Meg and Jo

by Virginia Kantra

  “Not only for ice cream.”

  “You mean . . .”

  Her lips curved. “He drove me to Carolina Beach. We checked into a hotel.”

  “Shut up. You did not.”

  Her smile turned smug. “We didn’t get home until Sunday.”

  “You told Mom and Dad you met at the bank. You dated for a year before you moved in together.”

  “Because I wanted them to like him. I didn’t want them to think we were rushing into things.”

  “You were awfully young when you got married,” I observed.

  “I was not.”

  “Beth’s age.”

  She gave a surprised laugh. “I guess you’re right.” A few late tree frogs peeped from beyond the porch. “I always thought John and I would have more time before we started a family,” she confessed. “Nobody tells you how hard it’s going to be.”

  I didn’t know what to say. I squeezed her hand instead.

  “He didn’t tell me he was coaching at the high school,” she said. “I found out from Trey.”

  A little silence, filled with the wind in the pines.

  “Makes me wonder what else he isn’t telling me,” she said in a small voice.

  Oh hell. “You think he’s cheating on you?”

  “No. No. John’s not a cheater. But he’s not . . . happy. I love our babies. I love our house. I love our life, most of the time. What if he doesn’t feel the same way?”

  “Ask him.”

  “Maybe I don’t want to know.”

  “Meg.” I bumped her shoulder. “Just talk to him.”

  “The way you’re talking to Eric?”

  “That’s different. John loves you.”

  “And Eric doesn’t love you.” Her voice made it half a question.

  I swallowed. “I thought he did.” I’d thought he could. The trees whispered in the darkness. “I have such a taste for you, Jo.” “When I was with him, I felt . . . accepted, I guess. Like he really saw me, liked me, warts and all. But he didn’t want me. That blog . . . It was his cooking, but that’s my writing. That’s me. He rejected me.”

  We sat awhile longer. Clouds scudded across the moon, blurring its face. Meg handed me a tissue from her pocket, like a good mom.

  “I’m not going to cry. I hate crying,” I said, and burst into tears. She sat beside me, petting my hair, the way our mother used to. “I’m sorry.”

  “Have another tissue,” Meg said.

  I loved her so much. I sniffled. “How about more wine?”

  “Definitely wine. And cake,” Meg said, holding up Aunt Phee’s cake saver.

  “Definitely cake.” I stood. “Let’s go eat our feelings.”

  Meg smiled. “Spoken like a true March.”

  We went inside. Maybe I wasn’t sure where I belonged anymore. But home was a good place to figure it out.

  CHAPTER 18

  Meg

  There were roses, red ones, on the kitchen island when I got home. At least a dozen of them, still wrapped in cellophane from the grocery store. Not for Valentine’s Day or Mother’s Day, my birthday, or our anniversary. Thanks, an apology, a romantic gesture . . . The reason didn’t matter. John was trying. The effort was everything.

  My eyes welled.

  John must have heard the back door open, because he came in from the living room. I blinked, taking in details, the cuffs turned back on his wilted cotton shirt, his blond hair sticking up in front like DJ’s or Daisy’s after she’d cut her bangs.

  “You’re home,” John said. Finally, he did not say.

  I nodded, my fingers itching to smooth that errant cowlick. To touch him.

  He stuffed his hands in his pockets. Took them out again, looking as awkward, as unsure, as I felt.

  I shifted DJ in my arms. “How . . . How was the tournament?”

  “Good.” After a pause, he offered, “We won.”

  “That’s great,” I said.

  “Thanks,” John said dryly. Okay, maybe I did sound a little like I was praising DJ for using the potty. He strolled toward me. “How was the farmers’ market?”

  “Busy. Lots of people Christmas shopping.” Just talk to him, Jo urged in my head. I cleared my throat. “I saw Lisa Roberts. Patrick and Jason’s mom?”

  “Jason’s a good kid. Good wrestler. No pin, but he scored a couple takedowns. Won on points. He keeps it up, he could make Regionals.”

  “His mom seemed really glad you were there with him. She actually thanked me.” Nobody ever came up and thanked me because my husband had arranged financing for their car.

