by Angel Smits
Ryan laughed and continued reading. “He did everything in his power to get word up the chain that they were firing on us. He couldn’t save us all. We all had another beer for the guys. And then we bought him another beer because it was all we had to say thanks. We couldn’t give him a medal or any money or much more than a handshake. But we could buy him a beer, and danged if that isn’t what we did. By midnight, we were all so polluted, I’m still amazed we got up the next morning.” Ryan paused reading for a few moments, pondering what he’d just read. He turned to Marcus.
“Is that why you and Grandpa argue? Because he drank like you did?”
“No.” Marcus’s gut tightened. He’d always argued with his father, and he thought, perhaps, they always would.
* * *
MARCUS STOOD ON the front step of the town house where he’d grown up. He reached up and knocked on the door. He waited, shoving his hands into the pockets of his coat. Texas was already full of summer, but here rain fell heavy and hard.
The door opened. “Marcus?” His mother stood on the other side, staring at him. “What are you doing here?”
“I—” His throat went dry. “I came to see Dad.”
She shivered. “You know you don’t have to knock. Come on in. He’s in the den. Did you bring a suitcase?” She looked past him. “Is Ryan with you?”
Marcus stepped inside. “No. He’s got summer baseball and a big tournament. His team is depending on him. He’s staying with his friend Dex’s family.”
The den. Marcus smiled and shook his head. After he and his sister had moved out, his mother had converted his sister’s bedroom into a room with a desk, bookshelves and a couch. It was the den. It always seemed strange to him to go in there. He’d been banned from her room the instant she’d hit puberty and presumably had teenage girl secrets he, the younger brother, would never understand. The never-understanding part he still didn’t get.
“James?” she called, leading the way down the hall. “Marcus is here.” Even as she called her husband’s name, it sounded curious, unsure.
James looked up from the paper he’d been reading. He hastily set it aside and stood. “Is something wrong?”
“No, no.” Marcus waved his father to take his seat. “I just—” He looked at his father, then at his mother and then turned away to move over to the window. It looked out over the backyard, and he looked over at the fence he’d helped build, begrudgingly one summer, at the lawn he’d hated mowing, at the back patio he’d cleaned leaves and snow and other assorted bits of nature from. All under protest. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, surprised when his breath fogged the glass. “I came to talk to you about—”
He took a couple of steps, finally facing his father again. “I read the book.” His voice shook. “Actually, Ryan and I read it together.”
“I see.” James settled back in the big chair he’d been lounging in. He wasn’t relaxed now, though. He didn’t meet his son’s gaze.
“I’m curious.” Marcus sat on the couch, at the end nearest his father. He perched on the edge of the cushion, clasping his hands together, surprised at how cold his own fingers were. “Why did you let me believe that what you did in Vietnam was bad?”
Donna gasped. The silence that followed stretched out thick and heavy. Long minutes ticked by as no one spoke. Marcus waited. He figured he’d waited twenty years to find out the truth. Surely, he could wait a few more moments.
Finally, James looked up. His eyes were deep. Filled with something that Marcus wasn’t sure he wanted to know. “I don’t have to explain myself to anyone.” His defiance almost surprised Marcus.
“Not even your son?”
“Especially not my son!” James shot to his feet, smacking the paper on the seat. Ryan stood, as well. He did not want to argue with his father. He’d come here hoping to fill in the blanks Sam’s book created. The details of the heroism his father hid. He’d hoped, maybe, he could connect with the man who’d been gone so much of his growing up. The man he’d always wanted to have more of.
“And why is that?”
James spun around, halfway to the door. He seemed to chew on the words before letting them go. “You have a son. I thought maybe you’d understand.”
Maybe he did. Maybe he didn’t. But Marcus wanted—needed—his father to explain his piece. “Tell me what I’m supposed to know.” For the first time, Marcus noticed the age settling over his father’s features. He noticed the evidence of time. The signs of the harsh world his father had lived in.
“Tell you what?”
“About that flight. About why you noticed something no one else did? Tell me your side of Sam’s story.” Silence once again stretched out. “Dad. Please.”
“Hrumpf.” James didn’t explain, but he didn’t leave the room either, which is what he’d clearly intended. “I don’t care what Sam said. I’m no hero.”
Marcus knew better than to speak at this point, though the questions swirled around in his brain. Slowly, finally, James took a few steps and plopped back down in the chair. The newspaper crackled under him, but he didn’t seem to notice. “I was just doin’ my job.” He looked up, the damp red in his eyes surprising Marcus.
“I don’t know why I noticed it. I don’t know.” James rubbed his brow, looking up at Marcus. “I don’t know why it didn’t happen ten minutes earlier. I don’t know.” He stared down at the floor, the vacant stare telling Marcus that James was a long way from the small den.
“But you did notice,” Marcus whispered, almost afraid of breaking the spell.
It didn’t matter that Marcus spoke softly. James reacted the same. “Too damned late. There were already half a dozen men dead.” His voice was soft but intense. “I couldn’t save them.”
Marcus had read the accounts. The rest of the company had survived because of James’s realization that they were firing on their own men the same time they were killing Viet Cong. He’d tried to convince his superiors to call a cease-fire. He hadn’t been able to do that. But they had changed their attack. No more friendly fire.
