by DiAnn Mills
“I’m sorry to have dragged you into this.”
“I’m where I want to be,” Miles said. “Waiting on you to get better. Voleta plans to visit you tomorrow.”
That was a positive, especially in light of Paige’s suspicions. “I’ll play the part. I do miss her craziness.”
“I pray it’ll soon be over. I’m supposed to tell you that Nathan is fine.”
She nodded and clutched the bear, hugging it as though it were a baby. The role, always the role. Miles deserved to know about Nathan. “I have to tell you about Nathan.”
“I was hoping you would. Code word for something?”
“This all might be easier if he could be explained in that context.” When Miles didn’t respond, she studied his face. He did love her, but this last confession would be the test. “Nathan is my son.”
Not a muscle moved on his face. Had he been practicing how to restrain shock? “I see. . . . Nathan doesn’t change how I feel about you.”
“There’s more.”
“There’s always more with my girl.”
Her stomach swirled. “He’s Keary’s son too. I hid it from him for seven years, but he found out about two weeks ago.”
Miles moistened his lips. “Now I’m beginning to understand. But it still doesn’t matter. We’ll see this through to the end.”
She wanted to believe him, but skepticism was a reality. “Don’t be too quick to say that.”
“My life hasn’t been squeaky-clean either.”
“He’ll kill for Nathan.”
Miles nodded, his typical way of processing his thoughts. “So would you, and I’m right there beside you.”
“We don’t sound very Christian.”
“Honey, it’s honest. You’re the one who told me about Keary’s family and how that accident is probably why he turned traitor. Nathan must be an obsession to him, a possession. The difference between you and Keary is that you understand love involves sacrifice. Your life for the past seven years has been based on love.”
For the first time, Paige had met a person who understood her heart. She took a cleansing breath filled with relief and regret. “I don’t know what else to say.”
He chuckled. “‘I do’ comes to mind. But we’ll talk about that later.” He paused. “I’m flying to Wisconsin on Wednesday.”
She swallowed hard. “Why?”
“Because you can’t. Because I know how badly you wanted to talk to them yourself. I might be able to answer some of their questions, assure them that you’re okay.”
“I don’t know, Miles. Keary is watching your every move. It might be too dangerous. And besides, how can you take a couple of days off?”
“Personal days.” He grinned. “Besides, it gives Dalton more fuel to oust me.”
She glanced about, making certain no one approached them. “Be careful. You’re making a lot of people unhappy. But you’re always on the side of the underdog.” She wanted to touch him, but she couldn’t take the chance that someone might be clicking pictures. “Before I forget, what happened at last night’s game?”
“We won. Chris is playing hard.”
A blessing for Miles, and he deserved every one that came his way. “Are you ready for this game to continue?”
“I am.” Miles said more in one sad glance than if he’d spoken a hundred words.
“You can’t see me until this season is over.”
“I understand.” His shoulders lifted and fell. “I love you, Paige. I’m behind you in this no matter how it turns out.”
She hated the turmoil and the circumstances that kept them apart. This wasn’t in her training manual. She turned back to Miles. “And I do love you. Never thought I deserved real love, but it has happened. I’m sorry about—”
“No problem. I understand now. Sorry I didn’t then.” He smiled. “Let the cameras roll.”
She jumped from the bench. “Why are you here? I told them I didn’t want to see anyone. You’re out to get me, aren’t you? You’re working with them to lock me away forever.”
“Paige, calm down.” Miles stood and reached out to touch her, but she screamed.
“My name is not Paige. It’s Mikaela. Stay away from me. I hate you. I hate all of you. Help me, please. Someone get this jerk away from me.”
Miles stepped back about six feet and held out his hands. “It’s all right. I’ll leave. Are you okay alone?”
“I can kill you! I know how.” Paige bent to a martial arts position. That would certainly label her as textbook insane.
“Sir, we have this situation under control.” A young man with a military haircut and the build of a professional linebacker hurried past Miles toward Paige.
