Troubleshooters 05 Into The Night

by Suzanne Brockmann

"I didn't," she admitted as he started raking again. Some of the plants in there were still alive, and he was as careful of them as he was of every living thing he encountered. "I guessed. I hoped. I... I mink my husband wants a divorce." Her voice wobbled, but somehow she kept herself from actually sobbing. "He told me this morning that we have to sit down and talk after President Bryant's visit is over."

  She may not have been crying, but she sounded as if she was going to start any second.

  Ihbraham sighed and leaned his rake against the side of the house. Taking her hand, he led her the few steps to the front stoop and together they sat down.

  "I am sorry to hear that," he said. "But I think it's good that you're finally going to talk with him."

  "You said you need to work," she said, staring down at her hand still engulfed in his. Her fingers were so pale against his dark skin.

  "Not as much, I think, as you need me to listen." His smile was a mixture of sad and kind. She had to look away and blink hard to keep her tears from escaping. "Tell me why you think that your husband is so set on divorce. Sam, right?"

  She nodded. "His real name's Roger, but everyone calls him Sam." Who cared what everyone called him? Her entire world was crumbling. "He told me he was unhappy. He said he knew I was unhappy, too."

  "Are you?"

  "Yes," she admitted. "I'm miserable. You know that better than anyone."

  "And do you want to divorce him?" Ihbraham asked.

  "No!"

  He gently released her hand. "Why is it then, that you can be unhappy and yet not wish for a divorce, yet be so certain that this is what he wants?"

  "Because I'm not screwing around on the side the way he is." Even as she said the words, she knew they weren't really true. She believed Sam when he'd said he hadn't been with Alyssa since they were married.

  But the fact remained that he still wanted Alyssa. He dreamed about her. He thought about her. He closed his eyes when he was with Mary Lou—back in the days when they were still having sex—and pretended he was with Alyssa. She knew it.

  "He hasn't touched me in months," Mary Lou confessed. "If he's not cheating on me, that means he'd rather go without sex than be with me." And wasn't that a terrible thought? This time she couldn't do anything to stop the tears that rolled down her cheeks. "Am I really that fat and ugly?"

  Ihbraham shook his head. "Maybe he refrains from touching you because he knows you don't love him."

  "But I do." Although even as she said the words, she knew they weren't true. "I did. I thought I did. Lord, he's so different than he was when we first met. I guess that's not a huge surprise since all we did together was get drunk and have sex. Now we do neither. Is it really any wonder we don't have anything in common? I hate all the movies and books that he loves. His eyes glaze over when I want to talk about fixing up the house. Okay, we both like country music, but I can't go out to a bar without fear of falling off the wagon—so much for dancing. As if I even could get him to do something like dance anymore. He's so tense and angry and... dark. When we first met he was such a party boy. Everything was a joke, a good laugh. Mercy, that smile... But he's not like that at all. Not really. He scares me to death sometimes."

  Ihbraham looked at her sharply. "Does he beat you?"

  "No! I think he'd rather die before hitting a woman," Mary Lou said. "I just... I think he's seen and done some really terrible things. You know, in this war. And he's been fighting it for a long time—long before September eleventh. I don't want to hear about it, which is good because he's not allowed to tell me much. But when he can talk about it, I just don't want to know. I want him to be that man who smiles and laughs all the time, the man I met back in the bar. I don't want to see him start to cry."

  "You married more than a smile and some laughter," Ihbraham said gently. "You married an entire man. Laughter is just a very small part of any person."

  "No kidding." She hugged her knees in to her chest, resting her chin on top of them. "I think I always knew there was more to Sam than he let on. He always scared me a little. But back then I liked that, too. SEALs always came into the bar, and everyone was in such total awe of them. Everyone. The guys, too. I thought if I could get a man like that, then I'd be special. I thought, oh, my Lord, what it would be like to spend the rest of my life with someone like that... I thought, if I could get Sam to marry me, I'd work my ass off to make sure that he'd never leave me. And then I'd always be special, and I'd always have someone to take care of me. I'd never have to worry about anything again and..."

