A Soldier's Prayer--A Fresh-Start Family Romance

by Jenna Mindel

  One more person he loved had been taken too soon.

  * * *

  Monica was caught in her own trap. Of course they’d expect her to draw, as well. Holding a crayon poised over her paper, she considered her feelings. A mass of emotions jumbled up inside her—anger, fear, impatience, the desire to trust God completely yet failing.

  She pictured the rubber band balls she used to make while working at an office supply store when she was in college. All the different-colored rubber bands wrapped around each other were the crazy thoughts and feelings she’d experienced since having that biopsy that had led to a cancer diagnosis.

  Monica started coloring that big ball of rubber bands.

  Silence settled over the kitchen table save for the soft scratching of Ethan’s colored pencils and the rain hammering the ground outside. The worst of the storm had passed.

  Monica had closed most of the windows when they’d arrived except for the one over the sink. Cool, damp air drifted in, confirming that the temperature had plummeted. She shivered.

  Cash noticed. “Cold?”

  “I’ll just close that window.” Monica did so quickly and returned to the table.

  “I can start a fire,” he offered.

  “Later. After we color.” She didn’t want to break out of this now that Ethan was finally engaged. Peeking at his paper, she wasn’t too sure about the fire truck he was drawing with a red pencil. What did that mean?

  Glancing at Cash, she noticed that he’d given up drawing and was simply coloring. Blues and greens and purples surrounded his lonely stick figure. Hearing him state that he felt alone had stabbed her quick and hard. The urge to comfort him caught like a thorn in her skin.

  She’d encouraged Cash to share and he had, to a degree. Monica knew there was far more to the colors he chose to use. Looking at her own blob, the rubber band ball, she nearly chuckled. She was as bad as he was, playing it safe with her picture. Grazing the surface of feelings instead of digging down deep.

  Leaning over Ethan’s arm, Monica encouraged the boy. “Nice picture, Ethan. What does it mean?”

  The eight-year-old gave her a curious look. “My dad liked fire trucks. You said to draw a picture for him.”

  “Yes, I did.” Monica silently scolded herself as a fool. Some things were simply what they were, and yet she tried to read more into them. She didn’t know what she was doing, trying to play therapist.

  The article she’d read had made it sound so easy, and yet here they were, drawing and coloring, and no one was unloading what lay heavy in their hearts. Even if they had, she didn’t have the training to know how to respond properly.

  Only Owen’s picture clearly depicted his sorrow, and he still wasn’t saying a word.

  Chewing her bottom lip, she peeked again at his paper. He’d drawn a cheerful little house with smoke plumes coming from a chimney. “Is that your house, Owen?”

  He shrugged.

  Ethan included a dog near the fire truck, one with spots.

  “Do you guys have a dog?” Monica asked.

  “No.” Ethan’s face fell. “Mom’s allergic to dogs.”

  Like she was allergic to pine. Monica’s heart pinched. What was their mother like? And how was she taking the death of her husband, leaving her boys without their dad? Worrying about losing her hair seared Monica’s conscience. There were far worse things to lose.

  She cleared her throat. “I’m sorry.”

  Ethan looked at her funny. “For what?”

  “That you can’t have a dog.” She heard the quaver in her voice.

  Evidently Cash did, too, and he reached for her hand, giving her fingers a soft squeeze.

  Monica nearly lost it then, but didn’t. She clung to him, wishing she could make things all better for everyone.

  “What’s that?” Ethan looked at her picture.

  She pulled her hand away from Cash. “It’s a rubber band ball.”

  Again Ethan gave her an odd look. “Why’d you draw that?”

  Why, indeed? Maybe she should be the one who shared a little. “Sometimes my feelings get all jumbled up like a big ball of...”

  “Rubber bands?” Cash raised an eyebrow.

  Monica met his concerned gaze and nodded.

  He stared at her as if trying to unravel those rubber bands one by one.

  As if he could. Some of those bands resulted from him, too. She looked away, concentrating on Ethan’s picture as the boy set down a brown pencil. “Done?”

