by Harry Kraus
John yawned and pushed a lonely lemon wedge across the large plate. Claire looked at her own food and wondered if John was listening.
“You need to eat,” he coaxed. “Those shrimp are wonderful.”
She pushed her plate toward him. “I had a salad at Wendy’s before you showed up.”
He helped himself to his favorites and seemed content for the time being, allowing Claire to add one more bit of news—that there were not only twelve interns in her year, but two additional residents who had opted for a lab year, all of whom were competing for eight spots as second-year surgical residents in the program. What she didn’t tell John was where she was when she learned that, and about the shirtless Brett Daniels who had told her.
She studied John as he ate, unable to stop the comparisons between his listening skills and Brett’s, who had made eye contact and seemed to hang on her every word. John reached over and skewered another scallop, sliding it through a trough of butter-herb sauce on the way to his lips.
“This is great stuff,” he grunted.
She nodded and lifted a shrimp from her plate, which now rested closer to John than to her. She chewed, silently mulling over his reaction to her stories. At least he could have acted as if he cared that she was under such pressure.
“I’ve been selfish. All I’ve talked about is me.” She paused. “How long can you stay?”
“Two days. I need to do a sales presentation in Boston. I talked Tom into letting me have the days if I’d save the company some travel dollars for a flight. I need to leave Thursday morning so I can be in Boston by noon.” He sighed and pushed back from the table. “That only gives us two nights together.”
She shook her head. Obviously John hadn’t caught on to her schedule. “Not really. I’ve got to spend tomorrow night at the hospital. I won’t be home until noon on Thursday, if I’m lucky.”
John leaned forward and squinted. “So we can spend the day together, visit the historic sites.”
“John, I’ve got to be in the ICU by six A.M. It isn’t a day or night job. It’s a day and night job.”
“That’s crazy. They can’t work you like that.”
“Actually, this schedule is the best I’ll have all year. On most rotations, they expect you to be in house every day, in addition to every other night, and you can’t expect to get out by noon on your days off.”
His jaw slackened. Apparently, he was beginning to understand reality. “Can’t you trade call or something?”
She shook her head. “It’s not that easy.”
“I drove ten hours to be with you. I didn’t come to tour Lafayette by myself.”
She didn’t know what to say. She held up her hands. “I’m sorry.”
John looked out the window. He didn’t appear to be enjoying the sunset over the river.
“Maybe things will be slack at the hospital tomorrow evening. If you want, you could come into the hospital and eat with me.”
John sighed. “Unless you’re working.”
She winced and nodded. “I think you’re getting it.”
He mumbled a curse word under his breath. Claire could hear it and widened her eyes in response, but decided it was best to let it pass. It definitely wasn’t part of his normal vocabulary, and she was disappointed. It wasn’t the right time to start critiquing his less-than-Christian response. Especially when it summed up how she felt, too.
She reached over and took his hand. “There will be other times for us, John. This is just the beginning.”
He nodded resolutely. “I know.” He continued looking at the river. “So I guess it was okay that I broke our little separation?”
She smiled. “I’m glad that you did.” She squeezed his hand. “I’ve missed you something awful.”
“Has it accomplished what you wanted? Has being away from me proven anything useful?”
“I know my feelings for you have lasted in spite of the miles.”
He looked back into her eyes. “Mine too. So you still want to be my wife?”
She paused. Why did she hesitate to verbalize her commitment? Her throat seemed suddenly dry. “Yes.”
John pulled his hand from hers and put his hand in his pants pocket, retrieving a small felt box. “I was going to wait until tomorrow night. But it looks like this may be my only chance.” He pressed it into her palm and whispered, “Marry me, Claire. I want you to be my wife.”
Claire gripped the small box, her head spinning. Instead of the thrill she was supposed to feel, the memory of Brett Daniels’ hand on her arm popped into her mind. Why did she have to think of him now? She shut her eyes and pulled the box toward her. “Oh, John,” she gasped, opening the lid. A solitary diamond reflected the light from their table’s lantern. “It’s beautiful.”
