A Hero to Come Home To

by Marilyn Pappano

  When he got to her house, he went to the door to get her, partly because his father had raised him that way and partly to judge if those kisses had changed anything. How they’d changed it.

  She opened the door before he had a chance to knock, wearing jeans, an eye-popping orange print top, and a smile that could make him and Justin both weak in the knees if they weren’t already. Her hair hung loose, and her lips were tinged a faint pink, and he wanted to kiss her again more than he wanted to breathe.

  “Hi,” she said softly. “Let me get a jacket and my purse.”

  He stood in the doorway, watching her until the closet door blocked his view, then shifted to look in the living room. Even with the furniture still clumped in the middle, the colors made it a whole different room.

  Would Jeff have been happy with walls so orange?

  “I’m not a big shopper,” Carly said as she came back down the hall, a buttery gold leather jacket over one arm, “but I’m looking forward to this. I haven’t bought anything new for the house since…ages.”

  Since before Jeff died.

  “Um, I asked Justin to come with us.” Dane stepped out onto the stoop again and waited while she locked the door. “He’s having kind of a tough day, and…Do you mind?”

  “Of course not. Poor baby. He’s always so cheerful and determined. I knew he had to have some down days, but I’ve never seen them.”

  “Poor baby? He’s eight inches taller and forty pounds heavier than you.”

  “He’s an overgrown kid.” She smiled innocently. “Most men are.”

  Dane opened the door for her, closed it, then walked back around the truck while she greeted Justin. Sheryl’s temper tantrums whenever their plans changed unexpectedly—especially if he was the reason for the change—had been legendary among their friends. Carly was one-eighty different. She really didn’t mind having Justin along. Just one more of the things Dane liked about her.

  Many things.

  Tulsa was about an hour southeast, the road running past pastures growing anew, redbuds and fruit trees in bloom and fuzzy yellow tendrils signaling the arrival of leaves on the oak trees. It wouldn’t be long before the bluebonnets were in bloom down in Texas—just about the only thing in the state that Dane missed. They’d been his grandmother’s favorite flower, and he was pretty sure from the way Carly pointed out various wildflower patches that she would love them, too.

  Maybe, when he got around to telling her the truth, if she stuck around after that, they could drive down one weekend, see the flowers and eat at a couple of his father’s favorite old places.

  That was a big if.

  Once in Tulsa, they hit a couple of furniture stores, where Carly picked out an area rug, mostly light brown with a few squares of bright color, and two lamps made of wrought iron and stone. Dane and Justin were happy to test a sofa she kept returning to, but in the end she decided to think about that and bought a small square table instead to use as an end table.

  With the rug and table in the bed of the truck and the lamps sharing the backseat with Justin, they headed to a Mexican restaurant on the north side of town that one of Carly’s friends had recommended.

  “Lucky we’re early for dinner,” Justin said as they squeezed inside the door. “If we’d waited another hour, we’d probably be standing in line somewhere around the corner.”

  “My friend says the food is that good,” Carly replied.

  There were a dozen tables in the dining room and half that many small booths. The only place to sit was in the booth farthest from the door, requiring a zigzag through spaces barely wide enough for Justin’s crutches.

  A booth—and Justin—meant Dane sat next to Carly, closer than they’d ever been, including in the cave the day they’d met. He felt like an inexperienced kid sitting close for the first time to his latest crush, not quite sure how to sit, where to put his hands, if it was okay to lay his arm along the back of the seat.

  You’re thirty years old. You’ve been with plenty of women. You were married. Act like it.

  But none of those women had been Carly, and he’d had a pair of matching legs at the time. He’d had plenty of confidence and a healthy sense of self-worth. At the moment, he had little of either. Geez, he didn’t even know how well the mechanics of sex would work for him now. He knew it would, just not what would be the same, what would be different.

  Just that it wouldn’t be perfect.

