A Promise of Forever (4 page)

“She’s dealing with it. She makes an effort to put on a good face for everybody, but…” Guilt, a feeling Ben knew all too well, seeped through him. They’d come a long way in healing things between them, but there were restrictions. She rarely mentioned George because she knew she didn’t have a sympathetic audience in Ben. When she slipped, all he could think about was where was this grief when his father died. Where was this love? She’d been married to Rick almost as long as George; she’d promised to love him until his death; she’d had three kids with him.

But at Rick’s funeral, there had been few tears from her. She’d come out of a sense of obligation, more for the kids she’d left behind than for the man she’d once loved.

Which was something, but Ben hadn’t appreciated it at the time. Wasn’t sure he appreciated it yet.

“Does she see a grief counselor?”

Ben smiled faintly. “The margarita club is her grief counselor. They’re good for her. They’ve all been where she is. They understand in ways we don’t.” Though he wasn’t sure he should be including Avi in that
we
. She probably knew. She hadn’t lost a husband, but she’d known guys like George, Lucy’s husband, all the margarita sisters’ husbands. She’d worked with them, joked with them, shared meals with them, gone into combat with them, and seen them every day until, suddenly, they were gone.

The thought made him look at her in a way that went beyond the beautiful-woman-great-body-pink-toenails way, even beyond the damn-she’s-a-soldier. She was a soldier who’d been assigned to a war zone, who’d lived under primitive conditions with the knowledge that the enemy wanted to kill her, seeing the results of combat firsthand: the physical, the mental, the spiritual wounds. She’d lost people she loved—not just one, not just a spouse, but one after another. How hard was that on a woman’s heart?

“They were together so long. It’s hard to imagine that they never will be again.”

Ben couldn’t stop the muscles tightening in his jaw. “You met them through the Army?”

“No.” Then she smiled, her face softening, her eyes brightening. “Actually, I guess I did. My father went to West Point. That’s where he and George met. Dad did his obligated service, then got out, but they stayed friends. He visited us when he had a chance—spent an entire month’s leave with us one time. He’s the reason I joined the Army.”

Ben had known George was visiting friends in Tulsa when Patricia met him. She’d told him and his sisters that much the night she’d gathered them around the kitchen table and told them she was leaving them behind and moving to another country. So those friends had been Avi’s parents. George had come to Oklahoma, charmed Patricia right out of her marriage and Avi right into his career path.

A visit Avi remembered with great affection and love, while for Ben, it had been the worst time of his life. But it was twenty years past. He was twenty years older. He could put aside the past to enjoy the present, couldn’t he? Or was he as stodgy as his sisters teased?

“Why did your father get out?”

“Dad believes everyone should do at least four years of service in the military. He felt it was his duty—and his honor—but he didn’t intend to make a career of it. He got selected for the academy, got an education, did his service, then came back to Oklahoma. I thought it was pretty cool that Dad had been in, and so had Popi, and when I met the colonel…”

The look on her face was nothing less than remarkable for a woman who’d experienced everything she had: pure, childhood innocence. It wasn’t a girlish-crush look, but admiration. Awe.

“He was ten feet tall and could leap skyscrapers while fending off enemy hordes. I wanted to be just like him when I grew up. I wanted to wear that uniform, do all the cool-guy stuff, and inspire little kids along the way.”

She had fallen under his spell as much as, maybe even more than, Patricia. Ben could honestly say he hadn’t been nearly as impressed when he’d met the man. How could he have been, after three years of watching his father disappear into grief, of rebuilding the family George and his mother had devastated, of giving up most of his hopes and dreams so he could be there for the family.

It hadn’t occurred to him until much later—this past summer, in fact—that the man he’d scorned might have been worth knowing.

“This is it.” Avi stopped in front of a great old house built of sandstone and wood siding painted pale yellow. Big stone columns anchored the porch, where four rockers stood in a straight line on one side of the door and a glider sat on the other. The grass was lush and green, and flowers bloomed everywhere. Lights shone through the windows to the left of the door, and barking sounded there.

