The thunder was moving closer, and outside of the house the wind picked up, rattling the windows nearly as much as he was rattled by her presence.
"Okay," he said, giving up on his attempt to rearrange his cards. He threw them down onto the bed. "Okay, you want to know how Ray died? His head was blown off, okay? It was ripped from his neck. One second I was shouting instructions to him—he was helping a bunch of men from our unit get to shore—and the next thing I knew I was covered with his blood and his brains and pieces of his skull. And you know what the really stupid thing was?"
Her face was pale and her eyes were enormous, and he knew he shouldn't be telling her any of this, but now that he'd started, he couldn't stop.
"I started screaming for the medics—like they were going to be able to patch him back up. Like they were going to help. But even if they could have, all of our unit's medics were already dead. None of them even made it to shore. Two of them stepped out of the Higgins boats and drowned. There's something that I left out of the polite version. The water out by that reef was too goddamn deep," he told her. "Hundreds of men waded through both chest-deep water and Japanese machine-gun fire, and the water proved to be the deadliest. They goddamn walked right into an underwater trough, is that what you want to hear? With eighty pounds of gear, those men sank. Even the strongest swimmers didn't stand a chance in water that was well over their heads, with all that gear on their backs, with all those other men struggling around them, pulling them down. And most of those farm boys couldn't swim a single stroke to save their lives."
Charlie looked as if she were going to burst into tears. "My God, they drowned?"
"Do you know why we didn't drown?" Vince's voice shook. "Me and Ray?" He didn't wait for her to answer. "Because those dead Marines finally filled in that trough enough to keep the rest of us from going under. We were far enough back in the line, and we walked over them. We walked over their bodies, Charles."
He was the one who started to cry.
"Oh, God, Vince." She crawled across the bed to him.
"Please," he said, damn near shaking her as she came close enough to grab hold of. "You've got to help me talk to Senator Howard, or, Jesus, someone, so this doesn't ever happen again. You said you could get him to pull strings..."
She was crying, too, as she clung to him, as he clung to her. "I don't want you to go. Don't go back! Please don't go back to that!"
"I don't want to," he confessed. "But, Jesus God, I have to. Don't you see?"
"I know," she wept. "I know. I just... I don't want to lose you, too."
"You'll never lose me," he told her, pushing her hair back from her face, away from his face, too. "I love you too much, Charlotte—I'll come back to you, I swear I will come back."
"When you say it like that," she said as she looked up at him, "I can almost believe you. But I know that's not something you can promise." Her eyes welled with a fresh rush of tears.
And then she kissed him.
The thunderstorm didn't move any closer that night. It never came near enough to distract him completely.
Which was his ultimate downfall.
Yeah, blame it on the weather rather than the fact that Charlie looked and moved like a movie star, that her smile was the definition of glorious, and—most important of all— that beneath her brisk, no-nonsense attitude resided a truly kind woman with infinite patience and a bone-deep sweetness of spirit.
Vince had replayed their first night together tens of thousands of tunes over the years—particularly the war years— that followed. And no matter how often he ran that memory, he couldn't for the life of him figure out how Charlotte had gotten out of that robe and nightgown so quickly. All he knew was that she was kissing him and he was kissing her, and then, holy God, there was all that incredible smooth skin beneath his hands, pressed against his own miraculously naked body.
It happened so quickly. In a heartbeat, she was touching him, guiding him, and then...
Every cliché ever written was true. Every overused description, every tired line of poetry that waxed rhapsodic about making love, was right on the money.
There was nothing on earth that compared—even remotely—to doing this act with this one incredible woman who totally owned his heart.
And who loved him, too, despite everything she'd said the night before. This proved that she loved him—the fact that she would do this with him. She wouldn't do this if she didn't intend to marry him, would she?
His heart felt as swollen and as ready to burst as the part of him that was buried so deeply inside of her, so much so that he felt compelled to speak.
