Not even when she’d stood beside his grave, clutching the flag presented to her by a solemn-faced general.
“Every thought I have about the kids makes my stomach hurt, whether it’s keeping them or sending them away. I think of five more years like the last two, until Abby goes to college, and I can’t stand it. I think of not seeing them, not knowing what’s going on with them, whether they’ve been abandoned again, and I can’t stand that, either.” Her eyes grew damp as she spoke, and the tightness in her chest made a deep breath impossible. “I think about what Paul would say—” She finished with an inhale so sharp her throat burned with it.
“Oh, honey, Paul would say that you’ve done the best you could. You’ve provided them with a home and security. You’ve taken them to counseling. You’ve tried, Therese. That’s all anyone can do.” Carly’s expression darkened. “That’s more than their mother or grandparents have done.”
The words reassured her—a little. But there was so damn much doubt as she stared across the yard at the bare wooden fence that separated it from the neighbor’s. The unfinished yard, the forgotten plans, the disappointing life. Everything was on hold, it seemed, waiting for her to find a solution she could live with. Nothing was going to change unless she changed it, and she didn’t know the right way to do that. “I just feel so conflicted.”
“You know I’ll support whatever you do,” Carly said. “But, sweetie, if you’re this torn, maybe you’re not ready to make a decision yet. Maybe you should pray more, think more, do the counseling bit more. I don’t know, maybe you should even set the kids down and tell them their options—straighten up and act human, be a responsible member of this family, or go away.”
That was most of her friends’ opinion—at least, the straighten-up-and-act-human part. How many times had she heard it? I’d smack any child who spoke to me like that. My mama never would have put up with such a smart mouth. They have to learn that behavior has consequences.
She could have been tougher on them. Of course she knew that. But, as the chaplain, the psychologists, and the therapists had repeatedly reminded her, they were grieving children. She was the adult. They’d advised cutting the kids some slack, and she had done it. She’d let them get away with things Paul hadn’t tolerated. They’d pushed the limits of her control, and she had never raised her voice, much less a hand, to them in anger.
Abby couldn’t make the same claim. Therese imagined she could still feel the tenderness in her cheek from the slap Abby had once delivered in a fit of anger. The breaking point in their so-called relationship.
Which begged the question: if the relationship was broken, why hadn’t she called Catherine yet?
* * *
After leaving the Matheson house, Keegan turned onto Main Street, found a parking spot at the back of the Sonic drive-in, and ordered before dialing his mother’s number. Ercella answered on the second ring, not bothering with a greeting. “Did you talk to him?”
He removed his sunglasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. “No. He’s dead.”
“He’s— Oh, Lord, bless his heart. And his family’s.” She murmured more, a prayer for Matheson’s soul, no doubt. A month ago she’d been angry that he refused to acknowledge his daughter. Every few days since, she’d asked how in the world any man worthy of the name father could not want to be with a precious little girl—sometimes as much a dig at Keegan, he thought, as Matheson. Now she was praying for the man.
Honesty forced Keegan to admit that she’d probably been praying for Matheson from the first time she’d heard of him. She believed God answered prayers.
“Did you meet his wife?”
“Yes.”
“Poor thing. Finding a stranger on her doorstep asking for her dead husband.”
Poor thing. Not the first thought Therese Matheson brought to his mind. Pretty. Contained. Grieving, but going on with life. Staying strong. Raising his children from a previous relationship. Had she wanted children of her own? Matheson’s children?
With a bratty teenager and a son who looked a few years younger, did she miss the cute cuddly days of toddlers?
Don’t even think it. If Therese didn’t know about her husband’s infidelity or his illegitimate daughter’s existence, damned if he would be the one to tell her. He wasn’t about to tarnish her hero’s memory for her.
His mother echoed his thoughts. “Does she know about Mariah?”
“Hard to say.”
“And you can’t just come out and ask. If she doesn’t, it would probably break her heart. So what now? You gonna spend the night before you come home?”
