With fifteen minutes remaining before the battle began, she pulled into the battlefield parking lot. Drumming her fingers on the steering wheel, she drove up and down rows until she found a spot between a tree and a camper where she could squeeze in her SUV.
Whether she would have enough room to open the door was debatable, but operating in tight spots was a regular occurrence in her life. She held her breath while she pulled in. When she didn’t scrape off paint, she let her breath out. If she scooted flat against the side of the car, she’d be able to exit the vehicle. Years of running had kept her long and lean, not skinny, in spite of what her brother and colleagues were fond of saying.
So what? Skinny could be sexy, too, right? Although, judging by the dearth of men in her life, maybe not.
The car’s cargo space was packed with all the supplies she would need for the weekend: coolers, change of clothes, makeup case, cot, blankets, and food.
Before locking the car, she grabbed the package from Scotland and opened it. Inside was a Japanese puzzle box about six inches long. “Cool.” She loved puzzle boxes, and the challenge this box promised gave her a little surge of excitement. She flipped it around in her hands, twisting here and there like a Rubik’s cube.
“Major Mallory.”
She glanced up to see Ken, her medical school classmate and longtime friend, waving from the other side of the parking lot. It had been a couple of weeks since she had talked to him, and she was anxious to hear about the new woman in his life.
She waved back, calling out, “General Ramseur.” She slipped the box into her haversack, slung the bag over her shoulder, and forged a path through the throng of reenactors and spectators.
“I was worried,” he said. “You’re late. You okay?”
“A consult slowed me down.” She gave him a hug before stepping back and giving him a once-over. “I like the new uniform.”
He slipped his right hand inside his tunic, resting it over his heart, and placed his left hand on the hilt of his sword as if posing for the camera. “Worth every penny, don’t you think?”
She straightened his collar. “You didn’t find this on eBay. It looks custom made.”
“It is. Your tailor does good work.”
Brushing crumbs from the power bar she’d eaten in the car off her own uniform, she mentally counted the handful of times she’d worn it, grimacing at the low number. “He keeps altering my uniform. As little action as these threads get, it’ll last a century.”
“Then use it more often. Go to Gettysburg or Perryville with me next year. Get out of the rut you’re in.”
“I’m not in a rut, and besides, I can’t take the time off.”
“The hospital will survive a few days without you,” he said.
“Sure. The hospital would be fine, but what about my patients?”
He threw his hands up in mock surrender. “There’re a dozen attending physicians in your department. You cover for them all the time.”
“I can’t ask them.”
Ken frowned, and the deep vee between his eyebrows made his disapproval obvious and also darned annoying. “What you’re really saying is you won’t.”
This was a sore spot, and they both treaded its boundaries carefully. Ken accused her colleagues in Richmond of taking advantage of her. She didn’t think they did. The other surgeons had families and lived in the suburbs. She lived alone in a house a few blocks from the hospital. Plus she was happy to help her associates out.
She made a tee with her hands. “Time out. Let’s change the subject.”
“Okay. Who are you inviting to escort you to the reunion next month?”
She fidgeted with the standup collar, which seemed to squeeze tighter at the mention of the soiree. “I don’t know.”
“I have a lawyer friend in Winchester who would—”
She shook her head, anxiety scoring the back of her throat. “You know the rules. I don’t try to fix you up and you don’t try to fix me up.”
“Come on, Charlotte. You haven’t been on a date since medical school.”
“I haven’t had a date lately, but I did have one this year. I’m too busy. I run early in the morning, I operate and lecture during the day, and I’m on call twice a week.”
“You’re not any busier than I am, and I find time to socialize. So, what’s the real problem?”
Her tension turned into exasperation. “Can you believe men find me intimidating? The few who don’t are egotistical workaholics who only want to get laid. I want more. I want to wake up next to a loving partner, and have breakfast with him, too. There aren’t any romantics left.”
Ken gave an exaggerated sigh and rolled his eyes. “You’ve got to be kidding. You want to be romanced? What happened to friends with benefits? You said it fit your lifestyle.”
“It doesn’t work for me anymore.”
She looked away, through the trees and above the red-roofed barn, toward the northern end of the Massanutten Mountain range. Ridges etched by thousands of years of wind and rain snaked down its sides. In 1864, tears and bloodstains had soaked the ridges and gullies when so many died on a foggy October morning. Like the land, she too was etched with crevices, or at least it’s what her therapist had told her before she gave up counseling in favor of long-distance running. A rush of endorphins gave her more peace and satisfaction, involved far less hassle, and except for running shoes, cost almost nothing.
“Now I want more,” Charlotte repeated. “And there’s no one around to make adjusting my schedule worthwhile.”
“You aren’t looking in the right places.”
“Oh yeah? Where should I be looking?” she asked in a voice heavy with sarcasm.
“There’re thousands of men here today. There’s got to be one you might find interesting.”
“I don’t need a real or pretend soldier in my
