Secret Honeymoon (14 page)

“Darling—dearest,” she said shakily, “you’ll never be able to get rid of this wife as long as you live. I wouldn’t stray two inches from you for all the treasure in the fairy tales!”

All the lightness, the raillery and teasing vanished from Mark’s eyes, and he lifted her hand for his kiss, as Cathy, her own eyes misty with happiness for them, slipped away from the table, knowing that they were quite oblivious to her presence.

Remembering Mark’s warning, Cathy put through her telephone call, and that same day she put in a request for her discharge, accompanied by affidavits from the doctors at the hospital, and from the Red Cross officials in charge of disaster relief work at Cypressville.

She put out of her mind any fear that her discharge might not come through. She centered her heart and her mind on Bill, and submerged everything else in her concern and her devotion to him.

The days slid by like beads on a string; days marked by Bill’s slow but steady progress toward recovery. There were dark beads on the string, days when Bill seemed not to be doing so well; there were one or two very black beads when it seemed that he had slipped back; but gradually he showed faint but sure progress until by the end of the month there was no longer any fear of unexpected complications that might delay or render doubtful his complete recovery.

Cathy had bathed him and made him comfortable for the day. The doctor had come, read the chart, changed the dressings, and been very bluff and cheerful and had gone his way.

Cathy was putting the room in order when, from the bed, Bill said suddenly, “Stop doodling and come here.”

Cathy laughed joyously.

“The voice of my lord and master,” she said lightly, and came to the side of the bed and sat down, her hands demurely folded in her lap.

Bill was not smiling. His eyes were grave and steady upon her, and her own gaiety faded beneath his look. In swift alarm, she laid her hand on his and asked softly, “Bill—what is it?”

Bill’s uninjured hand quickened beneath her own and turned until his fingers enfolded hers.

“I think it’s time we had a little serious talk, don’t you, sweet?” he said gravely. “I’ve been doing a devil of a lot of thinking, lying here flat on my back, with you and the doctors all shushing me vigorously every time I wanted to say five words. But now—well, now you’ve got to listen, Cathy.”

“Of course, dearest—always,” she told him.

He was silent for a moment, his eyes bleak.

“Cathy, I’ve remembered a lot of things since my mind cleared up from that smacking I got,” he told her after a moment, as though he sought for words with which to clothe his thoughts. “And I’ve remembered that it wasn’t a dream, after all—your saying you wanted a divorce.”

“It was just a bad dream, darling. One we shared, but one that wasn’t real,” she assured him.

He shook his head and winced with pain.

“No, Cathy, it wasn’t a dream,” he said slowly. “You wanted a divorce and you were entitled to it. I’d treated you shamefully. But now that I’m flat on my back and likely to be for some time you are going all noble and self-sacrificing, and have given up the idea. Well, Cathy, you must go ahead with the divorce.”

She caught her breath and went white as the crisp uniform she wore.

“Oh,
no
, Bill!”

“Yes, Cathy. I won’t have you making any more sacrifices for me,” said Bill, and as she tried to speak he went on almost sharply, “Wait—let me finish. I know how much your profession means to you—”

“It doesn’t mean a thing to me, compared to—being your wife,” she cut in swiftly.

“I know. That’s the way you feel now, Cathy, but you’ve let your heart run away with your head. You were quite sure that you’d got over loving me that night before I was hurt, but seeing me down and out, you kidded yourself that you were still in love with me—” He broke off, outraged and astounded at her sudden little peal of quite honest laughter.

“Oh, Bill, darling—the couple of fools we are!” She laughed and though the laugh was not quite steady it was sincere. “It should be illegal for two people like us to be married to anybody except each other. It wouldn’t be fair to anyone completely sane to be saddled with either of us.”

Bill was puzzled and distinctly annoyed.

“I don’t get it!” he said stiffly.

Cathy kissed him tenderly, her eyes brimming with loving amusement.

