A Promise to Keep

by Susan Gable

  “Yeah.”

  “Good, put him on.”

  “Hayden?” his father’s deep voice came onto the connection. “How’s Ronni?”

  “Okay. Sleeping now. Listen, Dad...if you get a chance tonight, at the sleepover, see if you can’t get Nick to talk to you. Maybe you’ll have better luck than I have. After all, you’ve got a hell of a lot more experience at it than I do.”

  “That’s true. But then, there’s really only one way to get experience at being a father.”

  “Yeah, well, so far I don’t seem to be cut out for the job. Probably best that I haven’t procreated.”

  “One never knows what the future holds.”

  Hayden laughed. “Not for me, thanks, Dad. I’m pretty content with my life the way it is.” And yet...he had felt a pang of longing at the family meeting.

  “Don’t close doors to the possibility, that’s all I ask.”

  Hayden shook his head. Parents. Did they ever stop? “Tell Finn or Greg to call me. I’ll need them to bring my car over here.”

  “Get any answers yet?”

  “No. She wasn’t in any shape to talk to me. But I’ll find out before I leave.”

  Or he wouldn’t leave...

  ###

  Ronni blinked to bring the red numbers on the clock into focus: 11:37 p.m. Noise from a car door had pulled her from sleep.

  The sickening pain of the migraine had broken, thank God. She pushed herself upright, swinging her legs off the bed.

  Her foot encountered a cold, damp towel on the floor, and she recoiled, stifling a yelp. Leaving it there, she headed for the living room. Through the picture window, she saw Hayden and two other men in the glint of the streetlight. Three cars, her Jetta, Hayden’s Camaro and a Tracker, filled the driveway. After some low conversation, one of the others—Finn, maybe?—cuffed Hayden on the arm. Finn and the other man, most likely Greg, but hard to tell in the dim light, got in the Tracker at the end of the driveway and took off.

  So where was her son?

  She met Hayden in the kitchen.

  “Ronni,” he said. “You’re up. How’s the head?”

  “Okay. Just the hangover now.” Migraines tended to leave her feeling sort of fuzzy, out of it, when they’d broken. A lovely leftover. She flipped off the dining area light, leaving the space lit only by the fluorescent bulb over the sink. “Where’s Nick?”

  “He wanted to stay. Dad decided to do a sleepover in the tree house with the grandkids.”

  Ronni slid into a chair at the kitchen table, shaking her head. “My son, who’s on probation, wanted to do a sleepover with his grandfather and the younger kids in the tree house? What’s wrong with this picture? Or am I just being too suspicious?”

  “That’s the problem with being fourteen. There are moments when you’re on the cusp of manhood, and other moments when you’re still more kid.”

  Ronni snorted. “Let’s be honest. All men are always still part kid. It’s why they have kids of their own—to give them excuses to keep playing with toys.”

  “I don’t need any excuses.” Hayden stood over her, shifting back and forth on the balls of his feet. “Can I get you something to drink or anything?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “Good. Then let’s not beat around the bush, okay?” He dropped into the chair next to her. “Did you Dear John your husband while he was in a war zone?”

  At first she stared at the edge of the table. But something made her lift her head and look him right in the eye. She took a deep breath. “Yes. I did.”

  Lips pressed tightly together, he shook his head, his disapproval plain. “For the love of God, why? When a man’s in action...whatever problems you have, you suck them up and wait for him to come home. Otherwise...”

  “He ends up like Scott.” She lowered her gaze, rubbing her forehead with her fingertips. “Believe me, I get that I’m responsible for his condition.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You didn’t have to.”

  “Ronni...” Hayden waited in silence until she looked at him again. “Why? That turned out to be the important question about you and Ian. I understand that situation a lot better now. Were you afraid he’d die, too? Wanted to get out before that happened?”

  She recoiled, leaning away from him. “No. That’s not it at all.”

  “Well...that’s how it looks. Like whenever your man is in the most trouble, you get while the getting’s good. Before it all goes to shit.”

