Someday Soon

by Debbie Macomber

  Airline food, crying babies, and short-tempered vacationers wasn’t her idea of Christmas, but she refused to surrender to self-pity.

  Christmas for the last two years had been strained with memories of Michael and her personal struggles with grief. Major on the majors, Michael had once told her. She’d dug her nails into a rock and hung on until the holidays were over.

  Her time with Cain, although cut short, had been a reprieve. She couldn’t help wondering where he was, what he was doing, couldn’t help worrying. Just a little. Even when she knew he wouldn’t want her to fret.

  The first thing she’d done when she’d arrived at the airport was to buy every newspaper she could get her hands on. She tore through the pages, hoping to find some clue from world events what might prompt the army to call for Cain in the middle of the night.

  Political unrest was everywhere, but she could find nothing to indicate the reason Cain had been obligated to leave so suddenly. But then, she realized, whatever had happened wasn’t likely to be made public. Yet.

  His abrupt departure had come at her from left field. He couldn’t possibly have meant what he’d said about not seeing her again. She was convinced of that.

  Surely he wouldn’t have touched her and kissed her the way he had if that was his intention. It simply wasn’t possible, and she refused to believe it.

  The plane landed in San Francisco late that afternoon. the sky was dark, the weather gloomy. The gaily decorated Christmas tree in the center of the terminal sagged to one side, and the poinsettias had lost several red leaves. The tree looked the way Linette felt.

  As she made her way to the luggage carousel, she noticed a man standing off to one side, scanning the crowd, holding up a piece of cardboard with her name printed on it.

  “I’m Linette Collins,” she said, not sure what to expect.

  “The limousine’s waiting outside.”

  “The limo? I didn’t order one.”

  “You didn’t.” He looked perplexed and reached inside his black suit jacket, pulling out a sheet of paper. “The job order and payment came in early this morning from Cain McClellan.” He looked at her expectantly.

  “I see,” she murmured, and smiled softly to herself.

  She’d hear from Cain again. Linette was willing to stake just about anything on it. Otherwise he would have let her find her own way home.

  Francine arrived bright and early the morning following Christmas. She found Greg in the kitchen, nursing a cup of coffee, looking as if he weren’t quite awake yet. As a morning person, Francine was the type who woke up with a song in her heart and a smile on her lips. True, she petered out in the early evening and was generally in bed before ten, but that had never bothered her. She wasn’t the sort to have much of a night life anyway.

  “Good morning,” she greeted Greg cheerfully. Francine was especially happy this morning, encouraged by her meeting with her patient the day before. At least each knew where the other stood.

  Tim Mallory didn’t know the meaning of the word stubborn until he’d locked horns with her. Although he hadn’t given her any reason to believe she’d reached him, she felt as if their little talk had helped clear the air.

  “How was your Christmas?” she asked conversationally, and took a mug out of the cupboard. She poured herself a cup of coffee, savoring the first sip.

  “Great. I think the beastmaster had company.”

  “How’s that?” It didn’t immediately occur to her that Greg was referring to her as Tim’s company.

  “There were two dirty plates. It looks like someone brought him dinner. Apparently he enjoyed whatever it was, except for the fruitcake.”

  “He ate?” Francine couldn’t conceal her delight. She’d assumed he’d toss the two plates in the garbage before he’d stoop to accepting her peace offering.

  Greg eyed her suspiciously. “It was you?”

  “I stopped by, yes.” She stirred a teaspoon of sugar into her mug, avoiding eye contact.

  “Hey, don’t tell me you’re falling for this guy.” Greg sounded concerned.

  “Don’t worry,” she said, and raised her right hand. “A therapist knows better than to fall in love with her patient. It can cause all kinds of problems.”

  “Good. You’re too nice a person to get hurt.”

  “Speaking of the great and mighty one, how’s Tim this morning?”

  “So it’s Tim now?” Greg closed his eyes and slowly shook his head.

  “All right, how’s Mr. Mallory?”

  Greg continued to study her with a worried frown. “About the same.”

  “Great,” she said, and set aside the coffee mug. “I’ll have him ready for you in an hour.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  Carrying her bag with her, Francine made her way down the hallway to the back bedroom. She knocked once and let herself into the room. To her surprise, Tim was sitting up, dressed and ready.

  “Morning,” she said as if nothing were out of the ordinary.

  “I don’t want you to get any ideas,” Tim said gruffly.

  “About what?”

  “About me being awake and ready this morning. I couldn’t sleep, so I figured I might as well wait for you.” He reached for the alarm clock. “You’re five minutes late.”

  “Sorry.” She managed to swallow a smile, knowing he wouldn’t appreciate her finding his behavior humorous. Actually, she was ecstatic, but she dared not let him know that.

  “See that it doesn’t happen again. Knowing McClellan, he’s probably paying you top dollar for this.”

  “He had to,” she told him. “You’d already scared off every therapist in a three-state radius.” She reached inside her bag for the cream, applied it to her hands, and started working his calf muscles.

  “I don’t suppose I’d be lucky enough for you to quit voluntarily.” Although he said the words, the antagonism and fighting conviction were missing.

