by Robin Wells
The knot in Zack’s stomach tightened. He picked up a photo of the man in a U.S. Marine Corps Reserve uniform. “So this was Paul.”
Katie nodded.
“How long were you married?”
“Four years.”
He’d known Katie only a little over six weeks that summer. Funny how much of an impact those six weeks had made on his life. “I understand he died in Iraq.”
“Yeah.”
“I’m sorry.”
Katie’s head bobbed in acknowledgment. “He was in Baghdad, on his second tour. He was twenty-nine days away from coming home when a man pulled a bomb out from under his coat in the middle of a crowd. Paul tackled him, and it went off.” Her mouth pinched with pain.
“He was a real hero.”
“Yeah.” She bit her lip as she gazed at the photo. “But then, he’d always been my hero.”
It was as it should be. So why did the words sting? “How did you two meet?”
“He was a drug rep before his Reserve Unit was called up. I met him at a local doctor’s office the day I had the flu. I was at my absolute worst—runny nose, fever, and a hacking cough—not to mention stringy hair and baggy sweats.”
“Baggy sweats,” he said dryly. “That’s a flu symptom you don’t usually hear about.”
She laughed. The sound was like a forgotten favorite melody playing on the car radio, the kind that made him sit in the car to listen after he’d reached his destination.
“When he came back through town the following week,” she continued, “he called and asked me to lunch.”
Zack carefully set the photo back atop the piano, quashing the childish urge to place it facedown. “Even at your worst, Kate, you always outshone every other woman in the room.”
Katie wrapped her arms around her chest and tried to squelch her pleased reaction. It was meaningless flattery, she told herself. He’d dated movie stars and models, so he probably kept a tankful of high-octane compliments at the ready. “Yeah, right.”
“I mean it.”
It was alarming how much a pathetic part of her wanted to believe he actually did. “Uh-huh.”
“Remember that day we got caught in that downpour and you fell down and got covered in mud? And you’d worn eye makeup that day, and it ran all over your face.”
“I’m so glad you remembered that.”
“It was a memorable sight. You looked like a cross between a raccoon and a melting clown.”
“Thanks a lot.”
“Don’t mention it. The thing is, you looked better messed up than most women look after hours of primping.”
He was BS-ing her, but her cheeks heated all the same. “I’m not sure I’m pleased that’s your most enduring memory of me, but thanks.” She headed for the kitchen.
He followed her. “I didn’t say that was my most enduring memory.” He leaned his hip against the counter as she checked to see if the water was boiling in the pasta pot. “I have lots of memories about you.”
He was laying it on a little thick. “Really.”
“Seriously. Every night at juvie, I’d lie in my bunk and think about you, recalling all the details. I’d picture those silver earrings you always wore, and the way you pinned your hair back and it kept getting loose and falling in your face, and that tiny little beauty mark on the back of your neck.” He reached out and touched her neck, just below her ear.
The touch was electric, loaded with the current of a million memories. It buzzed through her, shocking her with its intensity, making it impossible for her to breathe, much less move.
It seemed to paralyze him as well. The steam rising from the simmering water hung in the air between them, as if generated by the heat of their skin. It seemed like forever before he lifted his hand.
She turned away and crossed the room to the built-in oven. “I, uh, need to check the bread.” Her face felt so hot that when she opened the door, the blast of heat was almost cooling.
He moved to the sideboard below the window and picked up another picture of Paul, one that Katie had taken of him while he’d been installing the cabinetry in this very kitchen. “So this husband of yours…”
Katie slammed the oven door harder than she’d intended. “Paul,” she said sharply. “His name was Paul.”
“You were happy with him?”
She strode back to the stove, picked up a wooden spoon from the pewter spoon-rest and stirred the sauce. “Very happy.” She stirred the sauce too vigorously, and some splatted out of the pan, leaving a red blob on her black cooktop. She grabbed a paper towel and wiped it up, feeling his gaze on her. “I was crazy about him, and he felt that way about me. It was one of those even-steven, real-deal marriages. In some relationships, it seems like there’s a lover and a lovee, like one person cares more, but we were equally matched.” Why was she talking so much?
“How come you never had kids?”
“We wanted to, but…” She put down the spoon and picked up a bag of spaghetti. Her hands shook as she tried to rip the bag. Why the heck was she telling him all this? It was personal information, and she didn’t have any intention of getting personally involved with Zack. “I’d rather hear about Gracie.”
He took the bag from her, opened it in a single tug, then handed it back. “What do you want to know?”
“Everything. What do you know about her adoptive parents?” Katie had tried to imagine them, time and time again. She’d told herself that they were warm and loving and nurturing, the kind of people who would read to her, kneel by her bed for prayers and tuck her in at night, after a full day of dance lessons and playdates and romping around a large, child-friendly, spotless, beautiful home. She’d idealized them, she knew she had. No one could possibly be as perfect as the parents she’d imagined for her child; no child could possibly have the idyllic life she’d painted in her head. She knew it was unrealistic, but a part of her clung to that, wanting it to be true, even as she asked for the facts.
