Home Front (3 page)

Behind him, there was a knock, and then the door opened. In walked Bill Antham, the only other partner in the firm, once his father’s best friend. In the months since Dad’s death, Bill had aged, too. Maybe they all had.

“Hey, Michael,” he said, limping forward, reminding Michael with each step that he was well past retirement age. In the last year, he’d gotten two new knees.

“Have a seat, Bill,” Michael said, indicating the chair closest to the desk.

“Thanks.” He sat down. “I need a favor.”

Michael returned to his desk. “Sure, Bill. What can I do for you?”

“I was in court yesterday, and I got tapped by Judge Runyon.”

Michael sighed and sat down. It was common for criminal defense attorneys to be assigned cases by the court—it was the old
if you require an attorney and cannot afford one
bit. Judges often assigned a case to whatever lawyer happened to be there when it came up. “What’s the case?”

“A man killed his wife. Allegedly. He barricaded himself in his house and shot her in the head. SWAT team dragged him out before he could kill himself. TV filmed a bunch of it.”

A guilty client who had been caught on TV. Perfect. “And you want me to handle the case for you.”

“I wouldn’t ask … but Nancy and I are leaving for Mexico in two weeks.”

“Of course,” Michael said. “No problem.”

Bill’s gaze moved around the room. “I still expect to find him in here,” he said softly.

“Yeah,” Michael said.

They looked at each other for a moment, both remembering the man who had made such an impact on their lives. Then Bill stood, thanked Michael again, and left.

After that, Michael dove into his work, letting it consume him. He spent hours buried in depositions and police reports and briefs. He had always had a strong work ethic and an even stronger sense of duty. In the rising tide of grief, work had become his life ring.

At three o’clock, Ann buzzed him on the intercom. “Michael? Jolene is on line one.”

“Thanks, Ann.”

“You did remember that it’s her birthday today, right?”

Shit.

He pushed back from his desk and grabbed the phone. “Hey, Jo. Happy birthday.”

“Thanks.”

She didn’t scold him for forgetting, although she knew he had. Jolene had the tightest grip on her emotions of anyone he’d ever seen, and she never
ever
let herself get mad. He sometimes wondered if a good fight would help their marriage, but it took two to fight. “I’ll make it up to you. How about dinner at that place above the marina? The new place?”

Before she could offer some resistance (which she always did if something wasn’t her idea), he said, “Betsy is old enough to watch Lulu for two hours. We’ll only be a mile away from home.”

It was an argument that had been going on for almost a year now. Michael thought a twelve-year-old could babysit; Jolene disagreed. As with everything in their life, Jolene’s vote was the one that counted. He was used to it … and sick of it.

“I know how busy you are with the Woerner case,” she said. “How about if I feed the girls early and settle them upstairs with a movie and then make us a nice dinner? Or I could pick up takeout from the bistro; we love their food.”

“Are you sure?”

“What matters is that we’re together,” she said easily.

“Okay,” Michael said. “I’ll be home by eight.”

Before he hung up the phone, he was thinking of something else.

Two

That evening, Jolene chose her clothes carefully. She and Michael hadn’t had dinner alone, just the two of them, in forever, and she wanted this evening to be perfect. Romantic. After feeding the girls, she bathed in scented water, shaved, slathered her skin with a citrus-scented lotion, and then slipped into a pair of comfortable jeans and a black boatnecked sweater.

Downstairs, she found Betsy seated at the coffee table, doing homework, while Lulu was on the sofa, wrapped up in her favorite yellow “blankee,” watching
The Little Mermaid.
The remnants of their impromptu birthday party were still on the dining room table—the cake, with its candle holes; the pink journal Betsy had given Jolene; the sparkly barrette that had been Lulu’s gift; and a pile of wrinkled paper and discarded bows.

“She’s not the boss of me,” Lulu said when Jolene walked into the room.

“Tell her to shut up, Mom. I’m trying to do homework,” Betsy responded. “She’s singing too loud.”

And it started. Their voices climbed up and over each other, rising in volume.

“She is
not
the boss of me,” Lulu said again, more adamantly. “Tell her.”

Betsy rolled her eyes and left the room, stomping up the stairs.

