On Distant Shores (19 page)

Piana di Caiazzo
November 13, 1943

The jeep barreled over the countryside, and Hutch braced himself against the dashboard. “Sure you don’t want me to drive?”

Georgie laughed and shook back her curls. “Where’s your sense of adventure? I made it all the way from Caserta to the hospital to here.”

A solid bump jolted through his tailbone. “I can’t believe they let you have a jeep.”

“You’d be amazed what a little Southern charm can do.”

He grinned and looked away to the olive trees dotting the hill slope. He knew all too well what Southern charm could do. He hadn’t felt this good since he’d been drafted. Perhaps longer.

On the drive from the hospital complex, they chatted about Georgie’s experiences at Bowman Field and Hutch’s at the 93rd. Normal conversation between friends. So why couldn’t he shake the feeling that this was a date?

He’d showered and shaved and worn his khaki shirt and trousers instead of herringbone twill fatigues, although with the good old Parsons field jacket on top. Didn’t want to look too conspicuous. Or too eager.

As much as he liked Georgie, the timing couldn’t be worse. Less than a month before, both of them were set to marry—or assumed they were. And thanks to fraternization policies, he wouldn’t be allowed to date her until he became an officer, and then he’d head stateside anyway. If she even wanted to date him.

Lousy timing.

The jeep bounced to a stop. Hutch banged his knees and almost slid off the seat.

“What do you think?” Georgie said. “Do you like this spot?”

He rubbed his knees. “If it means our ride’s over, I love this spot.”

“Aren’t you just the funniest man in the world?” She climbed out of the jeep. “Well, I think it’s lovely here.”

Hutch got out and stretched his legs. They stood on a grassy slope a couple of miles west of Piana di Caiazzo, with a ramshackle stone wall behind them up the slope to the east. To the south, the Volturno made a hairpin loop in its journey across Italy’s shin, and directly before them, a stream worked its way to the river, lit by the sun low on the horizon. And for once, a clear sky.

Georgie pulled a cardboard box out of the backseat.

“Let me get that for you.” Hutch took the box, loaded with food and a portable stove. What was for dinner?

“No peeking.” Georgie tossed a blanket over her shoulder and pointed to a level spot. “How about over there?”

Hutch set up the little cylindrical Coleman stove and lit it while Georgie spread out the blanket and poked around in the box.

“Shoo.” She waved him to the side, sat in front of the stove, set a frying pan on top, and unwrapped a paper bundle.

“What’s for din—”

She laid a bright red slab inside the pan.

He scooted closer, and the blanket buckled between them. “Is that what I think it is?”

“Steak? Yes, it is. Before I left, you said you wanted steak, medium rare.”

His nostrils and soul filled with the scent. “How? Where?”

Georgie flattened the steak with a fork. “The 802nd was invited to a big fancy dinner tonight at the palace in Caserta.”

“Really? Fifth Army HQ? You didn’t go?”

She flapped her hand at him. “The entire month of October I feasted on Mama’s home cooking. She used up a wad of ration stamps. I had steak and fried chicken and ham. Nothing they serve at the palace can compare to Mama’s biscuits.”

He studied her face in profile, the rounded cheeks and tiny chin. “But you—”

“This afternoon I went down to the palace kitchen and told them I couldn’t attend, that I was meeting a friend who hadn’t had a nice meal in ever so long, and could they possibly send me with a box?”

“You did what?”

“A little eyelash batting, and here you go. One steak, soon to be medium rare, and a loaf of crusty Italian bread, and a can of peas. Sorry about that—not terribly fancy. But the chef liked me so much he threw in two slices of cake.”

“Cake?” He closed his mouth so drool wouldn’t slither out.

“Mm-hmm.” She flipped the steak.

Hutch stared at her. Now it really felt like a date because the only words that came to mind were “I think I’m in love.” But he kept his mouth shut.

She sent him a sidelong glance. “I thought you’d be pleased.”

“You have no idea.” He leaned forward and inhaled so long he felt dizzy. “May I say grace now so I don’t have to wait once this comes off the fire?”

She clucked her tongue at him. “Oh, all right. Nothing wrong with blessing the food before it’s ready.”

“Definitely not.” He closed his eyes. “Heavenly Father, thank you for this bountiful feast and for the friend who procured it and prepared it. Amen.”

