Homefront Holiday (11 page)

“Mike could have fought you for him,” Mom pointed out with that know-all tone of hers.

She meant well. Sarah had to remember that. She watched the man and boy against the green grass and blue sky and told herself she wasn’t pining after Mike. She was not that kind of girl. She wouldn’t allow it. She was free of him now and of the past. She was moving on.

Then why did her spirit follow him like the moon and the earth?

You have to stop loving him,
she told herself firmly. “Mike is too busy. He would never give up his commitment to his work and to the army. That’s probably why he didn’t fight for Ali.”

Even as she said the words they didn’t ring true. Down deep, she couldn’t believe it. Mike wasn’t that cold. It would be easier for her to move on with her life if he was. If only life and love were simpler. “C’mon, Mom. I want to introduce you to Olga Terenkov and her daughter, Anna. Anna runs Children of the Day, you know, the place where I volunteer?”

“Oh, yes, they were the agency that brought little Ali over from the Middle East.” Mom looked pleased. “Yes, I want to thank them for all they have done for my grandson.”

“The adoption hasn’t gone through.”

“It will. Think positively, sweetheart.” Mom drew her close. “God has a way of making life come out right. Now come and introduce me.”

“Sure.” She stopped to watch Mike’s pickup rolling down the street.

You don’t love him,
she told herself, but it was a lie.

M
ike was dragging, glad the kid needed a nap. He shook the light blanket over the couch, covering up Ali completely. He waited for the boy to start giggling.

“Mike! Mike! I’m under here.”

He lifted back one edge of the blanket to reveal Ali’s round face. “Oh, there you are. I thought I had lost you for a minute there.”

“Nope. I got all covered up.” He gave a wide yawn. “I’m not sleepy.”

“Too bad, because I am.” He tucked the blanket well, cocooning the little guy. He looked snug and warm. “Just close your eyes for fifteen minutes, and then you can get up.”

“Why?”

“Because I need fifteen minutes of shut-eye.”

“I need fifteen minutes of shut-eye, too.” Ali closed his eyes.

Mike wasn’t fooled. The kid was paying attention to his every movement. He kicked off his boots and set his watch to go off in fifteen. The recliner sure felt good. He eased back and put his feet up. Fifteen minutes would be long enough to get him through the rest of the afternoon and short enough that he probably wouldn’t slip into a nightmare. With any luck.

He closed his eyes, and what did he see? Sarah. Standing there with the sun bronzing her hair and surrounded by life, by the people she loved. She looked different somehow, more at peace. She was a dream that was no longer his. Why was his chest aching like this? Why was it hard to breathe? He no longer loved her. He had not been at fault.

I loved you enough to wait.
He could still hear her broken heart in those words. No, he argued. She hadn’t waited. She had been the problem. Not him.

Because if it had been him, he couldn’t deal with that. He could handle a lot of things. He could handle war, and shot-up soldiers and patching up one trauma wound after another all the night long. What he couldn’t take was being the reason he had lost Sarah. She was the best thing that had ever happened to him.

You’ve got to slow down, Mike.
Breathe deep. He drew a chest full of air before he realized the shallow, panicked breathing he heard wasn’t his.

Ali. Mike’s eyes snapped open and he sat up in the chair. The little boy’s brow was damp and he was thrashing beneath the blanket. He shot out of the chair.

“Sarah! Sarah, no. Sar-ah.” Ali’s cry came tortured.

Mike was on his knees, wrapping the little boy in his arms, gently rocking him awake. “Hey, it’s okay, Ali. You’re safe now.”

“M-Mike.” Arms wrapped around his neck and held on. “I had a bad dream.”

“I see that.” He felt hot tears against his neck. The boy in his arms was trembling. “You’re all right, little buddy. Just take a deep breath.”

“I l-lost Sa-rah.” Ali gulped in a mouthful of air. “We was at the store and I couldn’t f-find her. I looked and looked.”

He didn’t have to be a psychologist to know what that meant. Mike sat down on the couch and drew the blanket around Ali, to keep him warm and comforted. “You’re afraid that you might lose Sarah the way you lost your mom?”

“She said she isn’t going to leave me.”

“If Sarah said it, she means it. I would believe her.” But they both knew Ali’s mother hadn’t wanted to leave him, either. Mike was at a loss. He didn’t know what to say. He wasn’t prepared for this and he was too tired to think straight. “You listen to me, ya hear?”

Ali nodded, growing solemn, tears still spilling from his eyes.

He hoped to high Heaven he was going to say this right. “Things are different this time. Do you know why?”

Ali shook his head.

