Well, he was with Devon now, and Devon would make sure that he got all the good things in the world. He would take Stanley far away from the little village of Ornes so that time would not be able to yank him back into the past.
It all depended on how soon he could finish up his research, though to be honest, he’d been dragging that out just so he could stay in France, where the bread was better. Only now, that wasn’t important anymore. Once back in the States, they could have the bread shipped to them, or they could make it at home—if Stanley was willing to stay with him.
Stanley would have to overcome his own background. He’d have to become used to being gay out in the open rather than like it must have been in 1917, where you had to hide all the time. But, if he were brave enough to make his friends do weird things, like move along a muddy bench for no apparent reason, then he would be brave enough to face the future. But he wouldn’t be alone. He would be with Devon.
Devon lifted his head and looked over at Stanley, who was still sleeping. Eventually, he would wake up and need feeding. Only there wasn’t a whole lot in the cottage, as Devon had been remiss in taking care of anything while Stanley had been missing. They needed to go to the village and get groceries, and Devon needed to finish his thesis so that he and Stanley could go home.
With firm determination, he got up to grab his canvas notebook, sat down, opened his laptop, and began working. If he could focus, it wouldn’t take long to finish. Then, after that, it didn’t matter. He would have completed his thesis work, and then he and Stanley could start their new life together.
When Stanley woke up,Devon was at the kitchen table with his coat on, and it looked like he had keys in one hand and his wallet in the other. Stanley watched, only half awake, as Devon put the items in hispockets and, with one quick gesture, pulled up the collar of his jacket just the way Isaac would do it. A quick flick of both wrists, his thumbs standing up to draw a line along the seam, setting everything just so.
Devon being Devon, he probably had no idea of the image he presented, how familiar it was, and the way it both warmed Stanley’s heart and alarmed him. He didn’t want to keep making these kinds of comparisons, and besides, any thoughts of the trenches, and the misery of war, or even of Isaac, felt like a threat that could yank him back in time at any moment.
“Are you going somewhere?” asked Stanley as he sat up, a repeat of the last time he slept on Devon’s couch. A secret hope bloomed in his chest that the next time he slept it would be in Devon’s bed, with Devon.
“Yes, I thought we’d go into the village and maybe have a little supper, then get some groceries,” said Devon.
Devon came over to Stanley and reached to pull him up from the couch. He did a little wave with both his hands and shuffled his feet that, in a way, oddly reminded Stanley of a dance hall girl attempting to entice a customer into spending a dime. But Devon’s smile made the gesture sweet and innocent.
“French wine, French cheese,” said Devon with a laugh. “And French fries, too, though you probably don’t know what those are.”
“Yes, I do,” said Stanley. He captured Devon’s hands, folded them together in his own, and kissed them. He felt a little shy as he did this, not because it was intimate, but because he wasn’t used to being so purposeful with his affection. “I’ve had them, though it was when we shipped over, not before.”
“Ah, yes,” said Devon. “Doughboys and theirpommes frites.”
“We just called them French fries,” said Stanley, though he smiled rather than rolling his eyes because he didn’t want to tease too much, not when Devon was showing off a little, sharing what he loved to learn about.
“So you want to go?”
“Into the village, yes,” said Stanley. “I’ll get dressed. Do you have a coat for me?”
As Stanley pulled on his socks and blue jeans, Devon promptly went to the closet by the front door and brought out the dark blue pea coat that Stanley remembered from before. He was glad for the pea coat because he did not want to put his uniform on, not even to keep off the rain. He wanted to leave the war far behind him as fast as possible.
When Devon opened the door, Stanley was almost surprised to find it was only afternoon, and though there were gray clouds sweeping overhead, the pale blue sky shone through in places, and it wasn’t raining. It was, however, terribly cold, so Devon got them both knitted caps from the top shelf of the closet and, as they put them on, Stanley grinned. He remembered the cap from before, too.
As Devon tugged the cap over Stanley’s ears, Stanley put his hands over Devon’s hands to keep them there a moment longer. He laughed out loud, glad to be where he was—with Devon on a cloudy, frost-speckled afternoon, far away from the thunder of war, the explosions of shells and mortar, and the smell of stale sweat.
“I don’t have a car, but it’s only about half a mile,” said Devon as they started walking along the blacktopped road that led into a copse of trees. “Just through there and over a little hill.”
“I’ll help you carry the groceries,” said Stanley, wanting to be of use.
“I’m counting on it,” said Devon. He moved close as they walked and looped his arm through Stanley’s so they could walk together that way.
It was on the tip of Stanley’s tongue the entire distance to the village to tell Devon how he felt, to say out loud everything that was in his heart. How dizzy with happiness being with Devon made him feel. But as they walked through the woods and especially as the village, with the cluster of red-tiled roofs bright against the dreary day, came into view, he felt that being with Devon was enough. Later, when they could share a private moment, he would tell Devon everything.
Also, as they walked into the village along the blacktopped road, Stanley was distracted by the number of cars and how fast they went,the motorized bicycles, and all the bright signs in the windows. Stanley could hardly believe the world he’d arrived in. What’s more, even though he and Devon, two men, were walking arm in arm, nobody seemed to pay them any mind, except to nod a greeting or to let them pass on the sidewalk. It was only as they got near the village square that Devon dropped his arm, and that was only because he was opening the door for Stanley and gesturing that he should go ahead.
Instantly, the smells of garlic and butter and grease greeted Stanley, the warmth of the place soaking into his skin. He remembered this smell from one of the times he and the fellows had gone into the village. They’d not had enough money for a full meal, but had gotten sausages fried in batter, one per soldier, each almost too small to make any difference to their hungry bellies. But the sausages had been good, and as they’d all walked back to the battalion, they’d licked their fingers and agreed on how delicious French food was.
Inside the restaurant, a host greeted them with a little bow, his hands spread across his snowy white apron. As Devon spoke to him, Stanley stayed politely quiet and then followed behind Devon as their host led them to a little table by a window.
“Is this good?” asked Devon. As if Stanley could find anything to complain about. As if it made any difference to Stanley, as long as he was with Devon.
“Yes,” said Stanley. “Can we start eating now?”
“Yes,” said Devon, laughing as he sat down, gesturing that Stanley should do the same.
The host came to take their coats and knitted caps. As soon as they were settled in their chairs, a waiter, thin, his hair oiled back the way Stanley was used to seeing, brought them a bottle of water and two narrow glasses. Someone else brought them a little cloth-lined basket of bread and a white china bowl filled with curls of yellow butter.
