Promises to Keep (12 page)

Jack
jumped out of his Jeep, closed the door behind him, and walked up the sidewalk
to Laura's apartment building.

There
was a buzzer box next to the front door with every apartment number neatly
written besides a white button. He quickly found her apartment number
—
after
all, he'd written it on more than a dozen or so envelopes
—
and pushed it.

He
was rewarded with the Pavlovian sound of the electronic buzz that alerted the
tenant. However, there was no voice in reply. The speaker on the box looked
intact so, after a minute, Jack buzzed again. Still nothing.

Tentatively,
Jack tried the door. It opened smoothly.

Well,
that isn't very secure
, he thought.

He
walked into the entryway. Jack wasn't too surprised that the front door lock
was broken, the place wasn't exactly the Waldorf Astoria. The carpet was
ancient and threadbare, the paint on the walls was worn and peeling in spots.
The apartment building wasn't a slum
—
it was clean
—
just old.

The
first door to one side read, "One A." That meant that Laura lived one
floor up, or one "deck" up, as they say in the Navy.

Buzzed
with nerves, excitement and adrenaline, he literally bounded up the stairs.

In
front of Laura's apartment, Jack paused again. He took a deep breath and
thought about what he's say.

Hi,
I'm jack.

Too
forward?

Hello,
Mrs. Wynn. I am Lieutenant Commander Jack Curren. We have been corresponding as
of late.

Way
too
formal. Christ, it was so formal it almost sounded British.

Jack
hadn't a clue as to what she'd look like or what she'd do when she figured out
who he was. He hoped she'd be glad to see him. He was certain that they’d
become good friends as well as pen pals over the months, but, you never know.

He'd
written to Laura about coming to see her but he’d left Iraq before she’s had
time to respond. He could only pray that she had gotten the letter and was okay
with his visit. Without confirmation or approval, he felt a little uneasy.

Laura
didn't know about the ring or Jack’s promise. She didn't know many things about
him, including his responsibility over her husband’s death.

With
a shrug, Jack decided to wing it and knocked on the door. No answer. Trying to
be polite, he patiently waited a few minutes before knocking again. He looked
for a doorbell, but there wasn't one.

Jack
knocked again. Still nothing.

"What
the Hell do you want?" a man's voice called out harshly.

Startled,
Jack looked down the hall. "Excuse me?"

"I
said;
what the Hell do you want?
Been too many men sniffing around here
lately. Can't you people just leave the poor girl alone?"

The
speaker was an older black gentleman with very dark and weathered skin that
contrasted with his white hair that topped his head like a dandelion tuft. Jack
wasn't sure what he was going on about at all. He was certainly not happy to
hear what the man said.

Too
many men?

"I'm
sorry, sir," Jack said respectively. He'd learned a long time ago it was
smart to address older men as "sir." Besides, the gentleman looked as
if he'd be accustomed to it. Jack recognized an old warhorse when he saw one.

"You
men come sniffing around here. Don't you have no decency? The girl's a widow,
for Christ's sake. The last fool I caught was causin' some trouble and I nearly
had to shoot his dumb ass."

The
man gestured to his waistband, where he was apparently hiding a gun. A tendril
of fear crept into Jack’s spine.

"You
want some o' that, too?"

Jack
backed up with his hands open, palms out in a typical gesture of surrender.

"No
sir, I don't want any part of what you've got there. My name is Jack Curren. I
was a friend of her husband. We served in Iraq together—I was with him when he
died. I just got back to the States and I came to pay my respect, that's
all."

"You
were?" he asked suspiciously. "Where was he at?"

"Fallujah."

"What
is the Marine Corps mascot?"

"The
bulldog
—
Chesty
—
named after General Chesty Puller."

The
man visibly relaxed. "OK, I believe you. My name's Ron Phillips. I live
down the hall."

"Pleased
to meet you." Jack slowly walked forward and put his hand out.

Ron
looked at it suspiciously and then shook it. "I'm sorry to give you a hard
time, but that girl, sweet as she is, seems to attract the wrong element."

"What
do you mean?"

"Some
junkie was here a while ago, giving her a hard time. Scared her half to death
by the look of it—was roughing her up a bit. If I hadn't been here, who knows
what he would've done." Ron shook his head. "In my day all the kids
did was a little pot and some beer. Nowadays, the damned fools are into heroin
and pills and God only knows what. It's shameful, really shameful."

"I
know what you mean."

"You
look like a nice fella
—
clean, too. I could tell you were a military man
when I first seen you."

"I
try."

Jack
relaxed but still kept on eye on Ron's waistband. Spending close to a year in a
place where people were actively trying to kill him night and day, made him understandably
gun shy around people he didn't know well, especially armed men. Trust took
time. It was a survival instinct as far as he was concerned.

