The Best We've Been

by Beth K. Vogt

  Not anymore. I was happy—determined to be happy—with who I was. With my future, which now included being a single mom. There was no need to prolong this unnecessary conversation.

  As Dr. Lerner and Axton excused themselves, I forced myself to focus on Beckett. “What do you want?”

  “It’s nice to see you, too, Johanna.” Beckett slid into the seat Axton had vacated.

  “Please.” I was tempted to stay standing, but that would be childish. I would sit and have an adult conversation with my ex-fiancé. “This is not about ‘good morning’ and ‘how are you,’ Beckett. What do you want?”

  “Fine. We can skip the pleasantries. I want to be part of my child’s life.”

  “We’ve already had this discussion. Not an option.”

  “I have rights as the baby’s father.”

  “Only if your name is on the birth certificate.” That wasn’t true, but it didn’t sound as if Beckett had done his homework. Yet. Time to bluff.

  “You’re not going to put my name on the birth certificate?”

  “There’s no need to if I don’t want you to pay child support. And I don’t need you to.” A warm thrill coursed through my body as I spoke those words aloud.

  “What about what I want?”

  “Our relationship was always about what you wanted, Beckett. I just didn’t realize it.”

  “You’re going to throw that in my face every time you see me?” Beckett glanced around the room as if to make sure no one else had heard what I’d said.

  “Does that bother you?” I leaned back, assuming a relaxed posture. “We can solve that pretty easily. Stop showing up in my life.”

  “I might have agreed to that—before I found out you were pregnant.”

  “Since when did you become so paternal? Being a playboy hardly goes with wanting to be a good dad.”

  The quick hiss of Beckett’s breath told me that my comment had found an unexpected mark. I’d tossed the words carelessly, like someone would drop a used match to the ground, not aware there was still heat, still a spark lingering.

  For a moment, victory flared inside me, but then the darkening of his eyes, the tightening of his jaw, caused me to brace myself.

  Beckett slammed his hand down on the smooth tabletop, seemingly ignorant that several people glanced our way as he leaned toward me. “Don’t talk to me about fathers, Johanna.” His eyes narrowed. “And stop acting like you know all about me. Because you don’t.”

  We stared at one another until Beckett put space between us—and I could breathe again.

  “You can fight me all you want on this, but you won’t win. I am this baby’s father just as much as you are his mother. And I am not going to have my kid show up on my doorstep when he’s eighteen and ask me where I’ve been all his life.”

  I was talking with a stranger. I’d seen laid-back Beckett. Seductive Beckett. Intense Beckett—when it came to his work in the Air Force. But I’d never seen threatening Beckett. “It’s just like you to show up, confront me . . . and then assume this baby is a boy.”

  I gripped my hands beneath the table. When I was researching maternity leave, I should have done a more detailed search on paternity laws. But I still had time. And I was a fast learner.

  “This has all been very interesting. Quite an unexpected start to my day.” I rose to my feet, surprised that my knees shook a bit. Beckett didn’t need to know he’d reduced me to a nervous cliché. “And now I need to go to work.”

  “We’re not done talking.”

  “Yes, we are. You’re the one who chose to show up here, unannounced.”

  “Like you’d answer a phone call.”

  “You’re correct. I wouldn’t answer a call from you. But that doesn’t give you the right to intrude in my professional life and start demanding that I do what you want.”

  “Johanna, you know I’m only asking for what’s fair and legal.”

  Beckett was wrong. I didn’t know what was legal. But I was going to find out.

  “I know you want what you want—now. But you’re only here at the Air Force Academy for a few more months. And then who knows where you’ll be stationed.”

  “I’ll request a follow-on assignment at the academy. Or Schriever. Or Peterson.”

  “There’s no guarantee—”

  “Then I’ll retire and stay here.”

  I gripped the back of the wooden chair I’d just vacated to maintain my balance. If I wasn’t careful, I’d ruin my French manicure.

