Not that his mom didn’t worry. All during Cooper’s boyhood, Mrs. Cooper would be at the back kitchen door holding back his dog, Bay. When Coop came home from school and started down the little rise that was the only “mountain” in the county, a whole one hundred feet tall, she would let Bay run out to meet him. That dog tried to break his timed runs every day. And every school day Coop would brace himself as the brown mutt leapt into the air to nearly tackle him in a belly-to-belly thing that could only be called a hug. He felt the arms and hands that dog never had, just in the way he crashed into him. Even the last time he was home and Bay was going on twelve. He still looked out the kitchen door, waiting for the little boy who was now a man and came less often.
Bay’s gone too. They’re all together now.
It looked like rain outside until Coop realized his eyes were filled with tears.
The plane had been emptied.
He grabbed his duffel, put on his canvas jacket with the SEAL Team 3 logo in black stitched onto the breast pocket.
The captain was just exiting the cockpit.
“Mornin’, son.”
That word again. Everyone’s calling me son.
Coop nodded in the captain’s direction and briskly walked by before he could be snagged in an unwanted conversation.
Music in the terminal was ridiculously loud and cheerful. Couldn’t they turn the goddamned thing down? Have a little respect for the dead?
Coop hunched his shoulders and sighed. He knew life went on. He just didn’t like to be reminded of it.
The funerals couldn’t be held in the church he was baptized in, because it was missing, as well as any evidence a family of Coopers ever existed on the face of the Nebraska earth. His grandpa would roll over in his grave, if they ever found his body, at being attended at a Unitarian church. The family had been Baptist since their folk came from Denmark to freely practice their religion, and try their hand at farming. They were three generations of Danish-American farmers who had lived in Nebraska for nearly a century. But now, it was like they had never existed.
Loraie Swensen was the church secretary in charge of making the arrangements. Coop listened to the order of service and approved everything except the last hymn.
“Well, we always play Will The Circle Be Unbroken at our funerals,” she said.
“Look, Mrs. Swensen. You can play anything you like when your family passes. Mine is going to be sent home with Rock of Ages, and that’s that.”
He didn’t look back at her because he knew she sported an un-Christian-like expression he didn’t need to see. Not in his home county, in the land of milk and honey.
Pastor Jepsen droned on and on over the collection of five adult-sized coffins, and one casket half the size of the others. Coop counted them several times during the service to keep from falling asleep. There was Mama, Dad, Grandpa Iverson, who was Mom’s dad, Coop’s sister Gayle, her husband Butch, and their little daughter Camilla, aged three. The last time he’d seen her she was sporting butterfly wings—part of her Halloween costume.
All of the boxes were empty, as far as he knew. Of course he never asked. Sheriff Lanning had been efficient, ogling Coop’s tattoos and itching to hear war stories Coop wasn’t going to give him. But he said, matter-of-factly, it was a blessing nothing could be found. Saved Coop from the identification process.
When Coop speared him with his blue eyes, Sheriff Lanning shrugged. “God, Coop. I don’t know what to say here.”
Try saying they’re coming back.
But of course, the gentleman was a fine lawman, even if he wasn’t a believer. And these past few days were probably totally shitty. And going to get shittier.
At the gravesite, Cora Newsome, sitting in the middle of the crowd, laid a plant on him with her big blue eyes he could feel, just like in high school. She would always be a looker. Married right after graduation to the guy who knocked her up and then the man did the only decent thing he’d done in his life—left her for someone else. Cora still had her figure. The lively white-blond five-year-old daughter in black Mary Janes and deep velvet blue dress looked like a handful, all right. The little one reminded him of his niece he was burying today. He tried to avert his eyes each time Cora leaned over to hush her daughter to silence.
Cooper got a good view down Cora’s ample chest—something he used to dream about at night all during high school. He’d lay in bed thinking about what those pillows of flesh felt like in his callused hands as he listened to the crickets outside. She caught him looking, and smiled. During the freaking funeral!
