She was on her back on the blanket, his big body pressing into hers, her face between his hands as his mouth took hers without finesse, without restraint, and without thought. He simply took. And she gave, opening for him, welcoming the slide of his tongue against hers, the grip of his hands on her face and in her hair and on her hips. He felt her hands slide beneath his shirt and tiptoe up his back and it felt so good he caught his breath, losing contact with her mouth for a heart-beat as his eyes fell closed and his head dropped to nuzzle the sweetness of her neck. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, as if she too had lost control. She kissed his head, the way a mother soothes a child, and stroked the bare skin as he fought for control and lost once more, his hand sliding up to cradle her breast in his palm, his thumb caressing the full underside that made him long to pull her shirt over her head and see if she looked as good as she felt.
But she was a girl who had hardly been kissed, and she needed many more kisses, deserved many more. And so with regret, he slid his hand back to her waist. She arched against him and protested the loss sweetly with a sigh that made his blood boil and his heart knock against his ribs. So he kissed her again, communicating his own need. Her lips welcomed his, moving softly, seeking, savoring, and Ambrose Young felt himself slip and slide, falling helplessly–with very little resistance–in love with Fern Taylor.
“Look who's here!” Bailey crowed as he cruised through the sliding doors into the store. Rita followed behind him, her little son on her hip and a big smile on her face. Fern squealed and ran to her friend, taking the tow-headed toddler from her arms and smothering his little face with kisses. Apparently, Becker was out of town and Rita had been driving home from her mother's when she'd seen Bailey motoring down the street on his way to the store. He'd convinced her that karaoke and dancing were just what she needed.
Before long, Bailey had the music blaring and Rita's son Ty in his lap, cruising up and down the aisles, making the little boy shriek with glee. Rita ran along beside them, her face wreathed in smiles at her son's happiness. Like Fern, Rita had changed since high school. Ambrose wondered how just a few years could alter each of them so drastically, though from what he'd seen of Becker Garth, he hadn't changed at all. He was still a bully, and his wife was now his main target. Rita was still beautiful, but she looked beaten-down and skittish and didn't seem comfortable looking at him, so he retreated to the bakery not long after she and Bailey arrived.
“Ambrose?” Fern was smiling at him from the doorway and he smiled back, liking the way she looked at him, as if there was nothing wrong with his face, as if his very presence made her happy. “You have to come out, just for a minute.”
“Yeah? I think I like it in here better,” he said mildly.
“We're playing the Sheen/Taylor Greatest Hits CD, all our favorite dance songs, and I want to dance with you.”
Ambrose groaned and laughed simultaneously. Leave it to Bailey and Fern. They would have a greatest hits CD. And he would be happy to dance with Fern–he would be happy to do almost anything with Fern–but he would rather stay in the kitchen and dance where no one was watching.
Fern started pulling on his hand, wrapping both of hers around his, smiling and cajoling as she drew him from his cave. “The next song is my favorite song of all time.”
Ambrose sighed and let her have her way. Plus, he wanted to hear what her favorite song of all time was. He found he wanted to know everything about her.
“I've told Bailey if I indeed die before he does . . . which was his greatest wish when we were ten, that he better make sure they play it at my funeral. And I want everyone to dance. Listen! Tell me you don't just immediately feel better when you hear it.”
She waited in anticipation and Ambrose listened intently. The first bars of the song rang through the store and Bailey and Fern moaned in unison, right along with Prince, and launched into frenzied dancing. Rita laughed and whooped and joined them immediately, Tyler on her hip. Ambrose didn't dance . . . but he enjoyed the show.
Fern had no rhythm. Bailey wasn't much better. But his lack of skill wasn't exactly his fault. He moved his chair forward and back in a parody of the simple step-touch move everyone resorted to at a school dance. He bobbed his head in time with the music and his face wore an expression that said “Hell, yeah,” even though his body said “No way.” Rita danced around Bailey's chair but her moves were too self-conscious, too self-aware, to allow her to truly enjoy herself, or for anyone to enjoy watching her. Fern shook her butt and did chicken arms and clapped and snapped randomly, but there was such uninhibited joy, such wild abandon, such pleasure in the act, that although he was laughing at her–yes, laughing at her–she was laughing, too.
