by Leigh Riker
“Yes,” Molly agreed, her spirits sinking. This wouldn’t be good news for Brig, either.
She heard footsteps on the stairs. Molly crossed her fingers that Pop was still in his room. And it was Brig who appeared.
“Brig, this is Natalie Brewster.” Molly looked up at him. “She’s made a ton of calls—”
“All to no effect, I’m afraid,” Natalie interrupted with a sympathetic look.
Molly watched Brig’s face fall. “Thanks for trying.”
At which point Molly sniffed the air and realized the spaghetti sauce was now burning on the stove. Her parents’ electric range was never easy to regulate. With a last few words of appreciation to Natalie for her efforts, she left her in the living room to talk with Brig and went to save the dinner. And herself.
* * *
BURNED SPAGHETTI SAUCE WAS the least of his problems. Brig had spent the past few hours walking the baby around the bedroom he shared with her and wishing Natalie Brewster had found out something he could use to locate his parents before he did something dumb with Molly.
Standing next to her while he learned how to diaper Laila like a pro had been slow torture. The scent of Molly’s freshly washed hair, the way the light played over her nape, her confident movements with Laila all made him long to escape. And at the same time to stay.
Fat chance there.
He knew that for sure when he wandered into the living room and saw Thomas flipping channels. Thomas glanced up. “You see the news?”
“Not tonight,” Brig said, his empty stomach starting to burn. “May I?”
Thomas handed him the remote control. To Brig’s surprise, he and Thomas had reached a tentative truce since Brig had borrowed Thomas’s car to take Laila to the doctor. Brig guessed the truce was all because of the baby, not him, but he was grateful nevertheless. He’d topped off Thomas’s gas tank today, put air in his tires and run the car through the automatic wash at the service station. His way of saying thanks.
As soon as Brig snapped on the cable news channel he preferred, dread soured his insides like an ulcer boring through his gut.
“It’s always something,” Thomas muttered.
Silently, Brig swore. If only the news had been about the Cincinnati Reds, but the season hadn’t started. Instead, the Middle East was heating up again. He studied the map onscreen, calculating the odds of U.S. boots on the ground and his own chances of avoiding more conflict this soon. They didn’t look good. The first guys in anywhere were teams like his.
He sighed. “Maybe things will settle in a few days.”
Frustrated all over again, he said good-night to Molly’s father, who didn’t answer, and wandered into the kitchen. Might as well try to soothe his fiery stomach with some leftover pasta or a sandwich. And hope Laila stayed down for the count. Brig made a mental note to lay some cash on Molly tomorrow for his share of the food. He certainly didn’t deserve a free ride here. She and her father had done enough.
To his surprise, she was seated at the table with a piece of apple pie and a half-full glass of milk. Brig didn’t feel like talking, and he certainly didn’t want to be this near her right now, but when he turned to go, Molly stopped him.
“Don’t worry about Natalie,” she said. “Something will turn up.”
“It already has.” He slumped into the chair across from her, then mentioned the news.
“Would you like something to eat?”
“I’ll get it.” He’d only picked at his dinner. In the middle of moving salad greens around on his plate, Laila had let out a wail from upstairs and Brig’s meal had been over. Not that it mattered. He’d lost his appetite and didn’t have one now, either.
The images from the TV were still playing through his mind, reminding him of things he wished he could forget. But he knew better. The nightmare would be with him for the rest of his life. The guilt, too. “Everything’s blowing up,” he said at last. “I’m not good with Laila. My folks have vanished. Now the part of the world that I know too well is about to erupt again.”
“Laila’s fine,” Molly murmured. “Your parents will surely turn up soon.” She paused. “Does the news mean you’ll have to leave?”
Again, she thought but didn’t say, like eight years ago.
“Probably,” he said with resignation. “Once I get orders, I could have only a few days before I’m due back on base.”
“Which is where?”
“D.C. area. A launching point for my unit.” He gave her a weak smile. “And that’s all I can tell you about that.”
He had stepped out of one mess in Afghanistan into another right here in the U.S.A., and if experience was any teacher, he was about to fly into yet a third in the Middle East. From the living room he could hear a round of gunfire on the TV, the sounds of people running, shouting, and all at once he was back there, too, even farther from home...and Sean was—
Brig swiped a hand over his face. After a few minutes, with only the tick of the kitchen clock to break the silence, Molly said, “Are you okay?”
No, he wasn’t okay. He would never be okay about Sean.
“Sometimes I get caught up in stuff that happened,” he told her.
She wouldn’t let his remark go at just that. “What are you caught up in now?”
In the midst of his blue funk, it occurred to him that since he’d returned home, he and Molly had never really talked details. About Sean, or about years ago.
“I was remembering Laila’s dad. Her mom. And how they looked after that explosion. I was Sean’s commanding officer. I had to identify them.” He took a breath. “You should have known him, Molly. He was this big, goofy kid with a killer smile. Everybody liked him. It was impossible not to. He came from a family of miners in Kentucky, and the military, he always told me, was his way out.” Brig shivered. “But he always planned to come home and buy a little farm. He and Zada talked about that all the time, about being outdoors in the sun in a place that was safe....”
