“True.” Her mother sounded a little more at ease with the reminder. “So tell me about Ron? Anything coming of his attraction?”
“I think so.” She could talk to her mom about any topic, and Ron was no exception. She kept her voice upbeat, because she needed to give the idea of Ron a chance. She’d always been able to talk to her mom, and this was no exception. “He asked me out this weekend.”
“Really?” There was a smile in her mother’s tone. “And you said yes?”
“I did. I don’t know where we are going. He said he wants to surprise me.”
They talked a few minutes more about her conversation with Ron, how he was beginning to wonder if maybe she was the one he was supposed to share his life with. She worked her way through all the details, but when she was finished, there was silence on the other end. “Mom?”
“I don’t hear it. The excitement in your voice.”
Holly felt the rush of defeat. “You know me too well.” She let her sigh linger over the phone line. “I should feel something, right? Wouldn’t you say?”
“Well, that’s just it, honey. In the movies and in storybooks, love comes at us all at once, like a stunning rainbow across an otherwise dreary sky. But that’s not always how it is in real life.” She hesitated. “In real life, love takes time. You need to get to know Ron and see his strengths, his weaknesses. Sometimes women in their mid-twenties are busy holding out for the magic of first love and missing the fact that they need to work at the relationships around them. Real love takes a lot of work, Holly.”
She didn’t know why exactly, but her mother’s talk depressed her. They made a plan to talk the next day, said their good-byes, and hung up. Without making a conscious decision, Holly wandered through the house to the place at her kitchen bar where she kept her leather workbag. The newspaper article was still tucked inside, and now she pulled it out. She opened it and spread it on the counter.
“Alex … why can’t I stop thinking about you?” she whispered, as if by doing so she could keep from admitting the truth to herself.
The lighting was better here than it had been in her office, and she could make out his face more clearly than before. Not just his face, but his eyes — or the empty hard glint of darkness where his eyes used to be. She looked more closely. Those weren’t the eyes of the boy she’d fallen in love with. Not even close. She walked to the kitchen sink and poured herself a glass of milk.
Alex was right to send her away when he did. He was different then, and he still seemed different now. Changed forever by the tragedy of 9/11. She drank the milk and allowed her mother’s words to ring again in her mind. In real life, love takes time … She set the glass down by the sink and stared at her image in the mirror that hung on the wall. Was that true? Did love really take time? Wasn’t it still possible that two people would meet and share a look or a smile that in a moment’s time would change both their lives?
She dismissed the idea. Her dishwasher needed unloading, and she set about the task. What else had her mother told her? Real love takes a lot of work, right? Wasn’t that it? She unloaded the glasses, moving them one at a time into the empty space in her cupboard. The trouble was, love hadn’t been that way between her and Alex. Not when they were kids. Love took no work whatsoever. Relationships, yes. The logistics of blending two lives into one, and finding the beauty and laughter in the ordinary — that part took work for anyone.
But love?
With her and Alex, love had been everything her mother said only happened in movies and storybooks. It had come all in a rush and left the most brilliant rainbow behind. A heaviness settled over her heart. The house was too quiet. She crossed the living room and slipped in a Barry Manilow CD. Her father’s favorite. The first haunting strains of “Even Now” filled the empty places not only in her townhouse, but in her heart. Even now … when I have come so far … I wonder where you are … I wonder why it’s still so hard without you …
Tears stung her eyes and made it hard for her to see the newspaper still spread across her kitchen counter. She didn’t miss the man Alex had become, whoever he was. But her heart was still ripped apart over losing the boy he’d been. Because somewhere deep inside him, that boy was still alive. Holly would bet everything on that fact, but there was one problem.
She would never have the chance to find out.
TWELVE
Only two days had passed, and already Alex was going crazy without his job. He understood the department’s policy. Being responsible for the death of another human being was something that weighed on him more than he could’ve known. No matter how badly he wanted to rid the streets of crime, he didn’t want to kill anyone.
