A Midnight Clear (6 page)

He made an affirmative noise.

“It’ll be Thanksgiving before you know it and then finals and then winter break. Such a crush from now until the end of the year. Where are you from again? Did you say? I can’t remember. I’m sorry. But you’ll be heading back there, right?”

The words tumbled out of her mouth pell-mell. She’d braced her bag against her body and was digging in it as best she could with her free hand, trying to find her key. It was imperative that she get into the house as quickly as possible so as to avoid… wherever this was heading. Enough yielding ground to him—she only wanted to retreat.

“Frances.”

She stilled at her name, and looked up at him, at all his focused yearning.

“I need to make sure you understood my note. I told you my only concern was for your happiness, that I understood your desire not to be a Navy wife.”

She nodded but didn’t speak.

“But don’t misunderstand: I adore you.”

Frances found that she couldn’t breath. She knew she must be breathing—her throat was almost burning with the cold—but the oxygen was not getting to her brain, which made no sense because her heart was thumping a tattoo even John Phillip Sousa couldn’t—oh Lord, why was she thinking about Sousa right now?

“I’m trying to be of service to you, but I’ll be as selfish as you’ll let me be.” His eyes went to the door, to her lips, to the ground, and back to her face.

She felt hot and dizzy. She wished she’d taken Dana up on that drink.

“So if you… if you’ve decided and it’s never, don’t let me,” Joe finished, as breathless as she felt. He squeezed her hand, just the once, and let it drop.

He took a few steps backward and gave her a half-hearted smile. “I’ll wait until you’re inside.”

Without comprehension, she found her key and opened the door.

“Night,” she said.

He waved, and she went in.

When she was safely away from him, she leaned against the door and tried to make sense of what had transpired. Whatever tactic this was, she’d never seen it before. She wasn’t certain if she’d been ambushed or if she’d escaped by the skin of her teeth—and she couldn’t decide which outcome was worse.

Joe had never looked forward to mandatory chapel during his four years in Annapolis. But over the last few weeks, he was beginning to develop an appreciation for it. The building certainly was stunning: stained glass, the dome floating high above them, and the crypt of John Paul Jones himself. The preaching was all right; Joe managed to stay awake at least.

But really, it wasn’t the impressive interior or the sermons that had led to Joe’s newfound enjoyment—it was the glimpses he could catch of Frances.

He had his hymnal open, but it was all a pretense. His attention was fully on her, steady as a compass needle pulling true North. She was sitting in the front pew with her father and sister, same as always, giving him nothing but the back of her head, the silk flowers on her hat as still and calm as the rest of her.

He was anything but. The curve of her shoulder as it rose to meet her neck—the backs of his fingers tingled at the imagined slide of it across them. The bit of skin right below her ear, but before her jaw—he wanted to see if it would fit his kiss as beautifully as he thought it might.

As his thoughts tipped too close to danger, he shifted in the pew.
Get a grip, Reynolds.

He had the sense she knew he was watching her, hence her unnatural lack of movement. Or perhaps her thoughts were traveling along the same track as his, with his attention steady on her. When she rose to leave, their gazes caught—and
bingo
. She stopped dead, looking as though her heart were side-hopping through her chest.

He could sympathize—he felt the same way when he caught a glimpse of her.

This was the first time she’d looked at him since he’d escorted her home and the expression on her face had him coming to a decision—perhaps it was time to run into Miss Dumfries again. If he bumped into her outside, it would be a sign she wanted to speak with him, given the significance of that look. If not… well, he would know what that meant. He could read the weather, same as any other sailor.

Thank God, she was just outside the door, waiting with her sister by her father’s side as the admiral chatted with Professor Smith. She sent a quick, almost guilty, glance his way, then turned back to the conversation that didn’t have her attention.

Signal read.

Professor Smith moved off as Joe approached. “Miss Dumfries.” He nodded to her, not sparing even a glance for the rest of her family. Her cheeks went pink and her mouth pursed—she looked delightfully flustered. His own lips tingled at the thought of tasting her blush.

She nodded back. “Midshipman Reynolds.” Not cold exactly. More like fluttering snowflakes.
 

“Miss Dumfries.” Finally, he nodded to the sister watching him closely.
I haven’t forgotten.
From her penetrating expression, she hadn’t either.

“Sir.” A salute to the admiral, as quick as correctness would allow, then he turned back to Frances.

The admiral made that irritated noise he’d taught his youngest daughter. Funny that no matter how Joe might have annoyed Frances, he’d never heard it from her. Joe ignored the noise—if the admiral had something to say, he ought to say it directly.

“Are you enjoying this fine Sunday?” he asked Frances instead, keeping his smile weak, polite.

But she knew what he was about anyway, a crease appearing between her brows. “Yes.” She didn’t sound as if she were enjoying it.

“Oh? That’s good. I hope the rest of your plans for today are as enjoyable.”

That really got her mad, her mouth going flat. If they’d been alone, he had no doubt she’d let him have it. And he had no doubt he’d enjoy her chiding. “We’re holding a reception this afternoon for some visiting officers,” she said, the faintest edge there.

His smile slipped. She narrowed her eyes, daring him to say something. And she damn well knew he couldn’t, not with her father listening.

His thoughts spun as he tried to re-group. He couldn’t very well accuse her of being too dutiful in front of the man who’d landed all that duty right on her slim shoulders.

