“I can’t tell you what to do,” she said. “It has to be your decision.”
“I know, you’re right. It’s just, what if I meet someone else? I can’t cheat on him. I could never do something like that.”
For a moment, CJ didn’t breathe. “Have you met someone?” Please, don’t let it be Charlie, she thought. Then again, every other GI she pictured was nearly as awful.
Brady stared into the fire. “I didn’t say that.”
Did that mean she had or hadn’t? CJ caught herself, wondering again at her own oddly self-interested response. A best friend would show support, understanding, empathy. If she didn’t, what did that make her?
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I wish I could help.”
“You are helping,” Brady said. Then her eyes narrowed. “Saving some chocolate for later?” And she leaned close to brush crumbs from the corner of CJ’s mouth, her fingers lingering.
Oh, God. CJ felt herself flush as she recognized the urge filling her—she wanted to capture Brady’s hand and hold it to her lips. She wanted to touch her pale throat, the curve of her chin, the freckles on her cheekbones.
She stood up and backed away, understanding all at once how a spooked horse must feel.
Brady’s smile faded. “What is it?”
“Nothing. I have to pee.”
Then she blushed harder because she hadn’t meant to be crude in front of Brady. Brady, who she wanted to kiss; Brady, who…her breath catching, she clamped down on her racing thoughts. This couldn’t happen. It was fine for the Kates and Tobys of the world, but it wasn’t right for her. What would her parents think? What would her brothers say? If they found out, they would never let her near Rebecca or Pete again.
“The bathroom’s right there,” Brady prompted.
More to the point, what would Brady think? Here she was looking for support from a friend, and CJ was busy picturing—
“Mm-hmm,” she said vaguely, and shut herself in the bathroom.
A gilded mirror hung on one wall. CJ leaned against the elegant ivory sink beneath it and stared at her reflection. Her cheeks were pink, from the fire as much as from the turmoil suddenly enveloping her. Something clicked in her mind, and she remembered the night after she’d met Brady, when she examined herself in the barracks mirror trying to figure out what had changed. This was it. This was why Charlie and Janice reacted to her the way they did. They cared about Brady, and they knew CJ’s motives were far from pure. Even if she hadn’t admitted it to herself until now.
Twenty-four hours, she reminded herself, dashing cold water against her face. Only one more day, and then they would be back on base.
“You can do this,” she muttered to her expression. Then she shook her head. Here she was in a hotel room in New Mexico alone with the woman she had discovered she was, well, attracted to, and all she could think about was getting back to Fort Bliss where privacy was nonexistent and intimacy next to impossible. If she hadn’t felt like throwing up, she might have laughed at her own absurdity.
By the time she’d peed and brushed her teeth, there was no more delaying. Steeling herself, she opened the door and headed back into the room, where the four-poster bed seemed to leap out at her. The bed she and Brady would be sharing. Alone. All night.
Brady, already clad in a green silk nightgown, brushed past her. “My turn,” she said, not meeting CJ’s eyes.
Of course she would wear silk.
CJ changed into her own cotton nightgown, then turned out the lights and crawled into bed. Her head hurt, which seemed a fitting conclusion to a day that had started so well and veered so dramatically off course at the end. The clock on the wall ticked off the minutes, hands barely visible in the light from the dying fire, and then Brady opened the bathroom door.
She paused, her eyes on CJ. “Are you tired?”
“Mmmm.” She rolled over onto her side, facing the wall. “Goodnight.”
The bed shifted as Brady slipped between the sheets, the warmth of her body seeming to hover tantalizingly close. Just as CJ made up her mind to turn and face her, Brady settled onto her own side of the bed.
“Goodnight,” she said in a voice so quiet CJ couldn’t tell what she was thinking—irritated or indifferent, wishful or disappointed.
But then, she was the wishful one, wasn’t she? The one who wanted to slide over to Brady’s side of the bed, to press her lips to Brady’s as the firelight cast shadows on the wallpaper and the night grew colder outside. Instead, she hugged herself tightly. Brady didn’t want her, not like that. She was normal. She wanted children and a writing career, comfort and safety, a life that couldn’t possibly include CJ except as a friend.
