No Perfect Hero(80)

Ms. Wilma turns to look over her shoulder, sharp and canny but not unkind. “Now where did you hear the name Jenna, hm?”

“Um, I guess I...” I duck my head, clearing my throat, shame washing through me and my entire body too hot with my pounding pulse. “Sorry. It’s on his tattoo. And Stewart mentioned her name once or twice.”

“Ah, the mechanic. Such a gossip. And naturally you’ll be wondering who she is, and why Warren’s still an open wound where she’s concerned after all this time?”

Wincing, I nod. “I was just curious.”

Smoothly, Ms. Wilma stands, straightening her skirt and calling out to Tara. “Run inside and wash up before supper, dear.”

Tara immediately slows her kicking, bouncing off the swing with a nod, her pigtails swaying. “Yes, ma’am!”

I stare after her as she races off, disappearing into the house. “Wow. How'd you do that so easy? I have to beg, negotiate, and eventually bribe.”

“Who says I don’t bribe?” Ms. Wilma says with a merry wink. “Once you’ve tasted my cinnamon almond cookies, you’ll understand.” She inclines her head toward the door. “Come inside. I want to show you something.”

Curious, I follow Ms. Wilma. I always feel small next to her, and not just because she’s so tall while I’m the runt in the munchkin brigade. She’s so graceful and stately and formidable, and I kind of think if I had an aunt I wanted to be when I grew up, it would’ve been Ms. Wilma.

The inside of the house is cool and shadowed compared to the greenhouse warmth of the atrium, and it takes a moment for my eyes to adjust as we make our way through hallways decorated in airy linens contrasted by dark carpets and the occasional tasteful painting here and there.

Maybe I should paint something for Ms. Wilma before I leave.

Put my all into it, make it my best, something I can be proud to offer her in gratitude.

But I’m distracted from my thoughts as she steps into the living room with its Victorian furniture that’s been cared for so meticulously it looks almost brand new.

Several photos line the mantle, all of them in ornate gold frames that have been polished lovingly again and again, their shine soft in the bits of light glimmering through the curtains.

I realize this is what she wants me to see.

She stops at one end of the mantle, gazing fondly at a portrait of two kids that’s been cropped so it’s only the little boy and little girl, while the adults are just legs vanishing off into the frame.

It’s Warren. I recognize those blue eyes, that fierce stare, even in a chubby, adorable little boy covered in mud.

And the girl next to him looks a lot like him.

That resemblance grows stronger, as they grow taller and older in one picture after another.

Photos of them laughing together.

Photos of them glowering at each other.

Photos of them glaring at a man and woman who must be their parents, as they sulk over apparently disappointing Christmas gifts, wrapping paper everywhere in glittery tufts.

I can’t help but laugh. And it’s a painful thing when I already know how this ends.

Because at the end of the line, past photos of Warren fresh out of training with his head shaved into a military buzz-cut and his uniform crisp like his grandfather's, past photos of Jenna – because she must be Jenna – in her own uniform with her hair knotted back and her posture straight and proud, there's tragedy.

A single framed, folded flag with another, smaller photo of Jenna tucked into the corner of the frame. That flag can only mean one thing. It’s hard and hurtful to deal with even though I never even knew who she was.

I curl my knuckles against my mouth, staring at that photo, her eyes bright and determined; was this the last photo anyone ever took of her?

“She was his sister,” I whisper. “He lost his sister.”

“Yes. They were so close growing up. It took an absolutely devastating toll on him.”

I shouldn’t be getting emotional about this. Too bad the heart has a mind of its own.

And Ms. Wilma makes me feel so much like family that it almost feels like I somehow lost her, too – or maybe I’m just hurting for Warren. I suddenly understand all those angry, directionless prickles so much more.

He’s just like me.

Life hit him so hard it sent him reeling, and he hasn’t stopped spinning ever since, and it’s making him furious that without this one thing that set his life in order, he still can’t figure out up from down.

Oh, Warren...

“What happened?” I ask tentatively, fighting for words around my closing throat. “If...if it’s okay to ask, I mean.”

“An accident in the line of duty,” she says sadly. “During her last tour. Apparently friendly fire during a confused ambush, but no one’s entirely sure how it unfolded. The reports were...confusing. Of course, no one meant for her to get hurt.”

I frown. Friendly fire? An ambush?

That doesn’t really add up with what Stewart told me, but then I’m only getting fragments of the story. Maybe I’m just not piecing them together right. What do I know about war?

“Was Warren on deployment with her?”

“He was, but he was stationed elsewhere that day. A different unit.” This time Ms. Wilma doesn’t even try to stop the wetness in her eyes from spilling over. “One of my babies came home in a casket. The other came home a completely different man. Warren’s never been the same since.”