A Hero to Come Home To

by Marilyn Pappano

  Her pleasure with the painting started to fade by the time she finished the first wall and moved on to the shorter unobstructed wall. Her knees weren’t used to climbing up and down the ladder or crouching to get the bottom few inches, and her shoulders ached. She was thinking of ibuprofen, cold water, and something easy for dinner when Dane broke the quiet.

  “Looks like that’s it for the first coat.”

  Blinking, she looked and saw he was right. Every inch of the walls matched the saturated roller in her right hand. She lowered it back onto the tray, placed both hands in the small of her back and stretched. She was warm, sticky, splattered with paint from fingertips to shoulders and probably had it in her hair as well, but none of that stopped the sense of accomplishment welling up inside her.

  “I do love it,” she said as she slowly turned. “It’s so…”

  “Burnt orange?” he provided drily.

  “Dramatic. When everything’s finished and I get a new rug and new lamps and maybe a smaller TV, it’ll be perfect.” Her energy renewed, she swiped her hands on her shorts. “Now, about dinner—”

  “Now, about cleanup.”

  “I know it’s not environmentally correct, but I bought roller covers that weren’t so expensive I’d feel obligated to clean them, and I bought quite a few. I was thinking I could just throw them out…” She let her voice trail off. Even a stranger could tell from his look that he wasn’t finding it a good plan.

  Finally he asked, “Are you offering to cook dinner?”

  “I can do that.” More or less. Her freezer held chicken breasts, microwaveable bags of mashed potatoes, and several loaves of CaraCakes’ take-and-bake bread, and there were canned green beans and jars of gravy in the pantry. It wasn’t exactly home cooking, but it was close.

  “Then the least I can do is clean the rollers and brushes.”

  “Deal,” she said quickly, handing the tray, its roller and leftover paint to him. “I do like a man who compromises. Come on into the kitchen when you’re done.”

  Carly hadn’t cooked a meal for anyone but herself since Jeff had shipped out, and the prospect pleased her more than she’d ever expected. Too many breakfasts and dinners alone, she decided. Next time, she would cook a real meal. Though her parents had employed a housekeeper-cook who hadn’t wanted her underfoot, Carly had discovered that learning to cook was like learning any other subject: If a person could follow directions, she could cook.

  Though lessons from Jeff’s mom, Mia, had helped.

  Her prepackaged meal was simmering, baking, and radiating along when Dane came in. He washed his hands before taking up position against the island.

  “Do you cook?” she asked as she removed a tub of margarine and a Dr Pepper from the refrigerator. For her own drink, she grabbed a bottle of water to mix with a packet of mandarin-mango tea powder.

  “I do a great burger and a steak. I learned to fry eggs from the master—my grandmother—and I make a decent pasta sauce.”

  “What’s your favorite meal?”

  “Hm. Turkey, dressing, sweet potatoes with marshmallows, and pecan pie.” He smiled at her look. “What can I say? I missed too many Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners.”

  Wow. That was a bit ambitious for her first attempt at cooking for him. She and Jeff had been lucky in that they’d always managed to make it to her family’s or his for the holidays. She’d never roasted a turkey or made a pecan pie.

  “Can I help?”

  “Um, yeah. If you’d get the glasses and ice.”

  “What’s your favorite meal?”

  “Depends on the season. In winter, I love beef and cabbage stew or chicken stew. When it’s a hundred and ten in the shade, salad with crabmeat and avocado is perfect. Any time I feel in need of comfort, it’s pasta with lots of cheese.” And there were those times when she went all sweets, but he didn’t need to know that. If he hadn’t stayed, she would have stuffed herself with the rest of the fruit tarts, carrot cupcakes, and pecan pies and called it supper.

  She cooked the chicken with a generous hand on the spices, seasoned the mashed potatoes with salt, pepper and garlic, and sliced thick slabs of hot bread, adding margarine and honey to the table. When everything was ready and Dane was seated, she took her own chair, closed her eyes for a brief, silent blessing, then filled her lungs with fragrant air.

