by Tepe, Mandie
Tobi held it up in front of her face and turned it around, studying it. “It’s pretty. What is it? Dyed sand?” she asked.
Meg took it from her and pulled the cork top off. She held it up for Tobi to smell. “They’re bath salts.” She rolled her eyes. “Mom found a recipe for how to make your own bath salts on the Internet. I swear, every time someone walked in the house she handed a jar to them. I don’t even want to see the closet where she has them all stashed. She must have made tons!”
Tobi sniffed at it gingerly. “It smells nice, but I can’t really identify the scent.”
Meg nodded. “I know! Right?”
They both laughed and Tobi put the lid back on. “It matches my bathroom. That’s nice.”
She set the jar down and picked up a bag and followed Meg, who had grabbed the rest, up the stairs. They dropped the luggage on her bed and trooped down to the kitchen to search for Meg’s carryout menus. They decided on Chinese and called in the order, then sat down to wait and catch up.
“Now that I’ve finished torturing you with my sweet new nephew and adorable niece photos . . . what’s going on with you, Tobi?” Meg asked, stuffing the photos back into the envelope.
“Not much,” she said, toying with the short fringe on a throw pillow. “Sonny and I aren’t seeing each other anymore.”
Meg sat forward on the couch, searching Tobi’s face. “Oh, no. I’m so sorry, Tobi. Are you okay?”
Tobi waved her hand dismissively. “I’m fine. We weren’t serious or anything . . . Not like you and ‘He Who Must Not Be Named.’ We were just having fun. It was time for it to end.” She decided to change the subject. “What are your plans tomorrow?”
“Unpacking . . . laundry . . . pack up the Christmas decorations and put them away . . . officially start my new life . . .” Meg raised her arms over her head and stretched. “I’m looking forward to that. Next Monday we can get in to our studios, right? Start setting things up?”
Tobi nodded and stood up to answer the door and pay the delivery guy for their dinner. She brought the food over to the dining room table and they dug in. “What else is new, Meg?”
“I talked to Sean while I was away. He called.”
“How did that go?”
“Good. He had big news. Get this . . . he’s going to be working on Naima’s next concert tour.”
“Naima . . . she’s that hot new R&B singer! What’s he doing? Backup dancer?”
“No! Choreographer! Isn’t that great? They’re doing all the show prep up in LA. He hadn’t heard about my plans and wanted to know if I wanted to come in and dance on the tour . . . assist him with the choreography too.” Meg pushed back from the table to reach behind her for more napkins. “I thought it was really nice of him to reach out to me, but I told him I had a good job lined up here.”
“What did he have to say about that?”
“I think he was happy to hear it. He knew I was tired of the travel. I did, however, ask him to keep me in mind if anything comes up during our semester breaks,” Meg added.
Tobi shook her head. “I just can’t believe he thought you might want to work with him and Steffy.”
Meg dropped her chopsticks and grabbed Tobi’s hand. “Oh my gosh! You haven’t heard! When was the last time you talked to Anthony?”
Tobi looked baffled. “I haven’t talked to him in over a week. What?! Tell me!”
“The scuttlebutt from Steffy’s TA buddies is that Sean dumped her back in November and she moved out to Vegas. Signed on as a showgirl at Bally’s . . . or was it the Tropicana?” She waved her hand in front of her face. “Oh, well . . . it doesn’t matter. Can you believe it?” she asked Tobi.
“Yeah . . . that sounds about right. It doesn’t surprise me a bit.” They both burst out laughing.
“Well, regardless . . . Sean sounds like his old self and he’s back on his feet again. I’m glad.” Meg picked up her chopsticks and carton and dug in again.
“You’re a better man than I am, Meg,” Tobi replied.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The soft, mid-February morning light crept into Trace’s bedroom as he rolled over, and felt around the bedside table for his phone with his eyes still closed. What time was it and who could be calling him this early? They had returned from a six-week deployment to Afghanistan late the night before and he needed a lot more sleep.
“What?” he asked, his voice still sleep-roughened. He slung his free arm over his still-closed eyes.
Silence. Then, “Trace, honey?”
His eyes flew open and he sat up pushing his pillow behind him to lean back against the headboard. “Oh, Mom. Sorry.”
“I’m so sorry, Trace. I guess it’s still pretty early there, huh? Go back to sleep and I’ll call back later.”
“No, no, Mom. It’s fine. How are you doing?” He stifled a yawn and hoped she didn’t hear it.
“I knew you were supposed to get back last night and I’ve been so worried. I just wanted to hear your voice. Are you home?”
“Safe and sound and sleeping in my own bed. Praise the Lord!” he answered.
“Praise the Lord, indeed!” This had been a rough trip, she knew. He never said much about the missions in his emails while he was out in the field. But over the years she had learned to listen to what he didn’t say. There had been a lot in the news here at home about escalated violence by the Taliban in the last couple of months. She knew he must be in the thick of it . . . tracking down intelligence up in the mountains where all that senseless violence was born and bred.