Jolene felt a wave of exhaustion. She hadn’t known how
tiring
it could be to parent a preteen. How much eye rolling could one girl do? If Jolene had tried that, her father would have smacked her across the room.

Lulu ran over to the toy box in the corner of the room and rummaged around inside it. Finding the kitten-ears headband that had been a part of last year’s Halloween costume, she put it on and turned around.

Jolene couldn’t help smiling. There stood her four-year-old daughter, wearing gray cat ears that were beginning to look worn in places, with her hands on her hips. The sharp little gray triangles framed Lulu’s flushed face and made her look even more elfin than usual. For no reason that anyone could explain, Lulu thought she was invisible when she wore the headband. She made a mewing sound.

Jolene frowned dramatically and looked around. “Oh, no … what happened to my Lucy Lou? Where did she go?” She made a great show of looking around the room, behind the television, under the overstuffed yellow chair, behind the door.

“Here I am, Mommy!” Lulu said with a flourish, giggling.

“There you are,” Jolene said with a sigh. “I was worried.” She picked up Lulu and carried her upstairs. It took Lulu forever to brush her teeth and get into her pajamas, and Jolene waited patiently, knowing her youngest had a strong independent streak. When Lulu was finally ready, Jolene climbed into bed beside her, pulled her close, and reached for
Where the Wild Things Are.
By the time she said, “the end,” Lulu was almost asleep.

She kissed Lulu’s cheek. “’Night, Kitten.”

“’Night, Mommy,” Lulu murmured sleepily.

Then Jolene walked down the hall to Betsy’s room, knocked, and went inside.

Betsy was sitting up in bed, with her social studies book open in her lap. Her corn silk blond hair fell in fusilli curls along her bare, skinny arms. Someday Betsy would prize her porcelain skin and blond hair and brown eyes, but not now, when straight hair was all the rage and pimples had ruined her complexion.

Jolene went to her daughter’s bed and sat down on the edge. “You could be nicer to your sister.”

“She’s a pain.”

“So are you.” Jolene saw how Betsy’s eyes widened, and she smiled gently. “And so am I. Families are like that. And besides, I know what this is really about.”

“You do?”

“I saw how Sierra and Zoe treated you this morning at school.”

“You’re always spying on me,” she said, but her voice broke.

“I watched you walk into school. That’s hardly spying. You three were best friends last year. What happened?”

“Nothing,” she said mulishly, pressing her lips together, hiding her braces.

“I can help, you know. I was twelve once, too.”

Betsy gave her the you-must-be-crazy look that had become familiar in the last year. “Doubtful.”

“Maybe you should hang out with Seth after school tomorrow. Remember how much fun you used to have?”

“Seth’s weird. Everyone thinks so.”

“Elizabeth Andrea, don’t you dare act like a mean girl. Seth Flynn is not weird. He’s my best friend’s son. So what if he likes to wear his hair long and if he’s … quiet. He’s your friend. You should remember that. You might need him one day.”

“Whatever.”

Jolene sighed. She’d seen this movie before; no matter how often she asked, Betsy wouldn’t say anything more.
Whatever
meant
the end
. “Okay.” She leaned forward and kissed Betsy’s forehead. “I love you to the moon and back.”

The words were the slogan of this family, their love distilled into a single sentence.
Say it back to me, Bets.

Jolene waited a moment longer than she intended and was immediately mad at herself for hoping. Again. Motherhood in the preteen years was a series of paper-cut disappointments. “Okay,” she said at last, standing up.

“How come Dad’s not home yet? It’s your birthday.”

“He’ll be here any minute. You know how busy he is these days.”

“Will he come up to say good night to me?”

“Of course.”

Betsy nodded and went back to reading. When Jolene was to the door, she said, “Happy birthday, Mom.”

Jolene smiled. “Thanks, Bets. And I love the journal you gave me. It’s perfect.”

Betsy actually smiled.

Downstairs, Jolene went into the kitchen and put the last of the dishes away. Her dinner—a rich, savory pot of beef short ribs braised in red wine and garlic and thyme—bubbled softly on the stove, scenting the whole house. The girls hadn’t loved it, but it was Michael’s favorite.

