He daydreamed of going to the Haydons’, getting Natalie, and just taking her off somewhere. He would never actually go through with it. He wouldn’t harm Natalie for the world, and he would never do anything to hurt Daria. Still it frightened him that his imagination had actually allowed him to entertain the thought of kidnapping.
It was too hard to think about losing her. He massaged his temples and picked up the newspaper, trying to force his thoughts elsewhere. Instead he found himself wondering again what Daria was doing. She had probably seen Nathan by now. Was there still a spark between them? He wondered if a person could still be in love with someone they’d already buried and mourned. If Bridgette were to suddenly appear in his life again, he didn’t think he could suddenly stop loving Daria and conjure up the love he’d once had for his first wife, no matter how deep it had been. But then theirs had been a difficult love. And he didn’t have a child with Bridgette—at least not a living child—that bound them together the way Natalie bound Nate and Daria.
He folded back the last page of the front section of the Kansas City Star and realized that he couldn’t remember one word he’d read. Absent-mindedly, he opened the local news section, and a headline jumped off the page at him: KANSAS WOMAN TORN BETWEEN TWO LOVERS. He broke into a cold sweat as he read the subheading—FIRST HUSBAND THOUGHT DEAD, RETURNS FROM CAPTIVITY IN COLOMBIA—and realized that the crass headline referred to their story.
His stomach churning, Cole scanned the story. They had obviously not interviewed anyone directly involved. The article quoted “sources at the hospital” and stated that “the families refused to comment.” He shook his head in disgust. As if things weren’t difficult enough without this becoming a media circus. He wondered if any reporters had tried to reach him at the clinic. He hadn’t gone in to work Monday, but he thought surely Carla or Travis would have called him if someone from the Star had been looking for him.
Grabbing the rolled-up copy of the Wichita Eagle from the floor by the stairway where Travis had dropped it, he stripped off the elastic band. Spreading it out on the kitchen table, he hurriedly paged through, searching desperately to see if the injurious headline had made that paper as well. He didn’t find anything. Picking the Star up, he skimmed the story again. It didn’t have a UPI or AP tag, so it was most likely a local story. But it did mention “Bristol, a small town in south-central Kansas.” That alone would probably ensure that the Eagle would be all over it within hours. Then everyone would know.
The phone’s sharp burr split the silence, making his heart leap. He pushed back his chair and went to the phone in the kitchen. Caller ID indicated that the number was unavailable. He started to walk away when he heard Daria’s voice leaving a message on the answering machine.
“Travis, it’s Daria. I’m trying to reach Cole. Carla said he wasn’t in the office yesterday, and I need to talk to him right away. If you happen to come home for lunch could you—”
Cole grabbed the handset. “Daria?”
“Cole, thank God you’re there.” She started to cry. “Somehow the Kansas City Star got hold of our story, and it’s plastered all over this morning’s paper. I haven’t seen the Eagle, but I’m afraid it will be in there, too.”
“I saw it, Dar. But it’s not in the Eagle. Not today’s anyway.”
“Oh, Cole, what are we going to do?”
“I don’t think there’s anything we can do, Daria. Word is traveling pretty fast here, so it won’t be news to anybody in Bristol anyway. If the Eagle prints it, they print it. Have Nate or his parents seen the Star?”
“I haven’t talked to them this morning, but I’m sure they have. Reporters were crawling all over the hospital yesterday, so we were all expecting something.”
He cleared his throat. “So did you see him?”
“Yes…I saw him.” She spoke so softly that he had to strain to hear her.
“And?”
“It was terrible. Jack and Vera hadn’t told him that I remarried!”
“You’re kidding—”
“They just assume that Natalie and I are going to move in with them—and Nathan.”
Did her words mean that she thought the Camfields’ assumption to be unlikely? A spark of hope ignited in him. “Did you tell him, Daria? That we’re married?”
“Yes. He was going to—” Cole could sense that she’d been about to say something but changed her mind. “When I realized that he didn’t know, of course I told him.”
“About the baby, too?”
