Home Front(9)

She had seemed impossibly brave to him, a girl refusing help even in the worst days of her life. He’d fallen a little in love with her right then, enough to ask her to come back and see him when she was older. It had been her boldness that spoke to him from the beginning, the courage she’d worn as easily as that cheap acrylic sweater.

Six years later she’d walked back into his life, an army helicopter pilot, of all things. He’d been young enough to still believe in love at first sight and old enough to know it didn’t happen every day. He’d told himself it didn’t matter that he was blue state and she was military, that they had nothing in common. He’d felt so loved by her, so adored, that he couldn’t breathe. And their lovemaking had been amazing. In sex, as in everything, Jo had been all in.

He picked up the roses and the small Tiffany’s box beside it, wondering if the expensive gift would redeem him. She would see that he’d bought it before—that he’d remembered her birthday in time to have her gift engraved—but would that be enough? He’d missed her birthday dinner—forgotten.

It exhausted him, just thinking of the scene that was coming. He would use his charm to make her smile, beg for her forgiveness, and she would grant it with a grace and ease that would make short work of the whole thing, but he would see the hurt in her green eyes, in the way her smile wouldn’t quite bloom, and he would know that he’d disappointed her again. He was the bad guy here; there was no doubt about that, and she would remind him of it in a million tiny ways until he could hardly look at her, until he rolled away from her in bed and stared at the wall and imagined a different life.

He got out of the car and went into the house. In the shadowy kitchen, he found a vase and put the roses in it, then carried them up the stairs.

The master bedroom lights were off except for a small, decorative lamp on the desk by the window. He set the flowers on the antique dresser and went into the bathroom, where he undressed and got ready for bed. Climbing in, he pulled the heavy down comforter up to his chest and lay there in the dark.

It used to soothe him, listening to his wife’s breathing, but now every sound she made kept him awake.

He closed his eyes and hoped for the best, knowing before he even tried that it would be hours before he fell asleep and that, once found, his slumber would be haphazard at best, plagued by dreams of a life unlived, a path unchosen.

When he woke, hours later, he felt as if he hadn’t slept at all. Watery light came through the windowpanes, making the sage-colored walls look gray as driftwood. The dark wood floors swallowed whatever sunlight came their way.

He pushed up to his elbows, felt the coverlet fall away from his chest.

Jolene lay awake beside him, her blond hair tangled to one side, her pale face turned slightly toward him.

The hurt was already in her eyes.

“I’m sorry, Jo.” He leaned down and kissed her quickly, then drew back. “I’ll make it up to you.”

“I know. It’s just a birthday. Maybe I made too much of it.”

He got out of bed and got the Tiffany’s box off the dresser and brought it back to her.

It occurred to him that she’d asked for something for her birthday, something special. Not a gift, either; that wasn’t Jolene’s way. She wanted … something. He couldn’t remember what it was, but he saw the slight frown dart across her face as she saw the box; then it was gone, and she smiled up at him.

“Tiffany, huh?” She sat up in bed, positioned her pillows behind her, and then opened the box. Inside, a sparkling platinum and gold watch was curled around a white leather bed. A single small diamond took the place of the number twelve.

“It’s beautiful.” She turned it over, to the back, on which Jolene, happy 41st was engraved. “Forty-one,” she said. “Wow. Time is going fast. Betsy will be in high school in no time.”

He wished she hadn’t said that. Time wasn’t his friend lately. He was forty-five—middle-aged by any standard. Soon he’d be fifty, and whatever chance he’d had to become another version of himself would be gone. And he still had no idea what that other version would look like; he just knew that the color had gone out of who he was.

He sat down on the bed beside Jolene. He looked at her, needing her suddenly, wanting to feel about her the way he used to. “How did you get through … their deaths? I mean, really get through it? You had to change your life in an instant.”

He saw her flinch, turn slightly away. The question was like a blow that glanced off her shoulder, bruised her. When she looked at him again, she was smiling. “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. I chose happiness, I guess.”

He sighed. More platitudes. Suddenly he was tired again. “I’ll make you breakfast in bed, and then maybe we can all go for a bike ride.”

She set the watch, still in its box, on the nightstand. “Tonight’s my birthday party at Captain Lomand’s house. You said you might come.”

And there it was: the thing she’d asked for. No wonder he’d forgotten. “I have nothing in common with those people. You know that.” He stood up and walked over to the dresser, opening his top drawer.

“I am those people,” she said, and just like that they stumbled onto the familiar and rocky terrain. “It’s a party for me. You could come just this once.”

He turned to face her. “We’ll go out to dinner tomorrow night. How’s that? All four of us. We’ll go to that Italian place you like.”