Drawing Blood (21 page)

Chapter Thirty-Five

David

The soft melody of the rain on the gabled roof had kept him asleep for a long time. When he did wake, he listened to that rhythm, letting it lull him to that point of almost being asleep but still aware of his surroundings. This calm was not what he should get used to. If he went back to combat eventually he had to knock this out.

When he heard the kitchen door open, he thought nothing of it. He assumed Murphy had been patrolling the yard again. It sounded like someone sat at the table. He wasn’t awake, he was just listening. The soft female cry brought him right out his dozing. He continued listening, heard the table creak again.

Two sounds and he knew very well what was happening in the kitchen.

More footsteps, the closing of a door. David sat up in bed, taking his watch off the nightstand. It was mid-morning. It was pouring rain outside. And the most steady and dependable man David had ever known was making love to the woman he’d give everything to be with himself.

He ran hands over his hair, trying to relax again. Trying not to think about what was happening was impossible for him, which made him feel like the world’s worst pervert.  He tried to think about his parent’s house back home, which his sister had likely sold by now. She said she’d keep half the money for him, if he ever got back to collect it. There was no way he was moving back to that town, though. Maybe he’d follow Murphy.

That sounded pretty pathetic to him, too. But he didn’t just think of the guy as a CO. He really thought they were friends.

David heard a cry of pure feminine pleasure echo through the house. He knew they were in the shelter. At least it sounded like she was enjoying it. God, the thought was awful, even for him.

He must have fallen back asleep because the next thing he knew he was waking up to the smell of coffee and the sound of people moving around on the main floor. He was going to have to pretend not to know what had happened.

He used the cane more than he really wanted to, but the stitches were aching even more than they had the first day he’d had with them. He pulled a heavy knit sweater on, and stepped into the slippers Abby had left for him by the door. They were a size too big, but they sure were warm. Progress going down the stairs was slow, but keeping his leg stiff cut down on the stinging.

“I don’t know. Maybe the Petits?”

“It’s strange to find a casserole dish on the stoop, isn’t it?” Elliot was laughing, and she was chuckling along with him.

David entered the kitchen feeling like an interloper. Elliot was crouched next to the wood stove, shoving split logs in to it. Abigail was standing at the counter, leaning against it with her hip. She cradled a cup of coffee in her hands, and her smile at Elliot was too bright for David to handle. She looked gorgeous, even with the bruises forming on her neck. There was colour in her cheeks and her hazel eyes looked bright green. Maybe it was the dress she was wearing, or maybe Murphy had done that.

She trained her eyes on him, smiling. “Good morning,” she greeted him warmly.

He felt himself grin like a goon in spite of his insane jealously. “Morning. Is there enough of that for me to have some?”

She retrieved a mug from the cupboard behind her. David took a seat at the table, elevating his leg up to keep from having to bend it. Murphy shut the woodstove door and sat with David, but he noticed the man wasn’t really looking him in the eye. That’s when David knew he’d been a sap; obvious about his affections for Abby. Murphy was feeling guilty.

“Here you go. I hope you’re hungry.” She set the mug in front of him, full and steaming. She also rumpled his hair fondly, but David didn’t let himself stew on that.

“I’m usually hungry unless it’s army-issue,” he said, taking a swallow of coffee.

“Someone left us a tourtière,” she said, gesturing to a pie plate on the counter. What was next to it was what caught his eye.

“Holy shit. Where’d the MP40 come from?” The submachine gun sat on the counter next to the covered pie plate and the canister of coffee. David had the obscure thought that it would make the oddest still life painting.

“That’s Abigail’s,” Murphy said.

David looked up at her, thoroughly confused. “Where you been hiding this?”

“It’s not mine,” she insisted, her voice soft and not just because it hurt. “Hauptmann Bossong came by this morning.”

“Oh shit. Are you okay? Where is he? You should have come and got me.”

Murphy waved his hand. “I was out in the barn, cutting wood. He took a shot from a little too far away. We were both able to dive for cover. We had a bit of a fight and Abigail shot him.”