The car hop, a young redhead so pregnant she looked as if she might pop right there, tapped on his window, and he rolled it down. “Hold on, Mom.”
“Cheeseburger, tots, large cherry limeade,” the girl said cheerfully, trading him the bag for a ten-dollar bill. She was probably an Army wife working to make ends meet. Defending your country didn’t pay as well as it could, especially for families.
“Keep the change,” he said before picking up his phone again.
“Well?” Ercella prompted.
Going home. There was no reason not to. No reason to even bother spending the night. He wasn’t tired. He could be in Leesville in time to sleep in his own bed.
He didn’t have to be back at work for a couple more weeks.
He hadn’t taken time off in a while.
He could probably find some old friends at Fort Murphy, or at Fort Riley a few hours north, Fort Sill a few hours southwest, or definitely at Fort Carson a long day’s drive west. He could even hang around Tallgrass and see what this part of Oklahoma had to offer.
“Well?”
“I don’t know, Mom. I think I’ll wait…Maybe Matheson’s got parents somewhere or a brother or sister.”
There wasn’t any kind of physical connection between them, so how could she make the phone vibrate with her disapproval? “This child shouldn’t be raised by grandparents.”
“You’re raising her.”
“I’m helping out. She needs parents young enough to do things with her, to have fun with her, who won’t be on Social Security before she even gets out of grade school. She needs a regular family.”
“And we’re not it.” Immediately he regretted the words, the tone. She loved Mariah and considered her family even if he didn’t.
Before he could apologize, Ercella stiffly said, “According to the State of Louisiana, we are. You’re listed as father on her birth certificate. You’ve got custody of her. She’s your legal responsibility even if she isn’t your daughter.”
“And I’m trying to do what’s best for her—find her real family. Mom, I warned you…” The day he’d asked for her help, he’d stressed it would be temporary. Not to get too attached. That he intended to find Mariah’s father and turn her over to him.
But telling Ercella Logan not to get attached to a kid who needed her was like telling the fish in Saline Lake not to rely too much on the water they lived in. She’d known it. He’d known it.
“I know.” She sounded weary, and fairly so. They’d had this conversation too many times before. “I just wish…”
That Mariah was his daughter. Her granddaughter.
There had been a moment, back when Sabrina broke the news that she was pregnant, that he’d wanted it, too. He hadn’t been looking to become a father, not yet, though he’d always figured he would. They’d had a solid relationship. They’d had fun together. Good times, good sex, a good commitment.
In that moment, he had thought they’d get married—his mother would’ve had his hide if they hadn’t—and by the time the baby was born, he would have been ready for fatherhood.
Then, less than five minutes later, she’d blown that thought out of his mind.
I’m six weeks along, Keegan. You’re not the father.
Again he removed his sunglasses and pinched his nose. It had taken him some time to understand what she’d meant. The concept of infidelity was famili
ar, of course. His father had run around on his mom, and the first man his sister had fallen in love with had slept with her best friends—three of them. They’d both had their hearts broken, and he had learned the real meaning of commitment.
I met this man while you were gone. He’s a major. He’s the father.
Too bad Sabrina hadn’t shared his idea of commitment.
Ercella’s sigh was as heavy as the Louisiana air. “Your food’s getting cold. Go ahead and eat, and call me when you decide what you’re going to do. I’ll give Mariah a hug and a kiss for you.”
He thought of the hug Mariah had given him yesterday, the first time she’d touched him, how soft and warm and foreign it had felt. Those pudgy little arms wrapped around his neck, that sweet baby girl smell of her, the overwhelming sense of obligation to her.
“You do that, Mom,” he said quietly. “I love you.”
Grimly he disconnected and reached for the paper bag that held his late lunch or early dinner or whatever the hell it was. God, he just wanted life to go back to normal.
Somehow he didn’t think that was going to happen.
