed quietly. "Since the Navajo reservation lies in both states, they wouldn't dare miss this occasion. There's Arizona's governor, the mayor of Phoenix, and the governor of New Mexico." He pointed out the public officials until he spied a friend. "There's Fred Tepaca. Fred was a code talker in Bougainville. Come on, Loren. I want you to meet him. Interesting man."

  Loren accompanied Reid as he introduced her to several friends from Arizona. There was a tremendous sense of patriotic respect among all who attended. Realistically Loren knew that the occasion was merely symbolic, yet it was also significant, as attested by the array of television cameras gathered near the podium.

  The ceremony was very poignant. There were speeches and awards. Loren was particularly touched by an elderly woman who hobbled forward to accept a Silver Star posthumously for her son's valor.

  Glancing about the crowd of somber faces, Loren noted tears in the eyes of many. Suddenly the impact of what Reid had said about the importance of this day, at least for these Native Americans, struck her. Yes, as he said, this ceremony was delayed too long. Everyone should know about these heroes of the war.

  With a final honor guard twenty-one-gun salute and singing of "The Star-Spangled Banner," the ceremony ended. There were a few brief moments of uneasy silence as everyone wrestled with memories of war and suffering and losing loved ones. Then the band struck up some refreshing popular music and the subdued group began to socialize and line up for punch and finger sandwiches.

  While Reid conversed with local officials about his work on the water project, Loren strolled around the elegantly landscaped grounds. She spotted an elderly lady sitting alone beside a magnificent yellow rosebush. Her brown skin and dark hair drawn back severely into a bun contrasted with the vivid summer garden about her. There was a certain sadness in the lonely stare of the ebony-dark eyes, and Loren was drawn to her. Walking closer, Loren recognized the woman as the one who had received a posthumous award for her son.

  "Would you like some punch?" she ventured.

  The woman stared at Loren with dark, unblinking eyes for a long moment, and Loren tried again. "Let me bring you something to drink."

  The old woman gave her a slight nod.

  Loren returned a few minutes later with a small tray laden with drinks for them both, plus a variety of sandwiches and cookies. Together the two women ate and drank quietly. Loren finally introduced herself and the old woman did the same. Her voice was cracked with age, but there was an underlying strength of character that emerged as she spoke.

  "I am Emmaline Walker."

  "It's nice to meet you, Mrs. Walker. Are you from Arizona?"

  She nodded solemnly. "I travel from Bisbee."

  Loren had no idea of the location of the town. "Is that near Tucson?" she asked hopefully.

  Emmaline Walker nodded. "Southeast."

  Loren found it difficult to talk to the woman, who spoke in abbreviated, heavily accented syllables. "So you traveled from Arizona to receive this award in honor of your son? You must be very proud of him."

  The woman shook her head slowly. "I did not travel this way just to get a star of silver to honor my son."

  “No? Then why did you come here Mrs. Walker?"

  "My granddaughter, she sends me to talk to someone about what they call 'benefits.' But no one will listen. The men, not interested." She stopped and waggled her old, wrinkled hand toward the politicians who stood talking earnestly about their own interests, Reid among them. "The men are too busy with important things to listen to this old woman. So I return with only this silver, which is nothing for the life of my son. But benefits will not bring him back either." She sighed heavily.

  "What benefits?" Loren was curious and leaned closer to catch each broken phrase.

  "None."

  Loren paused. "None? You mean the benefits stopped coming?"

  The old woman spoke slowly. "The benefits not come at all."

  Loren stopped in mid-bite. "Are you saying that you never received military benefits after your son's death? No monthly checks? No insurance money?"

  The old woman blinked and nodded placidly. "None. And my granddaughter says I should get benefits from the government because of this. Because he is now gone from us."

  Loren sat up straight, realizing that she must gather more facts before taking any action. But this was definitely her kind of action. "Mrs. Walker, did your son die in the war? Was he killed in battle?"

  "No fighter. Benjamin was smart. He was code talker." Her voice was proud.

  "Tell me about him. Please. I'll listen to your story, Mrs. Walker. Maybe I can help."

  The old woman turned to look into Loren’s eyes. "But you are only a woman, too. How can you help?"

  Loren knotted inside at the woman’s words, and if they had come from anyone else, she would have jumped to her feet and defended every inch of her femininity. Instead, she clamped her jaws and explained patiently, "I am a lawyer and I know about the laws that deal with the benefits you're supposed to receive. I think I can help you."

  "Anglo laws?"

  Loren nodded. "Yes. Our English laws. Please tell me about your son. What was his name?" She scrambled in her purse for a pen and scrap of paper, writing furiously as the old Navajo woman related her tale.

  Her son was only eighteen when he was selected to be a marine from a boarding school in Shiprock, New Mexico. The group of intelligent young men was chosen specifically to be trained in the highly complicated code using the Navajo language. By the time he had finished communications training at Camp Pendleton, he was all of nineteen. He was shipped to the South Pacific without a visit home and, in the fall of 1943, Mrs. Walker was notified of his death on a faraway beach called Saipan.

  "Didn't you know that you should
receive military benefits after the death of your son?" Loren asked gently.

  Emmaline Walker shrugged. "My husband was very bitter. Angry with the federal government. He did not want any money for our son’s life. Soon we moved to Bisbee so he could work in the copper mine there. Now my husband is gone, too. My granddaughter says I should have benefits."

  Loren nodded thoughtfully. "I'm sure there was an insurance policy issued on your son. It's not much, but . . ." She looked into the dark, sad eyes of the old woman and knew that even a small amount of money would help her. Pride had prevented her from any mention of money, preferring to call it benefits, and Loren understood.

  "Loren? There you are." Reid's voice broke into the women's privacy.

  Loren looked up, suddenly aware that she and Emmaline Walker had been lost in the tragic story of Benjamin Walker, young Navajo code talker and hero, and the unspoken tale of his mother's poverty.

  "Reid." Loren smiled. "I want you to meet my new friend, Emmaline Walker. She’s from Bisbee, Arizona. Mrs. Walker, this is my friend, Reid Mecina. He lives in Tucson. His father was a senator."

  The old woman nodded politely to him, but didn't speak, didn’t make eye contact.

  Loren attempted to explain her concerns for the woman beside her. "Mrs. Walker tells me the tragic story about her son, Benjamin, who was a Navajo code talker. He didn't return from the battle at Saipan, and she never received his military insurance."

  Reid stooped beside the bent old woman and took her weathered hand in his. "I'm sorry to hear about your brave son, Mrs. Walker. But there must be something we can do about that insurance. Let's talk to your congressman. He's here today." Reid gestured toward a well-dressed white-haired man who was conferring with a group of Navajo men.

  Stubbornly she shook her head. "No more talking today. I try to tell my story to them." She aimed her wrinkled hand vaguely. "But they did not want to hear old woman. This lady with blue eyes is only one who listens."