“Get him out of here.” Paige sobbed and buried her face in her hands.
The young man tossed Miles a wary look. “Sir, would you leave now?”
Miles nodded. “Sorry to upset you, Mikaela.”
“Here, take your stupid bear.” Paige threw the pink teddy at him, hoping and praying he saw through her every utterance.
Miles picked up the bear and brushed off the dirt. “Please, keep it.” He handed it to the attendant. “She might want this later.”
Paige snatched it from the young man’s hands and held it close, as though it were her dearest possession. “It’s mine.” She forced real tears. “I want to keep it.”
She heard Miles leave and continued to sob. Suddenly it was no longer an act. Soon this would be over. But not soon enough.
Chapter 50
When Miles decided to make the trip to Wisconsin to talk to the Olssons about their daughter, the idea seemed like something he could do to help them through the shock of learning their daughter was alive. Paige had allowed her parents to believe she was dead. Nearly eight years later, she calls them and leaves a message, not even coming to see them in person. Assault number three came with Daniel Keary’s announcement about her involvement with the CIA and a supposed history of mental disorders. How much more could these people take? And here he was thinking he could be the great ambassador. He felt sorry for her parents and wanted God’s best for all involved. What would be the Olssons’ reaction? They’d been lied to and possibly humiliated, just as he’d been. But he loved Paige, and his commitment to her would carry him through the storm and onto the truth. That sounded noble and maybe cheesy, as the kids would say, and yet he believed it.
I must have lost my mind.
For the past few days, his focus had swung like a pendulum between his responsibility to his team and his love for Paige. But he could do this and be back on Thursday afternoon for practice. Correction: his commitment to the team and to Paige was about relationships, not a to-do list. People had more meaning in his life than a list of projects, like building a patio or putting a roof on his garage. His players struggled with the loss of Walt as quarterback and guilt for the way most of them had treated him. They were afraid and angry, but they were strong and working together as a team. Walt’s physical therapists were optimistic about his full recovery for next year. And Chris was involved with his own physical therapy—and counseling. The only good thing that had come out of Walt’s shooting was that the two boys were no longer at each other’s throat.
The news about Nathan had momentarily thrown Miles, but the revelation explained so much of Paige’s behavior. He’d learn more about the boy when this was over. Kids, whether you gave birth to them or they were born of your heart, always needed love. Miles prayed Nathan would weather this storm and be stronger for it.
This brought Miles to the present, driving on a lonely stretch of two-lane highway at the pace of a ninety-year-old on a Sunday afternoon drive. Miles had a cup of cold coffee on one side of his drink holder and a warm chocolate milkshake on the other. Rotten ulcer. He needed the coffee to stay awake and the milkshake to coat his stomach. The sweet taste sure beat Maalox. He peered out over the picturesque countryside, pretty with its autumn leaves and the afternoon sun glistening like a finely cut diamond.
>
Miles had no regrets about the trip, but he wished the right words to talk to the Olssons would drop center stage. Paige’s parents were entitled to a little of the truth, something she’d tried to give him. She craved their love and support. They all needed each other, and Miles had no clue whether or not he could help.
He turned onto a country road, the tires crunching the stones beneath the car, and his nerves easing into overdrive. Three miles later, the farmhouse that Paige had described came into view. It reminded him of a calendar picture, complete with a red barn and two silos. He pulled into the driveway, recalling the maple trees that she’d said “canopied the driveway” as though they were soldiers guarding the entrance to the Olsson dairy farm.
Once he parked, he noticed a milk can on the front porch in red, white, and blue, and a porch swing. All this held special memories for Paige. Her roots were here, and she’d never given them up.
A black and white dog bounded up to the car. Its tail wagged faster than a hummingbird’s wings. Miles opened the door. “You must be Fred.” He let the animal sniff him before patting its head. The wind had a bitter bite to it, and the clouds cast a shadowy gray over the landscape.
