“I could watch.”
“And not get off yourself? Even if I thought that stood a snowball’s chance in hell of working, I wouldn’t risk it, John.”
While I’m eating, I say, “This book says, ‘All warfare is based on deception.’”
“It’s a pretty smart book, right?”
I read out, “‘When you are ready, you must seem unprepared. When you are weak is when you project the maximum strength. When you are strong, you should appear to be frail and at the point of surrender. When you are near, you should always seem far away. When you are ready to attack, your enemy should see you in chaos and disarray.’”
There was another passage I saw while she was preparing breakfast. I find it and read it to her. “‘Supreme excellence is breaking the enemy’s resistance without fighting.’ That’s what you did with Drago, right?”
She smiles. “I tried. There’s not much to keep him to it.”
“The sense of honor. It’s strong with those guys. Maybe almost as much as it is with us.”
“You know what I noticed in Boston? When it’s something that involves your own side, everybody is bound solid by their honor. If it’s about the opposition, there’s always a lot more flexibility. Goes both ways, too.”
I’m looking into her innocent eyes. “You really have seen a lot of this.”
I’m amazed to find such wisdom in my innocent little wife. At the same time, I feel anger simmering that she’s had the experiences that showed her all of that.
The next morning, she lets me sit on the deck with the stack of books she’s managed to get me interested in.
I won’t let on to her, but I still feel rough. Just getting up, showering and putting on clothes hurts. Almost every movement makes something twang or burn. Not a lot. Just enough.
Kiera made me take the pain meds yesterday. And drink gallons of water. Even though she said I could eat ‘more or less’ what I wanted, all the food she brings me is plain, simple and wholesome.
Breakfast today was southern ham, scrambled eggs and warm yellow brioche bread. One cup of coffee.
I complained that I can’t function on a single dose of coffee.
“Good thing you don’t need to do anything but rest and get well, then,” she’d answered.
Her smile soothes me, but I’m still restless.
True to her word, she allows Dad to visit. She’s gotten to him and they’re in league together. He won’t tell me a thing about what’s been happening in any of the businesses. Everything I ask him about he says is ‘fine’ or ‘good, actually.’ Then he moves quickly on to tell me all the people sending me well wishes for a speedy recovery.
Then when I invite him to stay for lunch, he says, “No, John. You need to rest. I’ve tired you out too much already.”
When he gets up to leave, he won’t even let me stand. He reaches down to shake my hand. Tells me what a ‘jewel’ Kiera is.
“Jailer, you mean?”
He squeezes my hand one more time and pats me on the shoulder before he leaves.
I pick up the book I was reading.
Kiera takes a long time to show him out. I know they’re downstairs talking about me. Knowing Kiera, she could be talking business with him even though it’s unheard of in our family for a woman to be let in on the running of the businesses.
I jolt when she touches my arm.
“I must have nodded off.” I’m irritable. She doesn’t seem to mind, though.
“It’s fine. I just wanted you to move into the shade.”
“I was in the shade.”
She smiles and nods.
The shadows have moved and the sun has travelled across the sky.
“I don’t know how long I can stand this,” I tell her. “I need to be doing something.”
“You’re doing two things.” She hands me back the book I must have dropped. “You’re studying and you’re getting better.”
She kisses my forehead.
I take a slow breath. “You have more patience with me than I’ve got with myself.”
“I think that’s because I’m grateful to have you back. I was worried. And also, I’m falling in love with you, husband.”
That gives my body a surge of ideas that she’s not going to let me act on. Not until five-seventeen.
Chapter Eleven
Kiera
The doctor said that the tension of an orgasm could open his internal wound. No sex for the first forty-eight hours after surgery.
“Then,” he said, “If you can keep it light for the first week…” I’d asked him if he was married. He said he was.
“Do you think you’d be able to ‘keep it light’?”
“No,” he admitted. “But I’ve been married nearly twenty years.”
“Novelty worn off?” I asked him.
“Nope,” he admitted.
Unbelievably, John sleeps through the forty-eight hour mark. That tells me for sure that he’s hurting more and he’s more tired than he’s letting on. That’s frustrating, because I thought this could be a good time to practice my tongue, lip and throat skills with him.