She danced anyway, knowing she was horrible, knowing there was nothing about her performance that would lure him in or make him want her, and doing it anyway, just for the fun of it. And somehow, suddenly, he did. He did want her. Desperately. Her light, her loveliness, her enthusiasm for simple things. All of her. Everything. He wanted to pick her up, right off of her dancing feet, her legs dangling above the ground, and kiss her until they were breathless with passion instead of laughter.
“And your kiss!” Fern sang out the final words and struck an awkward pose, breathing hard and giggling. “The. Most. Awesome. Song. Ever. “ She sighed, throwing her arms wide, ignoring the next song on the Taylor/Sheen hits CD.
“You need to come with me for just a minute. I need to show you something in the, um, kitchen,” Ambrose said firmly, grabbing Fern by the hand and pulling her along behind him like she'd just done to him minutes before. Bailey and Rita were dancing again, David Bowie's Pressure picking up where Prince had left off.
“Wh-what? But there's a slow song coming up after this, and I really, really want to slow dance with you,” Fern protested, resisting, pulling against his arm. So Ambrose swept her up, right off her feet, just like he'd imagined and barreled through the swinging kitchen doors without missing a step. He flipped off the bakery lights so the room was swathed in darkness and then he swallowed Fern's gasp, his mouth crashing down on hers, one hand sliding under her butt to anchor her to him as his other hand cradled the back of her head controlling the angle of the kiss. And all resistance ceased.
Bailey was heavier than Ambrose had anticipated, lankier, and harder to hold onto. But he swept him up in his arms and walked steadily up the well-worn trail, placing his feet carefully, not hurrying. He had run miles in full uniform with 150 pounds on his back many times, and he could carry Bailey up the hill and back again.
They were on their way to visit the graves of the four fallen soldiers, Ambrose for the second time, Bailey for the first. The path was steep and narrow, and getting Bailey's wheelchair to the top with him in it would be harder than carrying him, but carrying him was too much for Mike Sheen or anyone else in Bailey's inner circle, so Bailey had been unable to visit the resting place of his friends. When Ambrose had discovered this, he told Bailey he would carry him to the top, and had shown up unannounced that afternoon, ready to fulfill his promise.
Angie Sheen volunteered to let him take the van, but Ambrose had declined, scooping Bailey up in his arms and depositing him on the passenger side of his old truck and buckling him in snugly. Bailey started to list to the side, unable to keep himself upright without the support of his chair, but Ambrose wedged a pillow between the seat and the door so he could lean against it.
He could tell Angie was a little worried about letting them go without the wheelchair, but she waved them off with a tight smile, and Ambrose took the corners carefully. They didn't have far to go, but Bailey seemed to enjoy riding shotgun and insisted Ambrose crank up the radio and roll down the windows.
When they reached the top of the hill, Ambrose sat Bailey carefully on the stone bench then sat close beside him, propping him up against his side, making sure he wouldn't tip over.
They sat in reverence for a while, Bailey reading the words on each headstone, Ambrose looking beyond the graves, his
mind heavy with memories that he wished he could extinguish.
“I wish I could be buried up here with them. I know it's a war memorial. But they could bury me over here by the bench. Put a little asterisk on my tombstone.”
Ambrose laughed, just like Bailey expected him to, but Bailey's glib acceptance of his own demise bothered him.
“But I'm going to be buried in the town cemetery. My grandparents are there and a few other Sheens from generations back. I've got my spot all picked out,” Bailey said easily, comfortably even, and Ambrose could hold his tongue no longer.
“How do you stand it, Bailey? Looking death in the face for so long?”
Bailey shrugged and glanced at him curiously. “You act like death is the worst thing.”
“Isn't it?” Ambrose could think of nothing worse than losing his friends.
