Julia Spencer-Fleming - One Was a Soldier

“I pushed you.” He winced, as if he were pulling a splinter out of his hand. “I should have taken it slow and given you time, but I was so goddamn fixed on getting us married-”

“No. Listen. I told Trip I needed the pills to keep my head on through the craziness of the past couple of weeks, but I was lying.” She hadn’t known that until she said it. “I was lying. I would’ve come up with some other excuse to keep the prescriptions going after the wedding, and if he wouldn’t give them to me I’d find some other way. Oh, God.” She could feel her eyes begin to fill. “I’ve been lying to everybody.” Her voice broke. “I’ve been lying every time someone asked me how I’m doing. I said I was fine, and I’m not fine. I feel like there’s something ugly inside me all the time, and I just want it to go away.” Her tears spilled hot over her cheeks, and she covered her mouth, trying to keep the misery and shame inside where they belonged.

Russ tugged her toward him. “C’mere.”

She leaned across the console and buried her face in his shoulder, awkward and ridiculous. She hiccupped and coughed, and a big blob of mucus splattered over his jacket. “Oh, God. I’m sorry.” She pawed at her pockets, feeling for a tissue, but of course she came up empty. She started to cry again. “I’m sorry,” she sobbed. “I’m sorry. Let’s just call the wedding off. It’s not too late.”

“Whoa.” He pulled a half-acre-sized handkerchief out of his jeans and mopped her face with it. “Because you got a little snot on my shirt?”

“Weren’t you listening to me? I’m a wreck. I’m a wreck and an addict and a failure. I’ve killed people, Russ. I flew the ship and gave the orders and people died right in front of me and I don’t know where to put that so I just keep drugging myself up until I don’t feel anything anymore.” She pushed her damp hair off her overheated face. “I’m not Linda. I’m not anything like her, and I never will be.”

His mouth opened. He let out a huff that was almost a laugh. “Where did that come from?”

“You loved her. You never would have left her, and you loved her, and she died, and I can’t replace her. I just keep coming up short.”

“I don’t want you to replace Linda.”

“But you loved her.”

“Yes. And now I love you.” Russ framed her face in his hands, wiping her tears away with his thumbs. “You know, I could have resisted you if you had reminded me of Linda. I fell for you because you remind me of me. I was a wreck and an addict and a failure, Clare. I went to war, and I killed people, with these hands, and watched them die right in front of me. You and I, we’re the same, love. We’re the same.”

“I’m afraid,” she whispered.

“We’ll get you help.” He took one of her hands and interlaced his fingers through hers. “This is the thing I’m absolutely sure of: If we keep holding on to each other, if we don’t let go, we can get through anything.”

Her eyes burned. “I don’t deserve you.”

“This priest once told me we don’t get what we deserve, thank God. We get what we’re given.”

She choked out a wet laugh. “A second chance.”

“And a third, and a fourth.” He smiled a little. “She convinced me, and I don’t even believe in God.”

She wiped her nose with her jacket sleeve. “I love you. It doesn’t seem like enough, just to say it, but I do.”

He kissed her. He got out of the truck and walked around the hood and popped her door open. “C’mon out here.”

She took his hand, and let him lead her through the forest darkness to the back of the pickup. He hoisted her over the tailgate into the bed of the truck, then vaulted over the side and joined her. He unflapped a heavy cardboard box.

“Don’t tell me you’re still dragging those quilts around,” she said.

“These are good quilts.” He spread out first one, then another. “My grandmother Campbell made ’em.” He patted the patchwork. “C’mere.”

She sat on the thick fabric and tugged her sneakers off before leaning against the rear window of the cab. Russ shook out two more and sat down next to her. He untied his boots and set them against the side of the bed, then snugged the quilts around their shoulders. They were heavy and warm.

He took her in his arms. “Listen. As far as I’m concerned, we’re already married.” He pressed her hand against his chest. She could feel the steady beat of his heart. “In here, I’m your husband. You’re my wife. Nothing we do or don’t do in that circus your mother has planned will change that. So if you need more time, if you want to delay it or even call it off, we’ll do it.”

She kissed him. “That’s my fourth premarital session.”

“What is?”

She felt herself beginning to tear up again. “Marriage is a sacrament. An outward and visible sign of an inward and invisible grace. The only thing the church can do is recognize what we’ve already created between us.”

He kissed her neck. “I know the religious part of it’s important to you-”

“Do you want me as your wife?” she said.

Russ smiled against her skin. “I do.”

“And I want you for my husband. Will you stay with me, sharing whatever life throws at us, good or bad?”

He laughed quietly. “I will. How about you?”

“I will.” She kissed him again, slowly, and began unbuttoning his shirt. “And I promise before God to be true and faithful to you, to love you with my body and my heart and my mind.” She pushed his shirt and jacket off. “Until we are parted by death.”

“Yes.” He pulled her sweater over her head. “I promise to be true and faithful to you, to love you with my body and my heart and my mind.” His breath hitched as she wiggled out of her khakis. “Until we are parted by death.”

He kicked his jeans away and pulled her against him, warm and solid, skin to skin. “I pronounce that we are husband and wife, in the name of the Father”-she kissed him-“and of the Son”-she kissed him again-“and of the Holy Spirit.”

He framed her face in his hands. “We’re married.” His face was serious.

“Yes. All the rest of it’s just tradition and show and law codes.”

His fingers slid along her body. He cupped her breast and stroked her nipple with his thumb. She moaned. “A man and his wife become one flesh,” he said, his voice low.

“Yes,” she gasped.

“Yes.” He rolled, pulling her atop him, and they sealed their vows beneath the stars and the pines and the thick old quilts his grandmother made.

Hadley was almost late to the wedding. Geneva insisted on putting on last year’s Christmas outfit, which was too small, and then after Hadley had talked her into the new silk-and-chiffon dress-$1.99 from Goodwill-they had another go-round over what shoes to wear. When Hadley got downstairs, still struggling with her zipper and carrying her heels, she discovered Hudson had dribbled juice on his best pants while watching TV. Hadley tore apart his room for a replacement, finally settling on a clean pair of khakis she had set aside in the donation pile. When Hudson complained they were too short around the ankles, she gave him her best death-ray glare and herded them into the car.

St. Alban’s was packed when they arrived. It looked like half the town and all the congregation had come. At the front of the church, Betsy Young was playing the organ and the full choir sat waiting. Walking up the aisle holding Genny’s hand, she heard southern voices and saw lots of clerical collars. Rich Virginians and priests. It didn’t bode well for a fun reception.

She spotted Kevin Flynn’s red hair near the front of the church. At the same moment, he turned around and looked at her. He stood in his pew and beckoned to her.