by Beth K. Vogt
“I don’t know if Sam would want me to have dinner with you, much less talk with you.” She sipped her lemon-lime soda, the glass cool against her hand. “Maybe I’m not the one you should be talking to. I still think you should ask your mother questions about Sam.”
She pushed away the plate of tepid pasta, her appetite gone. She’d have the waiter box it up so she could take it home. She’d be hungry later—the baby guaranteed that.
“My mother and I . . . We don’t talk often.” Stephen seemed to be weighing his words. “She believes I chose my father over her after the divorce—and when my father remarried.”
“Did you?”
“No. I just didn’t not choose my dad’s new wife.” Now it was Stephen’s turn to move his plate aside. “Sam and I lived with my mom for the first two years after our parents divorced, until we were fifteen. We had summers and some holidays with our dad—until he remarried. Sam said Gina tried too hard to make us like her.”
“Did she?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. Don’t all stepmothers try too hard?” Stephen downed the last of his water. “After our first visit, Sam refused to go back. He was all about not upsetting Mom—about not abandoning her. He got angry when I refused to desert Dad. So we . . . we picked sides.”
“You with your dad and Sam with your mom.”
“Yes. He went to high school in Oklahoma and I went to high school in Pennsylvania. And then Sam decided to go into the army—instead of sticking with the plan to go to college. I got mad. He got mad. And I didn’t say good-bye when he went to boot camp.”
Haley motioned for the waitress, requesting to-go boxes for her and Stephen, too aware of the man across the table again. Would she ever stop flinching when she looked at Sam’s brother? “Well, it might be time to try and get along with your mom, because I can’t help you that much. And I need to head home now.”
Stephen grabbed the black plastic folder holding their bill, throwing some cash into it and then scraping his lasagna into the Styrofoam container while Haley boxed up the remnants of her entrée.
“Thank you for dinner. I don’t know if I was any help . . . Anyway, thank you.”
Stephen scrambled into his coat as she slid from the booth and headed for the front of the restaurant and the exit. “Wait. Let me at least walk you to your car. I wanted to talk to you about—”
As she passed a crowded booth, a man called out, “Hal? Hey, Hal!”
The too-familiar voice of one of Sam’s comrades brought her up short. He and his wife and another couple sat together, menus in hand. “Chaz. Angie. How are you?”
“We’re good. Just having dinner out. How are you doing?” Chaz rose to his feet just as Stephen caught up with her. “Who is—whoa!”
Chaz had deployed with Sam—had played a game of cards with Sam the night before he was killed. Been a pallbearer at his funeral. If only she could rewind the last thirty seconds so he wouldn’t be staring at Sam’s face again.
Even as Angie gasped, Haley put a hand on Chaz’s forearm while positioning herself between the two men. “Chaz, this is Stephen Ames—Sam’s twin brother.”
“What are you talking about?” Chaz’s gaze darted from Haley and then back to Stephen.
Haley forced the words past her lips again. “This is Stephen, Sam’s twin brother. Sam didn’t tell me . . . or anyone else about him.”
Chaz rubbed his hand down his face and then refocused on Stephen. “You’re Sam’s brother?”
“Yes.” Stephen stepped up, reaching out to shake Chaz’s hand. “Stephen Ames.”
“Geez, man, you look exactly like him. I thought I was seeing Sam’s ghost.” His eyes narrowed. “You okay, Hal?”
“I’m fine. I had dinner with Stephen because he just found out about Sam being killed in Afghanistan. He had some questions. That’s all. He’s heading back home after this.”
“Good thing.” Chaz huffed a humorless laugh. “He’d freak out a bunch of people if he hung around here.”
Haley watched as Stephen tucked his hands in the pockets of his chinos. “I take it you knew my brother?”
“Yes.” Chaz’s gaze stayed glued to Stephen’s face. “He was one of my best friends.”
“He was mine too for a lot of years. I’m sorry to say our parents’ divorce changed that.”
