Honor Redeemed

by Loree Lough

  She filled Rerun’s water bowl. “You actually have proof of all that.”

  “You bet your big gorgeous eyes, I do. I can prove every word I said about your precious Wyatt, too. Correction: I have evidence on the both of them, but because I didn’t come by it in what you’d call a ‘constitutional rights’ kind of way, they might just get away with it. I just hope for your sake, that lousy investigator Shaw hired only made one set of photographs.”

  “Photographs? Of me?”

  “Of you and Hoffman in some pretty compromising positions.”

  “But … but that’s impossible!” This was the first she’d heard of any such thing. It was good to know, finally, what had initiated Matt’s change in attitude toward her. Not so good, though, hearing that he’d seen photographs of … only God knew what. “How can there be pictures when nothing improper ever happened between Wyatt and me? Why, the two of us were never alone together. Jennifer and the kids were …”

  And then she remembered three or four weekends when Jennifer and the kids had driven to Philly to relieve her older sister, who’d been taking care of their stroke-victim dad. Honor’s heart pounded. Okay, so she and Wyatt had gone through the same workout routines and exercises during those weekends, and they’d hit the books long into the night, too. But he’d never so much as looked at her in anything but an older brother kind of way. “I’d like to see those pictures. They had to be Photoshopped. Had to be. Because we never got closer than …”

  And then she remembered all the times Wyatt had steadied her as she struggled to hold the proper form during push-ups and how he’d kept her from clattering to the floor a couple of times when her arms turned to jelly, trying to squeeze out the required number of pull-ups. If Brady really had hired somebody to get a few candid shots, it wouldn’t have been a difficult task, since the rear of the Hoffmans’ house was constructed of curtain-less sliding doors and windows.

  Honor explained all that to Matt, adding “See? See how dirty they’re willing to fight? They’d destroy anyone who got in their way.”

  “In a heartbeat.”

  “And yet you aren’t afraid what might happen now.”

  “If either of ‘em had half a brain, they might be scary, but they’re both as dumb as a box of rocks.”

  Troubling questions continued to plague her, and with each one answered, another took its place. “Matt. Those pictures … do you think Brady showed them to Wyatt?”

  “Not a doubt in my mind. But that isn’t why Hoffman dropped the arson charges.”

  Honor almost didn’t want to know why he had dropped the charges.

  “Shaw had pictures of some important people, coming and going from the Hoffman house at odd hours. And fat wads of cash changed hands.”

  Now Honor wished that when she moved away, she could take Matt and the boys with her. “Will you do me a favor, Matt?”

  “You know I will.”

  “I need you to promise me something.”

  “I’ll try.”

  ” ‘Do or do not,’ ” she said, ” ‘there is no try.’ “

  He chuckled quietly. “Okay, but first, tell me what I might be locking myself in to.”

  “You have to drop this. All of it. Forget about everything related to the whole Brady Shaw-Wyatt Hoffman mess. Get back to writing about plane crashes and autism and all the other in-depth stories your editor assigns. Focus on your boys and their soccer games. Be a friend to Austin and Mercy now that they’re thinking about becoming parents. Forget about those awful pictures and the documents and the file and everything else and—”

  “Hey, lighten up a little, will ya?”

  Tears filled her eyes, and she knuckled them away. “Do I have your word?”

  “Honor. Knock it off. You’re starting to scare me.”

  “Promise?”

  “This is starting to sound an awful lot like goodbye …”

  She could not, would not say those words, even though that’s exactly what this was … what it had to be, especially now that she knew that he’d willingly sacrifice himself—and those innocent boys—for her.

  “Please, Matt. This is important to me.”

  “Okay. I promise.”

  “I know you’re a man of your word. So you’ll drop it. All of it. right now?”

  “You’re crying. Honor, what’s wrong?”

  “Nothing!” she all but shouted. “Except that I can’t get you to make one little promise!”

  “It’s not so little, but okay, all right. I promise. You have my word: I’ll drop it. All of it. Right now.”

  Honor sunk onto the seat of a kitchen chair. “Thank God. Thank you, Matt,” she said.