“Because you’ve got family all around you.” Mike grabbed his shirtsleeve to wipe the kid’s face. It was all he had available. “You’ve got Sarah, and you’ve got Alice.”

“Nanny Alice and Papa Fred.” Ali gave a little sigh. “Papa Fred likes sports, too, and he barbecues hot dogs. And Aunt Claire and Uncle Tim.”

“See?” Mike imagined Sarah’s family, who were kind and decent people, would have taken time to get to know Ali. “That’s five people in your family right there. And you have all the folks who helped you at Children of the Day.”

“And Olga.” The tension began to ease out of him. “She helps me.”

“And what about the church you go to?” He might not need religion, but he respected the work Franklin Fields did at his church. Their paths had crossed many times at the hospital. “You have friends and people who are like family there, right?”

“Yep.” Ali clapped his hands together.

“Right.”

“And I’ve got you, Mike.”

“You’ve got me.” Mike brushed a kiss on the crown of Ali’s head. He and the kid weren’t going to be family, but then family was more than legal papers and blood ties. “I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”

“Or Sarah.”

“Or Sarah.” It wasn’t a lie. It was the truth. Maybe the only truth he had ever known.

Come for Ali at six.
That was all Mike’s text message had said. She hesitated on the walkway outside his duplex, not knowing what to expect. His message had been to the point, but she remembered how he had looked in the churchyard. She had never seen him so wrung out. He was so committed to the army he never stopped giving.

The trick was to keep control of her feelings. She ambled up the concrete steps onto the dark porch. She had to act as if she had moved on. Maybe the act of doing so would make it true eventually. It was worth a try.

There were no lights up. No Christmas decorations. No personal effects of any kind. Sarah knocked, smiling when she heard the muffled tap of Ali’s shoes. The door swung open and Ali flew into her arms.

“Sarah!”

“I’m glad to see you, too!” She felt Mike’s gaze on her. He stood behind the door, holding it open. “Hi, Mike. If you’ll hand over his coat, I’ll get out of your way—”

“Actually, I hoped you had a minute.” His baritone rang unsure. There was a plea in his eyes. “I need to talk to you.”

About Ali. She could tell that’s what he meant. “All right—”

“Come in, Sarah!” Ali tugged her over the threshold, dangerously close to Mike.

Don’t remember what it was like to be in his arms,
she ordered herself.
Don’t remember how safe it felt to be held against his chest.
She moved beyond him into the living room, where it felt safer.

Whatever happened, she could not let him think she was pining after him. She had had enough of Mike Montgomery’s rejection. She crossed her arms over her chest like a barrier. “What can I do for you, Mike?”

“Come into the kitchen.” He closed the door, all stone. It was impossible to read him. “Ali, I would appreciate it if you could finish your picture for my refrigerator.”

“I’m gonna make two pictures.” Ali rushed to the side table Mike had set up like a desk in front of the couch. His sneakers pounded on the brown carpeting.

Sarah took in the new furniture, brown and beige to match the duplex’s interior. There were no mementos. None of the old family pictures he usually hung up. Not a book. Not a CD player. Nothing but the dark television on the floor in the corner. Had he left most things in storage? She shivered. This wasn’t the Mike she knew at all.

“I’ve got tea steeping.” He used his doctor tone, impersonal and dispassionate.

She couldn’t answer him. It was as if every word she knew evaporated. She could only follow the stranger into the kitchen. The overhead fluorescent lighting was harsh. It unforgivably showed every line carved into his handsome face, every hollow and shadow.

Poor Mike. He might have every shield up, but she could see the nicks in them, the dings and the dents. Something had hurt him very much. She wanted to go to him and rub the tension from his shoulder blades. She wanted to comfort him with kindness and caring until he felt he could confide in her. Longing filled her soul. Love flooded her spirit. Every fiber of her being ached for him.

Remember, you’re not supposed to love him, Sarah.
She took a step into the kitchen toward a plain white mug on the counter. Mike had set out honey for her and a spoon. He remembered how she liked her tea. She steadied her hands and squeezed a dollop of honey into her mug.

She could see Ali busy at work on his drawings. His head was bent over his paper, his dark brown hair falling forward and he swiped a blue crayon back and forth, as if making a sky.

Mike picked up the TV remote from the counter and aimed it at the screen. The news blared to life, reporting the weather. A cold front was sweeping in from the north. Mike looked colder, speaking in a quiet tone so Ali wouldn’t hear. “Why didn’t you tell me he was having nightmares?”

She blinked; she hadn’t been expecting that. “Did he have one when he was here?”

A terse nod. That was all. The intimidating soldier stared at her, expectant.

She was at a loss. “It’s not that uncommon for children who have gone through the trauma he has.”

