After lunch on Monday, Willow dropped the boys off in front of Captain Peterson’s house. Her first impulse, once the boys were out of the car, was to drive away immediately, not even waiting to make sure they got inside okay. She knew why. Oh, yes, she did. The sight of the man filled her with the most unprofessional thoughts: longing and even— doggone it!—desire. She could feel the draw of the man out here, fifty feet away from him, separated by the wall of the house. What an absurd reaction for a woman with two children and very little trust in men.
What a coward she’d become, to refuse to approach the captain. What a terrible mother. She forced herself to wait, to make sure her sons got inside safely, as if there were danger that the boys would be captured or attacked on the short sidewalk between her car and the front door in a residential neighborhood in Butternut Creek.
Forcing herself not to take off as if the Indy 500 had begun and she was the lead car, she waved to the boys when they reached the porch, watched them knock and enter the house. Sam waved back at her, then closed the door.
She had to face facts. The sight of the man gave her a pleasant rush. For a moment she remembered herself as the high school junior who used to drive past Stephen Nielson’s house in the hope of catching a glimpse of him. She’d had such a crush on him. One day he’d been in his yard when she drove by. The sight of him had so unnerved her she’d stopped the car with a squeal of tires, thrown it into reverse, and backed down the street at fifty miles an hour so he wouldn’t see her. As if everyone in town didn’t know her mother’s old red convertible. How cool had she been?
Obviously, age plus all her education and marriage and the birth of two sons hadn’t elevated her level of coolness. She wanted to catch a glimpse of the captain nearly as much as, paradoxically, she didn’t.
She attributed this need to her wounded ego and her low libido, severely damaged by her husband’s defection to Barbie-doll Tiffany who had no sags or stretch marks.
Then her cell rang. She grabbed it and flipped it open.
“Willow, where are you?” Trixie said. “You have a patient waiting.”
“Be right there.” She glanced at her watch. For heaven’s sake, she’d sat there for several minutes mooning about the man. How completely unprofessional. How immature.
Before she could consider at length what an idiot she’d become, she put the car in gear and took off, forcing her mind back to the business at hand and away from her foolish yearning.
“Oo-rah,” Sam shouted. A trickle of sweat eased down his back. Little shade in his backyard. The only tree had lost its leaves already, which didn’t seem right. Not that he knew anything about trees, but it seemed too early for that. Maybe he could get Leo and Nick to research the problem—which would give him a little peace, use up a few of their hours, and maybe save the tree.
The boys threw their thin shoulders back and echoed his words. “Oo-rah.”
“Semper fi, men,” Sam said.
“Semper fi,” the boys repeated. Their lips twitched a little as if they were attempting to hide grins.
“No smiles, Gyrenes.” Sam had about reached the end of his marine vocabulary, at least the words he could use in front of kids.
“Sir, no, sir.” They stood straight, kept their expressions serious, and watched every move Sam made.
Which presented a problem. Sam had no idea what to do next. On top of that, the prosthesis Willow had cushioned had begun to hurt a little. Oh, it felt a lot better, but still didn’t feel like a real leg.
Since noon, the boys had cleared the yard, a patch so small it had taken only an hour to pull weeds and pick up a few pieces of trash. They’d cut the grass using an old push mower Sam showed them how to oil. Not that there was much grass. Aunt Effie hadn’t been any better a gardener than he was and probably hadn’t watered the lawn when she was so ill. Here and there a few clumps of grass and weeds huddled together, shorter now but dry and close to death.
The brothers watched him with what looked like admiration. A heady experience for him but not an emotion anyone should feel toward him.
Of course, with his eyes slightly clearer—he’d finished off only a few longnecks the previous evening, placed the bottles in the trash, and actually fallen asleep at a normalish hour—he didn’t look like quite as much of a wreck as that first day. He’d shaved this morning, nicking himself a couple of times. Even with those wounds, he didn’t look completely disreputable.
“Gyrenes, how many hours have you worked today?”
“Six, sir.”
They knew they hadn’t worked forty hours. His reckoning said they’d worked thirty-one each. He could tell them they were finished, that they’d earned all the money they owed him, but he knew they wouldn’t accept his ignoring the remaining hours of work. They didn’t want to disappoint their mother. Besides, he enjoyed having them here, though he’d never admit it.
