by Beth K. Vogt
As he talked, Stephen chopped onion and red pepper, making separate neat piles on the plastic cutting board. The salty aroma of bacon blending with the pungent onions filled the kitchen.
Haley sat with her elbows on the counter, chin resting in her upturned palms. “What did your parents argue about?”
“How much my dad was gone. How much money my mom was spending. She got addicted to those home-shopping shows—boxes arrived every day. It got to the point where she didn’t even open them, just piled them up in their bedroom or the den.”
“Sam said your dad had an affair.”
“That’s what my mom said.” Stephen kept his voice even, cracking six eggs into a clear Plexiglas bowl. Even this many years later, the accusation stung like an unexpected slap across the face. “My dad said it wasn’t true.”
“How do you know your dad wasn’t lying? A lot of men who travel fool around on their wives.”
“Did Sam fool around?”
“What?” A deep groove appeared between Haley’s eyes.
“Sam traveled, right? He deployed with the army—”
“My husband did not fool around!”
He was losing any ground he’d won with her—but it was worth it to make a point.
“Neither did my dad.” Stephen deposited the remnants of eggshells into the metal trash can, the lid clattering shut, then lathered his hands with lemon-scented soap, rinsing them under a stream of warm water. He dried his hands on a plain white cotton towel before he spoke again. “I know both of my parents were at fault in the divorce—but I also know my dad didn’t cheat on my mom. I’m sorry for what I said about my brother.”
He worked in silence for a few moments, adding a little water to the beaten eggs and then pouring half the mixture into the pan he’d preheated on the stove. If he was going to spend time with Haley Ames he needed to get used to silence. “You want everything?”
She failed to hide another yawn behind her hand. “Yes—and double the cheese, please.”
At least she was still speaking to him. He let the conversation lag as he whipped up the omelets, enjoying the familiarity of cooking. Different kitchen, but the same motions: slicing, chopping, stirring, mixing. The same smells: onion, butter, bacon, cheese. Time blended into a mixture of present and past—making breakfast for Haley and Saturdays with Sam and his dad. Laughter. Sharing a meal. Family.
Ten minutes later, they sat next to one another at her dining room table, the papers shoved to one end. After two bites, Haley raised her glass of chocolate milk in salute. “You weren’t lying—you make a great omelet.”
Stephen returned the salute with his cup of orange juice. “An Ames never lies.”
Instead of responding in kind at his attempt to keep things light, Haley’s face paled. She pressed her lips together, her blue eyes shining with unshed tears.
“You okay?”
She shook her head, her blond hair moving against her shoulders. Yes. No. Covered her face with her hands.
What was wrong?
Stephen’s offhand comment shoved her into the past.
“What did you say?” Haley wished she could risk twisting around to face Sam, but she stayed still, his arms wrapped around her, no longer seeing the view from Pikes Peak.
“I said I love you, Hal.” His throaty whisper against her ear caused a delicious tremor to course through her body as he pulled her closer.
She tilted her head so she could look into his eyes, his scruffy chin scraping against her face, the now-familiar scent of his favorite soap teasing her senses. “Do you mean that?”
“An Ames never lies.”
“Haley?”
A breath shuddered through her. She lowered her hands, her eyes scanning his face. When she reached out to trace the outline of his jaw with shaking fingers, he inhaled. Held his breath.
“An Ames never lies . . .” Haley whispered the words. “Did you . . .”
As her fingertips grazed his lips, Haley leaned toward him, her eyes starting to close in anticipation of his kiss.
He pulled back just as her lips brushed his. “Haley. Stop.”
She stilled. Her eyes flew open; their gazes locked. This was Stephen. Not Sam. “Stephen . . .” She bit down on her bottom lip when it trembled.
Haley bolted up, knocking the chair backward and causing Stephen, who was rising from the table, to stumble sideways. He scrambled to follow her, but by the time he reached the front porch, she was down the driveway.
“Haley, wait! You don’t even have shoes on.”
She didn’t look back. Just raised her hand and waved him off—and kept walking down the sidewalk in her bare feet.
She’d kissed Stephen Ames.
Almost kissed him. Almost.
An Ames never lies.
What was that? Some sort of family motto? Stephen and Sam didn’t even live together. Hadn’t spoken to one another in twelve years.
A blast of wind blew her hair about her face, long strands tangling around her eyes and mouth. Unshed tears scalded her eyes.
She wouldn’t cry. Tears meant you were weak—and Jordans were strong. Her brothers taught her well. No tears. Keep up.
She was doing her best to keep up with the unrelenting demands of people like Sterling Shelton III and her unborn baby and her husband, who probably watched her from heaven and shook his head.
Stupid family mottos.
“Please, Haley. Help me find my brother again.”
Why did she let her guard down? Were the Ames brothers her Kryptonite?
How was she supposed to help Stephen find his brother again? Being around him made her lose her way. She was trying to move forward, not backward.
The soles of her feet scraped against the pavement. When a gust of wind tugged at her hair again, she pushed it away from her face. The scent of lime lingered from when her fingertips grazed Stephen’s jaw.