  “Sorry I couldn’t watch the kids today. I hope they were okay.”

  “The kids were fine. Everything was fine. John, what I said about Lisa . . . I was proud of you.”

  Faint color stained his cheeks. He shook his head, dismissing the compliment. “Did you see your buddy Carl today?”

  “He stopped by.” I changed the subject. “And Sallie Moffat took the twins to the park.”

  “Nice of her.”

  “Yes.” I searched for something else to say, some topic to bridge the gap between us. Something that would make our conversation less like a bad first date. “She and Ned are going to Hawaii in January.”

  He gave me an unreadable look. Nodded at DJ, sleeping in my arms. “Daisy in the car?”

  “Yes. They fell asleep at Mom’s,” I said apologetically.

  “I’ll get her.”

  “Thanks.” He moved around me. Not touching. Even when we weren’t connecting, he was a dutiful dad. “Thank you for the flowers,” I added softly.

  He stopped in the doorway. “I couldn’t find a vase.”

  He’d jammed the bouquet into the pitcher I used for iced tea. I smiled, my heart unfurling like one of those roses. “That works.”

  “You need to fix them to make them look better.” His gaze met mine. “You’re good at that.”

  Was that what he thought? That I had to rearrange everything? “They look beautiful to me.”

  He smiled a little. “Glad you like them.”

  “I do.” Two simple words, like the echo of a promise.

  He leaned his forearm on the doorway above my head. I felt a little flutter, a tingle of the old attraction. “I bought a bottle of wine, too.”

  “Wine is good.” Wine made it easier to talk. To say yes. Yes to laughter and vulnerability, to love and letting go. I moistened my lips. “Sorry I wasn’t home for dinner.”

  He leaned closer. He smelled good, warm and familiar, like fabric softener and sweat. Like John. “We can open it later.”

  His gaze dropped to my mouth. The tingles spread. I raised my face for his kiss.

  DJ mumbled and burrowed deeper into my neck.

  John straightened, his hand dropping briefly to our son’s head. “Better get this little guy to bed.”

  I swallowed my disappointment. “Aren’t you coming up?”

  “As soon as I get Daisy.”

  Daisy! In the car. I’d totally forgotten.

  “That would be good. Great,” I said. “Thanks, honey.”

  It took time to transfer the twins to their own beds, to strip off Daisy’s shoes and socks, to put DJ in a clean diaper, all without waking them up. I turned out the lights in the babies’ room and eased the door shut, still thinking of those roses.

  John had always been better at actions than words. Maybe we didn’t have to talk, I thought. Maybe I could show him how I felt.

  And maybe I was afraid of where our conversation could go.

  “It’s not like I’m going to quit my job,” he’d said.

  John was waiting in the hall. He stuck his hands in his pockets when he saw me. “You want that wine now?”

  Yes. No. If we went downstairs, down to the crumbs on the counter and the
bills by the door . . . Definitely no. Better to stay upstairs.

  “Jo opened a bottle of wine with dinner,” I said. Keeping my voice low, so I wouldn’t wake the kids. “I probably shouldn’t drink any more tonight.” Casually, I walked toward our bedroom with its sturdy door lock and comfortable queen-size mattress. Hoping John would follow.

  A load of unfolded clothes sat in the middle of our bed.

  Okay. I could move the laundry basket to the floor. Or . . . We didn’t have to do it in bed. When we first bought the house, we’d made love on the living room floor. Under the Christmas tree. Even on the washing machine, once. Before the bills and routines, before the scars and stretch marks.

  “How is Jo?” John asked.

  “Oh. Well.” I blinked at him, distracted. “John, she slept with Eric.”

  “The chef guy? Good for her.”

  “I’ve always wanted Jo to find somebody.” Automatically, I reached for the laundry basket. “But he’s so much older than she is. Divorced. With two kids. Not to mention he’s her boss.”

  “Do I need to go to New York and beat him up?” He was smiling. Half-serious. I knew Jo privately considered my husband kind of dull, but he was a good man. Protective. And he’d always been fond of Jo.

