Geri Krotow - A Rendezvous To Remember

“You’ve only been home for six months but you’re already talking about leaving again.” Her words were spoken quietly but their weight was deadly.

Nicholas dropped his hands from her shoulders and took a step backward.

“You’ve always supported my Reserve training before. Surely you understood it was training for war.”

“Yes, but you seem so eager to go, Nick. It’s as though you have some sort of death wish. I mean, to agree, to volunteer again—”

“Cut me some slack here, Melinda. I’ve been with the same team for the past ten years. We’re like family. I can’t let them down now.”

“What about me? Us?”

“There’s always us. That never changes.”

“You say you want a baby, but how can we work on it when you’re halfway around the world fighting in a war?”

“The same way we’ll work on it while you’re in D.C. and I’m here.” His resentment at her more and more frequent business trips was reflected in his tone.

They’d thrown accusations at each other that day as if words didn’t hurt, wouldn’t stay ingrained on their hearts for a long while to come, if not forever.

On Sunday morning, Nicholas rose with the sun. Mornings were always the toughest time. He had to stretch, put on his prosthesis and remember how to walk with his new leg. Sometimes the phantom pain took his breath away. Not today.

Today he was under the same roof as Melinda. His heartache far outweighed any pain he’d suffered as a result of the IED, improvised explosive device, and the subsequent loss of his leg.

The pain he felt at the loss of his squad mate, Tommy, who hadn’t survived the IED, could still leave him breathless if he dwelled on it. But it didn’t compare to the pain he felt at the thought of losing Melinda.

Waking up in the trauma unit and finding out that Tommy had died, leaving a widow and three kids, was a gut-wrenching blow. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever get over it. He’d certainly never forget Tommy.

But if he lost Melinda, their marriage, he’d lose his most important reason to live.

Melinda was his life, his soul mate. But they’d gone wrong somewhere in their fifteen-year marriage. He intended to right whatever he’d screwed up.

He went downstairs and started a pot of coffee. He was happy to see that Melinda had replaced the Starbucks coffee he’d left in the cupboard seven months ago. While the coffee brewed, he walked to the front door, intent on the morning paper. After he opened the front door and was greeted with an icy blast he realized the paper service had been terminated.

Of course. He’d made the call himself two days before his departure.

A week after Melinda had left.

“You’re up early.” Her voice seemed to touch the tender place inside that he’d thought was dead.

“Habit.” He turned away from her, and went back into the kitchen. But not before he caught a whiff of her morning scent. Shampoo, hair products, perfume. For a split second, all their bitter words dissolved and all he wanted was to pull her into his arms.

Instead, he settled for looking at her.

Big mistake. The IED had taken his leg but, thank God, nothing else. Right now he was acutely aware of his physiological response to her.

Big blue eyes stared at him from behind fringed lashes that he knew to be pale blond when not coated with mascara, as they were now. She’d cut her hair, and as much as he missed the straight, silky length that fell to her shoulders, the new sleek chin-length style was stunning on her.

When she raised an eyebrow, Nicholas turned away. He had to stay cool if he was going to pull this one off.

“Learn anything interesting from Grammy’s journal?” He poured them each a cup of coffee. He was generous with her half-and-half, just the way she liked it.

Melinda’s expression looked as if she’d refuse his attempt at a truce. After a few tense moments, the lines in her face relaxed.

He watched her slim hands wrap around the ceramic mug. She lifted it to her lips and he had to avert his gaze or risk another surge of hormones.

“I’ve—” she narrowed her eyes “—we’ve always known that Grammy was a strong person. But I’m reading about someone I don’t know at all.”

She related what she’d read so far, and while Nick was saddened that Grammy had suffered at the hands of an abusive husband, he wasn’t surprised to learn how resourceful she’d been.

“This guy who landed in her pasture—he was a Brit, I assume? Grandpa Jack?”

Nick took a long sip of coffee and watched her across the kitchen table. The sun was rising and sent slanted beams of light across Melinda’s face.

“I haven’t read that far yet. They always said they met during the war, didn’t they?”

“Yes, but neither one of them ever told me the full story. They were experts at enjoying today, the here and now.”

Nicholas longed to share the last conversation he’d had with Grammy. But not now. Not until Melinda was ready to hear him out. After he’d told her about his leg.

Melinda sighed.

“It’s weird. I thought I was coming home to take care of Grandpa Jack. You know how lifetime couples often pass on very close to each other? I’ve been expecting to hear Grandpa’s gone, too. Instead, I come home to find him in his garden, working away, and he gives me these journals to read. Tells me they’re very important.”

She swished her coffee around in her mug.

“I keep thinking I should feel more grief or an extra closeness to Grammy as I read this. But like I said, it’s as though I’m reading the story of another woman’s life.”

She stood up and went to the refrigerator.

“Most of us don’t see our parents or grandparents in an objective light, the way the world sees them.”

Nick smiled to himself as Melinda pulled out eggs, cheese, vegetables and Tabasco sauce. She was making them an omelet. Did she realize how easily they’d slipped back into their Sunday-morning breakfast routine?

Minus the lovemaking, of course.

“True. But, Nick, she killed a man!”

Melinda’s voice snapped him back.

“I see what you mean.” He shook his head. “Hell, she wouldn’t even let me kill the slugs that were eating her prize tomatoes two summers ago. She said ‘just let me take them down to the creek.’”

“Right, exactly.” She cracked two more eggs against the ceramic mixing bowl.

He studied Mel’s movements about the counter and stove. God, he’d missed her grace, her warmth.

“You know, Mel, We’re all capable of things we wouldn’t have any reason to think about unless—or until—we’re faced with the circumstances.”

What would Melinda think of him if she knew he’d killed? Even in self-defense, in war.

What if she knew about the hatred he’d carried in his heart for the person or persons who were responsible for the IED that killed his friend and blew his leg off?

“Have you ever had to kill anyone, Nick?”

Her question sucked the air from his lungs. She’d never asked about his time in Afghanistan. After his first return, she’d spoken only of the future, mostly about her desired transfer to D.C.

This new intimacy wasn’t much, but he’d take it.

“I’ve been in a war, Melinda. What do you think?”

He saw her shoulders tense. She stopped whisking the eggs and turned to look at him.

“I suppose you’ve had to do things I don’t want to know about.”

“You’re correct.”

Melinda turned back to the counter. A few minutes later, she sat down with two full plates of omelet, sliced melon and rye toast. Drool threatened to drip from the sides of Nick’s mouth as he stared at their meal.

“This is incredible, Mel.” He hadn’t had a homemade meal in, what, seven, eight months?