  And then she hung up and wept like a scared little girl.

  Because that’s exactly how she felt.

  25

  The last time Matt felt this way, he’d been eleven years and one day old.

  That day, from his seat on the top porch step, he’d tried to ignore the conversation taking place on the other side of the screen door. But nothing—not the drone of Mr. Miller’s lawn mower or the squeak of Amber Wilson’s saxophone—drowned out the angry voices. He hadn’t looked up as his dad thumped past him, dragging that beat-up, old suitcase down the stairs. The last thing he’d learned in science class was how peripheral vision enabled people to see, even when things weren’t right in front of their faces. And that’s what told him his father had chucked the big bag into the trunk of his car.

  He’d seen it all before, eighty-two times, to be precise. He knew, because he’d kept track of every departure and every return of his dad, the traveling marketing manager. That day, as he balanced a saucer of birthday cake on bony, scabby knees, he choked down a sickeningly sweet frosting flower, wishing all the while that math hadn’t been his best subject. Because he’d never have attempted to scratch out the problem in frosting, using the tine of his fork: at eleven years old, he’d lived a total of 4,015 days, and of those, his dad had been gone 2,047.

  When his dad trudged back up those gray-painted steps, Matt had put the cake plate aside, nodding and doing his best not to cry as his dad sat beside him and tried to explain. “This isn’t your fault,” he’d said. “Your mother and I just need some time apart.” He’d promised to call every day. Said he’d come to get him for overnight visits, at least once a week. Then he drove off without so much as a wave or a smile, without even glancing in the rearview mirror.

  Matt carried the cake inside, thinking he’d finish it at the kitchen table. That way, if he let go and a few tears fell, nobody would see and nobody could call him a whiny girl. Not Mr. Miller or Amber, and especially not that bully Harry Sanderson. But his mom had been in there, sobbing and wheezing into a paper towel, so he scraped the cake into the trash can and let the dog lick the plate clean … and hadn’t eaten so much as a bite of birthday cake since.

  He didn’t know why, exactly, Honor’s goodbye had hit him so hard. If he added up all the hours he’d spent with her, they probably wouldn’t add up to a forty-hour workweek. He’d never kissed her—though he’d wanted to a couple hundred times— and physical contact had been limited to a hand to lead her here, an arm slung over her shoulders there, a half dozen hugs … and that one memorable night when she’d fallen asleep in his arms. Aren’t you the pathetic clod, he thought, shaking his head, holding on to that as your brightest moment with her.

  He’d tried, but Matt couldn’t connect a moment like that to his years with Faith. He remembered crazy, scattered things, like the way he’d rub her hands when they came in from shoveling snow or the way they took turns refilling each other’s coffee mugs on leisurely weekend mornings. She didn’t like action-adventures, and he couldn’t stomach chick flicks, which pretty much limited nights out at the movies. He loved Italian cuisine, her favorite was Asian, so they often laughingly thanked the good Lord for inventing good old American restaurants.

  But a moment like that one with Honor? Nope. Not a one. Matt felt like a heel, downright awf
ul, and guilty, because hadn’t Faith earned a memory like that? He’d tried justifying it with half-baked rationale. He’d been too busy juggling a job and two kids. There hadn’t been time for fluff like that, not with double diapers to change and two feedings every couple of hours. Then they started to crawl, and he’d spent every spare second and each ounce of energy keeping buttons out of their mouths and making sure they didn’t take a header down the stairs. And once they were on their feet, toddling, then running like sprinters, well, it was all that, multiplied by a thousand.

  Shouldn’t he have felt something after he’d sopped up the bath bubbles and stuffed them into antileak diapers and patted the last burp from their round bellies? Or while he walked around picking up toy trucks and rubber balls and teddy bears? Matt knew he should. So then, why didn’t he?

  Just one reason he could think of, and because it made him feel even more like a heel, he did his best to drive it from his mind. A little more resentment toward Honor, he decided, might be just what the doctor ordered. Because before meeting her, he’d never given such things a thought. Now here he was, battling the ache of guilt because he couldn’t come up with a single sweet Faith-memory to compare to those soul-stirring, heart-pounding hours, watching Honor sleep.

