Free Love is a Wounded Soldier by Blaine Reimer Page B

presumptuous, I pressed my lips cautiously against her forehead,
pinning a few rogue hairs between them. I kissed her again and kept my lips
against her, holding her to me tightly. She moved her head back slightly and I
reciprocated, just far enough so our eyes could focus on each other.
    “Robbie,” she whispered, the sweet ambrosia
of her breath battering my senses. She pushed her lips out toward me
expectantly.
    “But your pa—” I protested weakly, not
wanting to cross any boundaries the preacher might not want me to.
    “Robbie!” she breathed impatiently, and I
sensed this was not the moment she had planned for discussing ethical matters,
so I tentatively leaned forward and lipped the full, pink softness of her
mouth. My body almost shook with desire. My mind felt utterly helpless as it
got swept away in a current of passion, yet my body felt invincibly potent and
virile as I held her to me. Someone called that supper was ready, and we parted
reluctantly, breathlessly.
    “Am I the only one feeling a little dizzy?”
she whispered to me as we walked to the kitchen.
    “I do believe I’m a wee bit intoxicated at
the moment,” I said, letting out a boyish giggle that almost had me looking
around to see if there was a ventriloquist nearby. She laughed. She was
beautiful.
    ~~~
    And so like a reckless garden our love
grew. Like spindly seedlings we sprouted branchlet and tendril that twined and
tangled hopelessly around each other, until our spirits were raveled together in
an inextricable embrace. Heedlessly our hearts intertwined, thinking never of
the agony separation might bring, but striving always to cling the more closely
to the other.
    Spring conquered winter, and as the
schoolchildren shed coat and cap and sweater, so I bared my soul to Ellen until
it would have shivered, if not for the warmth of her acceptance. I bashfully
shared my journalistic aspirations with her, and rather than deprecating them,
she listened approvingly and smiled as she offered encouragement, and told me
of her unwavering belief in me. With her I could seemingly reveal more of
myself than I myself knew; sometimes it seemed just talking to her about
growing up with Moses, Ma’s death, or whatever, dredged up deep feelings from
my emotional well to the surface where I could see them and identify them for
what they were. And in anger or sadness, Ellen would always offer a comforting
word or touch that was like a cool hand to a fevered forehead, and she would
calm my stormy spirit with her quiet eyes. She became my confidante, the only
one I had ever trusted with thoughts I hardly trusted to say out loud when I
was alone.
    Our courtship flourished into the summer
under the watchful eye of Preacher Moore. Too watchful, it sometimes seemed. At
times it felt we had little room to breathe, and even the time we spent alone
was rife with an inordinate number of “chance” interruptions that I found a
little aggravating. I put enough stock in my own character to be a little
insulted to think that the preacher didn’t trust me alone with his daughter.
Though his seeming distrust rankled me at times, one summer evening I did
receive a little glimpse into his mind, a glimpse that made me think of him
like less of a preacher, and more like an ordinary man.
    ~~~
    I was picking Ellen up to go into town for
ice cream, and Preacher Moore was sitting on the porch, Bible in lap, sweaty
glass of iced tea in hand, as I stood waiting for Ellen to join me outside.
    She emerged in a sky blue sundress, a
matching ribbon in her hair, a veritable vision in blonde and blue.
    I turned to follow her, and he said,
“Robert.” I stopped, and he motioned her on toward the car. She continued
walking, and when she was a dozen paces away, I responded, “Sir?”
    “You treat her like a gentleman,” he said,
in a gruffer tone than I’d ever heard him use on anyone. I could feel my face
get warm, wondering if he’d witnessed a stolen kiss, though any onlooker