“No, Cole. I didn’t tell him that. He was so upset about the other news that the nurses had to sedate him.”
There was silence on the line between them. Then she said abruptly, “Oh, Jack said pretty much the same thing Dennis told you.”
“Which was—”
“That my marriage to you is the legal one.”
He wished he could see her face. Her voice was expressionless. He wished she would say, “Cole, honey, we’re safe. Everything is okay. Thank God, nothing’s changed. I’m still your wife.” But she didn’t.
“Do you want me to call your parents and warn them about the news story?” he asked, eager to change the subject.
“I already called them. I know Nattie isn’t big enough to understand, but I didn’t want them to freak out when they read it and end up scaring her.”
“Yeah,” he agreed, not knowing what else to say.
More silence. Finally he asked, “When are you taking Natalie? To the hospital, I mean.”
“Well, Nate is supposed to be discharged today or tomorrow, so I’ll wait and bring her to Jack and Vera’s later this week. It’ll be easier for her there—on familiar territory.”
“Will you go back to the hospital today?” he risked.
“I’m afraid to, Cole. I just know there will be reporters everywhere. No, I’m going to start home in just a little bit.”
“Daria,” he asked, closing his eyes, willing her to give him the answer he wanted to hear, “where is home?”
“Don’t ask me that, Cole. Not now. I don’t know.” She started to cry.
“I’m sorry, Dar, I’m sorry. Please don’t cry.”
He could hear her soft weeping on the other end, and he felt like a jerk for causing it.
“I’m sorry, Dar,” he whispered again. “Are you okay? Is everything all right with the baby?”
She whispered a yes and sniffled. “I’d better get going.”
“Be careful on the road,” he said softly.
He hung up without waiting for a reply.
Twenty-Nine
Nate gazed out the passenger window of his father’s car as the Kansas City skyline receded, giving way to flourishing residential neighborhoods west of the city. He marveled again that he was actually back in the United States. The events leading up to his escape and the long journey to Bogotá remained a blur. It seemed they had happened a lifetime ago.
But he remembered clearly the moment Daria had walked into his hospital room. The elation he’d felt at finally seeing her beautiful face again, and at hearing from her own lips that she had borne him a precious daughter.
And today he would meet little Natalie, hold her in his arms. It had thrilled him when Daria told him that Natalie looked like him. He tried to envision a two-year-old female version of himself, but the only pictures that came to his mind were the tiny brown-skinned Timoné children. And he was also strangely frightened by the prospect of meeting her. What if she’s afraid of me? What if my scars repulse her?
He looked over at his father, who was concentrating on the heavy, noon-hour traffic.
“Dad, what time did you say Daria was planning to get here?”
Jack checked his watch. “I think she said one o’clock. She should be at the house by the time we get there. I’m sure Mom and Betsy will keep her and Natalie entertained. You nervous?” Jack asked, keeping his eyes on the road.
“A little.”
Nathan pulled down the visor on the passenger side and looke
d into the undersized mirror. After nearly three years without seeing more than his reflection in a river stream, it still startled him whenever he caught a glimpse of his own face. His eyes were more crinkled at the corners than he remembered, and his cheeks were even thinner than they had been, but other than that, his face was unmarred by his ordeal. His hands and arms were another story. The long-sleeved shirt and jacket his mother had brought to the hospital for him covered the ugliest burn scars, but striations of scar tissue marred his hands as well. He had been deeply relieved to discover that he could still maneuver a pen, could still handle a razor without nicking himself, could still hold a woman in his arms.
He shook the thought off. He wouldn’t dwell on that now. What was important was that he could still practice medicine, could still provide for his family. In every way that mattered, he was whole.
His father turned onto a side street, and suddenly everything was familiar to him again. He was going home to the house he’d grown up in. A lump formed in his throat, but he was hard-pressed to identify the emotion it signified.
He swallowed hard. “Do the Milbrandts still live there?” he asked, pointing to a stately Georgian revival, attempting small talk.
“John Jr. moved in a couple of years ago. Berta died, you know, and they put John in a home.”
