Code Name: Forever & Ever (A Warrior's Challenge series Book 5)

by Natasza Waters

  Marg rested a hand on the molded vase atop of the cement bannister surrounding the patio. “You’re judging me and my choices. This little conversation has been very interesting, but you’ll have to excuse me, I see Patrick.”

  She left her father’s prime cut where he stood and aimed for her boyfriend. “Everything all right?” she asked, when she reached him. His expression gave nothing away. “We can leave.” Patrick’s gaze took her in. What was he thinking? “At least give me a hint of what you talked about.”

  “I didn’t talk. Your father did most of it.”

  “I’m sure he did, and his minion.” She cast a glance over her shoulder. “Bruce attacked from another quadrant. This is all ridiculous.”

  Patrick’s head bowed. “Maybe not, Marg. Your father does have a point.”

  “No, he doesn’t,” she said sternly, imagining what he had said to Patrick.

  Patrick soothed her by palming his hands down her arms. “Relax. Let me get you another drink?”

  She huffed in exasperation. SEALs were too tight lipped. “I’ll get you one!”

  She took the empty glass from his hand and walked inside. Grams stood by the bar speaking with an executive from her father’s studio. An older, distinguished gentleman.

  “Darling!” She wrapped an arm around Marg’s waist. “Mr. Heartland, I’d like you to meet my oldest granddaughter.”

  “Pleasure to finally meet you, Margaret. I’ve heard good things about your rising career. Maybe your next step is Hollywood.”

  “Nice to meet you, Mr. Heartland, and I doubt that. Grams, can I talk to you for a minute?”

  Mr. Heartland took the hint, gave them a little bow and departed.

  “Grams, I know my mother won’t change, but can’t you talk to Dad, please?”

  Grams let out a healthy sigh. “In full attack mode, are they?”

  “I thought this was supposed to be a family dinner.”

  “Your mother changed her mind, like she always does.”

  “You mean she wanted to make Patrick feel as uncomfortable as she possibly could.”

  Grams darted a look across the stately living room. “Stick by your guns, Marg. Parents have a hard time accepting their children have grown up and have different opinions from them. You’re an adult now, and they’ll eventually see that and respect you for it. You’re not hanging on their purse strings because you have your own income, so they have no leverage.”

  “Not so sure they will ever accept Patrick or my choices.” Marg ordered two more drinks from the bartender and saw her sisters had surrounded Patrick.

  “Hey.” She joined him and passed him another beer.

  “Marg!” Laurene hugged her.

  Victoria, Marg’s youngest sister, couldn’t stop gawking at Patrick.

  “Did you meet my sisters, Victoria and Laurene?” Patrick gave them both a sexy smile. Victoria’s brown eyes pooled into infatuated melting pots. “We’ll talk later. I want to show him around.”

  “I don’t mind tagging along,” Victoria said, still in a glorified mist of lust.

  Marg shot a ‘behave’ look at Victoria. “I’ll find you later. Patrick…this way.”

  Patrick winked at Victoria, which didn’t help a bit. “Nice to meet you, ladies.”

  “Uh-huh,” Victoria and Laurene sighed more than said.

  Patrick took in his surroundings but he didn’t comment as she toured him around the first floor of the mansion. When they walked into her father’s library, she closed the door behind Patrick and took a seat on the leather sofa. Pat did as well, but across from her, not beside her, keeping an eighteenth century coffee table between them and more than four feet. She watched as he rolled the glass between the palms of his hands.

  “What did he say, Patrick? I want to know. My father has a lot of experience as a salesman. He has to in the movie industry.”

  He shrugged. “He pointed out—again, that his daughter comes from money and needs a husband who can offer her the same lifestyle she’s accustomed to.”

  Marg buried her face in her hands. “Oh, God, I’m so sorry. He has no filter when it comes to us.” The couch sagged as Patrick shifted and sat beside her.

  “He’s right.”

  Marg lifted her face and glared at him. “Is he?”

  Patrick’s brow furrowed. “In a way, yes.”