As Miles stared up at the two-story, turn-of-the-century farmhouse, it seemed to have lost a bit of its friendly luster in light of his mission. I’d never have made it in the CIA. I’d have ended up with more ulcers and severe reflux. Stuffing his ungloved hands into his coat pockets, he walked the swept-clean sidewalk leading to the front door. Paige should be with him. They’d bustle in from the cold and prepare to spend the next few days with an older couple who longed to recapture the past. Maybe the next time with Nathan.
Fred followed him to the front door. Miles hesitated and willed his knees to stop shaking. He knocked and breathed another prayer. The door opened, and a blonde woman who had the same incredible blue eyes as Paige stood before him.
“Can I help you?” she asked. “Are you lost?”
What a question. “I’m where I’m supposed to be if you’re Anna Olsson.”
She stepped back. “Are you another one of those newspaper people? Because if you are, you can get right back into your car and get out of here.”
“No, ma’am. I’m not. I don’t have any use for those people either. My name is Miles Laird. I’m a friend of your daughter’s, and I’d like to talk to you and your husband.”
She shook her head and swallowed. Emotion seemed to seize her, and she covered her mouth. Miles was helpless to comfort her.
“I didn’t come to upset you, but as someone who might be able to help you and your husband through this crisis.”
“Who’s there?” a gravelly male voice called.
“It’s a man who claims he’s a friend of Mikaela’s.”
Anna Olsson stared at Miles until her husband stood beside her in the half-opened doorway, where the heat escaped and the cold air blew through their home. As if they hadn’t experienced enough damage to their hearts and minds.
“How are we supposed to know you’re telling the truth?” the man said.
“She told me once about the orange suspenders you wear in honor of the harvest. She told me strangers had to let old Fred here get a good sniff before they tried to pet him. She has a red, white, and blue milk can on her front porch like yours. Her bedroom was at the top of the stairs, second room on the right. There used to be a bulletin board on the left side of the bed that was bordered by the blue ribbons she’d won at the county fair for her horsemanship. She said you were strong Lutherans, and every Christmas you gave generously to world missions according to your harvest that year. She said you’d taught her how to bake traditional Swedish fruit breads. She–”
“Please, stop.” Mrs. Olsson buried her face in her husband’s chest. “Oh, my dear Mikaela.”
Mr. Olsson wrapped his arm around her shoulder and pressed his lips together. Paige had his chin. “Come in, but if I find you are a reporter, I’ll run you off with my shotgun.”
“Sir, I’m on a mission of mercy here. Nothing more.”
Mr. Olsson opened the door, and Miles entered the world of Mikaela Olsson—the world she had known before the CIA. The steady click of a grandfather clock ushered him into yesterday, and the woodsy scent of a crackling fireplace beckoned him to its warmth. He took in the antique furnishings and sensed the middle-aged couple eyeing him with pain-filled interest. And everywhere there were pictures of a blonde baby . . . child . . . girl . . . woman.
He reached for a photograph on the fireplace mantel that must have been taken when Paige was in high school. One framed picture after another lined the six-foot mantel, a shrine to the daughter who they believed had died. He saw the same wide smile, the same eyes curtained in thick lashes—his lovely Paige in the time of innocence. His heart knocked against his chest, and he remembered the gorgeous blonde in Palmer’s photo.
“I always wondered what she looked like as a girl.” His words came out like a whisper.
“We didn’t recognize the pictures on TV,” Mr. Olsson said. “Shocked best describes it.”
“Would you like some coffee to warm you up?” Mrs. Olsson wrung her hands.
“Yes, ma’am. That would be nice. I’m not used to the cold.”
She tilted her head and smiled, as Paige so often did. “Have a seat, and I’ll bring you a cup.”
“Can we sit in the kitchen?” Miles braved forward. “Seems like a better place to talk.”
“Mr. Laird, this is difficult for the missus and me.” Mr. Olsson glanced at his wife. “We have so many questions, and we don’t know where to begin or who to believe.”
