When we love and we find our soul-mate, we "come home" in the truest sense of the words. This is the first in a series of short stories on that theme, told from the perspective of Grace Carter and Roland Brett. Later stories will be M rating, but for now it's a T. I really hope you enjoy reading it.
1.
The sun shone through the window pane, dust motes dancing in its beams, as she looked beyond to the garden. It was not yet 9 o'clock, but the day promised to be as hot as the one before it had been. The morning room already felt oppressively warm and she raised the back of her hand to her forehead to push her hair back from her face. It was strange not having to get up for anything, knowing that there would be no more convoys of wounded. She turned her head absently and looked at the letter on the mantelpiece, its handwriting so achingly familiar. She had not yet been able to open it: she was frightened to. She, who had been frightened of nothing that the enemy could do, was frightened to open a letter. Her letter to him had been full of details of her life now, a life without him, and yet he was as much a part of it as he had ever been, at least in her heart. The great unspoken truth had been hidden between its lines of everyday information; the truth that she loved him and always had; that she needed him and always would; that she missed him with a pain which was visceral.
"Oh God, why am I doing this? It will avail me nothing. He's married and I'm not. He doesn't think of me that way; I'm just a former colleague, someone he used to talk with and who shared the war years with him."
Her words were aimed at no one in particular, but it helped to say them out loud, as if the force of articulation in some way made the reality of her impossible situation easier to bear. She drew on that inner reserve of strength that had always been there for her and roused herself from the thoughts which threatened to overwhelm her. "The work saves us," she had once said and she was right.
She set about her daily chores and knew that there was no hurry today because she would not be at the cottage hospital until tomorrow. Washing, dusting, tidying and cooking were on the agenda for today. Then she would sit in the garden and read in the sun-dappled shade of the afternoon. The cottage was in a pretty spot, hewn from the surrounding steeply wooded hillside to the north and east, and looking south and west to the water meadows adjoining the stream which cascaded down from the rocky slopes beneath the trees. She was so absorbed in her tasks and deep in her thoughts that she nearly missed the gentle knock at the door. Wiping her hands on a towel, she went to the solid wood front door and pulled to open it. It was a little stiff as the heat had slightly warped it. She gave it another tug and it flew open. She nearly drowned beneath the wave of emotion, which washed over her, and her breath caught in her throat, choking the words she wanted to say.
"Hello, Grace." She looked at him and still the words would not form. The seconds ticked by. "May I come in? It's rather hot out here."
She metaphorically shook herself. "Of course; I'm so sorry, I'm just so surprised to see you."
He entered the cool interior of the hall and she took his jacket and hung it up, looking at him over her shoulder, tucking an escaped strand of hair behind her ear.
"Come in, please; sit down. Let me get you a cold drink. I've just made some lemonade."
"That would be most welcome; thank you."
He walked behind her into the morning room, taking in its homely warmth.
"This is beautiful, Grace, and what a lovely situation you have here. It's so light and airy."
"Thank you. Please, take a seat Roland. I'll just get your drink."
Smiling, she went to the kitchen leaving him alone. As she reached the table, she gripped its edges for support. He was here in her home; he had come to see her. She could feel her heart beat in her throat and forced herself to breathe slowly to calm down.
Whilst she was in the kitchen, he sat back in one of the comfortable armchairs by the fireplace and then he spotted it; his letter on the mantelpiece. She returned with a tray of fresh lemonade and homemade Shrewsbury biscuits, which she placed in front of him and poured him a glass of the cool, refreshing drink. He took it from her, his fingers brushing against hers for a second, with a touch of almost electrical intensity, as their eyes met.
"You didn't open it."
His turn now to be surprised.
"No, I haven't had time to open it yet. Please have your drink."
Her words, even to her ears, sounded like a feeble excuse, which of course they were.
"In a minute. Open it now; please, Grace. I need you to read it. It's why I'm here."
She approached the mantelpiece and removed the envelope, taking it down and opening it with trembling fingers.
"Read it, please; it's addressed to you and I wrote it, so no confidences are betrayed."
"Of course not," she said woodenly.
She unfolded the paper and read under his watchful gaze.
