by Sarah Monzon
A sharp pain pierced between his breastbone. A pain he’d learn to live with, because even when Jackie no longer needed him, he knew he’d always need her.
He let the weights settle before he swung his legs over and stood. Thighs felt like jelly, and his stump hurt more than a simple dull ache. He took a step, a cramp seizing his quad, his leg buckling under him, and he crashed to the floor. Foul four-letter words formed on his tongue as he punched the ground.
Footsteps sounded on the thin carpet. Great, an audience to his stupidity.
The marathon runner crouched in front of him and put her hand on his shoulder. “You okay?”
He rotated his hips and pushed himself up into a sitting position. “They weren’t kidding when they said pride goes before the fall.”
She offered a small smile, but the pity trimming her mouth stopped him from returning the gesture.
“Do you need help?”
To get off the floor? It killed him that a woman half his size would even think to offer such a thing. “I’ve got it.” A bit terse, but he wouldn’t apologize. He was sick to death of feeling like he had to apologize. I’m sorry my deformity is causing you discomfort. I’m sorry you don’t know where to look or what to say to me. Yeah, their problem, not his. Guessed his grateful Pollyanna thing had left him without a trace.
She backed away but watched him. In case gravity won again, no doubt. He ignored her and grabbed his gym bag. Refused to allow his jaw to clench with every step he took to his truck. The engine turned over, and he peeled out of the parking lot, nerves as raw as they had been before he’d worked out.
Five minutes later and he parked on the side of the road in front of his house. He’d been lucky to find something furnished and month to month that was in between the municipal airport and his physical therapist’s office. Interesting section of town, the streets lined with older row homes, each set apart by the roofline and the color variations of the brick used. His rental was the fourth one in, the brick having been painted a vintage gray. The first couple weeks he’d had to crash on the couch because the bedroom was up the stairs, but a constant crick in his back prodded him to hop the stairs one by one. Now he used them as practice to maneuver with his prosthetic.
The key turned in the lock, and he flipped the light switch by the door. Mail scattered on the wood floor from where the mail carrier had slipped it through the slot. He shut the door and bent for the envelopes. Junk. Junk. The navy crest embossed in the left-hand corner of the next envelop stopped him cold.
A band tightened around his chest as he slipped a finger under the flap and tore the paper. He knew what it was without seeing it. Had been waiting for the letter, even. That knowledge didn’t stop the dread sinking in his stomach.
NOTICE OF SEPARATION FROM THE U.S. NAVAL SERVICE.
There it was in uppercase block letters. He was officially no longer a part of the United States Navy. Never before had he realized how much of his identity was wrapped up in the navy. In being a lieutenant. A fighter pilot. Now it was all gone. Officially. He felt stripped, shoved off in a dinghy without any oars. Not even in survival training, when they’d dropped him in the middle of nowhere, had he felt so lost. There, at least he’d had a compass. Something to point him in the right direction. Now he wandered in uncharted territory without a map. Didn’t know where he was, what he was supposed to do. Heck, he wasn’t even sure he knew who he was anymore.
Mouth dry as a desert, he moved into the kitchen as if battling a current. The envelopes slid across the counter after he tossed them and reached for a glass in the cupboard. He turned the tap to cold, filled the glass to its rim, then downed the liquid in one solid gulp. A loud thud filled the house’s silence when he slammed the glass too hard against the laminate countertops. The surface felt cool on his palm, and he let his chin fall to his chest.
He’d been asking God what now? since the accident, and a part of him wanted to wave the government document of separation to the heavens with a tick, tock, tick, tock. But what was the point? God didn’t work on man’s timetable.
He lifted his head, his gaze snagging on the last envelope of the fanned stack. Not junk and not a bill. A handwritten return address but without a name. Odd. He picked it up and ripped it open, withdrawing the papers folded in thirds. He smoothed out the first page, a letter on lined collegiate paper. The signature at the bottom was indecipherable, so he returned his focus to the top and began to read.