“Amen.” Georgie poked the steak. “You prayed too fast. It isn’t ready.”

“On second thought, rare would be fine.”

“No, you don’t. Why don’t you get out the plates, slice the bread?”

By the time he followed her orders, the steak was ready. Over his protests, she sliced off only a bit for herself and gave him the rest. Then she placed the can of peas on the stove to warm.

Hutch stared at the meat on his tin plate. Part of him wanted to gulp it down in one bite, and the other part wanted to leave it on the plate forever and savor it like fine art.

In compromise, he took a thin slice and set it on his tongue. His eyes drifted shut. This was what beef was supposed to taste like, not that hash they slopped on his tray in the mess.

He squeezed the morsel between his teeth, and the juice caressed his taste buds. Finally he gave in and swallowed.

“At this rate, you won’t finish that steak by daybreak.”

Hutch opened his eyes and gave her half a grin. “Most likely.”

She settled her plate on the blanket in front of her. “You seem to be doing well. I have to admit I was worried.”

“Because of Phyllis?” He shrugged and sliced another piece. “Nah. The more I think about it, the more I know I didn’t love her anymore. Not sure I loved her in the first place.”

Georgie tapped him on the arm with the back of her hand. “Don’t do that. Don’t chalk off your years together because it ended badly.”

Hutch took his time with his mouthful of steak and with his answer. “I’m not. Bergie set us up. Before I knew it, she was my girlfriend. I thought she’d be a good wife and mother. Apparently I was right.” He winked.

Her eyes rounded, and she laughed.

He mopped up juices with his bread. “It was never like people say, when all you can think about is her, when you can’t think straight in her presence.” Like he felt with Georgie.

She turned a circle of bread in her hands. “It wasn’t like that with Ward either. I didn’t decide to be with him. I just
was
. He embodied everything I wanted—home, safety, security.”

“Then when you changed what you wanted . . . ?”

A soft smile. “Then he didn’t want me, and I didn’t want him.”

“He’s a fool.” His voice came out too husky, so he shoved in the last bite of steak. After he set aside his plate, he stretched out on his back and laced his hands behind his head, his stomach full and happy. “We both had a busy month or so, didn’t we?”

“Sure did.” She twisted to face him. “It’s good to see you and know you’re all right. I’m glad I came back.”

“I’m glad you came back too. That was the single best meal I’ve had in my life.”

She whacked his knee and laughed. “You men are all alike. Always thinking about food.” She scooted down to the edge of the blanket by Hutch’s feet, poured water from the canteen into the frying pan, and scraped at burnt bits with her fork.

Hutch let out a contented sigh and enjoyed her curvy silhouette against the colors of the setting sun. “You know what they say. The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.”

“True.”

Something bold and new surged in his chest. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were flirting with me.”

Georgie paused. She gasped. “Goodness’ sake. What a thing to say.”

The boldness gained strength and pumped through his body. He wasn’t mistaken. She could have gone to that posh dinner at the palace, but she chose a picnic with him. She went through all this effort for him. And she hadn’t answered his question.

“Well?” He tapped her knee with his toe. “You
are
flirting, aren’t you?”

“John Hutchinson! What a thing to ask a lady.” She scraped even harder at the pan without facing him. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself. I thought you were a gentleman.”

“Just a simple question. Which you haven’t answered.”

“Some questions don’t warrant an answer. Besides, a lady would never flirt with a man so soon after breaking up with her boyfriend, especially when the man also . . . it’d be too early.”

“Maybe.” But something deep inside disagreed. It might be too early, but with the war on, it might soon be too late.

She raised one shoulder and sniffed. “If
I
didn’t know better, I’d think you were flirting with me. All these questions and such.”

Hutch had seen newsreel footage of paratroopers lined up to jump from the airplane. Each man paused at the doorway. To jump or not to jump?

“Well? Are you?” Scrape, scrape, scrape.

He hovered at the threshold, one massive barrier between them. “I know better than to flirt with an officer.”

“You’ll be an officer soon. And you haven’t answered my question. Are you?”

He didn’t have much experience with women, but he recognized an invitation, and he flung himself into open sky. “I am.”

