Charlotte sighed, zipping up the black vinyl bag after tucking the mangled leg into it. The other part of Mortuary duty included dealing with severed limbs and although she wasn't as shocked by them as she had been at the beginning of the war, they still unsettled her. Back at home she and the family rarely had to deal with issues like this: most bodies came from the hospitals or homes without missing parts.
She said a little prayer and carefully lifted the package to set it on one of the racks, hoping the young man it had come from would survive his amputation. He'd been treated early and Charlotte knew the Colonel was both quick and good when it came to operations like this; nevertheless, it was never an easy ordeal.
At least it wasn't a child. She'd dealt with small corpses before this war; she and her mother would tenderly care for them, but that was always in the safety and comfort of ritual, the two of them supporting each other. An early death back home might be from accident or disease; here it was almost always a result of the battles around them, and all the more heartbreaking for that.
Shaking her head at these melancholy thoughts, she stepped out of the morgue, making her way to her tent for the supplies she'd been acquiring and thinking about Charles' upcoming birthday dinner. He'd insisted he didn't want a fuss but Charlotte knew him well enough to know that he'd be touched by any remembrance or gift on her part.
So she'd quietly made deals and bargains, taking on an extra shift here and there, granting favors in promise of favors returned with several people. From Klinger she'd gotten certain expedited mail orders delivered; from Henderson a bottle of imported wine and best of all Kellye had arranged for an overnight for them in the tent. That last was enough to make Charlotte grin to herself; despite his public decorum, Charles Winchester did have a determined libido and it was making itself known anytime they had a private moment.
Which she adored, if she was honest, since her own had grown quite a bit too. They could talk about music and politics at times, but there were other moments when Charlotte could see the heat in his gaze and would find herself breathless, needing to kiss him. It thrilled her that despite his intellect and poise Charles was still very much a man, with stubble and musk and desire to him.
And his voice! He could drive her crazy with his words alone; sweet nothings or poetic promises of passion rumbled into her ear. Charlotte remembered once asking him to say something crude and he'd done it, his gaze twinkling even as the four letter vulgarity tumbled out of his mouth, almost elegant in his precise enunciation.
She now knew what a proper Brahmin 'fuck' sounded like, to her shivering amusement, and coming from his lips it was erotically potent.
So tonight they would celebrate, and Charlotte was pleased that she would finally be able to cook for him. She scooped up the canvas bag, quickened her steps, making her way to the kitchen, where Private Straminsky looked up from his drying and sighed.
"Okay, so you have to promise to have everything clean and back where it's supposed to be by oh four hundred hours, Lieutenant or I'm gonna get blamed, got it?"
"Yes, Private I do. Now scoot!" Charlotte shooed him out of the kitchen, waiting until he was gone before smiling. Carefully she unpacked the bag, pulling out various cans and parcels, humming a little as she did so. The familiar labels pleased her, and she set water to boil, listening for footsteps. When she heard them, Charlotte turned to see Charles enter the kitchen, looking puzzled.
"Surprise!" she called to him, smiling. "I'm going to make you dinner and a cake for your birthday!"
His look of quiet delight thrilled Charlotte, as did his blush. "There's no need . . ." Charles tried to protest, but she shook her head.
"I'm simply trotting out my culinary credentials. Spaghetti alla partenopea and chocolate cake—does that sound good?"
"Marvelously so. May I . . . assist?"
She tossed him an apron.
-oo00oo-
"What do you mean she doesn't cook?" Charlotte demanded, aghast.
Charles pinkened. "Well she makes tea, and . . . toast, I think. But we've always had a cook. Mrs. Linden has been working for us since before the Wall Street crash."
She shook her head, "Mio Dios, that's unbelievable. Here, hand me that spoon there. So does Honoria at least know how to cook?"
"I believe there was a course or two at her school. Ohh, this smells wonderful. What is it?"