Oh, God, she thought again, squeezing her eyes shut. What am I going to do?
Chapter Eight
She was awake before sunrise, unrefreshed after a restless few hours of sleep. Her head still ached and her mouth felt dry, as if she’d had too much wine at supper the previous evening. In the night she had awakened—which meant she must have slept, though it felt like she hadn’t—to find Brady snuggled up to her, one arm across CJ’s chest, head on her shoulder. CJ had lain motionless, inhaling the now-familiar scent of strawberries and lavender, trying to resist the urge to give herself over to cuddling with Brady. After all, it was cold in their room, and it was natural to seek warmth from the person sleeping beside you.
What wasn’t natural was how much she wanted to kiss that person. In fact, there were all sorts of laws against it—civil, cultural, not to mention martial. Even so, she couldn’t seem to stop herself from turning her head slightly so that her lips brushed against Brady’s forehead. Immediately she pulled back and held her breath, but Brady slept on beside her. What was it about her that made CJ feel so good? And how could such a feeling be criminal, as the Army claimed? Irregular, yes; abnormal, perhaps. But a crime? That part didn’t make any sense.
At some point in the early hours of the morning, she awakened again to find that Brady had moved away. A mix of disappointment and relief assailed her. She lay in the dark listening to the clock tick, the pipes in the walls gurgle, the building creak above and below. The closeness she’d felt to Brady in the middle of the night had faded, leaving the same fear that had nearly paralyzed her the night before. What was she going to do? And how would she ever face her parents? She had always tried to be a good daughter. How would she be able to look them in the eye now, knowing she wasn’t the person they believed her to be?
Beside her, Brady rolled onto her side, silk nightgown bunching in a way that made CJ long to reach out and smooth it across the curve of her exposed side. God, what was wrong with her? It was like a switch had been thrown the night before, and now she didn’t know how to turn off the desire to touch Brady. Castigating herself, she slipped out of bed and dressed quietly in her PT dress and GI pants. Then she left the room, feeling bereft as soon as she closed the door between them. For God’s sake, she was acting like a lovesick girl mooning over the boy who didn’t know she existed. Or, to be more precise, a lovesick girl mooning over a girl who would probably hate her if she knew.
Cut the sappiness, Jamieson, she told herself. By nightfall they would be back on base, back in their separate barracks surrounded by their squad mates. The thought produced a wave of contradictory emotions, but she ignored them. She needed space from Brady, that much was clear. Space and time to figure out how to get back to normal.
Downstairs, she greeted the front desk staff and headed into Rebecca’s, the restaurant named for the lodge’s resident ghost, according to the menu they’d read the night before. The dining room was almost empty, so she picked a table near the window with a view out over the resort’s well-tended grounds. A waiter brought her coffee, and as she sipped the reviving liquid—her mother prized the curative powers of coffee, especially when it came to headaches—she studied the portrait of the restaurant’s namesake on the far wall. Red-haired and blue-eyed, this Rebecca looked nothing like CJ’s dark-haired, dark-eyed
little sister.
CJ was on her second cup when Brady, dressed in her own PT kit and cowboy hat, slid into the seat across from her. CJ’s heartbeat accelerated, and she cursed inwardly. She’d hoped that her attraction to Brady had been a product of their lovely day, of the cozy fire-lit room, of too many sweets before bedtime. But as Brady gazed at her across the table, she couldn’t will away the leaping pleasure she felt at the sight of her. Brady entered a room, and suddenly the room seemed brighter, happier, more interesting. CJ had convinced herself that her feelings for Brady fell well within the bounds of female friendship. Now there could be no more pretense.
“Good morning,” she said, congratulating herself on the neutrally welcoming tone she managed to dredge up.
“Is it? I thought maybe you’d left,” Brady said, the seriousness of her gaze belying her light tone.
