by Jamie Beck
“Are you prepared for less?”
“Of course. But everyone should stop assuming he’s a jerk. We were both having fun with the whole ‘sexy stranger’ element. He didn’t lie or anything. Neither of us thought past the next morning.”
Colby ate her last bite of burrata. “Let’s hope he’s not angry when he finds out about Colt.”
“If he’s gotten married or something, it could be a rough conversation.” Gentry thought about that for a second. Colt would be exposed to whomever Smith did date or marry. He could have a stepmom, for all she knew.
“Are you sure you want to open that door?” Colby reached out to stop Gentry from gnawing on her thumbnail. “It’s not too late to call off the search.”
“No. I think it’ll turn out fine. Better than fine.”
Her sister hesitated. “Do you think there could be something between you and Smith?”
Gentry’s pity meter registered red-hot territory. She huffed. “I don’t expect a proposal, for God’s sake. But I wouldn’t rule anything out at this point.”
The truth was, Smith couldn’t compete with Ian. At least not until Ian faded from her thoughts. If Ian was like every other man, that would happen the minute he moved out. But he wasn’t like any other man, and she knew it could take a long time to forget him.
“Hm.” Colby began gathering her empty containers.
“Why the frown?”
“I’m being selfish.” Colby waved, shaking her head. “I doubt Smith’s from Portland. If you two get serious, you might move just when we’re all starting families.”
“You’re jumping way ahead. All I’m saying is that my future is uncertain and wide-open.”
“Too bad Ian’s so set on leaving. He seems like a solid guy.”
Solid muscle. Solid heart. Solid gold—minus the judgment. “He’ll never settle for a normal life. Besides, I cause disasters, not fix them!”
“Then he should stay and give you ‘aid,’” Colby teased.
Gentry sighed. “Colt comes first. His needs should guide my decisions.”
Colby grabbed both of Gentry’s hands. “You probably won’t take this as a compliment, but you’ve grown up a lot since becoming a mom. I hope you find someone who can appreciate and love you like you deserve.”
“So do I.” Gentry pretended that something had flown into her eye so she could hide any tears forming. “Now let’s get back to the bachelorette party . . .”
The skies had begun to sprinkle rain, and given the heavy cloud cover, Ian doubted it’d stop anytime soon. He came inside from the deck and tucked his phone in his pocket.
“Where are you off to today?” Gentry asked from her spot on the floor, where she’d laid Colt on a blanket for tummy time. In the days since their stolen kiss, she’d relegated him to the friend zone with ease.
Him? Not so much. Even now—with her sitting on the floor, bare legs spread on either side of Colt’s blanket, her hair in a knot on her head—he longed to untie that knot and run his fingers through her hair.
She snapped her fingers twice, impatient for his answer.
“I promised my mom I’d help with the blessing-bag assembly at our church today.”
“What’s a blessing bag? Rosaries and Bibles and stuff?”
“No.” He noticed her absently stroking Colt’s arm. No one would call Gentry sweet, but if they saw her interact with her son every day, they might. “We pack bags with basics like toiletries and snacks, and then distribute them to the homeless.”
“I thought shelters bought their own food. Isn’t that why Colby’s foundation sends them money?”
“This is for the folks who can’t get into the shelters. Today I’ll be taking things up to the Springwater Corridor.” He rubbed the back of his neck with his hand. Between nightmares about Timmy, stress from Archer, and fantasies about Gentry, he hadn’t been sleeping well.
She raised one brow. “You don’t look too happy about that.”
“What?”
Gesturing toward his face with her hand, she said, “You walked in from the deck like a man headed to the gallows.”
“Archer called with more bad news.”
“About Timmy?” Gentry held her breath.
“No. Nothing new on that front.” As with any time he thought of Timmy, he said a prayer and forced his thoughts away from images of the small child huddled in some tent, terrified and alone.
Her gaze fell to Colt. She leaned forward to kiss his head, muttering, “Listen up, Boo. You’re never going to Haiti.”
