Unveiling the Past

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  Urgency propelled him across the floor. He snagged Meghan’s wrist and, with a gentle tug, pulled her into his embrace. She melted against him, slipping her arms around his torso and resting her cheek on his shoulder. A sigh escaped. Ah, the contentment of holding his wife. He couldn’t love her more if he tried. His very love was the reason he wanted a child with her.

  He rocked her side to side and whispered against her silky hair, “Meg, can we talk?”

  She leaned back slightly, still caught in the circle of his arms, and looked at him, her brown eyes holding a smile. “What about?”

  His gaze roved her upturned face. He could imagine their child—dark-haired and dark-eyed, given her Italian coloring and his father’s Native American ancestry. Of course, his mother had been from Scandinavian stock. Blond-haired and blue-eyed. If Meghan’s father had similar genes, they could have a little blue-eyed blond instead. Wouldn’t that be something?

  She bumped his backside with the spray bottle. “Hey. Where’d you go? You said you wanted to talk.”

  He searched her eyes for a moment, gathering courage, then took a sideways step that separated them. “Put those down, huh?” Her brow furrowed, but she placed the damp wad of towels and the bottle on the table. He captured her hand, linking fingers with hers. “Let’s sit.”

  Laughing softly, she scuffed alongside him to the sofa. “It must be important if you want to sit.”

  He flopped into the corner of their overstuffed L-shaped couch, and she immediately nestled—head on his shoulder, legs tucked underneath her—the way she did when they watched television or worked on a crossword puzzle together before bed. She loved him. He knew that. So wouldn’t having a child be a natural way to express their love?

  He ran his fingers through the thick strands of her ponytail. “Meg, do you think we make a good team?”

  She tipped her face and smirked at him. “For that we had to sit? What a silly question.” She wrinkled her nose. “No, we don’t make a good team. We make a great team. The best. We wouldn’t be the first husband-wife investigation pair in the history of the state’s cold-case unit if we weren’t.” She kissed the underside of his jaw and settled close again.

  He cleared his throat. “I wasn’t talking about our work relationship.”

  She toyed with one of his buttons. “No?”

  “Hm-mm. I meant as husband and wife.”

  She went still for the count of three, then abruptly swung her feet over the edge of the sofa and sat up. “What’s wrong?”

  A commercial advertising toilet bowl cleaner came on. Good grief. He grabbed the remote control from the fold-down armrest and turned off the television, then took hold of Meghan’s hand. She didn’t pull free from his grasp, but she didn’t curl her fingers around his, either. She sat tense, chewing her lip.

  “Honey, nothing’s wrong.” Which wasn’t exactly the truth. How could he phrase things so she’d understand? “You and me, we’re good together. Really good. Maybe…too good.”

  She eased against the sofa cushions but kept some distance between them. “What do you mean?”

  “We’ve got this routine that we follow. Up early, hitting the exercise equipment, then driving to work, and”—he gestured to the living room—“hanging out. Always the two of us. Just the two of us.”

  She released a little huff. “We don’t have a lot of extra hours every day. If we didn’t get up early or have our drives to and from work, we wouldn’t have any you-and-me time at all.”

  “That’s my point.” He leaned forward and propped his elbows on his knees, sandwiching her limp hand between his palms. “Our day is so structured, with work and the commute eating up a chunk of time, that we’re kind of caught in a rut.” He gazed steadily into her unblinking eyes. “Not necessarily an unhappy rut, but a rut all the same. What we have now, that’s all we’ll ever have. Unless we change something.”

  “Are you wanting to move to Little Rock? I mean, I love our house here, but that’d get rid of the commute.”

  He, too, loved the three-bedroom Craftsman-style bungalow they’d purchased in a town near Little Rock after their I do’s. “No. We chose the commute to give us some separation from our job. We need that.”

  “So you’re happy with…this?” She waved her hand, and he surmised she meant the house in general.

  “Yes.”

  Meghan shook her head, making her ponytail bounce. “Then what do you want to change?”