“Sir, I looked in the shed and carport. You don’t have a hose,” Leo said. “And you don’t have a sprinkler.”
“I found a spigot on the side of the house,” Nick added. “It works. You have water.”
“We can go to the hardware store on the highway. It’s only two blocks away.” Leo pointed vaguely to the south. “Mom lets us walk there by ourselves.”
He knew she did because she’d given them money to buy him a dipped cone from the Dairy Queen next to the hardware store. They’d walked from there to here with only a few licks missing, because they’d had to stop the dripping.
Reaching in a pocket, he pulled out his wallet and handed them some bills. “Get what you think we need, but stay within budget, okay?”
They took off running. Sam walked to the small patio, poured himself a glass of water, and waited.
Last week, the junior marines had swept and wiped and vacuumed and cleaned. He’d documented the hours each boy had worked inside. He even counted the time spent eating the lunches their mother had brought or prepared, but he was running out of chores.
Yesterday they’d sprayed and squeegeed windows, cleaned out the kitchen cabinets. They’d packed up some of Aunt Effie’s dishes and clothing and possessions like the lacy tablecloth and fluffy mint-green bedspread he’d never use. The boys stacked the bags and boxes on the front steps.
When their mother brought lunch, they’d stuffed several bags in her car. She’d promised to drop them off at the community thrift shop, then left them alone to eat and work. Her attitude had seemed very professional, like he was her patient, but he’d seen her studying him once or twice with what he thought was a spark of interest. Could he fan it into an ember? Maybe a fire? Did he still know how to do that?
Not that he wanted to. Not that he needed anyone now, and he felt certain she didn’t, either.
So why did he keep thinking about her and their being together?
Whenever he got the chance, he watched her leave, had even dragged himself to the front door so he could observe her. Today she didn’t get out of the car. Disappointing. Just that little bounce in her step and wiggle in her hips made the day worthwhile.
Stupid to feel this way, dumb to want what he couldn’t and shouldn’t have. What in the world would a woman like her, educated and gorgeous and the mother of two great kids, find attractive about a worn-out loser like him?
With her professional training and experience, Willow Thomas—unlike most women—knew what lay beneath the face that attracted other women, knew about the pit that existed in his soul, was aware it drew in anything positive and hurled it into the dark chaos inside him. And yet, once she’d vetted him, she’d left her children with him. Maybe she didn’t think he was as bad as he knew he was. Not that he’d ever hurt the boys, but he was hardly the ideal example for them.
Within twenty minutes, the boys were back with a long hose, a receipt, and his change, plus the biggest, most gimmicky sprinkler he could imagine.
“See, this part goes around in circles,” Nick demonstrated, “to get the grass around the sprinkler, and the top part spurts water like a fountain to really soak the ground.”
“And there’s a button on the bottom so you can change the pattern from a square to a circle.” Leo showed him how to do exactly that.
“I think that is one of the most amazing inventions I’ve seen in years.” He bet it wouldn’t last a week, but the kids were so proud and excited about it, he didn’t say that.
“They had one that you could program to roll across the lawn,” Leo said.
“But it cost too much.” Nick added.
“This one looks terrific. Good job, Gyrenes.”
“Thank you, sir.” Nick saluted.
“We’ll hook it up now.” Leo ran off.
Within five minutes, the sprinkler was pumping out water and spraying and making loud hissing sounds. Might not last, but he had to admire the creativity of the person who’d designed this incredibly complicated and shiny piece of equipment that threw out torrents of water in all directions and sounded as if there were an angry cat inside.
The boys were delighted with themselves and the purchase.
“We have to show that to Mom,” Nick said.
Sam doubted she’d be deeply interested in the contraption but knew she’d come to the backyard, ooh and aah, because her sons purchased and set it up. He really admired how much she cared about the boys.
He grinned. They were great kids. He’d like them around even if they didn’t have a gorgeous, intriguing mother. He’d miss them when they finished their hours. Oh, yeah, he wouldn’t mind sleeping late or not picking up after himself before they came, struggling to wipe off the kitchen counters, but he’d miss the companionship and the way they seemed to look up to him. A balm to his scarred soul.
What had happened to the man he’d been a few weeks ago?
“What’s inside that door inside?” Nick asked. “You know, the one you never open.”