It was a miracle his voice worked, although he definitely sounded hoarse and very unlike himself. "Charlotte, are you sure?"
A little late for that question, actually. Because what was he going to do if she said no?
But, "Yes," she told him. "Oh, please, oh yes!"
And then, just as he was convinced beyond a shadow of a doubt that there could be no better pleasure than this, he discovered, all in a rapid sequence, the true wonder of her release, his own release, and then the intense, drifting sweetness of an aftermath filled with the bone-melting satisfaction of knowing that he'd sent his seed deep inside of her.
He'd heard men talking about the fear of getting their girlfriends pregnant, about breaking into a cold sweat after the heat of the moment had passed.
But Vince wasn't afraid. In fact, he wanted—he prayed— that he'd made her pregnant. Imagine that! Charlie carrying his child. He couldn't think of anything he wanted more.
It was wonderful, lying there with her, imagining their lives together.
At least it was until he opened his big mouth. "We'll take the train to Maryland tomorrow, right after you get off from work."
She seemed to wake up, to realize that they were lying naked, bodies intertwined amid the remains of their card game on top of his bed—her bed—in a room that was blazing with light.
"I'm not going to marry you, Vince," she told him, pushing him off of her.
"But..." He propped himself up onto one elbow as she scrambled to find her nightgown on the bedroom floor. She had to turn it inside out and while she did, she stood with her back to him as if to try to hide her nakedness.
"Nothing's changed," she said. "You're not going to stay. I know that. It was wrong of me to ask it of you. I know that, too." She slipped her robe back on, and when she finally turned to face him, he saw that she was working very hard not to cry.
He sat up. "Charlotte—"
She backed toward the door. "Forgive me, please, for my lack of restraint tonight. It was lovely. You 're lovely. I hope you know just how lovely it was to... But I can't... I—
Vince stood up, and she bumped into the door with her back and reached for the knob. "Whoa," he said. "Slow down, okay? Let's sit down and—"
"There's nothing to say," she interrupted. "I knew you had expectations, but I wanted ... I wanted... I was selfish and I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry, Vince."
Charlie slipped out the door and was gone.
"Wait!" He searched for his pajamas so that he could follow her, but of course they were tangled. He cursed as he tried to jam his legs into them and nearly fell onto his face on the floor.
On the movie screen, all those years later, the actor and actress—obviously hired because of how good they looked naked rather than for their ability to recite dialogue convincingly—put their clothes back on effortlessly.
They were completely clean, too, after making sweaty, steamy love in that grimy, rat-infested basement. Their hair remained perfectly styled.
The magic of Hollywood definitely wasn't with Vince that first night he'd made love to Charlotte, that was for sure.
Before he could get dressed and go after her, he'd had to peel the jack of hearts and three of clubs off his naked butt.
"I was thinking more along the lines of getting drunk and then screwing your brains out," Joan had heard Brooke say to Muldoon. "And that sure as
hell can't hurt, darling."
"Well," he'd said in response. "That's, um ... quite an idea."
"Let's get out of here and go back upstairs as soon as possible," Brooke suggested.
How did this happen? And how could she fix it?
As Muldoon escorted Brooke across the room to introduce her to Admiral Crowley and the other military VIPs, Joan seriously considered the possibility of running after him, of tackling him around the knees if necessary.
But then what, after she got him onto the floor? What would she say?
Don't go upstairs with Brooke, because she 'd just be using you. But God, look at Brooke in that dress. If Joan were Muldoon, she probably wouldn't be too upset about being used.
She could say, I was wrong.
Hey, story of her life. Sometimes it seemed as if she spent more time wrong than right. And in this case, she wasn't even completely sure what she'd been wrong about.
She was still convinced that any kind of relationship— anything public, that is—with Muldoon would be looked at askance in terms of her career. But maybe something temporary, something short term with a very definite end date, something that went on privately, behind closed and locked doors...
