She walked around the corner, and the sight of her made him weak at the knees. She’d been wearing sweatpants and T-shirts lately, and more often than not she looked like she’d been through a marathon by the time he came home. Not tonight. She wore black slacks and a tan silky blouse. Her hair and makeup were done.
Her expression wasn’t suggestive. Rather it was contrite and deep and full of a longing he hadn’t seen in months. She came to him and slid her arms around his waist, never taking her eyes off his. “I’m sorry.”
“Sorry?” What was happening to him? Someone must’ve been praying; that’s all he could figure. He ran his thumb beneath her blonde bangs. “Honey, for what?”
Her eyes sparkled with tears. She took a step back and pulled a letter from her pocket. “Here.” She handed it to him. “My mom’s reading to the kids so I could have this time with you.” She nodded to the letter. “Read it. Then you’ll understand.”
He took it and studied it. “From my dad?”
She smiled, but her eyes filled a little more. “And your mom.”
Luke wasn’t sure he could take any more surprises today, but he opened the letter anyway. Reagan led him to the sofa near the window—the place where they’d had a number of recent fights—and they sat down together.
The first page made the contents clear, and the effort touched Luke’s heart. His dad cared so much. He moved to the second page and began working his way down the list. If his heart had become as hard as concrete, each of his mother’s secrets chiseled away another piece of cement.
His parents had always been the picture of married love, and now his mother had shared her wisdom at a time when he needed it most. Every single point she’d made was something he’d known deep in his heart that he was supposed to do. He’d watched his parents all his life, after all. But he hadn’t been doing a single one.
No wonder his marriage felt like it was falling apart.
Luke folded the letter and held it to his heart. Only then did the tears come, tears that had been building inside him since he first heard the news about Dayne. He missed her so much, his mother. She had always loved him in a special way, complimenting him and encouraging him to follow his dreams. Living out the things she’d listed on this page. But missing her wasn’t an excuse for him to treat Reagan poorly.
Next to him, Reagan was looking at her wedding ring, twisting it, waiting for him to finish reading.
He set the letter down and turned to her. “Reagan—” he took her hand and wove his fingers gently between hers—“how can you ever forgive me?”
“You?” She laughed, but it came out like a quiet sob. “It’s my fault. I’ve . . . I haven’t loved you like you deserve. Not for a minute. And I’ve had expectations that were all wrong.”
He slid closer to her and pulled her into his arms. “That’s crazy. I’ve been moody and mean and . . .” He kissed her forehead and kept his face close to hers. “I watched my parents model those ten methods of love all my life, but these last few months it’s like . . . I don’t know.” He touched his lips to hers. “It’s like I forgot how to love at all.”
“We both did.”
“Can you forgive me? Let me make it up to you.” He kissed her again, with more passion this time. “I’ve missed you so much. None of this, whatever I’m going through . . . none of it’s about you.”
“I know. But I haven’t been very supportive.” She drew back and looked him straight in the eyes. “Luke, if I haven’t said it before, let me say it now. I’m so proud of you.” Her lips curved into a smile. “You’re doing everything you can to build us a future, and I don’t know if I’ve ever thanked you.” Her voice was thick with regret. “I’m so sorry.”
For the next half hour they cuddled and kissed and talked about time together and love languages. Luke smiled when she said that besides words of affirmation, his was acts of service.
“I finally figured out that when you stay in the kitchen cleaning, you’re trying to tell me you love me, right?” She ran her fingers along his jawline.
“Right.” He felt like a fool. “But all you wanted was this.”
“Mmm-hmm. Exactly.”
When they were finished talking, she grinned at him. “I have a surprise for you.”
“A surprise?” Luke wasn’t sure he could take much more. He still hadn’t told her about Dayne’s offer.
“Come on.” She led him into the kitchen, and there—like something from a magazine spread—was the table done up with linens, china, and candles. The smell of grilled fish filled the kitchen, and on the stove were two covered pans full of rice and vegetables.
He was about to say that she shouldn’t have, that the work was more than she needed to do, but he stopped himself. “Acts of service?”
She held his eyes and took both his hands in hers. “I love you, Luke. I’ll say it in whatever language you want to hear it.”
Reagan’s mother came around the corner with Malin in her arms and Tommy tagging along beside her. “The kids are starved.” She smiled tentatively at them. “Is it time for dinner?”
“It’s time for a lot of things.” Luke put his arm around Reagan. Then he squatted down and held out his hands to Tommy.
“Daddy!” Tommy ran and put his arms around his neck. “Tommy hungry.”
“Yes.” Luke swept their son into his arms. He shared a look with Reagan that told her he would forever be grateful for this night, for her willingness to work on their marriage. Her determination to give love another chance. Luke rubbed noses with Tommy. “That’s because most of all it’s time for dinner.”
The meal was the way Luke remembered dinnertime from his childhood. Good food, great conversation, and a feeling of love so strong Luke felt energized by it.
They were at the end of the meal when Tommy began banging his spoon on his plate. “Drum, drum, drum,” he said. He grinned at Malin and hit his spoon on his plate again, a little harder this time. “Look, Mali. Drum, drum, drum!”
