One Was a Soldier

“No.” Anne released Clare’s hands and stood up. “I am.” She smiled at Russ. “I’ll leave you to enjoy your brunch, Chief Van Alstyne.”

“I think you ought to call me Russ, all things considering.”

“You got it. Clare? Tonight? Six o’clock?”

“I’ll be there.”

Anne opened the door, letting in another puff of warm air. “Thanks. Sorry for the eggs and all. As for you”-she pointed to Russ-“if you’re going to eat this woman’s food and run up her water bill, the least you can do is take her out on a date.”

The door clicked shut behind her. In the kitchen, the coffee press whistled faintly and the sausages popped in the skillet. Russ looked at her. “No more sleeping over.”

“Noooo!” She stood up, nearly knocking over the remains of her Bloody Mary.

“Yes. We’ve gotten away with it for eight weeks. That was too damn close for comfort.”

Clare flung an arm toward the door. “Anne’s fine with it! She’s happy for me.”

“Dr. Anne’s fine with it because she’s your friend. What if it had been one of the conservative guys on the vestry, like whatsis-name, with the scarf?”

“Sterling Sumner.”

“How do you think he would have reacted? What if it had been Elizabeth de Groot?”

Clare winced. Her deacon, who was tasked with keeping Clare on the straight and narrow, had a serious thing for clerical reverence and priestly authority. “She’d be on the phone to the bishop right now.”

“Damn right she would-and I don’t think his reaction would be ‘Fine, I’m so happy for you.’” He reached out and pulled her into his arms. “Would it?”

She shook her head against his chest. “It’s not fair.”

“It’s your organization, darlin’. I may not be a member, but I know we gotta play by the rules.”

“But I sleep better with you here!” It was true. She had used prayer and sleeping pills and warm milk and brandy, but the only thing that centered and settled her was Russ. Curled against the warm solidity of his back, she could let down her guard. She was safe.

When did it stop being safe to fall asleep? She shuddered.

He tightened his hold on her. “Just for a while.”

“It’s not going to stop being an issue.”

“It will if we’re married.”

Married. He had asked her once, the night they had found out she was leaving for Iraq. It was a spur-of-the- moment proposal, an age-old instinct to seize the moment when war was howling outside the door. She had turned him down, gambling that they would have a second chance. Confident that when he truly put his wife’s death behind him, they would both be ready.

“Clare?” His lips were curved slightly, but his eyes were wary. He was, she realized, unsure of himself. It wasn’t an expression she was used to seeing on Russ Van Alstyne’s face.

“It’s just… we haven’t talked about that. Marriage.”

He jammed his hands into his jeans pockets. “We have to be realistic. Living together isn’t going to be an option.”

“That’s not what I meant.” She was barefoot, wearing her old summer pajamas. Sausages sizzled and popped in the skillet. NPR had moved on to Car Talk. Even at her most down-to-earth, this wasn’t what she envisioned when she thought of a proposal. “I mean we haven’t discussed the issues. The details. Marriage is a big, huge deal.”

His mouth quirked. “Believe me, I take marriage very seriously.”

She flushed. She of all people had reason to know “divorce” wasn’t in his vocabulary. Which, when you got down to it, was the reason for the sinking feeling in her stomach. The fact he was mentioning marriage for the first time after being caught with his pants down smelled unpleasantly like shotgun wedding. With her vestry, instead of her father, holding the 12-gauge. Russ loved her. She knew that. She just didn’t know if in some deep well of emotion he was still choosing Linda over her. “Maybe this isn’t the time or place for a big ‘what do we want out of marriage’ discussion.”

He got that expression again. The uncertain one. “Is there that much to discuss? ’Cause I can tell you what I want in under five words. You as my wife.” He shrugged. “The rest of it, I figure we’ll make up as we go along. That’s pretty much how it goes, in my experience.”

“Why do you want to get married? I mean, other than the sex thing.”

“There has to be more than sex?” He grinned. “It’s not because I’m chomping at the bit to be the preacher’s husband, I can guarantee you that.” She laughed a little. He ran his hands up her arms and rested them on her shoulders. “I want to be married because I like those easy-to-understand, boring definitions. Husband. Wife. I want to be married because life is short, and I want to spend whatever I have left of it with you, every day, every night. I want to be married so that everything I have and everything I am is yours, and everything of you is mine. And I want to be married so I can lay you out on the dining room table if I feel like it and have you six ways from Sunday in the middle of the afternoon and if one of your parishioners walks in on us, it’s tough titties for them.”

She started laughing.

“I’m not a complicated guy, Clare. I keep trying to dress it up with flowers and stuff, but that’s what it all comes down to with me.”

She touched his cheek, smooth from his morning shave. She was afraid her heart would break open from feeling too much. “I told you. You don’t ever have to dress anything up for me. Just be yourself.”

***

The phone hanging on the wall between the door and the window rang before he had the chance to ask her the same question. What did she want out of marriage? Specifically, marriage to a guy fourteen years older, who thought God was a myth and whose job could get him killed.

Clare sighed and crossed the floor. “Hello?”

Maybe he was pushing it. She didn’t talk about Iraq, but he had held her while she thrashed around with bad dreams. He had seen the fatigue on her face as she tried to be everything for everybody in her church. Of course, that might argue for the two of them getting married as soon as possible. He knew he’d do a damn sight better job of drawing boundaries than she did.

Maybe he should just ask her right now. Get the damn thing settled. But Christ, the ring was back at his mother’s house, and she deserved something special. Memorable. Not him blurting it out before breakfast. Maybe he could make an excuse to swing by his mom’s place. He could take her on a picnic. Picnics were romantic, weren’t they?

Clare looked at him oddly. “Um. Certainly.” She handed the phone out. “It’s Harlene, for you.”

“What?” He took the receiver as if it might be booby-trapped. “Van Alstyne here.”

Clare went to the stove to check the breakfast. “Sorry to bother you and the reverend,” Harlene said.

“That’s all right,” Russ lied. “What’s up?” Clare drew a long meat fork out of the utensil canister and started pricking sausages. He tried to remember if the IGA sold picnic lunches.

“Eric’s called in sick, and Noble’s gone up to Tupper Lake for the weekend. We’re short and we need coverage.”

“Have you tried Paul?” Russ watched Clare take down a glass bowl and open the carton of eggs. They’d need sunscreen-and bug dope. Bug dope definitely wasn’t romantic.

“Well, I’m sure I could get ahold of him, but he’ll be on overtime. You want me to try him anyways?”

The magic word, “overtime,” brought his full attention back to Harlene. “No. No. I don’t want to give the alderman anything else to complain about.” He pointed at the egg Clare had picked up. He shook his head. Don’t bother. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes. And call Duane to see if he’ll be available just in case. Last weekend before the holiday, we might need him for traffic and parking.”