Lieutenant Carrington,
It is after much prayer and prompting of the Holy Spirit that I write you this letter. I don’t know if you believe in such things, but I do, and I cannot ignore the stirring of my soul. In all things, God has called me to be faithful no matter how big or how small, as I learned from my father’s example as a child. Obediently I have enclosed the title to my father’s Piper Cub, to do with as the Lord leads you.
Michael’s eyes bounced from the illegible signature to the postscript at the bottom.
P.S. Read 2 Timothy 1:7
The words of the scripture sprang to his lips, having memorized them at a youth-group challenge. For God has not given us a spirit of fear, but of power and of love and of a sound mind.
A spirit of fear. He shook his head with a chuckle. God had used Mr. McClaren to call him out, call him a coward. His eyes darted to the ceiling. Way to have a sense of humor.
Had he been living in fear though? Denial ran swift through his limbs. He’d pushed his body to its breaking point to get back on his feet, had searched for a purpose and hunted for a new dream. Been a warm body of protection for Jackie and fulfilled his duty to Geyser. Tried to replace his bitter thoughts by counting blessings. If he’d been living in fear, he’d be stagnant, wouldn’t he? Too paralyzed to move forward with his life.
Stowing the verse away in the must-have-heard-God-wrong file, he scanned the letter again. Yeah, he believed in the promptings of the Holy Spirit. Thought maybe he’d gotten those indications wrong in the past, but his own misjudgments didn’t negate his personal faith. A lot to swallow though. His own personal plane? Why would God want him to have Mr. McClaren’s Piper?
He moved the letter aside, revealing the document underneath. Sure enough, a notarized title in his name. The two documents lay side by side, his discharge papers and the plane’s title. Felt like he was staring at his past and his future. If only he had a clearer view of what that future looked like.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Florida, Present Day
From: Alice Abbott
To: [email protected]
Subject: Re: 1940s WW II plane in need of restoration
Jack,
I hope everything is okay! I’ll be praying for you!
Alice
How was it possible to feel both at ease and awkward? Both at peace and edgy? Both content yet wanting more? Was the dichotomy her, her feelings, or the man she’d sat beside during the long flight?
The plane came to a complete stop, and the seat belt sign dinged off. Jack took the opportunity to consider Michael as he stood in the aisle and fiddled with the overhead compartment and their carry-on luggage.
They’d talked the entire flight. Maybe not about the undercurrents that always seemed to be humming in the background when they were together, but they’d shared stories about their childhoods. What it was like for her to grow up in a household of all males. The time she’d grown tired of Brett’s pranks in sixth grade and had gotten even by convincing him that the tingling sensation he had in his nose was really caused by fly larvae moving around. The flies flew up his nostrils and laid eggs when he was asleep, and the wiggling was due to the larvae searching for food.
Michael had laughed and shared his own stories about Brett. Apparently, her brother had been a bit of a clown back on the USS George H. W. Bush.
The conversation flowed without a hitch. Unlike her breath, which held every time their legs would brush in the tight space. Or like now, as she observed the chi
seled contours of his abs as his shirt pulled taut from his upward reach. A well-disciplined man, in body and mind. She admired his persistence and drive. The way he pursued the things he felt strongly about—justice, honor, integrity.
She’d never met a man like him before.
“Ready?”
Warmth circled her cheeks, the embarrassment a reflex at getting caught staring. That was all it was though, a reflex. Michael knew where she stood. Her cards had already been laid on the table. If anything, it was to her advantage that he saw her open appreciation. A little nudge and reminder never hurt. Besides, he seemed to think ignoring the crackling tension between them was the best plan of action.
Jack did not agree. And if she had to keep bringing it to his attention before he’d quit denying the rightness of the two of them together, then so be it. She was strong enough to fight for the both of them. Especially since she knew the feelings weren’t one sided.