David was watching Abby’s face as his friend did the talking. She was momentarily unaware of them, locked in a memory. David knew she was thinking about having killed someone, and most likely what that man had done to her. That’s what he’d been having nightmares about the night before himself. The French guy had been the first up-close kill he’d had. He’d seen the guy’s face as the round had taken off part of his head.  It had been a full few seconds before the guy even knew he was dead.

David reached for her hand, startling her. She shook her head and gave a nervous laugh. “Well, since you’re up, I’m going to go take a shower.”

Both men watched her leave the kitchen and start up the stairs. Now David felt awkward.

“How’s your leg?”

David looked down at the appendage in question. “It hurts. I don’t think I’ll be running any track and field for quite a while.” He nodded Murphy’s outfit: pajamas and a sweater, just like him. “You must have made a mess.”

“The Captain made a mess,” Murphy corrected, getting up to get a coffee for himself.

“It must have been quite a shock for her.”

“I think so. She got him point-blank in the back of the head. And she put a couple more in him just to make sure.”

David caught Murphy’s eye as he sat back down. They had an uncomfortably silent stare-down. Murphy looked away first.

“David,” his friend sighed, suddenly looking a little bit older. “I’m married.”

David shifted in the chair. This was not a conversation he wanted to have. Not then, probably not ever.

“It’s none of my business,” David said automatically.

Murphy made eye contact again. “Yes it is. I know it is.”

David studied the inside of his coffee cup. “I think you’re a good person, Lieutenant.”

“Drop the Lieutenant stuff.”

David shrugged. “What should I call you?”

“My name’s Elliot, David.” Murphy added his name almost like an afterthought. “You saved my life. You can call me Elliot.”

“You saved mine.”

“It’s not a contest. There’s no even-Stevens here.”

“I don’t know what this has to do with anything.”

“I’m ashamed right now. I’ve done something I thought I was not capable of.”

“I still think you’re … a good person. A good friend.”

“How the hell do I tell my wife?”

“You don’t. You go home, tell her you missed her. Make love to her the second you walk in the door.” He swallowed a large mouthful of coffee that burned as it went down.

“I can’t lie.”

“It’s not lying. It’s neglecting to mention everything. Were you planning on telling her about the dead bodies? What happens to a person that’s been shot through the guts?”

Murphy shook his head.

“Exactly. You want to protect her.”

Murphy sighed and ran both hands through his hair. David even felt sorry for the guy.

“I don’t know what to tell you to make you feel better,” he said gently. “I have no responsibilities. No one counting on me. No one trusting me. I don’t have the foggiest idea what you’re going through.”

“I’ve never even been tempted.”

David shrugged. “We’re kind of living in … extraordinary circumstances now, aren’t we?”

Voices were suddenly raised outside. They both tensed, ready to grab for their nearest weapons before they realized that they were shouts of joy and jubilation. Murphy got to his feet and opened the door off the kitchen, David strained to see what he could.

He recognized the French man from the night before, the one that had taken away the dead Resistance member. He was smiling broadly now, and when he saw Murphy in the doorway he sprung forward, chattering away at a mile a minute in French. He wrapped Murphy up in his arms, hugging him with unabashed excitement. Murphy had to smile, looking back at David. Neither of them knew what was going on but his happiness was contagious.

“The Germans are fleeing,” the man said, finally realizing they couldn’t understand him. “They are all leaving Calais or surrendering! The Canadians have taken control of the ports! This is fantastic news!”

David felt himself break in to a giant smile. Murphy was grinning too, and he wanted to know more. “Where did you hear this? When did this happen?”

“The fighting started yesterday. The Germans are turning tail and leaving. We’ve heard four hundred soldiers have surrendered already.”

The younger man that had followed Abby’s neighbour now stood in the doorway too. That’s when David realized they were father and son. They were nearly identical. He held a bottle in each hand. He raised them up to show that they were home-corked bottles of red wine. “My uncle made this himself,” he said. “We were saving it for good news.”

“My wife is bringing over another
tourtière
,” the older man added. “Let’s get them in the stove. People are coming over to thank the Canadians we have in our midst.”

“We didn’t do anything, though,” Murphy said, smile getting smaller. “We’ve been here.”

The older man clamped a hand on the back of Murphy’s neck, resting his forehead against his own. “You were one of the men storming the beaches? You fought at Caen and Falaise, no?”