“Six boys came home in body bags,” James whispered. “Six men lost. That was too many. Just too many.” He looked up at Marcus then. “I know they gave me those medals. I know they patted me on the back, but...” His voice cracked.
Donna moved farther into the room then. She reached out and squeezed Marcus’s shoulder, then she walked around to put her hand on James’s arm. “Tell him the rest.” She nodded. “He should know. I’ll bet Sam didn’t write about that.”
“Sam didn’t know.”
“Yes, he did.” She leaned her head sideways, forcing her husband to look at her. “He went to see every one of those families, too. He talked to me. I wrote you about it.”
“Guess I forgot.”
“You chose to forget,” she chastised him. But despite her urging, James didn’t explain. “Well, fine. You won’t, I will.” She turned to face Marcus.
“Your father went to see every one of those wives, mothers, families. Remember when we’d pack you kids up in the car and we’d go visit some distant cousin? They lived near one of those families. He’d go see them.”
James still didn’t speak.
“Why didn’t you ever explain to me? Why didn’t you share that piece of it?”
James looked up then. “I wasn’t doing it for you. Or for me.” He finally spoke. “I did it for them. They needed to know the truth. Lord knows the government wasn’t going to fill them in. They deserved that.”
Marcus sat back, staring at the old man who’d been that young soldier, quietly traveling all over the US with his small family to make amends for some debt he didn’t owe. What did you say to a man who did that? What did you do?
“You’re a good man, Dad.”
James glared at him. “Now you notice?” His laughter held no humor. “Why the hell do you think I didn’t sha
re all this before? I’m your father. I don’t have to impress you.”
Marcus cursed. “You think that’s what this is about? You think that my opinion has changed?” He cursed again. “I love you. I wanted to be like you. All that time growing up, when you left, it sucked. Everyone else had their dad around. I wanted you there. Or at least I wanted a legitimate excuse as to why you weren’t there.” He took a breath, shoving his fingers through his hair in frustration. “You gave me nothing. Nothing.” He didn’t want to be angry. He didn’t want to argue. He’d just wanted the truth.
James shot to his feet, nearly knocking Donna over. “You don’t understand.”
“Then help me understand. Explain it to me.”
James stalked to the door, his back straighter than it had been in years, nearly at attention stance. He didn’t stop until he reached the doorway. He stopped, looking over his shoulder. “Some memories—hurt too much to revisit.” And then he was gone, his footsteps slow and heavy down the hall.
Donna stared after her husband. “He had nightmares for years. Don’t judge him too harshly.”
“That’s the problem.” Marcus stared at the empty doorway. “I’m not judging him. I’m not disappointed. I’m not—” He sighed. “I don’t know.”
“You’re still acting like a boy.” She walked over to him. “You know how a parent feels. When Carolyn was sick, I know you kept things from Ryan. You did it so he could stay a boy. You protected him. James did the same with you.”
Marcus didn’t know what to say. “I’m grown now. He doesn’t need to protect me anymore.”
“You’re probably right.” She moved in close. “But old habits are hard to break. You’re still his son. And maybe you’re not the one who’ll be hurt when he remembers.”
“How’d you get so smart, Mom?”
“Practice. Lots of practice.” She reached out and hugged him. They laughed, though the subdued nature of it was strange. “Are you at least staying for dinner?”
“I’ll stay tonight. But I’m going home tomorrow.”
“It’s better than nothing, I guess.” She patted his cheek. “I’m glad you came home today.”
“Me, too.” He smiled. “Think Dad’s wishing I’d leave tonight?”
“No. He’ll never admit it, but he missed you, too.” She frowned. “I think I’ve got some things you should take with you.”
He frowned. “What?”
“You’ll see.” She looped her arm through his. “So, tell me. How’s that young woman we saw you with?”
His father’s words echoed around him. Some secrets aren’t secrets because of humiliation or pride or ego. No, they were secrets because of pain. It hurt too much to even tell about it.
Addie’s face appeared in his mind. Dear God, he was a fool. He’d let her, his father, and himself down.
He froze, knowing he’d never hide anything from his mother. “Not good, Mom.” He hung his head. “I screwed up. Big time.”
“Something you can fix I hope.”
“I hope so, too.” Lord he hoped so.
CHAPTER TWENTY
ADDIE OPENED THE door to find Marcus standing on her doorstep. She hadn’t expected anyone, least of all him. A part of her wanted to slam the door in his face. The polite school principal said, “Hello.” She didn’t smile, though another part of her, the part she chose to ignore, was jumping up and down for joy.
Stifling a gasp, she curled her hands tighter around the precious piece of carved wood, instinctively holding it tight against her chest.
“Hope you’re not practicing your incantations to turn me into a toad,” he said.
She stared at him for a long minute, then realized he was referring to the wand. “Uh, maybe just—” She waved it absently. “Making a couple wishes,” she whispered.
“Do you have a minute?” He stood there, his hands in his pockets, his shoulders hunched a bit, reminding her of Ryan.