“You will, darling, you will,” she told him. “Don’t you see, Bill? From the very first, we were all wrong; the secret marriage—it created a sort of obstacle to our happiness. And there was a mental strain, too—loving each other, having every right to belong to each other, yet unwilling to let anyone know. My seeing Mark annoyed you and aroused your jealousy, yet there was nothing I could do to discourage him without breaking my word to you. Seeing Elaine there in your home, knowing that your aunt wanted you to marry her and that so far as she knew there was no reason why you shouldn’t—you and I having to sneak and slip about in order to be together—it was a situation that was bound to blow up in our faces. And when it did, we both got all haughty and prideful and—well, I was so worn out emotionally that I sort of went numb; I didn’t feel anything at all, and I told myself I was all over being in love with you and I was glad—though in my secret heart, I was scared, too. Then when you were hurt, everything was clear to me again. I realized that it was only because I’d been so tired, so completely worn out that I could ever fool myself for a moment that I’d stopped loving you—or that I ever could stop loving you!”

Bill had listened eagerly, and now his eyes were shining and his hand was holding hers closely. But he had to make double sure.

“You—you aren’t just being all noble and everything because I need you?” he asked uncertainly.

Her kiss answered that even before she told him, “It took
your being hurt, Bill, to make me see clearly. But I’ll never be blind again, Bill! I promise.”

Bill gave vent to a long, deep-seated sigh of relief.

“I was plenty scared,” he confessed a little later. “I thought you were just making a sacrifice because I’d been hurt, and I wasn’t going to let you outdo me in sacrifices. I was going to tell you
I
wanted a divorce, too—and then as soon as you were out of the room, I was going to burst into tears and recognize my life as ruined.”

“Silly,” said Cathy, and her tone made the words a caress that ached with tenderness. “Mine certainly would have been.”

They were silent for a long, happy moment and then he asked anxiously, “But, Cathy—what about the Army?”

“I’ve applied for a discharge, under plea of domestic responsibility,” she told him promptly. “It should come through any time now. The Army’s sometimes very understanding about gals who have husbands who need their love and attention.”

Bill drew a deep breath and said happily, “And I’ll be up and around soon, and from here on out, we do the fairy tales one better. We’re going to live
ecstatically
ever after!”

“How else could two people live who love each other so much?” asked Cathy reasonably.

This edition published by

Crimson Romance

an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.

10151 Carver Road, Suite 200

Blue Ash, Ohio 45242

www.crimsonromance.com

Copyright © 1968 by Arcadia House.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author's imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.

ISBN 10: 1-4405-7566-5

ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-7566-2

eISBN 10: 1-4405-7565-7

eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-7565-5

Cover art © massonforstock/123RF

I'm going to divulge my biggest secret: I'm psychic. Really psychic. Now, I'm not saying I'm going to start my own TV show, or work for the police department, because really, I don't want that kind of attention. Once a psychic's face gets out there, she's a bigger attraction than Channing Tatum.

No, I'm much happier channeling my talents to other outlets. And I'm not afraid to admit, my abilities really don't work that way, anyway. I can
see
with my “third eye.” I can sometimes hear voices in my head-- usually if a deceased person is really trying to get through-- and if I have a strong connection, like physically talking to someone, I can actually see through the other person's eyes, making me a bona fide telepath. It's wicked cool, for sure, but it totally destroys that whole “phenomenal cosmic power” one needs to become gratuitously rich.

And, trust me, I've tried that whole Mega Millions thing. Epic fail.

I reach for the phone at my work station, my hand hovering, waiting and ready. It rings once, then I pick up on the second ring. “Pet Pearls Behavioral Helpline, this is RoseAngel. How can I help your pet today?”

“Hi, Roxanne, this is Bev Stein again. Now my cat keeps getting up on top of my bookshelf and knocking off all my knickknacks. She's driving me crazy!”

Yup. This is what I do. I can visualize her home, because she's got the image foremost in her mind. I
feel
these aren't just knickknacks to her; they are souvenirs of places she went with her husband before he died of cancer last year. This would be the owner most likely to relinquish her pet, but only because with every broken trinket, Bev will feel like she's losing a memory of the last thirty-seven years of her married life.