So maybe a little time off was a good thing. But still he couldn’t get past the fact that he felt like he was being punished.
He was almost to Clay and Jamie’s house, ready for a night of lasagna and listening — which was what he liked best about these dinners. By listening, he had learned to feel for the families who gathered at the Michaels’ house, and by feeling he could keep his focus. Fighting crime, so that one more person wouldn’t feel the pain of losing someone to another lousy bad guy.
The sun was still bright in the sky, and Alex wore his darkest Oakleys. He tried to imagine how different life would be this very night at Clay’s house if the gunman had killed him, if the shot had hit him in the neck or if it had pierced his bulletproof vest. Jamie knew nothing of the pain that would’ve consumed her that day if Clay had never again walked through the front door. Her heart would’ve been torn apart by a bullet fired half a city away, and the kids? Neither Sierra nor CJ would ever be the same again.
Satisfaction warmed his veins and cast a calm over the stormy seas in his soul. He never intended to kill a suspect, but in this case Clay was still alive because Alex had taken the right action. His determination to keep people from the pain that had torn his family apart was working.
He steeled his gaze at the road ahead of him.
While he was off work, he would keep an eye on the REA. The meeting was tonight — after another delay, according to Owl. Alex could hardly wait. He would have dinner with his friends, and then leave earlier than usual. He had his disguise in the trunk — dark sweatshirt and sweatpants, a ski mask, and an ankle holster so he could add a third gun to the ones he’d be wearing around his waist and thigh.
The others were all there when Alex parked his truck and took Bo from the backseat. As the two of them headed up the walkway, he could hear them already laughing, sharing stories about kids or something funny that had happened. Alex wrapped Bo’s leash around the porch post and hooked it so it was secure.
Bo gave him a tired look, as if to say, “Really? I’m staying out here by myself again?”
“Not for long, boy … just an hour or two.” Alex sat on the step beside the dog and patted his head. Light from the setting sun made it easier to see the small missing piece in Bo’s ear, the place where a bullet had nicked him during a drug bust a few months ago. Neighbors had reported drug activity, and two squad cars had been dispatched to the scene.
The missing piece wasn’t much, maybe a quarter-inch. But it told the story of Bo’s uncanny ability as a police dog, and his unending loyalty. Alex ran his knuckles against the side of Bo’s face. Two years ago when the dog had come home from the Netherlands, green with only basic training, his eyes were forever earnest and willing, always giving Alex the same message. Sort of an, “Okay, boss … tell me what to do … tell me what to do.”
But that look had long since been replaced by one of utter control and confidence. Alex trusted Bo with his life now, no question. He and Bo had spent more than eight hundred hours training together, finding bad guys in empty buildings and alleys, tracking would-be perpetrators through chest-deep marshes and thick swamps and dense brush. Since Bo had no police training in Europe, his training was all in English. But for every verbal command, he was equally adept with a hand signal or physical cue.
Alex loo
ped his arm around Bo’s neck and leaned against him. A K9 officer never went anywhere without his dog, so after two years the bond between them only intensified the effectiveness of their training. It was part of what made them so good at catching crooks. Alex had read somewhere that for a K9 deputy, his dog was his friend, his partner, and his defender. For Bo? Alex rubbed the dog’s ear again. For Bo, Alex was his life, his leader, his everything.
After 9/11, Alex withdrew from people, all people. Working with a police dog was the only crime fighting Alex ever wanted to do — from the moment he made his decision to be a deputy. Not only did the job give him a reason to be a loner, to focus on the bad guys, but also K9 teams were always on the frontlines, the first guys into a building or chasing down a suspect. No deputy could have a better partner. Alex’s intense training on his off hours, his determination and focus, were sometimes only an attempt to match Bo’s complete devotion.
The smell of lasagna drifted onto the front porch. Alex patted the dog one last time as he stood. “You’re a good boy, Bo. Good dog.”