  While looking over the menu, he wasted a moment wishing he’d met Carly before his last deployment. But she’d been married then, and before that, back when she’d been single, he had been the one with the ring and the vows. She wouldn’t have broken hers, and he’d never broken his.

  Life’s timing sucked.

  The sound of a cell phone woke Dalton from sleep. He frowned, unable to recognize anything about the tone beyond the fact it was splitting his head in two. His own phone just had regular rings, and Noah kept “Ride ’Em Cowboys” on his, like any good OSU student.

  Abruptly, the sound stopped, followed by a murmured curse and the rustling of covers. Dalton stiffened, barely able to drag a breath into his lungs. What the hell…Where…Who…

  His memories returned in bits, pushing through the ache in his head and the bass drums that boomed around it. The cemetery, red hair, purple nails, dark red flowers. A burger and a beer, in honor of her husband and his wife. Switching to harder stuff, trying to keep up with her, stumbling out of Bubba’s together and almost taking a header over the split rail. A laugh, a kiss, and—

  Oh God, he was in bed. With Jessy Lawrence. Naked.

  After rousing enough to silence the phone, she’d gone to sleep again, lying on her stomach, the sheet slipped down to her waist. Her skin was creamy gold—a redhead with a tan—and her hair tumbled over her face, blocking it from his gaze. Her breathing was deep and slow and just almost a snore.

  Carefully he eased from under the covers and to his feet. The where, he decided, must be the motel at the far end of Bubba’s parking lot. It wasn’t the sort of place he would choose to take a woman. But then, he’d never taken any woman to a motel, except for Sandra on their wedding night, and that had been a suite at the Bellagio in Las Vegas.

  He found his clothes scattered across the room, along with two condom wrappers. Not his. Nice to know that Jessy Lawrence went prepared for a good time when she visited her dead husband’s grave.

  The sarcasm faded as he quickly, quietly dressed. If he was going to get so drunk he didn’t know what he was doing—and that was the only explanation he could think of for his being there—it was good to know that she, at least, had been prepared.

  Should he do something? Wake her up and say something? He picked up her clothes, his face turning hot as he handled the skimpy bra and panties, and left them more or less neatly on the dresser. He located one of her boots under the bed, the other across the room, and he set those together in front of the dresser.

  That was it for doing. As for saying something? The only thing he could think of was God, what a mistake. Let’s forget this ever happened. I hope I never see you again.

  He figured since she was a stranger that could go unsaid, so he let himself out of the room, closing the door softly behind him, and headed into the dark to his truck.

  When Therese got home Tuesday afternoon, she was greeted by the sound of video games from Jacob’s room, muted by the floor and carpet. Abby’s voice became audible a few steps inside the door, coming from the kitchen, likely a rehash of the day with Nicole, whom she’d just left five or ten minutes earlier.

  Therese knew the instant Abby became aware of her: When she said, “Gotta go. She’s home.”

  Lord, grant me patience. It had been a difficult day at school, with the kids wound up, both her aide and her volunteer parent absent, and a headache throbbing dully right between her eyes. It didn’t look as if the next few hours were going to be any more fun.

  Thank God it was Tuesday.

  She walked into the kitche
n and laid her bag and coat on the table. “How was your day?”

  “Eh.” Abby hadn’t changed from her school uniform yet: navy plaid skirt, hem brushing the top of her knees until she rolled it four times at the waist; white shirt, sleeves unbuttoned and cuffed; navy blue vest. Add kneesocks and a ponytail, and the look was so classic, it was a stereotype.

  Add black hiking boots and the scarlet streaks in her hair, and it was just a bit twisted.

  “You had a math test today, didn’t you? How did that go?”

  “Eh.” Abby opened the refrigerator and tossed sandwich makings onto the island. The bread landed with a whoosh of plastic, and the stoneware plate bumped a time or two before settling.

  “‘Eh’ isn’t an answer. How did the test go?” Therese asked as she circled the other end of the island to start a mug of coffee brewing. A couple of aspirin tablets washed down with caffeine would go a long way toward easing her headache.

