Having The Soldier's Baby (The Parent Portal Book 1)

by Tara Taylor Quinn

  He was glad she’d called, suggested they get together.

  There were other things to talk to her about, like when she wanted to see lawyers and get his things out of her house, but maybe this was an instance where Time still had work to do. Their split was still so raw, the realization that their love had been a fantasy was years old to him, but brand-new to her.

  “What did you want to talk to me about?” he asked, not wanting the silence to get awkward on them.

  “I need to know something.” She was looking at her flip-flops.

  “I told you I’d tell you anything I could,” he reminded.

  “In the past—well, up until two weeks ago from four tomorrow morning—I really believed that we were this special couple. Singled out, chosen, by God or whatever powers that be, to be together. All the plans we made as kids, the vows...that was weird, you know. Most kids don’t do that. And here we were, both of us, wanting all the same things and talking about them, too. I thought it was predestined, and that with all that, as long as we went along with destiny—got married, followed the plan—that we’d be protected. That you’d get orders and leave, but always come back to me. I didn’t have to worry about it. I just knew. And when you came back, I’d be here healthy and happy and waiting for you. Even when we had trouble getting pregnant and I was looking at my age and knowing that four kids might become a stretch for us, I just figured that the universe knew better. That if I had to have a baby at forty, we’d be protected and that baby would be born healthy. Our love was that strong. That special.”

  “You had to know at some point it would end.” He told her what he knew. “No one lives forever.”

  “I thought we’d die of old age, within hours or days of each other, when both of us felt as though we’d had complete lives. When we were ready.”

  He couldn’t speak to that. Wasn’t really sure what she wanted from him.

  “I need to know what you believed, Win.”

  Her voice was a thread.

  “I don’t know,” he said. He knew what she’d described was a dangerous fantasy.

  “Back then, when we talked about all that stuff, were you just humoring me?”

  “Of course not.”

  “So...did you believe it, too?”

  “No” was on the tip of his tongue. Until he looked at her.

  She needed his truth.

  No matter how much it hurt.

  “Yes.”

  * * *

  The following Friday Winston called Emily, said he had a favor to ask her, asked if he could come into town, maybe pick up a few things. She’d had a long week at work, a good successful week, a lot of late days, was hungry and tired, but of course she said yes.

  They were going to have to talk about the divorce. He needed to be able to get a place of his own. She figured, as she wandered through her house alone every morning and night, she was getting more used to the idea. Funny how time really did take care of things sometimes.

  The fantasy of youth was dying.

  She was all grown up.

  And was hoping that she and Win could stay good friends. The phone calls they’d been sharing back and forth, just to check in, were nice. She’d been slowly starting to talk about her business deals with him, her clients, discussing strategies as she had in the past. He had a way of getting to the heart of the matter. Or asking questions that got her there. She trusted his judgment.

  He was talking to her, too, at least more than he had been. Had already applied and been accepted to the CITP, the NCIS criminal investigators training program, in Glynco, Georgia. His first step for becoming a special agent. It was a fifty-six-day program, followed by the Special Agent Basic Training Program for another forty-some days. He had to go when classes were offered, and wanted to get it done before she delivered, if possible.

  Military wives often gave birth with their husbands off on deployment, and she wouldn’t even be his wife anymore by the time Tristan came, but she loved that he was factoring them into his plans.

  That Tristan was going to know his father.

  He offered to take her out to dinner—anywhere she wanted to go—which would probably have been the best for them, keep things more impersonal. But she just wanted to be home where she could change into sweats and have bare feet. He said he’d pick something up and meet there.

  She’d hardly had a chance to get out of her skirt and jacket and into a pair of leggings and a loose T-shirt before he was knocking on the door. The front door.

  “Why didn’t you pull into the garage?” she asked, wondering if she’d taken up more than her fair share of space. She’d been pulling in without his car there for a couple of weeks now; she could be getting sloppy.

  He shrugged. She glanced at the front doorknob. “Or use your key?”

  His gaze met hers. No words were exchanged, but she got his answer. Her house wasn’t his anymore. He was respecting her space.

  “That’s nuts, Winston,” she said, more acerbic than normal. She’d had that long week. And was four months pregnant. “We both own this home. And it’s your son’s home, too.” Her argument rang a little weak, so she continued, as she walked toward the dining room. “Once we figure out what’s happening, we might end up selling the place to split the proceeds,” she added.

  “You’re thinking about moving?”

  She hadn’t been. But...

  “Would you want to live in the home we bought together? Set up together? Lived in together?”

  All of those things had been part of the comfort the home had brought her while he’d been gone. But knowing that it had all been a fairy tale...

  “But we just did the nursery.”

  There was that. She was tired. And hungry. So she pulled one of his moves and just shrugged.

  He’d brought Mexican food—one of her favorites—but as he was pulling the various covered tin pans out of the bag, he stopped and looked at her. “I didn’t think. Is this going to be too spicy for you?”