  Mary Lou wiped her nose with her soggy sleeve. "I'm good in bed. I am." She laughed ruefully. "Or at least I was. I was sure once I got Sam into bed he wouldn't want to leave, but then he started making noises like he was going to break it off with me, and I just... I got so scared."

  Dear Jesus Lord, she was actually going to tell Ihbraham this, wasn't she?

  "My sister, Janine, she lives in Florida now, she told me ..." Mary Lou took a deep breath and said it. She had to say it—she had to tell someone and she trusted Ihbraham as much as she'd ever trusted anybody. "She told me that if I got pregnant, Sam would marry me—he was that kind of guy— and then I'd have him forever. He'd never leave. And then she gave me this box of condoms to use next time he came over. She didn't say anything, and I didn't ask, but I knew. I pretended I didn't, but I did. She must've done something to them, so that they wouldn't work right. And sure enough, I got pregnant. And sure enough, he married me, and I'm so ashamed, because I knew. I knew. And this is my punishment now, it must be, catching up with me. I'm completely miserable. I hate my life. I'm married to a man who doesn't love me, who never loved me. I tricked him into marrying me and now he's going to leave me anyway."

  Ihbraham was silent, and she closed her eyes, afraid to look at him, afraid that he hated her now. He had every right to—she was despicable. She prayed for him to say something.

  "It is my thinking that this kind of man, a man who would take responsibility for his actions, wouldn't simply desert you," he said. "If you really want my opinion—

  "I do." She risked a look at him. He wasn't smiling, but his eyes weren't cold and angry, the way he'd looked at his brothers. His eyes were filled with sympathy and sadness.

  "You've made a mess," Ihbraham told her, not unkindly.

  "And now Haley is caught in the middle of it, too. It's not just you and Sam anymore."

  "I know that."

  "Sam deserves to know this difficult truth which you have told me."

  Oh, shit. Sam was the last person she was going to tell. "If he finds out, he's going to be so mad—at me and at Janine, too. I can't—"

  "Maybe Janine deserves some of that anger. It was not her place to play God."

  "She did it because she loves me," Mary Lou defended her sister. "She might be the only one on this planet besides Haley who does!"

  "Yet she made it impossible for you to have an honest relationship with your husband. Do you really wonder why you've been so unhappy? Burdened with the weight of your deceit?"

  His words twisted her insides and made her too upset even to cry. Deceit! "You think I'm awful, don't you? Oh, Lord, you're right."

  "I think you are human," he told her in his gentle, musical voice. "Everyone who is human makes mistakes. But not everyone attempts to repair them. Not everyone fights to stay sober the way you have fought. Not everyone loves their children as much as you do. Not everyone would take the time to give friendship to a mentally ill neighbor. Not everyone stops to see another person beneath the color of skin or an Arabic name in these difficult times."

  He was listing her virtues, but Lord help her, didn't he have that last one completely wrong?

  "Alyssa's black," she told him, needing him to know just how awful she truly was. "Did I ever tell you that?"

  He frowned slightly. "Alyssa... ?"

  "The woman Sam's hot for. After I met her, I said some things that weren't very nice. She was so beautiful and thin and I'm so fat. And he's more
than hot for her," she corrected herself. "He actually wanted to marry her, which is completely insane."

  Ihbraham thought about that. "Because he's white and she's not?" he asked.

  "Don't you think that would be cruel to their children? Which world would they belong to?"

  "The last time I checked there was only one world," he countered mildly.

  "That's not true," she argued. "And you know it. You wouldn't go to that meeting because it was in a part of town where you don't feel safe. And I'm sure there are parts of this city you could go where /wouldn't feel safe."

  "And for that—because of that—you'd throw away a chance for love, for real happiness?"

  "What if they had a son?" Mary Lou said. "How is Sam supposed to raise a son who's black? How is that black child going to feel being shut out of his father's world? It's way harder for a young black man to succeed in America than a young white man. You can't deny that."