  Watching her sleep!

  He’d lost a big chunk of his mind since meeting her. It was as simple as that. Nothing else made sense, because not only did she have him thinking goofy, schoolboy thoughts, but she’d inspired his dogged determination to go after Shaw, and in the process, Hoffman, a decision that could have cost him everything and put his boys at risk, to boot. “Crazy,” he muttered. “You’ve gone completely insane.”

  “What, Dad?”

  Matt had worked hard to put on a good front for the boys’ sake, but his heart sure wasn’t in it. “Nothing, Steve. Just thinking out loud, that’s all.”

  “Is there Alzheimer’s in our family?”

  Even in his present state of mind, Matt understood what had prompted the question. He’d been distracted, and on a couple of occasions, they’d caught him staring into space and called him on it. And now, he was talking to himself. “Not that I know of,” he said, gently knuckling his son’s blond head. “There’s a lot going on at work.”

  Warner nodded. “Yeah. Sometimes it helps to work stuff out, out loud.”

  Steve giggled. “Only if you’re, like, retarded,” he said, elbowing his twin.

  Matt knew the signs: if he didn’t intervene, they’d be wrestling on the floor within minutes, and what started out as playful roughhousing would quickly turn into more serious brawling. And because Warner outweighed Steve by a good ten pounds, somebody might get hurt. Matt was almost tempted to let them have at it, to teach Steve a lesson about buttoning his lip, and buy himself a few minutes to regain his composure.

  “Don’t even think about it,” he warned. “It’s too close to bedtime to get into it.”

  Warner narrowed his dark eyes. “First thing in the morning,” he said, grinning as he aimed a forefinger at Steve, then himself, “you. Me. Here. Fight.”

  Steve’s blond brows rose high on his forehead, and he sighed. “It’s about time you got around to reading that chapter about Neanderthal man in your history book.” He did his best to mimic his twin. “Ugh. Oomph. Duh. Doh.”

  Warner was about to smack him when Matt said, “Steven. Upstairs. Pajamas. Toothbrush. Now.”

  “Oh, no-o-o,” he droned, clamping a hand over his eyes. “I’m doomed.” He came out from hiding and took one look at Matt’s stern face. “All right, okay. I’m going,” he mumbled, heading for the stairs. On the landing, he stopped and draped himself over the railing. “I just have this to say: I know exactly what I’m gonna ask God for when I say my prayers tonight.”

  Don’t fall for it, Warner, Matt thought. It’s a setup …

  “What?”

  “That whatever is responsible for making you two talk like cavemen isn’t hereditary, that’s what.”

  He thundered the rest of the way up the steps as Warner flopped onto the sofa beside Matt. Slumping against the back cushions, he said, “Can I just slug him, Dad? Please?”

  Matt drew the boy into a hug. “Not today, son.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “We’ll see.” He kissed the top of the boy’s head and said his own prayer of thanks, for the blessing of two silly, lovable boys who filled his life with so much joy and laughter … and much-needed distraction.

  Her new post paid well, far more than any to date, but it hadn’t been as fulfilling as Honor had hoped it might be. This phase of the job involved hours of nonstop paperwork, the tedium of filing, making countless phone calls, and fact checking every item on her lengthy To Do list. “Keep your eyes on that light at the end of the tunnel,” she’d chant every morning as the subway clattered down the tracks connecting Queens to the City. The tired old cliché didn’t make the commute any easier, but at least it gave her something to focus on besides the dreary indoor tasks that kept her chained to a desk, instead of out in the field, doing the work she loved best: training dogs and their handlers.

  Another major disappointment had been finding out that her base of operations was in New York, and not White Plains. Her salary would have added a considerable sum to her savings account every week … if she didn’t need it to pay rent and buy subway tokens.