You’re one sorry son of a gun.
He tried to stem the tide of erotic pictures staring Cora and how she could perform unspeakable acts of passion. She could love all his anger right off, as easy as washing a car. She used to stand in front of him with those tits she’d unload into his hands after football games, and he’d practically come before he could get properly naked. But that was then. This is now—and-what-the-hell-am-I-doing?
Now he was at the funeral for his dead family. And then he was going to get the hell out of this town and go dodge enemy fire. Or jump HALO at midnight.
For fun.
After the service, he accepted Cora’s kind invitation to have a little dinner, along with the unspoken promise of a tasty dessert of the flesh. The little one said her goodnights in a pair of pink-footed pajamas—even planted a kiss on his cheek. Cora beamed and told him with bedroom eyes she’d be right back.
What the hell am I doing here? He didn’t come here to get laid, but he needed it anyway. Cora was a sure thing, but not an easy out. It wasn’t about cheating on Daisy. The real problem was it might get complicated when he tried to leave. Though his body wanted some soft flesh to help him forget, his mind told him to wait.
Cora came back from putting her daughter to bed. “You want another beer, Cooper?” she said in a husky voice.
“No. I’ve had enough. This was real nice, Cora. I appreciate it.”
She swung around, surprised, as he stood up. “You don’t have to go just yet.” She walked toward him, then leaned her large chest against his and rubbed him from side to side. “I thought we were going to get caught up.” She put her arms up around his neck and stood on tiptoes. Just the way she used to do.
“Much as I’d love to, honey, I just can’t.” He extricated her arms but then bent down and kissed her on the lips.
It was clearly a mistake.
She melted into him. And damn, it had been years since he’d met someone who could kiss as good as Cora, so he talked himself into a few minutes of fooling around until his hand found her panties under her skirt and she had encircled his cock with her left hand. Everything moved at lightning speed and within seconds he found himself pressing against her body with most of his clothes still on. She’d tried to unzip him, her hands in his pants, making him ache for her. But he just couldn’t, for some reason.
His last vision of her was as she lay across her overstuffed living room couch, unfulfilled lust in her eyes, the Disney movie her daughter had been watching earlier playing in the background.
He said his good byes, retreating to a cheap motel just off the freeway. Tomorrow he’d fly out of here, and who knew when he’d return, if ever. He decided he’d try to get one last look at the area the farm had been on his way to the airport.
Next morning he wondered why he didn’t feel anything as he drove down the two-lane highway towards Pender. Maybe he was dead. Maybe he had a date with death. Maybe a stray bullet would get him. Or a rocket-propelled grenade. He just hoped it would be quick, now that there was little to live for. Only bad thing was the verbal thrashing he’d get from his dad when he got to Heaven.
Tell mom I’m coming home soon, dad. Don’t let Bay get fat.
When he got to where the homestead had been, he got out and trudged unseeing over the muddy ground, barely noticing the thick black ooze of that fertile soil he’d plowed for more than a dozen years, ever since he could reach the shift lever
s on the big tractor. He could almost smell the fresh cinnamon buns his mother made in the mornings. And the fresh coffee. They’d be out there from sunup, and when they came in for breakfast, it was the best meal of the day for him.
Several summers ago his dad had built a summer kitchen for his mom for her canning. She had put away so many fruits and vegetables in their cool barn, she could have fed half the state with her award-winning preserves and canned fruits. His dad never could afford big combines, since they paid cash for everything. The family didn’t trust those big machines with state-of-the-art computers and satellite link to digitally add soil conditioner and seed. Mr. Cooper strictly relied on mother nature, good luck and the good Lord, in that order, to provide what they needed. Their farm equipment cost less than a tenth of what other farmers used. Coop knew how to fix everything. And the family hadn’t been in debt, since his dad didn’t believe in credit. He shook his head.