“Where could I have gone?” CJ pretended to joke back. In fact her flight instinct had clamored so loudly on the way downstairs that if there had still been passenger trains running between Cloudcroft and Alamogordo, she may have been tempted.
Brady shrugged. “I don’t know. I woke up and you weren’t there.”
“I couldn’t sleep.”
“What, you missed Ethel’s snoring?”
“So it would seem.”
CJ and the other D-lites, as they flippantly referred to themselves, had complained enough in Brady’s presence that she knew all about Ethel Treece’s deviated septum. Similarly, CJ knew the intimate details of Clara Jefferson’s penchant for crunching peanut brittle in the middle of the night even though she’d never actually met Clara, a founding member of Company A.
The waiter brought another cup of coffee, and CJ watched as Brady stirred in fresh cream. How did she make even the simplest of actions seem graceful?
“Did I do something wrong last night?” Brady asked, her gaze firmly fixed on the table top.
“What? No.”
“Then are you upset with me because I said I was thinking of ending my engagement?”
“Not at all.” She paused. What could she tell Brady? Not the truth: I realized I want to be your boyfriend, except I’m a girl, so… At this, she couldn’t hold back a slightly hysterical snort of laughter.
Brady stared at her. “Is this funny to you?”
“No, it’s not. I mean, you’re not. I was laughing at me.”
“Did you want to share the joke?”
“Not really.”
Brady blinked, and then she shook her head. “What’s going on, CJ? If I did something wrong, I’m sorry.”
“I told you, you didn’t do anything wrong.” With two cups of coffee and minimal sleep to embolden her, she reached across the table and took Brady’s hand. It felt soft and strong in her grasp, and all at once, she had a feeling that everything would work out. Everything would be fine. “I couldn’t sleep, all right?”
Brady glanced down at their clasped hands. “All right.” She squeezed CJ’s fingers softly. “If you’re sure.”
“I’m sure.” And then, because she knew she should, CJ let go of Brady’s hand. Almost immediately the sense of loss she’d felt that morning leaving their room accosted her. Trying to shrug it off, she gestured outside where the rising sun angled through acres of evergreens. “It didn’t snow after all. You still up for a hike this morning?”
“I am if you are,” Brady said, sounding more like her usual self.
“First I need food. But after that, I’m up for anything.”
“Anything?” Brady repeated, watching CJ over the rim of her mug.
“Well, not anything…” she started uncertainly. She was saved by the arrival of their waiter. Brady turned her flirtatious smile on the unsuspecting septuagenarian, allowing CJ time to compose herself.
Had Brady done that on purpose? If so, it meant she knew how CJ felt about her, which was surely a fate worse than a month of KP. She couldn’t know, CJ assured herself, turning her attention to the breakfast menu. Brady could never find out.
* * *
By nine, they had paid the bill and loaded their gear back into the car. Sylvia, the older woman at the front desk, had recommended a trail half a mile from the lodge on the way back down to Alamogordo. She had even given them a rough trail map that the lodge kept on hand for “you young types,” as she called them.
“Do you have water?” she’d asked, eyeing them suspiciously.
“Yes,” Brady said, far more tolerantly than CJ would have expected. “And food.”
“Hmph,” Sylvia harrumphed, folding her arms over her sizable breasts. “Extra clothes? Because the weather here can turn before you know it.”
“We have sweaters,” CJ said.
Winter in the Southwest was tricky, they’d been told. High desert country could be hot and dry or cold and snowy. Or somewhere in between, as it had been since they’d left Texas the previous day.
Had it only been a day? CJ sighed. Unbelievable.
“And do you know the signs of mountain sickness?” Sylvia wanted to know.
Brady nodded, but CJ made the mistake of admitting she didn’t. Helpfully, Sylvia ran down the list of afflictions lowlanders often experienced while vacationing in the thin air of the Sacramento Mountains: nausea and vomiting, dizziness, fatigue, loss of appetite, unsteadiness and shortness of breath.
“If you feel any of those things, you turn right around, get in your car and drive down to Alamogordo as fast as you can. Mountain sickness is nothing to sneeze at, you know,” she scolded them.
