Shame the Devil (Portland Devils Book 3)

by Rosalind James

  Jennifer hadn’t been able to sit. She’d paced the room for half an hour while Dyma watched her and didn’t say anything, and then they’d gone to the lobby and she’d paced there. She was sure she looked half-crazy, and she didn’t care.

  She should have gone with them. She could have waited in the car.

  Alison’s husband had the kids in the pool, but after a while, they came out to wait, too. He didn’t say much, but at least he looked like he got it. Finally.

  Jennifer sensed them before she saw them. She didn’t even know how, but she was out the hissing double doors and into the humidity, feeling the heat rise off the sidewalk and into her body.

  Harlan was holding Annabelle’s hand, striding through the parking lot with a look on his face that made Jennifer’s heart stop.

  She didn’t stop to think. She just ran. When she got there, he grabbed her and held her tight. She reached out an arm, grabbed Annabelle, and pulled her in, too, and now, Annabelle started to cry.

  Harlan still didn’t say a word. He just hung on.

  61

  Falling Like Rain

  They buried his mom in Bismarck.

  “It’s the right place,” Vanessa had said the night before, when they’d all been sitting around Harlan’s hotel suite, drained and exhausted, eating not-all-that-Chinese food and drinking wine. Their grandparents were there, too, their grandmother white and strained, their grandfather looking about ten years older.

  Vanessa continued, “At least it seems that way to me. What do you think, Grandma?”

  “She should be where her kids want her to be,” their grandmother answered. “She lived for the four of you. Let her lie where you decide.”

  “I think she should be here.” That was Alison, who’d been the quietest of all of them today. She was still holding her daughter, Mattie, even though the two-year-old had long since fallen asleep, like the little girl was her comfort object and her shelter.

  That should have been her husband.

  Harlan was beginning to realize that what he’d thought of as withdrawal, as rejection, was the cry of a woman overwhelmed by her life, who literally felt like one more straw would break her. He was going to have a quiet talk with her before he left and let her know that if she needed him, he was here. He suspected that her marriage was failing, and that she knew it.

  He needed to tell her that she had another chapter in her, and that he’d do what he could to help her write it, because Jennifer was right. That was the best of him, of all of them. The gift their mom had left them.

  He asked Alison, “Why do you think so?” Keeping it neutral. Half of him wanted to protest, to say that he never wanted to see this town again, but he suspected there was more to the picture.

  She said, “Because she loved the sunflowers. Because she loved the summers, when she’d take us to the river and we’d spend all day and have a picnic. She even loved the winters. Does anybody still have their ice skates?”

  “She made the best hot chocolate,” Alison said. “And she’d let us toast marshmallows in the fireplace, even though Dad said it was too messy. She always said, ‘We’ll clean it up. Some things are worth a little mess.’”

  They were all silent at that until Harlan said, “I was remembering, back this winter. The day I met you,” he told Jennifer. “I heard a great horned owl, that lonesome sound, and I remembered Mom standing outside on the porch in the freezing cold, telling me about them. About how they mated for life, and that was beautiful.” He took Jennifer’s hand where she sat beside him on the floor, their backs against the wall, because her back was hurting and the couch was too soft. Massage later, he thought, and told her, “At the time, I thought, ‘That’s not all that beautiful,’ but I think she was right. It can be beautiful.”

  She smiled at him with all her warmth, and he kissed her head and said, “Yeah. I think so. And I think you guys are right, too. This is where our memories are. Maybe where her best times were.” He looked at his grandparents. “I’m not discounting her childhood. Just …”

  “You’re right,” his grandmother said. She was crying, but doing it quietly. “Leave her here, where you remember her. We can come visit her. There won’t be anybody to stop us now.”

  That was why, on another sunny summer day, on the kind of morning when their mom would have taken them to the river and swung out on the rope swing herself, they were putting her in the ground.

