Counting Stars

by Michele Paige Holmes

  With that goal in mind, Pete knew he should get up and clean before things got any worse, but the twins were napping right now, and . . . He kicked his legs onto the couch and adjusted the pillow behind his head. He’d take care of the mess soon—right after a short nap of his own.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Pete backed quietly out of the twins’ bedroom. He paused in the hall, waiting to see which one of them would cry this time. Two minutes passed without a sound and he smiled with relief. Victory—finally. It was 10:30, though. An hour and a half later than Jane managed to get them to bed each night. What had he done wrong?

  He stretched, his muscles complaining about the hours he’d spent on the floor today. Of course, falling asleep on the lumpy old couch hadn’t helped any either. He ought to buy Jane a new couch. You ought to buy her a lot of things, he thought. No, you shouldn’t, he argued with his conscience. Jane wasn’t his girlfriend, she was . . . a wonderful mother to his niece and nephew—something just slightly more important. You should be providing for her, or at the least helping her more. Plagued by such guilty thoughts, Pete turned in the hall and headed toward the laundry room. He pulled the baby monitor off the shelf and checked that it was working, then went out the back door and walked over to the door of the attached mother-in-law apartment.

  Paul’s apartment. He’d never once seen the door opened, and Jane had confided that she hadn’t been in there since Paul died, hadn’t so much as changed the sheets. She’d simply closed the door, leaving it to be dealt with later. It seemed that later was tonight. He would do it for her.

  Pete remembered Jane’s hesitation this morning when she’d told him he was welcome to sleep in her room while she was gone.

  “If you’re bored tonight, you might visit Paul’s apartment—and go through his things.”

  He’d caught the hint of suggestion in her voice and knew she hoped he would take over the task of going through Paul’s belongings. Still, it was a job he was loathe to do. Only the thought of doing something to please her made his hand turn the key and twist the knob of the door. He opened it, reached inside, and flicked the light on.

  The galley kitchen appeared bare, and the door to the bedroom was slightly ajar. Reluctantly he crossed the small room and went inside. Seeing the bed stripped bare, he let out a sigh of relief. A neat stack of blankets and sheets lay folded at the foot. A note was on top.

  Peter,

  If you’re reading this, then you’ve decided to go through Paul’s things. Thank you so much. It was something I simply could not do. I am learning there are many things I can’t do without your help. Thank you for giving it so freely.

  Jane

  Pete picked up the note, folded it carefully, and put it in his pocket. He was touched that she’d thanked him, that she’d braved coming in here to get the bed ready. Thoughtful, he added to the mental list of characteristics he’d been keeping about her for the past six weeks. Jane was thoughtful and brave, and he would be too. Looking around the sparsely furnished room, he imagined Paul’s last days. The books piled up beside numerous pill bottles on the dresser painted a clear picture. With a sigh of resignation, Pete crossed the room and opened the closet door.

  * * *

  The last number on the digital clock on the nightstand turned over, making a subtle click. If the room and apartment were not so eerily quiet, Pete would have missed the sound. But he didn’t, and looking up he saw it was 1:45 a.m. After more than three hours, he was almost done.

  Paul’s belongings, clothing mostly, lay sorted into piles to be donated to Goodwill. Tomorrow, Pete decided, he would load up the Mercedes and take as much of it over as he could. Then he’d vacuum the room, open the window, and air everything out. Even if the rest of the house was a mess when she got home, Jane would be grateful he’d taken care of Paul’s things.

  Returning to the closet, Pete reached for the last item hanging on the rack—Paul’s letterman jacket. He swallowed the sudden lump in his throat. Thus far he’d held it together. He’d been brisk and businesslike about the whole experience—quickly gathering up the more personal items, like Paul’s toothbrush, razor, and prescriptions, and taking them out to the trash. But for some reason, the jacket—identical to the one hanging in the back of his own closet at home—stopped him cold.

  It seemed like both a lifetime ago and yesterday that he and Paul had received their jackets. It was their junior year, and they’d both been star players on the varsity baseball team. He’d pitched. Paul was first baseman. Together they’d played an amazing season, leading their team to the state championship.