  He puffed his cheeks and blew out a breath. “I want to use one of our extra bedrooms for something other than a home office or an exercise room.”

  Her eyebrows pinched, and she tapped her chin with her finger. “Hmm…We could put the exercise equipment in the basement. The rec room is long enough to use half for a workout space. But I don’t really want our desks and computers down there.” She tilted her head. “What’re you wanting to use the room for instead?”

  “A nursery.”

  She drew back, shock registering on her face. An uneasy chuckle left her throat. “I thought we already talked about that.”

  He tightened his grip on her hand. “A year ago. You asked for time to think about it.”

  “No, I asked for time to get ourselves established before we thought about it.”

  He raised his brows. “We’ve taken three years. Our routine is down pat. I’d call that established, babe.”

  She slipped her hand free and sat back, folding her arms across her chest. “At the bureau and here at home, yes, but what about our goal of going independent?”

  Her goal. Not his. He liked the promise of a steady paycheck, and he started to tell her so. Again.

  “Besides, it wouldn’t be fair to have a baby when we have so little free time. I like having you to myself. I’m sorry if that sounds selfish, but it’s the truth.” She scooted to the other end of the sofa, leaned against the armrest, and pressed the soles of her bare feet against his thigh. “And while I’m being truthful, I have to admit…I’d be a terrible mother.”

  Sean squeezed her foot. “I don’t believe that.”

  She made a face. “Because you are innately optimistic. Believe me, I admire that about you, but sometimes you aren’t realistic. I love Mom—of course I do—but she wasn’t the huggy, lovey-dovey, cookie-baking, take-your-kid-to-the-circus kind of mom yours was. That’s what you want from me, right?”

  He couldn’t deny it. Her description fit his expectation. He shrugged.

  A sad smile lifted the corners of her lips. “Sean, I still haven’t gotten the hang of being a wife. I’m not— I can’t—” She swung her feet to the floor and stood. “I’m sorry.” She scurried through the arched opening that led to their bedroom.

  Sean sighed. He said to the empty room, “I’m sorry, too.”

  Three

  Meghan DeFord-Eagle

  Meghan closed herself in the master suite’s bathroom and perched on the rolled edge of the soaking tub. She wrapped her arms across her aching middle and stared at her somber reflection in the mirror above the sink.

  “A baby…” She whispered the words, forcing them past her dry throat. Why did something as helpless and harmless as an infant strike such fear into her? She snorted. How ridiculous to ponder the question when she knew the answer all too well. She could never subject an innocent baby to the DeFord Curse.

  She grimaced and jerked her gaze to the tub’s gleaming brass crisscross faucet knobs. Grandma DeFord had admitted to a rocky relationship with her mother. Mom had spent the majority of her childhood and adult years resenting Grandma. Meghan couldn’t honestly say she resented Mom, but neither did she want to emulate her. At least not Mom’s style of parenting. But what other parenting style did she know? She’d only add another generation of mother-child conflict to the family history. Would that be fair to the baby? Not to mention burdening Sean, who’d end up being the b
uffer between his wife and child.

  Having filled the position of peacemaker more years than she wanted to count for Mom and Grandma, she wouldn’t wish that frustration and heartache on anyone, much less the man she loved more than she knew how to express.

  A tap at the door intruded, and she gave a start. She blurted “What?” more sharply than she intended.

  “Can I come in?”

  She swallowed. Sean sounded so kind, so hopeful, so patient. He’d be such an amazing dad. She grabbed one of the spigots and gave it a vicious twist, then called over the sound of water splashing against the porcelain tub. “I’m gonna take a soak, Sean. Relax a little bit.”

  She held her breath. Would he ask to join her, as he so often did?

  “Okay. I want to look over some notes on the computer about the Dunsbrook murders, then turn in. Enjoy your soak.”

