Home for a Soldier (16 page)

Grace felt faint. “The other man…?”

“I’m afraid he didn’t survive.
Because he was bent over the crate, he absorbed most of the impact.”

“Can I fly over there? Can I speak to
Rory?” A detached feeling seized Grace, as if time had slowed down.

“I’m very sorry, but it’s not
possible for you to travel to Iraq. We don’t have the facilities to look after
spouses in the field. I’ll keep you informed of his progress, and when you can
expect him home.”

The numbness in her mind lifted. “He
is coming home?”

“As soon as it’s safe to move him,
we’ll fly him to the States for rehabilitation. He’ll remain on convalescent
leave until he is fit to return to work.”

“Can I speak to him? Please?”

“He’s under sedation, but I can
connect you with the medical staff looking after him. Because of security, I
can’t give you the details, but I’ll call you tomorrow morning at nine o’clock
your time and connect you.”

“Yes.” Grace put the phone down. The
photograph of Rory smiled at her from the gilt frame she’d found in a box of
trinkets in a kitchen cupboard. The ache in her heart felt like a knife piercing
her chest at the realization that if Rory had been the one to open the crate,
she would never see him again.

* * * *

Grace sat in her office, her hands in
her lap. She stared at the telephone on her desk, waiting for the clock to crawl
to nine. She had been sitting there since six, after she gave up trying to sleep
and arrived in the office before dawn.

“Yes?” She snatched up the receiver
the instant it rang.

“Mrs. Sullivan? This is Constance
Pritchard from Colossus Security.”

“Can I talk to him?”

“I’m afraid not. He’s asleep. They
have removed the shrapnel from his chest, but they are keeping him sedated for
another day. But I can connect you with the nurse who is monitoring his
condition.”

Grace listed to the silence while she
was put on hold. Each second stretched like an eternity. Finally, a burst of
static filled her ear, followed by a female voice with a lilting French accent.
“This is Mrs. Sullivan, yes?”

“Yes. How is he?” Grace picked up the
stapler from her desk and clicked it time and time again. The staples made a
tingling sound as they rained down on the polished wood. The sudden mental image
of nails tearing into Rory’s flesh made Grace flinch. The stapler slipped from
her fingers and crashed to the desk.

“He is going to be fine,” the nurse
said. “He is very strong, and in excellent physical condition. His eyes are
intact, and his face is not damaged at all. He will have scarring on his chest,
but nothing that will impair movement. Your husband will make a complete
recovery in approximately two months.”

Grace closed her eyes and drew a
calming breath. “When can I speak to him?”

“Perhaps tomorrow.” The nurse
chuckled. “I’m sure he’ll insist on calling you as soon as he wakes up. He asked
for you when he was carried in.”

“He asked for me?”

“Oh, yes,” the nurse said brightly.
“He kept crying out your name.
Laura
, he repeated over and over again,
until he went under with the anesthetic.”

Grace felt as if the bomb that hit
Rory had just gone off inside her head. Without another word, she dropped the
receiver into the cradle. She spent the next hour sitting in the chair, staring
into space, until someone had the good sense to call a cab and send her home.

He didn’t love her
.

Her mind reached back to the nights
they had spent together, to the emails they had exchanged, to their wedding in
Vegas.

Will you wait at home for me, Grace?

She was waiting, but she doubted that
Rory would ever want to come back to her.

Each new day started with a struggle
to get up after a night of uneasy sleep. The hours at work dragged as Grace
waited for news. The quiet evenings in the apartment were an uneasy torment
between dreaming about Rory returning, and accepting that she had no claim on
him. She had promised not to pursue him, and the fact that he came home after
four months instead of two years didn’t alter the fact.

Every time Grace rang Constance
Pritchard at Colossus Security, the message was the same—she couldn’t speak to
Rory, because he was asleep. Her world shrank, until it was made up of the
telephone, Rory’s picture, and her terrible fear that they were lying to her,
and he was already dead.

Dispirited, tired after a difficult
day in the office, listless from worry, her feet aching after a walk in new
shoes that pinched her toes, Grace adjusted her tote bag on her shoulder and
unlocked the front door of the apartment.

“Rory!” Love surged inside her and
pushed aside the anger because he hadn’t been in touch. “Why didn’t you tell me
you were coming home? Why didn’t Constance or one of the nurses call me?”

Rory lounged in the doorway to his
room, one shoulder propped against the frame, his arms crossed over his chest.
Pale and drawn, he looked older. Deep lines bracketed his mouth, and troubled
shadows clouded his eyes. “I asked them not to tell you.”

“Why?” Grace slung her tote bag to
the floor, intending to rush up and launch herself into his arms.

Rory stopped her with a warning
gesture. “Don’t. I’m sore all over. I’ve got a dozen holes over my chest. Like a
goddamn pin cushion.”

“I…I’m sorry.” Grace took a step
back, trying to hide her confusion. She had spent the last two weeks crying for
him, praying for him, waiting for him. And now he stood there, watching her
through wary eyes, like an impatient stranger. “It’s just that I’m so pleased to
see you…to know that you’re all right.”

“I’m all right,” Rory told her
curtly. “I always come out fine. I must have nine lives, like a goddamn cat.
It’s the other poor bastards who end up dead.” He retreated from the threshold
into his room and slammed the door between them.

Grace stared at the oak panel. Her
entire body felt numb, and she realized that she had no tears left. She picked
up her bag and dragged her feet into her room, where she collapsed on the bed.
How could she have forgotten? The happy marriage was an illusion that only
existed in her imagination.

