It's funny how painful rain can be when the wind interferes, how mere droplets can slice into skin and chill marrow with the speed of a locomotive before one realizes what is happening. Her lips are probably a sickly shade of blue, Mary muses thoughtfully, picking up her pace regardless of the threat of breaking a heel as puddles slosh on to her stockings and steal whatever warmth remained hidden in her thighs.
God, she dreads the head cold that will almost assuredly pound her with a wallop at dawn's first light, hoping she can keep it contained and avoid passing it along. Aunt Tessa has been more than generous, making her feel truly welcome in the small London home, preparing rations with a skill Mary knows she sorely lacks, sewing new garments and blankets from snatches of material kept stored away for years.
"For a rainy day, you know," the older woman stated, staring into a hope chest full of broken promises and false pretenses, one that makes Mary ache for her aunt all over.
It is certainly raining today.
She ducks under a roof top, thankful for the temporary reprieve, even though she knows she must keep going. Its Tessa's evening out with Mr. Murray, and Mary won't interfere with it for anything. God knows the woman deserves a bit of frivolity in her life, and she wishes that Aunt Tessa and her long-time friend would simply kiss and get on with it. The war has impressed on Mary the need to grab life when it stands in front of you, to inhale it's headiness, to taste the bitter and the sweet of all that it offers, digesting both as they bloom into fruition, looking back only to remember and embrace.
Never to regret. No. Regret has been banned from her realm of consciousness.
Her heart squeezes again, tendrils of pain laced with hope spinning around every rib and clutching them in a vice, and she closes her eyes, mouthing a prayer for him as she does almost hourly, wondering if there is any chance he still lives, clinging to the mere possibility with the fervor of a drowning woman to a life raft.
There is always hope, she whispers to the rain, wishing the punishing wind would carry her sentiments to wherever he is. But her words smack on to the pavement, covering Britain's ground with yet another unacknowledged plea, washing away all but the memory of a life lived and most likely taken.
At weaker moments the chance that he simply returned to America without her pounds relentlessly against her skull. Is it truly possible their time together was no more than a war-time dalliance to him, that he has a fiancé across the Atlantic he now kisses with the same passion with which he loved her? Does another wear the ring he half-promised in whispers and touch before he left?
Her stomach sharply revolts at this notion, rejecting it before it has the chance to poison her mind and taint memories too precious to mar. No. He loved her, at least for a time and thoroughly enough to reconstruct her from the inside out. Of course, time means something else entirely to her now, measured in days and weeks rather than months, and she journals it faithfully for one needed in ways he cannot begin to fathom.
So she waits for him, knowing it is most likely futile, yet waiting nonetheless. A part of her will always be waiting. A part that grows every day.
She can no longer distinguish her tears from the rain on the wet plains of her cheeks. Yet his face continually stares back at her, his presence with her never questioned, the enormity of what they shared in such a short span of time changing her life to the point that it is nearly unrecognizable.
And that is good, she reminds herself in a steadying fashion. But God, it's not always easy.
How remote her former life now seems, all but stolen weeks with him fading into a bland backdrop, replaced by the vivid hues of his mouth, the warmth of his arms, his breath steaming her skin, his body filling hers completely. Her past now reduced to a life lived in soul-wrenching kisses and heated touch, an eternity created through bodies connected and cries in the dark.
When I return—if you still want me—I am yours.
"I still want you," she breathes, clutching her purse to her chest, staring into grayness that mirrors the pain of losing him. "God, I want you."
There is no answer. There never is. Her lips tremble as her feet resume their sodden trek.
She runs the final steps, picking up her pace even though she is soaked to the bone. Her hat flies off as she enters the house's warmth, kicking off her shoes and rubbing angry toes. At least she is home. At least she has this.
"I'm here, Aunt Tessa," she states, careful not to raise her voice too loudly less a nap be interrupted. A sound from the parlor alerts her, and she wipes her cheeks, not wanting her aunt to see evidence of further tears. God knows she has borne witness to more than her fair share.
"In here, Mary," Tessa replies, and she grabs a towel left thoughtfully for her near the entrance, half-heartedly drying her hair and sliding off muddy stockings before daring to walk in any further. A warm bath sounds like a luxury, and her mind eases at the thought of tea, hoping Aunt Tessa will have some waiting, regardless of how weak it may be.
She takes a quick glance at herself in the small hallway mirror, wincing at the redness in her eyes. Oh, well, there will be no getting around a question or two now. She pinches her cheeks out of habit, hoping some color might allay the onslaught of concern, and she walks barefoot and bare-legged into the parlor, stopping short as if she'd been stung.