“That’s Sundance,” Avi said. “All my life I wanted a dog, but Mom was against it. So what’d she do when I’m grown and gone? Went out and bought an Irish setter puppy for Dad for Father’s Day.”

Looking closer, Ben spotted a blur of mahogany-colored hair and long floppy ears. As they walked up the sidewalk to the porch, the dog disappeared, its barks coming from the area of the door, then reappeared at the window in an excited wiggle. “Don’t you usually kennel puppies when you’re gone for a few hours?”

“Do you.” She said it as a statement, like
that’s interesting
when it really wasn’t, and pulled a key from her pocket as they climbed the steps. “Are you a dog person?”

He thought of Lucy’s mutt, who bared his teeth every time he saw Ben, and his sister’s little ball of fur that thought his own reflection was an intruder. “Not so you’d notice.”

“They left Sundance with their neighbors, who must not have known what they were getting into. I hadn’t even gotten my suitcase into the house when the lady marched over with the dog and a bag of food. ‘Welcome home,’ she said, and ‘Here’s your dog.’ Then she practically ran back to her own house.” She paused, key in the lock. “You want to meet her?”

As opposed to retracing his steps and going home to Patricia’s alone, where she would spend the rest of the evening reminiscing and worrying over Avi? “Sure.”

She opened the door just wide enough to reach in and grab the puppy’s collar, then backed her into the hallway so Ben could follow. As soon as Ben closed the door, Avi flipped a light switch with one hand and let go of the dog with the other.

She’d said puppy, Father’s Day, eight or ten weeks ago. Little and cuddly and sweet. Sundance was a puppy who looked as if she’d eaten three or four of the size Ben had envisioned. Her coloring and floppy ears and expressive eyes were beautiful. A full-grown dog who looked just like her but could actually sit still could pass as an art object in some of the pricey homes he found himself in.

The dog ran from Avi to Ben and back again, circling their feet, trying to climb their legs, barking excitedly. Her paws were as big as saucers, and her tail beat relentlessly, swiping furniture legs, people legs, and her own. When Avi scooped her into her arms, Sundance licked every part of her she could reach, though Avi avoided face kisses by tilting her head away.

“You can pet her. She won’t pee on you by accident since I’m holding her.”

“None of the dogs I know have accidents in the house. Every single time is on purpose.” He took the few steps necessary to rest his hand on Sundance’s head. Instantly her long pink tongue reached out to swipe his fingers, and she pressed her silken fur against his hand until her face was compressed like one of those wrinkled dogs he’d seen on TV.

“She lives up to her name.” With hair the color of the intense molten-fire surface of the sun and her wiggly, jiggly dancing about, she was a perfect Sundance.

“My dream dog was a beagle. I loved their baying. Second choice would have been a black Lab, because who could possibly not love a black Lab? But really, I would have taken anything, even a Chihuahua. But you’re a sweetie, aren’t you, girl?”

Ben watched her nuzzle the dog and found himself actually contemplating jealousy for a moment. With a wry smile, he shifted his attention to the house. A yellow sticky note was stuck to the wall a few feet from him with loopy handwriting:
Don’t forget to set the alarm. (Code’s on the back.)
Another clung to the closet door nearby:
Sundance’s toys inside. Try to teach her to pick them up, would you? (I taught you.)

He chuckled, drawing Avi’s attention. She looked at the note and rolled her eyes. “My mom is a great believer in list-making—one item at a time. I’ve been gathering them since I got here, and they’re still everywhere.
Buy milk; you need it for your bones. Extra toilet paper in upstairs linen closet.
Where she’s kept it my entire life.
Water this plant on Tuesday. Water that plant on Thursday. Run the dishwasher when it’s full. No more than three treats a day.
” A rueful look came across her face. “I hope that one’s meant for Sundance and not me.”