Yes, that was definitely what she wanted. And it sure seemed to be what he'd wanted, too—up to three hours ago.
The night wore on, interminably long, each minute seeming like a millennium, with absolutely no chance for her to pull Muldoon aside and beg his forgiveness.
While Muldoon and Brooke were out on the dance floor, Myra sent Joan to go talk to the reporter from Fox. An entire camera crew was there, hoping to get an interview with the "happy couple."
Every time the reporter called them that, Joan's teeth hurt.
It was impossible to talk without screaming while the music was playing, so they stepped out onto the patio, where Joan gave her four thousandth apology of the day. Brooke had no time right now. This was a pleasant social event for her—a chance to reunite with her friend, Lieutenant Muldoon.
She gave the reporter a top-ten list of reasons why she couldn't talk to Brooke right now, careful to leave off reason number one—that her married lover had just chosen the vice presidential candidacy over his relationship with her, and in an attempt to deal with the pain of his rejection, Brooke was totally shit-faced drunk.
Halfway through, Joan's cell phone rang. She checked the number—Myra.
"Excuse me," she told the news crew. "I've got to take this."
Myra sounded stressed. "Please tell me Brooke's with you."
Uh-oh. "She's not."
Myra's response was blisteringly succinct.
"Darlings! Up here!"
The reporter spotted Brooke the same moment Joan did.
"I found her," Joan told Myra. "She's up on the balcony outside of her room."
Brooke was actually waving to get their attention. Muldoon was with her, and as Joan watched, he tried to talk to her, tried to tug her back into the hotel suite.
The video camera started rolling.
"Excuse me," Joan said loudly. "No one's given you permission to—"
"Who's your affiliate?" Brooke called down to the reporter.
"We're with Fox News, Ms. Bryant," the reporter called back. "May we ask you some questions?"
"I think you better get over here," Joan told Myra as she tried to step in front of the camera. "I'm sorry," she said to the cameraman, "you'll have to turn that off and go back inside."
"Is your camera on?" Brooke asked.
"Yes, it is," the reporter replied.
Joan tried talking directly to Brooke. "If you want to give an interview, Ms. Bryant, please let me set—"
"Good." Brooke ignored her. "Because I have a message I'd like to broadcast to my good friend John."
Oh, no. Oh, no, no. Joan tried to get in front of the lens, but the cameraman was too quick for her.
And then the reporter and some bruiser of an equipment-lugging guy was there, blocking her way.
"John, darling, I appreciate your note wishing me the very best." Brooke projected nicely with her stage voice.
"Don't make me go through you," Joan said to the three-hundred-pound man. "Because I will."
"You don't have to be concerned, sweetheart—my new friend, Mike, has that covered." Brooke was doing her best Evita from the balcony. "He's a SEAL and SEAL teams accept only the best."
"What's the harm in letting her talk?" the big guy said in a remarkably high-pitched voice.
Joan could see Muldoon, purposely standing with his back to the camera, talking to Brooke, trying to talk her down from the ledge, so to speak.
That was when she realized that she had her cell phone, and Muldoon had his cell phone. She quickly dialed his number.
Shit, she could hear it ringing, but he was ignoring it. "Come on, Michael, pick up!" Or read my mind and grab Brooke and get her the hell inside. Although, if she resisted him, that wouldn't look too good on camera...
Whatever he was saying to her, it served to distract Brooke only temporarily.
"I seem to remember you telling me once that you tried to get into the SEAL program while you were in the Navy," Brooke continued for the cameras, for John, poor bastard, whose political career was going to be in jeopardy if she mentioned his last name. "But, golly, you just weren't good enough, were you?"
A crowd was starting to gather, some people watching from inside the ballroom and others from out here on the patio. Joan redialed Muldoon's number.
"I'm going to ask you again to get out of my way," she told the giant squeaky-toy man.