"Grace, my darling, for that is what you are to me; I received your letter today, after what have seemed like endless days of waiting. I read every word, over and over again, hearing your voice in each phrase, and I knew with total certainty that you are as vital to me as the air that I breathe. I have to see you, Grace, to explain, and should be with you by 10 o'clock Tuesday morning. I have wasted so much time; forgive me if my haste at this point appears unseemly, but I cannot tolerate another moment away from you. I see now that I am "home", with painful clarity, that there is no home for me without you. I love you and always have; I need you and always will. Until Tuesday then, my love, I am your ever devoted, Roland."
Her brain refused to process his words, but the paper fell from Grace's fingers and fluttered to the ground. She turned to him, her gaze steady, but her heart wildly beating once more. Whilst she had been reading his letter, he had risen from the armchair and moved closer to her. His proximity was playing havoc with her emotions.
"You love me?" she asked.
"Yes."
One word, yet the answer to everything she felt she had ever wanted to know.
"Do you love me, Grace?"
She nodded, wordlessly answering his question.
"Say it, Grace; I need to hear you say it."
Seconds passed like hours until she said,
"I love you, Roland."
"Why did you not open my letter?"
"Because I love you."
"How so?"
"I couldn't bear to hear about your life and no longer be a part of it. I was waiting until I was strong enough to read it without wanting to cry at the injustice that gave you to Hetty, who doesn't love you, and not to me, who does."
He held out his arms and she came quietly into the circle of his embrace, as if it was the most natural place for her to be, which in a sense it was. He rested his forehead against hers.
"I felt the same, Grace, and it was no easier for me being apart from you, especially knowing that you were not married. It made it worse. There was nothing to hold me back from you, save my own misplaced sense of duty."
"What are you saying, Roland?"
"I'm saying that I'm here because I love you, only you."
She raised her hand tremblingly, in wonderment, to his face and moved forward to kiss him as lightly as thistledown floating in a gentle breeze. He was rendered momentarily motionless as her lips brushed his and then he bent his head, as her mouth opened beneath his, and he poured his years of longing into a kiss of unimaginable passion. The floodgates opened and he swept her off her feet uttering only one word,
"Where?"
She broke the kiss for a second, holding his face in her hands,
"You want me?"
"I want you, Grace. I must have you."
"Upstairs."
He carried her to the staircase and up to her bedroom, pushing open the door and placing her gently on the embroidered coverlet. Her arms wound round his neck as she pulled him down to her, to kiss him as she had dreamt of doing, evening after evening, lying in this very bed. Her body arched into him and he lost all semblance of control, tearing at her clothes and his at one and the same time, until they were naked, his need for her as obvious as hers for him, as she pressed up against him, murmuring words he could not hear, but their meaning made plain by the look in her eyes and the movement of her body. He knelt up and rested her legs either side of his hips, bending forward to cradle her face and to whisper that he wanted her, had longed for her. She encircled his waist with her legs, tilting her hips up towards him, all sense of propriety vanished like the morning dew, her pleasure vocalised as he eased into her. Mere minutes later he lay in her arms, spent and damp, but still firmly embedded within her as her body gently pulsed around him.
"Grace, forgive me. I behaved like a brute in my need for you. I was selfish in taking my pleasure, but I never knew such closeness was possible and I have hungered for you."
"There is nothing to forgive. You never took anything; I gave myself to you because I love you and, as for closeness, well, you've never truly known me before," she smiled at him.
"And now that I do, I will never let you go again."
He kissed her hard, unable to keep his feelings under control, smoothing back the hair from her forehead, as he looked down at her with passion. She revelled in it.
"I am not going anywhere," she replied, as her heartbeat slowly returned to normal.
"You will never know how hard it was to watch you return here; to let you go, see you disappear in front of me with the realisation that I had just let my only hope for a happy future escape me. I wanted to tell you then, but I couldn't offer you anything except my love, so how could I ask a woman like you to give up everything to become my lover?"
"The same way you did today. You've made love to me, and there is nothing I care about in life more than you. I can deny you nothing."
"I want never to go back, Grace. I knew when I set out that my life would change forever and it has."
"You have no need to go back. You've come home, Roland."
He gently stirred within her and, as he saw her eyes darken once more and felt her arms close about him, he knew she was right.