  Her breath eased out, and she slumped forward, half-relieved and half-disappointed. Probably the same way he was feeling. Guilt struck hard. She undressed and eased into the tub, willing the steamy water to dissolve the unpleasant emotion. But the guilt refused to budge. Sean deserved to be a father. But how could she watch him develop a relationship with their child and not be envious? Envy rotted the bones—wasn’t that what it said in Proverbs?

  She closed her eyes and tried to imagine herself cradling a baby. The picture wouldn’t gel. Mom sometimes joked that she hadn’t inherited a maternal gene. Apparently neither had Meghan. She’d been born to a nonmaternal mother and an absentee father. She’d be the worst kind of parent. Why couldn’t Sean understand?

  And these thoughts weren’t helping her relax. She might as well get out. Using her toe, she flipped the drain lever and then dried off while the tub emptied. Her feet met the slate tiles, and gooseflesh broke out over her frame. She grabbed her terry-cloth robe from the hook on the back of the bathroom door and tossed it on. Her damp feet left marks on the plush carpet as she crossed to the closet. She chose a T-shirt–style nightshirt printed all over with dachshunds, then exited the closet. Sean entered the bedroom from the hallway at the same time. He shot her a tight smile but didn’t say anything.

  Temptation to run to him, to apologize, to beg his understanding twined through her. But what could she say that she hadn’t said before? Sean knew her. Knew her better than anybody else. Even so, he didn’t fully understand her. Or at least he didn’t understand her fears. She could talk until she was blue in the face and he wouldn’t understand because his upbringing had been so different from hers.

  The contrasts of their childhoods bounced in her mind like a tennis ball flying back and forth over the net. Him raised in a two-parent household, her raised by a single mom. Him attending church every time the doors were open, her going only on Christmas and Easter. His parents cheering him on at sporting events and school programs, her mom shooing her out the door with a bright “Do good, Meghan” and staying home to grade papers. Him playing board games with his folks and sharing bouts of laughter, her trailing Mom through musty museums and listening to lectures and explanations. Different. She and Sean were so different.

  A person couldn’t change her past. Her background would never match his. Did that mean—

  “Are you coming to bed?”

  She blinked twice. He was already in bed, his puzzled face illuminated by the glow from his bedside lamp. She must look like an idiot, rooted in front of the open closet door, staring into space.

  “Sorry. I guess I was lost in thought.”

  Amusement glittered in his dark eyes. “Ya think?”

  Another difference between them. He was always so quick to forgive and move on. She forgave. Sure she did. But move on? That part was hard.

  She closed the door and crossed the floor in a few quick strides. She slipped between the sheets and clicked off her lamp, then flopped onto her back. Sean rolled toward her and raised up on one elbow. The room was dark, the shadows heavy, but she made out his handsome, chiseled face tipping near, and she closed her eyes in readiness for his customary nighttime kiss. Sometimes the kiss lengthened and they ended up staying awake for a while. For reasons she couldn’t explain, she hoped tonight they’d stay awake.

  His warm breath brushed her cheeks, and then his lips touched hers—firm, moist, tender. She wrestled her arms from beneath the light covers, ready to draw him close, but before she caught hold of him, he lifted away from her and rested his head on his pillow. “ ’Night, Meg.”

  She swallowed the lump in her throat and whispered, “ ’Night.” A few seconds ticked by, and then she added, “I love you.”

  His hand slid across her belly. His fingers splayed, but he didn’t pull her to him. Moments later, his deep, even breathing told her he’d fallen asleep.

  It was Monday. They’d made love twice over the weekend. Monday led to Tuesday, a workday, and they needed their rest. He wasn’t rejecting her. He was being practical and responsible. She should follow his lead. She placed her hand over his and closed her eyes, but sleep refused to claim her.

  An image of the folded slip of paper in her desk drawer—the piece of paper bearing a single name, written in her mother’s strong penmanship—lingered behind her closed lids. Mom had never wanted to talk about the man who’d gotten her pregnant in college and then told her to get lost. Meghan had learned not to ask questions about him. Why get Mom all worked up? Her telling Meghan his name was a huge concession.