Leo elbowed his brother in the ribs and muttered, “Shut up.”
After he glared at his brother, Nick continued, “You know, the other door off the living room. One goes to the bathroom. One goes to your bedroom. What’s behind the third door?”
“Oh, yeah.” Sam dropped onto the sofa. “That’s the extra bedroom. For my father.”
“Your father?” Nick looked at Sam with huge eyes. “You have a father?”
“Everybody’s got a father.” Leo scoffed. “Someplace.” Then he turned to Sam. “Where’s yours? Is he coming to visit?”
“The general’s in DC now. He’ll be here in a few weeks, maybe.”
“We should make sure his bedroom’s clean,” Leo said.
They were right. When Sam arrived, he’d taken the first bedroom he came to because he’d been exhausted after the trip. His father would sleep in the other bedroom when he arrived. Sam hadn’t opened that door because he didn’t want to think about that ever happening. Still, he’d have to face his father’s presence someday, and now seemed like a good time, with the boys here. “All right, marines, let’s police these quarters.”
“Sir, yes, sir.” The boys ran inside ahead of him and opened the door to the unused bedroom.
“It doesn’t smell good, Captain,” Nick said.
“Probably need to air it out. Can I open a window, sir?” Leo added.
By the time Sam arrived at the door, Leo had thrown the window open. A breeze blew through and ruffled the feminine white lace curtains. Sam had sneaked out that window as a kid to wander through the neighborhood. Once he’d met up with Annie Morgan in the park for his first make-out session. Probably shouldn’t share those memories with the boys.
Nick had pulled the bedspread back. “No sheets.”
“Get some from the linen closet in the bathroom.”
“We need to check in the closet and dresser, sir, to see if there’s anything inside to clear out,” Leo said.
Sam nodded. “Take the closet and I’ll go through the dresser.”
In less than an hour they’d finished. The room smelled better after Nick bombed it with air freshener, which caused a five-minute evacuation. Once back in the room, they made the bed and put together a small bag of stored clothing and knickknacks for Willow to take to the thrift store. Leo had insisted they hang a framed photo of bluebonnets found in the closet, to brighten the room. It took another ten minutes to decide where to put it, measure, and pound a hanger into the wall.
What next? Sam wondered as he considered the bright room and the punch of color from the bluebonnets. Nothing left to do in here. Maybe if they went outside, he could think of something.
“All right, you jarheads, this afternoon we’re—” He had no idea what they were going to do. Fortunately, almost as soon as they’d re-formed in the backyard, a woman’s voice drifted over the rickety fence.
“Captain,” she shouted.
He turned to look at a tall attractive woman in her sixties, he guessed. White hair swept back, a nice smile.
“I’m Winnie Jenkins.” When he didn’t recognize the name, she added, “From the church. Glad I found you home. The ladies have prepared some food. I’m parked in front of your house. ”
He hoped she’d brought a dobos torte.
“I could use help.”
“All right, Gyrenes,” Sam said, and the boys stood at attention. “Marines always assist women unloading their cars.”
“Sir, yes, sir.”
“Fall out.”
The boys zoomed past him—not difficult—through the house and out the front door before he made it inside. Within seconds, they came back carrying pans covered with aluminum foil and Tupperware bowls. Plastic cake carriers dangled from both of Nick’s wrists.
“Where do you want these, Captain?” Winnie said.
By this time, he’d finally arrived in the kitchen. Fortunately, earlier this morning the boys had cleared off and scoured the small, round breakfast table and the counters. He hadn’t had time to mess them up again.
“Anywhere you find room. I’ll—we’ll put them away later.”
“This one”—she held up the pan she had in her hands—“is a very nice brisket Pansy Martin made for you. Over there are two chocolate cakes.” She turned toward him. “I didn’t realize the duplication. I hope you like chocolate.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Nick and Leo said in unison. “We do.”
She smiled at them. “Are you going to help the captain eat all this?”
Because the boys looked at him with bright, hopeful eyes, Sam had to say, “At least the desserts.”
“The ladies made some vegetable casseroles.” She turned a serious gaze on him. “We really want you to get healthy, young man. You’re far too skinny. That’s why we used a lot of cheese and butter in all our dishes.”
The fatten-you-up result of their concern sat all over the kitchen surfaces and he’d enjoy every bite of it.
