Joint Forces (16 page)

Dumped it on the floor? She started rifling through empty cans and wadded napkins.

"What in the hell are you doing, Rena? Careful or you're going to cut yourself."

She knocked aside his hands and pulled free from the rubbish…

A box for an early-pregnancy test.

H
and shaking nearly as much as her insides, Rena thrust the box closer to her son.

Talk about a visit from the Ghost of Knocked-Up Teenagers Past. Nothing like having her own mistakes come back to haunt her. But she couldn't think about herself or her own fears, not with a more pressing concern on her hands.

Literally.

Chris snatched the empty box from her. "You can both quit with the freaked-out looks. It's not mine.

Well, I mean, obviously the test isn't
mine
, but it has nothing to do with me. You know?"

J.T. nudged his toe along the pile of soda cans on top of an empty cereal box. "Then what is it doing in our trash?"

"It was for a good friend." Chris's words tumbled over each other. "Someone you don't know."

His squeaky gym shoes betrayed his attempt to lie, and that twisted more old fears inside her. She'd worked to teach her children the importance of honesty—a trait she so admired in their father.

Even when that honesty broke her heart.

Of course, this lie didn't rank up there with a Mob hit or money laundering or any of the other things her family had been accused of while she was a child. But she was so afraid of unwittingly passing along defective genes and shifty mind-sets to her kids.

To some degree hadn't she taught her son about shading the truth by pretending if she filled her house with plants and overbright smiles no one would notice her empty marriage?

Chris jammed his hands in his pockets. "She was worried she might be pregnant and she came over here to run the test while you were gone since there's, like, never a quiet time around her house. It's a real fishbowl over there. But she's not pregnant, so it doesn't matter, right?"

Not pregnant. Relief took the edge off her fears. If the test had been run correctly.

Rena laid a hand on her son's arm, patted until his shoulder dropped with lowering defenses. "What about false negatives on the test? She needs to be careful and take care of herself, just in case."

"A couple of hours after the test, uh, she found out for sure." Red crept up his face, tipping his ears beneath his dark curls. "She said she figured it must have been stress affecting, you know, her cycle."

J.T.'s jaw flexed. "And this makes everything okay?"

"Yeah, of course it does, Dad. She's not pregnant. Great news."

Foot throbbing as much as her head, Rena slid back into her chair, her hand tugging Chris around to face her while J.T. calmed down. "You two were lucky this time. But what happens next time? Safe sex is important for more reasons than unplanned pregnancy. There are diseases out there that can kill you."

"Like I don't know that already? They've been telling us that in school since junior high."

"All right, just doing the parent thing and checking." Rena drew in a shaky breath. "I wish you would have at least brought Miranda over to meet us."

"Miranda? I'm not seeing Miranda. She's just somebody—" Chris shuffled his feet, squeak, squeak "—

from work."

J.T.'s shoulders bunched over their son's shoe squeak that chimed like a telltale lie detector. Rena rushed to add, "Okay then, whoever it is, I wish we could meet your friends."

"When?" Chris's deepening voice grew louder. "When's ever a good time around here lately? Besides, like you two have any room to preach to me about getting somebody pregnant even if I had done it."

"Enough." J.T.'s curt edict cut the air.

The air snapped between father and son. Chris's words hurt, but not as much as watching her family disintegrate under the weight of mounting tensions. "J.T., it's okay."

"Like hell it is." J.T. stepped over the pile of trash and stopped nose to nose with his son. "Don't ever talk to your mother that way again."

Chris backed until his butt bumped the counter. "Fine, okay. But I'm not dating anybody. I'm definitely not getting busy with anybody. God. Like anyone would have me. I helped a friend. That's all. You don't want me messing around in your business? Well, stay out of mine." He pivoted on his Nikes and sprinted up the stairs two at a time.

His door slam echoed.

Rena sagged back in her chair. So much for her pride in her mediation skills. Now the evening sucked on all levels. Her hands fell to her lap, peanuts and hope weighing like lumpy cookie dough in her stomach.

Kneeling, J.T. scooped up the garbage, stuffing it back into the bag until at least the floor was clear, if not their lives.

