Live to Tell (Live to Tell #1)(106)

“Absolutely,” Lauren tells her with a bittersweet smile.

A few minutes later, she steps out into the summer sunshine with a pink stuffed bunny in her arms.

“Come on, Fred. Let’s go home.”



Sitting with the photo album open on her lap, a cup of tea on the table beside her, Elsa studies the picture of her husband and son. They’re dressed almost alike: polo shirts, khaki slacks. Behind them, against a rolling green backdrop, is a sign that reads “Harbor Hills Golf.” Brett’s hand is resting on Jeremy’s shoulder, and he’s smiling.

At a glance, Jeremy appears to be smiling as well.

But now, looking closer, Elsa can see that it’s more of a smirk. Why didn’t she notice that before now?

At the time, she remembers, she was simply relieved that they’d made it to the golf course at all, after the usual morning drama. That he actually agreed to pose with Brett—and cracked a grin at her “Say cheese”—had seemed too good to be true.

Jeremy didn’t want golf lessons.

“Do it for me,” she begged him, and, when that didn’t work, “Do it for Daddy.”

That didn’t work, either. He went, kicking and screaming—literally. It wasn’t unusual. It was the way Elsa got him to school some mornings, and to whatever doctor he was seeing at the time.

When they got to the golf course, Brett was waiting. Jeremy underwent one of his miraculous temporary transformations.

But it didn’t last for long. God, no.

Elsa shudders, remembering.

That was the day she realized Jeremy needed more help than they’d been giving him. Serious help.

She’ll never forget the sight of him marching off onto the green with the madras-clad instructor and a quartet of eager junior golfers, one an adorable little girl with blond braids swinging behind her.

Nor will Elsa ever forget the bloodcurdling screams that reached her ears a half hour later, as she and Brett sat waiting, sipping gin and tonics with the other parents.

One of the kids, ashen-faced, came dashing down to the clubhouse bellowing, “Call 911! Hurry!”

All hell broke loose.

Elsa remembers tearing across the plush grass in heels, her heart in her mouth, fearing that something had happened to Jeremy.

Brett beat her to the scene. By the time she made it there, people were hovering around a crumpled figure on the ground—the little girl with blond braids, now streaked with red.

Anguished screams from the child’s mother, chaotic voices all around.

“What happened to her?”

“Is she breathing?”

“Does anyone know CPR?”

Brett turned to look at Elsa, and the moment she saw his face, she knew. Knew even before she spotted Jeremy, standing there with the bloody seven-iron still in his hand.

“What did you do?” Brett hollered at him, as medics carried away the unconscious child.

“I didn’t mean it. She laughed at me, and I got mad.”

The child survived, thank God.

And so, somehow, did Elsa and Brett.

But Jeremy…

Less than six months later, Jeremy was gone.

Elsa closes the book and sits, for a long time, looking back.

Maybe it’s time she stopped doing that.

Maybe it’s time she started looking ahead after all. Maybe it’s time she gave serious thought to the question that’s been floating around for a while now, in the back of her mind, where Jeremy lives.

Have you ever considered another child, Elsa?

And hope, like the dangling ribbons of a helium balloon on a soft summer breeze, drifts back within her grasp at last.





Epilogue




Dallas, Texas

The sun is blistering hot today as he steps out of the air-conditioned pickup truck in front of the barbecue joint out on North Stemmons.

His boots kick up a cloud of dust from the parking lot to the front door, and sweat breaks out on his forehead beneath the brim of his Stetson. He’s never been big on hats, but when in Rome…

Stepping over the threshold, he’s greeted by a welcome blast of air-conditioning and a decidedly unwelcome blast of honky-tonk music.

Damned Texans.

“Hello there, sugar.” The hostess is teased and dyed and primped to death, with a pair of double Ds sticking halfway out of her denim shirt. “All by your lonesome?”

He shrugs. He’s been alone for just about as long as he can remember, but never lonesome.

There are women. They always come into his life willingly—and some leave that way as well, never knowing his secret, but perhaps sensing that something is off.

The ones who don’t…well, they leave, too. He gets rid of most the easy way—“It’s not you, it’s me… I’m not ready for a serious relationship… I think we both need to see other people…”

Some women are more tenacious than others, though. Stubborn. Nosy. Asking too many questions. He takes care of them the hard way…

Then again, is it really so hard at all, anymore?

You do what has to be done, and then you wash your hands and you move on.

He heard that somewhere, a very long time ago. It stuck with him. It’s served him well.

The hostess consults her clipboard. “Gonna be about a ten-minute wait. You wanna step over there into the bar and have a cold one till I call you?”