“He didn’t have them when he was with me.” His flat tone gave nothing away, except anger. He definitely sounded angry. But standing military straight without moving a single muscle, he was more like anger coiled and waiting.

Was he accusing her? She kept her voice low, so her words wouldn’t carry. “That’s the way post traumatic stress works. You know that, Mike. It often manifests after the event when the person feels safe again. Believe it or not, it’s a good sign, at least in a way. He’s feeling safe. Now he can work through his grief issues and his fears. He’s healing.”

“You should have told me.” A tendon beat in his neck.

“Told you?” She was at a complete and utter loss. The man towering over her as cold as ice was not the Mike she had known for so long. “What happened to you over there?”

A muscle tensed along his jaw line. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Maybe you need to.” Against every instinct and every warning, she laid her hand on his forearm. The instant her fingers met his arm, the old connection zinged to life between them.

Maybe he felt that, too. “I lost a lot of good soldiers.”

That was all. Nothing. No elaboration.

Mike wasn’t used to losing. She wished she could comfort him. Her hand remained on his arm, and the tension in his muscles increased. That was Dr. Montgomery, cool and calm in the face of any tragedy. He was still in that mode, she realized. He had lost patients before, any trauma surgeon had to face that from time to time. “Mike, if you couldn’t save them, then no one could.”

He blinked, his only reaction. “You weren’t there.”

His flat, harsh tone was like a slap. She took a sip of tea, breathing in the steam and the sweet goodness, wondering if it was
her
sympathy he didn’t want, or any sympathy at all.

“No, I wasn’t there,” she conceded. “But you give everything you have to the soldiers who come to your MASH unit. You don’t hold back.”

“Don’t patronize me. You don’t understand.”

“I see.” Her hand shook. She put the cup down on the counter. Tea sloshed over the side. Mike had never spoken to her that way before. Rattled, she searched for a dishcloth or a paper towel, but there was nothing but the bare length of counters.

“Leave it,” he clipped out. “Is there anything else you want to tell me about Ali? Anything I should know about?”

She willed her eyes to his. Grief shadowed his face. Grief for the men and women he hadn’t been able to save? She feared she would never know. She wanted to help him, but there were so many reasons why it wasn’t a good idea. And only one why it was.

“Only that he needs you. I know you want to move on with your life, and that you are spending time with him for his sake.” Again, no reaction. She swallowed, weighing her words. “But he needs more than that from you. Maybe you do, too. There’s no reason why you can’t pick him up after school or after his day care. That way you never have to see me.”

“You’re ad-dopting him.” His hard tone broke on the word, the only betrayal of his stoic front.

“Ali needs all the family he can get. You brought hope into his life. I think it is only right that he brings the same to yours.”

“I’m not—” His jaw tightened with defensiveness.

Footsteps pounded in their direction, and Mike fell silent. He visibly melted at the sight of the little boy tripping into the room, waving a paper for them to see.

“Look what I did!” Ali skidded to a stop, his work of art twisting in his wake. “You gotta see, Mike.”

“What do you have there?” He leaned forward to take a peek.

Ali’s artwork was five-year-old skill, but Mike could make out two people, a tall one dribbling what had to be a basketball while the smaller one defended the hoop. Pressure built in his throat.

“It’s you and me.” Ali leaned close. “That was when I winned.”

“I see that.” Mike fought emotion, remembering. “That was when I taught you to shoot hoops.”

“Yep.” Ali sighed contentedly. “You gonna put it on your fridgerator?”

“You know it. I’ve got tape right here.” He whipped open the junk drawer and pulled the dispenser from its place in the drawer organizer. With every passing second he could feel Sarah watching him. He could feel her curiosity and probably her censure. He moved by rote, fighting to hold the threatening emotions at bay. “Where should I put this masterpiece?”

“Right here.” Ali patted the flat of his hand in the center of the door.

“Excellent spot.” He tore off four strips of tape and stuck them to the corners of Ali’s drawing. He let the little guy stick it up, after all, he was the artist. But the truth was, it hurt too much to look at that rendering.

He hadn’t realized it until now. Sarah was right.

“We gonna have dinner yet?” Ali broke into his thoughts, staring up at him with endless trust in his dark eyes.

I don’t need anyone, Mike told himself. Looking at the boy standing in front of the picture he’d drawn of them, it wasn’t need beating at the armor guarding his heart. No, never that. He was too strong to need anyone. But it didn’t hurt to have a little company now and then. And it wasn’t as if he had to figure out the future right this minute.

“If it’s all right with Sarah, I can whip up something.” He tried to sound casual, but it was difficult. “How about spaghetti?”