  Along with the anticipation of an evening out.

  “I’m not stupid. I aced it.”

  Her jaw clenched, Therese ran the grinder, scooped coffee grounds and measured water, then shoved a mug into place and turned the machine on. In seconds, the fresh aroma of coffee filtered into the air, encouraging her to breathe deeply. “Good for you.”

  “Oh, yeah, good for me for passing a stupid math test. Big deal.” Abby squirted big gobs of mayo and mustard on each slice of bread, slapped ham on one side, cheese on the other, then mashed the two sides together and started from the kitchen.

  “Hey, don’t forget to put everything up.”

  Abby whirled back around. “Why should I clean up? That’s your job.”

  Could you hurry with the patience, Lord? Mine’s about to slip through my fingers.

  The coffee finished dripping, and Therese concentrated fiercely on stirring in two packets of sweetener to offset the real cream she put in. “You’re part of this family, and that comes with responsibilities, such as not leaving meat and cheese on the counter once you’ve made your sandwich.”

  “Well, I didn’t ask to be part of this family, so you can put it away yourself.”

  Abby started toward the door again, but so did Therese. Catching the kid off guard, she managed to block Abby’s path, her fingers curled tightly around her coffee mug, her jaw aching with tension. “I know you’d rather live anywhere but here, Abby. You’ve made that clear. But you do live here, and I expect at least a minimum of courtesy. Put the meat, the cheese, the mustard, and the mayo back in the refrigerator.” Her voice was steady, her tone firm, not angry at all—amazing when the only name she could put to the emotions roiling inside her was anger.

  Abby backed up a few steps and set the plate on the island. Thinking she was giving in, Therese forced her muscles to relax at least a little, but they tightened again when Abby placed both hands on her hips.

  “Make me.”

  Oh God, how had her life come to this? When she was growing up, disobedience, defiance, or disrespect had never been an option. Her parents simply hadn’t tolerated it. Their disappointment would have been enough to dissuade her if she’d even thought about acting up.

  But Abby didn’t care about disappointing her. She didn’t respect Therese and didn’t want her respect in exchange.

  Therese’s chest tightened. What was she supposed to do if Abby refused to obey? If she just pushed past and went on her way? She had no emotional ammunition to use, and she couldn’t use physical force. She could only ground her—again. Take away her cell phone—again. Consequences that didn’t seem to have any effect besides making Abby angrier.

  The girl—Paul’s daughter—was staring at her with such disdain, such stubbornness that Therese’s impulse was to walk away. Give in. Give up. Then the thud of footsteps sounded in the hallway and Jacob came into the room.

  He headed straight to the counter, apparently not noticing the tension in the room. “Oh, good, you got the sandwich stuff out for me.” He playfully shoved his sister with his shoulder when he passed, grabbed a plate and started putting together a sandwich twice the size of hers.

  “Don’t forget to put it away when you’re done.” Picking up her own plate again, Abby smiled maliciously at Therese all the way to the door.

  She’d won. Therese had lost.

  No, the truth was, they’d both lost. There weren’t any winners in this game—none of them, not Catherine, certainly not Paul. It was just sorrow and regret and bitterness.

  And that was no way to live.

  Aware of the numbness in her fingertips from holding so tightly to the cup and with a deep weariness in her heart, Therese went down the hall to the living room and curled up in her favorite chair. She sat there, coffee growing cold, head still hurting, staring at the largest photo of Paul on the mantel until her sight grew blurry.

  She was tired of pretending everything was going to be okay, of living without Paul, of living with his children, of being lonely and stressed, of not having anyone to love and love her back.

  She didn’t know how long she would have sat like that if Jacob hadn’t stopped in the doorway. “Aren’t you going to the Mexican place tonight?”

  Startled, she looked his way and saw so much of Paul in him that tears came to her eyes. She swallowed and blinked them away before checking her watch. It was a quarter to six. “Yes. I am. I was just thinking…”

  “About Dad?”

