She had to look out the window to subdue her overwhelming despair. “Still,” she added, huskily, “maybe I should’ve stayed near Jillian this summer. It’s got to be hard without Gary there to help.”
A long silence followed her lament.
“What happened to Gary?” Valentino finally inquired, his tone remote.
She turned and looked at him, realizing at the same instant that he hadn’t known. “Jillie didn’t tell you?”
“No.” He calmly slipped his magazine into the pocket of his black leather briefcase.
“He was killed in a drug sting. You knew he was a policeman, right?”
“Yes. When was this?”
“It was January, so—seven months ago. She didn’t even know she was pregnant. She sold the house in Fairfax and moved into the house we grew up in. That was something she and Gary’d always planned to do, to have a hippotherapy ranch.”
A taut silence followed her words. Jordan sensed that she’d caught the agent by surprise, though it was hard to tell by his serene expression.
“Excuse me,” he said, unbuckling his seat belt. “I need to have a word with the pilot. Can I get you anything? More milk?”
“No thanks. I still have some.” His polite retreat made her wonder if he had feelings for Jillian. Jillie was a beautiful, capable woman, but what bachelor wanted to take on another man’s family?
Thoughts of Miguel impaled her again, and she turned her stricken face to the window, grappling with the awful feeling that she’d lost him forever.
Solomon stared at the patina of moonlight shining on the ceiling. The fact that he couldn’t sleep had nothing to do with the whirring of insects outside the barracks or the occasional volley of gunfire as soldiers of the Moderate government drilled in anticipation of a coup. It was Jordan Bliss. He couldn’t get the damn woman out of his head.
The memory of her haunted him. Even with her hair matted, her eyes swollen, her nose running, he’d been struck by something ferociously beautiful in her. Physically, she was pleasing, with autumnal coloring, deep violet eyes, and full lips. But beyond the physical, he sensed a wealth of devotion and commitment for a child she hadn’t even given birth to.
Had Candace ever loved Silas like that?
He had. With a groan, he realized that the pain of losing a child never really went away. It just got buried under everyday issues and details. But beneath those issues, it remained, a bleeding wound.
And now he lay here, wondering what his son looked like at six years of age; where he was, that not a single private investigator over the course of five years could find so much as a trace of him. From that fateful night Solomon had returned home to an empty house, Candace and Silas hadn’t once resurfaced.
Since then, he’d taken life one day at a time, seizing comfort wherever he could find it—in a book, between a woman’s thighs, on the wide expanse of the ocean. He never looked beyond the day’s end for happiness.
He’d had his orders, and he’d followed them. Yet, orders aside, he had now condemned Jordan Bliss to the same circle of hell he lived in. From now on, the memory of her loss would be the first thing to peg her heart when she stirred each morning. She would dream occasionally that she and her child were reunited, only to have reality snatch that stubborn joy from her breast when she awoke.
Who was he to separate a mother from her son?
Never mind that Miguel was not of her blood. He was a part of her soul. As much as Silas had been a part of Solomon’s.
He owed her an apology—no, more than that. His repentance, no matter how honest, could not alleviate her loss or absolve his guilt.
“Forgive me,” he whispered at the ceiling, which seemed to ripple when viewed through the wetness in his eyes. “Jordan.” Her name felt strangely intimate upon his tongue. The memory of her lithe, wriggling body was so deeply impressed upon his senses that he responded sexually to it. He couldn’t think of her as Miss Bliss. That formality had been tossed aside the moment he’d glimpsed into her heart and recognized her selfless spirit.
He experienced a powerful yearning to see her again, to know her, in the Biblical sense. “Jordan,” he said again, hearing desire in his raspy whisper.
With sleep now hopeless, he swung his feet to the floor, dragged out the chair by his cot, and sat at the crude, metal desk.
“Wha’s going on?” muttered Harley, who raised his head off the cot by the wall.