"Oregano. One of the primary ingredients in good Neopolitan cooking. Now pinch it and roll the dried leaves between your thumb and fingers, crumble it good. I wish we had fresh but that will have to be for another time. Oh, all right, I need to drain the pasta . . ."
Minutes later, with a flourish, Charlotte set the dish before Charles, smiling. The heavenly fragrance of rich tomato sauce seasoned with garlic, black olives, oregano and anchovies filled the kitchen, making her stomach growl a little. It had been too long since she'd cooked, and she'd missed it, Charlotte realized.
Charles motioned for her to sit, and waited; she waved to him good-naturedly. "You take the first bite, please."
He wasn't sure how to properly coil the noodles but managed to get enough on the fork for a taste, his expression shifting from curiosity to an almost cat-like bliss with the first mouthful, making Charlotte snicker. "Good?"
"Good Lord," he managed, dazed, "is this what spaghetti is supposed to taste like?"
"Yes," she assured him. "At least a proper spaghetti. Now don't turn your nose up at it, but I've got a chianti here that should go very well with it."
She couldn't help but feel gratified as Charles ate steadily, complimenting her cooking and toasting her with the wine. They each had second helpings, and when they were both full, he gave a contented sigh. "I had no idea this . . . pasta could be so wonderful. Alla partenopea, you said?"
"Yes, I would have made alla bolognese," Charlotte murmured, "but I couldn't be sure of getting good ground beef, so I went with the canned anchovies instead. This," she added, "is what home tastes like to me, Orso—pasta and wine."
"Oh I could get used to it," Charles told her with a smirk. "Very much so."
While they'd eaten the cake been baking and Charlotte pulled the pan out of the oven, gratified to see it too, had turned out well. She set the small pan down and caught the shy look on Charles' face. He cleared his throat.
"Homemade cake as well . . . I don't know how much more deeply I can fall in love with you."
"Charles," she protested, moved by his sincerity. "It's just cake."
"Homemade," he repeated. "If I have to face growing another year older, I can at least be grateful you're a part of it, Charlotte my love."
She had no candles, so she made him blow out a match, much to his amusement, and after a slice each, they did the dishes together. Then Charlotte served up the rest of the pasta and cake, and they took it to the Post-Op ward, where those who were able to indulge did, happily.
"Oh signora, potrei baciarti!," one young man with a full leg cast told her, waving his fork and grinning. Charlotte giggled and translated for Charles as they headed back to the tent.
"He said, "Lady, I could kiss you," she admitted, giggling a little.
"I'll simply have to do it for him," Charles replied, following her in.
She remembered that night for a long time; the sweet sense of losing themselves in each other, being bolder in the give and take of their lovemaking. Charlotte knew that neither of them was particularly experienced, but the sweet and honest passion between them—goaded on by lust and a little chianti—left them both dazed afterwards.
"I can't imagine . . . ." Charles murmured, stretching out afterwards and pulling Charlotte to his side, "my parents ever . . . engaging in this."
"And yet they must have, at least twice," came her sleepy reply. "They love each other, don't they?"
"Stodgily," Charles mused. "More like partners brought together by some established social merger. Mother takes his arm when they go out of the house, and they greet each other with kisses to the cheek on coming and going, but other than that . . ."
"It's probably better not to dwell on it," Charlotte advised. "My parents were affectionate but only when at home. It's called a private life for a reason I suppose."
"Hmmm," Charles agreed. "Still . . . this has been the happiest birthday I've had in years. Thank you."
She settled against him, comforted by the slow rise and fall of his breathing. "You're welcome . . . Next year maybe we'll have real candles."
"I wouldn't change a thing," Charles sighed happily. "Except perhaps the need for prophylactic practices."
"We'll see, once the war ends. Is that what you wished for?" Charlotte chuckled.
"Now now, if one tells the wish it won't come true," came his chide. "Sleep; we have little enough time together as it is."
They slept.