  “All I want is to take care of you,” he’d said. “You and the kids.”

  I folded his briefs in thirds. “She says not. She came on to him, she says.” Poor Jo.

  “That doesn’t sound like your sister.”

  I reached for a nightshirt, keeping my hands busy while I told John the rest, slowly relaxing into my sister’s tale. It was nice, talking about something besides our schedules and the twins. Like the old days, when we’d critique our friends’ romances and congratulate ourselves on how lucky we were.

  “Then last night they had a big fight about her blog, and she quit,” I concluded.

  John folded a T-shirt in half and then in half again, the way he did before we got married, and put it on the pile. “Bad move.”

  “It takes two people to make a relationship work,” I said.

  He grunted, his big hands painstakingly matching the twins’ tiny socks, butterflies with butterflies, stripes with stripes. A wave of tenderness caught me by the throat. “Seems to me this chef guy needs to get over himself.”

  “Just like that,” I said skeptically.

  “Did she trash his restaurant on her blog?”

  “No.”

  “Post naked pictures?”

  A laugh spurted out of me. “No!”

  “Then it’s easy. If he loves her.”

  “I thought he did,” Jo had said. “But he didn’t want me.”

  “She’s hurt,” I said.

  “So she ran.”

  “You think she should have stayed in New York.”

  “If she loves him, yeah. You have feelings for somebody, that’s what you do. You stick around. You work things out. You don’t give up.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Put your head down and bull through?”

  “That’s what I’d do,” John said.

  That’s what he did. Solid, uncomplaining, utterly reliable John. I loved him so much. “I think they should talk,” I said. Testing.

  “Maybe. Maybe he just needs time to cool off.”

  “Or Jo does.” I sighed. “I’m worried she’s going to end up all alone.”

  “She’s not alone.” John glanced up from the laundry, a smile in his eyes. “She has you.”

  “That’s what I told her. But it’s not enough.”

  “Don’t underestimate yourself.” He held my gaze. “It’s enough for me.”

  My heart melted. “Oh, John.”

  “I told you.” He reached for the flannel pants in my hands. “You can make anything better.”

  He tugged on the pants, drawing me close, bringing me against him. A little jolt, familiarity and lust, shivered through me as our bodies connected. We kissed softly and then not so softly. I wrapped my arms around his neck. His hands slid under my shirt, seeking skin.

  “Mommy!”

  The door swung open. We sprang apart. DJ toddled forward, beaming. “Beckfast,” he announced.

  I pulled down my hem. “It’s not breakfast time, baby. It’s time to sleep.”

  “Cookie.”

  “No cookie.” I glanced at John. Reached for DJ’s hand. “Let’s get you back to bed.”

  “Daddy!” Evading me, he scampered toward John.

  John captured him in a hug. “Come on, buddy.” He hoisted DJ onto his shoulders. “Bedtime.”

  DJ chuckled in delight, drumming his feet against John’s shoulders. This was playtime, I thought in dismay. I’d never get him back to sleep now.

  “I’ll do it, John. It’ll be quicker,” I said.

  But I wasn’t quick. Deprived of both a cookie and Fun Time with Daddy, DJ escalated from fretful to demanding. Mindful of Daisy sleeping in the next bed, of John waiting in the next room, I rocked him, sang to him, read him a story, rubbed his back. But every time I laid him down, he bounced up again.

  “DJ, hush,” I begged.

  John appeared in the doorway. “I’ve got this. Go to bed.”

  I hesitated. “You’ve had a long day.”

  “You, too. You had the kids all day.” He nudged me. “Go.”

  Reluctantly, I let go of DJ’s hand.

  “No, Mommy. No!”

  I sank back down on the side of the mattress. “I don’t want to upset him.”

  John’s jaw set like DJ’s. “I’ve been thinking. About what you said. About us being partners.”

  I stared at him. Now he wanted to talk?

  He plowed ahead. “The thing is, my dad was never around much. Your father, he’s not much better. I can be like them and not do anything. Or . . .” He met my gaze, his eyes steady, his jaw firm. “I can try to be your partner. But if we’re partners, sometimes you’ve got to let me do things my way.”