  “All those times I asked you to get stationed here for us, to consider retiring here . . . and you never would. Now . . . now that I’m pregnant, you expect me to believe you’ll give up your oh-so-important career for a baby?”

  “Not a baby—our baby. My baby.”

  Beckett might as well have told me he was willing to take a vow of celibacy.

  I wanted to laugh. To cry.

  To smack his handsome face.

  But I wouldn’t let him know how much he’d hurt me. Again.

  The muted ring of his phone diverted Beckett’s attention and he started to reach for it but stopped.

  “Oh, go ahead and take the call, Beckett.” I backed away from the table. “I don’t care who you talk to anymore—even, what was her name? Iris. It’s none of my business.”

  “We’re not done here—”

  “Oh yes, we are. We’re done. You just need to realize that.”

  And as his phone rang again, I retreated.

  When I’d left Beckett, I’d planned on going to my office, not to the atrium.

  My overwhelming desire was to get out of the cafeteria. To get away from Beckett and how the ring of his phone threw me all the way back to the day in my bedroom when Iris called and I found out he was cheating on me. Away from his proclamations about changing his life for a baby.

  Our baby.

  My baby.

  All our years together, he’d refused again and again to move to Colorado. And now he was ready to move to the Springs. To get assigned here. Or to retire.

  How noble of him.

  After calling him every offensive name I could think of under my breath—and repeating a few of them for good measure—I found myself sitting on the piano bench. I unclenched my fists but couldn’t bring myself to touch the keys. The last time I’d been here, I’d recorded a song for Payton. For her wedding. I’d told myself the decision was a onetime break of my vow to never go near a piano.

  And yet, here I was.

  Just like the year in college when I decided to stop eating carbs. I did fine, so long as I avoided any and all carbs. Chips. Bread. Cake. Mashed potatoes—and I loved mashed potatoes. I survived fine with a strict no-carb policy until I came home for Christmas and Mom set her traditional smashed potatoes on the table. I couldn’t say no—didn’t want to say no—and decided to have a dollop. And another. And another. And my no-carb decision was derailed for good.

  I positioned my hands so the smooth keys were beneath my fingertips. Then I moved my hands back and forth, finding the notes to the song I’d created for Payton. The melody seemed to travel up my arms, easing the tightness in my shoulders and neck.

  I allowed my fingers to keep moving along the keys. To recall songs I hadn’t played in years. I tried not to mind that my playing wasn’t flawless, urging my hands to find the right position, the right sense of rhythm the first time, despite my lack of practice, the years and years away from music.

  I knew this. I knew this still.

  And then . . . then I stopped.

  Someone was watching me.

  I opened my eyes. A woman about my age stood nearby. She smiled, motioning to the piano. “Keep playing, please.”

  I flexed my fingers and tucked my hands into my lap. “I’m not that good.”

  “Not that good? That was beautiful. I recognized most everything you played, but not the first song. What was it?”

  “You were here the entire time?”

  “Well, yes. You were enjoying your
self—and I assure you, the people walking by enjoyed it, too.”

  People walking by . . . Oh, this was getting worse and worse.

  “If you tell me what the first song was, I can look for sheet music. I’d love to play it the next time I’m here.”

  “The next time . . . Are you here to play the piano?”

  “Yes. I volunteer when I can.”

  I pushed the bench away from the piano, the scrape of the feet against the tile floor echoing in the silence. “Don’t let me stop you.”

  Here I was, some kind of impostor, when this woman played the piano. She carried a worn leather satchel filled with tattered music books. How long had she been playing if she still needed sheet music?

  That was none of my business. Just because she used sheet music didn’t mean she wasn’t talented.

  “You work at the hospital, then?” She scanned my white lab coat.

  “Yes, I’m a pharmacist.” She wore a flowing dress, short hair covered in a tribal print wrap. No lab coat or name tag to indicate what she did for a living. “You?”

  “I work in billing. And like I said, sometimes I come in and play the piano.”

  “Why?”

