Summer of Two Wishes

by Julia London

  “What?” Macy said, her mind reeling. Divorce? Voided marriages?

  “I am saying it is up to you,” Jillian said. “You need to understand that, Macy. Ultimately, you have to decide which marriage you want to keep and act accordingly. Do you want my advice?”

  Macy didn’t. She looked out the car window, still trying to absorb the fact that Finn was alive. Lieutenant Colonel Freeman had left Laru’s to drive out to Finn’s parents’ ranch and tell them the stunning news. She could imagine Finn’s mother on the floor right about now. “I should call Rick and Karen,” she said, ignoring her mother’s question.

  “Don’t you do anything until you have thought this through!” Jillian said sharply. “You know the first thing Karen is going to ask is if you are still married to Finn.”

  Finn. Her Finn, her heart’s greatest love.

  They turned onto a county road and flew past the old Rooster Dance Hall. It was one of the oldest surviving dance halls in Texas, and it was packed every Thursday, Friday, and Saturday night. For the last three years, Macy had avoided driving on this road, but today, her heart skipped at the sight of the Rooster.

  It was where Finn had proposed to Macy.

  She’d never forget that night. It was late July, and the air had been so hot and sticky that her blue cotton dress had clung to her. She’d worn cowboy boots and a red cowboy hat, which Finn had teased her about. “You need a little red wagon and a six-shooter,” he’d said. Finn had worn jeans, a white shirt, and his good black cowboy hat. Macy smiled dreamily at the memory. There was nothing quite as sexy as a cowboy.

  The dance floor was partially covered and partially exposed to the elements. Outdoor lights were strung through the trees, and little lanterns hung every six feet. Finn and Macy had danced outside with the hope they’d be cooled by a breeze that never came until Macy had begged for a beer.

  But before they’d walked off the dance floor, the band had struck up a slow waltz. “One more,” Finn had said, and had taken her in his arms, had begun to move languidly, humming in her ear. He’d whispered, “You know I love you.”

  “Mmm…I love you, too,” Macy had said, and dropped her head back to look at the lights as Finn spun her around.

  Finn had pressed his mouth to the hollow of her throat and said, “Macy…come to the ranch with me.”

  “Tonight?”

  “Tonight and every night. Come to the ranch and be my wife.”

  Macy had jerked her head up, surprised he’d said it, fearful he was teasing her. “What did you say?”

  He’d grinned in that charmingly lopsided way he had. “I said, marry me, baby.”

  Macy was speechless. She hadn’t expected it. They’d dated eight months, and he’d never given her any hint…but this was the one thing she’d hoped for, the one thing she wanted above all else. She loved him so much, more than she’d ever loved anything or anyone.

  Her silence caused Finn to stop in the middle of the dance floor. “I don’t have all the right words,” he’d said, his smile fading. “But I love you. I want to be with you now and forever, and I hope like hell you want the same thing. Macy Harper…” He’d stepped back, bent down on one knee, and put his hand in his pocket. “Will you marry me?” he’d asked, and produced a ring.

  As they sped past the Rooster, Macy closed her eyes. He was alive. That beautiful, sexy cowboy who had proposed to her right in the middle of the dance floor was alive, and her heart soared with jubilation.

  “Macy, did you hear what I said?” her mother asked, poking her and nudging her back to the present.

  “What?”

  “We’ll need to review this with Wyatt.”

  Macy closed her eyes again. Wyatt. Oh God, poor Wyatt. Wyatt was her husband, her rock. He was the one who had lifted her up from the darkness after Finn was gone. She’d been drifting aimlessly for over a year when she met Wyatt, and he’d infused light into her life again. She loved him.

  She loved two men. She loved two husbands.

  3

  Macy had always wanted to go to Washington, D.C., but she didn’t even notice the Washington monument as they descended to Ronald Reagan Airport three days later. Her sister Emma had to remind her twice to look out the window.

  She and her family were greeted by a pair of servicemen who put them into cars and escorted them to a hotel in Washington, via Constitution Avenue. They drove past a monument. The Lincoln Memorial, Macy thought, but she was too scattered to really look. She couldn’t stop thinking about Finn, about what he’d endured.

