One Perfect Spring

by Irene Hannon

  “But I want to talk about—”

  “Now.”

  Turning on her heel, Haley marched back down the hall, muttering under her breath.

  By the time she ducked into the bathroom to retrieve the items she needed and filled a glass with water, Haley was back in bed. Before her inquisitive daughter could ask anything else, she stuck the digital thermometer under her tongue.

  Too bad it wasn’t the old-fashioned mercury kind that took a whole lot longer to register, since the instant she removed it, the questions started again.

  “If you married Keith, would his mom be my grandmother?”

  Claire angled the thermometer to read the number in the window.

  “Yes, but that would be a long way down the road—if it ever happens. Right now we’re going to worry about that earache. Your temperature is 100.4. I can’t believe you didn’t tell me sooner.” She handed her the pill and the glass of water.

  Haley swallowed the medicine in one gulp.

  “Drink some more.”

  After she complied, Haley handed the glass back. “Cap told me he fell in love with Grandma the first time he saw her and they got married real fast. Did you fall in love with Keith right away?”

  Her hand tightened on the glass. “I didn’t say I was in love with him.”

  “Then why did you kiss him?”

  Oh, brother.

  “We’ll talk about it tomorrow. You need to go to sleep.”

  As Claire rose and tucked in the covers, Haley’s expression grew solemn. “Is this one of those grown-up things you think I’m too little to understand?”

  Claire smoothed out the edge of the blanket and straightened up. “As a matter of fact, you’re growing up way too fast to suit me. But romantic stuff can be . . . complicated.”

  “Why?”

  “Because a lot of times, things happen to people that make it hard for them to trust someone else.”

  “Like when you and Dad got divorced?”

  “That’s one example.”

  Haley bunched the pillow under her cheek. “I don’t think it has to be complicated. If you love someone with all your heart, and they love you back the same way, it should be easy. You just have to make sure you find someone who loves you as much as you love him. And you know what? I think you did.”

  Deep inside, she did too—but no way did she intend to admit that yet.

  “Despite what Cap told you, it’s too soon to be talking about love.”

  Her daughter smiled and closed her eyes. “You don’t always have to talk about love to know it’s there. ’Night, Mom.”

  Out of the mouth of babes . . .

  Claire flipped off the bedside light and wandered back down the hall, her fingers straying to her lips.

  Haley was right.

  While neither she nor Keith were ready to use the L word, the signs were all pointing that direction.

  Perhaps her daughter was also right in saying it didn’t have to be complicated. Maybe, if you found the right guy, it was easy.

  And more and more, she was beginning to believe she had.

  23

  As the plane touched down at Logan International Airport on Saturday afternoon, Maureen’s pulse quickened.

  She was back in the city she’d never intended to visit again—arriving alone, just as she had the first time.

  Except twenty-one years ago, she’d had no choice. Or none she’d considered viable.

  This time, she could have accepted David’s offer to accompany her, one he’d repeated again even in the moments before she’d left him at Lambert Airport security in St. Louis five hours ago.

  But somehow it seemed fitting that this journey, like the first, be solitary.

  Still, once it was over, David would be waiting to fold her in his arms and welcome her home—and that blessed certainty buoyed her strength and courage and determination to see this quest through to the end, difficult as it might be.

  Overnight bag in hand, she deplaned and wove through the crowds, following the signs to ground transportation. By the time she filled out the rental car paperwork and was on the road, it was close to three o’clock.

  The landscape around her was unfamiliar as she followed the route she’d mapped out before leaving St. Louis. Much had changed in the city during the past two decades.

  The suburb the Phillipses called home was one she’d never visited, but their white frame Cape Cod style house was easy to find, thanks to the printout from MapQuest.

  Braking to a stop in front, she braced her hands on the wheel and examined the well-maintained structure with the curving walk and trimmed lawn.

  This was the yard where her son had played as a child. These were the sidewalks and streets where he’d ridden his bike. This was the driveway where he’d shot baskets, based on the hoop above the garage.

  Her throat tightened.

  Being here made him seem so much more tangible and real.

  Yet the unkempt gardens and the empty stone planters on either side of the front door suggested that someone who had once taken great joy in flowers wasn’t up to the task this year.

  That life-disrupting trauma lay within these walls.

  Blinking to clear her vision, she picked up her purse from the passenger seat and followed the curving path to the front door.

  Seconds after she pressed the bell, a trim woman dressed in black slacks and a dark-green sweater answered, the gray roots of her ash-blonde hair long overdue for a touch-up. Behind her, a slender, gray-haired man with glasses and a pleasant face rested a hand on her shoulder.

  “We’ve been watching for you.” The woman gave her a tremulous smile and folded one of her hands in both of hers. “Welcome. This is my husband, Joe.”

  The man shook her hand, and they ushered her into the cozy living room. Couches and chairs were clustered around the fireplace, but her eye was drawn to the grouping of family photos on the mantel.