She wadded up the empty snack wrapper and extended her hand to add it to the trash. If only she could back the day up to the start of their drive, just Cokes and kisses. No stupid "Did you ever love me?"

questions. "We'll talk to him again tomorrow."

J.T. gave the bag ties a vicious yank. "Damn straight I'll be talking to him. And he'll be giving you an apology shortly thereafter."

She bit back the urge to tell him to go easy on her little boy who wasn't so little anymore. More than ever she needed to let J.T. find his way as a solo parent, too, in case…

The peanuts gained fifty extra pounds of dread in her stomach.

She inched her hand up into her loose shirt and released the waist button on her skirt. She would need maternity clothes soon, new baby things. Would she and J.T. shop for a baby crib together this time? Or would they need two, one for his place and one for hers?

Reaching under the sink, he unrolled a new garbage bag and lined the trash can. He prowled the kitchen, closed an open kitchen cabinet. Smacked the lid back on the airplane cookie jar.

Finally, the kitchen immaculate, he sat, leaning down to untie one boot, then the other. "At least we have a clue now as to why he's been so preoccupied."

"Do you believe him when he says he couldn't have been the father? He's sixteen, almost seventeen. I understand teenagers have sex." She was proof of that one. "But Chris hasn't seemed to go out much in anything other than groups."

J.T. dropped the boot on the floor beside the other. "I think he's telling the truth. Except I can't help but wonder what's up with this friend Miranda or whoever she is. She's obviously sleeping with someone, and she didn't turn to the father. What the hell's wrong with the guy that she wouldn't go to him?"

The unspoken accusation of Rena keeping the pregnancy secret flicked her conscience. "I know I should have told you about the baby sooner."

"Thank you." He nudged one boot closer to the other with his toe, lining them up before leaning back in the chair when in the past days he would have unzipped his flight suit partway, made himself at home.

"There's obviously a problem there. If he's a violent type, then he's not going to like his girlfriend turning to Chris."

"You're thinking about the car accident?"

"Just running through possibilities. I can't seem to get away from the fact that you were in Chris's car, and damn it, that van swerved deliberately. Not some drunken weaving. Once the van hit you, it didn't so much as take out a trash can on its way off. The driving was deliberate and smooth."

"A disgruntled boyfriend?"

"Could be an explanation. Hormones and rage together can be a lethal combination."

"And you need an explanation."

"Don't you?"

"Accidents happen."

"And sometimes they don't." He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "Look, I don't want to argue with you about this. Especially not now when it seemed like maybe we were making some headway earlier.

We never finished our discussion in the truck—about trying to work things out."

Headway that ground to a halt when he'd made it clear he wanted to come home for the baby. She'd gone that route once and ended up with her heart shredded. "We've tried before—"

"Hold on. I'm not talking big plans. Just keep things like they are for a while longer. We still have the weekend before you can drive. There's the question of what's going on with Chris. Why shake things up?"

Because she didn't think she could survive watching J.T.'s broad shoulders walk out of her life again.

"No need to decide now. Tuesday, I have a flight I can't cancel or change. Lots of prep work, too. Why don't we regroup after that?"

Putting off answering seemed easier than discussing anything else tonight with the taste and smell of him still on her. "Tuesday, then."

"Good. This is the right thing, babe, you'll see." He scooped his boots up and stood. "'Night, Rena."

He leaned and kissed her. On the lips, lingering a full two seconds beyond a peck but not long enough for her to gather her thoughts and object.

Then he was gone, the familiar thud of his steps echoing up the stairs.

And thank God he hadn't pressed her for more, because just like twenty-two years ago in the back seat of her BMW, she was afraid she couldn't tell this man no.

* * *

J.T. stared up from the weight bench at his son spotting for him in their garage workout area. "What brought that on?"

"Just don't like it there."

"You're going to have to do better than that." He extended his arms, sweating through his third set of ten reps. His job required less lifting these days as things became more mechanized, but the physical exertion still let off steam. He had steam to spare at the moment, and he needed the time to check up on his son.