Taking
a deep fortifying breath, Jack said, "I arrived from overseas just a few
days ago and got some time off, so I decided to visit Laura
—
Mrs.
Wynn."

"That's
an honorable thing to do, Jack. Something most young men wouldn't even think
of." Ron gestured with his thumb. "She's off work today; you'll
probably find her out back. Just go out and walk around the building. Head straight
to the river. She likes the water. Sometimes I think she's half seal or fish or
something."

"Thanks,
Ron." Jack nodded at the older man, then turned and started down the
stairs.

"Oh,
Jack."

Jack
turned. "Yes?"

Ron
pointed his finger directly at Jack's chest. "You better be nice to that
girl. She's been through a Hell of a lot. She's too damn sweet for her own
good. Don't be playing any games, you hear?"

"I
promise, sir."

"Good."

Jack
walked out the front door and around the old brick building. He wasn't exactly
sure what Ron was talking about, but it seemed that the guy's heart was in the
right place and he was looking out for Laura. That was a good thing
—
especially
if even half of what he'd said was true. The lack of security in the building
made him uneasy.

Behind
the apartment building was a well-manicured lawn that ended in some brush with
an obvious worn footpath. He could smell the salt air get richer and richer as
he walked along the path.

What
if there were a number of women down here? Would he be able to recognize Laura?

Within
moments, he could hear the gentle lap of waves coming onto a beach. The river
was wide, so wide that it really ought to be considered a bay
—
especially
with the salt water from the ocean that mixed with the fresh.

It was
sheltered enough that the waves didn't crash, like out on the ocean proper, but
slid up the sand with a satisfied sigh.

When
Jack finally broke out of the brush, he could see that the path followed the
beach just above the high water mark down the river and around a bend.

It
wasn't much of a beach, just a strip of sand a few feet across that ended
abruptly with grass at the sharply cut bank. cypress trees leaned way out over
the water. Jack had to duck under or climb over their trunks to follow the footpath.

Spanish
moss was everywhere, draped across cypress limbs, often trailing into the
brackish water.

The
way the moss spread out and floated just under the surface as it whirled and
dipped along with the gentle current and delicate waves, reminded Jack of a
woman's hair being rinsed languidly in a tub.

When
he finally rounded the bend, Jack saw her.

Jack
took a deep steadying breath.
Laura was alone, but
irrationally, he felt as if he’d have recognized her anyway.

Long,
light hair. She’s surfer-blonde—just like I imagined.

Jack
knew it must be her because somehow she was exactly what he'd pictured in his
mind every night, when he read and re-read her letters.

She
was facing away from him, knee deep in the river, arms outstretched with her
face tilted up to the sun as if she were worshiping the primal gods of the sun
and wind and sky. A breeze played with her long hair, making it gently move
between her shoulders—just like the moss that danced gently in the current.

Jack
froze, breathless.

It
was the perfect scene on a perfect day.

She
seemed strong and frail at the same time and he was afraid to say anything,
lest she disappear in a flash of light, like in some sort of fairy in a story.

There
were legends one of the old sailors used to tell the kids at night, after the
waves died down and the surfboards were stacked on the sand. Jack remembered
this crusty fellow who sometimes would wander over to their beach fire and bum
a smoke and a beer off of him and his friends.

At
first they’d laughed at him
—
after all, what old derelict would want to
hang out with some high school kids?

He'd
drink his beer and then another and then with the cherry red glow of the coal
on the tip of his cigarette illuminating his face, he'd somberly let loose with
one tall tail after another.

The
sight of the girl in the water brought up one story the old man told them.

It
was about how there were these women
—
spirits of the sea, actually
—
they
were the most beautiful women a man could ever see. They'd stand in the water
and beckon to the men who stood on the shore or on their boats and sing to them
great songs of the splendor that lay beneath, if only they would come out into
the surf.

No
man could resist them.

No
man could keep himself from wandering into the waves when they called to him,
hair floating in the ocean wind.

Anyone
who went to the fairies who lived in the ocean,
the
man said,
never returned.
There’s danger out in the waves, for a
young man who may have a brave heart but a foolish mind.

Then
the old man stood up and staggered off into the night.

For
some reason Laura reminded Jack of that story, told so long ago. He wondered
what dangers were in store for
him
. But just then he had no thought of
danger. He’d never felt so open, so willingly exposed in his life.

Jack
had once heard that all decisions were based on either love or fear. As he looked
at Laura he wasn’t afraid. Not at all.

"Hello?"
Jack ventured.

Startled,
Laura turned around, her hair covering her face for a moment. When she brushed
it away, Jack was met by a pair of piercing green eyes
—
first narrowed in
suspicion, they quickly bloomed with recognition.

He
was mesmerized.

Not
forty-five years old as his sister thought. More like twenty-five.