  She shoved back her chair, ignoring the pang in her head when she jumped to her feet. “That’s not how it is. I’ll be right back.”

  She stormed down the hallway to her bedroom, her pulse thudding in her temples, warning her to calm down or risk reactivating her migraine. Laptop clutched to her chest, she returned to the kitchen. She placed it on the table in front of Hayden, powering it up and logging in.

  “What’s this?” he asked.

  “I’m going to show you why. You know how they say a picture’s worth a thousand words?”

  He nodded while she opened a password protected file.

  “Video’s worth even more.” She walked away, leaned her head against the cool glass of the patio door. No way would she watch it again. But then, she didn’t have to. The images were seared into her memory. Sometimes she saw versions of it in her sleep. Not so much recently, but at first... “Go ahead. Start it.”

  Keys clicked as Hayden did as she asked.

  “Oh, yeah, baby, suck it.” Her husband’s voice drifted from the built-in speakers of the laptop.

  “That’s Scott,” she pointed out. “Since I doubt you recognize his voice.”

  “No,” Hayden said, clearing his throat. “But I recognize that face looking up at him. She was on the news report.”

  Ronni’s heart pounded. She closed her eyes, but like the aura from the migraine, could still see the images... desert cammies and boxers down around his thighs, G.I. Jane on her knees in front of him.

  “You like it, don’t you?” Jane asked.

  Scott groaned in reply.

  “Better than what you get at home, right? Say it. Say I’m better than your frumpy wife at home.”

  “Finish me, baby. Stop talking and use that wicked mouth to get me off.”

  “Tell me I’m better.”

  “You’re better. Way better. Now finish me, or I’ll ram—”

  The sound halted abruptly. “I, uh...I get the picture,” Hayden said.

  “Oh, no, not yet. But I can provide more pictures until you do.” Hot tears leaked from her tightly scrunched eyes, and her stomach ached, as if someone had punched her in the gut. Finding out your husband had betrayed you was bad enough. Seeing the deed done, right in front of your very eyes, was something else entirely.

  She hadn’t realized it could still hurt this much after nineteen months.

  Hayden’s chair scuffed on the floor. A moment later he stood beside her.

  She turned her face away, pressing her right cheek against the glass. Her tears made it slick. “Don’t touch me,” she whispered.

  “Okay,” he said gently, his breath warm on her shoulder. “Not touching.”

  “T-this—” she had to swallow hard as a huge lump filled her throat “—wasn’t the first time.”

  “Shit.” Hayden’s curse held a note of apology.

  “I caught him a few months before he deployed. Kicked him out then. We told Nick he was starting training early. Fortunately, he did have training to go through that took him out of here.”

  “But...” Hayden prodded.

  “But he promised me...” She silently cursed the tears she couldn’t control. “Said he needed me and Nick to come home to. Couldn’t deploy without knowing he had us waiting for him. He swore it wouldn’t ever happen again. Like a fool, I believed him. Gave him another chance. You can see what it got me.”

  “Combat does funny things to some people. They find ways to blow off the stress.”

  She jerked her head
around, shifting to face him. “Like blowing someone else’s husband? Are you making excuses for them?”

  “No. I’m just saying—”

  “Do you have any idea how it makes a woman feel when she finds out her husband has betrayed her? Cheated on her?”

  “Can’t say I do.”

  “It makes her feel not good enough. D-defective.” Ronni’s jaw quivered.

  Hayden couldn’t stand her tears another second. He grabbed her and pulled her into his arms, pressing her face into his shoulder. “The only one who’s not good enough is him, sweetheart. He’s the defective one, not you.”

  Suddenly her dead eyes made sense. The bastard who’d professed to love her had killed her spirit.

  Ian had to be rolling over in his grave. Hell, Hayden was shocked his brother hadn’t become a zombie and clawed his way from the earth to avenge her.

  “I’m sorry, Ronni.” He stroked her hair until she stopped shaking against him. “Does Nick know about this?” he asked gently.