"You're going to have to try to go through me," he responded, managing somehow to sound both apologetic and bored—as if this sort of thing happened to him more than once a day. "But if you do lay a hand on me, there will be a lawsuit, plus a whole lot more bad press for the current administration."
"I hate you," Joan told him.
"That doesn't particularly break me up."
Brooke continued orating. "I suppose I should end this by being gracious and wishing you the best, too."
End this. She was going to end this. Thank you, Lord, have her end this fast. Joan saw both Myra and Dick picking their way through the crowd, trying to move quickly without revealing how completely panicked they were.
"Except—whoops!—you've already had the best, but you threw it away, didn't you?" Brooke said. "Have a nice evening, darling."
"Okay," Joan said loudly. "That's all. Thank you. We don't have time for any questions. Lieutenant, will you please take Ms. Bryant inside?"
But wait. Brooke shook Muldoon off, because, like the chef selling Ginsu knives on that late-night TV infomercial. there apparently was still more.
"God knows I'll enjoy my evening." Brooke got even louder and more dramatic, if that was possible. "Think of me, darling. Tonight I'll be doing it Navy SEAL style."
Oh, dear Lord in heaven.
"Well, there's the Brooke Bryant sound bite of the year," the giant squeaked.
No freaking kidding. "Thank you," Joan said again. "That's all we have time for."
But Brooke had a different finale in mind. "And in case you want a reminder of what you've been missing..."
Oh, shit, shit, triple shit!
"Whoa!" The bruiser's eyes opened more than halfway as Brooke pulled her gown up and over her head.
It was a smooth move that a stripper would have had to train for years to pull off. It left her standing there in only her fancy underpants for the entire world to see.
But alas, the visuals were not yet over. As Muldoon grabbed her to pull her inside—enough was apparently enough for him and he took her over his shoulder in a fireman's hold—Brooke threw her gown off the balcony. The shiny red fabric caught the light as it fell to the ground.
Joan turned away from the sight of the heavy curtains closing in Brooke's room to find Myra bearing down on her.
"I'm prepared to take full responsibility for this," Joan said. "I should have been able
to stop it. I should have done something." Jesus, maybe she should have taken off her dress.
"She did the best she could," the giant told Joan's boss.
"Shut up, you nasty man." Joan startled herself with her own ferocity. She turned back to Myra. "Will you please fire me and get it over with, because I really need to get out of here right now."
What she wanted to do was get in her rental car and drive far, far away from this hotel where, in one of the grand suites, the one man she liked better than any other man she'd ever met in her life—yes, it was true, and she'd completely and foolishly blown any chance at all with him because she was an idiot—and the President's daughter were doing it, Navy SEAL style.
But Myra had other plans. "Meeting. My suite. Ten minutes."
Well, gee, wasn't this going to be fun—figuring out how to take this outburst of Brooke's and spin it into something positive. Well, barring that, they'd try to spin it into something less destructive.
Less destructive to the President, that is. Brooke and Muldoon and Joan were all just pawns in this game.
Joan knew that if she opened up to Myra and confessed that she had a personal interest in Muldoon, that damn it, she really liked this guy, the response would be "So what?"
Of course, it didn't really matter, because that would probably be Muldoon's response right now as well.
Ihbraham looked stunned, and Mary Lou modestly pulled her shirt down slightly, attempting to cover herself while still providing Haley with some air. Haley, of course, immediately grabbed her shirt and yanked it up.
"There's room for you to sit," she said, shifting over so that there indeed was room on the bench.
"Uh," he said. "Yes. Thank you." As he sat, he glanced at her, then looked away. "It doesn't bother you to do that out here? Where anyone can see?"
She looked around. The little churchyard was deserted. And her back was to the street. The only person who could see her was Ihbraham.
"It would bother me more to drive home with a screaming kid," she said. "I used to carry a scarf to cover us, but these days she just pulls it off. I could sit in my car, if you want. I mean, if it bothers you..."
Troubleshooters 05 Into The Night Page 30