Together—You and Me

"I don't know if I can do it tonight."

"You don't have to do a thing except follow me."

Amy led him back to the bedroom where she slowly removed his clothes. She ran back into the living room and brought back two large pillows.

"C'mere..." Amy said as she tugged him into the bathroom.

In the bathroom Amy had set up a half dozen candles, and a bathtub full of hot soapy water awaited. Soft music from the radio filled the bathroom. Amy helped him into the hot water. She placed the pillows down on the floor beside the tub. When he was in the water, Amy turn around and slowly peeled her panties down, showing Dean her soft white derriere.

"Here," Amy said as she poured a tiny amount of lavender oil into the water, "this will help."

She kneeled down on the pillows. A misty ambience filled the room. The bathroom was aglow from the flickering yellow light of the candles, throwing soft shadows against the walls. The scent of lavender was in the air. Neither one spoke. Except for the sounds of Amy's sponge breaking though the water and the soft music, the room was still.

Amy gently washed his arms and his shoulders. She ran a sponge down his muscular legs and gently washed his feet. Dean watched as her long black hair would fall from her back and flow down her shoulders. Her breasts would play hide and seek with her hair as a nipple would peek out from behind a black curtain only to disappear when she moved.

Adding more hot water to the tub, she wet his hair as she rubbed in a vanilla-scented shampoo. She ran her fingers through his soapy hair as she worked it into a foam.

She poured water over his head, rinsing the soap clear. She reached behind her for a can of shaving cream and filled her hand with the warm white suds. She tipped his head back and covered his chin, neck, and face with the smooth cream. With a touch so gentle, Amy began to shave his face. One stoke, then another, she would dip the razor into the water with a splash and return to his face. She stopped, bent over and kissed him; some shaving cream stuck to her cheeks. Dean reached over and with his finger, wiped the soap from her warm face.

"I'd say you look done," Amy said. "Let's get you out and dried off."

Amy pulled out a large, soft, white towel and gently dried the water from his body. She moved in as close as she could so he could feel her hair fall onto his bare skin; feel her warm naked body against his. She reached over and picked up a small bottle of Burberry Brit cologne and placed a few drops on his neck.

"Did I ever tell you the scent of Burberry Brit causes my jeans to come down?" Amy said. She looked down her body past her tight tummy to a small triangle of black fur between her legs. "Oops! Looks as though those are already gone!"

Amy wrapped the towel around their bodies encasing them within the soft cotton material.

"I was thinking," Amy said, "I've got a lot of comp time on the books at my job and your employer is slow right now, what do you say we take a trip to Aspen? I've always wanted to give skiing a try. We could go and stay a weekend and be back before Thanksgiving.

"Even if we don't try the slopes, I'd love to sit in one of those big lodges with the stone fireplace and watch the snow fall as you and I sip hot chocolate. We could get a room with a Jacuzzi. You could lock all my clothes up, keeping me in nothing but a pair of heels all the time we're there. You'd like that wouldn't you? I would. And at night, you could make love to me in front of a roaring fire.

"Honey, I can't erase the memories you have of that damn war. I'd like to help you make new memories— memories with me."

"Amy?"

"Yes, Dean?"

"I love you..."

****

"Are you sure you can't come?" Amy asked, "I need to finish some work up today to meet a deadline. It's Christmas Eve day. We always have a small party at work. I'd love for you to come."

"I've got a few things I've need to finish up here, unfortunately. Don't stay too late," Dean said.

As Amy was about to leave, she reached out and kissed Dean.

"What's wrong? I can tell there's something wrong by your kiss."

"There's nothing wrong."

"You still love me?" Amy asked.

"More than life itself, Amy... More than life itself," Dean said. "Say, what's in the gym bag?"

"Oh, this. It's a Christmas present for you. Something really short and sexy I'll have on when I get back. I'll change at work."

"You don't need to do that. My God, Amy, they're calling for temps to be no higher than a few degrees above zero this afternoon."