She’d known this moment was coming. They’d made their commitment to each other months ago. She’d been introducing John as her fiancé for almost a year. So why did the physical evidence of a ring make her stomach churn?
She slipped the ring on her finger. “It’s perfect.” She felt tears welling in her eyes. The ring was beautiful. She loved John. She also felt confused and a little dishonest at proclaiming her unreserved feelings of lifetime commitment to a man more interested in her shrimp dinner than her trials as a new intern.
Oh, maybe she was being unfair. He’d driven for ten hours and he was hungry. She lifted her napkin to her cheek. Fortunately, tears of joy and tears of emotional turmoil were indistinguishable to men.
John apparently accepted the tears as a sign he’d done the right thing. She could almost see his lungs swell with pride. She leaned forward. You’re supposed to kiss when you get a diamond, aren’t you? She kissed him lustily, tasting her own tears, and sobbing through her attempts at making the right response. His mouth was warm, and open for more.
She pulled away and looked at the others in the room. Fortunately, the other patrons seemed to be paying little attention to the young lovers. John’s hand urged her face forward again.
She broke the kiss and pressed her napkin under her nose. “I’m a mess,” she said, standing. “I’ll be right back.” She escaped to the rest room and sat, fully clothed, on the white commode in the first stall. She pulled off a yard of toilet paper and blew her nose noisily before pressing her face into her open hands.
What’s wrong with me? I thought this was what I wanted.
Oh, God, she sobbed the beginning of a prayer. Help me.
Claire stared out the window of John’s red Mustang in silence. It was ten P.M., and in spite of the exciting events of the evening, exhaustion was gaining the upper hand. She yawned and closed her eyes, already dreading the sound of her alarm clock.
When they arrived at her apartment, John dragged his suitcase toward the front door and Claire braced herself for the inevitable discussion about the sleeping arrangements. It was already apparent that John felt he was welcome to stay for the night.
Once inside, Claire turned and kissed him luxuriously, but resisted when he nudged her toward the couch. She feared her resolve would weaken if she fell into an old pattern. “John, it’s late. I’ve got to be up at five, and I hardly slept at all last night.”
“It’s our only night together.” He kissed her again.
Claire pushed him back. “I can’t, John.” She took a deep breath. “This is what our time away from each other was all about. I told you I thought we needed to cool it. I wanted to make sure our relationship could handle not having sex.”
His face fell. “I thought the persistence of our feelings for each other in spite of our separation proved that.”
“But it’s not right. It’s not that I didn’t enjoy it. But I felt so guilty. I wanted to save myself until I got married.”
“We’ve been over this, Claire. We’re committed. A marriage license is basically a formality. In God’s sight, we’re already one.” His voice was gentle, and although he had backed off in response to her reaction, his hands remained on her shoulders, slowly mass
aging her tension away.
“But we’re not married, John. And a prayer didn’t change that. There will be a lifetime for us to get to know each other in that way.”
He didn’t speak but pulled her head to his chest. She sighed and hoped he was getting the message. She spoke quietly into his shirt, enjoying his arms around her, but not lifting her face to his. “When I was a teenager, I made a commitment to follow Christ. I decided then and there to do, as best as I could determine, what he wanted in every circumstance.” She tilted her neck, allowing John’s lips to brush her forehead. “I’ve not always obeyed, and somehow I fell into justifying our physical relationship, but I never felt any kind of peace about it.”
She felt his breath, a deep sigh of frustration, as she continued. “So I needed to be away from you. Not necessarily emotionally, but physically. I couldn’t handle being in your arms without wanting more.”
John moved his hands to her lower back, then lower still. He wasn’t hearing.
“I’m not sure I can handle this,” he whispered.
“Yes, you can. You’ve handled it since graduation.”
