Second Chances in Lavender Bay (The Lavender Bay Chronicles #3)

43. Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-One

T hey were married the following spring. It was a small affair at the local church with a reception at her mother’s house afterward, where they enjoyed finger sandwiches, champagne, and wedding cake. Diana wore a navy outfit with a corsage of pink roses pinned over her right breast and a white-and-navy floral silk scarf on her head. Mark wore a gray flannel suit. Laura and Joy served as her two matrons of honor, and a colleague of Mark’s stood as best man.

It was a beautiful day. The sun was warm, and the sky was a soft blue. There was a gentle breeze. Laura took a photo of Diana and Mark beneath the blossoming cherry trees, and it ended up in a frame that Diana kept by her bedside for the rest of her life.

It made Diana very happy to live next door to her mother because she didn’t want to be too far from her. She continued to work out of the spare bedroom in her mother’s house, if only to see her every day and provide her with a bit of company.

They settled into wedded bliss, and Diana couldn’t remember being happier.

They weren’t married three months when Diana woke in the middle of the night to Mark screaming. Startled, she sat up and looked over at her husband. He tossed and turned on his side of the bed, twisted up in the bedsheet. His hairline was damp with perspiration, And he spoke loudly in his sleep. She placed a hand gently on his shoulder. “Mark,” she whispered.

“Clear out, clear out!” he shouted. She reached for him; his pajamas were drenched in sweat. Again, she laid a hand on his shoulder and called his name softly. He came out swinging and caught her on the chin.

Stunned, she climbed out of bed and turned on the bedside light. The room felt warm, so she opened the window a few inches and a gentle breeze blew in, lifting the curtains from the sill. She walked around to his side of the bed and shook him again, calling his name, trying not to startle him and also trying to avoid another swinging arm.

When he emerged from the nightmare, it was suddenly, and he was fully awake. Looking at her standing over him, he frowned and asked, “What’s wrong?”

“You were having a nightmare.”

“Was I?” He seemed genuinely shocked at the revelation.

“Hold on, honey,” she said. “Your pajamas are soaked.” She went to his bureau and pulled out a clean pair. She sat them on the bed next to him and coaxed him to sit up. He seemed bewildered, looking around the room as if he’d never seen it before.

She reached over and began to undo the buttons on his pajama top. When she pulled it off, she tossed it by the door. She helped him into a fresh top and a pair of fresh bottoms and tucked him back into bed. She went to the bathroom and returned with a glass of water and a cool washcloth. As he drank the water, she mopped his forehead, brushing his hair aside. Once he was tucked in, she climbed back in on her own side, pulling the sheet and blankets up. She turned off the bedside lamp.

Into the darkness, she whispered, “You were having an awful nightmare.”

“I was back in the war. It was so real,” he said quietly.

“Have you ever had nightmares like this before?”

“Yes.”

“What do you do about it?” she asked, worried about him and more than a little frightened herself.

“There’s nothing that can be done.”

“Oh,” she said with a sigh.

“I’m so sorry to have woken you, Diana.”

“Nonsense. That’s what I’m here for.”

“To change my pajamas in the middle of the night?” he asked.

She snorted and then said seriously, “I’m your wife. I’ll do whatever I need to do.”

He rolled onto his side to face her, and she did the same. She ran her fingers through his hair. This always relaxed him.

“Shh,” she said softly.

There was no way she’d tell him he’d cuffed her good on the chin. He’d be mortified. Besides, it wasn’t his fault.

The nightmares were sporadic and didn’t seem to be triggered by any one thing in particular. But when Diana found herself to be pregnant, the nightmares increased. Diana might not have been a rocket scientist but given the fact that he’d lost his first wife and son in childbirth, it seemed plausible to her that increased stress might be to blame, which was understandable. She did all she could to reassure him that everything would be fine, but he remained doubtful. In the meantime, they were alone with it.

There was nowhere to go for help. It wasn’t like you could share this sort of thing with other people or even with your doctor. You were expected to deal with it, get on with your life and somehow soldier on. She knew a thing or two about trauma and its aftermath, and one thing she did know was that you needed support. She didn’t know how she would have got through those first years after the accident without the support of her mother and Laura and Joy. She habitually fingered the St. Anthony medal around her neck, whispering a silent prayer for her husband.