Ian blamed himself for her fear. Haiti and its people were worth saving, if corruption could only be dismantled and natural disasters kept at bay. “It’s not all cholera, kidnappings, and natural disasters. The majority of Haitian people are resilient and generous. They have a rich culture, exotic music, and great food. There are miles of unspoiled beaches in places like Jacmel, desperately awaiting tourists.”
“So what’s got you so defeated?”
No point in lying.
“Nurses and hospital staff are striking. It’s crippling the already-poor health-care system. But I can’t blame them. Poverty wages. Horrible conditions—I’ve seen rats in ‘hospital’ hallways.” He shook his head and sank onto the sofa, shamefully admitting to himself that he’d miss the clean lines of Gentry’s home and the pervasive citrus scent from the candles and cleaning products. “Every time we catch one break—like my meeting with Marcus Fairfax next week—something else blows up.”
Gentry chewed on her thumbnail while moving Quackers slightly farther from Colt’s reach. “I’m sorry.”
Ian had expected a rant or sarcasm or something more Gentryesque. The calm support threw him. “Thanks.”
“Can I ask you something?” Her pretty eyes crinkled above a tentative smile, capturing him in their thrall.
“Sure.” He blinked to break the spell.
“Why must it be Haiti? Aren’t there other, less unstable communities that could benefit from your idea?”
“We’ll have the biggest impact in the place that needs the most help.”
“I don’t buy that.” When Ian didn’t respond, she kept talking. “You’re fixated on Haiti. It’s personal.”
“I’ve spent the most time there, I suppose.”
“It’s more than that.” After spending two weeks with Gentry, he should know better than to underestimate her intuition. In the face of more silence, she said, “I thought we were friends. Don’t friends share this stuff?”
Colt whimpered, so her attention reverted to him. She lifted him into her arms and repositioned herself so she sat cross-legged, jiggling him. When she got him settled, she glanced up at Ian and flashed a resigned smile. “People think I’m guarded, but you’re the Fort Knox of personal information.”
He snickered. “Heart of gold, you mean?”
“That too.” She smiled. Then, as if catching herself doing something wrong, she reined in her emotions. “In the time you’ve spent here, you’ve learned all about my family and me, most of which is hardly flattering. Yet I know almost nothing about your life, other than the Mr. Perfect thing you project.”
“Why tarnish my perfect image with the truth?” He found himself smiling, despite the crappy weather and his disheartening conversation with Archer.
“Wheeee!” Gentry rolled onto her back, balancing Colt on her shins while holding him in place. Her son squealed and stiffened with surprise, causing her to giggle. Their play brightened the room like a sunrise. In her baby-talking voice, she spoke to Colt. “I finally met someone more emotionally blocked than me, Boo. It’s a miracle!”
“I’m not blocked.” Ian crossed, then uncrossed, his arms.
She raised Colt up like an airplane, stretching his arms wide. “Prove it. Tell me something about your father. Something you’ve never told anyone.”
Ian said what always came to mind first. “Everyone in our community loved him.”
“That’s not personal.” She frowned, rol
ling forward and laying Colt on his back. “What’s your favorite memory of him? Did he tell good bedtime stories, or play the guitar around the campfire, or teach you how to ride a bike? Help with homework, talk about girls? Give me something that tells me about your relationship.”
Sadly, Ian didn’t have those memories. Not with his father, anyway. Brian Crawford hadn’t been that kind of dad. He’d traveled and, when at home, busied himself with plans for some event or other. If Ian’s family had been a cake, his mom had been the batter; his dad, the icing. Everyone saw the icing, and his dad had liked it that way.
Unable to honestly answer the question, he said, “He treated everyone with compassion. He deeply cared about humanity. He gave everything, including his life, to improve the welfare of others.”
Gentry sat up, having seized on the key detail he’d let slip. “He died while helping someone?”
Ian sighed. “Yes.”
“How?”
Ian looked away, instantly transported back to the dusty streets of Port-au-Prince in 2010, choking on the smoke-filled air, surrounded by debris and despair and pain.