“Sounds like a hangover,” Brady commented as they left the lodge a few minutes later.
Or lovesickness. CJ sighed again.
They drove out of Cloudcroft slowly, watching for the turnout their erstwhile tour guide had mentioned. She couldn’t get over the differences between Cloudcroft and Alamogordo. Even though she’d known to expect an evergreen forest twenty miles from White Sands, she’d been astounded by the changes along the narrow, twisty road that led from the floor of the Tularosa Basin to the resort town. The sun had been setting as they headed out of Alamogordo, the uneven road instantly starting to climb and remaining at a steady upward grade the entire way with a few pulse-stopping turns above nothingness. Despite the darkening sky, there had been plenty of light to see the transformation from desert to canyon, with rocky, sedimentary cliffs all around, and then again from canyon to forest.
Halfway up they’d pulled over on a narrow turnout to take a break from the occasionally nail-biting drive. The view of the canyon they were passing through—Fresnal, according to the area map—had been spectacular. They’d even caught a glimpse of dunes glittering off in the distance. Back on the road, the changes had accelerated, with scrub brush turning the landscape more green than red and Ponderosa pines beginning to dot the foothills on either of side of the road. Soon trees blanketed the land as far as they could see, except in asymmetrical jigsaw patches owned by logging companies. The transformation was complete—from desert to forest in twenty very long miles.
As Sylvia had promised, the turnout was half a mile down the main road from town. They parked the car, stowed their supplies in the rucksack CJ had borrowed from the hangar and set off along the trail. The beginning went almost straight up, the dirt track with log steps in the steepest spots winding between deciduous trees with branches mostly bare of leaves. They took it slowly, stopping to catch their breath regularly in the thin mountain air. Finally the trail widened and leveled out, and they kicked through the fallen leaves, smiling at each other as the trail meandered over a hilltop.
“This reminds me of Massachusetts,” Brady said.
“Reminds me of home.” CJ gulped in air, but somehow it didn’t feel like enough.
Brady paused. “Are you okay?”
“Fine,” she said, plastering a smile to her face. The trail wasn’t that long. Damned if she’d quit before they even got going.
A little ways in, the trees parted, offering an unrestricted view of the wooden railroad trest
le below that spanned the Mexican Canyon and, beyond it, all the way to the floor of the basin, where miles of white dunes shone beneath another sunny sky. Today there were enormous cumulus clouds moving slowly through the jet stream; from where they stood, they could see cloud-shaped shadows stealing across the earth’s surface.
The railroad trestle, used to transport logs from the mountains down to Alamogordo, looked like a roller coaster, they agreed.
“Do you like roller coasters?” Brady asked.
“Sure. Do you?”
“I love them. There’s one on the boardwalk at Santa Cruz. I’ll have to take you there after the war.”
She lifted the camera and took a few shots while CJ stared unseeing at the view. The thought of visiting Brady after the war struck her almost painfully. How could they possibly remain friends? For that to happen, she would somehow have to get over this awful crush. Which, she had to concede, was the perfect name for the feeling currently pressing in on her.
The trail wound on, some stretches featuring shaded forest hiking, others affording long views of the valleys and ridges nearby. CJ gulped water from her canteen and waited to feel better, but the headache, which had returned full force, and growing nausea refused to abate. Maybe she should tell Brady she wasn’t feeling well.
A half hour of steady walking in, CJ shed her sweater and tied it around her waist.
“Are all those muscles from working on engines?” Brady asked.
“No.” CJ cleared her throat. “They’re from throwing hay and working with the horses.”
Unlike some of their neighbors who had depended on a single crop, her family had diversified: maple syrup in late winter; asparagus in the spring; cherries, blueberries, sweet corn and wheat in the summer; and squash, potatoes and pumpkins throughout the fall. And, of course, celery throughout the summer and into the fall—Kalamazoo wasn’t known as Celery City for nothing. As a result, even during the lean years of the Depression, the farm had produced plenty of food to support seven humans and an assortment of other creatures, including their horses.
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