Miles remembered the stories circulating about his brother and how difficult it was for their parents. “Sir, I don’t have all of the answers, but I will tell you what I can.”
“Then come on back, and we’ll sit at the table,” the man said.
The kitchen with its old-world charm and cinnamon apple scents greeted him. “Whatever I smell is something that she bakes.”
“You must love her.” Mrs. Olsson reached into a cabinet for a large mug. “I saw it in your eyes when you were standing on the front porch.”
“That obvious? Gives me hope as far as Paige is concerned.” Immediately he caught his blunder. “I’m sorry. I should have said Mikaela.”
She nodded and poured him coffee from a percolator pot. He hadn’t seen one of those since before his grandmother had moved to an assisted-living center. He took a sip of the coffee. “This is wonderful. Thanks.”
Anna Olsson slid into a chair at a round wooden table. The time had come for him to say his piece and hope that God would give him the right words.
“I don’t know what you’ve read or heard about your daughter, but I’m going to tell you what I believe is the truth.”
Mr. Olsson nodded and took his wife’s hand. “I pray you are telling us the truth.”
“I’ve asked God to pave the way for understanding. Paige—uh, Mikaela—prays for the same thing.”
“Mikaela is a Christian?” Mrs. Olsson’s voice rose.
“Yes. It happened while she was overseas.”
“She was a good girl, but not interested in the ways of God.” Her father took a moment to compose himself. Right then, Miles would have done about anything to take away their pain.
“Your daughter did work for the CIA. I don’t know the details, because that’s classified information. The part she told me is that while on an assignment, all of her team members were killed except for her and another operative. She was injured and required a lengthy hospital stay.” He took another sip of coffee. “She’d discovered something about the mission that led her to believe that the other surviving operative had betrayed them. It was her word against his, and she couldn’t secure the evidence needed to have him brought to justice. She resigned from the CIA and established a new identity.”
“But why couldn’t she have come home?” Mrs. Olsson’s eyes brimmed with tears.
“The other oper
ative threatened to kill you unless she disappeared. He blackmailed her into changing her identity and allowing you to think she was dead. She did it to protect you, or so she thought.”
“Mikaela chose to live her life alone . . . to save us?” Mrs. Olsson could barely choke out the words. “My poor little girl did that for us?”
“I . . . I want to believe you.” Mr. Olsson wrapped his arm around his wife’s shoulder.
“Sir, has the phone ever rung during the past eight years and when you answered it, no one was there? Did you ever wonder who it could be?”
“That’s not really fair to ask. Those calls happen to everyone. But in the beginning, I used to wish it were her.” He glanced down at his folded hands on the table. “My little girl in the CIA. . . . I shouldn’t be surprised when I think back at her shenanigans. That girl whitened my hair. Why, I nearly went bald over some of the trouble she got into. But I never doubted her love for us.” He took a breath. “Those news reporters say she’s mentally unstable . . . and in a psychiatric hospital.”
“I don’t believe she has mental problems, and you shouldn’t either.”
“But the fella running for governor of Oklahoma confirmed it. He said he’d worked with her.”
“I believe if we let her and the CIA continue their investigation, not only you but also the whole nation will learn the truth.”
“What’s your role in all of this?” Carl Olsson asked.
Miles studied the older man and his wife. “I’m a football coach and a teacher at Split Creek’s high school. I met your daughter at the public library where she’s worked ever since coming to Oklahoma. Circumstances brought me into this, or Mikaela would still be trying to figure things out on her own.” He took a deep breath. “She’s a brilliant woman, but I’d like to think I can help in a small way.”
“It looks to me like you’re helping in a big way,” the man said.
“She had a minor in library science,” Mrs. Olsson said. “She always loved books.”
“I have a purpose in coming here today.” Miles warmed his hands with the coffee mug. “I’m asking if you will pray for Mikaela.”