Hearing her name, Sundance started wiggling even more, with purpose this time. Avi glanced down at her. “You need to go out, baby?” She put her on the floor, and the pup’s nails skittered on the wood as she raced down the hall, anxious little yips echoing back to them.

Avi followed, and Ben followed her, reading more notes on the way.
How to program the thermostat
was helpfully stuck on top of said thermostat.
Best coffee: Java Dave’s. Real
coffee: Keurig on counter
hung between family portraits.
Clean the dryer lint trap
was stuck to a lopsided ashtray that looked handmade, circa fourth grade.

“How old does your mother think you are?” he asked as they reached the kitchen, where an entire rainbow of notes rustled in the air from the central air conditioning.

“Thirty going on thirteen and first time ever spending the night alone in the house. It’s not just me. She leaves Dad notes, too, and plasters them around work. Dad told me that when she had surgery a while back, she taped a note to her breast:
Not this one. That one. Over there.
”

Ben laughed. “I’ve had patients who’ve written notes or drawn arrows on their own knees before. A friend of mine was scrubbed in to do a cesarian, and the mom had written on her abdomen,
Remember, I want to wear a bikini again.
”

“I’ve never had surgery”—Avi rapped her knuckles against the wood door jamb as she stepped out the back door—“but if I did, I think I’d want to make sure everything went the way it should.”

“In the OR, that’s the doctor’s job.”

“But you hear cases about doctors amputating the wrong leg or doing a hysterectomy but forgetting to take out the uterus.”

Ben shuddered for her benefit. “That means you’ve got a bad doctor.”

“Good doctors don’t ever get careless?”

“Good ones aren’t careless, and careless ones aren’t good.” He stopped at the edge of the back porch steps. Sundance was tearing around the yard with more energy than Ben possessed in his entire body.

Avi sat on the steps, her skirt gathered close to her legs, to wait for the pup to answer the call of nature. Sundance showed no such inclination. She sniffed flowers, darted off to carefully inspect the smells around a tree, stopped to give a longing look at the hammock a foot or two above her head, then ran to sample other scents elsewhere.

After a moment, Ben sat beside Avi. The steps were wide enough that he didn’t crowd her, narrow enough that her cologne scented his every breath. It was hard to be certain, given the night’s heat, but he was pretty sure he felt warmth radiating from her bare arms and legs. Sweet-scented warmth with just a slight undercurrent of energy that made the air between them smell…expectant.

If she felt it, she didn’t show it, and he didn’t take any action. Instead, they watched the dog for a while, checking her surroundings as if she’d never seen them before, then Avi sighed quietly. Contentedly. “Your mom said you’re going back to Tulsa tomorrow.”

He obliquely gazed at her. “Yeah, I’ve got clinic Monday and surgery Tuesday and Wednesday.”

“Does Patricia still go to church?”

A few months ago the question would have surprised him. Church was something she’d discovered on George’s watch. But he’d learned since the funeral that God, the Bible, and church had been an important part of her and George’s lives. “Every Sunday.”

“Do you?”

He shook his head.

“Want to have breakfast? I have a Post-it note attesting to the incredible breakfast fare at Serena’s Sweets.” She flashed a grin. “Mom also drew a map so tiny that I can’t read it, but I can find my way back to Patricia’s and you can give me directions.”

He needed to relax, Lucy was always telling him. Not everything was important or life-changing. Some things were just pure fun, and he should enjoy them when he could. How pleased would she be when he told her the next time they talked that he’d taken her advice? “Sounds good. I’ll see you at nine?”

C
alvin Sweet stopped in front of the twenty-four-hour diner and gave the area a slow, steady once-over. The diner was located in the middle of a block of businesses that kept weekly hours and weren’t very prosperous. The big windows on the dry cleaners next door were too grimy to see through, and the used bookstore across the street looked like home to the world’s worst book hoarder. He imagined the smells of must, dust, and yellowed paper, and his chest tightened as if to avoid breathing them in.