So much for the truce. Sam’s brother had to stop showing up at her house.
Stop asking questions.
Stop confusing her because he was so much like her husband.
And yet not him.
eleven
Until attending childbirth class, Haley had never thought much of the super-sized bouncy balls she’d seen in the gym.
“Should I invest in one of those?” She nodded toward the mass of multicolored rubber exercise balls corralled in the corner of Lily’s family room. “I could sit on one the entire time I’m in labor.”
Claire zipped up her red down vest, tugging her half gloves from a pocket. “Maybe I’ll bring one along for each of us. We’ll just bounce our way through your labor and delivery.”
“Well, by the time I’m ready to deliver this little guy, I think I’ll want to be in the birthing bed.” Haley slipped on Sam’s coat, tugging on the zipper when it stuck halfway.
“Good point.”
The hum of conversation quieted as the other couples said good-bye, carrying their pillows and calling out, “See you next week” and “Practice breathing.”
Haley took one last sip of the cold orange-and-lemon-infused water Lily served to the class. “Who knew water could be so refreshing? It can’t be that hard to cut lemon and orange slices and add them to water—right?”
“First you’d have to locate the produce section in the grocery store.”
“Hey—”
“Well, what did you think of class this week?” Lily rearranged a few cushions on the extra-long sofa before joining Haley and Claire. She wore jeans and a black blouse accented with a turquoise and silver necklace and earrings.
Claire gathered up Haley’s pillows. “I got through another birth video, so I figure I’ll survive the real event.”
“She was talking to the mom-to-be, not you. And half the time you had your hands over your eyes. You planning on doing that when I’m in labor?”
“No. That’s why we’re doing the classes—trial run and all that.” Claire crossed her heart. “I’ll be the best coach ever.”
“No. I’m ready, but . . . my husband wants to wait. It’s okay. We’ve got time.”
Haley caught the hitch in her friend’s voice. And here Claire was, coming with her, when being with a bunch of pregnant women probably reminded her of what she wanted and couldn’t have—yet.
“What about you, Haley? Are you ready?”
“Sure. I mean, as ready as I can be. I’ve got six and a half weeks yet. Plenty of time to get prepared. Pack my bag.” She waved a folded piece of blue paper. “Practice those breathing techniques you taught us today. With your instruction and Claire holding my hand, I’ll do just fine.”
She choked back the confession—all the days, weeks, and months stretching into years and years scared her more than a few hours of labor. Birthing a baby was nothing compared to raising a son without Sam.
Lily’s soft voice scattered Haley’s thoughts. “Remember, I’m happy to be a backup, just in case something happens and Claire can’t be there. After my husband died, I decided I wanted to be by myself in the delivery room. I figured the nurses could help me.”
“And?”
“I planned on doing it all by myself, but my mother said she’d come in and hold my hand, take pictures, pray for me, whatever I needed. She was a smart woman—I needed the prayers more than anything else.”
“You’re a believer?”
“I couldn’t teach these classes and not be. The miracle of birth just confirms over and over again that there’s a God, don’t you think?”
“I believe in God . . . I just don’t feel that close to him right now.”
“Not surprising. The walk of grief is different for each of us.” Lily seemed in no rush to have them leave, her relaxed posture echoed in the oval mirror hanging on the far wall. “Sometimes our emotions are so numb we think that means we no longer believe in God. That our faith has fractured. Or been destroyed altogether.”
“I want to be strong, to trust God in all of this . . . in Sam’s death. But right now strength seems to mean not thinking about it. Not . . . feeling. Praying feels like trickles of water coming out of a hose when someone has tied a big knot in it somewhere. I can only manage a few words every once in a while.” Even as the pent-up confession escaped, Haley couldn’t believe she was telling a virtual stranger things she wrestled with when she lay awake in her dark bedroom. But this woman had walked the same path Haley was on—and she hadn’t given up on life.
“You are trusting God each day that you get up and try again to live your life without your husband.” Lily rested a hand on her arm. “You haven’t quit. You’re taking care of yourself and your baby.”
“That’s all I am doing—the next right thing.”
“Sometimes that’s all God is asking us to do: make the right choice—over and over again. And before you know it, you’ve walked into the future and hope he has waiting for you.”
“So not wanting to think about Sam is okay? Feeling numb doesn’t mean I’m doubting God?”
“You think about your husband more than you realize. And numb is normal when your world has been rocked by an emotional nuclear blast like the one you’ve experienced. You need time to heal.”
Haley gripped the cuffs of her jacket to keep her hands from trembling—but that didn’t stop how her heart thudded in her chest. “Do you ever heal from this?”
“In time—but I can’t tell you how long it will take for you. You need to accept that you have to wait.”
“Be still and know he’s God, right?”
“And believe that he didn’t lose sight of Sam or you when your husband was killed. Somehow, some way, God will make sense of it—he already has made sense of it. Don’t try to force it.”
“You sure you’re not a counselor?”
Lily responded with a light, musical laugh. “Childbirth instructor, counselor, mom—sometimes they all flow together. May I share a verse with you? It helped me after my husband died.”