“Nothing. Go back to sleep.” Solomon switched on the desk lamp. A search through the drawers turned up two tattered pieces of paper and a military-issue, ballpoint pen.
With the point of a pen centered in the lamp’s light, he began to write from his heart, in verse, a talent few people knew he possessed.
“To My Son,” he titled the poem.
By the time he’d finished, the light of the lamp was no longer needed. The sky had lightened to a purple-blue that was the exact color of Jordan Bliss’s eyes. The lines on the original poem had been scratched through and rewritten. Once the result was neatly transcribed to the second page, he felt a kinship with Jordan that overrode reason. He wanted to comfort her in person.
Hearing Harley stir, Solomon turned the light off, put the pen away, and slipped the paper into the drawer to be mailed later.
He’d absolved himself of his crime. But who could say whether the poem would bring solace or more despair?
Mantachie, Mississippi
“I gotta pee,” said a small voice in the back of Ellie’s 1983 Chevy Impala.
If Ellie Stuart weren’t just furious that her husband had forgotten that he had three sons, plus a nephew, all of whom were too hungry at eleven o’clock at night to sleep, she might have laughed at Silas’s predictable statement. The six-year-old had the bladder of a mouse.
“We’re here, sweetie,” she comforted, even as she signaled a left turn. “You can use the potty inside.”
They bounced into an unpaved parking lot, rutted with potholes and already crammed with cars. Spying Carl’s truck up close to the entrance, Ellie’s lips thinned. She parked her Impala between Carl’s truck and a telephone pole, ordered the boys to clamber out of one side and to hold hands while she pulled the sleeping baby from his car seat.
“Come on,” she urged the small troop, tugging them in a straggling line behind her.
The bar was dark and smoky and pounding with sultry music. Heads turned to speculate as Ellie shooed the boys into the bathroom. “Christopher,” she told the oldest, “make sure all of you wash your hands with soap. I’ll be over there”—she pointed toward the stage, where a scantily clad dancer was circling the center pole—“having words with your father.”
“Yes, Mama.” Christopher took his responsibilities seriously.
Which was more than could be said of Carl, who was so hypnotized by the dancer’s undulations that he failed to notice her approach. “Carl,” she said sharply. He swiveled with a gasp. “The boys are too hungry to sleep. I’ve come for some money to feed them.”
His astonishment shifted abruptly into apathy. “I ain’t got no money,” he protested, hiding the dollar bill in his left hand.
He was going to tip the dancer with it, Ellie realized, her fury mounting.
“Carl Louis Stuart,” she hissed, clutching baby Colton fiercely to her bosom, “how can you turn your back on your own children?” she demanded, blood roaring in her ears.
“Who says they’re even mine,” he sneered, not noticing the frowns gathering on the faces of men sitting near him.
“Three birth certificates and the state of Mississippi, that’s who!” Ellie retorted, shuddering with outrage.
“Well, that boy Silas ain’t mine,” he defended himself. “I don’t owe him nothin’. Here, take this.” He slapped the dollar onto the counter before him, dug into his pocket, and produced a handful of change. “It’s all I got,” he insisted.
With fingers that shook, Ellie snatched up the dollar as well as the change.
“Best get
yourself a job,” Carl added, before she could whirl away. “I sold that heap-o’-junk trailer you live in to Eddie Levi up the road. You got two weeks to move out of it.”
“What?” She felt the blood drain from her face. “You can’t do that.”
“’s been in my name all these years,” said Carl, sounding pleased with himself. “I can do as I damn well want.”
Hearing his speech slur, she realized he was drunk. In her fury, Ellie snatched up his mug of beer and tossed it in his face. With a roar, he stood up, hands going for her neck.
Men on either side leapt up to subdue him. Grinding her teeth to keep from shrieking, Ellie stalked away. Reasoning with Carl when he was drunk was a waste of time. He had to be taunting her, she reassured herself. He couldn’t have sold the trailer out from under them.