  She vaulted to her feet and paced the room. Before her second lap, her father entered.

  “Margaret, obviously you’re not very happy with me.”

  She marched across the walnut floor. “What bothers you most, Dad? Is it that I’m not tied to your purse strings so you can’t tell me what to do anymore? You didn’t even give Patrick a chance. You investigated his bank account and decided that he’s not good enough? Is that what a man’s worth is based on? Money?”

  Her father’s expression turned grim. “Young lady, I’d like you to sit down for a moment.”

  “So I can listen to a diatribe about how only wealth should marry wealth. I’ve heard it before.”

  “Are your parents happily married?” Her father directed the question to Patrick.

  “No, sir.” Patrick didn’t seem phased by her father’s rude and invasive question.

  “Why is that?” her father continued.

  Patrick sighed and leaned forward. “Because my father’s an alcoholic and this week.” He shrugged and bowed his head. “He left my mother for another woman.”

  “If you were in my position, would you consider yourself the best choice for my daughter?”

  She stepped into the line of fire. “Don’t answer that, Patrick.”

  “Marg, being rebellious and going through a phase is expected at your age. As long as you two aren’t serious and considering anything long term, I’m not concerned.”

  Fine, if her father wanted to get down to dark and dirty brass tacks, she had some too. “I suppose as long as you have money, it’s okay to find happiness in someone else’s bed? Is that the sign of a good husband?”

  The comment hit home, but her father was a pro. “Margaret, I made a mistake. I admitted it to your mother and we have moved on.”

  “Moved on to what, Dad?” Marg strolled to the fireplace and picked up the picture that sat there. “This is happy.” She held out the picture of her grandmother and Braden Stines. Taken in the sixties, when they were young and in love. “Do you want to take a close look? Grams loved Braden Stines. She still does. Your dad died in the war, but you blame the entire military for it, and you’re blaming Patrick because of your grief.”

  The door cracked open and Grams stuck her head in. “I heard raised voices,” she said, “Sounds like someone needs a referee.”

  “Where is it, Grams?”

  Her grandmother strolled into the room and took a seat next to Patrick, patting his knee and adjusted her scarf. “This family loves drama, it’s a good thing we make movies.”

  One side of Patrick’s lip curled into a smile.

  Grams placed her glass on the table. “Where is what, Marg?”

  “The letter you never gave Dad, from Grandfather.”

  Marg’s father tilted his head. “What letter? What’s she talking about, Mom?”

  “Do you still have it?” Marg asked, ignoring her Grams surprised look.

  “Yes, I still have it, but how did you—?”

  “Doesn’t matter. The Pop-Tart Kid needs to have it, along with whatever it was Grandfather Stines left him.”

  Her father took a step closer. “What the hell? How did you know that name? Did you tell her that, Mom?”

  Gram’s hands curled together, and she placed them primly in her lap as her brows scrunched together. “No, son, I didn’t.” She turned. “How did you know Braden called him that?”

  “Had a little help. Do you still have the letter?”

  Grams shrugged. “Would it matter to you, son? You have seethed about your father’s death since you were twenty. Too many years have passed to make a difference.”

/>   Her father looked confused. “Isn’t it up to me to decide what makes a difference in my life?”

  Gram’s head rose. “I don’t know, dear, would the same apply to your daughter?”

  Bam. Gram’s scores the game point.

  “Son, if it weren’t for the unselfish acts of Arnold, who raised you like his own, gave us wealth and shared his heart with us, we would be blue collar like millions of others.”

  Red tinted her father’s face. “It doesn’t matter what our roots are, it’s what we make of ourselves that matters.”

  “Exactly. My granddaughter has made me very proud. Patrick has completed his training and few do as a Navy SEAL. He’s the best and that’s why he’s succeeded. They’re both young, but they both have their heads screwed on straight. Let them figure out their future. Marg has a career, and she’s found this nice young man who I think you should show some respect. He’s willing to give his life to protect this country, but you’ve never let go of your grief for losing your father and it’s stained your outlook.”