  “Why? You mean, why do I volunteer? You can hear the piano from the billing section of the hospital. Sometimes the patients comment on how nice it is to have music in the hospital. You don’t always get the best interactions with patients when you’re discussing their bills.” The woman smiled and shrugged. “But people always smile back at me when they see me playing the piano, and I’m not even that good.”

  “I see your point. People can get frustrated about their prescriptions, too.”

  “I bet you’re nice to them anyway.”

  No, I wasn’t. But I didn’t need to admit that to this stranger.

  “I’m Robyn, by the way.”

  “Robyn—hi. I’m Dr. . . . I’m Johanna. It’s nice to meet you.”

  We clasped hands. Casual conversation after my confrontation with Beckett. Making an acquaintance in the atrium. Quite a difference from half an hour ago.

  As Robyn turned, a small brooch pinned to the scarf around her neck glinted in the morning sunlight. There was something familiar about the gold oval design with a small center sapphire and pearls on the north, south, east, and west points.

  I’d seen that brooch before.

  “That’s a lovely pin you’re wearing.”

  “Oh, thank you.” Robyn traced the outline of the pin with her fingertips. “It originally belonged to a close family friend.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, she was my momma’s best friend. She taught me to play piano, too. I like to wear it when I play.”

  There was no doubt I’d heard her correctly, but I couldn’t stop myself from repeating, “Your piano teacher owned that pin?”

  “Yes.”

  Now I knew where I’d seen that brooch. My piano teacher had the same one. She wore it pinned to various flowing silk shawls during my lessons.

  “What was your piano teacher’s name?”

  “Mrs. Davenport.” Robyn arranged music on the piano.

  Mrs. Davenport. Not Miss Felicia. Not the same person. Just look-alike pins. Maybe piano teachers liked this pin for some reason.

  I thought I was having some sort of moment—a connection with my piano teacher—but it was a near miss. Nothing. Today didn’t mean anything more than meeting Robyn-who-worked-in-billing.

  I’d almost been pulled into the past. Almost.

  What I needed was to be grounded in the present. Not steeped in sentiment, tripped up by seeing a silly brooch that had no significance.

  “What’s the name of that first song you were playing?” Robyn’s question interrupted my mental battle.

  “Oh, that. I . . . I composed that for my youngest sister’s wedding in February. I never gave it an official title.”

  “You wrote that for your sister? You must be very close to her.”

  I couldn’t stop the quick burst of laughter. “No, we’re not. We argue all the time.”

  Our conversation probably made no sense to the other woman, but there was no explaining the Thatcher sisters to an outsider. Payton and I didn’t understand each other, yet we were trying, in a stop-start-stop-start way, to become friends. To learn to like each other.

  Echoes of the music signaled one of the few times we’d connected. I’d found a way to be kind to her. She’d accepted it.

  “The song was lovely. It made me think of walking in the woods. If you ever want to share the sheet music, you know where to find me.”

  “No sheet music.” I tapped my temple. “It’s all up here.”

  “Wow. You must put in a lot of practice time.” Robyn motioned to the music she’d positioned on the piano. “Would you please ignore all this?”

  “I haven’t played in years. Today was an anomaly.”

  “Today was lovely. You should play more. I’m sure somebody, sometime, told you that you played beautifully.”

  Yes. I’d heard that before. Plenty of times.

  I knew it was true. That I could, as Robyn and so many other people had told me, play beautifully. It just didn’t matter anymore. I didn’t care . . . because no one was listening.

  It was time to go to work.

  I said good-bye to Robyn as she took the seat I’d vacated.

  “You played beautifully” was an echo from my past. A half echo.

  “You play beautifully, especially for someone your age.”

  “This is amazing for such a young child.”

  “She has a gift.”

  “Yes, three years old is early for lessons, but not for your daughter.”

  The echoes seemed to crescendo and then go silent—a silence that spanned decades.

  16

  “DID WE HAVE SOMETHING planned for today?” Johanna skipped the usual greeting as she stepped back and motioned Payton into her house.