One morning, she was down in the kitchen when she heard Mark moving around upstairs. She’d turned off his alarm, as it was Saturday and he’d had a restless night. But when she heard him get up, she set about preparing his breakfast. Two eggs sunny-side up, two pieces of extra-crisp bacon, and two slices of toast, medium brown, lightly buttered. For herself, she prepared a whole grapefruit and two pieces of buttered toast. Sometimes, she cooked a piece of bacon for herself, but she’d lost her taste for meat since becoming pregnant.

Otherwise, she liked being pregnant. She still had two months to go. It was the best she’d felt since before the accident. Her appetite was good, and she’d made herself some smocks and maternity skirts in cheery fabrics.

Mark appeared in the doorway as she was setting his plate on the table. She filled his juice glass halfway and turned on the burner beneath the stovetop percolator. He hesitated, appearing sheepish. This was the norm after a night of nightmares. She wished he wouldn’t be embarrassed. Not in front of her , of all people.

“Sit down, honey, your breakfast is getting cold.”

He pulled out his chair and sat. He picked up his fork and knife, but they remained mid-air, hovering over his plate.

Diana sat next to him, sprinkling a teaspoon of sugar over the first half of her grapefruit and using her serrated spoon to dig out sections of the fruit.

“I want to apologize for last night,” he said.

“Because you had a bad dream?” She shook her head and went on to the next section. “Don’t ever apologize to me for that.”

“I don’t know why I keep having these dreams,” he said. “The war’s been over for almost ten years.”

She shrugged. “I still have dreams of getting my hair caught in the machinery.” Those dreams pushed her right back to the day of the accident and caused her to wake up in a cold sweat. But they were infrequent now. In the beginning, she had them all the time. She tried to think of the last time she had that dream. She paused, her spoon stuck in a section of grapefruit. Maybe six months ago? She thought back to what he’d said once: how war was no place for a man. She couldn’t begin to imagine all the horror he’d witnessed. And she was pretty sure he wasn’t alone. But it wasn’t like you could go around and ask people.

Mark was saying something, but she hadn’t heard him properly.

“I’m sorry?” she said.

“I said I wonder if sometimes I made a mistake in marrying you.”

Her mouth fell open. “Haven’t I been a good wife?”

He rushed to reassure her. “You’ve been a wonderful wife! I couldn’t be happier. But it can’t be much fun for you being married to me.”

“I’m very happy,” she said.

“You are?” he seemed surprised by this.

“Yes, silly,” she said with a laugh. “Why would you think I wasn’t?”

He sighed. “It’s a lot to take on. The nightmares and stuff.”

“No marriage is perfect or always smooth, is it?”

“No, I suppose not.”

“I’d like to make a suggestion,” she said.

He mopped up his egg yolk with a piece of toast, waiting for her to continue.

“You know there’s a VFW over on Primrose and Vine,” she said gently. She picked up the grapefruit and squeezed the last of the juice into her bowl.

He nodded. “Isn’t that where they all get together and drink beer?”

“Not necessarily. Who says they don’t serve scotch?” she quipped, referring to his drink of choice. She hadn’t been there since that day all those years ago. But with all the women marching in and out of the house for mending and sewing, she’d picked up little bits of information about it. It sounded like an informal social club where veterans went to hang out. She wasn’t too sure, but from what was said, it seemed to help some of the men to socialize with others who’d been through the same thing.

“I don’t know,” he said.

Diana scooped the juice out of her bowl until it was gone, and then she started on the second grapefruit half. The percolator hummed on the stove, the coffee bubbling up into the little glass knob on the lid. She stood and turned it down.

“It wouldn’t hurt to give it a try,” she said. “They’re men who’ve served, like you. And you don’t have to go in there and tell them about your nightmares, but it might be nice to be with other men who understand what you’re going through.”

He considered this.

“Why don’t you take a walk down there today,” she suggested. “It’s Saturday. There’s bound to be someone around. They might be able to give you more information.”

“It sounds like you’re trying to get rid of me,” he said with an amused smile.

“Not at all. I only want to help you.” She stood again, removed the percolator from the stove, and poured coffee into two mugs, handing one to Mark. She set hers down on the table and put her hand on Mark’s shoulder. He patted it reassuringly.

He looked up at her and said, “I don’t deserve you, you know.”

“Oh yes you do,” she said quickly. “Don’t you remember what you told me a long time ago?”

The lines between his eyebrows deepened, and he shook his head and said, “No. You’ll have to be more specific. I believe I said a lot of things.”

“You told me that the queen always protects the king.”