“Your brother was a good guy. A great soldier.”
“Thanks. I’m not surprised to hear that.”
Haley found herself between Sam’s past and what, only five months ago, had been his present and their future. Time to end this. “Well, I’m heading home.”
Angie spoke up from where she sat in the booth. “Let me know if you need anything, Hal.”
“Will do.”
five
What had she been thinking?
As Stephen crossed the parking lot, Haley took her first full breath in over an hour. Sitting across from Sam’s brother had forced her into some sort of macabre, eyes-wide-open nightmare.
Her husband’s smile.
Her husband’s cleft chin.
Her husband’s broad shoulders and strong hands.
She could overlook Stephen’s hair, which wasn’t trimmed military-regulation high and tight, the way Sam preferred it. But everything else, including the voice, was Sam.
And then, the man sitting across from her would do something different. Something that would shatter the illusion.
Trying to stand when she entered the restaurant? Walking her to her car, even though she assured him that she was perfectly safe? Guys didn’t do that anymore. Sam never did that.
Using his right hand, when Sam had been left-handed.
Eating two huge servings of the unlimited house salad after dousing it in creamy Gorgonzola dressing. Sam would have scorned the vegetables and focused on the bread basket.
“Sam, why didn’t you tell me you had an identical twin brother?” Her question broke the stillness of the car, returning her to the present and the reality that she was sitting in a parking lot, freezing. Time to go home. She could reheat her dinner, pay bills, maybe start another DVD to help her fall asleep.
Less than ten minutes later, she pulled up in front of her home. Why had she bought it? Did she even want to be here a year from now? So many people had told her, “Don’t make any major decisions during the first year after Sam’s death”—and she hadn’t. Except for buying this house.
Oh . . . and having a baby. But that decision had been made before Sam died.
Her phone jangled and she answered, knowing it was Claire, checking on her. “I’m fine.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. We had dinner. He asked questions.”
“And?”
Tucking the phone between her ear and shoulder, she opened the door and entered the darkened house. Found the remote for the flat-screen TV and turned it on, restarting Hellfighters, adjusting the volume to low. “And I realized how much I don’t know about Sam.”
“Don’t say that—”
“It’s the truth.” Moving to the kitchen, she tossed her Styrofoam container of leftovers on the brown, faux-granite counter, shrugging out of Sam’s coat and hanging it on the back of the bar chair. “You know Sam; he wasn’t much of a talker. A kidder, yes. A competitor, yes. A talker, no.”
“Could Sam’s brother tell you how the two of them got separated?”
“The parents divorced. Initially they were both with Miriam—until the dad got remarried. Then Sam picked his mom and Stephen picked his dad. Some kind of awful Parent Trap twist.” She opened the lid of the white Styrofoam container, dumping the lukewarm trio of entrées onto a plate and covering it with a paper towel. “I told Stephen if he needed more information about Sam to ask his mother, but I’m not sure that will happen.”
“Why not?”
“It’s pretty obvious Stephen is closer to his dad.” She kicked off her brown, fur-lined boots and padded over to the refrigerator, pulling out a Sprite. “But I am not responsible for patchi
ng up things between Stephen and his mother.”
“Have you told Sam’s mom that you had dinner with Stephen?”
“Just got home.” She placed her leftovers in the microwave, programming it to reheat. “I’ll call her later. She was talking about going to a Gold Star Mothers meeting last week—the group for moms who’ve lost a son or daughter in service to the country. I’ll have to see how that went.”
“What about you?”
The soda hissed as she popped the can open. “What about me what?”
“Have you considered going to a Gold Star Wives meeting?”
“No. They’re not for me. I don’t do that yadda-yadda sisterhood stuff. You know that. I’ve got to figure this out on my own.”
“You might appreciate being with other women who understand how you feel—”
“Me and strangers? I don’t think so. I’m sad. I miss Sam. And I’m going to have a baby in April. There’s not much to figure out there. Grieve. Move on. Figure out how to be a mother to this little boy of mine.”