Last time she called, her cat was “rolling around like a floozy.” I explained the importance of spaying her, and the behavior stopped. We have a rapport, now, she and I, and I'm hopeful she'll listen to me again.

I hone in on her cat, a mischievous brown tiger female of eleven months. I spend about fifteen minutes with Bev, telling her to pack away the valuables—just for now—put some empty boxes up there to block access, add some motion-activated spray deterrents, and above all, to play with her. Even without a sixth sense I can tell she's a senior citizen, so I inform her that five to ten minutes of high-quality interaction daily should stop the attention-seeking behavior.

Grateful gushing carries over the line, and I give her my name again—RoseAngel, not Roxanne—and tell her I'll follow up with her in a week.

This might seem like a menial job to some, but right now keeping pets in their homes is my primary goal. It's better for the pet, it teaches the owner to work through snags in their relationships, and most importantly, it keeps our intake numbers down.

Sometimes I wonder what it would be like if I were more outgoing, braver, like my brother, who flaunts his power like a side-ring circus act. He's not afraid to embrace his sixth sense, enjoy each adventure it brings. Me, I had a chance, and I choked, and now I live with that knowledge and regret each day.

Maybe someday I'll want more excitement in my life. Right now, I'm happy living
la vida incognito
.

I log my call in my book with the owner's name and pet's name. I already entered her into our computer system the last time we spoke, so there's less data to input this time. By doing this, we can check and see if our outreach program really works.

I'm proud to report that I'm
really
good at keeping pets in their homes; few of my callers relinquish their pets, and those that do don't shock me.

The phone rings again. I press the enter button and log my info, then grab the phone on the second ring. “Pet Pearls Behavioral Helpline, this is RoseAngel. How can I help your pet today?”

A pause. “RoseAngel. That's the prettiest name I've ever heard.”

He has a great voice. Rich. Smooth. I'm talking a ribbon-wrapped gold-foil box of perfectly-shaped Godiva. My mouth waters at the comparison. “Thank you. I had no say in the matter.” I laugh and repeat, “How may I help you today?”

“It's my cat,” said on a sigh.

A sense of darkness washes over me, like being in a wooded cabin at midnight on a new moon with all the drapes pulled shut.

I kind of get a case of the heebie-jeebies from what my third eye is seeing but plow ahead. “Okay, let me just get some info from you first. Name?”

“Pringles.”

I laugh and say, “That's my favorite chip.”

“Mine, too. And the day he came home, he wouldn't stop stealing and begging for them, so he totally named himself.”

I chuckle and clear my throat and ask, “Your name?”

I see
av
...
rav
...
Travis
... but he says, “Trevor.”

I frown. “Last name?” I see
att ... attison ... Mattison
, but he says, “Matthews.” My game must be off, big time. Maybe I've got my T and M names confused, but more likely I assume he's ashamed of what his cat's doing and wants the anonymity.

Whatever.

Except ... I
really
don't like the blackness that still surrounds this caller, and I'm not surprised when the address he gives me seems faked. I hop online and confirm no such location. He gives me one by Preston, a blip on the map just a few miles east of us, which I've heard has the population of an elevator at maximum capacity.

He's not a client in our system, either.

I rally my forces and ask, “Now, tell me about Pringles. Age?”

“I'm thirty-two.”

I sense his tease and come back with, “That's a mighty old cat.” I can sense his smile and press, “Your
cat's
age?”

“
Oh
.” Playfully, like he was confused. “Four.”

“Sex?” I can't wait for this one.

“I prefer women ... but never on the first date.” His voice drops. “I'm kind of old-fashioned that way.”

I choke out a laugh, but I feel my eyes light up and my heart go pitter-pat. He is? I totally have a thing for black-and-white movies, Fred Astaire, and any man who opens doors for me. I stumble, “Um, I meant, your cat?”