  “Yeah.” He leaned back in his chair.

  “Could you draw another one?”

  Owen nodded and grabbed a fresh piece of paper. He still didn’t speak.

  Ethan shrugged and tore a new sheet from the pad in turn.

  Monica looked at the clock. It was nearly five thirty. A good time to start dinner. There was still ground beef in the fridge, but it was too wet outside to grill. “I’m going to make dinner while you guys keep coloring. Do you like spaghetti?”

  “Yeah!” Ethan smiled.

  Owen did, too.

  Cash didn’t. He looked at her as if she’d just chickened out. “Want some help?”

  “I got this.” She stood and patted his shoulder. “You keep drawing with your nephews.”

  Monica hoped they might open up some more, but probably not. This exercise hadn’t resolved anything. Owen remained as tight-lipped as before. There had to be something to get the boy to speak, but what?

  * * *

  Cash stared at his lone stick figure surrounded by dark colors. Dark green, dark blue, dark purple, burgundy and even charcoal-gray. He didn’t use black—that seemed too cliché, and his feelings weren’t quite that horrific. He realized that anger could be expressed in a myriad of dark colors. It was sort of freeing, too, all those variations.

  He pulled off a new piece of paper and scribbled some more. No more stick figures, just color. Confusion seemed to be the theme of this portrait. The new hues were lighter, softer even, in shades of gray and tan that bled into almond. The box had a crayon color named almond, go figure.

  The scent of frying beef mixed with onions, garlic and oregano teased, and confusion morphed into hunger. He glanced at Monica’s rendering of a rubber band ball. Her feelings were jumbled, she’d said. When it came to her, his were, too. A mass of contradictions.

  He grabbed a bright blue crayon that reminded him of Monica’s eyes, one called cerulean. He filled in the middle of the page. Hunger transformed into a longing so sharp that it pierced deep. More shades of blue came out of the box of crayons, because sometimes her eyes looked almost turquoise in the right light.

  His fingers grabbed a red crayon and he suddenly scoured through the other colors in frustration. He sat back, halting this “feelings on parade” exercise.

  Cash didn’t want to feel. He’d practiced compartmentalizing his emotions for years and in one exercise of putting crayons to paper, he’d let loose the Pandora’s box of his heart. He mentally shut the lid. Tight.

  He glanced at the subject of his frustration. Monica was opening canned tomatoes and dumping the contents into a steaming pot. She added more spices and then grabbed a spoon in order to taste the sauce. She sprinkled in a bit of sugar and stirred. He’d never gone to that kind of trouble for spaghetti sauce. He simply opened up a jar from the store and called it good.

  He checked on the boys. They were still scribbling pictures. Owen drew birds and sunshine and clouds, while Ethan tried to draw Dogman.

  Cash smiled as he got up and headed toward Monica. Her back was to him, so he drew close and peeked over her shoulder. “Smells good.”

  She jumped slightly, landed against his chest, then jerked away. “You shouldn’t sneak up on people.”

  He noticed that she sucked at her thumb. “What happened?”

  She glared at him. “I burned it when
you stalked up behind me.”

  He laughed out loud and took a step toward her. “I didn’t stalk.”

  “Oh, I think you did.” She stepped back.

  He reached for her hand. “Let me see.”

  “No need.”

  “Come on, Stork. Give me your hand.” Cash took hold of her slender fingers and inspected the burned thumb. A small welt had already formed under the skin.

  He hit the automatic ice dispenser on the fridge and grabbed a small handful of cubed ice. After tossing all but one in the sink, he rubbed that last piece along the welt.

  Glancing at her face, he noticed that her eyes were closed, but not with pleasure. Her jaw was clenched as if she was trying to get control of those rubber band emotions.

  She opened her eyes and stared straight at him, and she looked mad.

  “What’s wrong?” he whispered.

  “Nothing. Just stop, okay?” Monica pulled her hand away.

  “Stop what?” He spread his arms as if innocent, but he knew. She didn’t want this pull between them any more than he did. And yet he pushed it. Pushed her when he knew better.