“How do you know all this?”

“The Resistance. Trust me son, you have done everything.”

Murphy was lost for words. David thought his friend might start crying.

“Come, let’s pour some wine. More friends will be here soon.”

“Murphy,” David called out. “Come help me get dressed for our company.”

David had no idea who had stitched closed the tears in the trouser leg where he’d taken the shrapnel, but he appreciated it. The underwear and trousers made him feel almost normal again. The cane didn’t, but that was non-negotiable. Murphy also pulled on his fatigues. It was somewhat funny to him that they wore battle trousers with knit jumpers.

The Petits had poured wine in to juice tumblers and they were both handed one as they joined them again in the kitchen. They held the cups aloft and cried out “
Vive le France!
” They all toasted to that, took a swig, then the French men cried out “
Vive le Canada!
”

David was smiling broadly as their glasses touched and everyone drank. He knew this development was not the end of the war. But these people had been through so much, and their enduring hope was impossible to ignore.

Abigail came down the stairs, twisting her wet hair up on top of her head. She had likely heard everything, but David had to say it too. “The Germans have surrendered Calais.”

She smiled as Murphy handed her more wine.

“
Vive l'Angleterre!
” The Petits shouted, which struck them all as hilarious given the history between the countries. But everyone drank to that too, and before David knew what was happening the house was full of people bearing food who couldn’t speak a lick of English. Dishes filled with roasted vegetables and fresh bread were appearing, and the meat pies were loaded in to the oven, soon filling the air with that delicious aroma. The younger Petit took over the piano bench, and started playing some songs he knew and other songs David had never heard before. He was hustled in to the living room to rest his leg, and the woman doing the hustling reminded him somewhat of his mother. Until she grabbed him and kissed him square on the mouth, that is. Plates were going around laden with potatoes, meat pie and rolls. It was less than what he would usually eat in one sitting back home, but right then he was stuffed beyond movement. The wine kept appearing in his glass without him being aware of it. His head was spinning.

Abby appeared and took him by the hand. The piano was playing something slow and soft, and he was able to wrap his arms around her and lean on her, without the cane, swaying back and forth. Suddenly someone else had a guitar and the jigs started.

Not the end of the war, not even close. For the people in this small community it was good enough. They were free.

Chapter Thirty-Six

Elliot

He leaned against the entryway to the small living room, the air growing warm with all the jubilant neighbours crowding their way in to the house. He was passed a mug of wine, and he tried to explain he wasn’t a drinker but the older man selectively decided he didn’t speak English, slapped Elliot on the arm and continued on this way in to the living room to continue distributing his “house red.”

It was incredibly tart and potent. It sucked the moisture out of his mouth and raised his eyebrows. His next taste was better.

Abigail was always at the centre of his attention no matter where she went. He couldn’t ignore her laugh or her smile every time his eye landed on her. She made his heart race, his skin grow warm, and his stomach sink all at the same time.

What the hell have you done?

Another big swallow of the wine. It burned this time and his eyes watered slightly; an insufficient punishment. He had to get away from her and this house. He could leave David and go looking for help. He felt he’d be sufficiently safe in this community to go looking for the rest of the Third. Reinforcements had to be close by now.

But he also didn’t want to leave her.

This is ridiculous. This doesn’t mean anything to either of you. You’re risking too much.

He had never known sex could be like that: such an immediate need fulfilled fast, aggressive and satisfying. His common sense was impaired, he had blinders on to any thought that might have entered his head to stop him from doing what he had to.

Elliot was ashamed yet, and yet infatuated like a fourteen year old convinced he was in love. Luckily he was old enough to tell himself it was illogical curiosity, not something as substantial as love.

Cleary was holding Abigail as someone was playing something French and charming on the piano, singing away with impressive skill. His friend held her around the back with both hands, her cheek pressed to his shoulder, smiling, cheeks flushed. Cleary had his head rested against hers, and as Elliot watched he pressed a kiss to her forehead.

Elliot suppressed his jealousy. She wasn’t his wife. He refused to give in to his stupid male possessiveness over a kiss on the forehead.

