“He asked me not to, said you were too good for the likes of me. He was smiling when he said it, but I knew he meant it. We both ended up taking … a different kind of girl, shall we say?”
“The kind who didn’t mind steaming up the windows of a parked car,” Frankie said, smiling. “That sounds like Fin.”
“I knew he was right. I had nothing in common with a woman like you. Still, I followed you into the office that night, thought I’d steal a kiss, but I could tell you weren’t ready. And now…”
“Here we are,” Frankie said in understanding. They had made it through hardship—death all around—to be here, sipping cocktails on a tropical island. Did it mean something?
How would they know unless they dared to begin?
They needed first to get to know each other. So she said, “Tell me about your family. Do you have siblings?”
“Ah. Twenty questions. Good choice. No siblings. My mom was an English teacher. Loved Yeats. The old man still lives in Compton. Bought the place in the thirties, thinks the city has gone to hell around him. He owns a car repair shop. Stanley and Mo’s, although there’s no Mo; no one could stand my old man for long, not even his brother.”
The waitress appeared at their table, paused, then said, “I’m sorry to disturb you, sir, but there’s a gentleman at the bar. He requests a moment of your time.” Behind her, at the dark lava-rock bar area, an elderly man in an out-of-style suit and tie stood and waved.
“Of course,” Rye answered.
The man who approached them walked in a slow, limping gait. He was tall and thin, wearing an expensive linen suit that seemed sized for a larger man. He had a thin mustache and neatly trimmed hair. “Edgar LaTour,” he said in a lyrical Louisiana drawl. “Captain. U.S. Army. I’m guessing you’re here on leave,” he said to Rye.
“We both are, sir. This is Lieutenant Frances McGrath. Army nurse. I’m Navy.”
Edgar grinned. “Well, I won’t hold that against you, boy. I just want to say thank you for what you boys—and girls, I guess—are doing to fight communism. It’s a tough world out there and you need to know that a lot of us still appreciate your sacrifice. I’d be honored to buy your meal.”
“That isn’t necess—”
“Necessary, no, but my honor. And, ma’am, a woman like you saved my life in France. Bless you.”
Moments after the man left, the waitress brought their entrées—lamb roasted in a firepit, baby peas, and buttery potatoes rissole. Throughout the meal, they talked about their hopes for life after Vietnam, the friends they’d made over there, the protests going on back home.
When dinner was over—after a fabulous Baked Alaska—Rye picked up a picnic basket at his feet and offered Frankie his arm. They walked out of the restaurant, past a trio of women dancing the hula in the lobby to the sweet strains of the ukulele.
Outside, the hotel grounds were a wonderland of shadow and moonlight and tiki torches. The grounds enveloped them in fragrance and sound—sweet ginger and plumeria and a warm, salt-tinged breeze. Flaming tiki torches stood amid elegant manicured landscaping. The lagoons lapped quietly against the shore as they walked over the arched bridge.
Rye led her to the beach, where he found a private, perfect spot, far from the closed-up snack shack, and unpacked the basket he’d brought. A blanket. Several votive candles in holders, a pack of matches, a bottle of champagne, and two glasses. He set it all out on the sand and poured her a glass of champagne.
“You’re prepared,” she said, not sure whether she felt romanced or manipulated.
Romanced won out.
“Always,” he said with a smile. “I was an Eagle Scout.”
“Really?”
“No.” He laughed. “Scouting wasn’t the sort of thing offered in my neighborhood.”
They sat down on the blanket; each stared up at the white spray of the Milky Way. He pointed out constellations, told her the stories that went along with each one.
Halfway through one of those stories, Frankie turned to ask him something at the same time he turned to her.
They stared at each other, neither speaking for a moment, then Rye leaned forward slowly, his gaze questioning. “May I kiss you, Frankie?”
She nodded.
He leaned toward her; she met him more than halfway. It wasn’t until the last second, when his lips touched hers, that she remembered to close her eyes. The kiss went on and on, until she felt his hand slide down her back, guide her body toward the sand. They stretched out on the blanket, moving together without a word.
She waited for him to reach under her dress or kiss down her throat, to push for more the way the boys she knew had always done, but he didn’t. He seemed content to kiss her deeply, bringing her closer to some edge she hadn’t known existed that left her dizzy with desire, and still he was a gentleman.
For the first time, she was the one who wanted more.
In all the world, all the universe, they’d come together somehow, halfway around the world, and it felt like destiny.
She drew back and looked at him. Since childhood, she’d been taught that this kind of need was wrong, immoral, a sin, unless it happened in a marriage.
“We can wait,” he said.
“In six days we’ll be back in Vietnam.” She thought about the helicopter pilots that had come through her OR. About Fin and Jamie and the heartbreak of loss. “I don’t want to wait.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.” She looked at him. “Scared, but sure. I don’t know what to do…”
“I do.” He kissed her chin, along her throat, across the swell of her breasts. He unzipped the back of her dress, eased it down her body, leaving goose bumps along her skin.
Somehow, he’d released her bra without her knowing it and she felt his mouth on her breasts.
“Oh my God,” she whispered.
He kept kissing her, touching her, awakening her body. She fought it for a moment, tried to hold herself together; it felt as if she were unraveling.
“Relax, baby,” he said, pulling her dress farther down, her panties, until she lay naked in the starlight, shivering. Somewhere deep inside, her body was pounding, aching.
“I want to touch you,” she said.
He smiled down at her and pulled off his T-shirt. “I was hoping you’d say that.”
She reached for him, unsure of what to do and how to do it.
Be bold.
* * *
Dear Barb,
I only have time for a postcard.
Sex was great. I was bold. And you were right.
He knew what he was doing.
F
* * *
Frankie became a new version of herself in Rye’s bed. They spent their days and nights exploring each other’s bodies, learning cues, and listening. She discovered a passion so deep it stripped away her shyness, dissolved the once-important rules of propriety, redefined her. Her desire for him felt endless, boundless, desperate.
Now they lay on a deserted beach beneath a cliff that had taken resolve to descend. The locals called it Secret Beach, and the name was apt. They were the only people on this stunning white sand beach. Waves crashed along the shore, made a roaring sound, while shorebirds wheeled overhead, white specks against the cloudless blue sky. The water looked too rough to swim in, so they just lay near it.
They had fallen asleep in the shade for a while, holding hands, their bare feet touching. She already couldn’t sleep without touching him.
Frankie didn’t know how long she’d been asleep, but when she woke, the sun was beginning to set.
She rolled over, rested her chin on his chest.
Rye kissed her and they made love again, in the way that had already become familiar to Frankie, slowly at first, building desire to a fever pitch, and then in a pounding, gasping, shattering fury that left them both breathless and depleted.
Afterward, she stared at him, unable to look away, still a little breathless. Sand speckled his tanned cheeks, clung to his dark lashes. Every moment with him coalesced at once into this heaviness in her heart, and she realized suddenly, sharply, how much passion changed things. He could break her heart in ways she couldn’t even imagine.
“Is this real, Rye?” she asked. “It happened so fast. I’m not experienced enough—”