Seeing the boys emerge from the restroom, their wide eyes fastened on the dancer as she shrugged her top off, Ellie hurried over to usher them out of the bar. “Let’s go,” she called.
“How much did he give us?” Christopher wanted to know as they marched in a knot back to the car.
“Just get in,” said Ellie, through her teeth. Her throat ached with the need to scream out her frustrations. Only, she wouldn’t. Not in front of the boys.
She buckled in the baby, as Christopher, Caleb, and Silas wrestled over seat belts. Settling herself behind the wheel, Ellie counted the money still gripped in her hand. One dollar and seventy-six cents.
Feeling her eyes sting, she blinked back her tears. She could buy a box of macaroni and cheese and feed them all tonight. But what about tomorrow? The boys would starve at this rate.
You could call Social Services, suggested a voice in her head.
Never. She’d experienced firsthand what Social Services in the state of Mississippi did to families. It broke them apart. Her boys belonged together. They belonged with her. She’d sell her hair first, take in extra children, do whatever it took to keep from asking for a handout and getting screwed in return.
But if Carl had really sold the trailer, what then? They’d be living on the streets in two weeks. And in that case, she might not really have a choice.
Chapter Four
Rafe Valentino reached for the ringing phone with relief. He couldn’t keep his thoughts on his work long enough to be productive. “Valentino,” he rasped, praying for a big distraction.
“Hi, it’s Jillian.” Her voice was soft and subtle and, in some mysterious way, seemed to sink inside of him.
“Well, hello.” His heartbeat quickened with pleasure he didn’t want to analyze. It was Jillian who was widowed, not married. He hadn’t gotten used to thinking of her that way.
“I didn’t get a chance to thank you yesterday,” she admonished. “You disappeared right off the plane.”
“I had an emergency at the office,” he prevaricated. “Besides, you were there to greet your sister, not me.”
“True, but it would have been nice to thank you in person.”
“No need,” he reassured her. “Your sister is remarkable. How’s she settling in?”
“Oh, not too well. She looks and acts like a waif. She spends all of her time watching the news and nagging the adoption agency to see if Miguel’s dossier is back from the courts yet. I don’t suppose there’s anything the FBI can do to speed things up?”
“That’s beyond the scope of our powers I’m afraid,” he apologized.
“I thought so,” she said, sadly.
An awkward pause filled the phone lines.
“How are you doing?” Rafe asked to fill it. He really didn’t want to hear an answer. There wasn’t any question that she had to be struggling, that she could use all kinds of help, even his.
“Oh, hanging in there,” she said, with just a thread of desperation. “My therapy horses arrive in a week. I’m expecting my first patients shortly after that.”
“You’ll be busy,” he noted, wondering when she was supposed to fit in time for a baby.
“I was wondering if you’d like to come over for dinner this Friday,” she offered, unexpectedly, “to welcome Jordan back and to thank you for bringing her home.”
“I’ll need to check my calendar,” he replied, inexplicably panicked. Jillian was available. Available. “May I get back to you?”
“Of course.” Another awkward pause. “Rafael?”
The way she said his name made him feel like they were sitting next to each other. “Yes, Jillian.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about Gary.”
His breath caught.
“I just . . . I didn’t want to burden you with my situation, that’s all. It’s so tiring to explain what happened and then have to listen to people stutter through their condolences. I just want things to be normal again, not sad all the time, you know?”
“Yes,” he said, though he was a hypocrite to say so. But hearing her practically beg for a reason to be happy, he elected to accept her invitation to dinner. “My calendar looks clear on Friday,” he decided. “What time would you like me to arrive?”
“How about six?” she suggested, sounding relieved and grateful.
“I’ll be there,” he promised, hanging up quietly. He was pleased to have given her something to look forward to.