“Thank you, Miss Winnie,” he said. Yeah, he really had become a wimp who could be bought with lots of cheese, extra butter, and brisket.
“This is my specialty.” She patted a covered bowl. “It’s my orange gelatin and carrot salad.”
His stomach clenched at the memory of gelatin salads at church dinners, but he smiled. “Your salad takes me back to when I was a kid.” Which was the truth. He’d hated it then and bet it tasted just as bad as he remembered.
She beamed. “Someone’s bringing a ham tomorrow. All this”—she waved her hand—“and the ham should hold you for a week.”
“Miss Winnie, this should feed me for the rest of my life. Thank you.” He leaned over—almost falling but steadied himself on the table—and kissed her on the cheek. An odd reaction he couldn’t really explain but he knew if he tried to say something, emotion would overwhelm him.
“Oh, my, young man.” She put her hand to her face and held it there. “How sweet of you.” Then she picked up the basket she’d brought in. “When you’re through with the dishes, I’ll pick them up and take them back to church. Or you could bring them back,” she added. “We’d love to see you.”
Not committing himself, Sam said. “Please thank everyone.”
When she left, the boys gazed at him with that hopeful expression that usually got them whatever they wanted. “Okay, guys, but if you tell your mother I let you eat chocolate cake this close to dinner, we’re in big trouble. All three of us.”
Fortunately, they’d finished the cake, rinsed the plates and forks, and headed for the backyard by the time Willow showed up. Was he happy to see her only because he always liked to see her or because he had no idea what to do with the guys next?
He’d have to think of some odd jobs before they came again. Shampoo the furniture? Paint the house? No, repairing the rickety fence would probably work best. For now, he’d enjoy her presence and consider the chores later.
“Hello, boys.” Willow hugged each son before they wiggled away. “I see you’re wearing the prosthetic device, Captain. How does it feel?”
He shrugged. “Fine.”
“How did the day go?”
“Fine.” He nodded. For some reason, he lost the ability to communicate when she stood too close. What an idiot he was, a marine who shot macho weapons in war, who’d faced incredible odds and death, but who couldn’t carry on a conversation with a fragile-looking redhead.
“Captain, I didn’t drive today. The boys and I are going to walk home. Would you like to go with us?”
Her smile was friendly but not particularly inviting, the expression of a mother asking the boys’ little friend to join them.
Nevertheless, he wanted to kiss those gorgeous lips and pull her next to him, to cover himself with her long hair, to touch her and… He refused to complete the thought. After all, her sons were only a few feet away.
“No thanks,” he said.
“Oh, please, sir,” Nick begged.
This time, he didn’t give in to their expressions. And Willow Thomas was much more inviting than chocolate cake and one hundred times more delicious.
“Good exercise,” Leo said.
“You guys give me more than enough exercise,” he said.
She smiled, almost in relief he thought. “Don’t forget your next appointments,” she said. Then the three left, the boys hopping down the porch steps and along the sidewalk with her.
He longed to join them, be a part of that group. To be carefree as he’d been when he visited Aunt Effie, back when he ran along the sidewalk with his friends looking for a pickup game of basketball or riding bikes to the lake.
Instead, he watched her walk away.
They were getting too close, Sam realized as he got ready for bed that night. He hit the counter in the bathroom with his fist.
It hurt.
He remembered the laughter of the three as they walked away from the house. He smashed his hand against the counter again. Hurt even more.
He could feel the town and the people and the boys and their mother all sneaking inside his carefully constructed barrier. He didn’t want them inside. He did not want to care about anyone or anything. All he wanted was to be left alone in this mess of a house. He couldn’t take feeling again, didn’t want to, refused to.
Now the house was clean and people walked in and out.
He cursed as he hit the counter again but not as hard because, although depressed, he wasn’t stupid.
What should he do if she and her sons and the insufferably friendly people of Butternut Creek persisted in trying to tear his defenses down? These people needed to leave him alone, stop bringing food and tortes and dropping in. He wanted to be dead inside. He wanted to stay that way, had no desire to join the happy throng parading through his house. Why had he let them inside? He should’ve guessed the cheerful name of the town described exactly the positive attitude of the people who inhabited it.
He cursed Butternut Creek.