  No service, just the little group of them standing around the grave, sharing more memories. The two guys from the funeral home stood under the trees, giving them their privacy, patiently waiting to shovel the mound of dirt that lay under a green blanket that was supposed to look like grass.

  They talked until nobody could think what else to say, and then they sang the song their mom had sung them all to sleep with. Alison and Annabelle were crying as they sang, and their grandparents weren’t able to sing at all. Harlan was singing, though, and Vanessa was standing tall and belting the song out, because Vanessa was a warrior.

  “Hush little baby, don’t say a word,

  Mama’s going to buy you a mockingbird.”

  He remembered all the words. He could see his mom in the big wicker rocking chair with whatever baby it was, holding a tiny hand. Her face soft, and her voice soft, too.

  He held himself together and finished it. He and Vanessa were the only ones singing now.

  “If that horse and cart fall down,

  You’ll still be the sweetest little baby in town.”

  The last notes died away, and he looked around at all of them, his heart so full, it was going to burst. Then he stepped forward and dropped the sunflower he carried onto the casket.

  Goodbye, Mom, he told her, all the way from his depths. I love you.

  The others dropped their own flowers in, his grandmother going last. Holding the flower for a long, long moment over her daughter’s grave, and then letting it go. Saying goodbye.

  He didn’t cry. Not yet. He had one more thing he needed to do.

  Jennifer had thought she knew sadness. She’d buried her own mother just months before, and it had broken her heart. Now, she realized that she didn’t know what heartbreak was. She’d started crying the moment they’d started singing, and she couldn’t stop. She was holding Harlan’s hand, feeling his pain, and she’d have given anything in the world to take that pain away.

  When they were done, he headed over to the mortuary people, but came back without them, pulled the blanket back from the pile of dirt, picked up a shovel, and said, “She got buried all wrong the first time. I think we need to do this ourselves. She needs to be left here with … with love.”

  Vanessa stepped forward and picked up the other shovel. She was wearing a navy dress and heels, but she dug the shovel into the dirt anyway with a heavy scrape, lifted it, and let the dirt fall on the casket. Then she went back for another one.

  All Harlan’s sisters took a turn, and so did their grandparents. In the end, though, it was just Harlan. Jennifer was holding his jacket now, and he was in his shirtsleeves, digging and tossing dirt down like an automaton.

  Shovelful after shovelful, the loose dirt falling into the black hole like rain. The wood of the casket had long since disappeared under it. Harlan’s white shirt was stuck to his body with sweat, but his rhythm never stopped, and everybody else stood silent and watched.

  Finally, all the dirt was gone. A low mound covered the grave, and he stood there a minute, his head bowed, his chest heaving, his blistered hands on the shovel handle. Then he set the shovel carefully down, knelt, touched the temporary plastic sign at the head of the grave, and said, “I’m sorry I doubted you, Mom. I’m sorry I didn’t know. I know now.”

  His eyes were blue pools in his strained face when he held out his hand to Jennifer and told the others, “I’ll see you all back at the place. I need …” A deep breath. “A couple minutes.” Then he turned and walked, nearly staggering, to the car, still holding her hand.

  Jennifer sa
id, “Keys.”

  He blinked. He’d almost forgotten she was there.

  Oh. Keys. He pulled them from his pocket and handed them to her, and she gave him back his suit coat, climbed into the car with him, racked the seat forward, and drove.

  He stared straight ahead as the familiar sights spooled by. The high school, where his mom had come to every game. The middle school, where he’d first known a winning season, and she’d baked a cake to celebrate. And finally, the parking lot of the hotel.

  Out of the car and through the front doors. Knowing that he was sweaty, that he was filthy, that people were staring. That this would be in the news eventually, inevitably, because there was no entertainment like somebody else’s pain. All that knowledge and all the faces scrolled by like the newsfeed at the bottom of the screen giving you the sports scores, and then he and Jennifer were alone, heading up in the elevator. Down another hall. Into their suite.