"Then you'll have to warm me up when I get home, won't you," Amy said with a seductive smile as she turned and walked out the door.

Just before the party started, Amy changed into the clothes she had brought with her.

"Damn Amy, that's short," one of her friends said as she looked down at Amy's skirt, "You're going to freeze your legs off when you go outside."

About that time Amy's boss came over and said, "Looks as though we made the last deadline for the year. Hey, did you notice all the guys looking at you, Amy? You've really changed since you met that man of yours."

"Thanks... I've been hoping he would take things to the next level soon... "

Just then Amy shook in her heels. "What's wrong, Amy?" her boss asked.

"I don't know. I feel as though someone walked on my grave," Amy said. "Oh God. It's Dean. There's something's wrong. I feel it. I've got to go."

Amy rushed out of the party, jumped into her car, and drove as fast as the snow-covered highways would allow. Tears filled her eyes. She knew.

****

Dean picked up his dip pen and plunged the nib into the half-empty bottle of India Ink. Tap. Tap. He gently tapped the pen's tip against the glass mouth of the inkwell knocking the excess ink from the pen. A small light bulb in the desk lamp illuminated the room. The warm yellowish glow of the incandescent bulb shined down upon the desk.

Ever so slowly he began to place ink on paper. Letters slowly joined together forming words; those words into his thoughts. The tip of the pen scratched across the rough fibers of the paper as the shape of letters appeared.

The room was so quiet, Dean could hear the pen's movements against the paper resonate within the stillness of the room. Another trip to the inkwell. Tap. Tap. More words appeared on the paper. Post traumatic stress disorder... Afghanistan... my buddies...Tap. Tap.

His hand was steady and true as he continued writing in his own style of calligraphy. Five lines now, each one in perfect alignment with the one before it. Sandy... blood upon my hands... under fire... Tap. Tap. The glass neck of the inkwell rang out.

Dean stopped writing and gazed out at the snow softly falling on this Christmas Eve. A slight smile appeared on his face as he recalled better times. Then as quickly as a snowflake melts in the winter sun his smile disappeared and Dean returned to his letter.

Tap. Tap. His pen returned to the paper. More words filled the sheet of paper. Amy... IEDs... Humvee... I love you...

At last, Dean put his pen down and lifted the paper with both hands. He read it over then once again. He put the paper down upon the desk and gently rolled the ink blotter back and forth upon his thoughts painted on the paper. Three careful folds later he slipped the sheet into an envelope.

A burst of bright yellow light filled the dim room for a second as a match head flared. Dean held the burning match to a small block of sealing wax and several hot drops fell and formed into a warm puddle upon the flap of the envelope. He pushed his thumb into the wax sealing the letter. A quick puff of his breath blew the match out, sending rings of smoke upward. Dean watched, almost in a daze, as the wooden match head slowly cooled from orange hot to cold black.

He reached over and picked up a small rosewood box that sat on his desk. His fingers gingerly slid the brightly polished brass catch to one side then he opened the box with great reverence. It was lined with green felt. He took out a small piece of polished steel and held it in his hand while he ran his fingertips across the silk ribbon. After a few moments, Dean replaced the article back into the box rejoining the others and closed the lid. He reached over for another sheet of paper upon which he simply wrote: "Give these to Amy Patterson."

Dean pushed himself back from the desk, then reached over and turned the desk light off. "It's time," he said to himself as he walked out of the room and to the garage, carrying the letter in his hand.

****

Amy pulled in the driveway and ran up to the door. She could hear a car running in the garage.

"No!" she cried out.

She fumbled with her keys, dropping them once into the snow before she got the door opened. She ran to the inside garage door and opened it. The garage was filled with the pungent odor of car exhaust. She snapped the light on. Dean sat in the car. The engine was still running.

"Nooooooo!" She screamed at the top of her lungs. "Ohhhh nooooo..."

