Cheryl Reavis - The Older Woman

He smiled slightly to himself.

Rita, Rita, he thought, shaking his head. There is nobody like you, girl.

He had at least managed to give her a chaste goodbye-and-good-luck kiss—albeit under the watchful eye of his superior officer and, as it happened, her new husband. Lieutenant McGraw was one more lucky bastard. He’d survived a Black Hawk helicopter crash and he’d gotten the girl, while he, Calvin “Bugs” Doyle, the only other survivor of the same crash, remained, simply and always, said girl’s “friend.”

He took a quiet breath.

Get yourself together here, Doyle.

He had always known the rules of engagement. There was absolutely no reason for him to feel so down about this thing. He understood the situation. Rita had never for one minute led him on. She had always been straight with him, even when she’d been so abandoned and penniless she’d had to move in with him for a while. She had lived with him—on her terms—and she had been grateful for his help. But she didn’t love him, not like that, not the way he had wanted.

Just friends.

No. Best friends. He knew everything there was to know about Rita Warren. Everything. The good and the bad, and it hadn’t mattered to him. Unfortunately, what he knew hadn’t mattered to her, either. It was the lieutenant’s knowing she’d worried about.

But it had turned out all right for her, and he supposed, when everything was said and done, being a friend was better than nothing.

He closed his eyes and tried not to think about how beautiful Rita had looked today. He didn’t want to think about the honeymoon, either. He was so tired, and his legs were beginning to hurt. If he didn’t get up and walk around soon, he’d regret it. He had mistakenly believed that finally getting both of the leg casts off would make the pain situation better. Wrong. No casts just meant that the muscles in his legs had to work harder. Which meant more pain.

The wind shifted, and the rain beat against the windows.

“Happy is the bride the sun shines on.”

The truth was this bride had been happy without the sun—without much of anything, if you got right down to it. The groom’s parents hadn’t exactly given their blessing, and Rita didn’t get much in the way of a family send-off—unless you counted her little girl, Olivia. Olivia had a ball getting all dressed up and blowing kisses and scattering rose petals. Except for Olivia, Rita didn’t have any relatives she or anybody else would want to claim. The closest thing to a bona fide well-wisher she had was good old “Bugs” Doyle—and he could have gone either way. Even so, he had still dragged himself to the wedding.

Just for her.

A sudden sharp pain made him jerk his legs to try to get away from it. The cane he needed for walking slid off the nearby straight chair and clattered to the floor. He swore under his breath, but he made no effort to get it. He stared out the window again, breathing deeply they way he’d been taught, trying to fight down the intense burning ache before it got the best of him.

But the pain wasn’t going away. He had to get up and shuffle around, and he had to do it now. It didn’t make a whole lot of sense to him that the way to make the hurting less was to do everything he could to make it hurt more, but that seemed to be the way of things. He was walking again—and what were the odds of that, given the degree of his injuries and the ups and downs of his prolonged recovery? He was a work in progress, all right. His only comfort was the fact that Lieutenant McGraw had made it all the way back—pain or no pain. And so would “Bugs” Doyle.

He couldn’t see the cane, much less reach it. He was too tall to be comfortable in a chair low enough to pick up anything he dropped on the floor, anyway. He was going to have to get up—and then get down. And then get back up again. Deep knee bends on legs that had already had one hell of a workout today. If he was lucky, he might finish with this little project by sundown.

It was going to be struggle enough just to push himself out of the chair, but he wasn’t even tempted by the option of yelling for his landlady. The word can’t had been weeded out of his vocabulary years ago in basic training. He had no doubt that little old Mrs. Bee would come help him out here—if he asked—except she probably wasn’t any better at deep knee bends than he was.

Nice old lady, Mrs. Bee. Kate Meehan, one of the nurses at the hospital had arranged for him to move into an upstairs apartment in Mrs. Bee’s house after the doctors finally promoted him to an outpatient. He had no place else he wanted to go. He’d given up the trailer he had shared briefly with Rita, even before he and the lieutenant had ridden the Black Hawk into the ground, and he just wasn’t up to living with a bunch of other soldiers who would feel sorry for him whether they said so or not. He knew the army would keep him on if he wanted, make room for him somewhere—if he could come back far enough. But he didn’t want an audience of his peers on hand for the trip, and he figured somehow Meehan knew that.

The apartment was fairly close to the post hospital, and it was cheap enough for an enlisted man to afford. Meehan had warned him up front that Mrs. Bee’s house was smoke and alcohol free, and that he would absolutely have to promise he’d “behave,” if he wanted her to vouch for him.

Like he could do anything else. His days of dancing naked with a rose in his teeth were pretty much behind him. His hands were more or less working again and didn’t look too bad, but he couldn’t half get around. Regardless of what his old drill sergeant always said, it wasn’t entirely true that where there was a will there was a way. Actually, he would have liked to have raised a little hell, even before the incentive of Rita’s wedding, but the best he could do for recreation these days was to eat, sleep and, with a great deal of effort, strum a little guitar.

Behave? No problem. Too easy.

So now he had a combination living room, dining room, kitchenette and one bedroom on the back side of the second floor of Mrs. Bee’s big Victorian house. No cigarettes. No whiskey. No wild women. Oh, and it would be really good if he didn’t swear.

So far, he and Mrs. Bee were getting along. She didn’t seem to mind his so-called music, and he didn’t cuss where she could hear him. Of course, he was pretty far away from her part of the house, and her hearing wasn’t what it used to be.

He had his own backstairs entrance, but he was welcome to use the front door if he wanted. He’d once made the mistake of coming in the front way when Mrs. Bee and the church ladies were meeting. Talk about getting pounced on. He’d never been so clucked over in his life. One minute he was minding his own business, struggling purposefully toward the stairs, and the next minute he was sitting in the parlor with his feet up, having chocolate cake, salty peanuts, bread-and-butter pickles and some kind of cherry-cola-and-pineapple-juice punch with the “girls.” It was kind of a hoot, really. He even remembered to say “please” and “thank you” and make Mrs. Bee proud. Nice old ladies—except for the one who thought anybody in the military was trash and didn’t do much to hide it when Mrs. Bee was out of the room. Man, could they bake, though, even the snooty one.

But, no matter which way he came or went, he still had to drag himself up and down all kind of steps every day—the prospect of which had made his various surgeons positively beam with approval. Just what the doctors ordered, every one of them. He was okay with the on-going challenge of getting in and out of Mrs. Bee’s house, and he was okay with the self-imposed “behaving.” He had to be if he was ever going to make it back to where he was before the Black Hawk went down.