Wait (Beloved Bloody Time) (3 page)

World War I Victory Parade, New York City, 1918 – 20 Years Later.

The ticker tape was as thick as a blizzard as the parade wound on and on. Natália was overwhelmed by the sheer number of soldiers parading down Fifth Avenue. There seemed to be no end to the crisply formed lines of khaki and rifles.

Then there were the lines of actual motor cars, driving by at the same speed as the foot soldiers, with wounded men and generals all waving and smiling as they went past.

When the parade had begun, she had been holding an armload of carnations that was nearly too big to contain with one arm. Now, almost an hour later, the bundle had dwindled to posy size.

She couldn’t give a flower to every single soldier that passed her by. Instead, she had quickly learned to find a soldier approaching her, from perhaps five yards away, and look him in the eye as he approached. Her smile would always produce an answering smile, and she would hold up the flower for him. Once he drew level, he reached for the flower himself, instead of her having to thrust it into his hand.

She brushed the unlikely confetti off the top of her nurse’s cap and shook out her veil, then picked out her next victim. The small, dark-haired man was clearly of Italian descent, like so many New York citizens. She began to smile at him, but then her gaze was pulled toward the very blond hair of the man behind him. Blond hair...tall...his gaze was steady upon her. Frank and...happy.

Christian Hamilton.

She pressed her hand to her mouth, hiding her delight for he was supposed to be a stranger to her, in this life. But she held his gaze as he approached. She couldn’t smile.

Her mind raced. How could she speak to him? Among the millions of people lining Fifth Avenue, and the thousands of soldiers marching along it, how could two passing strangers legitimately decide to seek each other out among the millions?

With each step he drew nearer. Time was against her. She couldn’t think.

He reached for the flower, his gaze under the brim of his helmet steady. His hand curled around the stem, brushing her fingers.

One more step. He was level with her now. In a few seconds he would have passed her by.

Then he leaned a few inches toward her. “The Astoria,” he murmured. Anyone around them would not have heard it. It was far too noisy, with the cheering, the stomp of marching men, and the clop of horses from the cavalry units. Christian had not lifted his voice, but she heard him perfectly.

Then he had taken the next step and moved past her.

Natália made herself not turn her head to track him as he moved on. She took a few seconds, staring blindly at the pavement, then forced herself to lift her head and find another victim for her flowers. There were many more soldiers beside the one that had just passed her and it was her duty to welcome them all home.

The day suddenly seemed brighter.

* * * * *

Christian spotted the honey gold of her hair from across the crowded restaurant. She had removed the veil and cap. Her back was to him. “Never mind,” he told the waiter. “I see her now, thank you.”

“Not at all, Captain,” the waiter told him. “Welcome home.”

“Thank you.”

He made his way over to Natália’s table and stopped by her side and drew a breath for courage. “Hello.”

She looked up from the book she was reading and put her tea cup down. Then she smiled and the expression made her rich brown eyes seem warm and welcoming. “You found me.” She closed the book and waved toward the chair on the other side of the tiny table. “Please, sit down.”

He folded his cap and put it in his coat pocket, then sat. He checked the level of the tea. It was half-empty. Puzzled, he glanced at her, then back at the cup.

She smiled and let her gaze flicker toward the potted palm that separated their table from the next. The soil was damp. That was where she was draining it.

“Would you like a cup of tea?” she asked, reaching for the pot. “It’s still hot.” She was still wearing the nurse’s uniform, with the starched white apron and the little red cross in the center of it. The grey-blue dress beneath was prim and neat, as were her shoes.

She poured him a cup, and he made a fuss of adding sugar and cream from the little dispenser.

“It’s so very good to see you,” she said. “I thought you might have been caught up in the war in the east.”

He pretended to sip the tea. “I left Japan nearly ten years ago, so no.  I was in Norway while Europe was in the war and I could see America being pulled in, so I came back to enlist. I got back here a week before the Zimmerman telegraph became news. I’ve been decommissioned as of this morning.”

He looked at the cap and veil that lay neatly folded on the third chair at the table. “You did your part, too, I see.”

She glanced around the restaurant. It was busy, as the Astoria usually was, but most tables were involved in their own conversation. She leaned forward anyway, which put her only a few inches away from him. “I spent thirteen years in Georgia. Then I died and came here to New York. A couple of years later, the war broke out, so I joined the Red Cross.” A shadow touched her face briefly, then was gone.

“It was a difficult service, I imagine,” Christian said carefully. He had seen first aid posts on the battlefield, and was grateful he had never needed to have an injury treated by the overworked, stressed doctors and nurses who had ministered the wounded. The amputations from mortars and the appalling wounds from machine gun fire and grenades…it made rifle wounds look like mere paper cuts.

Natália gave him another effortful smile. “Not nearly as difficult as fighting at the front would have been like, I’m sure. You were in France?”

“For most of it, yes.” He gave a small shrug. “I’m fairly fluent in French now.”

“Your Spanish was very good, if I remember correctly,” Natália pointed out. “Did you learn Japanese while you were there?”

“I did. Both
hyōjungo
and
Osaka-ben,
for I spent a good few years on Osaka.” He smiled. “I’ve also heard enough German over the last year that I can understand most of it. But I’m not going to tell anyone I know that one.”

Natália gave a soft laugh. “I imagine it would be misunderstood, especially with your coloring.”

He put the cup down, studying her. “Would you like to stroll the Avenue?” he asked.

“Just like last time?” She leaned over and picked up her cap and the handbag that lay beneath it. “That sounds perfect.”

