She was also still cold, and it was too quiet in the house. Jane stared at the television and the remote, just inches away. She should watch something. That would take her mind off things. Jane stretched, her fingers reaching for the remote, when she saw the stack of movies in the entertainment center.
Sitting up, she scooted over to the glass door. She opened it, pulled out the first video and held it in her lap, studying the title. While You Were Sleeping.
While I was sleeping, you were dying, she thought.
Jane set the video aside and pulled out a second. Somewhere in Time. Again, appropriate.
She reached for a third tape. Ever After—how long she’d be missing him. The Princess Bride DVD case slid from the shelf. She stared at the cover and her vision began to blur. She was anything but a princess, and never a bride. Jane hurled the case across the room, then got to her knees and scooped all the other movies off the shelf. The titles, nearly all romances, mocked her, reminding her of what she’d never have. She began pulling them from the boxes, throwing them at the trash can. When she came to Sweet Home Alabama, she snapped the DVD in two, then ripped back the plastic and tore the picture to shreds. How dare you have two, she thought, when I can’t even have one man to love me.
Jane grabbed the next movie from the pile. Serendipity. She ran her finger over the title. A chance encounter. A moment in time. Fate. She’d experienced such a moment herself—one day a few months ago outside the intensive care nursery at Swedish Medical Center. Only her moment hadn’t led to a lifetime of love.
“Liars,” Jane shouted, shaking the box until the video fell out. She pried the back open and began pulling until a mound of shredded tape lay in her lap. She pushed it aside and wiped her eyes.
One movie remained on the shelf.
Reverently, Jane pulled Casablanca out and clutched it to her chest. She sobbed, rocking back and forth as if she were holding one of the twins.
“You understand, don’t you Ingrid?” You lost him forever, too. Still holding the video, Jane lay back on the floor, sobbing, amidst her sea of broken dreams.
Chapter Thirty
Richard Morgan glanced up at the woman sitting across from him. Jane Warner’s face had gone suddenly pale and her fingernails—painted bright pink with happy face stickers on them—curled into the leather arms of the wingback chair as if she were hanging on for dear life. And is that a cold sweat breaking out across her forehead? He was disappointed but not surprised. He’d seen this type of reaction many times before—always when he was reading a will and always when there was a lot of money concerned. Money that shouldn’t necessarily be given to the person in front of him.
Richard let out an inaudible sigh and continued reading. “All funds remaining from the sale of property belonging to Paul C. Bryant and Tamara L. Bryant, along with life insurance monies from policy MLB783562, name of insured Paul Christopher Bryant, shall be deposited in a joint account of the legal guardians for Mark Peter Bryant and Madison Tamara Bryant. These monies are to be used for the sole purpose of—”
“Wait,” Jane interrupted. “Wait a minute. What do you mean by that—joint?”
Richard Morgan laced his fingers together and leaned forward over the desk.
“I assure you there is ample money, Miss Warner, for you to provide for the children’s needs for quite some time, so long as you are prudent in your spending. However, Mr. Bryant’s will does stipulate that the account be in both your name and Peter’s, as you will both be providing for the children.” Richard frowned at Jane. Her mouth hung partly open, and he could see that her emotions were wavering somewhere between shock and anger. “Perhaps,” he suggested, none too gently, “Paul specified the money be shared this way so you would have some accountability as to how the funds were spent.”
Jane rose from the chair, her eyes blazing. Richard could see she had moved full tilt to fury.
“I’m not talking about the money,” she said. “He can have every last cent, for all I care. I’m talking about Mark and Madison.”
“Yes, I am certain you don’t care about the money—unemployed as you are. Sit down, Miss Warner,” Richard said, trying to contain the irritation in his voice. “We’ve much more to discuss.” To his surprise, she ignored him.
Jane pulled her coat from the back of the chair. “I am not unemployed. I took a leave of absence to care for the twins so Paul could spend what time he had left with them. Without me, they’d be in foster care. I am the one who has been caring for them—day and night. Changing diapers, feeding them, taking them to the doctor, reading stories, washing clothes, taking pictures.” Her voice faltered. “I’m the one who loves them. And I know I’m the one Paul specified as their guardian. He told me himself. He never said anything about Peter—their uncle.” She said the word with disdain. “I appreciate your time, Mr. Morgan. My attorney will be in touch. You may speak with him.” She gave a curt nod, then turned toward the door.
“Miss Warner.” Richard rose from his chair. “Do you expect me to believe you knew nothing of this arrangement—that Paul led you to believe that you alone were responsible for his children?”
Jane stopped but did not turn around to face him. “Yes,” she said, her voice barely audible. Then she opened the door, leaving the office before Richard could ask her anything more.
Nonplussed, Richard returned to his seat. He still didn’t like her, but there was something . . . He buzzed his secretary.
“Joan, will you discreetly follow Miss Warner to her car? Then come to my office after she’s left.” He waited several minutes, his fingers flipping impatiently through the file on his desk. Paul had promised he’d tell them both. Surely he had, unless . . . It was only two weeks after their visit that he’d died. Richard looked up to see Joan standing in his doorway.