Trace’s team had been sent in to help find the terrorists up in those mountains and bring back documentation that they were where they were suspected of being before the big guns could go in a take them out. The teams that were already in country were working as hard as they could, but it was a lot of ground to cover and they needed more boots on the ground so they could cover even more of it. They had worked with other SEAL teams, as well as Spec Ops from other branches of the military.
At one point Trace and Gomez had been caught between three groups of Taliban who moved in and encamped before they were able to extract from their location. It was two days of lying perfectly still, hidden in one place six feet apart. They couldn’t move or speak . . . or even see one another that whole time. The Taliban finally withdrew, never even knowing they had two US Navy SEALs right in their midst. Trace and Gomez came back with some beautiful photos and audio, though. The Taliban could be pretty chatty when they thought they were alone.
After some of the threat died down, Trace’s team was sent back home. It was a tough trip and they were relieved to get a little break before going back out to do their jobs again.
“How are things with you, Mom? Haven’t been worrying too much, I hope,” he teased.
“You know me. I’m a worrier.” Claire said.
He sighed, “I know. I wish you wouldn’t. We take care of each other out there.”
“So everyone made it back, then?”
“The whole team. We’re fine . . . just tired.”
“I’ll let you go. Just wanted to hear your voice.”
“Wait! You never told me how you and Michael are doing. Have you talked to Sean?”
“We’re great. Even better now that you’re home. Sean is doing great too, ever since he got rid of that girl. He’s got a great job in LA, choreographing and staging a concert tour for some R&B singer . . . I can’t pronounce her name, but I understand she’s a big deal.”
“That’s great. I’m glad he’s doing well . . .” Trace trailed off. He wondered if things were going so well for Meg, but he didn’t have the guts to ask his mom if she had heard anything.
Claire sensed where his mind had wandered and she sighed. “Sounds like everyone is doing really good.” That’s as far as she let herself go to try to ease his mind. She wondered if he would understand that “everyone” included Meg.
“You go back to sleep, Trace,” she continued. “We can talk more later. Maybe you’ll get some leave ti
me after this deployment and can come spend some time at home.”
“Maybe. I’ll look into it. I promise. Love you, Mom.”
“Love you too. Sweet dreams.”
He disconnected, tossed the phone back on the table beside him, and scooted back down under the covers. He turned on his side to look out the window as the sky lightened. Damn, he thought. He’d been getting pretty good at making himself not think about Meg. But she’d jumped in his head anyway, while his mom was filling him in about Sean. And now that she was there he was having a hard time shoving her back out. Must be the exhaustion. Why fight it? He let himself run memories of her like a movie through his head until he drifted back to sleep . . . then enjoyed some of the sweetest dreams he’d had in a long time.
• • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •
Trace and his teammates didn’t have a whole lot going on for the rest of the week. They had debriefings to sit through and some fairly tame PT sessions—not that the SEALs knew anything about tame. When Saturday rolled around Trace let himself sleep late and just puttered around his house and the beach, soaking in all the peace and quiet he could. He met the guys at Maxie’s for a beer, but went home early and watched ESPN for a while.
He knew the guys were a little concerned about him. He’d been a lot more solitary since Meg went away than he’d been before. They still hung out, but they knew he was working through some things.
While they were in Afghanistan, after a really rough day when a couple of Marine SF guys they knew were killed in a firefight, Sonny had broached the subject with Trace.
“Look, McKenna,” he had said. “Why don’t you call Meg? We both know you need to hear her voice. You could at least email her.”
Trace had looked up at Sonny with reddened eyes, “I can’t do it. It would be selfish of me. I’m sure she’s doing fine and I can’t reel her back in just because I’m feeling a little rocky for a few hours.”
Sonny had shaken his head. “It’s not a matter of being rocky for a few hours. I can’t believe I’m saying this, McKenna, but you need her.”
“Nah. She’s better off without me.” He’d punched Sonny on the shoulder. “Why don’t you call Tobi, though. You’re in the same boat as me.”
“No way. We were just hanging out together. What we had was nothing like what you had with Meg. You guys were the real thing.” He’d shaken his head at Trace again, then stood up to leave. “I won’t bring it up again. But I wish you would fight for her. I think she’s worth it.”
That was the last time Sonny . . . or any of the guys brought Meg up. But he could see in their eyes they thought he was an idiot. And he knew he was. But it was too late. She’d surely moved on and was flitting around the world . . . and he was here, stuck in time.
• • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •
Bayside Christian Church was just the way he remembered it when he’d attended with Meg. He didn’t think too much about why he’d decided to come his first Sunday morning back home. He’d been feeling a little down about some things . . . and after several dicey situations in Afghanistan, he was grateful to have made it back home in one piece, with his team intact. It didn’t take a psychological—or a theological—genius to understand that he had some things to talk over with God. He remembered the good feeling he’d had the last time he was here, so he decided this was as good a place as any for that conversation.