  She paused in her manipulations to smile up at him. “I’m not leaving, come hell or high water. That’s one thing you can lay odds on, Tim Mallory. I’ve never quit on a patient yet.”

  “Maybe you should start.” He sucked in his breath at a stab of pain. The fact that he was willing to acknowledge the sharp discomfort was another sign her visit had done some good.

  “Remember,” she told him in gentle tones, “there’s no shame in pain.”

  “And damn little glory,” he shot back heatedly.

  “That’ll come later, when you’re standing on your own and walking.”

  “With a walker.” He grimaced, and she wasn’t sure if it was caused by her manipulations or the thought of being dependent upon assistance to move about.

  “You’ll need the walker for a time,” she agreed. “But not for long.”

  “Sure, then I graduate to a cane for the rest of my life.”

  “A cane beats the hell out of a wheelchair.”

  He didn’t respond with a biting comment, which was another bit of encouragement. Francine felt like singing.

  It seemed Tim didn’t have anything more to say. He submitted to the exercise with ill grace, which wasn’t a whole lot more than what he’d been doing the week previously. She talked to him as she warmed up his muscles for the more strenuous exercises. His silence didn’t dissuade her.

  She chatted on about Christmas with her family and told him about her nieces and nephews. Not that she thought he was paying attention. She hoped that the sound of her voice would help put him at ease.

  “Do you come from a large family?”

  His question caught her unprepared. She feared he was being sarcastic and that by answering, she was stepping onto a rifle range where he could fire insults.

  “In number or in size?” she returned in an effort to minimize any damage he planned to inflict.

  “Number,” he returned, seemingly surprised by her question.

  “I have three younger brothers. All married.”

  “And you?” He asked the question from
between gritted teeth.

  “Am I married? No.”

  “Divorced?”

  “I’ve never been married.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s none of your damn business.”

  He laughed as if he found her answer amusing. “Which means no one’s ever asked you.”

  Francine could feel the heat crawling up her neck. She’d walk out of this room before she’d admit to the truth of that. “What about you?” The best defense was a good offense. At least that was what her father had claimed. But now that she thought about it, he might have been referring to football.

  “What about me? Am I married? Hardly.”

  “Which means every woman you ever asked turned you down.”

  “No,” he said in what easily could have been mistaken for a friendly tone, if she didn’t know better. “It means I’ve never asked. I haven’t been so much as tempted. It’ll be a cold day in hell before I consider marriage.”

  “I see,” Francine said smugly. “You’re the love ’em and leave ’em type.”

  “You got that right.”

  Their conversation was followed by a companionable silence.

  “You date much?” Tim asked her out of the blue.

  “Some.” Damn little if the truth be known, but she wasn’t about to tell him that. “What makes you ask?”

  “No reason.”

  After the warm-up exercises, Greg arrived and readied Tim for the more strenuous session in the swimming pool. He was crabby and exhausted by the time she finished. She knew he’d eat a good lunch and sleep a portion of the afternoon. But she wasn’t through with him for the day. Not by a long shot.

  All Louis St. Cyr felt was pain. His jaw throbbed where the butt of the gun had been slammed against his face. Part of a tooth was missing, and every time he drew in a deep breath a stab of agony shot through him. He didn’t dare move his jaw, and he suspected it was broken.

  He hadn’t a clue where he was. His kidnappers had taken him for a long drive. The minute they’d arrived, he’d been shoved inside a dark closet. Twice a day one of the two men opened the door and thrust in some food and water. Louis had drunk the water, not caring about the pain in his jaw or his molar. After two days he’d attempted to eat something and found he couldn’t.

  He lay on the closet floor and tried not to think about what was happening to him. He tried not to think about Brigette. Instead he closed his eyes and remembered his mother. If he could make himself focus his thoughts on her, the pain wasn’t nearly as bad.

  He thought about a blue dress she’d worn when he was a young boy. He’d loved the shade against her whiskey-colored skin and the way her skirt had billowed out at her hips when she whirled around.

  Louis had asked her to spin for him so he could see the skirts twirl, then he’d laughed and laughed. The sound of his boyhood amusement filled his ears now.

  Louis recalled the time he’d been sick with chicken pox and his mother had sat by his bedside and read him to sleep. His younger sister, Anne, had been ill at the same time.

  Louis missed Anne.

  He didn’t want to die. Not like this. Like an animal trapped in a cage.

  Tears shimmered in his eyes. He wanted his mother. He wanted his family.

  He heard voices on the other side of the locked door. Strange new ones, talking in a language he didn’t recognize. They were deciding his fate, and he couldn’t understand what they were saying.

  A sob swelled in his chest, and he choked off a cry of anguish. He’d be damned if he was going to let those bastards see him cry.

  But then he was already damned.

  He must have blacked out because the next thing he knew he was being jerked out of the closet. With little care to his injuries, he was slammed against a wall.

  An involuntary moan escaped his lips. He bit it off as soon as he could, refusing to give his captors the satisfaction of knowing the pain they’d caused.

