A Midnight Clear (14 page)

The silence stretched out between them. He kept up the rubbing, and her heartbeat fell into rhythm with it.

“You been in the neighborhood long?” She needed to blot out the sensation.

“Few months.”

His voice was low, and she felt something pool in her stomach. A frisson of… interest. No! She didn’t want to name it; that would make it real.

“Do you like Lake Glade?” It was much safer to talk about real estate.

“It’s quiet. I…” He trailed off and then said, “You should know I don’t typically hold rowdy parties. I don’t want you to think I’ll be waking you and your family up.”

The last bit sounded like a statement, but she suspected it was a question. Not a prurient one, but curious. He wanted to know about her. He was, after all, patching her up, and they were going to be living next to each other—it was natural he’d want to know.

She wasn’t sure how to answer, however. She’d lied about her family to the movers—but she was never going to see them again. She couldn’t lie to Kit. He’d find out. Also, he was an astronaut. It would be like lying to G.I. Joe.

“My kids,” she said. It wasn’t precisely what he’d been asking, but it was true, and it clarified that she wasn’t unattached. She wasn’t married, but she also wasn’t precisely alone.

He nodded. “I definitely don’t want to wake up your kids. Also, I’m not a fan of disasters. I try to avoid them, as a rule.”

“You don’t enjoy scrubbing dip out of carpeting?”

“Not on Mondays.”

“But the rest of the week?”

“Wednesday gets boring sometimes.”

In spite of herself, she smiled. An astronaut was flirting with her. He thought she was married and that this was only politeness, but still. Most women in America would give anything to be in her spot—messy hair, sliced finger, and all. So for a moment, she let herself play along.

She shook her head sadly. “I’m surprised
Life
omitted that bit.”

“Ah, well, you shouldn’t believe everything you read.” He popped his jaw in what sounded like genuine frustration, but it evaporated when he said gently, “I’ll be a good neighbor.”

He removed the cotton, and before the blood could start gushing again he had a bandage around her finger. He pulled it taut and adhered it better than she could have done. He wet another cotton ball and used it to clean her up. His movements were lighting quick. Practiced. Confident.

Pilots likely got banged up a lot. He’d probably done this many times, and all the touching and comforting was clinical and unconscious. She’d been the one imagining anything else.

“Thank you,” she said as she watched him work. “Nothing’s unpacked yet. I don’t know what I would have done without you.”

“Probably bled to death.” He shot her a lazy grin.

She pulled her hand back and glared at him.

“Do you need a clean shirt?” he asked.

The word
shirt
called attention to his lack of one. She didn’t permit herself to look at him for more than an instant. She shook her head and trained her eyes past him at his refrigerator—a turquoise Frigidaire that gleamed in the corner and made her covetous. Hers was plenty nice, but that was a beauty.

Still not looking at him, she said, “I’ll pass on the shirt, but I’ll take a knife.”

He produced a folded blade from his pocket. He wasn’t even dressed and he had a knife on him?

“Do you want some scissors too? I’m sure I can find some.”

“If it’s not too much trouble.”

He pulled open what appeared to be a junk drawer and fished around inside. He finally located a pair of sewing scissors identical to the ones that were in her mending case in a box somewhere inside her house. He held them out to her, but when she reached for them, she stumbled toward him. Her cheeks heated.

Maybe she wasn’t imagining the flirting—but that was all the more reason to get out of his house.

“Can I get you anything else?” he asked.

“No, you’ve been very welcoming,” she said through clenched teeth. “Or you will be once you give me those.”

“I’ll have to have your family over for dinner once I, you know, have the carpets cleaned.” He handed the pocketknife and scissors over with a broad, polished smile. He clearly felt as if they’d reached a détente.

All she said was, “Hmm.”

As she followed him out, there was another noise to accompany the crunching of crackers: a door opening. Into the midst of the carnage in Kit’s living room strode a woman wearing a frothy peignoir and nothing else.

The woman was young, blonde, and extremely pretty. Her hair was tangled and her makeup blurred—not particularly surprising, given what had evidently gone on here—but she bounced in all the right places.

If the
Life
article was to be believed, Kit was unmarried. And indeed he wasn’t wearing a ring. The woman, presumably not his wife, was unmoved by it. All of it. The mess. Anne-Marie’s presence. The blood all over her shirt. Kit’s evident absence from his bed.

The young woman just scratched her head and smiled at them. “Morning.”

Anne-Marie glanced at Kit, who had flushed scarlet. When he didn’t say anything, Anne-Marie offered, “Right. Good morning. I was just going. Thanks for the, uh, bandage. And the knife. And the scissors. I’ll bring them back when I’m done.”

She wrenched the door open before he could respond and strode back across the yard. She’d been hoping for a new start in Lake Glade, but she should have known that men were the same everywhere.

Without feeling even a hint of disappointment, she started opening boxes and putting together her home.

Available Now!

Afterword

We didn’t mean to write this book, and then we didn’t mean for it to go on so long. But once we realized we weren’t just telling a courtship-focused short story, but instead writing a novella set at the Naval Academy in the late 1940s, we had to do some research.

The most helpful text we read was John McCain’s autobiography
Faith of my Fathers: A Family Memoir
. In it, McCain details the careers, personalities, and service of his father and grandfather—both of whom were Navy admirals who would have been contemporaries of Frances’s father—and he discusses his experiences as a midshipman at the Academy in the mid-1950s. We’ve relied heavily on his account, including his own records of crazy stunts to justify Joe’s motorcycle riding.

Joe’s sail training cruise in chapter six has a basis in reality. The Naval Academy maintains a fleet of sailboats on which midshipmen train to this day, though the majority of these excursions take place in the summer.

It is important for us to stress, however, that we fictionalized the student body, administration, and environs of the Naval Academy. All the characters in the book are inventions and any resemblance to people living or dead is coincidental.

Finally, we want to thank Zoe York for her helpful comments on the manuscript and the cover and her enthusiasm for the project.
 

About the Authors

Emma Barry is a novelist, full-time mama, and recovering academic. When she’s not reading or writing, she loves hugs from her preschooler twins, her husband’s cooking, her cat’s whiskers, her dog’s tail, and Earl Grey tea.

You can find her on the web at
www.authoremmabarry.com
and find more of her books
here
.

Genevieve Turner writes romance fresh from the Golden State. In a previous life, she was a scientist studying the genetics of behavior, but now she’s a stay at home mom studying the intersection of nature and nurture in her own kids. (So far, nature is winning!) She lives in beautiful Southern California, where she manages her family and homestead in an indolent manner.

You can find her on the web at
www.genturner.com
and find more of her books
here
.

Copyright © 2015 by Emma Barry and Genevieve Turner

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the authors’ imaginations or used fictitiously. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Digital Version 1.0

Cover photographs © Blakonsky and Iafoto |
shutterstock.com

All rights reserved.