"A man doesn't quit on his obligations."

Accusatory brown eyes stared back down at him. "Really?"

"There's a difference between divorce and quitting." He huffed through lifts. Muggy gusts of air through the open window by the tool bench provided minimal cooling, merely moving around the scent of sweat and motor oil.

"Sure, whatever."

"Seven, eight," J.T. counted to calm his frustration as well as mark his repetitions. "Nine, ten."

He hefted the two hundred fifty pounds onto the brackets, releasing the bar with a clang. He swung his feet around to the side, snagging a towel from the floor and swiping his head. "So, son? Reason for quitting?"

Chris shrugged, baggy T-shirt rippling. "Exams are coming up. I need to study and, like, with those extra deliveries Miranda was talking about, the job's taking up lots more time. I was thinking I could, uh, quit at the restaurant for a few weeks and then find something else once summer starts."

"Why not ask for a couple of weeks off?" He grabbed the gallon milk jug filled with water and tipped it back, chugging.

Chris swiveled away to adjust the weights, decreasing to one-twenty for his go-round on the bench. "My boss, Mr. Haugen, won't go for that."

"Do you want me to talk to him about time off or cutting out the deliveries?"

He jerked around. "No!"

J.T. set down the jug on the Astroturf covering concrete. "Did he let you go and you don't want to tell me?"

"I'd just like to find something else."

The reasons made sense, but something didn't ring true in his tone. Bottom line, though, he couldn't make his son stay with the job. Chris could just screw up and get fired if he wanted out that much. "Fine. I can't argue with a kid who wants to study more. But I do expect you to find something else once school's out.

You're not going to lie around here all summer while your mother and I are at work."

Chris dropped onto his back on the weight bench, feet to the side on the ground. "Is this about the stuff in the trash again?"

"Partly." J.T. stepped in place to spot for his son. "I understand you feel that you can't betray a friend's confidence. But be careful. If this girl's boyfriend starts gunning for you—"

"He won't."

"Are you sure, because—"

"He won't."

O-kay. He wasn't getting any more out of Chris on that one. Although he almost hoped the angry-boyfriend scenario was true, because then there wouldn't be unanswered questions. One angry teen was a helluva lot easier to deal with than original concerns about a gang. Or that something might have leaked about his surveillance flights.

J.T. stared down at his son on the bench. "You owe your mother an apology for what you said the other night. You hurt her."

So did you
, his son's eyes accused silently. "I'll tell her I'm sorry."

Chris hefted the weight bar off and closed his eyes. Concentration or avoidance? Either way, the shutout was obvious.

Two sets of ten later, Chris replaced the bar, ducked around it and sat up. "No sweat about the summer job, Dad. I got a line on something at the squadron pool party. Spike told me he heard they were looking for lifeguards at the base pool. He said he thought I had a good shot at getting a slot."

"Ah, now I get it." J.T. sat beside his son. "Bathing suits."

A sheepish grin twitched across Chris's face, just like the time J.T. had caught him flushing Legos down the toilet.

He hadn't thought much about Chris and swimming, or that his son might have different sport preferences than his own interest in football and wrestling. But since Spike had once been a professional diver during his stint with the CIA, if the guy thought Chris could handle lifeguarding, then it must be so. "Not a bad way to spend the summer and earn money. Sure a helluva lot more fun than the way I spent my summers as a teenager. I'm lucky now to be doing something I enjoy."

Chris picked up his water bottle, rolled it between his palms. "Why did you go into the Air Force?"

"Where I grew up, it was either join the military or work in the steel mill. In my family, when we turned eighteen, we had to head out and earn a living. No hanging around to 'find yourself.' Six picked the mill.

Three of us enlisted."

"But why did you enlist instead of doing what your other brothers did?"

"You're going to college."

"I know. But why did you decide to join up?"

"If you're thinking about the military, you need to know this isn't an easy job." J.T. scratched a hand up his tank top along his ribs where a phantom ache twitched. His eyes gravitated to his tome of Shakespeare's plays, currently tucked sideways between his ratchet set and buzz saw. "Be sure you're called."