“I don't think so. Death is easy. Living is the hard part. Remember that little girl over in Clairemont County who was kidnapped about ten years ago when her family was camping?” Bailey asked, his eyes narrowed on Ambrose's face. “Fern's parents and my parents volunteered with the search. They thought she might have fallen in the creek or just wandered off. But there were enough other campers there that weekend that there was also the possibility that someone had just taken her. By the fourth day, my mom said the mother of the little girl was praying that they would find the child's body. She wasn't praying they would discover her alive. She was praying that her baby had died quickly and accidentally, because the alternative was a lot more terrible. Can you imagine knowing your child was somewhere suffering horribly and you couldn't do anything about it?”
Ambrose stared at Bailey, turmoil in his eyes.
“You feel guilty because you lived and they died.” Bailey tipped his head toward the four headstones. “Maybe Beans and Jesse and Grant and Paulie are looking down on you shaking their heads, saying 'Poor Brosey. Why did he have to stay?'“
“Mr. Hildy told me the lucky ones are the ones who don't come back,” Ambrose remembered, his eyes on the graves of his friends. “But I don't think the guys are looking down on me from some heavenly paradise. They're dead. Gone. And I'm here. Period.”
“I think deep down you don't really believe that,” Bailey said quietly.
“Why me, Bailey?” Ambrose shot back, his voice too loud for the sober setting.
“Why not you, Ambrose?” Bailey bit back immediately, making Ambrose start as if Bailey had convicted him of a crime. “Why me? Why am I in a flipping wheelchair?”
“And why Paulie and Grant? Why Jesse and Beans? Why do terrible things happen to such good people?” Ambrose asked.
“Because terrible things happen to everyone, Brosey. We're all just so caught up in our own crap that we don't see the shit everyone else is wading through.”
Ambrose had no answer for that and Bailey seemed content to let him wrangle with his thoughts for a time. But eventually, Bailey spoke again, unable to sit in silence for too long.
“You like Fern, don't you, Brosey?” Bailey's gaze was apprehensive, his voice grave.
“Yeah. I like Fern.” Ambrose nodded absently, his thoughts still on his friends.
“Why?” Bailey demanded immediately.
“Why what?” Ambrose was confused by Bailey's tone.
“Why do you like Fern?”
Ambrose sputtered a little, not sure what Bailey was getting at, and a little pissed that Bailey thought he was entitled to have it spelled out.
Bailey jumped in. “It's just that she isn't really the kind of girl you used to go for. She and I were talking the other day. She seems to think she's not good enough for you . . . that you are tolerating her because, in her words, 'she's thrown herself at you.' I can't quite imagine Fern throwing herself at anyone. She's always been pretty shy when it comes to guys.”
Ambrose thought of the night of the fireworks when she'd kissed his eyelids, his neck, his mouth and slid her hands beneath his shirt. She hadn't been shy then, but he thought he'd keep that to himself.
Bailey continued: “I think that's why Fern has always liked to read so much. Books allow you to be whoever you want to be, to escape yourself for a while. You know how Fern loves to read those romance novels?”
Ambrose nodded and smiled, remembering how embarrassed Fern had been when he’d read a passage from her book out loud. He wondered briefly if the romance novels were what made Fern so passionate and responsive. Just thinking about her made him long for her, and he tamped down the desire immediately.
“Do you know she writes them too?”
Ambrose jerked his head around to meet Bailey's smirk. “Really?”
“Yep. I think she must be on her sixth novel. She's been sending her books out to publishers since she was sixteen. So far, she hasn't gotten a deal, but she will eventually. They're actually pretty good. A little sappy and sweet for my taste, but that's Fern. She writes under a fake name. Her parents don't even know.”
“A fake name? What is it?”
“Nah. You'll have to get that info from her. She's going to kill me for telling you about the books.”
Ambrose nodded, his attention riveted on exactly how he was going to coax little Fern to tell him all her secrets. The desire for her rose again, and he almost groaned out loud.
“I've always liked to read. But I prefer a little different kind of book. Romance is just torture for me, you know?” Bailey added.
Ambrose nodded, his mind on the fireworks, the way it felt to lay next to Fern as light exploded above them, her sweetness, the smell of her skin and the soft sweep of her hair. He understood torture.