“That’s different. We weren’t together.”
“And that’s what I needed to test my resolve. A physical separation. And, even if we’re seeing each other face-to-face, we still need to maintain a relationship without sex.” With that, she backed away, holding him at arm’s length.
“This is our only night together.”
“And I want to remember this night without feeling guilty.”
“I drove ten hours to be with you.”
“John, begging doesn’t become you.”
He sighed and sat down on the couch, testing the seat cushions with a pat of his hand. “So this is my bed.”
“I’ll get you a blanket.” She walked to the hall closet and retrieved a well-worn comforter. “Here,” she said, tossing it onto the couch beside him. “You can use the bathroom down here.” She tussled his hair and kissed his forehead. “Thanks for surprising me.”
His response was less than enthusiastic. “Sure.” He waited a moment and kept his eyes on the faded rug in front of the couch. “For the record, I know you’re right about this.” He paused. “I don’t like it, and I don’t like admitting it, but I know you’re right.”
Her reply was soft, barely above a whisper. “Thanks.”
She left him sitting on the couch and retreated up the stairs to the bathroom to prepare for bed. A few minutes later, she went to her bedroom and slipped off her clothes, donning John’s jersey as a nightshirt. She flipped off the light and stood by her open door listening to John’s preparations downstairs. He’d obviously left the bathroom door open. She listened as he undressed, his belt buckle striking the old hardwood floor. Water ran for a moment, and then she heard vigorous sounds of a thorough toothbrushing.
Claire pushed the door partially shut, enjoying the sounds of having a man in the house, comforted by the familiarity of the noises he made, the knowledge that she wasn’t alone. She pushed the door shut but didn’t lock it, then collapsed into bed. There, in the darkness, she listened as John prepared to sleep. She imagined his well-muscled chest and arms, and more, as she nestled her head into her pillow. She turned on her side and reached out toward the empty space beside her. Oh, how she longed for him to be near her, holding her, bathing her with kisses, massaging her with searching hands.
Her heart beat faster. This seemed like torture. He was so close, and she knew he wanted her fiercely. It would be so easy to invite him up.
She stared at the ceiling before whispering a prayer, wanting to be strong but feeling so very weak. This is crazy, God. I just made such a strong stand with my lips, but now everything in me wishes he would ignore my plea and come to my bed.
One moment I’m strong. The next minute I desperately want to fall.
Help me. I’m so confused about my feelings. She twisted the ring around her finger. I know I love him, but now I find myself afraid. Where is the thrill I’m supposed to feel?
She drifted into a restless, intermittent sleep, as if stepping across a pond of slumber by jumping from stone to stone. She looked at the clock at midnight, one-thirty, and three. At three, she heard John rise to use the bathroom, and found herself again longing for his arms, her heart quickening as she listened intently for the footfalls on the stairs that never came.
She must have fallen asleep sometime before her alarm at five, as she startled at the sound of music blaring from her clock radio.
“Ugh,” she groaned, as her feet hit the floor. “The Mecca beckons.”
Chapter Ten
Elizabeth Bunker McCall hadn’t slept a complete night since her husband’s death the previous summer. Not that sleeping with her husband, John McCall, had been particularly peaceful. He snored like a child with heavy tonsils, snorting and gasping his way through the night, drowning out any other noise that could possibly disturb her. But now with him gone, she found herself alert and alone, conscious of every creak of the old mansion, and even with her hearing aid on the bedside table, imagined noises nudged her from slumber every few hours.
Often, she replayed memories from her youth, mostly happy with the emotions they invoked.
Tonight, she tossed with restlessness, replaying a memory a half-century old, a remembrance of pain, a secret, stimulated by her thoughts of her son’s deterioration. Each time she remembered, her heart quickened, the emotions of the moment experienced anew. With each recollection, a guilt long buried grew fresh, almost palpable, threatening to engulf her again.