  That surprised her even more. Jacob didn’t talk about his father, not to her. He didn’t initiate any conversation with her if he could avoid it. Gingerly, half afraid he’d startle if she moved too quickly, she smiled. “I was. I miss him a lot.”

  That was one of the many holes in her life: Someone to talk to about Paul who’d known him. Her parents had loved him, but they’d only seen him a few times a year. His parents were more interested in criticizing her parental skills than reminiscing, transfers had kept their Army friends on the move, and she’d never felt comfortable bringing him up with the kids.

  Jacob shuffled his feet, his gaze locked somewhere between them, and muttered, “I do, too.” Then, before she could say anything, he rushed on: “You should go.”

  She should. She was rarely late, a quality well suited to the regimentation of school and Army life. She stood and walked to the doorway, pausing there long enough to look up at him. Up. He was so tall, no longer the little boy whose head hadn’t even topped her shoulder when they’d met.

  “I’ll be back around the usual time. If you need anything, you can call Liam’s mother or—or me.”

  He nodded, then went into the living room and sprawled on the couch, turning on the TV with the remote. When she passed by the room after retrieving her jacket and bag from the kitchen, he gave no sign that he heard her good-bye.

  Chapter Eleven

  Human contact,” Lucy announced. “That’s what I miss most.”

  “Intimate contact,” Marti added, and Lucy nodded.

  “Not just the wild monkey sex, but a hug. Holding hands. Warm legs to put my feet on in winter. Snoring.”

  “Does Caveman snore?” Marti asked.

  All eyes turned Carly’s way, and she blushed. “I have no idea.” When they feigned disappointment, she teasingly added, “But he’s a great kisser.”

  He’d kissed her again Saturday night, after they’d dropped Justin off at his quarters, then unloaded her new stuff at her house, and on Sunday night. She hadn’t seen him Monday or so far today, but she was cooking dinner for him tomorrow. A turkey breast in the slow-cooker and all the traditional side dishes. She was nearly giddy with anticipation.

  “At least you’re getting that much,” Jessy said, drawing one fingertip around the rim of her empty margarita glass. “The only intimacy in my life is with my gynecologist.”

  “And not being preggers like Ilena here, you can only see him every so often.” With a shiver, Marti drew on her jacket. Cold? Or remembering what it was like when Joshua was alive?

  “I miss having someone who k
nows what buttons to push to make my blood pressure redline.” Fia sighed. “I never thought I’d wish for a fart joke or cans of flat pop in the refrigerator or huge lint balls in the dryer because Scott never remembered to clean the trap.”

  Lucy’s snort jiggled her round cheeks. “Mike never put a load of wet clothes in the dryer. It could mildew in the washer for all he cared.”

  As the others joked about their husbands’ faults, Carly stirred the melted contents of her weekly drink. Jeff had liked jokes about bodily functions, too, and he’d been perfectly happy to put one shirt or pair of pants in the dryer while leaving the washer full of wet clothes. It was a guy thing, she supposed, and they’d all been married to such guys.

  The conversation faltered after a moment, silence settling at the table like a soft quilt on a cold night. Jessy broke it by reaching across and taking the glass from under Carly’s straw. “Every week you come in here and waste perfectly good tequila. Being environmentally conscious, I’m going to put it to good use.”

  “Environmentally conscious?” Marti snickered. “You use paper napkins, eat off foam plates all the time, and drink from plastic cups. You don’t recycle, you don’t reduce, and you don’t reuse.”

  Jessy tossed back the drink, then smirked. “Then how about fiscally frugal? Try saying that three times fast with three and a half margaritas in you. But who’s counting?”

  No one pointed out that she’d had four and a half. But they weren’t counting, right? And Jessy could handle liquor way better than Carly. She would be unconscious before she could drink that much in one evening.

  Life was too precious to lose even one evening to unconsciousness.

  “So.” Ilena rested her hands on her stomach and fixed a curious gaze on Carly. “Where exactly do things stand with you and Dane?”