  Just then Owen squealed, as Ethan held his colored pencil drawing of Dogman up to his face and growled.

  Cash rolled his eyes. “Ethan!”

  Owen screamed and ran for the bedroom, with his brother in hot pursuit.

  Cash charged toward the room the boys shared. Owen had thrown himself on the bottom bunk, his shoulders shaking. The tyke was crying. “Come on, Ethan. You know better.”

  Ethan looked indignant. “I was only teasing.”

  “Yeah, well, stop teasing.” Cash reached for Owen. “Come on, buddy, it’s not that big a deal. It’s just a drawing.”

  Owen remained facedown, but his sobs were softer now.

  Cash rubbed the kid’s back. Glancing at Ethan, he noted that the older boy looked contrite. “Go help Monica set the table.”

  Ethan drooped his shoulders, but did as he was told without a word.

  Everyone seemed touchy after the coloring exercise. Maybe some good would come from it. Cash tried again. “Owen, come on, buddy, enough with the tears. Tell me what’s up.”

  Owen shook his head.

  “Still not talking.”

  Another head shake. He wasn’t crying, though.

  “Can you sit up?” Cash coaxed.

  The boy did so, rubbing his eyes.

  “I know this isn’t easy, Owen. I miss your dad, too.”

  Owen’s eyes widened.

  “If you need to cry, I suppose that’s okay.” Cash didn’t believe his own words. Crying didn’t change a thing.

  Owen rested his hand on Cash’s arm.

  “What?”

  Owen gave him a pointed look.

  If the kid could write full sentences, Cash would have given him pen and paper. What was he trying to say?

  The boy reached up and touched Cash’s face, then his eye, and drew a finger down Cash’s cheek.

  Cash finally got it. “Do I cry?”

  Owen nodded.

  He thought about the question before answering. If he said he never did, that would negate what he’d just told the boy. Owen was only five, far too young to stuff his feelings down deep where they’d stay put. He didn’t want to patronize the boy, either, by telling him that he’d cried a lot at Owen’s age.

  The truth was that after Cash’s own father had died, he’d sworn he’d never cry again. He’d broken that vow when his commanding officer, riddled with bullet holes, lay gasping his last breath. Crying did no good. It didn’t bring anyone back.

  Looking at his youngest nephew, Cash decided on honesty. “I feel like crying a lot sometimes.”

  Owen chewed on that for a bit, took a deep breath and stood, dry-eyed. The boy was bucking up. Then he grabbed Cash’s hand to lead him back out into the kitchen, where dinner was smelling close to being done.

  Cash smiled at the kid. He’d answered truthfully, but incorrectly. He’d just taught his five-year-old nephew to set aside his feelings. Whether that was good or bad, Cash didn’t know, but it suddenly made him feel like crying.

  Chapter Seven

  After dinner, cleanup and a call from the boys’ mom, Monica gathered everyone in the living room for a movie. The heavy rain had tapered off to a fine, cold drizzle, allowing the satellite to come back on, but there was nothing worth watching on TV.

  Monica looked over the stash of DVDs in the drawer of the entertainment hutch, while Cash built a fire in the woodstove. After running her finger over the spines of a dozen family films, she lifted up a tried-and-true favorite. “How about Star Wars?”

  Ethan scrunched up his face. “We’ve seen it.”

  “Hmm. How about this one?” Monica grabbed a Disney flick.

  “Seen that, too.”

  Monica shared a look with Cash.

  “Ethan, help her find a movie.”

  The boy got up from the couch as if it took every ounce of his energy to do so. He looked over the DVDs with a critical eye, breezing past several animated films to finally settle on an old John Wayne movie. “This one.”

  Monica chuckled. “Works for me. Popcorn?”

  Ethan grinned. “Yes, please.”

  “I love popcorn.” She didn’t bother adding that dousing the kernels with melted butter was the reason why she loved it. That much was obvious.

  “Me, too,” Ethan agreed.