  “What?” She shoved away from him. “Are you crazy? Of course he doesn’t know. Why in the world would I burden my son with my problems? Screw with the memories of the only father he’s ever known?”

  Hayden shrugged. “Just wondering, because of his response to the news today. He asked what a Dear John was.” And then there had been his comment weeks ago about not wanting to be the kind of man who let the wrong head do the thinking.

  “And you told him?”

  “Judy did. When she’d explained it meant you told Scott you were divorcing him, Nick said, ‘Maybe she should have.’ Are you sure he didn’t find this file on your computer?”

  “Absolutely not. The entire computer is password protected, and the file has another separate password.”

  Hayden held up his hands. “Okay, okay, take it easy. Just asking. Who else does know?”

  “You mean besides G.I. Jane, the slut bitch whore?” Ronni’s hands fisted and a spark of anger glinted in her eyes.

  He bit back a grin. That’s the spirit. “Yeah. Besides her.”

  “Just my best friend, Tamara.”

  “Nobody else? You’re sure?”

  She nodded.

  “So who sent you the video?”

  “It came from a generic Yahoo address. If I had to guess, I think it was G.I. Jane.”

  “Why?”

  “Because she wanted my husband. War zone sex wasn’t enough. She wanted him free to be with her when they came back stateside.”

  “Makes sense, I suppose.”

  “Either way, it doesn’t matter. Somebody who wanted me to know sent me the file.”

  “She couldn’t have sent it in-country.” If either Scott or his mistress had gotten caught in a Middle Eastern country with a pornographic file, they’d have been in huge trouble. Not just for breaking the fraternization rules. Porn, or even something as mild as some romance novel covers, could get you into a huge jam in the Middle East. The armed forces took complying with the local norms seriously.

  “Easy enough to send a file by snail mail to a girlfriend, and have her email it. There are ways.”

  “True.”

  “So...am I forgiven for my Dear John to a lying cheater in a war zone?”

  “I don’t know. Are you?”

  She ducked her head against his scrutiny. No, she hadn’t forgiven herself, that much was plain.

  “Listen, Ronni...I know you don’t want Nick to find out about this. But you’re going to have to brace yourself. You’re in for a shit storm. And your only defense is to put the truth out there.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Hayden crossed to the counter, where the answering machine’s blinking number now read twenty-seven messages.

  And pressed Play.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  HAYDEN’S SNEAKERS POUNDED the pavement of the multipurpose trail along the edge of Presque Isle. Dawn had broken only an hour ago. Early morning sunlight reflected off the bay as he burst into the clearing by the ferry dock. Veering off the paved path, he headed toward one of the picnic tables. Just as he reached it, he leaped and dived forward, placing his hands on the middle of the table, vaulting over it. Between his location and the path, an empty park bench stood beneath the trees. He did a simple vault over that one.

  If only he could clear life’s obstacles as easily.

  The gentle lap of the water along the shoreline accompanied the slap of his feet. Every now and then he encountered another runner or a biker.

  As he ran behind the ranger station, his iPhone, strapped to his left bicep, vibrated. He slowed his pace, twisting his arm to see who was calling.

  Ronni. He stopped on the bridge by the pond, leaning against the railing. The Velcro straps grated as he yanked the phone out. “Ronni?” He blew out several times, trying to get his breathing under control. “What’s up?”

  “I, uh, I need some help. Damn, I seem to be saying that far too often lately.”

  “What’s wrong? Another migraine?” She’d seemed fine when he’d left sometime after midnight. At least as far as the migraine went. As far as the emotional fallout from yesterday, she’d still been unsteady.

  “No. News crews.”

  He bent over, put his hand on his knee, sucking in another deep breath. Abruptly stopping a run like that played havoc on the body. “Calling you?”

  “No. On the street out front of the house. There’s a minor swarm of them.”

  “Damn.”

  “My thoughts exactly. Don’t they have Memorial Day parades and stuff to cover today?”

  “Guess not.” He straightened, then bent backward over the railing, stretching his abs.