  He was made of glass, brittle and rigid. His movements were jerky as he took off his shoes and socks, and his hands had started to shake.

  It was Jennifer who unbuttoned his shirt, Jennifer who unbuckled his belt and finished undressing him. Jennifer who pulled off her own clothes, took his hand, and took him into the shower. Too small for two people, especially when one of them was big and the other one was pregnant, but she got in with him anyway, grabbing a washcloth along the way.

  Jennifer, washing him down, getting rid of the sweat and the dirt and, finally, the tears, when the dam that had been inside him for so long finally burst its banks. When he had his palms flat against the wall, his forehead resting against the cold fiberglass, and his shoulders were shaking, his legs trembling, his chest heaving. Jennifer stood there as the water beat down on them, her belly against his side, and washed him clean, her hands never stopping until the sobs turned to shudders and, finally, ended. Until he was just standing there, drained and spent and powerless.

  She reached around him and turned off the water. She got towels and helped him dry off, and he did the same for her. And then she took him into the bedroom, pulled back the covers, and lay down with him, her body entwined with his, her hand on his face, and said nothing.

  He put his hand on her belly, because something was moving there, a ripple under the skin like a fish beneath the still waters of a lake. He rested his palm over the spot and said, his voice scratched and rusty, “He’s moving. I feel it.”

  She kissed his shoulder, and the touch of her lips was a blessing. “He’s turning somersaults. He’s a busy boy. An athlete. I think he’s going to be learning to ride a bike early. He’s going to want to do everything his dad does, because he’s going to think he’s got the best dad in the world.” She pulled back just a little, so he could see the seriousness in her eyes. “And he’s going to be right. She’d be so proud, Harlan. She’d be so happy to know the man you’ve become. She’s happy knowing it now. You must feel that, here in your heart.” Her hand was over the spot, and there was love in that hand. “Nikki Layne Kristiansen. She’s finally resting in peace, don’t you think?”

  “Yes,” he said. “Yes.”

  She left her hand there, wrapped her leg more tightly around him, so her softness surrounded him, and said, “I think we should name him Nicholas.”

  62

  Kickoff

  Jennifer wasn’t almost six months pregnant anymore. She was seven months pregnant. It was also August. It was Portland, but still. It was August, and she needed to fix dinner.

  She’d been doing most of the cooking after the first day of training camp, which had started five days after they’d come back from Bismarck. A day when Harlan had come in the door more than ten hours after he’d left, looking like every muscle hurt.

  He’d kissed her, same as always, and held her, too, as she’d asked, “What happened? You’re hurt.”

  She felt as much as heard the tired laugh. “Yeah, no, baby. That’s training camp. Just lucky the Devils hold it on campus, or I’d be in a hotel right now, feeling pretty sorry for myself. Instead, I get to come home to you.” He’d stood back, tried a smile, and said, “Let’s order out, though.”

  Hence the switch in cooking responsibilities. He’d tried to take them back after the first week, when he’d assured her that his body was tuned up again, and anyway, football was pain and he was used to it, and she’d said, “When were you planning on doing the shopping for that? On your one day off a week? When you’re staggering home? Not happening, buddy. That’s what the Instant Pot’s for.”

  “Plus,” Dyma had said from the kitchen, where she and Annabelle were doing something that involved Indian spices and a whole lot more pots and pans than Jennifer would have used—she was pretty sure it was going to involve lentils, but she was just going to overlook that—“Annabelle and I decided we should do our share. Responsibility and all that. Annabelle even cooked a chicken thing for you and Owen, since I refuse to prepare flesh. Even though this dinner has protein already. Oh—Owen’s coming over for dinner. So you know.”

  “Flesh, huh,” Harlan had said, raising his eyebrows at Jennifer. “Is Owen all good with that characterization?”