  "So you think it's better simply not to have a life filled with love and sweet children like Haley than it is to try to change these different angry worlds and make them one good place where everyone is welcome?"

  "Change it, yeah," Mary Lou said. "Like that's going to happen in this lifetime."

  "So should all non-white men and women in America therefore stop having children simply because life will be harder for them than it will be for your white children? And what about Haley?" he asked. "Haven't you given her her own burden? Alcoholism can be hereditary-—I'm sure this is something you know. And this is your potential gift to her, just as my son—were I to have one—would be born with his own struggles to endure."

  Mary Lou started crying again. That was no fair. This wasn't about Haley. He shouldn't have brought her into it. And yet she knew he was right.

  "I should never have had her," she sobbed. "I know it."

  "But you did." Ihbraham stood up and started raking again, his movements almost jerky. "So take full responsibility. Be honest—both with yourself and Sam. See what happens. Maybe you will be able to start over with him. Maybe if you

  try to understand and accept him as a complete man things will be better between you. Maybe you'll fall in love with him and he'll fall in love with you. The honest you. The one whom you show to me all the time. Not this deceitful person who lives in his house, cowering with all her fear and shame."

  Oh, Lord, he was right again. She had been cowering.

  "What if he kicks me out?" she asked.

  "What if he doesn't?"

  "Yeah, but what if he does? Or what if he moves out?" She had to know. "Will you help me? I need to know that you'll help me. Ihbraham, please, I really need you to be my sponsor right now. I need to know that I have someone to go to, someone to trust, if things get really bad Please!'

  He stopped raking. Opened his mouth. Shut his mouth. Shook his head. Started raking again. "I can't be your sponsor. No. I'm sorry."

  "Why not?"

  He just shook his head.

  Her voice came out sounding very small. "Is it because you hate me now after hearing all of this?"

  He laughed at that. "No, I don't hate you."

  "Then why?" She didn't believe him.

  Ihbraham looked at her and sighed. "You really must know?"

  "Yes," she said.

  He put down his rake and held out his hand to her. "Come here."

  Mary Lou didn't hesitate. She stood up and went to him willingly. Took his hand.

  "Don't be so sad," he told her. "Today is a good day to start fresh, to change all that you don't like about your life, so don't cry anymore, little one, okay?"

  He pulled her close, into an embrace, and she held him just as tightly as he held her, her face against his shoulder, against the soft, sweet-smelling cotton of his T-shirt. She could feel his cheek against the top of her head.

  "I'm so glad you don't hate me," she whispered, finally lifting her head to look up at him. "But I don't understand—"

  He kissed her.

  She saw it coming, saw his gaze flicker down to her mouth, saw him slowly lower his head and...

  His lips were unbelievably soft and he tasted just as exotic as he always smelled. His beard and mustache were raspy against her cheeks and chin, but not as rough as Sam's perpetual two-day-old stubble.

  His kiss was so much like Ihbraham himself—gentle but in complete command. He knew exactly where he was going and how to get there as he kissed her deeper, longer, his hands sliding down and across her back, pulling her in to him.

  It was meltingly lovely. It was heart-stoppingly perfect. It was completely, shockingly exactly what she so desperately wanted.

  A man she really liked—who wanted her the way she longed to be wanted.

  Except he was black. Or brown. Certainly non-white.

  Although who the hell could tell what color either of them were while her eyes were closed, while she was kissing him?

  Of course, anyone watching could certainly see.

  Mary Lou jerked back away from him and he instantly let her go. And there she stood, staring up at him in shock.

  He'd kissed her. And she'd kissed him back.

  And she wanted to kiss him again.

  She couldn't look at him. She had to turn away. Her head was spinning.

  "This is why I must not be your sponsor," he said in his same musical, gentle voice, as if whatever had been left of her uncertain world hadn't just collapsed into rubble and dust. "My friendship for you is no longer just a friendship. So you see, it would be inappropriate for me to offer you guidance or counseling of any kind. I could not trust myself not to take advantage of your trust. You need a sponsor with no ulterior motives, Mary Lou."