On the corner, a gas station advertised unleaded for $1.89 a gallon. All the glass had been broken out of its windows, and everything of value had been taken, along with everything without value. Only a lonely squeegee remained, lying on its side where a gas pump used to be.

The diner didn’t look much better. He walked in the door, swamped by the aromas of coffee, fried meat, grease, and despair. Booths with vinyl benches held together by duct tape lined the wall. A row of tables that seated four each separated the booths from the counter, stability provided by wads of napkins stuffed under rickety legs.

The people looked pretty rickety, too. The waitress could have been anywhere from twenty-five to fifty-five, everything about her sad and worn down. Two men sat in the first booth, sharing coffee without conversation, giving Calvin a glance of disinterest. The homeless man, or the nearest thing to, at the counter took a quick look, then guarded his dinner a little more closely. A cook, fat and bald, chewed on a toothpick and paid Calvin no attention at all.

That was just what he wanted.

He went to the booth in the back corner, took the bench where he could see the door, and scanned the menu. When the waitress approached, he asked for a ham and egg sandwich and coffee. She didn’t say a word, not to him or the cook.

Calvin rubbed his hands over his face. It was ten o’clock on a Saturday night, and his wandering around Tacoma had just begun. It would be near dawn before he’d be able to sleep, and then he’d be lucky if he managed two hours. The Department of Defense had classified systematic sleep deprivation as torture. He knew that better than most. He wasn’t sure of the last time he’d gotten a good night’s rest. Maybe back in 2007?

He’d tried booze, hypnosis, guided meditation, and none of it had helped. Neither had warm milk, melatonin, or prayer. Sleeping pills had worked for a while, until he’d awakened around three in the morning and didn’t have a clue in hell where he was, how he got there, or what he’d done. He’d flushed the pills down the toilet the next day.

He sat, back rigid, gaze sweeping the dining room and the street beyond every few moments. He kept his hands flat on the table, his muscles wound so tight that his skin practically vibrated. This skin didn’t fit anymore. It hadn’t for a long time. Some days he thought he would get lost inside it; others he was sure it was going to split right open, unable to contain all the sorrow that was him.

Most days he wished that today would be the day. That everything inside him would swell and grow until his shell of a body could no longer hold him, that he would explode into a thousand little pieces, and that when the dust had settled, he would be gone.

No more Captain Calvin Sweet, United States Army, veteran of the unholy war on terror, the best thing Justice and Elizabeth Sweet claimed they’d ever produced, and a sorry son of a bitch. His epitaph could say
He came home but not really
.

The waitress brought him coffee, black and steaming, its pungent aroma familiar enough to wake his taste buds. He poured a little cup of cream into it, added a packet of sugar, and stirred it long enough to lessen the potential for scalding before taking a sip.

He hadn’t expected a grimy little diner in the middle of a hopeless neighborhood to have the best coffee he’d ever tasted. So much for expectations.

He’d had a lot of them when he was young. He’d expected that he and J’Myel Ford would be best friends forever. He’d expected that he would make the most of his time in the Army—would live up to their motto and be all that he could be. He’d expected to fall in love and get married, to have kids who would be overjoyed when he returned home from a deployment. To retire and buy a house in Tallgrass just down the street from his parents’. To start a second career, to coach his kids’ soccer and little league teams, to celebrate regularly with J’Myel for big reasons and little reasons and for none at all. Just because they were the best friends ever.

But his friendship with J’Myel had ended, for causes he’d never really understood. J’Myel had passed not long after, and Calvin…he had no reason to celebrate. He had no reason to live.

He just didn’t know how to die.

When Avi awoke Sunday morning, it took her a moment to remember where she was. A glimpse of the stack of Post-its on the nightstand reminded her, though, and made her smile. The first had been attached to the bathroom mirror:
Don’t let Sundance sleep in your bed.
The next had been on the bedroom door:
She has a bed of her own.
And the last, on the lampshade beside the bed:
I mean it, Avery. I didn’t pay $40 for a bed for her so she could not use it.