Ian stabilized the tenth fracture of the morning, waiting for more doctors to arrive. The city, an inferno and wasteland at once, reaffirmed his decision that this would be his last such journey. He had to accept he couldn’t live like his father, always mired in chaos and sorrow. If he did, it would consume him, and he’d never be free.
Ten yards away, his father continued barking orders at others as he helped coordinate the rescue and aid effort. His clear, bright eyes remained full of vigor despite the evidence of aging revealed by his salt-and-pepper hair and weathered skin.
His father caught Ian staring at him, but looked away. They hadn’t spoken much all morning. Their disagreement from last night’s flight still sat between them like the Great Wall of China. But Ian had made up his mind. He wouldn’t keep up with his father’s punishing schedule anymore, or spearhead his father’s dream of starting a foundation to improve emergency care. Ian would still serve the community, but in Oregon, with his mother. He’d finally have time for a girlfriend, some joy, and a life of his own.
“Ti bebe mwen an!” a severely wounded young mother cried, pointing toward the half-collapsed building behind Ian. “Tanpri konsève pou ti bebe mwen an!”
Ian couldn’t fully understand her hysterical words, but she seemed to think her child was trapped in that building. His father hustled to Ian’s side, speaking to the woman in his broken Creole. Calming her. Assuring her.
“What’s going on, Dad?”
“She thinks her infant son is still in there.” He whipped his head around, looking for other emergency workers. The area where he and Ian now worked teemed with sick and injured Haitians and medical workers, but other first responders weren’t in the immediate vicinity. “I’m going in.”
Ian gripped his arm. “No, Dad. That’s not your job.”
“Should we wait on the sidelines and let the child die in there? Let this woman’s suffering go on?”
“That building looks unstable. You could get hurt or make things worse.”
“I’m not like you, Ian. I can’t turn my back on her, or live with myself if that kid dies because no one tried to help.”
The blow of his father’s disappointment caused Ian to loosen his grip. “Insult me all you want—you know I’m right. If you barge in there and get hurt, what good will that do? You’ve always taught me not to make things worse or divert resources. There are too many critical patients to save out here for me to risk going in there for one person who may or may not be there, or be alive.”
They stared at each other, the voices around them blurring together like the roar of an airplane engine. “You don’t understand, son. This work . . . this is my destiny. It isn’t something I can hang up in a closet because it’s inconvenient or I’m tired or afraid. You help these people. I’ll get the baby.”
Ian watched his dad march toward the building, panic gripping his muscles. “Dad!”
His father disappeared behind a broken wall. Ian’s heart climbed into his throat. He stood alone amid so much agony that he wanted to fall to his knees and cry. Wanted to run as far away as possible.
The ground rumbled as if unable to bear the weight of so much suffering. An aftershock, perhaps, or had he imagined that? Then an exploding sound caused him to look up. Pop! Crack! Then a thunderous crash as the remains of the flamingo-pink building collapsed to the ground.
The young mother’s wail pierced the sky, while Ian stood, mouth open in a silent scream.
“Ian?” Gentry’s voice filled with concern.
He brushed aside the tear that rolled down his cheek. “My father died in Haiti.”
“Did he disappear, too?” she asked, her voice thin, like that of a child listening to a ghost story.
“No.” He looked up at her open, sympathetic expression. Her cool green eyes begged for him to share more. “I was with him in Haiti after the big earthquake. My dad charged into a half-destroyed building, searching for a woman’s child. He wasn’t a first responder. I told him not to go, but I didn’t go in myself because I was tending to so many critically injured people. Then I watched what remained of the building collapse on top of him.”
His chest hurt now, like anytime he thought about that day. It was as if his body had recorded, with perfect recall, the horrific helplessness he’d experienced. Like then, his vision got dark around the edges, his mouth filled with the tang of adrenaline.
“I’m so sorry.” She jumped to her feet and hugged him as if he were so fragile he might disintegrate in her arms. She stroked the back of his head. “Now I see.”