  His thoughtfulness, such a Winston thing, brought tears to her eyes. She reached for glasses as she told him, “Nope! Tristan loves Mexican as much as I do.”

  If he was there to ask her for the divorce, she hoped he waited until after they ate. She’d given the settlement some thought. As far as she was concerned, he was entitled to half of everything. Her one caveat was that she didn’t want to fight about it.

  Wasn’t going to fight about it.

  She’d rather walk away with nothing than get in a court battle with Winston.

  “I mentioned I have a favor to ask,” he said as they finished up the last of the tamales he’d brought. There’d be some enchilada left over. She’d eaten most of the beans, but limited herself on the rice. She’d read about potential rice risks to pregnant women if they ate too much of it. How much was too much? One never really knew when reading all of the opinion pieces out there.

  “Em?”

  She didn’t want to talk about the divorce, and what other favor would he ask of her at this point? Except to give him the freedom he’d wanted since he’d come home?

  “Yeah?”

  “I need to take a trip to Wisconsin. To see someone. I’d like to know if you’d consider going with me.”

  She listened to his words, watched the expressions chase across his face. Regret. Guilt. Compassion. None of it computed.

  Who did he know in Wisconsin? Why would he want her to go? Especially with them divorcing. Unless it had to do with the divorce? Did he know an attorney in Wisconsin? Someone he met when he was away from her? Would a Wisconsin attorney be certified in California? Possible if the guy had been military and stationed in San Diego for a time...

  Winston wanted her to go on a trip with him?

  “When?”

  “At your convenience.”

  She stared at him. Her answer se
emed to matter to him. Or going did. Or both.

  “What’s going on?”

  He glanced toward the backyard, not that much was visible in the darkness, and then back at her. “It’s been brought to my attention that it’s possible I used Danny, changed identities with him, because it allowed me to do what had to be done.”

  It wasn’t about the divorce.

  As she gazed into those troubled eyes, she felt his struggle. Knew a sense of fullness, a depth of completion she hadn’t known she’d been missing. She was feeling him again. Not just knowing him, but actually feeling. Her heart became his, or felt his so completely it seemed like they’d become joined. She got up from the table so abruptly she hit her knee. Ignored the searing pain as she carried trash, leftovers and dishes to the sink. She just needed a minute. Time to get out of fantasy and into reality.

  It had happened so fast, falling back into the fairy tale. No warning. She’d had no idea it could even happen, now that she knew it wasn’t real.

  Reality.

  Winston carried in the glasses. Was right behind her. Turning, she looked up at him, in blue jeans and a striped button-up shirt, the cuffs rolled a couple of times.

  Taking his hand, she led them to the living room. To the couch. Sat down—no longer touching at all.

  “Tell me,” she said, hoping she had herself firmly in check again.

  “He was single. Not even a serious girlfriend. He’d made no promises to anyone other than the United States government when he was sworn in as a soldier.”

  He meant that Danny could give up his life and be the hero without being unfaithful to his personal self. It was as though the words were in Winston’s brain and wirelessly streamed to hers.

  “By becoming him, it was almost as though Winston Hannigan died that day in the desert, with a change of clothes,” she said aloud, staring at him.

  He shrugged, as though not quite going that far with it.

  “I need to go see his parents,” Winston said, while she was busy grappling with the emotions barreling through her. From hope to despair and everything in between.

  “I need to tell them that their son died a hero, that I was with him in the end. I have to apologize to them for giving up their son’s body. For robbing them of the chance to bury him.”

  The trip to Wisconsin. She didn’t even question the fact that he wanted her to go. She and Winston always stood by each other through the difficult times in life. Their grandparents’ funerals. Her father’s funeral. Even before they were lovers, they’d stood side by side, taking on the tough stuff. It’s what best friends did.

  “I’d like you to be there, Em. I want them to see why I did what I did. Not because I deserve their forgiveness, but because I hope it will help ease their pain. To know that I needed their son to get the job done.”

  “Of course I’m going with you,” she said, sitting there with him as platonic as they’d ever been. “And not just for them, Winston,” she added, then got up and went in to finish cleaning away dinner.

  She couldn’t keep sitting there looking at him. It confused her. He confused her.

  Her feelings confused her.

  She was a thirty-three-year-old fully-grown woman who couldn’t decipher between real emotion and make-believe.

  Or maybe it was just the pregnancy hormones.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  She sat by the window. He took the middle seat. It was a routine they’d established many years before, during innumerable vacations they’d taken together. It used to be that she’d offer to take the middle, her being the smaller of the two of them, but each time he’d insisted on his place. Flying was a no-brainer for him. Didn’t faze him. Emily got a little claustrophobic now and then. Didn’t like not being in control. Focusing out the window made her feel not so closed in.

  The middle seat allowed him to go either direction to protect her. That’s all it had ever been about for him. Protecting her. His feisty friend who saw herself as the person least in the need of protection. Truth was, he knew she didn’t need his protection. He just had always needed to make sure that if she ever did, he’d be there.