  She didn't know what to say, what to do.

  "Go home," he commanded her. "Go and talk to Sam. Tell him the truth and then figure out a way you both can be happy. If you truly let him know you, I'm certain that he'll come to love you, too."

  She turned, and ran for her car.

  * * *

  "So," Vince said. "Hawaii, 2003."

  Charlie looked up from the kitchen table, where piles of papers were spread out around her. She was, quite possibly, the only person in America who did her taxes in early November, because once the holiday season started, "things got too hectic."

  Hello! January, anyone?

  But no. That tax return had to be sent as close to January the first as possible, in order to properly conclude the previous year. And if she did most of the work now, then all that was left to do during the busy holiday months was just wait for the bank's and other documents to arrive.

  And hope to hell that if they finally did win the lottery, they'd earn enough to be able to afford to pay an accountant to fill out those forms all over again.

  But really, how could he complain? All he had to do was sign his name on the line that Charlie pointed to. God bless her for doing all the work, for taking care of the details of their lives, for doing the things that would have made him pull out all of his remaining hair.

  "You really want to go to Hawaii next year?" she asked him, those little worry lines appearing on her forehead between her eyes.

  "We've never been," Vince said. "Maybe it's time, huh?"

  She was silent, just looking at him, and he felt a stab of doubt. Maybe she really didn't want to see Pearl Harbor, to see where James had died, to visit his grave. Maybe—even after all these years—that would be too hard for her.

  Maybe he was the one who needed her to go there to see those things. Maybe he was the fool who needed to be sure James Fletcher truly had been laid to rest.

  All these years, and he could read Charlie's mind. Except when it came to James.

  Ignore him and maybe he'll go away. And if he doesn't, well, just be glad that out of the three people in the room, you're one of the ones who's still alive. Vince had lived for years with that philosophy.

  Don't mention him, don't talk about him, don't think about him if you can help it.

  There had actually bee
n weeks—months, even—during which Vince hadn't had a single thought about Charlie's first husband.

  But James had always come back.

  James had been there, in spirit at least, at every crucial, important moment in Vince and Charlie's lives.

  It was James who had finally gotten him in to talk to someone important about Tarawa, about his hopes that a special team of swimmers could be formed to keep such disasters from happening again.

  He'd woken up that morning—the one after that night with Charlotte that had been such a mixture of sheer pleasure and pain—to find she'd slipped a note under his door.

  He'd reached for it with dread, praying it wasn't another apology.

  Vincent, it said in Charlie's no-nonsense handwriting. Please get dressed today in your uniform. We have an appointment at eleven o 'clock.

  He was probably the only man on earth who'd walked into a meeting with FDR, disappointed to be at the White House.

  He'd hoped, right up to the minute that he and Charlotte had climbed into the taxi, that they were going to Maryland, where a marriage could be performed without any delay.

  But Charlie had had something else in mind.

  Apparently when James had won that posthumous Medal of Honor, there was a big ceremony at the White House honoring all of the heroes of that terrible day. Charlie had been supposed to attend, but she'd had the flu. President Roosevelt had extended an invitation to her to visit him at the White House at her convenience—provided his schedule allowed.

  And that January morning in 1944, his schedule apparently allowed.

  "Be concise and to the point," Charlotte instructed Vince quietly as they were escorted to the Oval Office.

  "Thank you for doing this," he said. He knew his words were inadequate. She was giving him a chance—a slim chance, but a chance nonetheless—to participate in this war in a way that could make a difference.

  And probably get him killed.

  He saw that in her eyes, loud and clear, despite the fact that her face was a calm mask. "Yes," she said. "Well. No doubt I'll regret it."

  And then there they were. Face-to-face with the President.

  Vince could remember reaching across the huge desk to shake FDR's hand. He had no idea what he'd said.