  One shot showed a high-school-age Paul in a soccer uniform, holding a trophy. A later picture put him front and center again, standing between his parents on a beach, his arms over their shoulders, all of them grinning. The formal portrait of him in uniform that Beth had emailed to her also had a prominent place. And finally, on the far side, was a recent picture of the three of them in front of some fir trees, wearing Santa caps and holding snowballs.

  A Christmas-card picture, perhaps?

  “May I offer you a soft drink?”

  At Joe’s question, she redirected her gaze. “Yes, thank you. A white soda would be fine, if you have it.”

  “I pulled out the family albums.” Beth gestured to a pile of books on the coffee table. “Joe said the stack would overwhelm you, but I thought you might like to at least glance through them.”

  “Yes, I would. Very much.”

  “Please . . . make yourself comfortable.” She indicated the couch.

  Maureen settled in, Beth beside her and Joe in an adjacent wing chair after he returned with her drink, and for the next two hours she asked questions and listened to stories about her son’s growing-up years, soaking everything up as they paged through the albums. The Phillipses never inquired about the circumstances of Paul’s birth, nor did she offer details. Clearly, that history was irrelevant to them. From their perspective, all that mattered was the blessing Paul had been in their lives.

  Only when they reached the final pages of the last album, and shots of a uniformed Paul in the Middle East began to appear, did she broach the difficult subject of his death. “Would you mind very much telling me what happened? All I heard was that it happened during a routine patrol.”

  “Joe . . .” Distress deepened the lines in Beth’s face, and she turned to her husband as she fumbled in her pocket for a tissue.

  He cleared his throat and linked his fingers. “That’s right. The patrol came under fire from insurgents. One of the guys in his unit was wounded and left exposed after everyone scrambled for cover. Paul was in a protected spot, but he crawled back
out to get him. He managed to pull him to safety, and the young man did survive, but Paul suffered fatal wounds in the process.” Joe’s voice broke, and he stared at his clenched fingers for a moment before continuing. “A nomination for the Medal of Honor is working its way up the chain of command. We’re told, given the circumstances, that’s nothing more than a formality.”

  Her son had been a hero.

  Swallowing past the lump in her throat, Maureen looked back at the photo of the handsome, confident young man in the formal Marine portrait on the mantel. “You must be very proud of him.”

  “Yes.” Joe brushed his hand across his eyes. “But pride doesn’t begin to make up for the empty place his passing left in our lives—and in our hearts.”

  Silence fell, broken at last by the sonorous chime of the grandfather clock in the foyer marking six o’clock.

  Rubbing her palms down her slacks, Beth stood. “I’m sure you must be getting hungry. I knew we’d want to spend time with the albums, so I put a stew together and it’s been slow cooking.”

  Maureen didn’t feel in the least hungry, but her stomach was reacting to the savory aroma that filled the house, reminding her it had been almost twelve hours since her last meal.

  She rose too. “If you’ll point me to the bathroom, I’d like to freshen up.”

  “Of course.” Beth led her down a hall, stopping at a closed door. “This was Paul’s room. We didn’t change anything after he went away to college because we wanted him to know this room would always be waiting to welcome him whenever he came home for visits.” She opened the door and flipped on the light, though she kept her eyes downcast. “Feel free to look around if you like. No need to rush. It will take me a few minutes to heat up the bread and put out the food. The bath is the next door on your right.”

  As her hostess retreated down the hall, Maureen took her place in the doorway of her son’s room.

  The albums she’d viewed and the stories Beth and Joe had shared had given her many insights into the man her long-ago baby had become. But this room . . . this captured his personality best of all.

  In the bright, geometric-patterned bedspread she saw his love of vibrant color and precision. In the shelves crammed with an array of fiction and nonfiction she saw his love of books and learning. In the framed certificates for academic achievement she saw his intelligence. In the high-quality prints of contemporary painting she saw his love of art. In the plaque on the wall containing a quote from Amos, she saw his motivation for enlisting in the Marines, his personal code of living, and his deep faith in God.

  “Hate evil and love good, and let justice prevail at the gate.”

  Tears once more blurred her vision.

  The world had lost a good man when her son died.

  And the credit for his goodness belonged to the man and woman in the next room, who mourned him with a profoundness her own grief could but distantly echo. Their sorrow was for a boy they’d nurtured and taught and encouraged and lavished with love. For a son they’d laughed and cried with, nursed through various childhood illnesses, protected with every ounce of their ability—only to stand by and accept a flag as he was commended to God and committed to eternal rest while the haunting melody of “Taps” played.

  Her grief, by contrast, was for a fine young man who was no more than a stranger. For a lost opportunity. For one night of loose virtue that had led to a lifetime of regret.

  No matter the different sources, heartache hung in the air as she joined her hosts for dinner. They all made a valiant effort to chat, and they got through the dinner, but it was clear her decision to stay at a hotel had been wise.

  All of them were drained.

  She could see it in Beth’s pallor as the woman pressed an album into her hands at the door—copies of some of their favorite photos of Paul for her to keep; in Joe’s slightly unsteady hand as he shook hers and told her she was welcome to visit anytime; in her own numbing fatigue as she drove through the darkness to her hotel, needing sleep but suspecting it would be elusive as she tried to mentally prepare for her final stop tomorrow before flying home.

