A Little Bit of Déjà Vu

by Laurie Kellogg

  “So I take it you had a good day?” Rob teased, following the maitre d’ to a table near the rustic stone fireplace.

  She hoisted her eyebrows in a you-must-be-joking arch.

  “I’m sorry, Honey. As much as I’d love to help you out, it would be a clear case of malpractice—not to mention, I fitted Mrs. Dalton for a full set of dentures last year. So there’s nothing left to wire together.”

  “Okay, I’ll just break them.” She chuckled. “To top it off, the babysitter canceled at the last minute.” Abby sank into the upholstered chair the maitre d’ pulled out and smiled her thanks as he laid the menus on the table and left. “I’m just glad my brother is on leave and could stay with the boys.”

  “Not as glad as I am.” Rob rolled his eyes toward the restaurant’s beamed ceiling. “An evening with a couple of six-year-old chaperones isn’t my idea of a hot date.”

  “Pleease.” She laughed, spreading the napkin in her lap. “Tommy and Royce are my virtue’s last line of defense.”

  Robert’s clear hazel eyes searched her face. After several seconds, he apparently abandoned trying to come up with a diplomatic retort and blurted, “You’re a fraud, Abby.”

  “Well, thank you.”

  “I’m serious. That innocent Madonna façade you use to hold men at a distance is completely transparent. You think guys keep breaking up with you because you can’t give them their own children. That’s a load of bull.”

  She raised her menu to hide the flush creeping up her neck. “That’s easy for you to say. You don’t want a family.”

  “No, but I want you as my wife and in my bed.”

  She glanced around, thankful it was early and the nearby tables were still empty.

  “If having more kids is that important to you,” he continued, “I might consider adoption. The only reason those other guys bailed was because you weren’t willing to get serious.”

  “Get serious?” She sputtered softly. “Don’t you mean put out?”

  He shoved her menu down so he could look her in the eye. “Not necessarily. But, yeah, sex probably would’ve helped. When a relationship’s going somewhere, a couple usually takes it into the bedroom.”

  Apparently, at almost twenty-five she was still as big a dork as she’d been in high school when other girls were having sex and calling her a prude. She just couldn’t sleep with a guy unless she had strong feelings for him. And look where that had left her with Matt—pregnant and widowed at only eighteen.

  Robert took her hand. “Why are you still dating me, Abby? And your excuse that I’m not interested in having a family, doesn’t fly. There’re plenty of single dads out there who already have children and would be happy to have you as their kids’ mother.”

  She’d tried the whole Parents without Partners scene. Most single dads had at least a decade on her and were divorced—sometimes more than once. “There’s a good reason a lot of those men are alone. They’re deadbeats.”

  “Not all of them. Sometimes I think the only reason you’re still dating me is because I haven’t tried to drag you into the bedroom to exorcise your husband’s ghost. And believe me, I’d do it if I didn’t think you’d end up hating me.”

  “I’m sorry. I really do care for you, Rob.” At least as much as she was capable of caring for any man other than the one she’d loved and lost. Her real problem was she wanted Matt back.

  “Sorry doesn’t cut it anymore, Honey. I’m not some horny teenager who can be satisfied with a little foreplay forever,” he told her, alluding to all the times she’d made out with him and stroked him until he burst so she could continue to delay the inevitable and lighten her guilt.

  “I know that.” She squeezed his arm. “But I feel like I’m cheating on—”

  “Your husband is gone,” Rob insisted. “It isn’t healthy to keep fantasizing he survived. I understand it helped you cope when you were eighteen. But enough’s enough. Operation Homecoming is over. The last of the POWs came home over a week ago. Please admit he’s dead and marry me.”

  She knew in her heart Matt had most likely been killed. But she’d kept him alive, envisioning him at the dinner table with her and the boys and imagining him holding her at night. Everyone had insisted she was young and, in time, would forget Matt. However, after six years of reading his old letters and living with him in her imagination, her love had only grown deeper.

  “But they think the North Vietnamese still have prisoners they aren’t admitting to.”