Laura’s
face was square-shaped, strong and angular. Tall, close to five-feet ten, her
slender, shapely form was all woman. It was a startling contrast, those
tenacious, almost masculine facial features combined with a feminine figure to
die for.

The
woman looked like she wouldn’t take crap from anyone
—and
she was heart-stoppingly beautiful.

"Jack,
right?"

"Good
guess." He couldn’t moderate his big, cheesy grin. Her voice was soft. Low
and mellow, just as he’d always imagined it. He threw up his hands. "Surprise!"

She
smiled back with straight, slightly off-white teeth. Her two front ones had a
narrow gap between them, and they were set slightly in front of the others.
Something low in his gut tightened.

Coming
from Orange County, where everyone seemed to have perfect, blindingly white
teeth, these little imperfections charmed him.

"I
figured that it was you...I’ve had this funny feeling all day."

"I
said I was going to visit, so… here I am."

"I
know and I'm glad." She raised her arms. "Come here."

Those
green eyes of hers were extraordinary. He felt as if he was enchanted by
them—by her. Jack had no other thought except to do exactly as she told him, to
go to her and to fold himself into her warm embrace.

Mindful
of the old man's story of drowning sea fairies, Jack found that he didn’t care
in the least.

He
took a step into the water. Then another. Then another. The river was cool and
the color of iced tea.

Jack
knew the cedars that lined the shore and spread their roots into the water gave
the river that odd color, but in that perfect moment, he couldn't help but feel
it was because it was full of magic.

"I'm
coming."

Laura
laughed and watched as he waded out. Water filled his shoes
—why didn't I
take them off—
and soaked his pants. When he reached her, he laughed too, as
she threw her arms around him and hugged him tightly.

"Welcome
home. I'm so glad you made it."

"I
am too
—
" Jack started, "I’m just sorry that..."

"Don't
be, Jack," Laura replied, taking a step back. "Never be sorry for
being here, for being alive. Your letters meant so much to me. I couldn't stand
it if you died too."

"I'm
just sorry that Bob isn't here for you, that's all."

Laura
looked up at him, moisture starting to pool in the corners of her green eyes.
"Yeah, well..." She wiped her eyes. "I've kind of already been
through that, you know? I've been sad and then I got mad and now I just kind
of...am. You got to keep on living, right?"

It
hadn't dawned on Jack that perhaps, after so much time had gone by, Laura
might've moved on and was past her mourning.

Back
in Iraq, once the dead were gone—evacuated to wherever they go—business went
on. Stupidly, in the back of his mind, he'd imagined she was still struggling
with Bob's death, waiting for Jack to come to her and close the loop.

A
disturbing thought struck him, then. He might not accomplish anything more with
his visit than tearing off the scab that covered that healing wound in her
heart. Giving her Bob’s ring might just take her right back into a place that
she didn't want to be.

"Hello?"
Laura asked in an amused voice. "Anybody home?"

"What?"

"I
lost you for a minute. What were you thinking about?"

"Nothing
really," he lied.

Jack
wasn’t comfortable lying, but when it came to things like this, lies came
naturally. As a doctor he always thought of ways to soften the blow. To ease a
patient into bad news. He would tell her, of course, but carefully. At the
right time and the right way.

“What?”

"I'm
just overcome by how beautiful it is out here."

Laura
tilted her head and her eyes narrowed for a moment. Jack stopped breathing,
waiting to see if she’d challenge his story.

She
shook her head, her damp hair swirling along her shoulders. "It is
beautiful here." Kicking one foot through the water she added, "I
come out here every chance I can get. It’s more than relaxing. It’s
grounding."

Jack
looked around.

They
were north of town and he could see the brick buildings and marinas peek around
the curve of the river to his right. The bridge he'd driven over was in the distance,
he could see strobe-like flashes of sun off of the windshields as cars whipped
across.

On
the other side of the bridge, the river widened so the banks were no longer
visible and the water became bluer as it got deeper and then sky and river
blended together and lost their individual identities in the grey-blue haze.

"It
is very nice," he said again. It was an understatement and lame, but he
didn’t know what else to say.

Laura
smiled and waded to shore. "Nice or not, my butt's wet and it's time to go
in and dry off. I hope you brought another pair of pants with you, because the
water dries a little funky."

"Yeah,
I did."

He
followed her, careful not to trip on one of the hundreds of cypress knees that
lined the bank. They didn't have cypress out in LA, but Jack had once done some
diving down in the Gulf outside of Galveston and he was amazed at just how far
those root complexes could go. That's all a cypress knee was, after all. Just a
bit of root that went out into the water and then poked itself up like a
periscope.

"I've
got several bags of clothes and things in my car."

Laura
stopped on the bank, her feet in the sand and looked at him, still wading in
the water. There was a flash of haughty anger in her green eyes.

“You
brought what—suitcases? That's a heck of an assumption, don't you think?"
she said, her eyes suddenly cool.