“Her dad was the personnel manager at a bank, and her mom stayed home with Gracie.”
Okay, so the house probably wasn’t as large as she’d imagined. But it sounded like a nice, stable family, and the stay-at-home mom fit in with her ideal scenario.
“According to the aunt,” Zack continued, “Gracie was the center of their lives.”
Even better.
“She was an extremely bright child,” he continued. “She grew into a typical teenager—a little rebellious, but not too bad. She thought her parents were too strict. She really loved them, though. When they died, she kind of fell apart.”
Katie’s heart turned over. “She must have been devastated.”
“Yeah. She had to move to Pittsburgh to live with her aunt, and she had a rough time adjusting. She not only lost her parents, but everything else comfortable and familiar—her home, her friends, her school.”
Katie’s throat thickened, like the sauce on the stove.
“Gracie started acting out—staying out all hours, getting her nose pierced, cutting class. When she turned up pregnant, the aunt was completely overwhelmed.”
Katie turned down the heat under the sauce and picked up the pot lid. “Who’s the father of the baby?”
“Gracie won’t say.”
Katie’s hand froze, the pot lid in midair, and looked at Zack. “Does she know?” When she’d been at the adoption center in Kansas, she’d known a girl who hadn’t. In a sad attempt to feel loved and wanted, the girl had slept with any boy who would have her.
“Gracie says she does, but she doesn’t want him involved in the baby’s life. She refuses to talk about it. She said it’s none of my business.” Zack’s lips formed a hard line. “I intend to make it my business.”
“How?”
“Electronic snooping. She hasn’t posted anything on Facebook in months, but she’s got a phone, and I’ve downloaded her address book. I’m also checking all her recent texts and calls.”
“Don’t you think that’s a little extreme?”
>
“Maybe, but it’s important. I don’t want another guy in the situation I’m in.”
Katie felt herself bristle. “And exactly what situation is that?”
“Having a child and not knowing about it until she’s nearly grown.”
There it was again—the implication that knowing would have somehow changed things. Which, by inference, faulted her for not tracking him down and informing him she’d had his baby. She slammed the lid on the pot and whirled toward him. “And exactly what would you have done if you’d known? Raised her yourself? Married me?”
He lifted his shoulders. “Maybe.”
Katie blew out a frustrated breath of air. “I can’t count how many times that summer you told me how you never wanted to be tied down and end up like your parents.” She turned away and stalked to the refrigerator. “Besides, I tried to let you know.”
“Did you keep trying to find me after you gave birth?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“She’d already been adopted. What possible good would it have done?”
“I don’t know. But knowledge opens options.”
How dare he? Her spine went ramrod straight. “You lost all your options when you didn’t contact me. I did what I thought was best for Grace, and I thought it was best for her to grow up in a family that loved her and could care for her.”
He turned toward the counter and propped his hands against it, then blew out a long, exasperated breath. She braced herself for a sharp retort.
“You’re right,” he said instead. “You’re right.” He pushed against the counter as if he wished he could topple it and muttered a low oath. After a long moment, he straightened, raked a hand through his hair, and turned toward her. “I’m sorry.”
As you damn well should be. But his apology took the wind out of her sails.
“Look—I don’t really blame you, Kate.” He took a step toward her. “The truth is, I blame myself.”
“For what?” called a voice from the hallway. “Not doubling up on the condoms?”
Katie and Zack both whipped around to see Gracie standing in the doorway, her arms crossed over her chest, her eyebrows hunkered in a scowl, and her lips pressed together so hard that the skin around them was white. “Sorry my existence is creating such a problem.”
“Gracie—that isn’t what we’re talking about,” Zack said.
“Yeah, right.” She turned and stalked back down the hall.
“Gracie…,” Zack called. The door slammed.
Katie put down the spoon and wiped her hands on a dish towel. “Keep an eye on the spaghetti. I’m going to talk to her.”
Gracie flung herself across the white comforter on the queen-sized bed. Not for the first time, she wished she’d been in the car with her parents when they died. Her parents, at least, had wanted her.
She wouldn’t cry. She wouldn’t. She refused to let anyone get to her, ever again. She was strong. She’d have the baby, and she and the baby would be a family, and they’d love each other and not need anyone else, and everything would be fine.
A knock sounded on the door. “Go away.”
The door creaked open anyway. “Gracie,” Katie said, “I’d like to talk to you.”
“I don’t want to talk.”
“Well, then, maybe you can just listen.”
A sharp retort was on the tip of Gracie’s tongue, but for some reason, she held it back.
She lay sprawled on the bed, her head resting on her arms, as Katie moved into the room, closing the door behind her. Gracie felt the bed dip as Katie sat down beside her. She smelled Katie’s perfume—something soft and warm and kind of green—and turned her head the other direction.
“You must miss your parents very much.”
Gracie said nothing. Against her will, tears pooled in her eyes.