Amy yanked open the car door; Dean's face was bright red. He didn't appear to be breathing. She reached in and shut the car's engine off. She pressed the remote control on the visor, and the garage door slowly opened. She kicked off her heels and ran to the opening of the door, taking in a few quick breaths of the bitterly cold fresh air. She ran back. She knew she had to get Dean into clean air.

Amy looked out to the open door and the fresh air that beckoned her. It was Dean's only chance of survival. She slipped one arm under his legs, then other behind his back.

Amy lifted Dean out of the car and carried him outside, laying him in the snow.

She laid him down and pounded on his chest. Her legs and feet were clad only in a thin layer of nylon that offered no protection to the bitter cold. Her knees sank into the snow.

"Breathe! Breathe!" Amy demanded. "You can't do this to me. You promised me! You promised me! You promised me we'd be together—you and me! Dear God, please don't take this man from me..."

She pulled his head back and breathed into his lungs as she attempted to push vital oxygen into his body.

"I don't know what to do!" she said as tears fell from her cheeks, instantly turning into small balls of ice before they dropped onto the snow.

"You can't do this to me!" Amy shouted again as she pushed down on his chest trying to get him to breathe. Spit and snot fell from her mouth and nose, falling onto the snow.

"Noooooooo..." she moaned again.

In an act of desperation, Amy piled snow up along his face.

Amy placed her hands on her knees as she looked at Dean's apparently lifeless body lying in the snow. "The Christmas wreath on the door is supposed to be green, not black," she said to herself. She heard sirens in the background; someone had apparently called 911.

Suddenly, she heard a gasp and she saw Dean's chest move. The noise and sudden movement startled her. She picked Dean's head up and placed it in her lap, protecting him now from the cold. Amy was sobbing out of fear and joy at the same time as she rocked back and forth. She cried uncontrollably as she held the man she loved in her arms.

She looked around, and the snow began to glow with reds and blues as an EMS squad and a police cruiser pulled along side the apartment.

"What do have here, Miss?" one of the paramedics said as another one started working on Dean.

"You've gotta help him! He's my boyfriend. His name is Dean Bradley. I found him in the garage. He was in the car with the engine running. I carried him out here in the snow."

The paramedic looked up to the open garage, noticed only one set of footprints leading back to Amy and said, "You picked him up and carried him that far? That's over forty feet!"

A policewoman walked over with a heavy blanket and wrapped it around Amy; their eyes locked for a second before she led Amy back to an ambulance.

"Is he going to be all right?" Amy asked as she started to shiver.

"No promises. He's not out of the woods yet. Putting him in the snow more than likely saved his life. The cold slowed his body down. Placing the snow on his face kind of shocked him back. Like rebooting a computer. Now we need to get both of you warmed up before hypothermia sets in."

****

"Miss Patterson, how are you feeling?" the ER doctor asked. "Besides cold, that is."

"Just cold right now, I'm really cold. How's Dean?" Amy asked.

"I'll check on Mr. Bradley. But right now let's worry about you. I'll send in a nurse to help you get out of your wet clothes. We need to get you warmed up."

The rings on the curtain moved and Molly stepped in. "I'll help her with that."

"Molly?"

"I'm here, Amy," Molly said as she reached out and took Amy into her arms and rocked her back and forth.

Amy started to cry. "I didn't know what to do... Is he going to be all right? How'd you find out?"

"Sssshhh," Molly said. "Let's worry about you right now. As far as finding out, Vicky drove over and brought me back here. Harold and I long since quit driving in the Colorado snow."

"Who's Vicky?"

"Vicky? That's policewoman Officer Vicky Rio. Vicky, come in here and say hello to Amy."

Officer Rio stepped out from behind the curtain as Molly was helping Amy get undressed.

"Hello, Amy."

Amy looked confused and asked, "How did you know?"

"My husband and I were at Molly's Bar the night you and Dean were there. We watched you two make your promise. That's how I knew. Here, we found this in his car before we secured his apartment. It has your name on it."