  And that suspicion became reality while the long, bleak hours until dawn crept by and thunder rumbled overhead.

  Yet her exhaustion vanished as she drove through the entrance to Massachusetts National Cemetery and followed the directions Joe Phillips had given her.

  After winding through the well-kept grounds, serene and park-like on this overcast Sunday morning, she parked and reached for the single yellow rose and feathery fern tied with a golden ribbon on the seat beside her.

  No one else was about at this hushed early hour as she crossed the manicured grass, passing between the uniform white headstones, each marking the grave of a soldier, many of whom had fought for freedom on distant shores.

  At last she came to Paul’s.

  There was nothing to distinguish it from those on either side—except the engraved name.

  Paul Joseph Phillips.

  She lowered herself to her knees beside the fresh, tender new grass and traced the name with an unsteady finger.

  Then she read the remaining information. Rank. Branch of service. Birth date. Day of death. Finally she traced the words that had been cut into the stone at the bottom.

  Beloved Son.

  Yes, he was.

  By two mothers.

  How ironic that she should finally meet up with him on Mother’s Day.

  Choking back a sob, she gently set the rose at the base of the stone, closed her eyes, and bowed her head.

  I’m sorry I never got to meet you, Paul. But I’m grateful you had such fine parents and such a happy life. I only wish it could have been longer. That I could have told you face-to-face why I made the decision I did all those years ago, and that I’ve prayed for you every single day since. Thank you for the joy you brought to Beth and Joe, and know that you will always be remembered—and loved—by both of your mothers. Rest in peace, my son.

  She stayed there, her fingers splayed on the cool marble, until a drop of rain splashed against the back of her hand.

  Another followed.

  It was time to go.

  Rising, she pressed her fingers to her lips, then to the engraved name. She let them rest there for a few seconds, caressing the grooves in the smooth stone. At last, blinking to clear her vision, she removed her hand and forced herself to walk away.

  The rain intensified as she wove through the grave markers, but despite the moisture seeping into her sweater, she stopped beside her car for one last look back.

  Just as she turned, the sun broke through the gray clouds, bathing the world in glistening light—and her breath caught.

  For in the distance, in the final moment before the clouds once more covered the sun, a rainbow appeared, come and gone so fast she wondered if she’d imagined it.

  But no.

  It had been real.

  She gripped the edge of her door, staring at the spot where the translucent arc of colors had appeared for no more than a few heartbeats. The science was easily explainable, of course. The raindrops had acted as tiny prisms, breaking the light entering them into a spectrum. A phenomenon of nature, not some celestial sign or message.

  Nevertheless, as she slid behind the wheel, she felt strangely comforted—and more at peace than she had since she’d started the quest to locate her son.

  She also felt ready to put her past to rest and step into her future . . . a future that included the man waiting for her at home. A kind and loving and generous man who’d entered her life thanks to a son she’d never known. A son who, in turn, had blessed the lives of a childless couple.

  Her quest might not have ended as she’d expected—or hoped—yet much good had come from it.

  And as she exited the cemetery and aimed her car toward the airport, she gave thanks.

  For unexpected blessings.

  For a future filled with hope.

  And for the transforming power of love.

  “That
was a delicious meal, Keith. Your idea to celebrate Mother’s Day on my patio with a takeout dinner from that fancy gourmet shop was inspired. This is so much better than fighting the crowds at one of those impersonal brunches or squeezing into a packed restaurant. The service was excellent too.” Alice lifted her coffee cup in a toast as he cleared away the empty plate that had held her double-chocolate torte.

  “I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

  “I have only one complaint.”

  Pausing on his way to the kitchen to deposit their dessert plates, he half-turned. “What’s that?”

  “You seem very distracted. You didn’t even respond to that comment I threw in about running off to join the circus.”

  She hadn’t said that . . . had she?

  Maybe.

  Truth be told, he’d spent most of the dinner trying to figure out how to lead up to the subject he wanted to discuss.

  Too bad it was Mother’s Day. Any other Sunday, the topic would have been far less problematic to introduce.

  He shifted his weight as she leaned back in her chair and gave him that appraising look he remembered from his teenage years. The one she’d gotten whenever she was trying to ferret out what was going on his brain.

  Usually she’d succeeded.

  Come to think of it, she’d have fit in well in a circus. No doubt she’d be an excellent mind reader.

  “Let me get rid of these and we’ll talk.” He hefted the dishes, then escaped to the kitchen.

  Taking his time, he stowed them in the dishwasher and set the machine humming. But delaying wasn’t going to make this any easier. Might as well follow the advice of that sport shoe ad and just do it.

  When he turned, he tried for a smile as he retook his seat. “I guess you still have that old ESP I used to dread.”

  “Mothers develop it, at least where their children are concerned. Even adoptive mothers.”

  The perfect opening.

  “About that . . .” Slowly he withdrew the folded Missouri Department of Social Services envelope from his pocket and laid it on the table. “I got this in the mail on Friday. It’s from the adoption registry.”