Wrapping a soft pink blanket around her shoulders, she poured herself a glass of soda water and went outside. She sat down in one of the worn bent-twig chairs on the porch and put her bare feet on the weathered coffee table, staring out at the familiar view.

Home
.

It had begun with meeting Michael.

She remembered it all so clearly.

For days after her parents’ deaths, she had waited for
someone
to help her. Police, counselors, teachers. It hadn’t taken long for her to realize that in her parents’ deaths, as in their lives, she was on her own. On a snowy Wednesday morning, she’d wakened early, ignoring the cold that seeped through the thin walls of her bedroom, and dressed in her best clothes—a plaid woolen skirt, Shetland sweater, kneesocks, and penny loafers. A wide blue headband kept the hair out of her eyes.

She took the last of her babysitting money and set off for downtown Seattle. At the legal-aid office, she’d met Michael.

His dark good looks and easy smile had literally taken her breath away. She’d followed him to a shabby little office and told him her problem. “I’m seventeen—eighteen in two months. My parents died this week. Car accident. A social worker came by and said I would have to live with foster parents until I turned eighteen. But I don’t need anyone. Certainly not some fake family. I can live in my own house until June—that’s when the bank is repossessing it—and then I’ll be done with high school and I can do … whatever. Can you make it so I don’t need to go to a foster family?”

Michael had studied her closely, his eyes narrowed. “You’d be alone then.”

“I
am
alone. It’s a fact, not a choice.”

When he’d finally said, “I’ll help you, Jolene,” she’d wanted to cry.

In the next hour, she’d told him a tidied-up version of her life. He’d said something about attorney-client privilege and how she could tell him anything, but she knew better. She’d learned a long time ago to keep the truth secret. When people knew she’d grown up with alcoholic parents, they invariably felt sorry for her. She hated that, hated to be pitied.

When they were done and the paperwork was filled out, Michael had said, “Come back and see me in a few years, Jolene. I’ll take you out to dinner.”

It had taken her six years to find her way back to him. By then, she’d been a pilot in the army and he’d been a lawyer in partnership with his father, and they’d had almost nothing in common. But she’d seen something in him that first day, an idealism that spoke deeply to her and a sense of morality that matched her own. Like her, Michael was a hard worker and had a keen sense of duty. True to his word, Michael had taken her out to dinner … and that had been the beginning.

She smiled at the memory.

In the distance, lights came on along the shore, golden dots that indicated houses in the darkness. Gauzy clouds wafted across the moon; in their absence, it shone more brightly. It was full night now, and dark. She glanced at her watch. Eight thirty.

She felt a pinch of disappointment and pushed it away. Something important must have come up. Life was like that sometimes. Things were rarely perfect. He would show up.

But …

Lately, it seemed that their differences were more pronounced than the things they shared. Michael had always hated her commitment to the military. She’d left active duty for him and gone into the Guard instead, but that hadn’t been good enough for Michael. He didn’t want to hear about her flying or her drill weekends or her friends who served. He’d always been antimilitary, but since the war in Iraq had started, his opinions had grown stronger, more negative. Their once-companionable silences had become awkward. It was pretty lonely when you couldn’t talk to your husband about the things that mattered to you. Normally, she looked away from these truths, but tonight they were all that occupied the chair beside her.

She got up and went back inside.

8:50.

She opened the heavy yellow pot lid and stared into the meal she’d made. The rich sauce had reduced too far; it looked a little black around the edges. Behind her, the phone rang. She lunged for it. “Hello?”

“Hey, Jo. I’m sorry I’m late.”

“Late was an hour ago, Michael. What happened?”

“I’m sorry. What can I say? I got into work and forgot.”

“You forgot,” she said, wishing it didn’t hurt.

“I’ll make it up to you.”

She almost said
how?
but what was the point? Why make it worse? He hadn’t meant to hurt her feelings. “Okay.”

“I’ll try to get home quickly, but…”

Jolene was glad they were on the phone; at least she didn’t have to smile. The thought came to her that he hadn’t been trying hard enough lately, that his family—and his wife—seemed not to matter to him. And yet she still loved him as deeply as the day he’d first kissed her, all those years ago.