She handed Amy the letter Dean had written, the wax seal still intact. Amy looked down at the letter and softly began to weep. There on the front of the envelope Dean wrote out her name; exactly as he had the first night they'd met, in big beautiful script.

"Amy," Molly said, "tonight is Christmas Eve. You were given something very special. A Christmas miracle. Perhaps you should leave what was to history."

Amy thought about the words Molly spoke as she wiped the tears from her cheeks with her fingers. She looked down at the envelope, the wax still sealing the flap closed, and said, "It's not a Christmas miracle. It's a Christmas gift."

"I don't follow," Officer Rio said.

"Don't you see? It's a gift—a second chance," Amy said "Dean was given a second chance at life."

****

After being released from the hospital, Amy returned to their apartment in the early hours of Christmas day. Unlocking the door, she entered the apartment tentatively, almost afraid to move. It was quiet, still and cold. The dinning room table was set; the glassware, napkins and plates were still where Dean had placed them.

She walked into the bedroom and crawled into their bed; she never bothered to undress as she pulled a blanket across her tired body. Amy pulled Dean's pillow into her arms and squeezed it with all her might. Tears slowly trickled down her cheeks, soaking through the bed sheet. She pulled the pillow to her face and breathed in the scent of the man she loved.

"I touch you with my fingers. I see you with my eyes. I feel your heart beating with mine," Amy said to herself as she clutched the pillow in her hands.

****

Two days passed before Dean was allowed visitors. The skies were gray, and the weather was blustery. Dean stood in front of a large window staring out at the parking lot below. He felt as cold as the snow that buried the earth outside his window. Suddenly, he felt a hand on his shoulder and just as quickly he noticed a warm hand slide into his; startled, he turned. It was Amy.

Amy leaned her head onto his shoulder and said, "Springtime is a promise the earth will always keep. Just like the promise I made to you. Together—me and you."

A slight smile appeared on his face. "I wasn't sure I'd ever see you again, after what I tried to do."

"I promised you I'd always be here for you. How you feeling?"

"I'm not real chipper," Dean said, "I let many people down; especially you Amy. I hope you understood my letter."

Dean moved his hands toward her face and then dropped them back to his side.

"Please touch me," Amy said as she took his hand and placed it on her face. "I never opened it. It's still sealed and put away. That was a goodbye letter. I'm not ready to say goodbye for a very, very long time.

"Here, I brought you some clothes and other stuff from home they told me you would be allowed to have."

Amy pulled out from her bag a sheet of paper, his dip pen, and a crayon and handed the items to Dean.

"What's this?" Dean asked.

"The man I fell in love with once told me, 'Each morning you're given a clean sheet of paper. You can write upon it in beautiful script or block letters with a crayon. Which one do you want to write with?'"

He looked surprised, then handed the crayon back to Amy.

Dean smiled. "I might have to be on pills for a while. I've started psychotherapy again. This time my counselor understands— he was in the Vietnam war. Amy, he knows what it's like. My counselor said he'd like to talk to you, too. Would you come?"

"I'd be honored to go with you," Amy said.

Dean sighed, "I'm tired..."

"C'mere, you," Amy said as she took his hand. "Let's get you back into bed."

She helped him into his bed and pulled the sheets over his legs.

"There...how's that?"

"That's fine, Amy."

"Dean, why didn't you tell me about the medals you had put away in that small box? I made some phone calls. It seems you saved the lives of nine men in your unit that day. I was also told you got wounded saving those men. It wasn't the first time you saved someone's life during the war.

"There are nine mothers out there that didn't have to bury their sons because of what you did. Dean Bradley, I'm so proud of you I could burst!"

"Amy, I'm sorry for what I tried to," Dean said as his eyes filled with tears, "That damn war nearly destroyed me. I wouldn't let it destroy you, too."

"Sssshhh." Amy placed a finger across his lips.

Amy hopped up on his bed and scooted herself over as close as she could to him. She leaned Dean's head onto her shoulder. As he touched her hair with his fingers, Amy began to softly sing…