  The next morning, they were driven out to Andrews Air Force Base to greet Finn’s plane.

  The room in which they were asked to wait was the color of putty—the walls, the floor, the caulking around the three windows that overlooked a parking lot. It seemed to Macy to be too drab for an occasion as glorious and stupendous as this. It was the only thought that seemed to register in her fogged brain. That, and the panicky sensation of not being able to breathe.

  Can’t breathe. Can’t breathe.

  She and her family sat at a long, highly polished table in faux-leather chairs. Macy focused on the portraits on the wall. There was the president in the middle, flanked by military personnel she did not recognize. She shifted her gaze to the window, wishing someone would open it, but no one else seemed to notice the lack of air. They were all too excited, too happy, too nervous. None of them could contain their impatience.

  Finn’s parents, Rick and Karen Lockhart, sat on Macy’s right. Karen clutched the small gold cross she’d worn since Finn had joined the army, and her new dress and matching jacket rustled with her fidgeting. Macy looked down at her clothing—a new print skirt and sweater set, courtesy of Laru. She also wore a necklace of tiny seed pearls that Finn had given her for her twenty-second birthday the first year they were married. On Macy’s left were her mother and Emma. There had been quite a discussion at home about who would come with Macy, and they had collectively decided that given the circumstances, the fewer companions, the better.

  Jillian smiled at her now and rubbed her shoulder. “Relax,” she said.

  Macy wished Laru had come instead of her mother. Her mom meant well, and Macy envied her ability to take traumatic surprises in stride. But her mother kept watching Macy expectantly, as if she believed Macy would collapse at any moment.

  What really annoyed Macy was that she did indeed feel on the verge of collapsing.

  Don’t crumble.

  She twisted her wedding ring around her finger and bounced one leg nervously. The army said Finn had been a war prisoner, a true hero who’d managed to stay alive and escape by sheer will and cunning. He was coming home today. He was coming back to her.

  Breathe in. Breathe out.

  “I just keep trying to imagine what he’s been through,” Karen said.

  Macy did, too.

  “I think of my baby over there by himself with those awful people, scared and…and alone.” She shook her head and squeezed her eyes shut.

  “I don’t understand how the goddam army could have screwed this up,” Finn’s father said gruffly. He sat with his legs stretched long beneath the table, his beefy arms folded over his chest and exposed from the elbows down by his short-sleeved western shirt. After years of working the Lockhart ranch, his arms looked like tanned leather.

  The Lockharts had been ranching in the Hill Country for more than one hundred years. There were three pieces in all: Finn’s ranch, bought from his brothers Luke and Brodie after their grandfather had left it to the three of them; the Lockhart homestead, on which Rick still ran cattle; and Uncle Braden’s piece, the largest of the three, about an hour away, south of Austin.

  “They were so sure he was dead,” Rick continued angrily. “Did they even look for him?” He made a sound of disgust. “Well, I guess it hardly matters now, because my boy is coming home,” he said, his voice catching.

  They’d originally been told that the armored vehicle Finn had been riding in had been hit head-on by a
suicide bomber. The fire had been so intense that the only thing they were able to recover was a charred dog tag. They’d confirmed Finn’s death with DNA and had given that single tag to Macy. It was so badly burned that she couldn’t make out anything but FINN R. Not even the LOCKHART.

  Macy had buried that piece of tag. What else was she supposed to do with it? Hang it on her rearview mirror as a reminder of his brutal death?

  “Have you heard from Brodie?” Jillian asked Karen, referring to Finn’s brother, who’d flown to Ramstein Air Force Base in Germany, where they’d taken Finn to be debriefed and evaluated. Macy had talked to Finn several times, but their conversations had been short and filled with disbelief and wonder at hearing each other’s voices.

  “Not since yesterday,” Karen said. “But he said Finn looks good and his spirits are great.”

  “Of course!” Jillian exclaimed. “He’s coming home!”