Oh, God. What? How?
He…it cannot be…but he is…there…with her aunt…standing…smiling at her…
"Charles?"
She cannot decipher whether or not she has actually spoken, all blood rushing to her head with a force that nearly makes her stumble. The room darkens around her, and she wonders if there is a distant ringing or if the sound exists only within her ears.
Then noise collides with reality, and she is in his arms, her feet off the ground, unable to remember whether she ran to him or he to her. But God, it doesn't matter. He is here, his arms holding her so close yet not close enough, his hair in her fingers, his body against hers. She clasps him with a ferocity unleashed in their first kiss, afraid to let go, breathing him in, crying into his uniform, feeling his tears fall freely into her hair.
"You're alive."
She must have actually spoken those words, for he draws back just far enough to cradle her face, nodding as if to convince himself of this fact.
"Yes," he breathes, his thumbs tracing faint lines just under her eyes. "And so are you."
She feels something move inside of her at his words, never considering the fact that he might be as concerned for her life as she had been for his.
"And you're here."
The sentence tumbles from her lips as she continues to memorize the structure of his bone and skin, noting that he is thinner but otherwise appears to be unscathed. It is then she realizes she is shaking, or he is, or perhaps they both are, and it doesn't matter.
"Yes, I'm here," he whispers. "Where else would I be?"
She falls into him again, holding nothing back in a kiss that consumes them both. He tastes different, the smoke of war and salt of battle making him richer, darker, and she imbibes the jagged ridges of desperation that once had been smooth and polished.
"I'll just be going," her aunt states, making her catch her breath. God, she forgot Aunt Tessa was still in the room, and she buries her face in his shoulder, laughing in spite of herself, clutching to his jacket, rubbing the material through her fingers.
"Please don't leave on my account," Charles entreats, his fingers stroking circles on her back, making damp skin prickle into the warmth of his chest.
"I'm not," Aunt Tessa insists with a wink. "It's my evening out with Mr. Murray, so I'll just make my way to his house. It's almost time for our supper."
"But it's raining," Mary interjects. "And Mr. Murray always comes here to fetch you for your outings."
"I have an umbrella," the older woman insists, pulling her petite frame into a nearly regal pose. "And Mr. Murray's home is only three doors down. I think I can manage, Mary. " Her eyes twinkle as she gazes at the pair of them intently. "Besides, perhaps it's time I take him by surprise for a change."
Charles does not attempt to stifle a chuckle, and it warms her to her toes.
"You will stay with us, won't you Sergeant Blake? I'll be rather cross with you if you don't."
His breath ruffles her hair as fingers splay possessively over her back.
"I wouldn't want to be a bother, Miss Randall," he returns, and Mary grasps his uniform until her knuckles turn white. She utterly refuses to let him go.
"You won't be at all," her aunt insists. "There's a place for you upstairs, and my bedroom is here on the main floor. I'll hardly even know you're here, I daresay. We've learned to survive bombings, you know. I cannot imagine you'll be any noisier than that. "
Mary's cheek burn as she bites back a grin, knowing the only bedroom upstairs is her own. When did her aunt become so progressive and cheeky?
"Then thank you," Charles returns softly. "I'd be honored to stay."
"I thought you might," Tessa grins, making her way towards the front door. "Don't wait up for me."
And with that, they are alone.
More than two years' worth of conversation suddenly gets caught in her larynx, and she can only touch, only stare, only continue to convince herself that this is real, that he is real, that the war is essentially over, that there is a true chance to build a life with this man.
"God," he breathes, his hands claiming every crevice of her face and neck. "Oh, God."
Her mouth finds his instantly, open and seeking, needy and dry. Months of longing and unanswered questions pour from one into the other, fingers and hands trying to relearn what was truly never forgotten. She is hot and cold all over, melting as fingers press into her scalp, burning as his tongue moves down her neck.
"Charles," she hums, knowing they must talk, but unwilling to bring an end to this wordless conversation into which they are spiraling hard. "I was…I was so scared."
Tears mingle with saliva, bodies drifting towards the sofa in an unvoiced consent.
"So was I," he breathes, staring at her almost reverently as if as if she is a sculpted Madonna. "So was I."
"I prayed for you," she confesses into his skin. "And I rarely pray."
His mouth claims hers yet again, his hands straying lower, clasping her bottom and pulling her closer, her arms winding around his neck in a hold not meant to be broken.