“So let's hear it, man. What's the deal? I can't kick your ass, but I will definitely know if you're lying to me. Is Fern right? Are you just taking what's available?”
“Hell, Bailey! You remind me of Beans–” Ambrose winced at the pain that lanced through him, like he'd pressed his fingers into a fresh wound, the sharp sting silencing him immediately. But his silence only fed Bailey's fears.
“If you are stringing my cousin along and you aren't head over heels in love with her, I will find a way to kick your ass!” Bailey was getting agitated and Ambrose laid a hand on his shoulder, soothing him.
“I do love Fern,” Ambrose admitted, his voice hushed, his gaze heavy with confession, and felt a frisson of shock at the truth. He did love her. “I think about her all the time. When I'm not with her I'm miserable . . . but when I'm with her I'm miserable too, because I know it's Fern that's settling. Look at me, Bailey! Fern could have anyone she wanted. Me? Not so much.”
Bailey laughed and groaned loudly. “Boo, freakin' hoo! Waaa! You big baby! Do you expect me to feel sorry for you, Ambrose? 'Cause I don't. It reminds me of a book I just read for this online English course I'm taking . This guy, Cyrano De Bergerac, was born with a big nose. Who the hell cares? So Cyrano never got with the girl he loved because he was ugly. That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard in my life! He let his big honker keep him away?”
“That Cyrano guy? Wasn't he the one that wrote love notes for the good looking guy? Didn't they make a movie out of that?”
“That's the one. Remind you of anyone? I seem to remember someone writing you love notes and signing them Rita. Just like Cyrano. Kind of ironic, isn't it? Fern didn't think she was good enough for you then, and you don't think you're good enough for her now. And both of you are wrong . . . and so stupid! Stuuupiiiid!” Bailey dragged the word out in disgust. “I'm ugly! I'm not worthy of love, waaa!” Bailey mimicked them in a whiny, high-pitched voice, and then he shook his head as if he was thoroughly disappointed. He paused a moment, gearing up for a new rant.
“Now you're telling me that you are afraid to love Fern because you don't look like a movie star anymore? Shoot, man! You still look like a movie star . . . just one that's been through a war zone is all. Chicks dig that! I keep thinking that maybe you and I could take a road trip and tell all the girls we meet along the way that we're both vets. You've got a messed up face
and my war wounds have put me in this chair. You think they'd believe it? Maybe then I could get some action. Problem is, how am I going to get a handful of tit if I can't lift my arms?”
Ambrose choked, laughing at Bailey's irreverence, but Bailey just continued, unfazed.
“I would give anything to do one of those Freaky Friday switch-aroo things with you, Ambrose. Just for one day I want to trade bodies with you. I wouldn't waste one second. I'd be knocking on Rita's door. I'd pummel Becker a few times, throw Rita over my shoulder, and I wouldn't come up for air until neither of us could move. That's what I would do.”
“Rita? You like Rita?”
“I love Rita. Always have. And she's married to a dick, which is actually comforting in a very selfish way. If she was married to a cool, nice, awesome guy I would be more miserable.”
Ambrose found himself laughing again. “You are something else, Bailey! Your logic is priceless.”
“It is kinda funny. Funny ironic, I mean. Fern always said Rita has spent her whole life being chased by boys. Because of that, she never had a chance to stop running long enough to figure out who she was and what kind of guy she should let catch her. It's kinda ironic that Rita and I are friends, seeing as I've never been able to chase her. Maybe that's the silver lining. I couldn't chase her, so she never had to run.”
After a time, Ambrose picked Bailey up in his arms once more, and together they descended the hill from the memorial, lost in their own thoughts of life and death and silver linings.
Uncle Mike looked surprised when he saw Fern slip into the wrestling room with Bailey Saturday night. He did a double-take, then seemed confused, and then he looked at Fern again, frowning a little. But when Ambrose noticed her sitting on a rolled-up mat next to Bailey's chair he smiled, and his smile negated Uncle Mike's frown.