  Something inside me softened and relaxed like a fist letting go. My heart. My womb.

  DJ crawled out from under the covers, his arms warm and clingy around my neck.

  “He’ll wake Daisy,” I warned.

  “Then I’ll deal with it.” John sat beside me, lifting DJ from my lap. “Say good night to Mommy.”

  DJ twisted and struggled. “No! Mommy!”

  “Mommy’s tired.” It was John’s coach voice. “Daddy’s putting you to bed.”

  DJ gave a heartbreaking sob. “Mamama . . .”

  I escaped to the hall, my face flushed, my heart pounding in guilt and relief.

  DJ was still sobbing in outrage as I brushed my teeth, as I pulled on yoga pants and a T-shirt and folded the rest of the laundry. I heard Daisy’s voice raised in sleepy protest and John’s quiet murmur as he tried to settle our babies to sleep.

  Gradually, the noise across the hall subsided. I waited.

  No John.

  Fearing the worst, I padded across the hallway and peeked in the bedroom door. My husband slumped against the wall of DJ’s bed, a child cuddled in the circle of his arm on either side, Daisy holding tight to his finger. All of them fast asleep.

  Something moved in me, deeper than words.

  This was love. Not holding back, not keeping score, but doing things for each other. Giving to each other. Not out of obligation, but generously, because it was a joy to offer.

  Head to one side, I considered the family pile on the bed. And then—carefully, so carefully, so I didn’t wake the kids—I crawled across the mattress, and laid my head on John’s sprawled leg, and joined them in sleep.

  CHAPTER 19

  Jo

  My father kissed my forehead when he came downstairs the next morning—a rare mark of affection usually reserved for birthdays, holidays, and straight As on my report card.r />
  When I was growing up, I used to think we enjoyed a special, cerebral bond, like Lizzy and Mr. Bennet.

  Maybe my coming home was an opportunity for us to develop a deeper understanding. I wasn’t quite ready to discuss my love life with my father. Or the state of my finances or my sudden unemployment. I was here to be a help, not a drag. He had more important things—people—to worry about. Suicidal veterans. Mom.

  But maybe now we would finally talk, really talk, about the toll of Iraq on his soldiers and himself, the difficulties of settling into life back home after losing so many friends. It would be the start of a new, closer, adult relationship between us, and years from now, he would say, Yeah, I had some trouble adjusting. But when I realized I needed someone to talk to, my daughter Jo was there for me.

  I wiped my hands on a dish towel. “I fed the goats,” I volunteered. “Made breakfast, too. Biscuits.”

  The tang of baking powder and buttermilk hung in the air. I’d used my mother’s recipe, squishing the soft dough between my fingers the way she did, but left her round biscuit cutters in the drawer. I’d cut the dough into squares instead, the way Constanza taught me. “Sin desperdicio,” the garde-manger had said, her gold tooth flashing in a smile. No waste.

  My father glanced at the clock. He was already dressed in khakis and a button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up, like the Duke Divinity student he had been thirty-five years ago. “No breakfast for me, I’m afraid. Services start at nine.”

  “Oh. Right,” I said.

  It was Sunday. Brunch day in New York, another day of work, a chance to catch up on my blog or sleep or laundry. A week ago, I’d worked the line in the morning and spent the afternoon in bed with Eric.

  My father smiled slightly. “You’re an adult, of course. It’s your choice whether you attend services or not. But if you would like to join me . . .”

  My heart went all squishy. In his own way, my father cared about me.

  “I can be dressed in five minutes,” I promised.

  “Take your time,” my father said, with another glance at the clock.

  I’d packed in a blur of tears and fury, throwing everything into the battered suitcase I’d taken to college. It took me seven minutes to strip off my barn jeans and dig out a balled-up pair of leggings. I sniffed the armpits of my sweater before dragging it on. Stuffed my feet into my city-girl boots. When I came downstairs, my father was waiting by the door. The biscuits were untouched.