  Clutching the burgundy wool, Pete felt his eyes begin to sting as the reality of Paul’s death sank in.

  His best friend—his brother—was gone.

  Memories were the only thing left of all their years together—and Pete knew he’d shortchanged them both on those. Holding the jacket a minute more, he brought it to his face and inhaled, letting the musty fragrance take him back in time to the glory days of high school when he was the big man on campus, and his brother was always right there at his side.

  At last he set the jacket by the door, in the small pile of things he wanted for himself. Blinking rapidly, Pete returned to the closet for the remaining items on the shelf. Reaching up, he pulled down an electric blanket and a plain, brown grocery bag. He tossed the blanket in the pile of things to be donated and carried the sack over to the bed. Laying the bag on its side, he noticed Paul’s writing on the brown paper.

  Tamara’s things. Keep for Mark and Madison.

  Pete stared at the words on the bag and realized, for the first time, that Paul would have been the one to go through Tamara’s things after she died. What had that been like?

  Sympathy was an emotion Pete had not felt toward his brother in a very long time, but he allowed it to surface now as he thought about the anguish Paul must have felt at losing his wife, fighting cancer, and knowing he wasn’t going to be around to raise his children.

  Pete’s fingers trembled as he reached for the first item in the bag. He knew he didn’t need to go through these things—if Paul had wanted them saved, then they would be saved—but something compelled him to reach for the tissue-wrapped package that lay on top of everything else.

  Carefully unwrapping it, Pete was surprised to find nothing but a large bandage inside with a piece of paper stapled to it. Folding back the paper, he began to read.

  December 1, 2003

  Dear Mark and Madison,

  You were the love of our lives, even before you were born. How your mother and I looked forward to meeting you, how we wanted to be with you. Please know we tried. Your mother held on long enough for you to be born safely. And I stayed as long as I could. We will always be watching over you. Be happy. Love your parents. There isn’t a better father or mother on earth than those we have chosen for you.

  Love,

  Dad

  The burning in his eyes returned as Pete reread the last line of his brother’s letter. There isn’t a better father . . . Had Paul really felt that? How could he when the last time they’d met—

  Pete pushed the memory aside. He didn’t want to remember that time of ugliness between them. Wasn’t it better to dwell on the good times they’d had?

  His eyes watered as he lifted the paper to read the blurred writing on the bandage beneath.

  God must have known I couldn’t live without you, Paul. Find our babies a mother. You know who their father should be. I’ll be waiting.

  I love you.

  Tami

  Pete’s fingers shook as he held the bandage and read it again. When had this been written—and by who? The writing wasn’t Tamara’s, and why a bandage for paper? He glanced at Paul’s letter again.

  Your mother held on long enough for you to be born safely . . .

  Pete hadn’t considered before that Tamara might not have died instantly in the accident. But the note implied she hadn’t. She must have held on—long enough to tell someone he
r wishes. And one of her last thoughts had been of him. Astounded by that knowledge, Pete’s trembling fingers released the bandage, and it fell to the floor.

  It had been Tamara’s idea first. She had chosen him to care for their children. And Paul had agreed.

  I stayed as long as I could.

  Stayed and found Jane, Pete could have added. His brother had done the best he could with what little time he had. You took the gamble of your life, and your children’s, that I’d come through for you, Pete thought. He remembered the strange email he’d received from Paul—the missed opportunity for reconciliation.

  All the foolish words Pete had said, the anger he’d harbored. The guilt that still weighed on him rushed to the surface, bringing a pain so great he could hardly bear it. If only he’d had one more minute with each of them. If only he’d forgiven them sooner . . . If only.

  Burying his face in his hands, Pete bent over on the bed and wept.

  * * *

  Sunlight streamed through the window, and Pete cracked open an eyelid to look at the clock. It was 6:40 a.m. The twins would be awake any minute now. Kicking off the covers, he rose from the bed. He had a lot to do today and a new determination about him. Last night, after going through Paul’s room and the bag of Tamara’s belongings, he’d made peace with at least some of his demons.