Haley nodded. “Sure.”
“ ‘He tends his flock like a shepherd: He gathers the lambs in his arms and carries them close to his heart; he gently leads those that have young.’ ” Lily’s laugh sounded again, probably because of the look on Haley’s face. “Wondering how that applies to you, aren’t you? You’re the lamb—and you’re going to be a mom soon. And God, your shepherd, is carrying you close to his heart. He’s leading you in all of this.”
“To be honest with you, I haven’t . . . liked where he’s led me so far. It’s scary to keep following.” She could hardly look at Lily as she admitted her struggle and instead found herself staring at her reflection in the foyer mirror. Who was that woman?
“I know. That’s where trusting him—knowing that he loves us despite the circumstances he allows in our lives—comes in.”
As they left, Lily hugged Haley, and Claire offered the woman an embrace, too. Haley knew the instructor watched them as they exited the warmth of her home. After driving in silence for a few moments, Haley glanced over at her friend, who sat staring out the window. “Not your typical childbirth instructor, I’m betting.”
Claire continued to look out the window. “You’re probably right.”
“You okay?”
“Me? Sure. I’m not the one having a baby.”
“And that’s a problem, isn’t it?”
“What? No. I’m good—”
“Claire, I heard what you said. That you’re ready to have a baby, but Finn’s not.”
Her friend sniffed. Gave a quick shake of her head. “It’s no big deal. We’re not the first couple to disagree about having children.”
“He does want kids, right?”
“Down the road. Maybe.”
“But you talked about this before you got married.”
“I was so crazy in love with Finn, I didn’t care back then.” Claire huddled in the passenger seat. “When I told him I wanted a large family, he said he wasn’t sure about kids—and I knew I could change his mind. I mean, I’ve wanted children forever.”
“You don’t have to do this, Claire. If it’s too hard to be my labor coach, you don’t have to come to classes with me or to—”
“Of course I’m doing this. I want to do this. You heard Lily. You are not having your baby by yourself. I’m going to hold your hand and make sure you breathe, and I’ll take pictures and pray and count the baby’s fingers and toes . . .” Claire’s voice cracked and trailed off.
“We’ll be okay, Claire.” Haley reached over and grabbed her friend’s hand.
Claire squeezed her fingers. “Yes, we will. Speaking of us . . . How are you doing?”
Haley trained her eyes on the road. “We’re talking about you, not me.”
“We were talking about me—now I’m asking about you. You’re quiet.”
“You’re the talker, not me.”
“More than usual. You look sad.” Claire twisted in the seat to look at her. “A different kind of sad.”
Before Sam died, Haley never knew how many facets there were to sadness. “I’m tired. This little guy doesn’t let me sleep at night.” She could tell her friend wasn’t buying her excuse. But she wasn’t talking about what had happened with Stephen Ames—the crazy moment when he morphed into Sam. The almost-kiss. Not Claire—or anybody else. So she’d give her what she wanted. “And yes, the thought of having the baby without Sam makes me . . . sad.”
“I’m sorry, Haley.”
“I know you are. And your being with me in the delivery room is going to help so, so much.” She reached over and turned on the radio, allowing the toe-tapping beat of “Boot Scootin’ Boogie” to fill the car. “Now, what about a late dinner? I’m starving. You pick—my treat.”
“Deal—except it’s my treat. How’s Noodles and Company sound?”
“Perfect. And we’ll see who manages to pay the bill first.”
twelve
Haley stood, her hands folded and pressed against her lips, staring at the business card stuck into the bottom corner of the kitchen cabinet. Stephen R. Ames. Architect. Entrepreneur.
He’d shown up at her door three times. Asked for help. And she’d agreed to his request—his plea—to help him discover who Sam became during the past dozen years.
But then there’d been that where-had-her-brain-gone-wandering moment when the present slipped into the past and Stephen became Sam.
And that was the end of Stephen Ames and his questions.
So why was she contemplating calling him?
Pregnancy hormones were blamed for all sorts of behaviors—forgetfulness, sleeplessness, anxiety . . . but did they cause stupidity?
Haley raked her hands through her hair, a groan escaping past her lips. She’d had no intention of calling the man ever, ever again—until another bout of nesting had her dragging one of the bookcases in from the garage so that it now sat against the wall in the dining room. The ache in her back warned her it wasn’t one of her brightest decisions, but once she got the thing lugged into her laundry room, she couldn’t leave it there. A morning of emptying boxes of books—carrying small armfuls from the garage—and she had half the shelves stacked helter-skelter with books. When she found Sam’s high school yearbooks, she couldn’t help but stop and sit on the cement garage steps to flip through the pages. Cold seeped through the seat of her sweatpants as she searched for photos of her husband.
And then she’d discovered the faded sketch of a diagram labeled “TREEHOUSE.”
It was a rough drawing, lines erased and redrawn, but there was enough detail to see the plans for the steps leading up to the “door” in the floor and the windows in two of the walls. The words saw, nails, hammer, and wood were scribbled on the back in a boyish attempt at a shopping list.