  Meghan knew the traits she’d either inherited or learned from her mother. But half of her genetic makeup came from someone else. A total stranger. All she knew about him was that he hadn’t wanted to be a father. At least not back then. Maybe not now, either. After all, to her knowledge, he’d never made any effort to find her. Irresponsible and apathetic—those were the characteristics she applied to him. But no one was all bad. There had to be something admirable about him or Mom wouldn’t have been drawn to him in the first place.

  What if he’d made a mistake with Mom and didn’t want to disappoint his parents, so he’d run away rather than admit he messed up? What if, out there, she had grandparents and aunts and uncles and cousins who would welcome her with open arms? What if her paternal genetic half was, for the most part, stable and loving and nurturing? Would there then be a chance that some of those genes would rise up and make themselves known if she bore Sean’s child? The question tormented her well past midnight until she finally fell into a restless sleep.

  In the morning, she forced herself to complete a half hour on the elliptical while Sean made use of their weight bench. They rarely talked during workouts, but the silence felt heavy and almost funereal. Relief flooded her when the timer buzzed and they could shower and dress. To expedite their leave-taking, it had become their routine for him to grab his shower in the hall bathroom—would he still do that if they had a child?—and her to use the one in the master bath.

  As usual, he was out, was dressed, and had a pot of coffee ready by the time she left the shower. He handed her the Mrs. travel mug of the Mr. and Mrs. set they’d received from Grandma for their wedding.

  She inhaled the wisp of steam rising from the little sip hole and sighed. “Mmm, smells great. Almost as good as your aftershave.”

  He gave her a light nudge with his elbow, grinning. “Aw, I bet you say that to all your husbands.” He’d made the teasing comment before in response to a compliment, and she’d always laughed, but this morning the statement stung her heart.

  She touched his arm. “Sean, you do know…I don’t want any other husband but you. There are things I wish I could’ve learned from Grandma and Mom”—like how to be a wife and a good mother—“but they did set one example for me that means a lot. They didn’t man hop. Grandma is still faithful to her husband even though he’s been gone almost forty years. Mom never married, but she was never with anyone except my father. We DeFord women aren’t perfect. Not by a long shot. But we’re f
aithful. You can trust me on that.”

  He gazed at her, his brow puckered, for several silent seconds. Then he set his mug aside and cupped her face with his hands. “I do trust you, Meghan. And you can trust me. We made a commitment before God and a church full of witnesses to be faithful until death parts us. Remember what we said? In sickness and in health, in want or in plenty, for better or for worse.” The corners of his lips twitched into a lopsided grin. “Whatever comes our way, you’re stuck with me.”

  “Even if—” She gulped, worry making her mouth go dry. “Even if I don’t ever want to be a mom?”

  He kissed her forehead and lowered his hands. “My love won’t change. Now, c’mon, we better hit the road.”

  She wished he sounded more convincing, but she followed him to their old Bronco without asking anything else.

  The commute to the cold-case department offices in Little Rock took thirty minutes, with half that time spent getting through downtown traffic and stoplights. Sean drove in silence, which wasn’t out of the ordinary. He took his position as investigator seriously, and Meghan knew without asking he was mulling over the information he’d explored on the computer yesterday evening, sorting it and searching for potential leads. The murder of the eight-year-old Dunsbrook twins, Dominic and Xavier, which had taken place in the late seventies, plagued him. Whenever there were children involved, Sean always worked extra hard to solve the case. He had a soft spot for kids.

  The thought led her back to his desire to be a father. Guilt crashed over her, and she forced her attention to the scene outside the window. She’d grown up in the city and spent several childhood summers in Las Vegas—an even bigger city—with her grandmother, but she didn’t much like big cities. Which was why she and Sean had purchased a house in tiny Carson Springs instead of keeping his house or her apartment in Little Rock. If they established a private investigation office, they could work out of their home and avoid this daily crush of traffic, noise, and busyness. She made a mental note to bring up the idea with Sean again over dinner.