  “It’s ten o’clock on Saturday morning—the time we usually meet for book club.”

  “But we’re not meeting for book club.” Johanna shut the front door. “Why would we do that when Jillian is in North Carolina?”

  “I got to thinking about that this morning.” Payton handed her a to-go cup of tea, pretty certain she still favored that drink over coffee. “Here you go. Anyway, I thought we could FaceTime with Jillian this morning. Or Skype or Zoom or something.”

  “You bought me tea?” Johanna held the insulated cup away from her as if Payton might have handed her Mountain Dew.

  “You haven’t been drinking coffee, so, yes, I brought you tea.” Payton let her purse slip from her shoulder, balancing her own cup.

  “Thank you for this.” Johanna wrapped both hands around the cup. “What would you have done if I wasn’t home?”

  “I don’t know. I guess I would have enjoyed the tea and then gone shopping or something. But you are home, so let’s call Jillian.”

  “Can I get something to eat first?”

  “Sure. How about if I text Jillian while you do that and see if she’s around?”

  “Fine. Do you want something to eat? I’m going to make avocado toast.”

  “I’m fine, thanks.”

  Being here with Johanna was a little bit like navigating rough waters without a guide—that would have been Jillian’s role—but they were managing fine so far. Johanna’s smile seemed genuine when she accepted the tea, not guarded. This morning was going much better than the last time she’d caught Johanna off guard.

  Johanna disappeared into the kitchen and Payton found her phone to text Jillian.

  Good morning. Well, I guess it’s afternoon out there.

  Yes. Harper and I are eating lunch.

  That’s funny. Johanna is making herself breakfast.

  What?

  I’m at Johanna’s. She’s making avocado toast.

  Are you in an alternate universe or something?

  No. I surprised her. Showed up with tea.

  So what e
lse do you have planned?

  We wanted to see if we could Skype with you. Today would be our book club day. No book chat. Just say hi.

  Now?

  We can wait. Why don’t you and Harper eat lunch. Text when you’re done.

  Sounds good.

  The aroma of toasted bread led Payton into the kitchen, where Johanna plated her breakfast.

  “Did you get in touch with Jill?”

  “Yes. We’re on for Skyping after you eat breakfast and she’s done with lunch.” She sipped her drink. “I told her it’s casual. No book chat.”

  “We are probably the only book club that never discusses books.”

  “We’re consistent if nothing else.”

  “True.”

  “For the sake of the book club, tell me what your favorite book was when you were in elementary school.”

  Johanna led them into her dining room area, taking the seat at the head of the table. “I loved Pippi Longstocking.”

  “Pippi Longstocking? That’s not what I expected.” Payton settled into the chair next to her sister.

  “What did you expect me to say?”

  “I don’t know. Nancy Drew or something like that. Maybe Black Beauty?”

  “Nancy Drew was fine, but Pippi Longstocking? Her best friends were a monkey and a horse. And she was a little girl who lived by herself in a house.”

  Johanna might as well have said she wanted red hair. Or that she wanted a monkey for a pet. Finding this out didn’t fit the sister Payton knew. But she also didn’t look like the sister Payton thought she knew. Her face was clean of any makeup and she looked younger, more approachable, than the usual carefully made-up version of Johanna Thatcher.

  What else didn’t she know about Johanna? What was the best way to find out?

  “Have you ever thought of getting a pet?”

  “Me? No.”

  “Why not? It doesn’t have to be a monkey or a horse. Something basic like a cat or a dog.”

  “My life doesn’t allow for a pet, unless it’s a betta fish or something. And I don’t like the idea of coming home and finding a dead fish floating in the bowl. Had that happen once and that was enough for me.”

  “When? I don’t remember ever having fish.”

  “We had fish once before you and Pepper were born. Jillian and I won these goldfish at a school carnival. We got up one morning and there they were, floating on their sides . . . eeew. Yeah. That’s when I decided no fish.”