Claire giggled. “You know, you could have a girl. I’ve heard of ultrasounds being wrong—”
“Don’t even suggest it. I don’t do girls—and they don’t do me. The only reason we get along is because you decided to be my friend—although I don’t know why.” She patted her tummy. “This is Sam’s son.”
“Are you having any more ultrasounds to confirm that?”
“I’ve already had two—one at my first appointment when I was sixteen weeks, just to confirm dates. And then they did what they called an ‘anatomic survey’ at twenty weeks—checking fingers and toes and his heart and other stuff.”
“And the ‘other stuff ’ indicated you’re having a boy?”
“That’s what the ultrasound tech told me—not officially, but she seemed pretty certain.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I am having a boy—now stop with the uh-huh!”
“Fine. Do you have any names picked out?”
“No, not yet. I’ll figure something out. I’ve got plenty of time.” She realized the microwave had been beeping to let her know her dinner was reheated. “Time to eat.”
“Listen, before you go, did you select a childbirth class?”
“Not yet, but I will.”
“You keep saying that.”
“I will. I forgot. Ask me after my appointment this week.”
“You want me to go with you?”
“No need. I’m good.”
Haley stood in the middle of the kitchen holding her iPhone after saying good-bye to Claire. She would be good. She didn’t have a choice—and come April, another person would be depending on her to make everything okay, just as Sam had.
If she paused, closed her eyes, she could still see the look of hesitant recognition in Sam’s brown eyes over three years ago when he walked up to the counter at the gun club.
“Have we met before?” Sam stood with his hands tucked in his jeans, a gray army T-shirt covered by a blue flannel shirt.
“Maybe.” Haley resisted smoothing her hair.
“You going to tell me where?”
“You’re a smart man, Sam Ames. Figure it out.” She wasn’t going to waste her time on a guy who couldn’t even remember her name. She hadn’t been wearing that much makeup at the wedding two weeks ago. A dress, yes—but that didn’t alter her appearance that much.
She walked away to help another customer who wanted to check out some of the guns on display in the glass cases. As she explained the different merits of several models, she knew Sam watched her. Every time she glanced his way, he was standing where she’d left him, a slight frown on his face. At least she wasn’t one of those women who blushed or stammered when she was nervous. Growing up with three older brothers had killed any of those outward signs of anxiety. Never let a guy see you sweat—or cry.
Ten minutes later, when the customer left, saying he’d think about the classic .45-caliber Colt M1911, Sam approached her again, his walk easy, slow. “I’d like to see that nine-millimeter.” He pointed to one of her favorite models.
“Sure thing.” She bent to retrieve the gun. “You interested in adding to your collection—or just starting one?”
“I’d like to try it out on the range today.”
“Then I’ll need some identification—your driver’s license will be fine.”
“I’ll hand over my license . . . if you give me your phone number, Haley.” A half smile quirked his mouth, deepening the cleft in his chin.
“Remembered me, didja?” After laying the gun on the counter, she held out her hand for his driver’s license.
“Jill and Randy’s wedding. Yes, I remember you.”
She’d given him her phone number—and they’d shared their first kiss the next night after a movie.
Another beep from the microwave reminded her that the leftovers still waited for her. Memories of Sam, when she allowed them to slip past the mental barricade she’d erected, left the salty taste of unshed tears in the back of her throat. She scraped the remnants of dinner into the trash can, closing the metal lid on the aroma of Italian food with a bang.
“Whatcha say, buddy?” Was that a small kick or punch in response to her question? “How about pretzels dipped in Nutella?”
He should have asked Haley what her middle name was.
After spending an hour wrestling answers out of her, he’d go with “Stonewall.” The woman was worse than a dead end. She gave up no ground.