"I felt you with me all the time," he whispers into her ear before sliding it into his mouth, making her buckle into him on more levels than she can count. "It's what kept me going."
A noise escapes her, heady and deep as another tear works its way down her cheek.
"You have been with me all the time," she confesses, reclaiming his mouth, needing more of this physical connection, still frightened she might wake up at any moment to find him gone.
But there is a sound, one she knows well, a small whimper that jerks them apart. Eyes round as the noise escalates into a full-fledged cry, and they both look to the steps as understanding takes root.
"Come with me," she whispers, stroking his face yet again, wondering just what is playing through his mind. She clasps his hand within hers, feeling it tremble and giving it a reassuring squeeze, guiding him through a fog as they maneuver the small distance. They stop just outside a door left cracked open, hearing a desperate wail now, peppered with cries for Mama.
"Mama," he whispers, seeing her in a new light, cupping her face haltingly as his forehead meets hers.
"Are you ready for this?"
Her inquiry brings him up sharply, and he blinks several times in rapid succession, rubbing his fingers through his hair.
"Were you?" he questions, seeing into her past without him as his eyes flicker from her face into the darkened room.
"Of course not," she manages as she hastily wipes away more tears. "But he's wonderful and perfect, and more than I could ever ask for."
"He," he whispers, his chin quivering as he attempts to swallow. "God—a boy?"
"A son," she assures him, moving in close enough to smooth a tendril of hair from his forehead. "Your son. Our son."
He breaks open, then, weeping openly, latching on to her with a ferocity she returns.
"God," he manages, her shoulder now as soaked from his tears as it had been from the rain. The baby becomes more insistent, and she smiles back at him, raising a brow, seeing him nod before leading him inside.
Chubby arms reach for her over a mass of black curls gone haphazardly askew. She reaches for him with practiced ease, and the toddler rests his head on her shoulder, instantly contented in his mother's arms. Charles watches them, a tender wonder overtaking his features as she walks in his direction.
His hand at first hovers over the boy, as if he is unsure of his right to step into their bond.
"Go on," she assures him, watching a father's hand stroke his son's head for the first time, feeling the contact all over. The child raises his head in curiosity, gazing up at an unknown face so much like his own.
"He's just like you," Charles breathes, softly stroking the boy's full cheeks.
"Don't be silly," Mary throws back, her voice still unsteady. "He's just like you."
"No," Charles argues, stepping in closer. "He's much more beautiful than I am." The baby grabs his father's offered finger, tugging it towards his mouth with a slobbery determination. Charles laughs then, bending down to kiss the boy's head, shattering yet again at the contact.
"Would you like to sit down?" she asks him, seeing his nodded response. She glances towards a small bench, and he nearly collapses on to it, dropping his face into his hands as so much spills out of him in his son's small nursery.
"What's his name?" he finally asks, wiping his face and blinking his eyes in an attempt to focus.
"Isaac," she answers, kissing her son's forehead. "Charles Isaac."
He nearly falters yet again, scooting over as far as he can, and she sits beside him, allowing their child to touch this new person to whom he owes his existence.
"He's why your parents were so hostile towards me when I showed up on their doorstep looking for you," he reasons, and she nods in assent, seeing her child anew through his eyes. "Your mother handed me this address and told me I was never to show my face in her house again."
"Don't feel bad," Mary returns softly. "I'm no longer welcome there, either."
This seems to hurt him, and she presses a kiss to his damp cheek.
"I'm happier here," she assures him, smiling as Isaac reaches grabs Charles's chin. "Happier than I ever was back there. Aunt Tessa is the loveliest person I know, truly. She took me in without a question and makes over Isaac as if he is the sun, moon and stars."
"I think he must be," Charles murmurs, unable to take his eyes from his son. "How could he not be when you're his mother?"
Her soul warms and sparks.
"Would you like to hold him?"
She hears his intake of breath.
"Will he let me?"
"I don't know," she admits. "But I think it's worth a try."
He nods, sliding large hands under the boy's arms, and she watches in wonder as her son truly meets his father for the first time. Isaac's eyes widen in a mild panic, and she touches his head, assuring the child she is still here as he turns his attention to the new man in his life.
"God," he whispers again, and her heart swells to the point of near pain. "Hello, Isaac. I'm your Daddy."
His distinctive American accent makes her smile all the broader, knowing the war for them is now thoroughly and completely over. Thank God, she thinks to herself, her hands touching the man and boy she loves in a silent benediction. And as she glimpses the miraculous taking place just in front of her, she cannot help but wonder if God has been listening all this time.