A smile tugged on her lips at the memory of sitting on his lap. She’d never been so bold with a man in her life. Usually one to hang in the shadows or assimilate into the group as “one of the guys,” she’d never thought herself capable of declaring herself in such a fashion. But it wasn’t all for her, really. The image and value Michael had placed upon himself equally broke her heart and raised her hackles. She had to tear down his defenses and open his eyes to his real worth. Yes, he’d gone from being a decorated war hero to learning to walk again, but that didn’t make him any less special than he’d been when he flew Super Hornets.
She stood, ducking to keep from bonking her head on the low ceiling above the airline seats. He moved back half a step to allow her into the aisle, then followed her off the plane and up the Jetway.
“My parents texted that they’re waiting for us at baggage claim.” His baritone voice carried up to her.
“But we only brought carry-ons.” Both of them had seabags slung on their backs. He’d probably attained his at boot camp. She’d jacked hers from Eli a few years back. The drab olive green wasn’t exactly her favorite color, but they were beyond useful. More like Mary Poppins’s magic carpetbag than rolling luggage.
The Jetway opened to the terminal, and Michael matched his stride with hers. His eyes twinkled as he looked down at her. “They didn’t believe me that a woman could pack everything she needed in a carry-on.”
“We’re only going to be here for three days.” How much stuff did his mom think she’d need? Outfit for the rehearsal dinner in a few hours—she’d worn her fitted jeans and flowy cream top on the trip, so no need to change. Tomorrow was the wedding, so she’d packed a sundress in a pastel paisley print. She’d wear the same neutral flats she currently had on. In fact, they were the only shoes she’d bothered to bring. Why waste space with a horde of shoes when one strategic pair would be plenty? That only left the outfit to fly out in, pajamas, and her underwear and bra. Honestly, there had been so much extra room in her seabag when she’d packed it that if she had any other luggage, she would have opted to use it instead.
“My mom always errs on the side of preparedness whenever she packs for a trip. One time she even brought along our snow gear when we visited my grandparents in Minnesota.”
“That sounds logical. It can get pretty cold in the Midwest.”
He stopped walking and gave her a wry look. “Not in the middle of August.”
She chuckled under her breath and continued to walk with the river of people that had deplaned and were heading for baggage claim. They passed the security checkpoint and were met with a wall of expectant faces. Two stepped forward, arms outstretched and smiles wide.
“Michael!”
Jack stepped to the side and watched as the big man was swallowed up in his parents’ arms. They stood there for several moments before Michael straightened and his parents stepped back, his mom swiping at her eyes.
Michael stretched out his arm toward her. “Mom, Dad, you remember Jackie.”
She took a step forward, her arm forward for a handshake. “It’s Jack. So nice to see you again, Mr. and Mrs. Carrington.”
His mom ignored Jack’s hand and moved in for a hug, her sweet fragrance reminding Jack of the famous cherry blossoms that bloom every spring along the National Mall. Sweet. Delicate. Strong.
“None of this mister and misses business, dear. We’re just Anita and George.” She leaned back and looked Jack in the eye with a smile. “It’s so good to see you again.”
“You, too, Mrs.—”
Anita Carrington raised her eyebrows.
“I mean Anita.”
“Good.” Anita looped her arm through Jack’s. “Now let’s pick up your bags.” She moved toward the baggage carousels.
“Oh, but I have everything right here.” Jack hooked her thumb over her shoulder to indicate the seabag on her back.
Anita stopped in her tracks, mouth agape. “You mean that’s it?”
Michael grinned behind his mother’s shoulder, an I told you so look in his eye.
She gave a small shake of her head and smiled.
“Here.” George Carrington stepped up beside her and slid the straps of her bag from her shoulders. “Let me take that for you.” He shot his son a reprimand without using any words.
Jack pushed her lips down so she wouldn’t grin as Michael held his hand up in surrender.
“Hey, I got a very severe lecture that she was quite capable of carrying her own bag when I tried to take it from her at the airport in Maryland.”