If you can’t pay cash, you don’t deserve to own it, his dad had always said.
But this, this was something they had never planned for, talked about. This was something he’d seen overseas in those hellholes. Not here. Not to him. Not to his family.
He wiped a tear from his eye and walked up the little hill that used to overlook the farm. The ground was steaming as sunlight poured silently down all around him. The row of birch trees beside the back porch of the farmhouse was gone. Limbs and pieces of wood siding lay scattered, sometimes stuck into the ground at odd angles. The birds did not sing.
He thought he could hear Bay barking, just like when he came home from school. He knew his mind was playing a trick on him. The incessant barking got louder, and echoed, unlike any vision he’d had before. He turned his back on the farm’s location. Off in the distance a brown dog was trying to run, but was limping with a lame front leg.
“Bay?” He wasn’t sure at first it could be, but then he found himself running to the disheveled animal. The mutt squealed in pain as he hugged his friend—pain from the wound on his front paw, mirroring Cooper’s own pain at the loss of his family.
He examined the dog quickly and confirmed that, yes, God had granted him this tiny miracle after all.
Chapter 3
Libby Brownlee turned down the tree-lined street of her old neighborhood, past endless Spanish-style mansions protected by red tiled roofs and manicured front lawns worthy of any world class PGA course. It had been three months, and she needed to be back home. This time, she needed to see her parents—especially her dad. It had bothered her when he’d sounded somewhat distracted on the phone when she called him yesterday, informing them of the visit. Was there something wrong?
How stupid.
Although she was twenty-four, she was still trying please him, as she had her whole life. Her mother never interfered with this strong father-daughter bond, so Libby enjoyed almost unlimited access to him. They shared an open and frank relationship.
Am I running to them or running away from Santa Clara? It didn’t matter, she decided. She just needed to be home.
But Libby also knew lately there were dark, private places where Dr. Brownlee chased the shadows of his past—a past involving the death of his twin brother, Will, who never came home from Grenada.
Libby’s older brother was married to a woman the entire family had a hard time getting along with. They had children, but rarely came to visit. Though she and her father were inseparable as she was growing up, she and her brother had never been close. Their relationship was complicated, she thought. Libby enjoyed being single and not in any hurry to take the plunge, she wasn’t interested in jumping right into a career or family, like her father and brother had. She wanted to live a little—outside of the Petri dish of academia.
Her dad was gardening near the front steps of their peach-colored estate. A row of palm trees grew alongside the curved driveway. She parked her Classic white 1966 Mercedes convertible out at the curb in front.
Two things she was sure about. For starters, she wouldn’t tell them about her situation with Dr. Gerhardt. That just wasn’t something she wanted to burden her parents with. She was handling it by removing herself from the situation, for now. The second thing was that she needed to tell them about her decision to drop out of school for a semester. She’d tell them she needed time off to travel, get out from under the grind of her studies, so she could go back and resume her Master’s in Psychology. She was a little uneasy about that part, and knew her father would be concerned.
He frowned as he stood up and adjusted his back, like a day laborer, rather than like the most respected psychiatrist in San Diego. Tall and thin, he was tanned, his silver and black hair tied neatly in a short ponytail at the back of his neck. With his stunning good looks, he was often mistaken for an actor.
“Bad actor is more like it,” he would say in response to the comment. Behind her soft-spoken hero of a dad, Libby knew there was a man of steel, with an ego rarely seen in public.
“Hey, Dad.” Libby rushed to his side. Dr. Brownlee barely had time to dust his dirty hands before his daughter was in his arms. The reassuring scent of him set her mind at ease, and she found herself tearing up as he held her. She gave him a peck on the cheek, which tasted salty. He released her quickly, and stiffened.
“You’re an hour early,” he said with a frown. Libby thought he looked a little pale.
“So I’ll just go down to the harbor and have a cappuccino and wait, would that be more acceptable?”