  The scene was achingly familiar: her in her usual seat, hot food on the table, a man she cared about across from her. The only significant difference was who that man was. For an instant, it hurt that it wasn’t Jeff, that she would never share another meal with him.

  But it was a fact. She could regret it all she wanted, but his life had ended and hers was still going on. And she thought maybe, just possibly, she wanted it to go on with Dane in it.

  “Am I sitting in his chair?”

  Startled, she blinked. “Hm? Oh, um, yes.”

  “Do you want me to move?”

  “Move? Oh, no, of course not. It’s okay. I was just thinking…You’re the first person I’ve cooked for since Jeff.” A piece of chicken quivered on her fork, and she lowered it to the plate. “I haven’t cleaned out his closet yet. I haven’t packed up any of his stuff. I got rid of my car so I could keep his.” Abruptly she offered him a shaky smile. “I’m sorry. You don’t want to hear this.”

  Dane set his own fork down and picked up a slice of bread, spreading it heavily with butter. “There’s no proper schedule for dealing with loss.”

  Her second smile was even shakier. “That’s what the chaplains and the grief counselors say.” With a loud breath, she said again, “I’m sorry. Let’s talk about something…anything else.”

  His dark gaze held hers a long moment before he carefully spoke. “I know what it’s like to…lose and…and feel like you’re never going to get past it. Any time you want to talk, I don’t mind listening.”

  Something inside her warmed, and an earlier thought bloomed back to life. She wouldn’t give up one second of her past with Jeff, but she was pretty sure she wanted Dane in her future.

  Chapter Nine

  Yet one more uncomfortably silent meal was nearly over in the Matheson house when Therese finally pushed her plate a few inches away and rested her arms on the table. “You know, spring break is two and a half weeks away.”

  Jacob made a startled sound and fixed his gaze on his food as if he couldn’t get it to his mouth without extreme concentration. To his left, Abby stopped shredding a roll to pieces and put all her teenage obnoxiousness into a sigh. “Yeah, like that hasn’t been the only thing everyone talks about. Even the teachers are excited about ditching their stupid classes for a week.”

  Please, God, don’t let me stuff that roll in her mouth. “I talked to your mother this afternoon, and…” With a silent request for forgiveness, she told a bit of a lie. “She wants you two to spend it with her. We got your reservations. You’ll fly out that Monday and come home on Saturday.”

  Jacob’s gaze jerked to Therese’s face, his cheeks pinking, then to Abby, as if to base his reaction on hers. Therese watched her, too—watched the emotions flash unguarded through her expression: surprise, excitement, an instant of pure joy, then annoyance.

  “Oh, my gosh, I can’t believe this! You think you can just get rid of us for the week without even asking? What if I’d had plans with my friends?”

  “Do you?”

  Abby rolled her eyes. “No, but that’s not the point. What if I did? They’d be ruined and I’d have to cancel them and everyone would be ticked off at me. The least you could have done was ask if we even wanted to go see her. Right, Jacob?”

  “I-I, uh, well—” Now his face matched the red hue of the apples filling the bowl on the counter.

  “See?” Abby gave her hair a flip as she shoved her chair back and stood. “We don’t have any say in anything ’cause we’re just kids, and we’re not even your kids, so you think you can make us do whatever you want. I might not even come back from Mom’s. I bet that would make
you happy.” With that, she flounced from the room, her steps forceful enough that Therese imagined the pictures on the hall wall vibrating. A moment later, her bedroom door slammed.

  In the silence that settled, Jacob stared at his plate again, though he gave up any pretense of eating. After a moment, his voice barely audible, he said, “I want to see Mom. Abby does, too. She said so. She’s just…”

  How often had Therese heard those words applied to Abby? Starting with Paul: She’s just angry, she’s just scared, she’s just disappointed that Catherine and I aren’t getting back together.

  From her pastor: She’s just grieving, she’s just lost, she’s just so unsure of her place in life.

  From the grief counselor: She’s just trying to cope and she doesn’t have the skills.

  And once from Jessy: She’s just a brat. Don’t cut her so much slack.