For a moment, tears gathered in his eyes, but he refused to let go. He had to be tough, had to remember who he was and what he’d left behind, the parts of himself he’d abandoned in Afghanistan, one visible from the outside, the other losses hidden inside.
He lifted his gaze to the mirror. A useless man looked back at him. If he forgot Afghanistan, he’d forget Morty and the others who’d died there and those who still fought. He’d start agreeing with people who said he was lucky to get out alive, even if he had lost a leg, and he couldn’t do that. Morty had died on an isolated mountainside, killed by an enemy they hadn’t even seen. Losing his best friend while he still lived didn’t feel a bit lucky.
He scrubbed any trace of grief away, then hardened his expression. He was a marine, not a pansy. Not a rainbow of peace and light.
Once the sanctuary emptied on Sunday morning, Adam wandered back down the central aisle, unzipping his robe as he walked. Hot to wear on an August morning with the air-conditioning spitting very little cool air into the sanctuary. Another repair. The crack in the wall from the corner of the baptistery to the ceiling and the peeling paint on the windowsills also needed to be fixed. He and the church members could repair and paint the walls themselves, but the air-conditioning would cost.
The bank had turned down their loan request. Where would the money come from?
Adam hadn’t seen Captain Peterson in church. Not that he’d expected to. He’d gone by Sam’s house two more times, left notes in the door, and telephoned twice, but no one answered. So he’d written a letter.
“Dear Lord,” Adam whispered. “Please help me reach him.”
It was the first Sunday of the month, which meant it was time for the fellowship dinner. As in all churches and as he’d learned with dishes people dropped off at the parsonage, the food was great. He hurried to his study, hung up the robe, and studied the jacket that lay across a chair. Too hot. He checked his tie in the mirror and wished he could leave that in the office as well, but a new minister without his suit coat and his tie would probably cause Miss Birdie to hyperventilate. At least his hair was not “too long” anymore. It had grown a little, enough so his scalp didn’t show around his ears quite as much. Nearly enough that people didn’t stop on the sidewalks and snicker, although Hector and his buddies hadn’t let Adam forget.
Once in the fellowship hall, Adam said grace. He’d learned the minister’s trick of saying the blessing only a foot away from the serving table. When he said “Amen,” he moved quickly into the head of the line and arrived at the counter spread with dishes of so many kinds he hardly knew where to start. He piled on the sauerkraut and sausage, the pickled beets—which he seldom had—the chicken and dumplings, the beans, and more.
“We’ll fix you a plate to take home,” Pansy said. “You can make a couple more meals out of it.”
Adam was beginning to enjoy being spoiled.
After about two months here, he knew almost half of the people gathered by name. Willow Thomas sat with two kids. He waved but steered clear of her. If he sat next to her, tongues would wag. He chose a chair across from two couples—all four with white hair—he barely knew and talked with them for a few minutes.
At least until Ralph approached, dragging a young blond woman behind him. Adam wanted to slip under the table, but people found such behavior by ministers unseemly. Unfortunately. Because she looked nearly as uncomfortable as he felt, Adam smiled and hoped someone would take the chair next to him before she got there.
No one did.
“Hey, Preacher. Want you to meet my niece Nancy from San Saba.” Ralph pulled out the chair and shoved the reluctant young woman in it. “She’s visiting today.”
Nancy glared at Adam, uncomfortable and rebellious, as if her presence were his fault. He smiled but had no idea what to say to a female who obviously wished she were anyplace other than sitting next to him.
“That’s not the way to handle it.” Birdie watched from the long serving counter between the fellowship hall and the kitchen as the preacher politely attempted to engage Ralph’s relative in conversation. “Too obvious.”
“Neither of them looks happy,” Mercedes observed. “How old is Nancy?”
“Don’t know. Hear she has a boyfriend the family doesn’t like, but forcing her on the preacher isn’t going to work.” Birdie could hear a note of satisfaction in her own voice. Why? Shouldn’t she rejoice if anyone found a good match for the preacher? Of course, but this woman didn’t look like “the one.”
“We have to keep looking,” Mercedes said.
With a nod, Birdie checked out the crowd in the fellowship hall. About half of the diners had filled their plates and another half stood in line. Of all those people, she couldn’t see another single woman in the place younger than sixty. Well, except Willow Thomas, but Birdie had plans for her.