“I know what it’s like when someone you love dies,” Katie said. “It feels like a part of you has been cut off—like you had an amputation with no anesthetic and you’re bleeding and so hurt you can barely draw another breath. And it feels like no one else can even see how hurt you are, much less help. Everyone else is just going on with life and they act like you should, too; like you should just get up and get over it and move on.”
Exactly. Gracie turned her face down, so that the comforter caught her tears, not wanting Katie to know how she’d nailed it.
“I know you loved them, and I know that you miss them. And I know that no one will ever take their place.”
“Especially not you.”
The words were muffled by the comforter, but apparently Katie heard them anyway. “I know, sweetie. Your mom raised you and loved you. She got to see your first step and hear your first word, and…” Katie’s voice choked. “Gracie, you have no idea how much I wished I could have been her.”
Oh, man. Was Katie crying, too?
“No idea,” Katie continued. “When they put you in my arms, I almost couldn’t…” Her words broke off into a little sob.
Against her will, the icy knot in Gracie’s chest started to melt a little.
Katie sniffled, then started again. “I almost couldn’t do what I knew in my heart was best for you. I didn’t have a home. I didn’t have an education. I didn’t have a job. I didn’t have a clue. I wanted you to have all the things I never did, to have a better childhood than I’d had.”
“What was wrong with yours?” The words came out of Gracie’s mouth before she could stop them. It was funny; she’d never really thought about her mother’s childhood. She knew nothing about it.
“My mom had me as a teenager, and…” Katie paused. “Well, my dad was never in the picture, and my mom wasn’t ready to be a mom.”
“Great. So getting knocked up as a teenager is a family tradition?”
“It appears to be so.” Katie’s voice held a wry note.
“Thanks for the great gene pool.”
“You’re welcome.” Katie plucked at a thread on the comforter. “Gracie, more than anything, I wanted you to have a good home. I wanted you to have two parents, and a nice house where friends could come over, and clothes that didn’t come from Goodwill. I didn’t want kids to come up to you in grade school and say, ‘Hey, you’re wearing my old coat,’or ‘Why are your lunch tickets different from everyone else’s?’ I wanted you to have somebody at home to comfort you if you woke up in the middle of the night, someone who’d push you on a swing and read you books and take you to the library and tuck you in at night.”
“And you didn’t think you could do that?”
“I was afraid I couldn’t. I didn’t know how to support myself, much less a baby.”
“Your mom didn’t do any of those things for you?”
“No.”
“What was wrong with her? Was she just a total loser or what?”
“My mom…” Katie swallowed. “Well, she drank a lot.”
“Great. Grandma was a lush.”
Katie drew in a ragged breath. “Gracie, giving you up was the hardest thing I ever did. And the only reason I did it was because I wanted the best for you.”
“That is such a cliché.”
“Things become clichés because they’re true. Parents really want the best for their children.”
A thought that had been gnawing on Gracie’s insides spilled out. “I guess you think I should give my baby up, too.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“But you’re thinking it.”
“I don’t know what’s best for you and your baby. Only you know that. But I do know one thing: I’m glad you’re here now, and I’ll help you however I can.”
Longing, deep as a bone bruise, ached in Gracie’s chest. She fought against it. “I don’t want your help. I want to be declared an emancipated minor, and I want an advance on the insurance money my parents left. That’s all I need and all I want.”
“You know your aunt won’t agree to that.”
“She’s a total bitch.”
“
She’s the person your mom and dad entrusted you with, so they must have thought she’d have your best interests at heart.”
“She’s a freak.” And living with her had been the seventh ring of hell. Aunt Jean had thought Gracie needed to be “straightened out,” which, in her mind, meant completely controlled. She’d confiscated all of Gracie’s “inappropriate” clothing, taken away her phone and iPod as punishment for “back talk,” made her come home directly after school, and grounded her. As if telling her she was grounded was going to work, Gracie thought derisively. She’d just sneaked out of the house after Aunt Jean went to sleep.
Still, it had been awful. Beyond awful. She’d felt like she couldn’t breathe, like she was being smothered by a cloud of constant disapproval. And the woman just didn’t get that she was in a black hole of grief. She kept saying how much she missed her brother, how awful it was to have lost her last “blood relative”—as if her loss was somehow deeper, as if Gracie’s didn’t count, because her mom and dad weren’t “blood relatives.”
“Zack and I can share custody of you, Gracie, or you can move back with your aunt. The choice is yours.”
“I’m here, aren’t I?”
“Yes.” Katie’s voice was gentle. “And I’m glad you are.”
Yeah, right.
“Is there anything I can do or get for you that would make you more comfortable?”
“There’s something you can stop doing. You and Zack can quit talking about me behind my back.”
“Well, come join us for dinner and talk to us face-to-face.”
“I don’t have anything to say.”
“Fine. Just come join us.”
“I’m not hungry.” Her stomach traitorously growled. She pressed her hand against it to muffle the sound.
“You may not be, but your baby probably is,” Katie said softly. “When I was pregnant, sometimes I didn’t realize I needed to eat, but I felt better after I did.”
No way was she buying into the “I can relate to your pregnancy” BS. “Look, I’m not like you.”