A girl asked him to dance in accented English. Elliot put his wine down, not sure how to refuse her sunny, hopeful smile. She was maybe fourteen or fifteen, and when he held his arms out she stepped in to proper dance form, hand on his shoulder, right hand out to take his left well to the side. Elliot had to smile and he put his right hand on her waist and began a slow foxtrot. Someone had taught her to dance properly the last few years. She was tall for her age, maybe. What did he know about how tall she should be?

After her he had another four teenage girls to dance with. They all left giggling in to their hands, speaking in whispered French to the next girl. He knew he was grinning like a goon about something so silly, but it was nice.

His rounds done, he looked around for Cleary to make sure the kid was okay. He saw Abigail first, leaning against the piano, smiling at him. He smiled back instantly, and she left her spot to wade through the dancers towards him. He met her in the middle of the room.

“Are you having fun?” She asked, raising her voice to be heard over the music and voices.

“I was going to ask you the same thing.”

“I am,” she offered, smiling brightly up at him. She put a hand on his shoulder, and he drew her in by the hips. Her arms met around his neck, her eyes never leaving his.

“I didn’t realize how many people live around here,” he said after a pause.

“Neither did I,” she laughed, looking around the room.

She put her head on his chest again, like she had the night before. He swallowed hard, pressing his eyes closed for a moment.
Don’t feel anything. Don’t feel anything for her …

He opened his eyes again in time to see Cleary leaning on the railing leading upstairs. The younger man’s face was flushed from drink, but it was the sadness that made Elliot stop, letting go of Abigail abruptly. She looked up at him in surprise, then to the stairs to see what had distracted him. Then she moved off through the crowd to the kitchen. Was she upset? Had he imagined it?

Cleary just jerked his head in the direction she had gone. Elliot frowned, and Cleary just nodded then turned to hobble over to a vacant kitchen chair that had been moved into this room.

Elliot pushed through to the kitchen, allowing a friendly older woman to grab his face and press a loud wet kiss right on his lips. He had to laugh and thank her, but he was also scanning for Abigail. She wasn’t in the kitchen, and she wouldn’t go to the shelter with all these strangers in the house, so she had to be outside.

The air outside was refreshingly cool. He found her sitting on the wooden steps, arms wrapped around her waist, just staring out in to the yard in front of the house.

“Abigail? Are you all right?”

She looked up at him over her shoulder, then nodded. “I’m fine. I … needed air.”

He sat next to her.

“I feel like I don’t know what to do about … this,” she said, waving a hand between them. “Or why I even have to do anything.”

Elliot had no answer. “Nothing about this is normal,” he eventually replied. “And … I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry,” she insisted. “It was all my fault.”

“No, no it wasn’t. I wanted you.”

She looked at him then, and he looked down to his feet. “I wanted you too, Elliot. It’s awkward pretending like nothing happened or like it was inevitable … I’ve been fine all on my own for years. I have no excuses for … jumping on you.”

“I kissed you, too,” he reminded her. “My wife is the only other person I’ve ever even kissed.”

She gave a shuddering breath. “I’ve only been with James.”

“We are all loyal to a point. For who so firm that cannot be seduced?”

She smiled wryly. “I know enough to recognize Shakespeare.”

“The only thing I remembered from English class.”

Another pause while they studied their darkened surroundings. “I’ll tell James about this if I ever see him again. I hope he forgives me. But … I can’t say I regret it.”

Elliot turned his attention to his own fingernails. “Neither do I.” He left that between them for a while, then stood. “I’m getting a chill. Are you okay? Should I bring you a sweater or something?”

Abigail stood too. “No, I’m ready to go back inside, too.”

She was one step up from him, her face level with his. She was kissing him before he could track her movement, slow this time. She was holding him by his shirt front, and he held her lightly by the hips. He could taste the wine on her lips and then her tongue as it slid past his own lips. His pulse quickened. His head swam. Here and now he took the time to concentrate on her, feeling the soft crush of her breasts against him, how her stomach was cushioned against his. How sweet her touch was as her hands slid up his neck and around his shoulders. He’d always had female comfort, he realized. He’d missed it.

She ended the kiss gradually, licking his bottom lip as she leaned away. She wouldn’t look at him; she seemed very interested in the name embroidered over his breast pocket.

“We should get back,” she whispered, breath hoarse. He liked hearing her that way.