  “I know,” Karen said, beaming. “I tell you, I can’t believe it. But then again, I always had a feeling he was alive. I never told anyone because it just made me sound plum crazy, but I just had this feeling, you know?” she asked, pressing her fist to her heart. She looked heavenward. “Thank you, Jesus!”

  “Did Brodie talk to Finn about…about all that’s happened since he’s been gone?” Macy’s mother could not let it go, couldn’t just let things unfold.

  “No,” Karen said, her eyes going cold. “He said there were too many things going on.” Her gaze skimmed over Macy, then shifted to the window. Conversation over.

  Breathe in. Breathe out.

  The door opened softly; all of them turned expectantly to the officer who stepped inside. He was a thin young man wearing a neatly pressed uniform. His shirt was tucked as smoothly into a pair of pants as Macy had ever seen. He’d said his name, but Macy couldn’t recall it now.

  “The transport is on approach,” he said. “We can move to the tarmac to greet Sergeant Lockhart. Will you follow me, please?”

  He’s here! Macy’s palms were suddenly damp, and again, she had that awful feeling that she couldn’t draw enough air into her lungs.

  “I tell you, I am so excited I don’t know if these old legs will hold me,” Karen said with a nervous laugh.

  Macy’s legs felt like jelly, too. Emma caught her by the elbow and hauled her up, then straightened Macy’s new skirt. She smiled happily. “You look pretty, Macy,” she whispered. “Really pretty. He’s going to die when he sees you.” She paused. “You know what I mean.”

  Macy nodded. She wondered what Finn looked like. She’d seen a picture of him taken shortly after Coalition forces had brought him in. His hair was long and wavy, his face covered with a heavy beard. Another photo was taken in a hospital bed in Germany. In that one, he was smiling, his hair cut stylishly, the beard gone. His face was darker than when he’d left, like he’d been off on vacation, sunning himself. But there was a scar just below his eye that ran up and disappeared into his hairline, a reminder that he wasn’t the same as when he’d left.

  “Rick, you’re going to have to help me,” Karen said breathlessly. “My heart is racing.”

  They walked single file onto the tarmac, to an area that had been cordoned off. For dignitaries, the neatly dressed officer said. There were a half dozen men standing there, all of them with ribbons and medals on their chests. They each smiled and clasped Macy’s hand in theirs. “This a joyous day,” one said. “We are honored to be able to bring you such good news,” another said. They didn’t seem to realize that they’d ruined her life by giving her the wrong news three years ago.

  A plane appeared in the far distance, and the neatly dressed officer held up his hands. “Excuse me!” he said briskly to everyone. “Let’s have Sergeant Lockhart’s wife and parents up front, please.”

  Another distant memory—on the day they’d buried a box in the ground containing Finn’s charred dog tag, his favorite saddle, the tiled paw print of a dog who had been his faithful companion for sixteen years, and a Texas Longhorns baseball hat, someone had said the same thing. Let’s have the wife and the parents up front, like they were little chess pieces that should be properly arranged.

  Karen was the first to reach the thick red rope that held them back from the tarmac. Rick put his arm around Macy and pulled her up to stand with them. Someone pointed up; Macy’s eyes were riveted on the plane as it slowly drifted down to touch the runway.

  Breathe. Breathe.

  It seemed to take an eternity for the plane to land and to turn around and taxi back to where they stood. It seemed to take another eternity for them to wheel the stairs to the door, for the door to open. An eternity in which Macy’s breath was coming in painful gasps. This was real. This was happening. Finn was coming home.

  Two soldiers were the first off the plane, followed by Brodie. Macy held her breath; her stomach clenched and her fingernails, curled into tight fists, cut into her palm. Another eternity, the second longest moment of her life, and Finn appeared, dipping his head as he stepped through the portal. He paused on the top step of the Jetway and looked directly at her.

  It was Finn. It was really, truly, Finn. He looked leaner, more muscular than when he’d left for Afghanistan. He was wearing a dark blue coat and light blue trousers, the army’s full dress uniform, but Macy could see the golden-brown hair beneath his cap, the strong chin, his large hands, the palms callused from years of training cutting horses. But mostly, she could see the familiar squint of his copper-brown eyes beneath the polished brim of his dress hat, and the slight hint of a smile.