Georgie drew in a sharp breath and sat up straighter. Then she resumed her attack on the frying pan.

Somehow her nervousness made him feel even bolder. Now was the moment. He sat up and slid down to the edge of the blanket beside her.

Scrape, scrape, scrape.

“You’re going to put a hole in that thing.” He placed his hands over hers—they trembled—and he took away the pan and fork and set them aside.

Her laugh came out thin, and she twisted her hands in her lap.

What should he say? Should he hold her hand or embrace her or kiss her without hesitation?

He leaned closer until their shoulders touched. She softened into him, welcoming him.

His pulse thrummed in his ears, and he studied her face in the dusky light. The curves of forehead, cheekbones, chin. The fluttering brown eyelashes over flushing cheeks. The way she pulled in her lips between her teeth until they popped out again, pink and moist.

He raised his hand toward her cheek, to turn her face and read her expression before he made a move that couldn’t be undone.

She leaned forward a bit. Away from him. “Ours or theirs?”

“Hmm?” His hand fell. His gaze rose to her eyes, now focused far away, toward the final crescent of sunlight. He couldn’t think over the thrumming of his pulse.

“The plane?” She pointed west over the stream. “Ours or theirs?”

The thrumming. It wasn’t his pulse. It was an engine. A fighter plane, a black outline in the sky.

He was no aircraft expert, but he’d seen enough Messerschmitts over Sicily and Italy, Me 109s that loved to attack at
dusk, loved to attack out of the sun, loved to strafe bridges over the Volturno. “Theirs! The stove!”

“Oh no!” Georgie grabbed the cylindrical cover and clapped it over the stove, snuffing its light.

Hutch scrambled to his feet and pulled her to standing. “We’ve got to get to shelter.”

“The jeep!”

He sprinted up the slope, slower than he wanted but faster than Georgie probably wanted. “No, they’ll target the jeep. Go to the wall.”

The plane aimed right at them, he could hear. His breath came hard, he stubbed his toe on a rock, Georgie stumbled, he kept going, the wall locked in his sight.

The plane pock-pock-pocked, and bullets thumped into the ground behind them.

Georgie screamed.

“Turn right!” He yanked her hand, angled their path away from the bullets, parallel to the wall. They could maneuver faster than a fighter plane.

The engine sounds shifted. Hutch didn’t look behind him, but the plane had to be turning.

“Turn left!” He aimed straight for the wall. “Can you jump it?”

“Yes.” She tugged her hand free, planted both hands on the wall, and vaulted it.

He hurdled over, found her hunched against the wall, crouched over her, shielded her body with his.

The plane whined overhead. Two bullets chinked into the stone wall about ten feet away.

He pressed Georgie close to the wall.
Please, Lord, don’t let him come back.

“More?” Her voice muffled into his chest.

Yes. More engine sounds to the west, but different. He
stretched up and peered over the top of the wall. Those planes he knew and liked. “Ours. Three P-47s. That fellow won’t be back.”

Hutch sank to the ground facing Georgie and pulled her to his chest. Their hearts raced in rhythm, her breath puffed into his neck, his breath huffed into her hair.

He held her tight. If anything would drive her away from him, drive her back stateside, this would be it. She’d told him how she panicked after the plane crash when Rose was killed.

Eventually, her breathing quieted.

Hutch leaned back to see her face. “How’re you doing, sweetheart?”

Her blue eyes shone in . . . triumph. “I didn’t panic.”

“No.” He wiped a smudge of dirt off her cheek. “No, you didn’t. You put out the stove. You ran. You jumped this wall like one of your horses.”

“I did. And I only screamed once.”

A smile edged up. “When those bullets flew, I almost screamed myself.”

She giggled. “Did you?”

“I would have, but I’m trying to impress you.”

The glow of her smile showed him he’d succeeded. He’d impressed her. She was attracted to him. And he wanted her in his life more than anything.

Right then, nothing mattered. Not timing, not rank, not the war. Only Georgie mattered.

He swooped in and pressed his lips to hers, her body to his.

A soft gasp, then she melted into him, her hands climbing his back, her lips searching his.

He swept one hand into her hair, so silky, drawing her closer and deeper, her lips willing and pliant beneath his. He’d never kissed a woman that hard before. Never. Was it too hard? Was he scaring her?