He didn’t know, but it didn’t really matter. They were just blocks away from the Camfield house, just a minute away from Daria and Natalie.
Jack reached for a remote control Velcroed to the dash. By the time they pulled into the driveway, the garage door had opened to allow them entry. The huge door slid closed slowly behind them, leaving them in the dim light of the garage.
The door that led to the large laundry room off the kitchen opened, and Vera appeared, her arms outstretched, her face crumpled by emotion. “Oh, sweetheart, you’re finally home. I can hardly believe it.”
His sister, Betsy, stood beside their mother, beaming. “Welcome home, bro.”
He reached out to return Betsy’s warm embrace and rumple her hair in a way that at one time would have made her furious, but now only made her cry with joy.
“Hurry, Nathan, come in. Natalie is waiting,” Vera urged, ushering them through the kitchen.
His heart started pounding, and his palms began to perspire. He followed his mother through the formal dining room and into the living room. Daria sat on the edge of a sofa across the room, as though she might spring up at any moment. But she remained seated, smiling sadly at him. “Hello, Nate. Welcome home.”
At her feet sat the most beautiful child he had ever seen. Her cherubic face was framed in wisps of white-blond hair, and she gazed at him with curious, hazel eyes. He saw Daria in the high cheekbones and the tiny, slightly pug nose, but they were undeniably—as Daria had told him—his own eyes that peered at him from beneath pale lashes.
Daria stood now, picked up the child, and walked toward him. He stepped forward to meet them.
Though her eyes were dry, Daria’s voice quavered, and Nate knew that she was struggling to maintain her composure. “Nattie, this is your Daddy Nate. This is Dwama-Dwampa’s son.” She spoke it like a line rehearsed for an important business meeting.
He smiled. “Dwama-Dwampa?”
Daria laughed and opened her mouth, but Vera jumped in with an explanation before Daria could respond. “It’s what she called us when she first started talking. We liked it so much we made it official. I’m Dwama,” she said unnecessarily.
Daria put Natalie on the floor and sat down again. Nate knelt in front of the little girl, put out his hand and touched her arm. “Well, hi there, Nattie. I’m glad to meet you.” It was all he could do not to take her into his arms and squeeze her tightly to himself.
But Natalie turned suddenly shy and scrambled up onto Daria’s lap, burying her face against her mother’s shoulder. “Can you say hello?” Daria coaxed.
Natalie burrowed deeper into the sleeve of Daria’s corduroy shirt.
“I’m sorry,” Daria offered.
Nate held up a hand. “It’s okay. Give her time. How are you?” he asked, taking a seat in a wingback chair near the sofa.
“I’m doing all right.”
An uncomfortable moment passed. Finally Vera got up. “Why don’t I fix us some tea?” she asked brightly. “Nate, would you rather have coffee?”
“No, Mom. Tea is fine.”
“How about you, Daria?”
Before she could reply, Natalie announced suddenly, “I want sugar in my tea, Dwama.” They all laughed.
Vera rose and headed for the kitchen.
“I’ll help you, Mom,” Betsy said, going after her.
Jack took his cue and followed them. “I’ll be sure Dwama puts plenty of sugar in your tea, Nattie,” he said, laughing nervously.
“Well, she knows what she wants.” Nate grinned, then cringed inwardly, afraid Daria might infer another meaning from the inflection of his words.
But Daria smiled back and, in a stage whisper over Nattie’s head, told him, “She does have a mind of her own. She’s sometimes more than we can handle.” Daria cleared her throat, obviously embarrassed by her innocent reference to Cole.
He tried to think of something to say that would put her at ease, but before the words came, Natalie pointed at his hands. “My daddy doesn’t have that on his hands,” she stated matter-of-factly.
Her mention of “my daddy” hurt far more than the fact that she had drawn attention to his scars.
“Natalie!” Daria’s voice came out in a horrified whimper. “Oh, Nate, I’m so sorry. I-I didn’t think to warn—to tell her that you’d been burned.”