Rolling onto her side, she gave the still-snoozing puppy an ear rub. “You don’t know how good you have it, pretty girl.”

The dog opened one eye to look at her, closed it again, and gave the kind of nose-to-tail joint-popping stretch that Avi envied. After that, she sat up, hopped off the bed, and trotted to the door with a whine.

Avi stretched out her own kinks before opening the door, then following Sundance down the stairs. She let her out into the backyard, padded to the refrigerator, and found nothing to tempt her. In the pantry she located a stash of granola bars neatly arranged in a cream-and-green enameled pan with a rusty and holey bottom that GrandMir had used for storage for as long as Avi could remember. It brought a rush of warmth, of sweet memories and old times.

According to the clock on the microwave, she had a half hour to feed Sundance, get dressed, and pick up Ben for breakfast. If she were a girly sort of girl, she would need every minute of that time, but even before joining the Army, she’d been nothing of the sort. Sure, she liked to look good. She did her hair, chose clothes that flattered, and counted Bobbi Brown cosmetics as necessities of life, but getting ready and out the door was, like everything else, a streamlined process for her.

She tore open the foil wrapper on the granola bar, and Sundance let out a demanding bark. Avi let her in, broke off a piece of granola bar for her, then took a big bite for herself while getting out the chow.
Don’t feed Sundance people food,
the note on the storage bin read. Avi pulled it off and found a second one underneath:
Seriously. It’ll just make her fat.

“I bet she sneaks bites to you all the time,” Avi said with a laugh as she scooped out the proper amount into a decorated dish. After giving the dog fresh water, she grabbed the rest of the granola bar and jogged down the hall and upstairs.

She showered, brushed her teeth, blow-dried her hair, did her makeup, and dressed in shorts, shirt, and sandals in seventeen minutes. Good time. Maybe even record-setting. She even had time to spray on perfume, make a stab at straightening the bed, and grab her cell phone.

Sundance was waiting when she reached the front hall, her big eyes hopefully shifting between the closet, where her leash and toys were kept, and Avi. “No walk this morning,” Avi said, but all the dog understood was
walk
. She bounced, jumped, and did everything but claw at the door. It required careful maneuvering for Avi to slip outside without the dog, who howled mournfully when the door closed in her face.

It wasn’t even nine o’clock, and it was hot and humid and promising more of both. Dew glistened on grass that somehow managed to look wet and parched at the same time. Avi empathized. There’d been times in the desert when she’d wondered how the hell she could sweat so much at the same time her throat was so bone dry that cold water seemed a distant memory.

But she was out of the desert, now and, supposedly, for good. The President had promised the withdrawal of troops, and sometimes she believed him. Now her next duty assignment was Fort Gordon, Georgia, home of Dwight D. Eisenhower Army Medical Center and Signal Corps, where she would teach younger, newer soldiers all about the cool gear they would be using for Army communications. Augusta had been her first stop back in the States, where she’d rented an apartment and accepted delivery of her household goods before coming to Oklahoma.

It took only a few minutes to drive to Patricia’s house. This was the house where George and Patricia had intended to retire—close to Patricia’s hometown of Tulsa, within fifteen minutes of the post, where they would get medical care and take advantage of the commissary and exchange. They’d taken extra care choosing the house, and instead of simply living there until his next orders came down, they’d made it a home.

Where she would now live alone.

Avi’s heart ached as she pulled into the driveway. Patricia’s car was parked ahead of her; in the detached garage beyond that, George’s pride and joy, a ’65 Mustang, was likely stored. He’d loved that car and had joked that Avi could have it when he died. She’d joked right back about what a great inheritance that would be, but she’d meant in thirty years or more, when the car was better suited to her child or grandchild.

Life was so damned unfair.