Bo wagged his tail and, at Alex’s hand command, stretched out his front legs and lay down on the porch. He watched Alex walk to the front door and inside the house, and Alex smiled to himself. Whether he was in the house a few minutes or a few hours, Bo would keep his eyes on that front door the whole time. Watching for him, waiting.
Alex found Clay in the kitchen slicing garlic bread. “Brady, look at you.” He tried to look serious, but there was a light in his eyes that belied the fact. “You’re turning into a slacker.”
“Sir?” Alex leaned against the nearest kitchen counter and crossed his arms.
“Your suntan.” He took a nearby dish towel and flicked it in Alex’s direction. “You asked me what to bring, and I told you.” He shook his head in a mock show of disappointment. “So what’d you do, spend the last two days thinking about the REA?”
Clay was kidding, so Alex didn’t dare tell him that he was dead-on. He forced a yawn. “You know, Sarge … caught up on my sleep, lazed around in the recliner.”
Clay raised an eyebrow. “Why do I doubt that?”
A buzzer went off near the stove, and Clay tossed Alex a pair of hot pads. “Get the lasagna.” He carried the plate of sliced bread to the dining room. “Set it on the stove.”
As Alex took the glass dish from the oven, he caught a glimpse of Jamie and Sierra in the backyard. They were talking to the others, showing off something in their vegetable garden. Funny, Alex thought. Sierra could easily be Eric’s daughter, something about the shape of her face, or her eyes, maybe.
The lasagna needed a few minutes to cool, and after everyone had served their plates they gathered in the backyard again. This time Jamie had set up a card table for the smaller kids, and another one for the teens. Someone always prayed before the group ate, and tonight Clay took the lead.
“Dear God, we gather here as friends and family, grateful for Your love and provision. Thank You for this food and the hands that prepared it.” He paused. “And we ask You, Lord, to help us lean on You and not on our own understanding. In everything we do. Amen.”
A round of hearty amens followed, but Alex had the sudden urge to excuse himself from the table and spend the meal out front with Bo. Why had Clay added that last part? Alex had a feeling the words were directed straight at him. He lifted his eyes slowly, glancing at the others and making sure no one was staring his way. Only then did he let the words hit their mark. They had to be intended for him. Everyone else around the three tables already relied fully on God. He was the only one who leaned on his own understanding.
Alex took a piece of lasagna and kept his thoughts to himself. Clay had never talked to him about God, not directly, anyway. Probably because it was clear where Alex stood — he wasn’t interested. Either way, he didn’t want Clay using tonight to get into a discussion about dependence on God. He was two hours from meeting the Owl, something he’d worked out all on his own. A talk about needing God was the last thing he wanted.
There were no awkward silences with this group, which was one reason Alex liked coming. As soon as everyone was served, the conversations around him picked up. Josh Michaels was boasting about taking on the rest of the group in the basketball game Around the World, and laughing about the unlikely possibility that Sierra would make it past the first two shots. To her credit, Sierra was holding her own, giggling and promising to show them all wrong.
At the adult table, Joe was launching into a story about little Will and the family goldfish bowl. He dragged a napkin across his mouth. “So all along we’ve known Will has a fondness for fish, right?” He kept his voice low enough that Will and the other little kids couldn’t hear him. “I mean a real fondness.”
“He regularly drags his blanket from his bedroom and curls up for a nap right beside the fishbowl.” Wanda made a face that suggested Will was a few crayons short of a box. “The sort of fondness where he talks to the fish, you know what I’m saying?”
“Anyway, so yesterday Wanda and Will come in from a trip to the market, and the goldfish are gone.”
“Both of them?” Laura set her fork down, taken in by the story.
“Both.” Wanda waved her hand in the air. “Disappeared.”
“So Wanda looks at Will and points to the fishbowl, and Will walks a little closer.” Joe leaned in so the others could hear. “Then he turns those big brown eyes back up at her and smiles. ‘Fish sleeping,’ he says.”
Jamie jumped back and bit her lip. “No!”