  “Relationships don’t require shared interests,” Dyma had answered. “They require shared values. ‘Because one believes in oneself, one doesn't try to convince others. Because one is content with oneself, one doesn't need others' approval. Because one accepts oneself, the whole world accepts her.’ Which means,” she’d finished, “that I don’t have to eat meat for Owen to love me, and he doesn’t have to be a vegetarian for me to love him.”

  “Sounds good,” Harlan had said. “But also like a lot of extra cooking.”

  Today, though, it was Saturday, Harlan’s one day off, because training camp really was brutal, and Jennifer had just finished the grocery shopping and needed to think about making pot roast for dinner with one small portion of the half a steer Owen had brought her from the ranch. Now, that was a present. Cut up and wrapped in butcher paper, too, the way she liked it. Pot roast wasn’t exactly vegetarian, but she wasn’t cooking two dinners. She was doing creamed spinach, too, though, because Owen was coming to dinner, and he loved it.

  She needed to get started on all that, because it was already almost five o’clock, and she had to sear the meat first. She didn’t feel like searing meat, but there you were. Life was tough like that. Harlan and Owen were off playing golf, which was the last thing she’d have done after the kind of regimen they’d been through these past couple weeks, but she guessed that was why they were in the NFL and she wasn’t.

  She may have been a tiny bit disappointed that Harlan had left her for hours on his one free day, but that was because there was, apparently, no pleasing her. He’d watch a movie with her tonight. He’d rub cream into her belly after her shower, he’d make love to her, and he’d do it all so well, her toes would curl. He didn’t have to spend every minute with her.

  He’d been different since they’d come home from North Dakota. Something in him had eased, exactly like he had been walking around with that heavy weight on his chest. He’d always laughed easily, but now, the laughter came from a deeper place. He smiled because he wanted to, she thought, and not because he thought he had to. He’d been doing a call with each of his sisters every week, and that felt important, too. And in the days after they’d come back, he and Annabelle had gone through the photo album that had lain, dusty and untouched, on the bookshelf in that terrible house, and now, there was a framed picture of his mom on his desk. It stood next to the one of the siblings on the fence at Easter with their dog, whose name had been Ranger.

  He’d even talked about getting a dog again. “Good for Bug, don’t you think?” he’d asked her. “She’s going to be lonesome after Dyma leaves for college. Good for the baby, too, if it’s gentle. Ranger would let Bug crawl all over her when she was a baby. A big dog like that would be good. When camp’s over, we could start taking a look. Have to do it quick before the season starts, though.” After that, he hadn’t
said anything, because he’d fallen asleep.

  So, yes. Even exhausted, he’d been thoughtful, and funny, and sweet. He’d talked about Annabelle and Dyma and the baby that they were already calling Nick. He’d talked about a dog. He’d made love to her with even more intensity, and with so much tenderness, it made her want to weep. He’d started looking at car seats and strollers online, researching their safety ratings and how easy they’d be for her to maneuver.

  He just hadn’t mentioned wanting to marry her.

  She started cutting beef into cubes and went over all her points again. It wasn’t hard. She had them memorized by now.

  Point One. It was an idea he’d blurted out on one of the worst days of his life, when he was feeling emotionally overwhelmed and grateful for her support. And possibly looking for a lifeline.

  Point Two. He’d brought it up another time, and he hadn’t meant it then, either. Back when he’d knelt down in her living room in front of Blake and Dakota and Annabelle and Dyma and her grandfather, even though he clearly didn’t love her, like the cruelest mockery of a moment that should have been precious, and she’d felt humiliated. Which didn’t exactly suggest that it was an idea he took seriously.

  Point Three. They’d known each other for six months, and no matter how much she loved him, it was too soon.

  Definitely too soon.

  Anybody would say it was too soon.

  All right, it didn’t feel too soon. But still. Six months.

  Point Four. She didn’t want to marry anybody who wasn’t dying to marry her, and she didn’t have to be married to Harlan to co-parent with him. It was the twenty-first century, even though Dyma was right that she sometimes felt she didn’t fit in it.