  “The government declared your husband dead over six years ago.”

  Matt’s chopper had gone down on a classified mission so the military had refused to reveal where he’d died. All they’d told her was Matt’s dog tags had been recovered from the crash site among the men’s charred remains.

  Robert stabbed his fingers through his tawny hair. “What’s it going to take for you to accept he isn’t coming back?”

  She stared down at her rings sparkling in the candlelight and caught her lip between her teeth. “I don’t know.”

  “If I didn’t love you so damn much, I would’ve given up on you a year ago. Marry me, please.”

  How could she promise herself to Rob when she only wanted Matt? “I’m sorry I keep putting you off, but I just can’t sleep with you, feeling the—”

  “I know. I’ve tried to understand, but I’m tired of waiting, Abby. Say yes, or I’ll have to move on.” Apparently, there was a limit to Rob’s patience.

  She had to stop living in denial, or she would lose him. Struggling to swallow, she whispered, “Let me think about it until after dinner.”

  While Rob ordered Maryland crab cakes and salads with champagne vinaigrette to start their meal, Abby’s mind wandered back to the evening her brother had brought Matt home during spring break.

  She’d been carefully setting the dining room table, making sure the silverware lined up the proper distance from the plate and the edge of the table.

  “Can I help?” an unfamiliar tenor asked.

  Abby spun toward the doorway where a Greek God dressed as one of Hell’s Angels leaned against the doorjamb, his arms crossed over his chest. A cigarette butt hung from his lip, its smoke curling around his head like a hazy halo.

  The chandelier accentuated the highlights in his short hazelnut hair, topping off over six-feet of muscles, the likes of which she hadn’t seen on a guy in....forever.

  Okay, play it cool. Don’t let him see what a big dork you are. “I don’t know,” she croaked, trying to work up enough spit to speak coherently. “Can you?”

  “Maybe. Sure you don’t want a ruler to double-check your precision?”

  “Do you have one handy?”

  He patted all of his pockets, then snapped his fingers and grinned. “Sorry, I’m fresh out of rulers. Although, my friends tell me I have a great eye for measurements.”

  She held her breath while the appreciative glint flickering in his hot fudge gaze warmed her from head to toe.

  “I’d say you have it all situated—perfectly. You must be Abby. I’m Matt Foster, a friend of your brother’s from ROTC.”

  “Oh, another maniac with a death wish.”

  He took her offered hand and held it, staring into her eyes while he stroked her palm, making her tremble. “Believe me, I enjoy breathing. When I graduated high school in ’62, Cuba and the Soviet Union were more of an issue than Vietnam.”

  “That’s true,” she admitted, yanking her hand away. No one had expected the situation to escalate there.

  “Ivy League schools aren’t cheap. Even though I had the grades to get into Princeton, they weren’t quite good enough to get a full ride.”

  “So I guess you needed financial help as much as Pete did.”

  “Yup. He’s the one who pointed out that, if we applied for ROTC scholarships, not only would Uncle Sam write checks to Princeton for us, the Army would also be forced to wait four years and would induct us as officers. We gambled the shooting would be over by now. I’ll be graduati
ng with Pete in May, so you could say we lost.”

  Wow. Matt looked young enough to be starting college instead of finishing.

  “If nothing else, it’s a cheap way to see the world.”

  Not to mention a dangerous way. Everyone knew the enemy always targeted officers first. She snatched the cigarette from his lips and stubbed it out in the glass ashtray on the sideboard.

  “Sorry.” He dug a roll of mints out of his pocket. “Your brother said your mom wouldn’t care if I smoked in the house.”

  Of course Pete would say that, seeing as he and their mother both puffed their way through a carton a week. “If you really like breathing, you’ll give those up. Or haven’t you heard they cause cancer?”

  Darn. She winced inwardly, shaking her head to refuse the mint he offered her. Why had she done that? Now he really would think she was a doofus.

  “Oh?” He peered down at the top of her head. “I thought they just stunted a person’s growth.”