  “I know, Jacob.” Therese suddenly felt tired. She’d hoped this trip might ease things between her and Abby, at least a little. After she’d prayed, after she’d talked to Catherine and made the reservations, she’d hoped…

  One thing it seemed she would never run out of: hope. Was she a fool?

  She began gathering dishes, ordinarily a job the kids shared. “You know I’m not trying to get rid of you, don’t you, Jacob?”

  He was still for so long she thought he wasn’t going to answer, then he stood and took the dishes from her hands. “Yeah, I know.”

  As he headed for the sink, she stood, too, and picked up the serving bowls. “You and Abby are always welcome here.”

  “Yeah.” Lower, practically under his breath, he murmured, “Just nowhere else.”

  Therese’s heart hurt. How sad was it that an eleven-year-old child felt he wasn’t wanted anywhere except the one place he didn’t want to be? Desperately she wished she could wrap her arms around him and hold him until all their aches were gone, but she’d been pushed away so many times in the past, the most she dared was a hand on his shoulder after she set the dishes down.

  He flinched away from even that.

  Therese left the kitchen. She would put on her pajamas, brush her teeth and scrub her face, then settle into her favorite chair to read. Surely she could find a soothing verse or two in the Bible.

  It took every bit of her energy to climb the stairs. She knocked on Abby’s door, intending to tell her to take her temper downstairs and help Jacob with the dishes. Abby’s voice from inside stilled her hand in pre-knock position.

  “—trying to take credit for all of it, of course. ‘I talked to your mother,’ ‘We got your reservations.’ Yeah, right. It was Mom’s idea, I know it. Tuh-reese doesn’t ever think about us. She doesn’t care what we want. She just wants us to get out of her house and her life. I told her maybe I’d just stay with Mom, and you should’ve seen her face. She’d like that.”

  Therese lowered her arm to her side, then backed off a dozen feet. “Abby, Jacob’s started the cleanup. Go down and help him.” Without waiting for a response, she went into her room and closed the door. Wearily, she sank down on Paul’s side of the bed, letting her head rest on the pillow. For a long time, the scent of him had remained. She wasn’t sure if it had eventually faded, or if she’d cried the fragrance right out of it.

  She wasn’t going to cry tonight.

  Rolling onto her other side, she gazed at the large photo of Paul on the opposite nightstand. “Why, Paul? Why didn’t you come home? You promised you would. You promised all of us.”

  There was no answer, of course. Just that dear smile on that dear face. Jacob was growing to look more like him every day, and Abby had every bit the stubborn jaw. How different their lives would have been if he’d kept his promise and returned home. Oh, Abby would still be a pain and Jacob would still be moody—they were kids, after all—but there would have been so much more. They would have been a family.

  Her inhale was shaky. “Jacob helped moved the furniture at Carly’s so she could paint,” she whispered. “He’s so big and strong. You’d be proud of him, Paul. And Carly’s got a boyfriend. He seems like a very nice guy, and he makes her smile. You’d like him. He reminds me of you in ways. Nothing physical. He just has the same sense of honor and decency about him that you do.”

  She paused to trace a pattern on the floral coverlet. “I miss you so much, sweetie…and I’m so jealous of Carly. She and the other women in the margarita club are the best friends I could ask for, but sometimes…I’m so lonely. If I could have just one more hug from you, just one more kiss…”

  The hot dampness seeping from her eyes proved she’d been wrong earlier. After a few more nights like this, she might find hope in short supply, but she had absolutely no shortage of tears.

  “How are you today, Staff Sergeant?”

  It was Friday afternoon and Dane had taken all he could in the gym. Sweat dampened his shirt, and his leg hadn’t decided if it was going to throb or tingle, so it was alternating between both. The last thing he wanted was to get in a conversation with anyone, but when Captain Rush fell in step with him, he nodded a hello, then shrugged. “Can’t complain.”

  “Aw, there hasn’t been a man born who can’t complain.” The cadre nurse smiled to take the sting out of her words. She was a beautiful woman, with sleek black hair, ebony skin and a terminally positive way about her, no matter how grim the job. Half the guys under her care had fallen for her, but she never took it seriously, so it never got awkward.