He waved her apology away and turned to the child. “These are scars I got from a very bad burn,” he explained patiently.
“Does it hurt?”
“Not so much anymore. It hurt very, very badly when it first happened.”
“Was it in the trash?”
He looked to Daria for an interpretation.
“We live in the country and burn our own trash,” she explained.
“Oh. No, Natalie, it wasn’t the trash. A hut—a building—caught on fire while I was inside.”
“My daddy says never, never go by a fire, and don’t never, never, never play wif matches.” She shook a finger in his face.
“He’s right,” Nate agreed, charmed by her sweet seriousness, in spite of the pain the exchange caused him.
He glanced up at Daria and saw that she was crying. He leaned back in his chair. “This isn’t easy, is it?”
She only shook her head.
Afraid that Natalie would notice her mother’s tears, Nate attempted to distract her. “Natalie, shall we go see if Gram—I mean, Dwama—has that tea ready yet?” He stood and held out a hand to her. She reached up and intertwined her tiny fingers trustingly into his scarred, rough fingers. She smiled up at him, and he wasn’t sure he could hold back his own tears as Natalie pulled him to the kitchen.
Daria sat on the sofa and sobbed, scarcely able to control herself. Her stomach churned and she felt achy, as though she were coming down with the flu. But when she heard Natalie calling her from the kitchen, she pulled herself together, wiped her eyes, and went toward her daughter’s voice.
From the doorway, Daria watched Nate. He had never been so thin, and it was hard to get used to his hair being cut so short. His voice still sounded a bit hoarse, and the scars were disturbing to her. But being up and around and nicely dressed, he seemed much improved from that first day she’d seen him in the hospital.
Natalie was sitting at the counter beside Nate, who was blowing on her little plastic cup of tea in an effort to cool it enough that it wouldn’t burn her tongue. Natalie had always warmed to people easily, but she was watching Nate with such unreserved adoration that Daria wondered for a moment if she instinctively sensed who Nate was.
Nate poured a little more milk in Natalie’s cup and stirred it, then put the spoon to his lips. “There,” he declared. “That’s just right
. Hang on. I’ll carry it to the table for you.”
He scooped her from the counter and set her on a high stool at the table in the breakfast room just off the kitchen, where Jack was already settled with a cup of coffee. Then he went back for her tea, delivering it with a gentle warning, “Sip it slowly now. It’s still pretty warm.”
Vera noticed Daria. “Oh, Daria, there you are. Do you want milk for your tea, dear?”
“No, thank you.” She really didn’t want tea at all. She pulled her loose corduroy shirt tighter around her, suddenly feeling chilled. Her stomach still felt queasy, and she’d begun to feel cramps in her lower abdomen. “Maybe a little honey if you have it,” she told Vera. “Can I help?”
“No, no, I’m just about finished. You have a seat,” Vera told her.
Daria went to sit between Betsy and Natalie at the table, and Nate brought his steaming mug of tea and took a seat across the table from them.
Vera joined them, and for a long moment, the quiet sipping of tea and the clock on the wall counting off the seconds were the only sounds.
“Your plants sure look healthy, Mom,” Betsy said finally, reaching over to pluck one yellowed leaf from an English ivy that trailed over the edge of a shelf in the bay window.
“They are beautiful, Vera. You have such a green thumb,” Daria offered.
Vera waved off their compliments. “Oh, it’s just this window. They get light from three directions. They can’t help but flourish.”
Silence.
From her perch, Natalie reached for Daria’s spoon.
“Wait, sweetie. Let me get it before you fall off your stool,” Daria said. “Do you need to stir your tea?”
“I stir it,” Natalie insisted when she saw that her mother intended to help her.
“All right, but you be very careful.”
The little girl looked in Nate’s direction as though to be sure she had his attention, then she put the spoon in her half-empty cup and stirred slowly as she had seen him do earlier. She dipped a spoonful of tea and slurped it loudly.
“No, Natalie. It’s time to put the spoon down now,” Daria said gently, grateful that her daughter obeyed without debate.
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