“We need to be going,” the admiral huffed from behind him, as if hearing Joe’s thoughts. “I’m sure Frances has quite a bit to do to prepare.”

Joe ground his teeth. Of course she didn’t want to be a Navy wife—she already was one for her father. His anger made boldness sizzle through his veins. “If I might have another moment with Frances, please. Sir.” He didn’t even face the man as he said it. A bold, perhaps suicidal move.

Air hissed out of the admiral—Joe knew better than to turn to catch his expression. But Suzanne was hiding a smile behind her hand. And Frances… yes, there was shock there, and some delight too.

“She won’t go out with any of you fellows,” the admiral boomed. “So stop wasting everyone’s time here.”

“I wasn’t asking that.” He gave her his most intent look as he said it. “I was asking Frances how she was, if she was enjoying herself.”

He couldn’t help it—he snuck a glance at her father then. Joe’s face went numb and for a moment he thought he’d gone too far, because the admiral wore an expression that promised his next words were going to hurt.
 

Frances spoke first though. “Father,” she said, too softly to tell if she was urging her father to stop or go on.

“Of course she’s enjoying herself.” The admiral said it as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “She’s young, she’s lovely, boys are always buzzing about her—why wouldn’t she?”

Which went to show how much the admiral knew. But Joe couldn’t tell the Superintendent of the Naval Academy he was a damn fool when it came to his daughter.

Frances saved the moment once again—no doubt she’d had excellent practice as her father’s hostess. She set a hand on her father’s forearm, the admiral’s attention swinging away from Joe. “You go ahead with Suzanne,” she said. “I’ll meet you at home.”

The admiral sent him one last warning look—Joe tried to appear suitably innocent—then the man left with Suzanne.

Victory.
But a Pyrrhic one, since Frances herself was frowning at him now.

“You want to know if I’m enjoying myself?” Her tone snapped at his ears.

“Yes?” Hadn’t he asked that? He’d had an ulterior motive, but he still wanted the answer.

“I tried to write in the journal you gave me.” She stabbed a gloved finger in his face, as if he were the one responsible for her writer’s block. “I opened it that very first night, picked up the pen… but couldn’t think of anything to write. I tried again the next night. Still nothing. And the next night.” Her finger began to shake ever so slightly. “But I was so determined to prove you wrong. I do know what I want out of life.”

He resisted the urge to capture her hand with his own. “And?”

“The night of the dance, after you took me home, I opened it and wrote. Pages and pages.” A quaver on the last word. “So see, you’re wrong.” She finished with a defiant flourish.

“Of course. Which is why you’re spending Sunday entertaining for your father.” He couldn’t keep his own tone from snapping.

“I thought service refilled the well.” But her volley was weak, hesitant.

“Not when your life is nothing but service.” That hadn’t been what he’d meant at all—perhaps she couldn’t see that, stuck in a life composed of only duty.

She pressed one finger hard against her forehead, her eyes closing as she did. She looked so vulnerable, so torn, his arms ached to pull her into him. But he didn’t dare.

After a moment—an agonized moment—she dropped her hand and checked her watch. “I really do need to be going soon. To do my service.” Only a slight twist of sarcasm there. “Although I finally have an answer for you.”

He’d thought her look in the chapel had meant… well, something other than this. He held himself taut and braced for impact. “So you’ve decided then?”

Whatever she said, he’d accept it. He’d never win her if he didn’t accept her wishes. And if her wishes were for him to stay far, far away… if she chose duty over herself… well, that was that.

Even so, his gut twisted with fearful anticipation.

But she kept on surprising him. “When I finally wrote in the journal, the first line I put down was, ‘I want to fly.’”

His heart leapt. “So I’ll help you.” A grin stretched his mouth, too insistent for him to keep inside.

“Hold on there. That’s all I want from you. I’m warning you now—I’ll be the selfish one here.”

“I can’t tell you how happy this makes me.” If only he could come a little closer, take her in his arms,
show
her how happy he was—

“You don’t need to tell me that. Just take me flying.”

He knew exactly the thing. “Can you meet me at Thunder-and-Lightening Point tomorrow afternoon?”

“Yes.” But she looked uncertain.

“Wear something that can get dirty.”

Her eyes widened.

“Better go,” he warned with a waggle of his eyebrows. “See you tomorrow.”

He left with only one—all right, two—backward glances at her. But not anymore than that—he had to prepare for her flying lessons.

Frances stepped off the bus, apprehensive.
Wear clothes you can get dirty?
Whatever could Joe have had in mind?

But when she saw him waiting for her, she didn’t much care.

“I’ve never seen you in civilian duds,” she called.

Dungarees and a gray cable-knit sweater suited him well indeed. The sweater pulled across his shoulders, as if he’d grown since it had been fitted, then fell loose over his trim waist. She tried not to inspect him farther down.

“I wasn’t born in working blues,” he teased.

She’d wondered whether he’d take her hand, give her a buss on the cheek. This was a date, wasn’t it? Weeks ago, he’d suggested they might be friends, but then he’d seen her home, told her he adored her, stood up to her father.

As she watched him, he didn’t touch her: He looked. Merely looked. Looked in a way that made touching beside the point. His hands were in his pockets, and her heart was in her mouth.