George sighed, as if he’d failed as a parent. “Obviously she’s capable, son. That’s not the point.” He turned his lecturing eyes on her, and the snicker she was suppressing died on her tongue. “And you. It’s okay to let a man treat you like a lady. Doesn’t make you any less independent.”
She snapped to attention under his censure. “Yes, sir.”
“Good.” He slung her bag over his shoulder. “Now let’s go. Trent and Summer had to move the rehearsal dinner up an hour because of some crazy double-booking fiasco at the restaurant. With traffic the way it is, we’ll be lucky to make it on time.”
No kidding. They hit rush-hour traffic and were lucky to move at a turtle’s pace. Even so, they made it to Marcello’s with five minutes to spare. Michael’s dad parallel parked on the downtown street a block from the restaurant’s front door.
The smells of roasted garlic and stewing tomatoes greeted them like an Italian nona hugging them to her ample bosom. Welcoming. Familial. A little stifling.
Anita took the lead, Jack wedged between Michael and George in the line that traversed up the stairs and into the private dining room. A large crystal chandelier hung from the center of the room, dispersing light in fractals. The exposed brick along the walls lent a certain Tuscan feel, as well as the large live-edge table in the center of the room. Conversations around the table died as heads swiveled upon their entrance.
A tall man with longer blond hair stood from his chair near the head of the table, a smile spread across his face. “You made it.”
Jack remembered Trent. Honestly, he was kind of hard to forget, but she would have known Michael’s brother just from the stories he’d shared on the plane. Even dressed in dark-wash jeans and a button-up shirt, he still held a persona of someone up for an adventure. The glow of complete contentment as he looked down at his bride would have given it away as well.
Anita walked over and kissed his cheek. “Of course we made it.”
“Break any traffic laws on your way over, Pop?” Trent squeezed his dad’s shoulder.
George threw an exaggerated look to a dark-haired man still seated around the table. “Like I’d admit to anything of the sort with Adam in the room.”
“I’m not the police, Dad.” Adam shook his head but grinned, his teeth white against a tanned face.
Trent kept moving down the line. “You’re looking good, brother.”
“But not as good as you, right?” Michael leaned in for a hug that ended in two thumps on the back.
&n
bsp; More than one person shared in the laughter. “You know it.”
The host’s gaze landed on Jack, and she squirmed a bit. This right here was one of the reasons she hadn’t wanted to come. A small wedding, family and close friends only. She was neither. Made her feel uncomfortable, like she was butting in where she didn’t belong.
None of that shone in Trent’s gaze. If anything, it seemed as if he were holding a bit of a secret inside. One about her. One that caused him immense pleasure.
“Good to see you again.”
Jack pushed her hand forward in greeting. “You too.”
He looked at her proffered hand with a smile, then ignored it and threw his arm around her shoulder in a side hug like her brothers gave. “Don’t you know this is a hugging family?”
Her muscles seized under his arm, and she tried to take a step to the side. His hand stopped her as he pulled her closer.
“Come meet everyone.”
He pulled her forward, and one by one each person stood and wrapped her in a hug. She tried to ferret out where Michael had gone so she could give him a silent plea to get her out of this. Some people were comfortable hugging strangers. Not her. Talk about awkward. Personal space, people.
“And that’s everyone.”
Trent pulled out a chair, and she fell into it with relief. Hopefully no one noticed how tense she’d been. She looked up, and her eyes met Michael’s across the table. The upturn of his lips said he hadn’t missed a thing.
Drat.
Servers dressed from head to toe in all black carried in steaming trays of food. Overlarge plates with family-size portions piled high were set along the center of the table. Jack eyed each one. Lasagna, perfectly layered with sauce and cheese. Mixed green salad with a glass carafe of house balsamic vinaigrette. Bruschetta and golden toasted crostini. A mound of fresh handmade pasta. Marinara sauce. Alfredo sauce. Pesto. Meatballs. Grilled chicken breasts cut on a diagonal. Roasted garden vegetables.