He pulled free. “See what?”
“Your obsession with Haiti. Survivor’s guilt. Maybe you should talk to someone—a professional—so you can move on from mourning.”
“It’s been years.” He kept his arms at his sides, refusing to embrace her again because he didn’t trust himself to let go. “I’ve mourned.”
“After watching Colby grieve Mark’s suicide—a death she, like you, witnessed—I know that kind of pain lives on right under the surface.”
Ian shrugged. True or not, it didn’t change anything. Nor did that truth make it easier to discuss.
“One more question,” she said. He braced himself, unsure if he wanted to discuss this further. “Is this misplaced guilt why you won’t live a normal life?”
“It’s my normal, Gentry. I’m founding this project to honor my dad and his work. It’s that simple.”
“I doubt that.” She sank to the floor and snuggled Colt, talking to herself as much as to him now. “Nothing about family is ever simple.”
“For some of us it is.”
She narrowed her eyes, which always warned of a shrewd, and often pointed, observation. “As wonderful as your dad was to strangers, it doesn’t sound like he had much time for your mom or you. I know a little bit about how it feels when something—or someone—else always comes first.”
His hands balled on his hips, his body flushed in the heat of denial. “I don’t resent my father.”
“I guess that makes you a better person than me . . . not that that’s a shock to anyone.”
“Why do you resent your parents?” Ian gestured around the condo. “Isn’t all of this—all the freedom you have—thanks to them?”
Gentry’s shoulders drooped. He’d expected her to get mad, not disappointed. “Now you sound like her.”
“Your mother?”
“Yes. She thinks I’m an ingrate, and, apparently, so do you.”
He stood at the edge of a minefield now, but he’d have to cross it if he ever wanted to understand her. “I think you have at least as much to be thankful for as you do to be angry about.”
“I don’t expect you to understand. I wasn’t abused or homeless or sickly. No easy-to-identify reason for my tenuous relationships.”
“Make me understand.”
“Why? So you can judge my
hurt on some scale of suffering? I’m pretty sure loneliness won’t rank too well against death and disease. If I complain about seeing other moms playing with their kids at the park while my nanny sat on the bench reading a book, you’ll say I was lucky to be in a neighborhood with a nice park. If I bitch about how my mom drove a subtle wedge between Hunter and Colby and me even though I would’ve loved their company, you’ll say at least I have siblings. If I confess to envy about their adventures with their mom, wishing Leslie would adopt me so I could be part of it, too, you’ll shake your head.
“I’ve never pretended to be perfect or mature. I admit a lot of my past behavior was about getting any kind of attention. My mom cared more about how I reflected on her than she ever cared about me. Sure, she’d claim she worked hard so I could have everything. But all I ever wanted . . .” She stopped short of finishing the thought, but Ian could guess. All she ever wanted was to feel loved.
“You’re an adult woman now. When you look back, don’t you have more perspective? Can’t you forgive mistakes?”
“I try, Ian. I really do. But all the criticism . . . and look at the hypocrisy. My mom didn’t work hard for me. Look at her house, her clothes, her newspaper clippings. She did it for herself at least as much as for me. If she’d acknowledge that fact, then maybe we could get past it. Instead, she dumps all of our problems on me. On my behavior.” Gentry looked at Colt. “I’d never do that to my son. When I go to work at CTC, it’s for his benefit. So he can be part of a family that’s, hopefully, less dysfunctional.”
Her rapid-fire reply left Ian a little bruised. “I’m sorry you felt neglected.”
She shrugged. “Do you still deny how similar we are, despite our different bank balances?”
“Similar?” He couldn’t think of two less similar people in the city.
“Your dad’s goals may have been loftier than my mother’s, but they still left you behind.” She said that with no judgment whatsoever. “If you hadn’t followed him around the globe, how much of his time would he have given you? How much of his love?”
Her words cut a little too close to emotions Ian didn’t want to acknowledge. “Why are you trying to hurt me?”