“Well?” he asked, hoping her information would end his confusion about Jane Warner. It wasn’t all that unusual for him to request that Joan follow clients after they left the office. Often a person would give his or her true character away with simple facial expressions or conversations. A person’s choice of car and how fast they left the parking lot also told him volumes. Many times he’d wished he could put surveillance cameras in the elevator or outside the building.
Joan pursed her lips. “She’s crying.”
“What?”
“She started before she even left the office. She took the stairs, not the elevator, and she’s still sitting in her car right now, bent over the steering wheel. Crying her heart out.” Joan looked at him accusingly. “What’d you do to her?”
“I don’t think it’s what I did.” Though, now that he thought about it in a different light, Richard was sure he hadn’t helped. “I think it’s what Paul Bryant didn’t do.” He looked at Joan, a grim expression on his face. “I’ll need a background check on Miss Warner. I want to know everything there is to know—right down to her bank account balance and her shoe size. And I’ll also need—” He glanced at his watch. “—well, today if possible, I need you to find a number for Peter’s reserve unit in Iraq. It’s probably too late, but this call needs to go through as soon as possible. The information you’ll need is in here.” He handed Joan the folder. She nodded and, mumbling something about insensitive men, left his office.
Richard leaned back in his chair, trying to recall every detail of Paul’s funeral. There wasn’t much to remember, except . . . an image of a tearful Jane Warner, clutching a bunch of yellow roses. Richard swore under his breath. “If you’ve done what I think you have Paul . . . it’s a good thing you’re already dead.”
Chapter Thirty-One
Jay propped his feet on the window ledge and leaned back in his chair. He watched the blinking Christmas lights on the house across the street and felt a pang of what he imagined must be homesickness. Funny, he thought, how he should feel something like that, considering the home he’d been raised in. There’d been no stockings hung by the chimney with care. No pies. No mythical jolly old man delivering
presents. It had been just Dad and him—celebrating the holidays with Chinese takeout instead of the usual frozen pizza. They’d maybe catch a movie together at the mall theater, and afterward he’d show Dad the computer game or book he wanted for Christmas. It didn’t seem like much to miss, and Jay wondered again why it was that his father’s death had messed him up so badly. Why had it sent him, during his senior year of high school, straight into his mother’s arms and her drug-addicted life?
Jay reached for his guitar and propped it on his lap. His fingers found the chords on their own, and he began strumming “White Christmas.” He stared out the window, watching as sporadic snowflakes fell through the twilight. He wondered what the weather in Seattle was like right now.
He wondered what Jane was doing.
* * *
Jane hung the two small stockings her mother had sewn for Madison and Mark on the fireplace mantel. Her own stocking lay on the table—folded and pressed flat from its year of storage in her Christmas box. It seemed silly now that all these years she’d been hanging her stocking each Christmas Eve. It wasn’t as if her fairy godmother would put an engagement ring in it and she’d find a prince under the tree Christmas morning. Jane gave an indelicate laugh, then swallowed quickly as a tear spilled from her eye.
“Don’t be stupid,” she muttered. “Think of the good.” She turned away from the fireplace and looked at the twins playing on the new carpet her family had surprised her with for Christmas. Jane still didn’t know what she was going to do about the fireplace when the twins started crawling. She knew, for Maddie at least, that wasn’t too far away. At five months, she was already trying. A smile lit Jane’s face as she watched them.
Mark lay on his back and was doing his best to get a toe in his mouth. Madison had progressed to sitting up and was stretching to get a toy that was just out of reach. She grabbed for it, bending forward until her little body was nearly parallel to the floor. Her fingers brushed the rattle just as she lost her balance and fell over sideways.
“Good try, Maddie,” Jane said as she sat down between the babies, handed Madison the toy, and picked up Mark.
“I love you, little guy,” she said, placing a kiss on his cheek. “You too, Maddie.”
Mark smiled at Jane and grabbed a fistful of her hair. She put her hand over his and felt a surge of joy and protectiveness. She missed Paul so much, but she was going to be okay. She had two beautiful children, and she was going to do everything in her power to keep them. Maybe it wasn’t in the cards for her to have a husband, but she could still have a happily-ever-after with her babies.
Still holding Mark, Jane stood up and went over to the stereo. She put in her favorite Christmas CD and danced Mark around the room to “White Christmas.”
Part Two
Then Comes Marriage
Chapter Thirty-Two
February 2004
The plane banked right as they approached the airport, and Peter looked out the window at the beauty of Mount Rainier. After so long in the desert, the mountains and greenery below looked like paradise. Don’t be deceived, he reminded himself. The last two times he’d been home were far worse than his time spent in Iraq.
Losing Mom had been awful. He still missed her and felt angry and cheated. But his last visit had been even more terrible than Mom’s funeral. Peter still wasn’t sure how he felt about everything that had happened that November. The hurt from his fiancée’s betrayal had faded, but the shame of his own actions and the loss of his brother—both then and now—was still as fresh a wound as if it had happened yesterday.