  The lights blinded him. It demanded every ounce of strength he possessed to remain upright. Someone shouted at him angrily, but he didn’t understand what they said. And even if he had, he wouldn’t have followed their instructions.

  Someone grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled him upright. Louis hadn’t realized he’d slid down the wall. He opened one eye long enough to see the submachine gun aimed at him.

  So this was how it was to end. He was to be shot like a criminal before a firing squad.

  He squared his shoulders, praying death would come quickly and that he could face it with dignity. He wouldn’t grovel. Wouldn’t plead for mercy.

  He was a St. Cyr and would do his family proud. He pictured his father’s strong, proud face in his mind and clung to the memory of his mother and young sister. He prayed God would mercifully claim his soul.

  A grinding, softly discordant sound followed.

  Curious, Louis St. Cyr squinted into the bright lights. Only then did he realize they weren’t going to shoot him.

  His captors had taken his picture.

  7

  “You’ll come for New Year’s, won’t you?” Michael’s mother pressed Linette. “We haven’t seen you in far too long.” Then, as if she needed to dole out additional incentive, Janet Collins, added, “We missed seeing you on Christmas.” The guilt was being tossed Linette’s way at breakneck speed.

  Sighing inwardly, Linette closed her eyes, wishing she were the kind of person who could refuse graciously and not feel bad afterward. The last thing she wanted was stress between her and Michael’s family.

  If only she could invent something that sounded believable. Her hand tightened around the telephone receiver. Bonnie was watching her out of the corner of her eye, waiting for Linette to make a decision.

  “How was your Christmas?” Janet continued when Linette didn’t answer immediately.

  “Wonderful.” The two days preceding the holiday had been filled with happiness. The vivid memory of trekking through the snow and cutting down the Christmas tree with Cain would stay with her a long time. The snowy ride in the sleigh with the Stamp family, singing Christmas carols in two-part harmony with Patty, warmed her heart still. As did the Christmas Eve church service with Cain standing at her side, her hand clasped firmly in his.

  “I’m pleased you had such a good time with your…friend,” Janet continued, and then added with a labored sigh, “Christmas just didn’t seem right without you. I do hope you’ll come for New Year’s. You will, won’t you?”

  “Ah, perhaps I could make it for dinner.”

  “That would be perfect. I thought we’d eat around three.”

  “I’ll see you then,” Linette said, and after a few parting words of farewell, she replaced the telephone receiver. She didn’t dare look at Bonnie, already feeling her employee’s censure.

  “So you gave in to the pressure,” Bonnie said.

  “I couldn’t think of any way to say no.”

  “You might have said you had other plans.”

  “Yes, but I don’t. Not really. Michael’s parents are dear people, and they mean well. It’s just that they continue to play this ‘let’s pretend’ game.”

  “It’s easier than having to deal with the loss of a son, isn’t it?”

  “I suppose. To hear them speak, it’s as if Michael is away on an extended trip and will return at any moment, so they dare not change a thing until that happens.”

  “And when you’re with them, they want you to play along,” Bonnie added as if she’d met Michael’s family herself.

  “Exactly.”

  Linette walked over to the rack of knitting books and straightened them, mulling over the conversation with Janet Collins.

  “How are Michael’s parents going to deal with it when you start dating again?”

  “I don’t know.” Judging from their reaction when she changed her plans for Christmas, Linette didn’t think they were going to handle it well. “He was their only son.”

  “Is this bit of news significant?”r />
  “Not really. It just explains why they’ve clung to me.”

  “What they want,” Bonnie said in that gentle yet cautious way of hers, “is for you to become a living memorial to their dead son.”

  “You can’t be sure of that,” Linette chastised, although she was beginning to suspect her friend was right.

  “Perhaps I’m way off base,” Bonnie agreed, “but it’s an educated guess. Think about what’s been happening the last two years with you and your in-laws. If you were to fall in love and remarry, they wouldn’t be able to continue pretending Michael’s alive. It would mean having to face the bitter truth that the son they loved and cherished is forever gone.”

  The truth of Bonnie’s words tolled in her ears like a church bell on Easter morning. Her friend was right, and Linette knew it.

  “The longer you continue to play along,” Bonnie added, “the more difficult it will be for you and them to move forward in life.”

  Until Linette had met Cain, the charade the Collinses continued to play hadn’t seemed pressing or important. Linette had gone along, hoping the time would come when they’d be ready to face the reality of Michael’s passing. Linette realized now that she’d done them both a disservice. Instead of helping each other through the grieving process, they’d hindered one another. What surprised Linette was how blind she’d been to the truth.

  “I think it’s time to clear the air,” Linette said bravely.

  “Good girl.” Bonnie gave her an affectionate hug.

  Linette gave the meeting with her in-laws a good deal of thought over the next few days. On New Year’s Day she arrived at their house shortly before three. She carried a wicker basket filled with fresh rolls she’d baked that morning. She was dreading this dinner and the confrontation that was sure to arise.

  “Linette.” Jake, her kind-hearted father-in-law, answered the door and immediately pulled her into his embrace. His hug was filled with warmth and affection. “We’re so pleased you could make it.”