“Yes!” Wanda glanced at Will, busy eating his dinner ten feet away.
“Those fish were sleeping, all right.”
“So Wanda marches Will upstairs, and sure enough, there were the goldfish right smack on Will’s pillow, blankets pulled up all nice and snug.”
For the flash of a moment, Alex caught himself yearning for the life these three couples shared. He glanced at Will and CJ and Lacey and imagined what it would be like if he were a father, if one of the little ones at the next table belonged to him. Then, without warning, a memory came to life. He and his dad, sitting beside each other at the table after dinner one Thanksgiving. His mom must’ve been in the other room, because it was just the two of them, and his dad leaned back in his chair and put an arm around Alex’s shoulders. “Of all the things I’m thankful for,” he messed his fingers through Alex’s hair and grinned at him, “you’re at the top of the list. You know why?”
“Why?”
“Because I love being a dad.” His father’s eyes grew more serious. “I love being your dad.”
Even with night falling and the smell of sweet wildflowers in the late summer air, even with the reassuring pressure of the gun against his waist and the sound of the voices all around him, Alex could still see the way his dad looked at him that Thanksgiving Day. He blinked and tuned back into the conversation. Clay was asking if Will understood, if he’d learned anything from the fish tragedy.
Wanda rolled her eyes. “Yeah, we all learned something. Apparently, we need to read that boy the book of Genesis. The part where God created water so the fish would have a place to live.”
A round of muffled laughter passed over the table, and Eric looked from Wanda to Joe. “Let me guess, the Reynolds house has a couple of new goldfish.”
“Wanda took Will to pick ‘em out, so that she could show him how all the fish in the store were in water — not wrapped in blankets.”
Alex smiled at the story and pushed his fork through his salad. The food was good, but he wasn’t hungry, and he was struggling to stay focused on the conversation. What if Owl somehow knew he was a cop? The meeting could be a setup, and in his zeal to catch the REA, he could walk straight into a trap. He had to consider the idea, the way he’d been trained to consider all possibilities.
He took a bite of lasagna and looked up. As he did, he caught Jamie looking at him. Not just with a curious glance or incidental look, but really studying him. As if she knew he wasn’t truly there
tonight. She locked eyes with him for a second or two, and then she turned back to the conversation. Something about Laura and Eric’s little girl, Lacey.
Between Clay’s prayer and Jamie’s strange way of watching him, Alex had a feeling about tonight. The group wasn’t just including him in another dinner; they were worried about him. Loner sheriff’s deputy Alex Brady, unable to process his feelings about shooting a bad guy. Alex finished his meal and quietly surveyed the others. Or maybe not. Maybe the things he was feeling were only in his imagination. But either way, he didn’t belong here tonight.
He had an appointment to keep.
The meal was still going on, and Alex didn’t need to leave for another half hour, but he needed time alone, time to think about the task ahead of him. As soon as the timing felt right, Alex excused himself and went out onto the porch with Bo.
He sat next to his dog and stared into the fading sunset. What was it about being here, the way it both drew him and confused him? No matter what fleeting thoughts had descended on him during dinner, he didn’t want to be a father. Far from it. There was no room in his life for that kind of love. First, because he was incapable of loving that way, and second because he was driven to fight crime with every breath, with all his time and energy.
He ran his hand along Bo’s side. Being here stirred feelings in him he never had otherwise. Questions about what it would’ve been like if he hadn’t sent Holly away. Because if his ability to love was truly dead, then how could he explain the sensation that surrounded him even in this very moment — the feel of his dad’s arm around his shoulders?
THIRTEEN
All through dinner, Jamie watched the young deputy at the opposite end of the table, and when he stood and excused himself, she took his action as her cue. She silently prayed, asking God for wisdom and the right words. Then at the next break in the conversation, she put her hand on Clay’s shoulder. “I’ll be right back.”
Tuesday Morning Collection, The: One Tuesday Morning, Beyond Tuesday Morning, Remember Tuesday Morning Page 78