“We have a problem,” Winnie whispered, pointing toward a platter on the counter.
“Heavens preserve us,” Birdie whispered. They were out of fried chicken. How could such a thing have happened? Distracted by the preacher’s love life, she hadn’t noticed. How could she have acted so irresponsibly?
“What do we do now?” Mercedes picked up an empty plate while Birdie shoved a casserole of Pansy’s delicious chicken spaghetti into the space left on the counter.
“I’ll run down to the H-E-B and pick up more,” Winnie suggested. She pulled her keys from her purse and studied Birdie, a question so obvious in her eyes even Birdie couldn’t ignore it.
Mercedes watched both women and waited.
Birdie knew what Winnie’s words and actions meant: a test of Birdie’s leadership, a day of reckoning, Armageddon in the kitchen of the Christian Church. If she took Winnie up on her offer, there was no retreat, no going back. Winnie would be a Widow against all the rules of widowdom.
Birdie sensed that everyone in the fellowship hall froze, as if time had stopped. Every eye in the hall lifted to the two women. Those in line stared, their gazes hopping back and forth between Birdie and Winnie as if they were watching a tennis match. Birdie saw that the preacher—poor young man, he should be spared a scene like this—had been attempting to chat with the blond visitor. His efforts at conversation stopped as his glance leaped toward the Widows and the wannabe.
The moment immobilized those at the tables with their forks halfway to their mouths, but their stares glued to Birdie’s face.
The time had come.
How should she answer the challenge?
Not a sound came from the room, but it seemed as if Winnie’s words and the jingling of her keys still echoed around them.
Then Birdie nodded. “Get two large buckets.”
With that, everyone went back to eating or talking or picking up food from the dishes scattered across the counter while Winnie hurried out the side door and into the parking lot.
Mercedes said, “She did a good job in rounding up and delivering the food to Sam Peterson.”
Birdie knew exactly what her friend meant. She’d done the right thing to add one more Widow to the group, but she had needed an excuse, like fried chicken.
“Hey, Grandma.” Bree stood in front of her, piling her plate with more food than a girl should have been able to put away without gaining at least a pound or two—no matter how tall and thin she was. Bree had her mother’s eyes but her height came from her father. Dad gum man.
“Hello, dear.” Birdie patted her granddaughter’s hand. “Where’s your sister?”
“Over there with Willy Marti, Jesse’s grandson.” Bree rolled her eyes. “Grandma, she’s too young to have a boyfriend.”
Before Birdie could answer—she agreed but now wasn’t the time to discuss the fact—Bree hurried over to the dessert table and grabbed the last piece of Pansy’s better-than-sex cake.
“They’re good kids.” Mercedes picked up a pile of empty dishes and put them in the sink to soak. “You know they are. You worry too much.”
“Their mother was into drugs at fifteen. That could happen to them also. No one’s immune.” Birdie joined her friend to clear the counter as the last few members filled their plates. “Could end up like their mother.” She hated to even consider that, but they could, either one. The possibility broke her heart.
“Do you see any signs they’re doing drugs?”
No, she hadn’t, and she knew what to look for. She’d watched her daughter’s slide and been powerless to stop it. Even now, tears clouded her eyes as she thought of that precious child and how she’d destroyed her own life.
When Birdie didn’t answer, Mercedes said, “I haven’t heard anything bad about them, and you know I hear everything. They’re good kids. They make good grades.”
“Lots of things to worry about with kids today.” Birdie picked up a sponge and wrung it out in the sink. “Pregnancy. You know how many girls don’t finish school.” She’d spoken to each granddaughter often to warn them of the dangers of unprotected sex, to beg them to abstain until they were old enough to handle the responsibility involved. How likely was it they’d remember that when one of them was out in a car with a pushy teenage boy whose testosterone levels were through the roof—the usual status for a high school boy—and the moon shone romantically and love songs played on the radio?
Just then, Winnie hurried in with the chicken, which started a rush on the counter.
“They’re good girls,” Mercedes said as she picked up a few serving spoons.
Yes, they were good girls, Mac and Bree, but a lot of unknowns awaited them outside the walls of this church and the little house they shared, temptations that could lead them astray, exactly as they had dear Martha. She had no idea how to keep the girls safe without tying them to the sofa.
And she didn’t know any knots that would keep them there.