  If Dane hadn’t already fallen for Carly, he could have tumbled for Captain Rush, too.

  “Where are you headed?” she asked.

  “Home, for a carrot cake cupcake with a chaser of hydrocodone.”

  “You had me until the chaser. CaraCakes?” She waited an instant for his nod, then made a dreamy face. “They’re the best. I don’t even let myself drive by there more than once a week or the smell lures me in. How’s your leg? Any problems?”

  “Just the main one. It’s still gone.”

  “And the prosthesis? You’re walking good. You doing okay with it?”

  “As long as I go in a straight line at an old lady’s pace.”

  “Ha. And you said you couldn’t complain.”

  He gave her a sardonic smile as they approached the main entrance. “Word around the gym is that you were some hotshot pediatrics nurse practitioner before you came here. Isn’t that a big change?”

  “Kids to wounded adults? Not so much as you’d think.” Her laughter was full, the kind that made people look her direction. “You have plans for the weekend?”

  “I’m helping a friend paint her living room.”

  “Hm. A girlfriend?”

  “Uh, she’s a girl and she’s a friend, so yeah.”

  “Playing with words, Staff Sergeant. You say ‘friend.’ I say ‘sweetie pie.’”

  He chose the steps that led to the sidewalk rather than the ramp; he could use the practice. Then, for some perverse reason, he returned to the subject. “You don’t think men and women can be just friends?”

  “Sure, they can. I just prefer to think that everyone’s happily matched with a significant other.”

  “We haven’t even been out on a real date.”

  She laughed. “My husband and I have been married nearly twenty years and have four kids, and we’ve never had a real date, either. We just did stuff—impromptu meals, running into each other around town, spending time together—and before we knew it, we were in love and getting married. I guess you could say our wedding was our first formal date, with both of us dressed up, a fine meal, and wine.”

  His hand sliding along the railing, Dane eyed her. Even in her loose-fitting ACUs, it was clear she was lean and muscled. Better yet, he’d seen her in PT shorts and a T-shirt that was a size too small and couldn’t look better. He wouldn’t have guessed her to be mom to four or old enough to have been married twenty years.

  “So is your friend who’s a girl significant?” Captain Rush fished.

  “Aren’t we all?” he countered.


  “We are, at least in God’s eyes.” Then she smiled. “And this woman is pretty significant in yours, too, isn’t she? Good for you, Staff Sergeant.”

  Stopping in front of his pickup, Dane beeped the lock open. “Yeah,” he agreed, shooting for sardonic again. “Good for me.” He figured at best he and Carly were on the road to disappointment. At worst, he was going to find out that the divorce from Sheryl no longer held its place as the worst time in his personal life.

  “Don’t overdo the painting,” Captain Rush said. “Have a good weekend. And consider taking that girl out on a date.”

  He responded with a nod, then climbed into the truck. For a moment, he sat there, rubbing the stump of his leg, watching until the captain disappeared into the building next door. “Don’t overdo,” she’d said, and he’d been careful of that. No way he was going to show weakness in front of Carly. She did all the climbing, all the crouching on the floor, while he painted what he could reach standing up. She never asked him how he’d “torn up” his leg, and he was grateful for that.

  He was pretty sure, if things continued the way they were, the question would come sometime. Unless he made her forget about it by doing the stuff a normal man would do. If he could climb stairs, he could climb a ladder. If he could get down on the floor, maybe not kneel but sit on his butt, then he could get back up again. It would be graceless, but he could live with that.

  He went home, parking near the building since most of his neighbors were still at the WTU. On the way to the door, he realized he was limping and he amended his chaser to a pain pill and a muscle relaxer. Maybe a bath instead of a shower. Some deep heat would feel nice.

  In the bathroom, he set the tub to filling, went back to the kitchen for the cupcake and a fruit tart as well as a bottle of water and two pills. Back in the bathroom, he pulled off his T-shirt, removed his right shoe, then took off his sweats and boxers. Pressing in the button near the knee, he released the prosthesis and set it aside, then pulled off the liner and laid it next to the sink.