She shut off the engine and got out of the rental, but before she’d gone farther than the front bumper, Ben came out of the house. He wore denim shorts and a T-shirt advertising a 5K run and walk to benefit arthritis research. Neither garment clung snugly, but damn, her libido hadn’t been playing tricks on her. He was still as handsome as the night before.

“Are you a runner?” she asked instead of saying hello.

His brows narrowed, then he looked down at the shirt. “Oh. Hell, no. Our practice was one of the sponsors, so we all took part. I walked. My sister ran it twice in the same time just to prove she could.”

“I think I’d like her.”

“I bet you would. She’s nice. They both are.” He opened the passenger door, scooted the seat back to make room for his long legs, then slid in. Their doors closed about the same time with equally solid thuds.

“If you don’t run,” she asked as she restarted the engine, “what do you do to stay in shape?”

“I work twelve to fourteen hours a day and eat out of vending machines.”

She shuddered. “Do you know how much sugar, sodium, and saturated fats are in processed snack foods?”

“Nope. Ignorance is bliss.” He waited until she’d backed into the street, then gestured straight ahead. “Go east to First Street, then turn right. So when we get to Serena’s, are you going to order an egg-white omelet and turkey sausage?”

“Are you going to order biscuits and gravy and bacon and ham and fried eggs?” she countered. All of which sounded really good to her at the moment. Along with blueberry pancakes, pecan waffles, scrambled eggs, and maybe even toast with jam.

“Whatever I order, don’t expect me to share. You can’t get an egg-white omelet, then eat my biscuits and gravy.”

She laughed, easing the car to a stop at Tallgrass’s main north–south street, the one she’d come into town on yesterday. “Don’t worry. I’ll get enough food for you and me both, and I don’t mind sharing.”

She took the right turn he advised, then turned left on Main. Spotting the sign for Serena’s, she grabbed the first parking space, across the street and in front of a small junk store. Junking had been one of GrandMir’s favorite pastimes. Avi had tagged along on a hundred trips, not always of her own free will, but she’d gotten some cool vintage toys out of the treks.

There wasn’t much traffic at this time on a Sunday morning. They strolled across the street to Serena’s, Avi stealing glances all the way, the romantic inside her sighing when he held the restaurant door for her.

Avi was a firm believer that she could judge the quality of a restaurant with nothing more than a deep breath, and Serena’s definitely got two thumbs up. On top of the usual breakfast scents, she identified some of her favorite smells in the world: sticky buns, cakes, and pies. Apple and cherry and peach and pecan. Oh, yum.

They took a booth at the front with a lazy view of the street. Avi gave the breakfast menu a quick skim, doctored the coffee the waitress delivered, then settled her gaze outside. The courthouse was across the street, and shops and businesses lined both sides of the block. Nothing was open today, at least not yet. Tallgrass was one of those lovely small towns with a still-vital downtown district. No doubt, the Army post contributed to that, but the town was probably lively enough on its own.

“What can I get you, hon?”

She looked from the courthouse flag rippling in the breeze to the waitress. “Two eggs over easy, toast, hash browns, a pecan waffle, and orange juice.”

Ben stared at her. “Do you know how much sugar, sodium, and fat of every kind are in that order?”

“I do,” she replied. “I’m just choosing to ignore it this morning.”

Shaking his head, he ordered the same thing, minus the juice. In response to her look, he said, “I eat out of vending machines. You think I’m going to opt for healthy?”

Silence fell between them, letting snippets of other diners’ conversations reach them: talk about church, the weather, the chances for the high school football team, putting gardens to bed until next spring, planting fall flowers or crops.
No
talk about war or death or dying.

It was a small but very sweet pleasure.

The silence went on long enough to become uncomfortable, then even longer, morphing into something worthy of laughter. “Okay,” she said, surrendering first. “I’ll start the conversation. Cowboy or Sooner?”

“I went to OSU, though I root for the Sooners if they’re playing anyone besides OSU.”

She gave him a narrow-eyed look. “Did you go to OU’s medical school?”