  Macy heard Karen burst into sobs, heard the rumble of a keening cry of relief in Rick’s chest. Something snapped; something raw and primal rose up in her, choking the little bit of air she’d been able to hold in her lungs since the news of Finn’s survival had snatched the breath from her. Macy didn’t realize she had ducked beneath the velvet rope until the neatly dressed officer shouted for her to wait. But there was nothing that would stop her from reaching Finn now. She was running, her skirt flying around her knees.

  Finn moved, too, pushing past Brodie and flying down the steps to the tarmac. He didn’t look at the brass who had gathered at the bottom of the steps to welcome him home. He didn’t look anywhere but at Macy.

  She leapt at the very moment he opened his arms. She threw her arms around him and buried her face in his neck. “Finn! Finn, Finn, I missed you! Oh my God, I love you, I love you so much, I’ve missed you so much!”

  “God, Macy,” Finn breathed, cradling her head, his face in her hair, inhaling deeply. “I thought I’d never see you again,” he said, his voice breaking. “I can’t believe I’m holding you. You kept me going, baby. I kept thinking of you; you’re the only thing that kept me going. I’ll never let you go; I’ll never leave you again.”

  The tears that had been lost inside Macy for the last few days suddenly erupted—they began to stream down her face and she sobbed into his collar, clinging to him. “They told me you were dead! They said you were dead, Finn, you’re supposed to be dead!”

  “I know, I know,” he said, trying to soothe her. “But I’m not dead, Macy. I’m very much alive and I’ve come home to you, just like I promised you I would.”

  She clung to him, savoring the feel of his body against hers, the strength of his arms around her. How many sleepless nights had she lain awake, aching to feel this once more?

  “Don’t cry, baby,” he said. “Don’t cry. It’s all okay. We’re going to be fine; we’re going to pick up where we left off.”

  That only made her cry harder.

  4

  When a soldier is held captive by enemy forces for nearly three years, he thinks a lot about death. In the beginning, during those excruciatingly long and uncertain days, he thinks, I can’t die this way. He thinks of his wife and his family, of how frantic they must be that he’s been lost. He thinks of his buddies, who are looking for him. He thinks of his future, of the things he wants to do with his life, of the kids he hasn’t had, and
he thinks, I can’t die this way. I can’t die this way.

  He remembers his training—survive, evade, resist, escape. He uses whatever means he can to assess his situation, to remain calm, to give up nothing, no matter how much it hurts.

  But when the soldier begins to understand that no one is looking for him, that they must believe he is dead because they’d never leave him behind, he prays for death. Please, God, let me die. He might even refuse to eat in the hope that he will die, but he will discover that hunger is a powerful beast, and eventually, he will eat.

  At some point after that, the soldier begins to believe that he must live, that God must have a reason for this hell on earth, that there must be a higher purpose. Why else would he still be alive? Why would the enemy hold him day in and day out, moving him from one hovel to the next? There has to be a reason, and if he just hangs on, he’ll discover it.

  He eats; he tries to build his strength when and where he can. He is constantly looking for an opportunity to escape. It is his only hope.

  He hangs by a thread connecting him to the memory of who he is, and to his wife, his one and only love, the one thing in this hell that keeps the desire to live burning in him. He thinks about her often: what she is wearing, her smile, how her gold hair swings around her shoulders. He thinks about what she is doing, and imagines her unconsciously fluttering her fingers in that way she does when she’s engrossed in something. He thinks about the intimate moments, how her skin glistens, soft and fragrant, and how her body feels when she wraps her legs around him and her fingers scrape down his back.

  He dreams of her through endless days and nights spent on an earthen floor, shivering in bitter cold or sweltering in brutal heat, chained like a dog. There are times, when he is lying on the woven mat staring out the bleak window at a bleaker sky, that he imagines touching her hair and thinks he can feel it on his fingers. He can smell her scent. He can hear her voice whispering in his ear.