  Paul had loved Tamara, really loved her, to the bitter end. And Tamara had been one hundred percent devoted to her husband. The pages from Tamara’s journal that Pete had read in the wee hours of the morning told the story from her perspective and made him realize things he never would have. Contrary to the original angst Tamara’s love for Paul had caused him, Pete now felt oddly comforted by it. He found himself grateful she’d been with Paul through most of his ordeal with cancer. Pete had read of her sorrow and fear for his brother, and the long hours and days she’d stayed by his side through one gruesome treatment after another.

  He’d seen the note and the box with the pacifier in it and felt a portion of the joy Paul and Tamara must have had, knowing a miracle had happened and they were going to be parents after all. He saw the plans for their dream house that Paul had so carefully drafted.

  Pete knew he’d loved Tamara—still did in some measure—but he finally realized it wasn’t with the same depth Paul had. Instead of feeling it was his ex-fiancée who had died in that car accident, Pete now thought of his brother’s wife who had died—his sister-in-law. His old sorrow was gone. In its place were regrets that he hadn’t forgiven earlier and spent what time he had with the two of them.

  Pulling up the comforter, Pete tossed the pillows onto the bed. He cast a last, cursory glance in the direction of the brown bag on the floor—the bag that had revealed so much about Paul and Tamara’s life—and his own.

  Wedged in amongst the myriad emotions was a feeling of relief; the scene he’d made at their wedding, his bitterness, hadn’t ruined anyone’s life. Paul and Tamara—in all the roller coaster of their brief marriage—had been happy.

  He felt awed and inspired that they had both chosen him as Mark and Madison’s father. It was no accident or last-minute decision made out of desperation. Paul could have found a loving, adoptive couple. He could have given full custody to Jane. But he hadn’t. He’d wanted them both.

  The question was, what else had Paul wanted? Pete mulled over the last letter—long since memorized—he’d received from Paul.

  I’ve left you three presents. One is taller than the others, but all are equally fragile.

  A corner of Pete’s mouth lifted. Fragile wasn’t exactly the word that came to mind when he thought of Jane—following through with her threat to dial 911, showing off her arsenal of power tools, telling him in vivid detail the intricacies of Mark’s heart condition. Yet fragile she was where the twins were concerned. He’d seen that yesterday when she’d tearfully asked him if they would be here when she returned. Pete wondered if she was also fragile with matters concerning her own heart. Given what he knew about her, he guessed she might be. She might even be lonely and scared . . . like he was.

  Take care of them for me.

  Paul had known he wasn’t going to be around very long. Pete wondered suddenly if his suspicions about Paul and Jane’s relationship had been all wrong. Maybe the only thing between them had been a mutual love for the twins. And what if Paul had intended Jane and him to end up as more than co-guardians? Pete struggled to decide if Paul’s intentions really mattered to him anymore. What good was there in avoiding such a thing at all costs, just to spite his brother? There wasn’t. But what might be lost if he didn’t at least explore the option? Much. A relationship like Paul and Tamara had shared. A mother and father—together—for Mark and Madison. A family.

  Pete finished making the bed and left the room. As he closed the door behind him, he remembered his mother’s words of wisdom after he’d had a fight with Paul when they were teenagers.

  “When you hold a grudge like that—against your own brother—all it’s doing is cutting off your nose to spite your face. Now you march up to your room and think about that.”

  He’d had a lot of years to think and knew she was right. Pete also knew, with sudden clarity, that he was interested in Jane Warner, and it didn’t matter to him at all what Paul had or hadn’t thought about that. The real question was what would Jane think about it, and what had she felt toward his brother?

  A large dose of apprehension mixed with a thrill of anticipation surged through Pete as he thought of Jane. It had been a very long time—over three years—since he’d tried to get a woman to be interested in him. He wondered what his chances were now. Was it possible Jane felt the same tug of attraction he did?

