The Last Hour (Thompson Sisters) by Sheehan-Miles, Charles (reading well .txt) 📕

to seventy degrees. I paused for just a second outside the building, looked around, and just breathed in the atmosphere of the passing traffic, the people on the sidewalk, the shops and restaurants all around. I was growing to love this neighborhood.

Of course, I thought as I lifted my duffel bag over my shoulder and entered the lobby, I had to admit that if it was just me, or even just me and Carrie, we’d never have been able to afford to live here on our meager pay. She was living in the condo rent-free, thanks to her dad having bought it some time back in the eighties.

I wasn’t going to stress about that. The concierge, a friendly lady in her forties, waved me over as I walked in.

“Mr. Sherman? Ms. Thompson left a key for you in case she wasn’t home yet when you arrived.”

“Thank you,” I said, taking the small envelope. I opened it up. Inside was an electronic key-fob for the elevator, as well as a door key.

“Have a great evening,” I said as I walked away. I swiped the key-fob and rode the elevator to the top floor.

Carrie lived in one of two top floor apartments in the building. With six bedrooms and a rooftop balcony, it was clearly meant for the exclusively rich. When I got to the door I unlocked it, then deactivated the alarm and carried my bag into the living room.

Except for very occasional visits, the condo hadn’t been occupied in ten years. Furnished with an odd, eclectic mix of furniture and art from a dozen different countries, it was unique. The hallway was lined with portraits of Carrie and her sisters, but all of them were ten years old.

A huge family portrait painted in oil hung over the mantel, Richard and Adelina Thompson surrounded by their daughters. In the portrait, Julia looked remote, her eyes distant. Carrie, a teenager, had a warm smile, and her arm was wrapped around twelve-year-old Alexandra. The twins and Andrea, in pretty dresses and patent leather shoes, were arrayed next to each other, smiles on all of their faces.

Resting on the mantel were odd knickknacks, some of them unrecognizable. A teak box with a tiny brass latch, a heavy copper sculpture of a head nearly the size of a football.

The weekend before, I’d spent here with Carrie, dusting, cleaning, and airing the place out.

I’d asked her why her parents hadn’t sold it or rented it out. She responded by telling me that her parents, and sometimes the whole family, typically came east once or twice a year, and would spend a few days in Washington.

Seemed to me a hotel would be a lot cheaper. But as it turned out, with Carrie working at NIH, she now had a beautiful place to live right down the street, rent-free. Can’t complain about that.

 I wasn’t so sure about me. Part of me felt like I was mooching off her dad.

Dylan talked me down off that ledge. “You can always just stay living in the barracks,” he said.

That was all it took.

Carrie hadn’t taken the master bedroom. Even at her age, and with just her living here, I think she still thought of it as her parents’. Instead, she’d taken the room nearest to the living room. It was large and had a queen bed. I dumped my duffel bag in there, then walked to the sliding glass doors and slipped out onto the balcony. I loved this spot. Traffic slipped by below. From the balcony I could see the NIH campus, and across the street, Walter Reed and the Naval hospital. If I had to be in the Army, I could at least live with this. I lit a cigarette and checked the time on my phone. 4:30. She’d be home in another hour or so. And I planned to take her out for dinner, then dancing, and then we were going to have mad sex.

So I was a little bit startled when the sliding glass door slid open behind me. I spun around. She stood in the doorway, wearing a grey suit with a knee length skirt. Like everything she wore, it fit perfectly. Carrie gave me a mischievous smile, then said, “You know how much I love a man in uniform.”

“Come here and show me,” I replied, tossing my cigarette into the ashtray.

She came over, slipping her arms around my shoulders. I let my hands rest on her hips, and I brought my lips to hers. I was home, with Carrie’s arms around me, and I couldn’t imagine a better place to be.

That was how the happiest couple of months of my life began. It’s not that there weren’t complications, or stress. In fact, the next Monday I reported in at Walter Reed National Military Medical Center, where I was assigned a job on the amputee unit, mostly cleaning and running errands. But I also got to know the guys in there, most of whom were surprisingly upbeat given the severity of their injuries. Carrie was incredibly excited about her job. She got final approval on her research program and moved forward with hiring assistants, mostly graduate students from University of Maryland.

We spent our weekends exploring Washington. We went to the museums of the Smithsonian and spent a memorable afternoon at the International Spy Museum. We explored Adams Morgan and P Street and DuPont Circle and Capitol Hill, eating at restaurants from a dozen regions of the world. We went on a tour of the White House and then, one cold afternoon at the end of February, she went with me to visit Weber’s grave at Arlington National Cemetery.

There were moments when I felt like I was leading a charmed life. That no one could be this happy and fulfilled. But then I’d wake up the next morning, and things were still good, we were still together, and we’d start all over again.

The investigation was still pending, of course. But except for two afternoons when Major Smalls