Ded Reckoning (43 page)

He takes a sip, murmurs, "Damn, this is good."  Exhales audibly as he relaxes.  Neck  and shoulders lose their tenseness.  He twists his neck, hearing the creaks and cracks.  Takes another sip, then rests his elbow on the sofa's arm.

"And who the hell is Devorah?" says a cooing voice from behind Hunter.

Hunter stiffens, sits straight up, yanking his feet from the coffee table, and battles to keep the snifter from spilling or falling.  "Damn, Marnee, you scared the B-Jesus out of me."  He turns to see this beautiful creature standing behind the sofa in a sheer robe, hands on hips, and a pretense of anger on her face.

"Well?"

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"You cried out her name when you were holding me in the villa?  Who is that woman?  A secret love?"

"Come around here and sit."  Hunter stands, holding a helping hand out to Marnee.  "You actually shouldn't be up yet.  You need rest.  Certainly through the night.  Actually, days.  A week."

"I feel ... well, pretty good.  Who did this?" pointing to the bandages and sling.

"Me.  I'm good.  Not pretty good, but damn good.  Turns out no major damage, and I've loaded you up with antibiotics. Looked worse than it was.  Lost some blood and you'll need time and rest."  He pauses, then, "Hey, you need some food.  Sit, I'll rustle something up real quick."

"My goodness, a Marine, a doctor, and a chef.  How lucky."

"Yeah, well.  You were lucky.  We were lucky, but it's all over now.  We're home free and on our way to Genoa and Nice.  Stop for fuel on the way a few times.  If necessary, get a doctor."

Marnee moves close to Hunter, puts one arm, the one that isn't in a sling, around his waist and pulls him close.  Brushes his lips with hers, bites him on the ear lobe and whispers, "Who is Devorah, Mister?"

Hunter moves back a step, orders, "Sit."  She does.  Her robe slides open as she crosses her legs.  The front of the robe is also open.  Hunter murmurs, "Oh, geez, Marnee, don't do this to me."

"Who?"

"Oh, damn.  She was a Jewish girl in a dream I had.  A nightmare.  She was killed.  Not a real woman.  Just a dream.  You are my real dream.  I love you.  Now then, let me get you some chow, and I'll sit down and tell you about this nightmare I had.  Before this mission.  It was an omen.  If truth be told, it was.  Helleva tale."

"So, you dreamed of a Jewish girl?  And now you have one.  What are your plans?  Your intentions?"

Hunter sits down, next to Marnee, on the edge of the cushion.  "I plan to ask her to marry me.  To sail away with me.  To catch the trade winds.  To explore one another.  To dream.  To discover.  To love ... and to make Limoncello and apricot brandy."

She kisses him full on the lips, grimacing some as he holds her.  She pulls back, pecks Hunter on the tip of the nose and whispers, "And babies."

He sits gazing at Marnee, a tear forms and runs down his cheek.  He mutters, "Yes, children."  He sighs, "God, I thought I lost you."

She gives him another peck on the nose, brushes the tear from his cheek with her little finger.  Whispers, "Now the food.  Then we'll figure out a way to get started.  I can heal anytime, but I must have you all the time.  All my life.  We are going to live.  Live."

Hunter gives her a peck on the nose and leaps up and says, "Chow's comin' up," and turns to go into the galley.

Her voice trails after him, words catching him as he enters the galley.  "And we are going to keep this boat, and, keep the name.  I love it."  Marnee picks up his snifter and is startled by, "Put that down."  Hunter stops and turns around, "I'll get you a Limoncello.  Just one for now."  He opens the refrigerator's door.

 

 

Joe Zachary sits at his desk.  Red phone in his hand.  Listening intently.

Every few minutes he says, "Yes, sir, Mister President."  After a few more moments he says, "I don't know, Mister President.  He says he's finished.  Going to raise lemons and make Limoncello."

A moment passes, then, "It's a liqueur.  From lemons of course.  It's a staple in Italy and Amalfi lemons, that's where he's going to live, are known as 'Sfusato Amalfitano' and are prized as one of the best varieties in the world.  They have ...

"No, Mister President.  This is not going to be an agricultural lesson.

"Yes, sir.  With the Hebrew woman.  Marnee Kaslar.

"Yes, sir.  She will be fine.  Her grandparents own and operate a huge lemon orchard on the Amalfi coast.  Marnee, her mother, and Hunter are going to run it.

"No, sir.  But he did say to tell you that if you're ever in Italy on business or on vacation, come visit.

There is a prolonged pause before Joe speaks again.  Then says, "Yes, sir, I'll tell him you asked, and that you might not visit but you might call on him again."

A pause.  Joe listens some more.

"Well, sir.  He did say never.  He was unequivocally specific, I think ...  but ... you never know.  Never know.  He is one patriotic son-of-a-gun."

Joe hears the click ending the call.  Stares at the phone.  "Good?  What the devil does that mean?"  He leans back once again in his chair, lets his mind drift.

He'll be back.

No he won't.

Maybe.

I hope. That's for sure, that's for danged sure.