  Monica smiled at the boy’s politeness and hurried back to the kitchen for the Zelinsky family popcorn pan. Her uncle believed in popping corn on the stove instead of the microwave, and Monica agreed. Heating the oil, she spotted Owen helping Cash.

  The five-year-old handed his uncle small logs from the wood bin.

  “Thanks, buddy.” Cash’s voice was deep but gentle.

  Monica melted butter in a small saucepan on the next burner before dumping the popcorn into the hot oil. After watching the kernels sizzle until one popped, then another, she placed a lid on the pan and shook it across the burner. More kernels popped and she breathed in the mouthwatering aroma.

  When the popping sounds finally stopped, she dumped the contents into a large bowl, followed by the melted butter and salt, and then headed for the living room with a wad of napkins.

  Cash was seated in one corner of the large sectional couch. He lifted the remote. “Everyone ready?”

  Monica took the other end, while the boys sat between them.

  Owen scooted closer to her.

  “Ready,” Ethan said, around a mouthful of popcorn.

  Cash hit Play, then glanced at her. “Thanks for the popcorn.”

  She smiled, her mouth full, too.

  The cabin warmed up quickly with the fire blazing, and as the movie played on, the boys grew still. Owen, snuggled into the crook of her arm, was soon fast asleep and Ethan’s eyelids kept drooping. It wasn’t even eight o’clock, but they’d had a big day.

  Monica shifted carefully.

  Owen startled, then shifted and settled back into slumber.

  “We should probably put them to bed,” she whispered to Cash, whose eyes looked like they might drift closed any minute now, too.

  “Yeah.” Cash stood and stretched. “Come on, boys, let’s go.”

  Ethan mumbled something, but got up without complaint and headed for the bathroom.

  “Here, I’ll take Owen.” Cash bent down to lift the boy from her lap.

  That placed Cash’s face very close to her own. Monica stole a peek at his strong jaw and the muscle that flexed there, as if he’d also noticed how close they were.

  “Need help?” she managed to ask, when Cash straightened with Owen in his arms.

  “I’ve got it.”

  She hit Pause on the remote and also stood. She gathered up the napkins and popcorn bowl
, while listening to Cash encourage his nephews to go to the bathroom and wash their hands.

  Setting the empty bowl in the sink, she felt her stomach turn soft and squishy at the sound of that deep, gentle voice coaxing the boys like a pro. Cash Miller was a good guy. He’d always been one of the good guys and he’d make a great dad if he ever got around to getting married—

  She stopped that train of thought. It was a dead end. She knew better than to consider marriage and Cash Miller in the same sentence. Dangerous thoughts. Dangerous man.

  “Monica, can you come in and pray with us?” Cash called.

  Her heart stuck in her throat as if he’d caught her in those thoughts. “Be right there.”

  Taking a deep breath, Monica entered the boys’ room. Ethan was tucked into the top bunk and Owen was on the bottom. The last time she was in here, Ethan had woken from a bad dream. She hoped he slept well tonight. Was that why Cash was praying over them?

  Cash reached out his hand to her. “If you’ll touch Owen’s forehead, I’ll cover Ethan’s.”

  Monica nodded and slipped her hand into Cash’s. There was no ignoring the butterflies let loose in her belly when he threaded his fingers through hers. Those butterflies sneaked right up her arm, too, causing all kinds of havoc to her senses.

  Get a grip already.

  Focusing on the task before her, she ruffled Owen’s hair, then covered his forehead with her palm. She closed her eyes when Cash started to pray.

  “Dear Father in heaven, please watch over these boys as they sleep and give them a good night’s rest. Protect them, Lord. Amen.” His deep voice rumbled over her. Through her.

  “Amen,” she said in unison with Ethan.

  Owen simply nodded.

  Cash slipped his hand to the small of her back and led her toward the door, where he stopped and turned off the light. “Good night, guys.”

  “Night, Uncle Cash,” Ethan responded. “Good night, Monica.”

  “Good night.” Monica noticed that Owen had already drifted back to sleep.

  She hurried out before Cash touched her again. Turning toward him, she quickly said, “I might as well turn in, too, so I can get an early start for home in the morning.”