The record-breaking, late-July heat summoned a trickle of sweat between Jordan’s shoulder blades, just as it had in Venezuela. She’d give anything to be there and not at the front door of her condominium in Chesapeake, struggling to insert a key in the lock, weighted down by grocery bags and today’s mail.
The lock yielded with a click, and she stumbled inside. The condominium she had bought a year ago still smelled new, unlived in. As she dumped her groceries on the kitchen counter, the mail slipped free to scatter across the floor.
Blinking back tears of frustration, Jordan bent to scoop up the dozens of bills. She hadn’t had the courage yet to look into her finances, which were already strained from paying to fly to Venezuela.
An envelope addressed to her in a forceful scrawl caught her eye. She picked it up, her heart accelerating as she took note of the Venezuelan postage.
Laying the bills aside, she sat down at her dinette table and tore open the envelope, praying Father Benedict had written with news of Miguel. In confusion, she frowned at the small wrinkled page inside. A poem appeared to be written on it, entitled “To My Son.” Her gaze dropped to the signature at the bottom: Solomon McGuire, and her heart stopped.
McGuire. Mako. The senior chief whom she blamed for her separation from Miguel. Who’d have guessed he had a name like Solomon?
Intrigued, she read the poem, once quickly and then a second time, unable to reconcile the tender, poignant message with the one who sent it. My boy, he wrote, my beautiful, my own.
In disbelief, she sought a return address, but there wasn’t one.
She could scarcely comprehend it. He’d put into words her complete and utter despair at having had Miguel ripped from her arms. But how could he, unless he’d lived through something similar?
With a thoughtful frown, Jordan’s assumptions shifted, expanded, made room for the unthinkable. She laid the paper on the table and smoothed out the creases.
Perhaps she was wrong to have blamed him. The senior chief’s surliness might have been a reaction to the awful task ahead of him. Who but the most sensitive man could write, Is he my earthly ideal gone?
This was his way of apologizing. Only she would rather have someone to blame and rail against, wouldn’t she?
But there was something bittersweet in this apology, as well as an underlying communication of intimacy that made her feel exposed, like he’d glimpsed a side of her she’d vowed no man would ever see again.
At a loss as to what to do with the poem, Jordan stuck it back in the envelope and left it with the rest of her bills to deal with later.
She put her groceries away. As a part of her nightly ritual, she called Jillian and confirmed that she’d be over for dinner Friday night. Then she fixe
d supper and ate it standing up, her gaze straying thoughtfully to the envelope.
On her way to bed, she snatched it up and carried it upstairs, where she left it on her bedside table while she showered and dressed for bed. Turning out the light, she slipped under the covers and looked at the envelope, glowing like a ghost in the darkness.
The fact that Solomon McGuire, a stranger, recognized her pain made it all the more crushing. Turning her back on his missive, she grieved her loss. The memory of Miguel’s smile, his scent, his frail little arms clutching her neck, followed her into her dreams.
One of Solomon’s best-kept secrets was that he enjoyed puttering at the desk in his office at Spec Ops. Senior chiefs weren’t supposed to enjoy time spent in the office. Paperwork was for lowlier enlisted to generate and officers to sign.
But Solomon took private pleasure in anything associated with reading and writing. He knew for a fact he was better-read than his commanding officer. Lieutenant Commander Montgomery had a master’s degree in finance, but he didn’t own a library like the one on Solomon’s houseboat. Harley, who’d constructed the built-in shelves, had an inkling of the number of books that lined them, but not even Harley knew Solomon had read them all.
Back from a month’s TDY in Venezuela, Solomon was pleased to return to a desk overflowing with paper. He shut the door, cozied into his leather desk chair, and started sorting through it. It took an hour to come across a handwritten envelope that had been forwarded to the SPEC OPS building from his previous command post.
The return address of Mantachie, Mississippi, looked entirely unfamiliar, as did the neat script. He slit the envelope with his sterling-plated letter opener, finding two pages inside, a handwritten letter and the copy of a death certificate. Candy’s death certificate.
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