It was supposed to have been one of the happiest events of her life. She’d left the rehearsal dinner only thirty minutes before, planting a kiss on the cheek of her fiancé, John McCall. It was a kiss that capped an exhaustive evening of rehearsal, getting everything in proper order. A McCall wedding, she’d come to understand, would be done properly, a wedding everyone would admire. It was a dinner rich with delicacies most of Stoney Creek would never taste again, and wine in abundance.
Tomorrow, she would marry up, join the one family in the Apple Valley that seemed to thrive in spite of economic hardship around them. For this moment, in spite of her need for sleep, she found herself invigorated, entranced in the magical thoughts of her wedding night, in anticipation of sex for the first time. She pinched her eyelids shut and nestled beneath a worn quilt.
It was then, in the middle of a restless night, that he came. She heard the rhythmic peck … peck … peck of a creek pebble tossed against her window. The sound had been his signature during their tumultuous courtship. It was not an announcement befitting the arrival of John McCall—this was the clandestine frivolity of a country boy, a moonshiner’s grandson whose heart had never recovered from the loss of his sweetheart.
Steve Hudson had been scorned, rejected by a family who had set their sights on higher social standing. In her heart, Elizabeth, Steve’s Lizzy, had cherished him. But under pressure from her mother, and with a fear of the insanity rumored to plague Steve’s family, she had pulled free, at least from the visible ties that linked them. But sometimes, the unseen bonds drew her.
She jumped from the bed and struggled with the old window, yanking it half open. Peering out, she knew where she’d find him. Beneath the maple tree, he stood gazing up, his face reflecting the moonlight, his body straight and strong. His shirt was open, as he often wore it in the summer months, a social faux pas that John McCall’s mother would have pointed out in disgust.
His voice was pleading, almost a whisper. “Lizzy! We have to talk.”
“Go away. Don’t do this.”
He didn’t budge. She saw his hand close into a fist over his bare chest. “Lizzy!”
She shook her head, her mind telling her to push the window down and ignore him. Just go back to bed, pull the covers over your head, and he’ll go away!
But her heart wouldn’t let her obey.
“Give me a minute,” she whispered. She cast a worried glance over her shoulde
r into the darkness of the room. “Meet me at the barn.”
She pulled an old coat over her nightgown and studied her reflection in the mirror. She primped for a moment, then sighed and tiptoed to the door.
Walking barefooted across the stepping-stones leading away from the back porch, she whispered her resolve. “There is nothing to talk about. Our relationship is over.” She skipped ahead, jumping a small puddle. “It’s over. It’s over,” she whispered again. And again.
He was pacing like a caged animal, under the window of the hayloft. How long had he practiced this encounter? Dozens of times? Hundreds?
She decided to begin. It was best to take control, to not let him get started. “There is nothing to discuss. Go back home, Steve.”
“Lizzy,” he whispered.
Why did he use that name? Only he called her that. It had been her playful name, one that he’d used to break the ice when they’d first met.
“You can’t go through with this.”
“Steve, it’s too late for us. We’ve been through this before.”
“I love you more than life.” His words were slow and practiced. “Lizzy, I need you.”
His voice quivered, and she felt her heart in her throat. “Stop.” She shook her head. “I shouldn’t have come.” She turned away and stepped toward the house.
She felt his hand grip her arm. His strength both frightened and allured her. She pulled away, her jacket slipping from around her. She clutched at her nightgown and turned forcefully toward him again.
“This isn’t what’s in your heart,” he said. “I know you want me too.”
She grabbed the jacket from his hands.
“This is about my family, isn’t it?” he asked. “You’re afraid of the curse, aren’t you?”
“I never believed it, Steve. You’re the one living under your grandfather’s shadow.”
She studied him a moment in the soft light of the moon. He was a lost puppy, eyes wide with unimaginable hurt. She lifted her hand to his cheek, her heart touched by a tear just released. It struck her in a tender way. John would never cry for me.