  “What we short people lack in height, we more than make up for with brains.”

  Matt tipped her chin up, a mischievous twinkle glittering in his gaze. “If you’re so smart, why don’t you tell me what I’m wondering right now.”

  “I may be intelligent, but I’m not a mind reader.”

  “Sweetheart,”—he popped one of the mints into his mouth—“if you’re really as sharp as you claim, you’d know exactly what’s on my mind.”

  This guy was no angel—fallen or otherwise. “Well....” She gulped. “I guess I’m not as smart as I thought. So if you’ve known Peter since high school, why hasn’t he brought you around before?

  “Probably ‘cause he knew I’d hit on you.”

  “Typical. My brother likes to forget I’ll be eighteen in June.”

  “So maybe you are psychic. You just answered my question.” He stepped closer and took her hand in his, caressing the back of it with his thumb. “I was wondering whether you’re old enough to go out with me tomorrow night.” His gaze moved slowly over her face, an untamed longing flaring in his eyes. “I’ll take you for a spin on my Harley. We can do whatever you like. Maybe a movie?”

  She didn’t want to admit he was out of her league, so her safest move would be to suggest something a guy would hate—like say, a musical to discourage him. “Umm, The Sound of Music is making a second run after winning Best Picture. I missed it last year, so I’d love to see that.”

  He laughed. “I’ll be happy to take you, but I have no idea how you’re going to see the sound of music. Most people hear it.”

  So much for discouraging him.

  “Is it a date?” he asked. When she hemmed and hawed, hesitating, he coaxed softly, “Come on, what do you say?”

  “I say, I’ll be asking for trouble if I go out with you.”

  He leaned closer and gently threaded his fingers through her long hair. The mingled scents of his tangy aftershave and tobacco wafted around her like a seductive cloud. His mouth came within inches of hers, his warm, minty breath tickling her face and making her heart leap. “I know,” he whispered roughly, “but do it anyway.”

  Chapter 2

  Friday, April 6, 1973

  Philadelphia VA Medical Center

  Matt strolled out of the Philly veteran’s hospital right after lunch lugging a duffel bag which contained the few things he’d bought at the Clark PX using the allotment the Army had given him.

  In addition to three sets of civilian clothes, underwear, toiletries, and a pair of black basketball sneakers, he’d bought himself a watch and a wallet. Somehow, those two simple possessions made him feel like a free man with a new lease on life. And practically no money to pay for that lease.

  The major had told Matt it would take a while to straighten out the accounting nightmare involving his back pay, the benefits his wife had already received, and whatever disability compensation he was entitled to. In the end, he’d probably get something. But considering the bureaucratic red tape, it could be several months, and he had no idea how much it would be.

  The month’s pay the army had disbursed to tide him over wouldn’t go far, seeing as he had no car, no job, and no home. And he’d been worried about providing for a wife? More likely she’d need to support him.

  Rather than wasting his cash on train fare, he walked to University Avenue and stuck out his thumb. Fate smiled when one of the nurses who’d cared for him stopped and agreed to give him a lift to the address in Matt’s file since she was on her way to New Hope to visit her sister. During the ride, a peculiar sense of familiarity nagged him. He knew every curve in the road, yet he had no memory of ever being there.

  Arriving at the quiet residential cul-de-sac, Matt sank onto the curb across the street from his wife’s property under a large maple tree garbed in green buds.

  He breathed in the fresh scent of the hyacinths and daffodils blooming in the nearby yard and studied the small white rancher and its breathtaking view of the countryside. The house desperately needed a coat of paint.

  Obviously, Dr. Grant knew what she was talking about. His wife must have some sort of a job. She wouldn’t be able to afford to live in such a nice area on only his army benefits. Nor would she have what appeared to be a brand new Mercedes-Benz and a ‘66 GTO parked in her driveway.

  When the front door sprang open, Matt jumped up and ducked behind the tree. A brown-haired man in his early thirties stepped out of the house, followed by a tiny woman whose head would barely reach Matt’s chin.