Chapter 4
The cookies had been banished back to the kitchen, what was left of them, and their glasses were empty when Therese finally broached the subject of her visitor that afternoon. “Something kind of awkward happened earlier. A man came to the house looking for Paul. Abby answered the door and bellowed at me, then stormed upstairs and left him standing there. By the time I got to the door, he was looking mortified.”
Carly’s forehead wrinkled sympathetically. “He saw the Gold Star flag.”
Therese nodded. “He was…Shocked wouldn’t be understating it. Then he felt bad, and I felt bad, and after we talked a few minutes, he left.”
Carly stared down into her glass for a moment, clinking the last bits of ice, before leaning over to set it on the cement. “The first few months after Jeff died, it seemed everywhere I went, everyone knew. People would look at me. Sometimes they’d say they were sorry. Sometimes they couldn’t meet my gaze or get away from me fast enough.”
Therese nodded again. She knew those looks. They’d followed her through the halls at school, in the businesses she frequented, whenever she ran into soldiers from Paul’s unit or especially their spouses. They were sympathetic and awkward and sometimes fearful but also relieved, because what happened to her and Paul could happen to any of them, but hadn’t yet.
“The first time we met…” Carly gestured with her left hand, and for just an instant it struck Therese how odd it looked without the wedding band she’d just recently switched to her right hand. “I went to your class to ask you to dinner, I told you my name and said, ‘My husband was…’ and you knew. You said, ‘I know. Mine, too.’”
“It was hard not to know.” The post school where Therese taught kindergarten and Carly third grade was large, but with the population entirely military dependents—and many of the teachers—a combat death couldn’t go unnoticed. At the time of Paul’s death, there had been more than twenty teachers at the combined elementary/middle/high school whose spouses were deployed to Iraq or Afghanistan. More than twenty people living in fear of that casualty notification call.
Carly had been lucky enough to get hers at home after school—if anything about the experience could be considered lucky. Therese’s had come in the middle of the day: a knock at her classroom door, the principal asking her to accompany him to his office, where two solemn-faced officers in dress uniform waited. Her first hope when Mr. Hopkins called her from the room was that some minor accident had affected one of the kids, but in her heart, she’d known it was Paul, and seeing the officers had confirmed it.
Her heart had broken, her life ended, in the principal’s office.
Not ended. Just…redirected.
At least, that was her prayer.
“So…this man…did he say what he wanted with Paul? Was he in Afghanistan with him?”
“Yes. He’s a medic. Stationed at Fort Polk now. His name is Keegan Logan.”
Carly nudged her with one sandaled foot. “Is he as handsome as his name?”
Therese made a big show of rolling her eyes. “Need I remind you that you’re engaged to be married?”
A flush of sheer pleasure washed over Carly, brightening her face, lightening her eyes. “You do not. But I know available women. Is he?”
“Available?”
“Handsome. You’re avoiding the question, so I’m going to assume the answer is yes, very.” Slowly Carly smiled, her expression shifting from teasing to serious. “When was your last date, Therese?”
She bent to pluck an early-blooming weed from the lawn at the edge of the patio and fixed her gaze on it. “I have no time or energy for or interest in dating. You forget, I have enough drama in my life with Jacob and the princess. Besides, even if I were interested, it wouldn’t be another soldier. And Sergeant Logan isn’t even stationed here. I won’t ever see him again.”
“Maybe not.” Her friend’s smile returned. “Though I wasn’t looking for another soldier, either, and when I met Dane in that cave, I thought I’d never see him again. Look at us now.”
“Disgustingly in love, I know. But it’s different for you.” Carly had only the memories of Jeff, what they’d had and what they should have had, to deal with. The major impact of getting involved with another man was on her and no one else.
“You’re a stepmother, Therese, not a nun. You agreed to take care of Paul’s kids, not give up your own life for them. Besides, a father figure might do them some good.”