She nodded and slipped back, opening the door wider. Was that relief on his face? She led the way into the living room, perching on the wing-backed chair. He didn’t sit, choosing to pace in front of the fireplace instead.
Silence stretched out. Finally, Marcus cleared his throat. “There’s a pretty awesome kid at my house who would really like to have a relationship with his mother.”
She gasped, her fingers suddenly aching as she gripped the wood. She looked down at it and made herself let go before she broke it. Carefully, she set the wand on the end table before turning to face him again. Without something to hold on to, she twined her fingers together, gripping so hard her knuckles turned white. She ached to touch him.
Oh, how she wanted to touch him. Memories of that last night they’d spent together came back, taunting and teasing.
“How do you feel about that?” She had to ask, had to know how he really felt.
“I won’t stand in the way of that.” He didn’t look at her, simply stared at the empty fireplace. “He’s afraid of losing you.”
“I won’t—”
“I know you’d never hurt him.” He looked at her then. The pain in his eyes was so deep she actually felt the brunt of the hurt. “Addie, I’m sorry.”
“S-sorry for what?” Why was he here? Just for Ryan? Or was there more?
“For everything.” He turned to face her. “For you losing Cal, and having to give up Ryan. But to be honest, I have to thank you, too. Your sacrifice allowed Carolyn to have her dream of being a mom.”
Addie’s eyes burned. This wasn’t what she’d thought they’d talk about if they ever saw each other again, which she’d seriously doubted would ever happen. “I’d say you’re welcome, but—” She shrugged, trying, and failing, to keep control of her hurt.
“Yeah, a little weird, I know.” He rubbed a hand over his face. “Ryan deserves to have you in his life, and you deserve to watch him grow up.”
She stood there, letting time slip away, afraid to rock this precarious boat. “What...what do you deserve?” she finally asked.
Marcus looked at her then, the fire in his eyes causing her to take a step back. She swallowed.
“I don’t deserve anything.” He turned and paced away. “I read the book. Ryan and I did it together.” He paused. “Then I went and saw my folks.” He spoke quickly, as if forcing himself to focus, needing to get the words out.
“How are they?”
“Good. Better now.” He shoved his hands into his back pockets, and she wished he’d reach for her instead.
“I finally understand, Addie.”
His voice broke, and she couldn’t stand it anymore. She walked over to him. “Marcus, I’m confused. What’s going on?”
He didn’t speak, but he didn’t push her away, either. Progress or just a lull in the storm? Her heart beat loud in her ears, hard against her ribs.
“The memories—” He pulled away from her, shoving his fingers through his hair as he paced away. “I pushed you to remember, just like I did with my dad.” He paused. “I had no right to hurt you like that.”
She ached to hug him. His understanding warmed her heart, and scared her just a little bit. Something big, something unexpected loomed over them. Dare she hope? “You had no way of knowing.” She followed him. “If I’d told you, you might have. But I didn’t. I didn’t tell anyone, and I’m sorry for that.”
“You don’t have anything to be sorry for.” Suddenly, he was there, right beside her. As if he couldn’t resist any longer, he reached out.
“Ah, sweet Addie.” He gently cupped her chin with his hand. “So sweet.”
“Marcus—”
He laughed, a warm sound she’d missed so very much. He stepped even closer, bracketing her face with both hands. “I came here to apologize and leave. I thought I could do that, but I can’t. I can’t let you go, Addie.” His voice deepened. “I need you. I love
you.”
She’d hoped, but she hadn’t expected that. “Marcus?” His image wavered, and she blinked away the damp. “You do? I was afraid to hope—” She threw her arms around him. “I love you, too. So, so much.”
He swooped in then, pulling her tight and kissing her with a wildness she’d never felt before. She returned his kiss, finally free from the secrets and pain of the past.
EPILOGUE
FOR SIX MONTHS, Addie had been given the chance to get used to being a mother. So far, it was just as wonderful as it had been the first day.
While she hadn’t technically moved in here with Ryan and Marcus yet—she was here more than her place. Glancing out the kitchen window, toward the garage that had been Dad’s workshop, to the rich green vines from what had been Mom’s garden, she felt at home.
“Dad, Mom’s crying again.” Ryan laughed, reaching past her to grab a hot cookie from the pan.
“I am not.” She used the hem of the apron she’d borrowed from Tara’s kitchen to wipe her eyes. “Watch you don’t burn yourself.”
“You’re never going to have enough cookies if you keep letting him steal them.” Marcus strolled into the kitchen as Ryan ran out, and grabbed a cup from the cupboard. He filled it with fresh coffee before turning back to lean on the counter and watch her.
She sighed and scooped more dough from the big mixing bowl. “I only have a few more dozen to make.” She pressed the fork on top of the neat balls before sliding the cookie sheet into the oven.
“The wedding is in a week.” He lifted his cup toward the calendar on the kitchen wall. “You do remember Tara’s pastry chef is making us a cake, right?”
She smacked him with the towel. “How could I forget? She calls every day to make some change.”
They were silent for a long moment as the kitchen filled with the sweet aroma of her now-familiar cookies. “You know that no one expects you to make cookies for your own wedding.”
“Yes, they do.” She stared at him. “It’s what I do.”