  Blonde waves cascaded down her back, brushing the come-hither strip of flesh flashing between her pink tie-died T-shirt and faded bell-bottom jeans. Her curvy figure matched the faceless woman’s who previously existed only in Matt’s dreams. High, full breasts and a slender waist topped a gently rounded bottom accentuated by her low, hip-hugging pants.

  No way could this young girl be his wife. She would’ve been just a baby when they got married.

  The man brushed a kiss across her lips before striding to the silver Mercedes and calling, “Love you, Ab.”

  Damn. She was Abby.

  “See you tonight.” Her dazzling smile made Matt’s breath hitch.

  Except for the contradiction of her sexy figure, she looked like an angel. He’d bought his jeans on the loose side with the intention of gaining weight, but after getting a gander of his erotic fantasy in the flesh, he still didn’t have enough room to be comfortable. From his vantage point, he couldn’t tell for sure, but he’d give ten to one odds Abby had green eyes.

  He’d been too embarrassed to tell Dr. Grant about the intense X-rated encounters that teased the edges of his mind the same way a dream does after waking up. They were irrelevant since the woman was indistinguishable in them.

  All he remembered was burying his face in luxurious rose-scented hair, gazing into emerald eyes, and an incredible physical experience. Seeing his dream woman come to life, after spending more than six interminable years either alone or with a bunch of smelly men left his body screaming, Come on, Baby!

  What had a gorgeous creature like her ever seen in him? She could have any guy she wanted. He swallowed hard past the .45 caliber lump lodged in his throat. Even though he didn’t remember her outside his dreams, it still hurt to see his wife kiss Mr. Mercedes.

  Matt heaved a sigh. He must have masochistic tendencies. Why else would he put himself through this?

  Despite the man’s mutton chop sideburns—a style that should have stayed in the Victorian era—he seemed like a decent guy. And his luxury car proved he could provide for Abby a helluva lot better than Matt could. He should just write her a note and bow out of her life gracefully.

  After the Mercedes sped off, instead of going back into the house, his wife strolled the thirty yards to the corner. She stopped and stood there for several minutes.

  Hearing the fellow tell Abby he loved her had settled things for Matt. As he turned to walk away, a school bus pulled up to the corner and two little boys scrambled off, one with sunny blond hair
and the other with a windblown mop the same shade as toffee. They both ran to Abby, their arms outstretched for a hug and the shower of kisses she rained over their faces.

  When they trooped back toward Matt, he jumped behind the tree, his gut in a knot. The boys appeared to be about six, so he’d bet everything he had—which, granted, didn’t amount to much—he was their father.

  Once they got closer, he studied the blond child’s face. The kid didn’t look anything like Matt, although he did have Abby’s coloring. The other boy grabbed a paper out of the towhead’s hand and sprinted off as if a starter pistol had been fired.

  “Tommy!” The blond little boy chased after him.

  Abby planted her hands on her hips and hollered, “Matthew Thomas Foster, Jr. give that back to Royce. Right now!”

  O-kaaay. That settled any question about who’d sired the twins. Matt watched the two boys race each other into the house. Anguish clogged his throat. He might be able to walk away from this sexy woman. But not from his sons.

  He rubbed the tightness in his chest as six years of fear became reality. He really did have something worth remembering.

  ~~~

  Abby munched on the remainder of the buttery popcorn she’d made for the boys and listened to them chatter about their day in school. “As soon as you two finish your OJ, I want you to play outside. I have to cut the grass.”

  Normally, a landscaping service cared for her lawn, but they were so busy with the early spring rush, they couldn’t get to her for another week. If she waited, the grass would be up to the kids’ knees.

  Tommy and Royce drained their glasses in a race to be the first finished, then dashed out to the front yard and chased each other around the large apple tree.

  She followed them, heaving a weary sigh. She dragged the lawnmower out of the garage to the driveway and repeatedly yanked on the starter cord. When the mechanical beast sputtered for the fifth time, she kicked its wheel and rubbed her throbbing shoulder.