  Pete had no idea, but he intended to find out tonight.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Jane pulled the Jeep into the garage, unloaded her tools, and entered the house through the back door.

  “Hi,” she called, walking into the kitchen. She bent to unlace her shoes, but not before her eyes caught a glimpse of the sparkling kitchen and her nose got a whiff of—clean.

  “We’re in here.” Pete’s hand waved to her from behind the bar. “How’d it go?”

  “Really good,” Jane said, tugging off her sneaker. “We finished the Malones, and I got the other contract.”

  “That’s great,” Pete called.

  Jane left her shoes on the mat and walked toward the family room. She found Pete on the floor using Maddie’s teddy bear as his pillow.

  “The house looks great,” she said, smiling as she looked around. The kitchen floor had been mopped, the family room vacuumed, and other than the small pile of toys that Mark and Madison were playing with, the whole house looked picked up.

  “Do I pass?” Pete asked mischievously.

  “Definitely.” Jane shrugged off her jacket and knelt on the floor beside Mark and Madison. “Hey guys.” She leaned forward, scooping them in a hug. “I missed you.”

  Mark immediately grabbed for the hair that had come loose from her ponytail, but Madison clapped excitedly and made her happy, spitting noise—the latest in her speech accomplishments.

  “Hey,” Jane said, turning her face away from Maddie’s mouth at the same time she tilted her head away from Mark. “Just pull my hair and spit on me. Nice greeting.” She hugged them both a second time, then leaned forward and set them back on the blanket.

  Pete couldn’t help smiling as he watched Jane. Buy her new socks, he thought, noticing the holes in her heels as she bent over. She had her back to him, and as she bent to put the twins down again, his grin widened in appreciation of her curves. He thought she looked adorable with her holey socks, denim overalls, and messy ponytail. Jane turned to lean against the couch and caught Pete watching her. “What?” she asked warily. Her hand went to her hair and she tucked a few straying pieces behind her ear. “What are you thinking? I know I’m a mess.”

  Pete shook his head. “Not at all. I was thinking you look very good in overalls.”

  Jane
laughed as she stood. “Thanks. That’s a compliment I’ve never received.” She picked up her jacket and went to the closet to hang it up. “Are you hungry? I can fix us something to eat.”

  Pete sat up. “You haven’t had dinner?”

  “No. We finished late, and I just wanted to get home.”

  “You go shower. I’ll fix something.” Pete stood and went to the kitchen.

  “You don’t have to,” Jane said. “I mean, you’re probably exhausted—either that or you hired a cleaning lady.”

  “No to both of those,” Pete said. “And I want to fix you something.”

  Jane looked at him questioningly, but he’d already turned around and was rummaging through the refrigerator. “All right,” she said at last, then headed toward her bedroom.

  * * *

  Jane pulled the towel from her head and shook her hair loose. She worked quickly, brushing out the tangles. She would have liked to blow her hair dry, but felt she’d already taken too long showering and cleaning all the dirt out from under her fingernails.

  Normally she wouldn’t have thought too much about wet hair or her nails, but tonight—something made her care. The way Pete had looked at her . . . the things he’d said . . . Even more than that, it was the way she’d felt. An undercurrent of tension seemed to be running through the whole house, zipping back and forth between the two of them.

  Yesterday morning things had just been comfortable. Jane was Jane. Pete was Pete. And they were both doing their jobs taking care of the twins. Jane wasn’t sure what had happened to make that change. She wasn’t sure she wanted it to change. A comfortable friendship was how she would have described the evolution of their relationship over the past month and a half. If they left that behind . . . then what?

  Bending over the sink, she looked at her reflection critically in the mirror. Average stared back at her. Brown hair. Brown eyes. Roundish face. Nothing exciting about that. Hoping to improve what she could, Jane reached for her toothbrush and mascara. If nothing else, she could smile with confidence and bat her eyelashes if called upon. The idea was absurd, as was her mood, Jane decided as she brushed her teeth. She’d probably imagined the whole thing.