“Yeah.”

Her back door opened and he stepped away from her, moving away down the steps to make room. The couple that stepped outside gave a knowing laugh, and the man gave Elliot a manly punch on the shoulder. “
Il doit y avoir quelque chose dans l'air, oui?
”

They hadn’t missed much, but the group was obviously starting to fade, slowly filtering out a couple of inebriated Frenchmen at a time. The last of the neighbours stumbled out of her door after midnight. David was passed out on the sofa, and Elliot helped him up the stairs to the bedroom.

The kid was like a sleeping cat as Elliot pulled off his boots and covered him with just the thin sheet. When he came back down stairs, turning off the lights in the hall and dining room, he found Abigail in the kitchen running water in the sink. The house was silent. The only light was the one over the sink. She’d kicked off her shoes to stand barefoot while she washed dishes. He was smiling to himself, then stopped. He couldn’t do this, not again.

She looked over her shoulder at him. That was all it took.

Elliot crossed the room, standing behind her and reaching around her to turn off the taps.

“There’s a lot of dishes -” she was saying, but he pressed a kiss to the side of her neck and she stopped protesting.

“Later,” he said against her skin. She leaned her head back to his chest and he kissed her neck again, smiling as she sighed, eyes closing.

“This is wrong,” she whispered.

“Yes, it is.”

She turned in his arms, kissing him again, hands in his hair. He held her the same, leaning her back against the apron of the sink. He couldn’t walk away from her at that moment.

He took her hands from the back of his neck, pulling her with him through the dining room to the living room. He slid the pocket doors closed as she stood next to the bed, hands on the top button of her dress.

He leaned against the doors, watching as she undid each button. She was looking at the wall across from her, not at him. She shrugged it off her shoulders and let it slide to the floor. He undid his combat blouse, eyes on her, as he moved to her slowly. She crossed her arms over her chest, hands running up her arms as though she was cold. He knew she wasn’t, she was just unsure.

He tilted her head up by the chin, letting his lips press to hers softly. Her hands slid under his blouse, winding around his waist. He waited until she was breathing hard before lifting the bottom of her slip. That small motion made her push the blouse off his shoulders and pull up on his undershirt. He let her undress him, and when they fell in to bed there wasn’t a stitch of clothing between them.

This time it wasn’t about urgency, hurt, and loneliness. This time it was one last goodbye.  There was no rush. Abigail pleasured him with her hands and her mouth, and he did the same for her. Listening to her climax while she was trying to be quiet was incredibly sexy to him, like he had her out of control of herself. By the time he was back inside her he wasn’t sure how much longer he’d even be able to continue. Both were slick with sweat, but as her body accepted him she whimpered.

He stilled. “Is anything wrong?”

She looked off to the side, almost like she was trying to assess what was happening. “That just … hurt. For a bit.”

“Should I stop?”

When she looked back at him she was smiling. “Don’t you dare.” When he didn’t move she shook her head. “It’s been a while. It hurts from … this morning. I promise I’m fine.”

He didn’t believe her until she raised her head to kiss him again, moving her hips to his, drawing him deeper. They made love that night like a couple, quietly, tenderly, like two people who knew each other better than they actually did. When she was close to orgasm she could bite his collarbone gently, which was something so different for him Elliot was willing himself not to follow her that quickly. Her cry was brief as her body tightened inside, along with her legs around his waist, her arms across his shoulders. He liked how all of it felt. He wanted to give her more of those.

Any other time he might have been proud to reflect on how long he was able to last. Elliot didn’t feel he had an option. He didn’t want to stop. She was thrilling and new to him, yet it felt like he was exactly where he was meant to be. Not killing anything, not hurting people. Making love to a woman was so much more natural than what had been occupying his time for the past however many years.

When he did tire, she rolled him to his back to take over. She straddled his hips, holding him inside as she rolled against him, head thrown back, oblivious to anything else. Elliot had to memorize every part of her to take with him. To keep him company on lonely nights. She would be the one he thought of when he was afraid or in danger.

“I don’t want to finish,” she gasped, leaning over him, panting. “I want this to last. It feels … perfect.”

Elliot had to agree. Perhaps they both knew that when it ended it would be time for him to leave.