Molly laid a hand on his arm. “You’ve honored your promise to take Laila out of that horrible war zone and give her a better life. That’s more important, Brig, than knowing how to warm her bottle, bathe her or change her diaper. I’m sure even Laila knows how much you care about her. That’s what matters.”
“You think? But what happens when I have to—” He couldn’t say the rest. Instead, he said, “You know why I went into the service in the first place? Not only because my dad, my grandfather, his father before him, were military.” He half smiled. “Not because my dad—”
“Ran a tight ship? I always heard that, but I never saw it myself.”
“He had his expectations, but that’s the easy answer,” Brig said with another smile he didn’t quite feel. “No, maybe the best reason I had for joining up was Sean. I didn’t know him then, but he’s a perfect example of all the guys on my team. We’re a small, tight-knit group. Elite. We share the same ideals—to serve this country, to make a difference in the world. I know that seems corny—”
Molly’s voice sounded tight. “You’re a patriot. So are they.”
He met her open gaze and the brightness in her eyes. “But that didn’t help you eight years ago, did it? There you were with your white dress and all the plans for our wedding—and I ground them into the dirt with my boot heel.”
“You did what you had to do—what you’re doing now.”
“And the way I left didn’t make you angry?”
“Of course it did. But I told you—no grudges. They’re unhealthy.”
Brig couldn’t quite believe her, and he wouldn’t let himself off the hook.
“Molly, the day I broke our engagement, I had just talked to a recruiter. In my own mind I was already gone. Nice guy, huh?” He didn’t wait for her answer. “I suppose I had some notion that I’d charge off to war—wher
ever that was—then come back when I was done, and we’d pick up where we left off. We had time, I thought. Arrogant, huh?”
“We’re different people now,” she said with a finality, as if she didn’t want to pursue the subject any longer. “I’m sure you’re very good at what you do. I know you love it.”
Another rush of memory overcame him. That ruined hospital wing, the dust and shards of concrete and twisted metal everywhere, the blood. There hadn’t been much left of Sean or Zada. He couldn’t help them now, or ever make amends for what he’d done to get Sean killed.
And the fact remained: he’d let down Molly just as much.
Now there was Laila, and she needed him, too. This time he’d do better.
“But enough about me,” he said, trying to sound light. “What about you?”
“You already know about me.”
“I know about Andrew and your unborn child...but that’s not you, Molly. That’s not your life now.”
“I have Pop,” she said, “and Ann. I have Little Darlings. That’s my life.”
None of it was enough, but he didn’t say so. Brig scraped back his chair, went to the window over the sink and stared out at the dark night, stared at his own reflection in the glass. And thought, Yes, I love what I do.
And in that moment he hated himself.
He didn’t hear Molly leave her chair. He didn’t really see her set her plate and unfinished glass of milk on the counter. He felt the touch of her hand, though, on his back, warming him through the fabric of his shirt.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry, Molly. For everything.” Her hand moved up and down his back, soothing, accepting. At that moment it was all he needed.
Filled with remorse, Brig turned blindly into her waiting embrace. He buried his face in her hair, pressed a light kiss to her there and they held each other close, the TV blaring from the other room. Duty loomed again. He would answer its call, but this time he’d be leaving with regret.
CHAPTER SEVEN
BRIG TUCKED LAILA in for what he hoped would be a morning nap and then went downstairs. At the kitchen table where he and Molly had shared last night’s heartfelt discussion of the past, he nursed a second cup of coffee and read his emails.
The last one brought a smile, as usual.
Hey, Collier. Thanx for the photos. About time. The little lady looks great—and big! You probably don’t see that but we do. Cutest kid on the planet. Good for you, buddy. See you soon. Give L some xxxxs. From all of us. H.
See you soon. Brig fired back a quick message to ask what intel the team had about the latest crisis in the Middle East, then dialed his grandmother’s number, another item now in his daily routine. One that grounded him in the here and now.
Still no answer. After staring at the display for another few seconds, he snapped his phone shut and slid it across the table in frustration.
Why wasn’t Grandma Collier picking up? Even if she was still angry with Brig over his broken engagement to Molly, and she was one to hold a grudge, surely his increasingly frantic calls would force her to answer—if only because of his parents.
Brig knew phone communication wasn’t that simple. He couldn’t leave messages. His grandmother didn’t have an answering machine or even a cell phone. “Newfangled gadgets,” she called them. If her landline had happened to include some kind of message service, which it didn’t, she probably wouldn’t know how to access it or care to learn. And unless his parents showed up there...
The TV news for public consumption this morning was no better than the night before. Brig had begun to startle last night every time another update flashed onscreen.
That startle reflex had hit him again in the middle of the night, and Brig had been trying to suppress it ever since. Now he sat up straighter in his chair. Coffee sloshed over the rim of his mug. Wait a minute.
