Free Home for a Soldier by Tatiana March

suddenly every cell in her brain went on strike. He would kiss her.
Here. Now. As soon as she read out the card. She gulped in a deep breath, raised
the card to her eyes, and rattled out the words.
    “I, Grace Clements, take thee, Rory
Sullivan, to be my wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward,
for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness or in health, to love
and to cherish, until death do us part.”
    The instant she finished, Grace
slapped a hand over her mouth, horrified. She’d forgotten. Her brain had
disengaged, and she had failed to substitute until further notice . She
had made a promise, and promises were holy tokens of trust, never to be broken.
    “I….” She fought for something to
say, her voice muffed by the fingers clamped over her lips.
    Rory smiled at her, his eyes full of
laughter, and with a delivery that didn’t waver, he recited the card. “I, Rory
Sullivan, take thee, Grace Clements, to be my wedded wife, to have and to hold
from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in
sickness or in health, to love and to cherish, until death do us part.”
    Her mind whirled in chaos while the
preacher hurried through declaring them man and wife. He finished by saying,
“You may kiss the bride.”
    Joe and Karim, who had behaved with
restraint until that moment, gave in to the urge to stomp and whistle. Grace
turned to Rory. Every drop of blood in her body throbbed to her lips. Rory
cupped his hand over her cheek and bent down. He kissed the corner of her mouth,
just a brush of his lips against the edge of hers. With a whimper of longing,
Grace increased the contact, leaning into him. Her hands drifted up to clutch
the lapels of his jacket.
    Thank heavens I don’t have a bouquet
to hold. She uncurled her
fingers and flattened her palms over the cloth to feel the solid contours
beneath.  I’m married. I’m married to this man. She, Grace Clements—no,
Grace Sullivan—an unemployed statistician, was married to a man so handsome half
the women in the world would kill to be in her white satin pumps. Rory’s arms
closed around her, and he deepened the kiss, slanting his mouth over hers in a
hungry demand that sent ripples of excitement down her spine.
    “I’m afraid I have to hurry you,” the
preacher said. “You can continue outside.”
    Rory released her and studied her
flushed face. “Congratulations, Mrs. Sullivan,” he told her. “You belong to me
now.”
    Her breath stalled at his words.
    * * * *
    “Speech, speech!” a dozen soldiers
roared, banging coffee spoons against any suitable surface.
    “Won’t the landlady mind the noise?”
Grace shouted to Rory over the din. She glanced through the archway that
connected the living room with the kitchen, where an agile woman in her
seventies dashed about, scraping leftovers and stacking dirty plates in the
dishwasher.
    “Nah,” Rory yelled back. “She’s
thrilled to be in the thick of the action.” He leaned closer, so he wouldn’t
have to shout. “Muriel’s grandson is in Iraq. She puts up troops on R&R all the
time. Much cheaper than staying in the hotels downtown, and the food is great.”
    Grace nodded. The dinner had
certainly been excellent, with salads and hot chicken in a spicy sauce, and a
choice of rice and potatoes and vegetables. Not any particular type of ethnic
food, but a bit of everything, just like the wedding guests.
    With a shake of her head, Grace
surveyed the group of men. After the ceremony, she had expected Rory to deposit
her at the Hotel Palazzo and disappear with his friends to commiserate
his lost bachelorhood. Instead, the jeeps had whisked them along the Strip where
neon lights pulsed in the twilight, into a suburb where they parked outside a
sprawling ranch house surrounded by several jeeps in varied states of disrepair.
    “The landlady’s son is a veteran on
disability,” Joe had explained. “He fixes