He winced and nodded. “Very perceptive of you. Sorry. I’ve got a lot on my mind.” He placed an arm over her shoulder.
“I noticed.” She pointed to the hose that was flooding the border chrysanthemums he had just planted. The overflow had already floated one plant halfway down the lawn.
Dr. Brownlee was quick to shut off the brass hose faucet. He picked up his gloves, which he usually wore but hadn’t today, and motioned for her to follow him to the house.
“Let me get my things.” Libby headed toward the car and, over her shoulder, saw her father retreat into the ornate Spanish metal and glass door without waiting to take her bag.
Something’s definitely wrong. But thank God I’m home.
Inside the two-story bright foyer of the home where she had grown up, she felt safe from the rest of the crazy world. Coming back was always a good thing. Wherever else she lived, this was always home.
“Sweetheart,” her mother said, arms outstretched. Even in her difficult undergraduate years, it had been soothing to be bathed in her mother’s embrace. She’d missed them both.
Her mom was wearing yoga pants and a halter top. It was she who picked up Libby’s bag and began the long climb up the wrought-iron spiral staircase as Dr. Brownlee wandered distractedly out through the kitchen to the pool area in the backyard.
Libby decided to pose the question, even though she knew she’d never get an honest answer. “So what’s up with Dad? He all right?”
“Sure, sweetie. But you know your dad. He’s been working long hours. I made him take a couple of days off.”
“I’ve never heard of such a thing in this household. A couple of days off? Now I know something’s wrong.”
“Silly,” her mother laughed as she pinched Libby’s nose. “None of us is getting any younger. Your father has a big birthday this year.”
“So he’s not perfect? I thought he was immortal.”
“No. He’s just a man, not like those alpha vampire hunks in those books you read.”
“Education, Mom. All part of my education.”
“Well, I’d rather you read about it than…”
“Too much information, Mom.”
The two women entered Libby’s old bedroom, and she was thrilled at the sight of Noodles, her cat, curled up in the center of her white canopy bed.
“He’s there every day. Likes to take his afternoon naps there. Won’t sleep anywhere else,” her mother said.
“Noodles, I’ve missed you,” Libby said.
The big cat s
tretched and then rolled over on his back, looking at Libby upside down. She rubbed his huge belly. The cat feigned a defensive attack on her hand.
“You’re the only cat I’ve met who gets fat on Chinese food,” she laughed.
“He’d eat it every day, if we could afford it,” her mother said. “You picked out the perfect name for him.”
Libby turned to Noodles. “You live one of your past lives in an emperor’s palace in China?” Libby’s dad had found the kitten abandoned behind a Chinese restaurant, and Libby had nursed him to health one summer between semesters at Santa Clara.
“I think he sleeps here, just waiting for you to come home for good,” her mother said.
“Wish I could take him. If I had my own house—”
“He’s no bother. We don’t mind,“ Mrs. Brownlee said.
“Probably a lot safer here than with all the traffic in San Jose.” Libby’s insides clenched as she realized she also didn’t feel safe there anymore.
Libby started to unpack, hanging up a dress and cardigan sweater. When she flipped back the top of the suitcase, her eyes glanced over her favorite toy as a child: an almost hairless brown Cocker Spaniel stuffed dog with big chocolate-colored eyes. It had a talking chord to a voice box long since silenced.
“So you’ve been keeping a watchful eye on my room, Morgan, hmmm?” She grabbed the toy and held it to her chest. Her mom smiled back at her, stepped closer and sifted her fingers through Libby’s hair.
“Nice to have you back home, even if it’s for a little while. A week is it?”
“Um hum.”
“Everything okay, Libby?” her mother asked.
Uh oh, I’m on my mother’s radar. She straightened her spine. “I’m fine, Mom. Just needed a little mom and dad face time.” She smiled back at her mother, hoping that would end the inquiry.
“Won’t this interfere with school?” her mom continued to probe.
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