* * * * *

“Where in Georgia did you go to?” Christian asked, glancing at her. Her hand was tucked under his elbow, bringing back pleasant memories of Seville, before the war. But her dress had brushed the ground then, while now he could see her trim ankles, covered in boot leather, and her stockings, just above. Her hair was still the rich honey-gold, and her eyes the same warm brown. The tiny little line between her
brows was still there, too. That line was a reminder of the steel that made up her spine.

It was astonishingly good to see her.

Natália pushed her lips together in an expression that was very close to a pout. “I stayed in Savannah for a year or so, establishing my new life. Then I moved to Albany.”

His breath caught. “Home,” he murmured. He glanced at her.

“You spoke about home with such longing. I could almost see it even before I arrived there.” She smiled at him. “It has grown into a thriving city now.”

Christian drew in a slow breath and let it out. “You went there because of me.”

She kept her gaze on the pavement ahead of her for three more steps. “Let’s walk through Central Park,” she suggested.

“It looks crowded,” he said, glancing at the leafless tree branches and the many people strolling the paths beneath.

“No more crowded that this sidewalk.” She steered him toward the corner.

“You’re changing the subject.”

“If you were a gentleman, you would let me change the subject without challenge, now, wouldn’t you?” She said it with a soft southern drawl and tilted her head at him coquettishly.

The accent and the charming little tilt of her chin sent his mind tumbling back more than thirty years. He could almost feel the heat of late summer on his skin, and the smell of ripe peaches as he plucked them from the tree and placed them in the basket. The sound of steamboats working their way along the river, the slosh of the paddlewheels making his throat dry at the thought of the cool water. The slap of the screen door as Amelia, the youngest of his brothers and sisters, raced from the house down the path to the orchard, to tell him lunch was ready—

“Christian?”

He blinked, as the sounds of Fifth Avenue brought him back to the present moment.

“Where did you go, just then?” she asked softly. “Home, again?”

He wrestled with his answer as they stepped onto the path that meandered across the crisp lawn toward the leafless trees reaching up into the iron grey sky.

“It is quite normal to be homesick in the beginning, you know,” she added gently.

“Is there anything normal about this existence?” he asked, his voice rough.

Her fingers pressed his arm, but she didn’t answer.

The silence stayed with them until they were under the trees. There were a lot of couples and families out walking, taking in the fresh, crisp air, and there was a gay and festive atmosphere, despite the cool weather.

Christian blew out a breath. “Please accept my apology,” he told her. “I’ve spoiled the mood.”

“You’ve had a hard few years,” she said. “It seems to me to be only natural to feel at odds with everything and everyone.”

“You pulled through just fine,” he pointed out. “Better than fine. You look quite glorious, in fact.”

She smiled at him, then her smile faded. “I keep thinking about how hard it was for some of the men I nursed. How many families won’t have their soldiers returning home from this? A bit of hard work seems like heaven in comparison.”

Christian grimaced, guilt touching him. “You make me sound terribly ungrateful.”

“That wasn’t what I meant.”

“But you’re right. We’re lucky to not have families to miss us. Bullets don’t hurt us. There is never any need to worry or wonder about when it might all unexpectedly end. There’s just time. Lots and lots of time.”

“Time to do whatever you want,” she added.

He halted and drew her to one side of the path, facing him and out of the way of everyone else using it. “What will you be doing next?” he asked.

Natália smiled. “I am on duty in two hours. The evening shift.” She lifted the cap and veil she had folded in her hand.

“I mean, after this. Are you going to stay in New York?”

She shifted on her feet, as if she was uncomfortable with the question. Her gaze flickered away from him.

“What is it?” he asked her.

She shook her head, still not looking at him.

Christian closed the few inches between them, until they were almost touching, and caught her face in his hands. She was neither hot nor cold to his touch. He brought her face back until her gaze was on him. She bit her lip.

“What troubles you, Tally?” he asked, as gentle as she had been with him.

She pressed her full lips together, her eyes locked on his. “I try not to follow my impulses,” she said. “They usually lead me into situations I don’t like.”

“What impulse are you fighting now?”

Natália hesitated again. Then, “I want to ask you what you want for your next life.”

He stared at her, puzzled. “That is a bad question?”

“I want to know if I can share it, even for a while.” She gave him a small smile. “It is the worst thing we can do, but that is what I feel.”

Christian clamped down on the swell of joy that threatened to make the sun come out and flowers to bloom. He grit his teeth together, riding out the pleasure, letting better sense ascend in its place. He stroked her cheekbone, feeling soft flesh. He made himself say it. “I’m married, Tally.”

She stepped back immediately, blinking, and straightened her apron with a sweep of her hands. “But that’s…that’s wonderful! Where is she? Here in New York?”

He shook his head. “We met in England, during the war. Juliet is arriving tomorrow on the steamer. She wanted to come here to live. Europe is so torn up and depressing.”

Natália nodded, smiling. “Is she…?”

“She’s human,” Christian said. He gave her a smile that felt more like a grimace. “I took your advice, you see.”

“I remember. Of
course
I remember,” she told him and took his arm once more. She turned and began to walk down the path, bringing him with her, past the many people sitting on the benches that lined the walk. “Human companionship. I’m so happy for you. Is she pretty?”

“Very.”

“Does she love you?”

Christian recalled the last time he had returned to the little cottage in the south of England that he had bought for her to live in while he was away fighting. It had been a tumultuous and passionate return home. “Yes,” he said flatly. “She loves me.”