Chapter 6

The assignment became even more problematic for me over the next four days.

On Monday, Callie spotted a friend when we arrived at the dance school and rushed over to chat. A couple of minutes later she approached me with her friend in tow; a young girl with short auburn hair and honey-brown eyes.

“Ceci est mon garde du corps, Hunter Lightfoot,” she said, introducing me to her friend. To me she said, “This is Maria. She’s Italian but doesn’t speak English.”

“Piacere di conoscerti,” I said to Maria.

She smiled. “Tu parli italiano?”

I nodded.

The two headed to class, heads together whispering furiously.

On the way home, Callie commented, “I didn’t know you speak Italian. Do you speak other languages?”

I nodded, concentrating on negotiating the traffic.

After a minute of silence, Callie prompted, “Well?”

“Well what?”

“What is it with you? You never offer information! Instead of nodding, you’re supposed to tell me what other languages you speak. You know, have a conversation? Be sociable?”

“You didn’t ask me what other languages I speak, just if I spoke them.”

Callie snorted. “Are you always so literal?”

I smiled. “Are you always so grammatically imprecise?”

I felt Callie’s eyes on me, studying me.

Out of left field, she said, “You have a great smile, Lightfoot. You should smile more often. So, what other languages do you know?”

Playing with her, I answered, “Pretty much every one spoken on the planet.”

“You’re kidding! Really?”

I nodded, still smiling. “I’m aware of all the languages. But I only speak six fluently.”

Callie flopped back into her seat. “Jeez Louise! You’re a pain, Lightfoot. It would be easier to wrestle alligators than have a conversation with you! What languages do you SPEAK?”

With a quick laugh, I told her. “English, French, Italian, Spanish, German, and Cheyenne. I have a smattering of Mandarin, Russian, Arabic, Farsi, and Portuguese; enough to order beer.”

Callie asked, “Can you leap tall buildings in a single bound, too?”

I laughed again. “Nope. Can’t dance, either.”

Then on Tuesday, for no reason whatsoever, Callie moved in close while we were in the kitchen, slipped her arms around me, and hugged me. “You’re a nice guy, Hunter,” she said. “I’m glad you’re here.” I’d stood, rigid, my hands feeling awkward and limp at my side, unsure how to react, her action so alien to me. She’d smiled in amusement. “Relax, Lightfoot. I’m not going to assault you!”

It left me shaken. I’d liked her hug and was finding it harder and harder to remain distanced from her, impartial, professional. Under any other circumstances, if she was older, Callie was the type of female I’d find very attractive.

Wednesday evening, two days before I was due to be relieved, we took an evening stroll to enjoy the warm early summer air, the energy of Paris, the crowds. Callie hooked her arm through mine and leaned against me as we walked. It took several minutes before it registered how much I liked her holding my arm. I liked being with her. And, when the day ended, before retiring to her bedroom for the night, Callie hugged me again and I caught her scent; jasmine and plums that bore into my brain, beautiful, fragrant. I hugged her back lightly, her body so slender and delicate. I was in a precarious position; too close to really caring for her.

My downfall was announced with the trill of my cell phone at five-thirty on Thursday morning. Mike Lister, my boss, calmly informed me Jeff needed another week to ten days at least, his father having passed away. I was ordered to remain on assignment. I pleaded with Mike to no avail.

Callie was revealing a side to her that was gregarious and bright and giving, despite her ongoing stubbornness. I had the sense she was slow to gift anyone with her friendship, but when she did, she gave her complete acceptance and trust. In three more years, at eighteen, she’d be a woman I’d actively try to date.

Callie pretended it made no difference to her when I told her about my extended duty. However, she couldn’t hide her pleasure; a small hidden smile, brightness in her pale blue, beautiful eyes. She laughed when I informed her I’d applied for hazardous duty pay.

The growing comfort with each other manifested itself in small ways. Callie, instead of hiding in her bedroom, started studying in the living room after school. She’d plug in ear buds, listen to music on her smart phone, and concentrate on her studies. Inevitably she was barefoot, feet resting on the edge of the coffee table, her toes moving to the tempo of the music. I didn’t understand how she could multitask. I knew I wasn’t capable of it.

She started keeping me company when I cooked. All too soon we were cooking together, a natural sharing of duties.

Then, on Thursday, we had an unexpected visitor.

Late afternoon, after a full day at her dance school, as Callie was dressing after her shower, there was a knock at the front door.

I rose and looked through the eyehole. A tall, broad-chested man in full uniform was waiting at the door: General George Hollister. What was he doing here?

I opened the door. “General.”

Pale blue eyes studied me, his hair cut short and steel gray, a full breast of ribbons and medals on his chest. “Lightfoot, right?” he asked in a deep, resonating voice that must have sent soldiers scurrying to obey.