  The one sunny spot in her otherwise dreary new world were Rerun and the ancient little house they called home. It wasn’t such a bad little place, as houses go, but an all-concrete backyard, surrounded by an eight-foot privacy fence, made her feel like she lived in a shoebox. And Rerun made no secret of the fact that he wasn’t crazy about doing his business on hardscape. What had taken minutes back home in Baltimore now ate up huge chunks of time. So Honor’s priority, once she’d unpacked her meager personal possessions, was constructing a six-by-eight-foot-deep box. She filled it with store-bought dirt and planted an entire bag of Kentucky bluegrass seed. “Just be patient,” she told him every time they went outside, “and in a few weeks, you’ll have your own private bathroom.” There wasn’t a doubt in her mind that he’d understood every word because the dog kept a close and wary eye on his tiny plot of lawn, and woe unto any bird or bug that dared to land on the seed-protective burlap blanket.

  While waiting for the grass to sprout, she searched hardware and department stores for an old-fashioned push mower, like the one her grandpa used. Mothers’ Day had come and gone before she found one, and oh, the curious stares she inspired, rolling it home from the flea market. It took two days of scrubbing to remove years of neglect, and an entire Saturday afternoon to hone the blades to a shining-keen edge. She managed to get half of the plot mowed before the skies opened up, and didn’t close again for eight straight days.

  Fortunately, there was plenty to keep her busy, inside. After securing the permission of her landlady, Honor painted the pea-green kitchen cabinets bright white and replaced the black wrought-iron hardware with brushed nickel. In the powder room, she laid a checkerboard of shiny black and white tiles atop fading red linoleum, and the hall bath’s walls went from Miss Piggy Pink to a soft sea foam green. She squeegeed every windowpane and hung fresh new curtains, then shampooed the living room rug and upholstery. By the time the rains stopped, she was more than ready to get outside, where she wire-brushed the cement slab in preparation for a coat of acid that turned it from dull gray to a soft russet that matched the cushions she’d bought for her high-backed redwood chairs.

  She learned which shops carried the best produce, and where to buy quality pork chops and steaks to grill on her miniature hibachi. On occasion, Honor treated herself to a bouquet from the fanciful flower cart she passed walking home from the subway. Her neighbors were friendly and helpful and respectful of her privacy, and with the exception of elderly widow Nunzia Gelichi, no one asked “Why a precioso woman like-a you is no casado, eh?”

  “I’m just not the marrying type,” Honor had said, laughing. But alone, as nigh
t descended and sleep eluded her, she admitted the unhappy truth: she’d lost her fiancé at Ground Zero and left the only other man she’d ever loved in Baltimore. During her twice-weekly talks with Elton, she asked how Matt and the boys were doing. If Matt had moved on, her pal and former boss had the good grace not to mention it. Which put Honor in an awkward position: she meant every word of the prayers she sent heavenward, asking the good Lord to watch over him, to keep him safe and happy, but Honor had no desire to hear, firsthand or otherwise, that her prayers for his romantic contentment had been answered.

  Now, sipping iced tea and paging through the Sunday paper, Honor sent a silent thanks to the grumpy Rottweiler that lived on the left side of her yard because his grizzly-like growls and persistent attempts to tunnel under the fence by pawing at the concrete helped distract her from thoughts of Matt and what might have been. “Too bad we can’t help Beast find his way into Matilda’s yard, isn’t it?”

  But he only stared at her. “You’re right. That does seem a bit extreme, even if Matilda’s nonstop yapping is maddening.”

  Summer was grinding to a steamy, sticky close, and still the place didn’t feel like home, not to Honor, and certainly not to Rerun, who missed his big grassy yard and the cool basement tiles where he liked to sprawl on days like this.

  Not a day went by that she didn’t think of Matt. Or his boys. Or all three. She remembered making the bet with herself: putting her house on the rental market, packing, starting a new job would divert her attention, help her miss them less.

  “Good thing you’re not a gambler,” she mumbled, heading into the air-conditioned house, “because you would have lost your shirt on that one.”

  26

  As the tenth anniversary of 9/11 loomed on the horizon, every faction of the entertainment industry was working hard to get a fresh new slant on the story, Matt’s newspaper was no exception. Even before he sat down in Liam’s office, he had a pretty good idea why he’d been summoned.