  Her father shook his head and let out a deep sigh. “I don’t want Marg to go through the same pain I did.”

  “That’s her choice,” Gram’s quipped. “Give me a hand, Patrick.” He immediately rose and helped Grams to her feet. “Hate that couch, it eats me alive.” She rambled over to the desk. Marg’s father stepped closer, and they all watched as she stuffed her hand beneath the middle drawer.

  Grams had given the nineteenth century desk to him when he became an executive at the studio. She raised her eyes and felt around and then there was a click and a shallow drawer popped open.

  “I didn’t know that was there,” her father said.

  “I put the letter in here,” she said, pointing down to a yellowed envelope and beside it was a silver badge. Grams picked it up and smiled at Patrick and then Marg’s father. “I remember the day your father received this. It was the proudest day of his life. This, my son, is rare. The Trident that Navy SEALs receive when they graduate was adopted later, but this is special because in October of 1970, your father received the very first special warfare badge ever given out. He wanted you to have it.” Grams’ old fingers closed around it for a moment and she looked like she was about to cry.

  “It’s okay, Grams,” Marg said, quickly wrapping an arm around her shoulder.

  Grams lifted the envelope from its hiding place. “I didn’t think you’d ever read it because you were always so angry whenever I tried to talk about your father, but I wanted it to be close to you, so I put it in here when I gave you the desk.”

  Marg watched as her father reached out and carefully took the envelope. He stared at it like it was an artifact and gently fingered it.

  “Vietnam was a horrible place, and your father knew there was a chance he may never come home. He wrote this when you were only fifteen-years-old and told me that if he never came home, when the time was right, I should give it to you.” Grams paused and took a healing breath. “I never read it.”

  Her father’s tough exterior cracked, and tears welled in his eyes. Marg darted a look at Patrick and even his stoic composure seemed off-kilter.

  “Our family comes from grass roots. Salt of the earth type people. And no family is without its moments of chagrin or sadness. We were lucky, son, but who we are does not balance on a monetary scale. We know better than that. Your father was a proud man. He was honest, brave and loved you with all his heart. You have ignored his existence because not having him hurts. I understand that, but I have never forsaken his memory because he gave his life when his country asked him to stand and fight.”

  Marg’s father stared at the envelope in his hands. “I’m not angry anymore.” His head darted up and he gazed into his mother’s eyes. “I stopped being angry the day I watched them remove the flag from his coffin and hand it to you. I wanted my father back, not a fucking flag. I wanted him to hold,”—his eyes swerved to Marg—“my daughter.” His brow crushed into a tight accordion and his head cocked sideways as he fought his emotion.

  Grams palmed the desk and grilled her son with a look he probably hadn’t received since he was ten. “My granddaughter has the Stines backbone. I know in my bones that although Braden never got to hold her, he loves her. She is determined to find her own way in this life. We need to trust her judgement.”

  Marg’s father nodded and tucked the letter in his blazer pocket. “I should get back to our guests.” He patted his pocket as if making sure the letter was still there. He turned for the door and stopped before leaving. “I don’t hate him, Mom.” Tears filled his eyes. “I just miss him. Every day, I have missed him.”

  The door closed with a quiet click.

  Gram’s glued her gaze to Marg. “How did you know about the letter and that Braden called him the Pop-Tart Kid?”

  “Don’t think you’d believe me if I told you.”

  Grams debated silently, then said, “I think I might.”

  Marg urged her grandmother to sit and both she and Patrick huddled around her. “I went to see a psychic with a friend in San Diego. I don’t really believe in ghosts or mediums, but as soon as we sat down, the woman described the man who had come to speak to me.” Marg pointed at the framed picture on the mantel. “She described Grandfather Stines to a ‘T’. He said he wanted Dad to have the letter and something else. I guess it was the badge.”

  Patrick rose and retrieved the picture, then gave it to Grams.

  “I think I believe it,” Patrick said.

  “Did this medium say anything else?” Grams asked.

  “Nothing I really understood, except that he’s waiting for you.”