What if his mom and dad were still home after all? What if something had happened to them? On his last visit here Brig had urged his father to get their sooty fireplace cleaned so as not to risk carbon monoxide poisoning. If his dad hadn’t—he tended to forget things—and his folks had built even more blazes during this cold winter to take the nighttime chill off the house, they could be in real trouble.
He had an instant vision of his parents lying unresponsive in bed. Or what if they’d both fallen ill? Molly had told him before she left for work this morning that a flu bug was going around. What if they’d become too sick even to call for help? Feverish, weak, unable to lift a hand... the horrific images wouldn’t quit. Like his memories of Sean. What if all this time they’d been right next door and helpless behind those new locks?
He shoved back from the table. At the doorway to the dining room he called out to Molly’s father, who was obsessively watching the news.
“Thomas? Would you listen for Laila, please? I’m going next door.”
“Again?”
“I just had a thought.” He was out the back door as Thomas muttered his agreement. He sounded cross, but if Brig knew him at all, the older man would be up the stairs at the first peep from Laila—if he even needed that excuse to hold her again.
Under different circumstances Brig might have smiled. Thomas Walker might seem crusty, but inside he was as soft as bread dough. Brig didn’t smile, though. With one purpose in mind, he picked his way across the icy yard. Today was just as chilly and damp as every other day since he’d been back, and Brig shivered, wishing he’d pulled on a coat. Not that winter in Afghanistan wasn’t even harsher. He should be used to freezing his tail off.
At the rear door that opened onto his mother’s kitchen, he rapped a fist against the glass, but as usual got no answer. He peered inside at the old range that should have been replaced years ago, another possible source of poisonous gas. Then he checked the table, where he’d eaten so many meals during his late teens and early twenties after his father retired from service and they’d moved to Liberty. The town where his dad had found work was located midway between Grandma Collier’s home in Indiana and his other granddad’s place in western Pennsylvania. He could almost smell his mother’s baking, but clearly she wasn’t here now. The house looked cold and empty.
And what was that? Brig groaned. His dad’s cell phone was lying on the kitchen counter. That looked ominous. His dad wouldn’t go anywhere without his cell.
He went around to the front of the house. It was a good thing his folks had vanished during winter. If it were summer now, their grass would be knee-high. He climbed the porch steps to peer into the living room. The house was laid out pretty much like Molly’s next door, and he could also see through into the dining room. But there was no evidence of anyone there, either.
The big table was bare, with no abandoned coffee cups. So was the living room, where the sofa showed no signs of having been recently used. Normally Brig would have seen the cushions indented from his father’s heavier frame.
He’d observed all this before, of course. Nothing had changed. Which didn’t give Brig any comfort. If they were, as he’d imagined, upstairs...if they’d gone to bed one night, then gotten ill or...
He sped back across the ice-encrusted lawn, slipping and sliding, to the Walkers’ front door and knocked. When Thomas lumbered up from his chair to answer, Brig said, “Can I borrow a ladder? The longest you’ve got. I want to take a look at my parents’ second floor. They often watch TV in my old bedroom, which they converted to a den after I left home.”
“At the front of the house,” Thomas said, nodding. “Joe and I watch the Reds there sometimes in the summer. But why would they be there now?”
“That’s what I want to know.”
Thomas must have heard the worry in his tone.
“Let me get my coat. I’ll go with you.”
“No. Please. Stay here. Laila could wake up any minute. I’ll be r
ight back.”
He hoped. If he saw nothing, he’d be back to square one, but his parents would be okay, just off on a vacation somewhere, maybe. Brig retrieved the ladder from Thomas’s garage, then lugged it next door. In the front of the house he didn’t need its full extension to reach the porch roof. From there he looked inside.
The TV room was empty, the television set showing a blank screen. He scanned the area, finding nothing out of place. No still bodies lying on the floor.
Not as relieved as he wanted to be, he climbed back down to haul the ladder around to the side. There was no way to see into the bathroom, but he would have a good view of his parents’ bedroom.
With his pulse ticking like a bomb, he scaled the ladder once more.
Please, he silently prayed. Let me be wrong.
Brig was leaning to his left, hanging off the ladder by one hand and looking in at his parents’ bed, when he heard sirens.
* * *
AT THE FIRST sound of the siren, Molly dropped a sheaf of new student applications back onto her desk, then hurried from Little Darlings, grabbing her coat on the way. One glance toward the street told her the commotion was at the Colliers’ house. Molly’s breath froze in the frigid morning air. Her steps began to drag with dread.
Frankly, she’d been dragging all morning, weighed down by her talk with Brig last night, the feel of his body against hers. She wondered if he was all right.
The first thing she saw was Jeff Barlow’s cruiser angled at the curb. He flung open his door and got out. “What’s happened?” she called.
“Don’t know yet.” Jeff glanced around, then with his hand on his gun holster, he walked to the side of the house. He looked up. “Stay there, Molly.”
But of course she couldn’t. What if someone had discerned that the house was empty, that the mail was piling up in the box, and had decided to burgle the place while Brig’s parents were away? But that couldn’t be, because Brig had collected the mail.