Luke was about to say something, but Reagan’s mother was closest to the child. She put her hand over his and gave him a stern look. “Tommy, your plate is not a drum.” She took the spoon from him and set it near his plate, neat and orderly. “You need to eat like a gentleman.”
Tommy looked at his grandma and then down at his plate. His brow lowered, and he pursed his lips into an angry face. Then, in slow motion, he turned his hand into a gun and slowly pointed it at his grandma. He even closed one eye as he took careful aim. Luke knew what was coming, but before he could do anything to stop him, Tommy made a loud firing sound.
Then, with great drama, Tommy looked at Reagan across the table. “Tommy shoot her.” He nodded as if to say Grandma would no longer be a problem.
“Well . . .” Reagan’s mother inhaled sharply. Even so, there was a twinkle in her eye. “That’s not very nice behavior, Tommy.”
Luke looked at Reagan. The corners of her mouth were quivering, same as his. Her mother was right. Tommy’s behavior was completely inappropriate. Luke and Reagan had a lot of work to do, figuring out how to parent two children while learning how to love each other. But in that moment, as if their hearts had finally fallen into alignment, they chose to participate in one of his mother’s secrets to a happy marriage.
Loud, sidesplitting, heart-cleansing laughter.
Dayne steadied the bar on his shoulders and willed his back to stay straight as he bent his knees. He lowered three, maybe four inches. A little more . . . just a little more. His body shook as if he were the heroin addict he’d played once in a movie. But he pushed himself another inch. Then with what was left of his strength he rose to a fully straight position. “Ten.” He blew the air from his lungs and sucked in a series of breaths.
Katy helped him lift the bar over his head and set it back on the rack. “That’s your best yet.”
“Thanks.” He smiled at her, but he could feel it fall short of his eyes. “It has to be better.”
She seemed to hold he
r breath for a moment, as if she wasn’t sure she should speak her mind. Then she exhaled in a defeated sort of way. “Maybe you’re pushing too hard.”
“I’m not.” He limped to the nearest bench, grabbed his towel from the floor, and dabbed at his face. Sweat streamed down his forehead. He’d never known so much pain in his entire life. He dropped his towel and reached for his water bottle. When he’d downed half of it, he looked at Katy. “I want to get out of this place.”
“I know.” Katy looked worried. “Just be careful. Healing is a process, remember? That’s what the physical therapist told you.”
“The process has to be faster.” He closed his water bottle, dropped it on the floor, and stared at his legs. They still didn’t move right, though he’d been told by several doctors that they would in time. He was fully awake now, his voice and mind and thoughts working clearly and keenly the way they had before the accident.
His doctors had moved him to a rehab facility, where Katy had kept her promise. As much as possible she stayed by him, encouraging him, pushing him. They were a little more than a week into the rehab process, and he had a much better understanding of Dr. Deming’s original assessment. Even with the way he was pushing himself, the process was unbelievably slow.
“Crunches next.” He lay back on the bench and used his hands to pull his right leg up until his foot was on the black bench top. The effort left him out of breath, and he paused until he found another reserve of strength. Then he did the same thing with his left leg, so his feet were together, knees bent.
“Want me to help?” Katy sounded tentative.
“Not this time.” He hesitated long enough to reach for her hand. His tone softened. “But thanks. I couldn’t do this without you.”
She narrowed her eyes, concern coloring her expression. She sat down in a chair opposite him. “I’ll count.”
Dayne focused his energy on his midsection. At first he had needed her to help lift his legs, and then after a few days she helped hold his knees together while he did the exercises. Now he could do them without her help.
He pressed upward, again shaking so hard he could barely stay on the bench. He was supposed to blow out with every exertion, but sometimes it was impossible to breathe and work all at once. This was one of those times. He held his breath as he lifted himself higher . . . higher . . . until his elbows brushed against his knees.
“One.” Katy shifted in her chair. “You’re sure you’re okay?”
He lowered himself, his sides heaving from the exertion. “Yes.” He looked at her. “Please, Katy . . . push me. Don’t talk me into giving up.”
She bit her lip and nodded. “Okay. I’ll try.”
Once more he steadied himself. Then with all his energy directed at his abdominal muscles, he lifted up.
“Two.” Katy sounded more encouraging. “You can do it, Dayne. Come on.”
It was better during these sets if he thought about something else, if Katy’s counting in the background was nothing more than a distant marker. This time his mind made its way back to the beginning of this journey. In the first few days after he came out of the coma, he’d had trouble remembering simple things. Even so he was able to piece together what happened. By the third day, he talked Katy into showing him photographs of the accident, the ones that had appeared in the tabloids.
“Three.”
His heart and soul filled with fury at the price he’d paid for the paparazzi madness. His agent had discussed the possibility of suing them, but since criminal charges had been brought against two of them, Dayne decided he’d let the law take its course. He had too much to be joyful about to waste his time thinking about the tabloids.
“Four. Come on. . . .”
The accident had been horrific. Everyone considered it against the odds that he had survived, and the lack of brain damage was a miracle. Nothing less. He had talked to John and thanked him for bringing Katy and Ashley to see him. When he didn’t feel he could move another muscle, the picture of his family reaching out to him that way was enough to keep him going.