  Grams smiled. “I know he is. Might be a bit of an issue with Arnold already up there, too, but I’m sure we’ll work it out.”

  “Pffft, not planning on going anywhere soon, I hope.” She hugged Grams. “I want you to live forever.” Marg’s pulse had finally receded. “Sometimes, I feel like all I have is you.”

  Grams gently clutched her hand and placed it in Patrick’s. “You’ll always have someone who loves you.” She kissed Marg’s forehead. “I suppose I should toddle on to the party as well.” Patrick rose and helped her up. Grams’ head leaned back and she looked straight into Patrick’s eyes. “My Braden was a lot like you, Patrick. Silent and strong, but I knew there was a lot going on underneath the surface of his rugged exterior. I think it’s the same with you.”

  Marg gasped, and they both looked over. She waved away their attention.

  Patrick leaned over and gave Grams a kiss on her cheek.

  “Take your time, darlings. There’s no rush to get back.”

  Marg escorted her grandmother to the door. Once Grams had gone, she locked the door.

  Patrick stood watching her. “Your grandmother is right. I think a lot more than I verbalize.”

  Instead of approaching him, Marg tucked her arms behind her back, using the door for support. “You’re leaving tomorrow.” She paused and stared down at the floor.

  “I’ll miss you, Marg.”

  “Will you?” She bit her lip and felt defeated somehow. Patrick’s strong physique advanced across the room. He placed his hands on either side of her head and leaned closer.

  “What did the medium say to you? I can tell you’re holding something back.”

  She shook her head.

  “What was it?”

  “Nothing. It didn’t mean anything.”

  “Try me.” He was so close, his warm breath brushed against her lips.

  Trapped in his gaze, the words formed on her tongue. “Grandfather said, ‘It’s the same.’” She didn’t move a muscle when his hands palmed her face.

  “I don’t know what that means either, depending on what else you were talking about.”

  She shook her head slowly.

  “Were you talking about me?” he whispered.

  When she didn’t answer, his unshaven cheek brushed hers. “Marg, tell me the truth.”

  “I don’t remember.�
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  “Yes, you do. Did she say I was going to die?”

  “No,” Marg blurted. “Not at all.”

  Patrick scanned her face for a lie.

  “She didn’t, I swear. She said—I was going to marry my soulmate and have a family.”

  “I want you to do something for me while I’m gone.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t hold back if you want to see Bruce.”

  Marg ripped his hands from her face. “What?”

  “I’m leaving for six months. I don’t expect you to wait for me.”

  Marg put at least ten feet of distance between them. “How noble! In other words, if you get the chance, you want to be free to have fun. Is that it?”

  “Marg, there’s no bars where I’m going. No parties. It’s a hundred percent on-the-job.”

  “I’ll be working, too.”

  “As a model.”

  She squinted. “Yes. Of course.”

  “With a bunch of good looking guys.”

  She cocked her head at him. “Are you jealous?”

  “I’m being realistic.”

  Marg’s mouth gaped for a second then snapped closed. “Right. Fine.” She jerked her head and drew in a deep breath. It didn’t calm her, only stopped her from committing murder in her father’s library with a candlestick. “Guess I better get a little black book for all the new phone numbers I’ll get. You want me to pick you one up, too?” She turned on her heel. “I don’t know why this bothers me. It’s not like you’ve ever gotten much closer than a kiss.” She sucked her cheeks in to ward off the stinging in her heart.

  “Marg, I always wanted you, but I can’t be second best when it comes to you.”

  “Second best? Are you kidding me?” Her hands gripped her hips.

  “I better go.”

  She’d keep her promise to Pat’s mom. He was not leaving until she knew what he really felt. He’d told her he loved her. Was he taking it back? “No you don’t, Patrick Cobbs. Spill your guts. Right now, or else.”

  He wandered toward the window that looked out toward the gardens. “I have. That’s the problem.” Patrick shook his head. “I wanted you to tell me, not come to the conclusion myself. Thought maybe tonight, you’d finally tell me the truth.”