  Until he’d chosen to turn his back on her needs to protect his comrades.

  He’d made that choice the day he joined up. He knew that now. Maybe she’d known, too. Adamson had suggested as much. Said he gave Emily too little credit.

  Funny, he’d always thought he gave her more credit than he’d ever given himself.

  He’d called ahead to make the Sunday appointment with the Garrisons, who came outside to greet him and Emily when he pulled the rental car into their driveway, a week and two days after he’d asked Emily to accompany him to Milwaukee. Mrs. Garrison—Clara, she told them to call her—had made a peach pastry from scratch and offered them coffee to go with it. Then looked at Emily’s slightly protruding belly, looked at her husband and smiled, offering to brew some tea.

  He was surprised by her insight. His soon-to-be ex-wife looked pregnant to him, because he knew her body almost as well as he knew his own, and because he knew she was pregnant. But to someone who didn’t know her, she could just be a little paunchy—in the one area. She’d worn a dress, black, plain, three-quarter-length sleeves, a few inches above the knees, and stretchy. It was her funeral dress. He’d worn dress blues.

  Harold Garrison led them out to a screened porch looking over a modest though nicely maintained backyard. All of the plants were little more than sticks in the fall weather, but he imagined they were quite colorful during the spring and summer. They surrounded a fountain that made a tinkling sound as water fell from one layer down to the next, ending in an oblong-shaped pool in the ground.

  “Harold and Danny built that together,” Clara said. “It used to have fish in it. Danny wanted a fish tank. A simple fish tank. He got a pond.” Shaking her head, Clara was also smiling as she told her story.

  Area heaters warmed the chilly sixty-degree outside air.

  “I was hoping it would be warm enough for us to sit out here,” Clara said.

  “I told her it would be,” Harold chimed in. “She worries, you know, but I’d looked at the Doppler.”

  “He did tell me, and I do worry.” The room was outfitted with dark wicker furniture—couch, rockers, chairs and tables. The couple showed them to a glass-topped outdoor table with four chairs on the other end of the room. Clara put down the pastry. Harold followed her up with plates, forks, napkins and a serving utensil. They both went back for the cups of coffee and tea.

  Tense, almost wishing the couple were a bit less hospitable considering what he had to tell them, Winston pulled out a wicker-back chair for Emily and then took his own seat next to her. Her knee touched his under the table. It could have been by accident.

  But he believed it was on purpose.

  “Maybe I should just leave them to their peace,” he said softly, head down.

  “I know you said you came to apologize,” she replied, equally soft. “But you know you’re really here to bring them closure. To let them know about Danny’s last hours so they aren’t always wondering. The doubts, the not knowing, can cripple you.”

  He looked at her. Reminded of a time when they’d been in high school, looking at colleges, and he’d been wrestling with the idea of becoming a businessman—real estate, like his father. He’d have made a lot of money following in his father’s footsteps. Could have taken over his small but successful and reputable Marie Cove brokerage from him. Emily had listened to all of his reasons for going the business route—something everyone had always expected he would do—and then calmly asked why he’d do such a thing when all he’d ever wanted was to sail for his country?

  At that point, he’d never mentioned to her that he’d seriously wondered about joining the navy. He hadn’t told anyone. Taking over for his father had just been assumed. He was an only child. There was no one els
e.

  “What?” she asked, bringing to his attention that he was staring at her. Before he could answer, the Garrisons were back, taking a seat.

  Why was it that so often, when people met to talk, food was included? Didn’t folks get that some conversations made eating difficult?

  Emily’s knee touched his under the table again. He ate. Listened as Clara regaled them with stories from Danny’s youth. Always coming back to the fact that he’d been looking out for the underdog his entire life. From pet rescue—he had to take the one that wasn’t cute—to kids in school who got bullied. The more she talked, with Harold sometimes completing her sentence or story, the worse Winston felt for them.

  Danny was all they’d had.

  When silence fell, more than an hour later, half the pastry still sitting uneaten on the platter in the middle of the table, coffee cups empty, Winston sat up straight, his back firmly against his chair.

  “I came to tell you that I was with your son...” He paused, blinked. Swallowed. Pressed his leg against Emily’s. “I was with him before the ambush. We ate together.” He could remember their last conversation—Danny had asked Winston about being away from Emily for so long at a time, a conversation he might share with others someday. “I saw him get hit.”

  He looked them both in the eye. They deserved that. Their tears ripped at his insides.

  “I can attest to you, with utter honesty, that Danny died protecting the troops with whom he served. He died without fear. He died with honor.”

  There was protocol. Things that were said to immediate family by the military, when they were informed about a loved one’s death. This wasn’t that.

  The Garrisons had had that visit.

  He didn’t look at Emily. But he felt her there. Not just her knee. He knew she was looking at him, not Danny’s parents.

  “Thank you, son,” Harold said, lips and chin quivering. “You have no idea what it means to us, that you’d take the time to come see us on his behalf...”