* * * *

Rory lay on the narrow bed, his hands
laced beneath his head. He had been a fool to get sucked into thinking that he
could have a future with Grace. It had taken a man’s death to bring him to his
senses.

The nightmares were back. He kept
flinching awake in the darkness, drenched in cold sweat as the old death mixed
with the new, adding a grisly mix to his tortured dreams. The torment of the
first few days after Laura died echoed in his mind, and Rory knew he couldn’t
open himself to love again, because the pain of loss would crush him if the love
didn’t last.

And even if he dared to let his
emotions out, what could he offer Grace? He couldn’t go back to his job after
his physical recovery. The nightmares kept him awake, sapping his energy. He
wouldn’t have the alertness required for duties where a split second decision
could make the difference between life and death.

What good was a soldier so jittery he
feared his own shadow?

Rory gritted his teeth as the demons
inside his head whispered temptation into his ear.
You can have Grace
,
they said.
You can have whatever you want. All you need is to pick up the
phone and call home. Crawl to Mommy and Daddy, beg for forgiveness
.

For a few moments, Rory allowed his
imagination freedom.

They could go on a proper honeymoon
to Paris. He had never seen the apartment near the Eiffel Tower, it had been
purchased during his final year at Harvard, but he knew Grace would enjoy the
museums and art galleries.

In the villa in Tuscany, Grace would
sunbathe topless, the olive trees casting dappled shadows over her pale skin.

They would return to New York in the
fall, her belly rounded with his child. In his mind, he pictured Grace chasing a
toddler across the lawns on the Newport estate, the sound of her happy laughter
drifting in the summer breeze.

Rory blinked his eyes open. It was no
use. He’d never pick up the phone and make the call. Ten years of hostile
silence could not be erased with an apology. He pushed himself up, his back
rigid to keep the strain from his torn chest muscles. He eased off the bed and
crossed the hall with tired steps.

“Grace,” he called out and knocked on
her door.

“Yes,” she shouted.

“Can I come in?”

“You can do whatever you want. It’s
your apartment.”

The bitter tone in her voice raked a
sharp edge of guilt over his battered body. He shoved the door open, found the
bed littered with clothes attached to plastic hangers.

“What are you doing?”

“What does it look like?” Grace
turned her back on him. She crouched beside an open suitcase on the floor. “I’m
packing. I should move out, now that you’re back.”

“No.” The prospect of loneliness
engulfed him, and he accepted that although he couldn’t open his heart to Grace,
he wanted to keep her near. “I’m only here for a couple of months, until I get
back in shape. It makes no sense for you to find something else for such a short
time.”

Grace halted in her task of arranging
the garments into neat folds. “Are you sure you want me to stay?” she asked.

“Yeah. I’m sure.” He released a tired
sigh. “I’m sorry if I was a jerk earlier. I’m a little tense. I don’t get much
sleep, with the aches and pains.”

“Can’t they give you something for
the pain?”

“I’ve got stuff I can take if it gets
too bad.” He hesitated. “I might groan in my sleep. Just ignore it. It’s
nothing. Just restless dreams.”

Grace spun to face him. Rory waited
in silence as she spent a long moment studying him. Then she gave a slow nod.
“All right. I’ll stay. Thank you.”

Rory retreated, his mind in turmoil.
He hadn’t realized how skilled Grace could be at hiding her feelings. Her
expression had been bland, leaving him bristling with uncertainty over why she
had agreed not to move out.

Did she want to remain with him, or
was she staying despite of him?

* * * *

Grace stood at the sink and scrubbed
the frying pan, beating the metal with the sponge, as if trying to batter a
living thing to death.

Tell Laura I Love Her
.

The music drifted through Rory’s
closed door. Each note sailed in the air and stung like an angry insect. Her
nerves were in tatters. Some evenings Rory came out of his room and ate with
her. Occasionally, he made an excuse to touch her. A tap on her shoulder, an
elbow butting to her side, the brush of his fingers as he leaned over to smooth
a strand of hair behind her ear. At other times he kept his distance, his door
closed, the same wretched song playing over and over again.

Tension seized her as the music came
to an abrupt halt. An instant later, a trail of footsteps traversed the hall.

“Are you finished?” Rory asked.

He stood in the open doorway, one
hand propped against the frame. The white T-shirt left his arms bare. Muscles
leapt beneath the smooth skin as he adjusted his stance.

The determination with which he had
embraced the physical therapy to rebuild his strength filled Grace with awe. In
the five days since Rory returned, she had come to understand the true measure
of his uncompromising nature.

Once Rory chose his direction, he
didn’t turn back.

“I’m almost done. There are some
leftovers.” She nodded at a dish cooling on the counter. “I could heat them up
for you.”

“Don’t bother.” He pushed away from
the doorjamb and strode to the refrigerator. “I’ll just have a drink.” He pulled
out a bottle of Gatorade and popped the top.

“You need to eat.” Grace stole a
glance at him as he drank with his head tipped back, his strong throat flexing
as he swallowed. It frightened her how fast her feelings for him had deepened
from a heady infatuation to a fierce love that sought to heal and protect.

She did what she could to help him.
Offered company when Rory wanted to talk, kept out of his way when he fell into
a morose mood. Once or twice, she had seen him shirtless. Angry red scars dotted
his chest, as if someone had used him for a dartboard.

Grace suspected that the worst of his
wounds were emotional rather than physical. In unguarded moments, despair lurked
in the shadows that filled his eyes. She didn’t know how to make his pain go
away, no more than she understood the cause of it.

“You haven’t opened your letter.” She
pointed at the white envelope on the kitchen table.

He glanced over and gave a reluctant
nod.

“It’s from your parents,” she said.
“I recognized the sender’s address on the back.”