He walked in the front door and there were plenty of people to greet him. As he made his way into the worship center he paused to look around. There were lots of people mingling and he was surprised, as he had been the first time he was here, that so many people in such a big church all seemed to know each other. Men, women and kids all hopped from one group to another greeting each other with lots of hugs from the older ladies. There were plenty of smiles for him too but, thankfully, no hugs. He made his way into one of the upper sections at the back of the room and found a seat. He made small talk with a few of the people around him as they waited for the service to begin.
The lights went down and a dozen or so little girls came up the front side aisle following a woman and a teenage girl who knelt in front of the stage as the little girls scurried up the steps onto it. They were all dressed in jeans and white t-shirts. They buzzed around a bit as they grouped into some type of formation. It was pretty dark in front of the stage, but Trace could see one of the women turn and signal to the sound technician. She was wearing a pink sweater and something was weird about her, he thought. Familiar almost. Music came over the speakers and he looked back at the stage. The large PowerPoint screens now displayed a graphic that said Petite Praise—Third through Fifth Grade Worship Dance Team. Now the PowerPoint began displaying the lyrics to Lincoln Brewster’s version of Everlasting God, as the little dancers started their performance. The coaches in front of the stage were performing the arm movements, in a more exaggerated way, along with the dancers. Some of the smaller girls were watching them for help when they got lost.
Trace smiled to himself watching them dance. Having grown up around a dance school, he could tell only a couple of them showed any real dance potential, but the ones who didn’t were way more charming to him. What they lacked in talent they made up for in enthusiasm. The crowd was behind them every step of the way—clapping and singing the upbeat and inspirational praise song along with the recording.
Toward the end one of the little girls walked toward the front of the stage and the woman in pink reached up and handed her a mic. When the music quieted into the background she began reciting from Isaiah . . . “The Lord is the everlasting God, the Creator of the ends of the earth. He will not grow tired or weary, and his understanding no one can fathom. He gives strength to the weary and increases the power of the weak. Even youths grow tired and weary, and young men stumble and fall; but those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint.”
Trace wished he’d had a recording of that sweet little voice reciting those verses for him to listen to during tough times while he’d been in Afghanistan.
The crowd went wild, applauding the dancers as they trooped off the stage and the praise band came out and took their places. He watched the lady in pink and the teenaged girl herd the girls back up the aisle and out of the auditorium. He could tell they were praising the little dancers all the way, with whispered words, high fives and hugs. He stood up with the rest of the crowd to begin the praise service.
About halfway through the second song he noticed the woman in pink come into the worship center from the door beside his section, stop and look around as if trying to find someone. She was very attractive in the dusty pink wrap-around sweater over gray wool slacks that ended just a few inches below her knees—capris, he thought they called them. They had flecks of burgundy and darker gray. Her soft burgundy leather boots hugged her calves and had spiked heels. Her dark auburn hair waved down her back to her shoulder blades. She turned her head and his heart stopped. It couldn’t be! The lights were down a little bit, but it wasn’t dark enough to make him see things that weren’t there. She must have found who she was looking for because she smiled and waved back at a woman who was trying to get her attention. She walked over to the back row of the section directly in front of Trace’s seat. Her friend, and the man with her, each moved over a seat to make room for Meg on the aisle. She set her customary huge handbag and her Bible down on the seat behind her, hugged her friend, and then joined in to sing along with everyone.
He thought his knees might give out. It was Meg. The woman who had been coaching the little girls a little while ago was Meg! The couple standing in the row in front of Meg turned around and spoke to her. Not only was Meg here, but she belonged here. He could tell by the way she was interacting that she felt at home and was part of the community. How could that be? She was supposed to be off dancing in some unknown locale.
Just as the service host was launching into the final announcements, Trace stood up and took a position by the door nearest Meg’s seat. Then he waited.
It seemed like it was taking forever for her to get to the door. She spent a lot of time accepting congratulations from everyone on her girls’ performance. She stopped a few times just to chat with some friends. Just as she was getting close, a woman she obviously didn’t know stopped her to ask about getting her daughter involved with Petite Praise. So Meg stopped and pulled out a notepad to exchange contact information.
He was just beginning to think he’d have to wade in and extract her himself when she came within two feet of him and came to a dead stop in front of him. He looked at her stunned face and realized that’s probably the exact expression he had worn for the past hour or so.
“Hi, Meg,” Trace said quietly.
“Trace!” she croaked.
Two couples came up beside her. “Meg! They did so good!”
Meg jerked her head toward them. “Oh, yes! They were awesome. I’m really proud of them.”
The group moved on through the door, wishing her a good week and Meg turned her head back toward him and looked as if she expected him to have been a mirage. He saw the exact moment she realized he was really there. It seemed like a lifetime since he had looked into those gorgeous, bright green eyes.
She didn’t say anything so he jumped in. “Looks like you’ve made a lot of friends here.”
She cleared her throat. “Um . . . yeah. Trace, I’m surprised to see you here.”
“Imagine my surprise.” He said wryly. “I live just up the road. This is my neighborhood. I wouldn’t think it would be such a big surprise to run into me here.”