Stephen sat in his Mustang, a chill surrounding him, even as a deeper cold—an ache he couldn’t relieve—grew in his heart. Years of choices—things said, things left unsaid—separated him from Sam. And now, the chasm between heaven and earth.
He leaned forward, arms resting across the steering wheel, his breath fogging the windshield. He already knew his brother liked to dip his potato chips in ketchup. That Sam wanted a classic ’66 Mustang. He could have found most of the other information about Sam if he’d read his obituary. But Stephen couldn’t do that. Let Haley Ames be casual about the word dead when it came to Sam. He’d been the one to fight back tears, not her.
A tornado of unanswered questions swirled inside, all the larger after spending time with Sam’s widow. What kind of woman had his brother married anyway? Honey-blond hair that scattered past her shoulders. Icy blue eyes highlighted by high cheekbones. No makeup that he could see. And no engagement ring or wedding band on her finger either. She hadn’t waited long to take off her rings. She’d huddled across the table from him in a quilted green North Face coat that looked like something a guy would wear.
Maybe it was. Maybe it was Sam’s coat. She took off her wedding band but wore her husband’s coat. Odd.
Stephen shifted in the seat, a faint hint of moonlight filtering into the car. He couldn’t find Sam by going forward . . . and without Haley’s help, he couldn’t discover Sam’s past. She was a shaky bridge to the twelve years of silence, but he had to try. Her resistance, her silence, impeded his progress. But he couldn’t give up yet.
The doors to the white SUV next to him opened, then slammed shut in a rapid one-two-three-four beat, as a family with two preteens entered the car. Their laughter snagged at his heart, an echo of sweeter family times with Sam. What next? The thought of calling Elissa flickered through his mind. Faded. He hadn’t spoken to her since his crash-and-burn proposal in Breckenridge. The memory of that day scalded his heart.
“That’s it, then?” Stephen waited at the bottom of Elissa’s stoop.
She stood with the front door half-open. “What else is there to say? You want something more . . . something I’m not ready for. Honestly, Stephen, it’s always felt as if you’re searching for something—”
He shook his head, the words tumbling past his resolve not to expose his heart to her again. “No. No, I found what I want. Who I want, Elissa.”
“I don’t think so.” She reached out, as if to caress his face, but then pulled her hand back. “I will miss you.”
/>
“Maybe—”
“No maybes, Stephen. They’re fraught with expectations, don’t you think?”
And that was that. And while Elissa wouldn’t leave room for maybe, he couldn’t deny the ember of hope that still burned. If he settled this thing with Sam—about Sam and himself—then maybe he could go back and make things right with Elissa.
But not tonight.
He hit autodial for his father, who answered on the first ring. “How are you, son?”
“I’ve been better.”
His father’s voice was gruff, weighed down. “I still can’t get used to the idea that we’ve lost Sam—”
“I went to see his wife—his widow, Dad.”
“What?”
Stephen opened the driver’s door, turning so that his feet rested on the bottom edge of the car’s frame, welcoming the rush of cold night air on his face. A faint scent of a coming snowfall lingered around him. “I’m sorry. You didn’t know that Sam was married—”
“No. Your mother made it clear years ago she wasn’t going to answer my questions about Sam. And I didn’t press the issue. I kept thinking there’d be time—”
“We both did, Dad. When Mom called to tell me about Sam, she mentioned Sam’s wife. So I decided to try and find her. I didn’t say anything to you because I wasn’t sure what would happen.”
“So, how did it go—meeting Sam’s wife?”
“Well, just like we didn’t know about her, she didn’t know about me.” Memories of their first meeting rushed back, causing his heart rate to accelerate. “For thirty seconds, she thought I was Sam.”
“Stephen, how horrible for you—”
“For me? I wasn’t the one seeing her de—her husband.” He opted for the abridged version of his interaction with Haley—no need to mention the armed standoff. “Despite all that, Haley—that’s her name—agreed to meet me for dinner today. In the Springs.”