“You told me that when you kiss me, all the pain goes away. I want it to go away, too,” she continued plaintively, the tickle of her breath against his skin making his eyes roll back in his head.
He kissed her eyelids, the high planes of her cheekbones, the small dollop of an earlobe that made her shiver and bunch his shirt in her hands. He smoothed her hair from her face, gathering it in his hands so he could feel the slide of it through his fingers as he found her mouth and did his best to chase memories from her head and sorrow from her heart, if only for a while, the way she did for him.
He felt her breasts against his chest, her slim thighs entwined with his own, the press of her body, the slide of her hands, urging him on. But though his body howled and begged and his heart bellowed in his chest, he kissed and touched, and nothing more, saving the final act for a time when sorrow had released its grip and Fern wasn't running from feeling but reveling in it.
He didn't want to be a temporary balm. He wanted to be a cure. He wanted to be with her under an entirely different set of circumstances, in a different place, in a different time. At the moment, Bailey loomed large, filling every nook and corner, every part of Fern, and Ambrose didn't want to share her, not when they made love. So he would wait.
When she fell asleep, Ambrose eased himself from the bed and pulled her blankets around her shoulders, pausing to look at the deep red of her hair against her pillow, the way her hand curled beneath her chin. It wouldn't hurt so badly if I didn't love him so much. He wished he would have understood that when he'd found himself in a hospital full of injured soldiers, filled with pain and suffering, unable to come to terms with the loss of his friends and the damage to his face.
As he stared down at Fern he was struck with the truth she seemed to intuitively understand. Like Fern said, he could take his friends from his heart, but in purging the memory, he would rob himself of the joy of having loved them, having known them, having learned from them. If he didn't understand pain, he wouldn't appreciate the hope that he'd started to feel again, the happiness he was hanging onto with both hands so it wouldn't slip away.
The day of the funeral, Fern found herself on Ambrose's doorstep at nine a.m. She had no reason to be there. Ambrose had said he would pick her up at 9:30. But she was ready too early, restless and anxious. So she’d told her parents she would see them at the church and slipped out of the house.
Elliott Young answered the door after a brief knock.
“Fern!” Elliott smiled as if she were his new best friend. Ambrose had obviously told his dad about her. That was a good sign, wasn't it? “Hi, Sweetie. Ambrose is dressed and decent, I think. Go on back.”
“Ambrose!” he called down the hallway adjacent to the front door. “Fern's here, son. I'm going to head out. I need to stop by the bakery on the way. I'll see you at the church.” He smiled at Fern and grabbed his keys, heading out the front door. Ambrose's head shot out of an open door, a white dress shirt tucked into a pair of navy slacks making him look simultaneously inviting and untouchable.
His face was lathered on one side, the side untouched by violence.
“Fern? Is everything okay? Did I mess up the time?”
“No. I just . . . I was ready. And I couldn't sit still.”
He nodded as if he understood and reached for her hand as she approached.
“How you holding up, baby?”
The endearment was new, protective, and it comforted Fern like nothing else could have. It also made her eyes fill with tears. She clung to his hand and forced the tears away. She'd cried endlessly in the last few days. Just when she felt she couldn't cry anymore, she would surprise herself and the tears would come again, rain that wouldn't stop. She had applied her make-up that morning heavier than usual, lining her brown eyes and laying the water-proof mascara on thick, simply because she felt stronger with it; a sort of armor against the grief. Now she wondered if she should have left it off.
“Let me do that.” Fern held out her hand for the razor he wielded, needing to do something to distract herself. He handed it over and sat on the counter, pulling her between his legs.
“It only grows on the left side. I won't ever be able grow a mustache or a beard.”
“Good. I like a clean-shaven man,” Fern murmured, expertly slicing away the thick white lather.
Ambrose studied her as she worked. Fern's face was too white and her eyes were shadowed, but the slim black dress complimented her lithe figure and made her red hair look even redder still. Ambrose loved her hair. It was so Fern, so authentic, just like the rest of her. He slid his hands around her waist and her eyes shot to his. A current zinged between them and Fern paused for a deep breath, not wanting the liquid heat in her limbs to make her slip and nick his chin.
“Where did you learn to do that?” Ambrose asked as she finished.
“I helped Bailey shave. Many times.”
“I see.” His blind eye belied his words, but his left eye stayed trained on her face as Fern picked up a hand towel and blotted off the residue, running her hand across his cheek to make sure she'd gotten the shave close and smooth.
“Fern . . . I don't need you to do that.”
“I want to.”
And he wanted her to, simply because he liked the way her hands felt on his skin, how her form felt between his thighs, how her scent made him weak. But he wasn't Bailey, and Fern needed to remember that.
“It's going to be hard for you . . . not to try to take care of me,” Ambrose said gently. “That's what you do. You took care of Bailey.”
Fern stopped blotting and her hands fell to her sides.
“But I don't want you to take care of me, Fern. Okay? Caring about someone doesn't mean taking care of them. Do you understand?”
“Sometimes it does,” she whispered, protesting.