The mere thought of introducing a man into Abby’s and Jacob’s lives made Therese shudder. Her relationship with Abby was a certified disaster, and things with Jacob were iffy. If they thought for an instant she was trying to replace their father with another man…
“I’m not saying this Keegan guy is the man for you. There’s that little problem of living eight to ten hours apart. Though,” Carly said reflectively, “we do it all the time. My point is, you noticed him as a man, in a gee-he’s-handsome-and-I’m-a-living-breathing-woman sort of way, and that’s a start. The next man you notice might be one right here in town, one who’s available and worth the risk of getting involved.”
“I can’t imagine it,” Therese said stubbornly. And she really couldn’t, not with things the way they were. But her friend did have a point: she had noticed that Keegan Logan was handsome, and that she was a woman still living and breathing, no matter how hard it was at times. And there was certainly an allure to the idea that, sometime in the future, she might share her life with someone.
Before she could get all wistful thinking of not being alone anymore, Carly sighed and got to her feet. “I’ve got to get home. Thanks for the cookies. Next time I’ll bring them with me.”
Therese started to rise, but Carly waved her back.
“I know the way.” Unexpectedly she bent for a hug. “Everything’s going to be good again someday, sweetie. With you, with the kids, with life in general.”
Therese clung to her a moment, savoring the simple embrace, the closeness, the affection. Her voice was a little husky when she asked, “Are you sure about that?”
It took Carly a bit after she straightened to reply, thoughtfully, positively. “I am. Hey, life’s nothing without hope, right?”
After saying good-bye, she went into the house. A moment later, Therese imagined she heard the click of the front door, though of course she hadn’t. Only Abby’s vigorous slams were loud enough to hear out back.
Life’s nothing without hope. Carly was right. That was why Therese felt so edgy and empty and bleak these days. She’d lost hope. Part of her was convinced that giving up the kids was the first step to finding it again—both hope and her life. Part of her thought if she could just hold out until Abby was on her own. Part of her didn’t have a clue.
“Lord, if You want to send down some answers, I’m here waiting,” she whispered, her gaze shifting automatically to the sky. It w
as a beautiful vivid blue, with clouds so fat and white they didn’t look real. Far above, the contrails from two jets formed intersecting wisps, and right next door a bird sang in the branches of the neighbor’s maple.
Peace. Even without an answer from God, that was what she should have been feeling on such an afternoon, but it eluded her. It had for a long time.
Wearily she stood and gathered the empty tea glasses. At the door, she hesitated, her lungs tightening, that familiar sensation fluttering in her chest. Her home wasn’t a refuge, as it should be, but a place she dreaded being.
Monday morning and work couldn’t come soon enough.
* * *
Monday morning always came too soon.
Jessy dragged herself out of bed after hitting the snooze button on the alarm three times for an extra thirty minutes of sleep. She was achy, stiff, and stuffy when she went into the bathroom. Her hair stood on end, the red so bright that it hurt her eyes this early in the morning, and made her face look as washed out as a jar of paste. There were shadows under her eyes and lines bracketing her mouth.
She must be coming down with something. She hadn’t slept well. She wasn’t getting enough exercise, and her nutrition sucked. All combined, it was taking a toll on her, and it showed. At least, that was what she told herself.
Damn it if she’d admit, even to herself, that it was a lie.
She showered, dressed, applied makeup with lots of concealer to hide the shadows, then went into the kitchen to scrounge up something for breakfast. Resolutely she ignored the empty bottle of scotch on the counter, took a candy bar from her snacks cupboard and a can of pop from the fridge, and promised herself she’d eat better for lunch.
The only good thing about Monday was that it was always followed by Tuesday, and that meant the weekly meeting of the Tuesday Night Margarita Club. It was the highlight of her week. Going out partying Friday night and Saturday night and polishing off the scotch for dinner last night were the lowlights.
Grimly she acknowledged, as she locked up and headed down the stairs, she’d had lower moments. There were still depths she could sink to, but she’d avoided them this past week. Who knew how she’d do with the upcoming one?
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