Peter closed his eyes and laid his head against the seat. Paul. How is it possible I’ll never see you again? I’d give anything to take back what I did—the things I said . . . It should have been me that died. Not you. I’m the one who’s been living on the edge.
Peter opened his eyes, glanced out the window again, then reached into his shirt pocket for the paper folded there. He took it out, pressed it flat on the seat-back tray, and began reading for what was surely the hundredth time since the letter had arrived nearly two months earlier.
Dear Pete,
It is with much sorrow I share with you the news that Tami was killed in a car accident. In the weeks since her death, I’ve been reeling. There are days when the pain seems almost too much to bear. During those times I think of you—your loss and how you must have felt. I’m sorry. Though I can’t take back the wrong I’ve done you, I hope you will someday forgive me.
I know I can never make up for my selfishness, but I’ve left you three presents. One is taller than the others, but all are equally fragile. Take care of them for me.
Peter frowned as he refolded the letter. It made sense now—sort of—or more so, anyway, than it had when he’d received it. The first time he’d read it, he wondered what on earth his brother was talking about. Presents? What, did Paul think sending him something expensive and fragile was going to somehow make up for stealing his brother’s fiancée, marrying her, and then letting her get killed in a car accident? Peter remembered the anger he’d felt as he stood in the doorway of his tent, shocked at what he’d just read.
Then, two days later, the chaplain had come with the news Paul had died—of cancer. And Peter, his only living relative, his twin, hadn’t even known his brother was sick. Pete recalled sitting on his bunk, rereading the letter carefully—aware of how close to death Paul had been when he’d written it. I’ve left you three presents . . . Left you. Of course. What else was there to do but leave everything?
A hollow ache, an awful remorse, had engulfed Peter from that moment on. He had yet to let it go. Too hurt and angry—at himself mostly—to talk to anyone, he had put away the letter and the note with the name and phone number of the woman who’d called to tell him about Paul. He’d spent the next two weeks working like crazy, taking every flight available, volunteering for every job he could—especially the dangerous ones. And why shouldn’t he? he’d reasoned. If he died, there would be no family to mourn his loss. No parents. No wife and kids.
No brother.
Pete had noted—on more than one occasion—that he was the only one in his barracks without pictures by his bed. When he flew, there was no good-luck token in his pocket. No endearing words to reread over and over again—except those from his deceased brother that promised him presents. Like he had any use for those.
Then Richard Morgan had called—and called again and again until Pete was finally around and had to talk to him. And Peter had discovered what those presents were.
And now he wanted them. Badly.
Well, two of them, anyway. The “taller one”—as Paul had so eloquently referred to the woman—Peter wanted nothing to do with. And therein was the nightmare that lay before him. According to Richard, Jane Warner also wanted Paul and Tamara’s children. She’d been caring for them the past five months and had no intention of giving them up. She’d hired an attorney, and Richard said that social services had given her a very favorable report.
Peter groaned inwardly, remembering his insistence during law school and his internship afterward that he would not practice custody law. He would defend sleazy criminals before using his skills to pitch family members against each other in battles over their children. He didn’t want a custody battle now, but he certainly didn’t want to set up residence with some strange woman, either. Peter wondered what in the world Paul had been thinking when he came up with the idea of joint custody. Had he really believed his brother would go along with the plan for an instant family?
Peter’s brow furrowed as he thought of the dilemma he faced. He’d loved his brother. He would love Paul’s children too. But if Paul had thought that this Miss Warner could somehow make up for taking Tamara, he’d been sorely mistaken.
The fasten seatbelt sign came on, and Pete felt his ears pop as the plane descended. He folded the seat-back tray into place and handed his cup to the flight attendant. Below him, he felt the landing gear unfolding, and he looked out the w
indow at the approaching runway. He braced himself not for the landing but for the battle that lay ahead—the most important one of his life.
* * *
An hour and a half later, Peter drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair as he sat in his colleague’s office and listened to his speech.
“The only thing on your side is the claim of kinship,” Richard Morgan said. “And I’m telling you, it isn’t going to look good when her attorney mentions to the judge that you weren’t on speaking terms with your brother for the past two years—nor did you even attempt to contact Miss Warner after you learned about the babies.”
Peter scowled. “What was I supposed to say? Hi, I’m Peter—the other half of this parenting team. Would you like me to pick up some diapers on my way home from Iraq?”
Richard didn’t smile. “Joke all you like, Peter, but the fact is, you’ve shown no interest in those children and, blood relative or not, the court won’t give them to you—not when your brother’s will stipulates joint custody. What will happen—if you’re fool enough to drag this into court—is that those babies will end up in a foster home while the system takes its sweet time figuring this mess out.” Richard paused, then spoke again, his voice lower. “If you care at all for Mark and Madison, then you won’t try to take them from the stable home and loving mother they know.”
Pete threw his hands up as he stood. “She’s not their mother.” He walked to the window and stopped, hands in his pockets, looking down on the traffic below. Tamara was their mother. Tamara, whom he’d loved. If Paul had really cared for her, then why had he replaced her so quickly?
After a minute Pete spoke again. “The Service Members Civil Relief Act might work in my favor.”
Counting Stars Page 18