“Five.” There was determination in Katy’s tone. “You’re halfway there, baby. Keep going.”
He knew about Randi’s confession that she had been interested in him, but maybe now she was more interested in Dayne’s faith. Prayers had been answered in every area of his life, and there remained just one that mattered. He wanted out of the rehab facility in time to get to Bloomington by Thanksgiving.
“Six.”
He was driven to make the goal. At least twice a day his therapist told him it wouldn’t happen. “You’re making amazing progress, Dayne, but you have to understand. Every muscle in your body has been atrophying for a month. We’ve assessed your physical condition, and I’d have to stick with the original plan. Three weeks of rehab for every week you were in a coma.”
“Seven. You can do it, Dayne.”
He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror, and it knocked him back for a few seconds. His face was fiery red, the veins near his temple pulsing from the effort. His left leg was severely scarred above the knee, and his entire body looked like a skeletal version of his old self. He was grateful the facility was guarded 24-7 from paparazzi. The last thing he needed was for them to snap pictures of him looking like this.
“Eight.”
The most amazing thing about his recovery was that Katy had stayed with him. That she had literally kept by his side hour by hour, praying for him to wake up. How had he been blessed with a woman who could give him that kind of love? She could’ve stayed for a week, then kissed him good-bye and prayed for him from a distance. There had been no way to tell if his coma would last a month or three months or a year. But according to Dr. Deming, she never once wavered. She stayed with Dayne until someone made her leave.
“Nine.” Katy was on her feet. “Come on, one more.”
He had a picture in his head. Him and Katy, hand in hand, walking into the Baxter house and being greeted by his entire family—Kari and Ryan and their kids, Brooke and Peter and their girls, Ashley and Landon and their boys, Erin and Sam and their four little girls, and Luke and Reagan and their two. At the head of the table would be John Baxter, and for that one moment he could imagine how it might’ve been growing up with these people. Sharing Thanksgivings and Christmases and every other special occasion with them. That single moment would make every grueling day of rehab more than worth the effort.
“Ten!” Katy put her hand on his shoulder. “Dayne, that’s a record.”
He was breathing too hard to speak. She reached out to help him up from the bench, but he gave a slight shake of his head. Everything he did on his own would be one more step toward a complete recovery. With a strength he didn’t know he had, he sat up, swung his feet onto the floor, and braced his hands on his knees.
The therapist approached him. “I was watching.” He gave a quietly incredulous laugh. “I work with a lot of clients. I’ve never seen anyone with your tenacity. I mean that.”
Katy breathed out, as if no matter how encouraging she’d tried to sound, she’d been anxious all the same. “He’s not pushing himself too hard, is he?”
“Not really.” The therapist was a young guy with barely any body fat and a fanatical understanding of the human body and how to make it work again. “These exercises can’t hurt him.” He bent his knees and leaned over, looking at Dayne’s leg. “We’re strengthening his core first, and after that we’ll work the finer motor movements. Running, zigzagging through cones—that sort of thing.”
Dayne nodded and tried not to feel discouraged. “See? It’s not too much.”
The therapist shook his head. “I have to say, your progress is amazing so far.” He had a chart with him, and he checked it. “I don’t want to promise anything, but right now you’re a week ahead of schedule. We’ll have a stretching session in a few hours if you’re up to it.”
“I will be.”
The therapist grinned. “I like your attitude. See you in a
little while.” He nodded to Katy before heading back through the gym and into his office.
Defeat rattled Dayne’s nerves. A week? He’d cut only a week from his rehab? He needed more than that. He wanted to finish six weeks early, and he was willing to work around the clock to do it. But he needed to start gaining ground a lot more quickly than he had been. He reached for his towel and flung it around his neck. “I need a shower.”
Katy took the cue. “I’ll be in your room.”
“Hey.” He suddenly realized how callous he sounded. He stopped and caught her hand. The look on her face melted him. “Thank you.”
She met his eyes and held them. “I can’t believe I have you back, Dayne.” Her eyes told him all the things there wasn’t time to say. “I’ll be waiting for you.”
He smiled. “I’ll hurry. I want to talk about your last call with Ashley.”
“Okay.” She no longer asked him if he needed help to the shower room.
Neither did the therapist.
He still limped, but that was better than using a walker—which was what Dr. Deming and the therapist had expected of him for the first four weeks.
Katy left through the side door, and Dayne slowly made his way toward the showers.
Half an hour later he was dressed and fresh but exhausted from the morning workout. He limped through the private waiting room to the hall that led to his room. But as he went, a magazine on the coffee table caught his attention.
There was a photo of him and a headline about the war he was waging for his life. But in the upper right corner was a headline that said “Family Feud? Dayne’s Brother Lashes Out.”
Dayne felt the blood leave his face. Spots danced before his eyes, and sweat broke out on his forehead. What was this, and how come no one had told him? He didn’t have enough strength to be angry, not when it took everything he had just to keep from passing out. He made it to the closest chair before he dropped. The workout and the shower had pushed him to the brink, and now this. He put his head between his knees and concentrated on staying conscious.
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