  “Some of them rang my doorbell earlier. I threatened to call the cops if they didn’t get off the property.” Panic made her words tumble over each other. “They just kept hollering questions through the door. They finally moved to the street when a squad car drove by. I need to go see Scott, then head over to your parents to pick up Nick. But I don’t want to get ambushed when I walk out of here.”

  “Sit tight. I’m on the peninsula. I’ve got about another mile to get back to my car. I’ll pick up the pace and be there as soon as I can.”

  Her sigh carried a note of relief. “Thanks.”

  He hung up the phone, strapping it on his arm again.

  Just as he’d feared after listening to her messages last night, the vultures had landed.

  And knowing the media, they wouldn’t be satisfied until they’d picked Ronni’s bones clean. Nick would be caught in the cross fire, which was the last thing the kid needed right now.

  Hayden glanced at his watch, gathered himself and sprinted like hell for the parking lot.

  Six minutes later, sweat running down the sides of his face and tank top plastered to his chest, he pulled up at the Camaro. He reached into the backseat, grabbed a towel. After mopping his face with it, he draped it across the seat so his sweaty legs wouldn’t stick. The car roared to life. The twenty-five miles per hour speed limit drove him crazy as he headed for the park exit. The thundering beat of DragonForce music blared from the speakers, only emphasizing the crawl of the car.

  Eighth Street, with all its traffic lights, didn’t help, either.

  On the street in front of Ronni’s house, he passed a car labeled Erie Gazette; apparently Eric Hanover had decided not to wait for her to get back to him. Other media vehicles, from the local television stations, were also parked on the berm. Then there were unmarked cars that had to belong to the photographers hoisting cameras with big, intrusive lenses.

  How the hell had word spread so damn fast? Did the media tweet each other or what?

  “Who’s that?” one of them called as he climbed from the car. Shutters clicked in chorus. “Sir, sir! Can we speak to you?” a woman yelled. “Who are you? What’s your relationship to Ronni Mangano?”

  He resisted the urge to flip them off, and slipped in through the laundry room door. Ronni stood at the kitchen counter, a black bag in front
of her, cup of coffee cradled in one hand. Dim sunlight filtered through the curtains she’d drawn across the window over the sink. The vertical blinds over the sliding glass door to the deck were also drawn. “Good. I see you’ve battened down the hatches.”

  “Best I can. Unfortunately, the picture window in the living room doesn’t have either blinds or curtains.”

  “You’re probably going to want to do something about that.”

  She set the mug in the sink. “Seriously? I mean, they’ll be gone by tomorrow, right?”

  He lifted one shoulder. “Juicy story. Depends on how the public responds, I guess. Ratings rule.” He didn’t mention that the story had appeared in his Facebook feed that morning. The potential to go viral...better she didn’t think about that at this point. “Let’s roll. I don’t want to hang here any longer than necessary.”

  She hefted the black bag. In the laundry room, she hesitated. Started to backpedal. Fold up.

  “Ronni.” He waited for her to look at him. “Listen to me. When we walk out that door, it’s critical that you hold your head high. You have nothing to apologize for or feel guilty about. You are the wronged party here. So you freakin’ square your shoulders and hold your head up.”

  Uncertainly flitted in her eyes.

  “The people out there are sharks. If they smell even a hint of blood in the water, you’re done for. Do you get me?”

  Lips pressed together, she nodded.

  He shook his head. “Not convincing at all. I don’t care if you don’t feel it. You fake it till you make it, okay? Think how much satisfaction Scott’s bitch is getting from this.”

  That got a glint of anger from her. She snapped to, jaw set.

  “Better. Let’s move.” He opened the door, placing his body between her and the photographers. Taking her elbow, he escorted her to the car, holding her back with a slight shake of his head when she tried to rush. Cameras snapped and the people across the street jostled each other for a better view. They called her name, shouting instructions, asking questions.

  “Mrs. Mangano, tell us more about your husband!”

  “Ronni, Ronni, look over here!”

  “Did you tell your husband you were divorcing him?”