Trish balanced the basket of banana bran muffins against her belly and knocked on the barn red front door. An errant breeze lifted the edge of the blue gingham cloth napkin lining the basket, but it did little to make the heat bearable. Air conditioning and a sip of cold water would go over well.
No one answered her knock. She knew she had the right house. Bella had said Wally came from a yellow house across from the beach. Trish currently stood in front of the only pale yellow house on the street. Stick-on gold letters spelled SCHMIDT across the black mailbox. The three-decade old brown car in the driveway suggested the elderly lady was home. An impatient sigh slipped out and Trish knocked again.
The baby twisted — or maybe she was feeling giant moths fluttering as they gathered around the blue light of death. A promising light that drew them in and then—
The door pulled back a crack and a tiny weatherworn face appeared in the opening. “Yes? Can I help you?”
Not such a friendly sort. Trish sighed. “Are you Mrs. Schmidt?”
The expression on the disembodied face became even more shuttered. “Depends who’s doing the asking.”
“My name’s Trish Conway.” She forced a smile, hoping it didn’t look too phony. “I — you gave my daughter a kitten?”
Mrs. Schmidt wrinkled her nose in obvious distaste. “No take-backs. If you don’t want it, take it to a shelter.”
Why, you heartless old… Trish harnessed her mean thoughts and widened her smile, praying it didn’t look like she was baring her teeth. “Oh, we don’t want to return it! Bella loves the kitten,” she said, instilling so much sweetness into her voice she worried about cavities. “She named him Wally.”
“Huh.” Mrs. Schmidt grunted. “Actually, I named him Walter after my dead husband. So she kept the name, eh? Not too original, is she?”
“Or maybe she just liked the name,” suggested Trish, her smile in danger of faltering. She lifted the basket. “I baked some banana bran muffins this morning.”
“Congratulations on your accomplishment.” The old lady’s tone was sour, but her eyes strayed to the basket, and she licked her lips.
“I — these are for you.” Trish held up the basket. “To say thank you for the kitten.”
The breeze blew off the beach again, carrying with it the stench of seaweed and dead fish. Cursing the storm that had probably turned the beach into a minefield of decaying marine life, Trish held her breath until the wind died down. Unfortunately, the odor lingered, turning her stomach.
Mrs. Schmidt’s lip curled. Was it from the beach smell or the gesture? “Thank you, eh?” She squinted hard in Trish’s direction, seeming not to notice how aromatic the heavy air had become.
Must be the gesture making you so surly.
“You don’t look like a cat person,” pronounced Mrs. Schmidt.
Well, neither do you, you old bat. Not that Trish had any idea what a “cat person” was supposed to look like. She could be one. Just because she and cats didn’t always get along didn’t mean she wasn’t a cat person. Obviously, Bella was one.
“Bella just adores the kitten,” Trish repeated, aware she sounded as lame as a three-legged elephant.
“Huh. So you and your husband gave in and let her have it, even though you clearly don’t want it.”
Trish opened her mouth to protest but sensed it would be useless.
The door opened a tad wider and Mrs. Schmidt eyed the muffins with stronger intent, though she made no move to reach for them. “I suppose since you made them, I may as well eat them.”
Don’t force yourself on my account, thought Trish as the old lady grasped the handle and lifted the basket from her hand.
“Just don’t expect me to traipse back to your place with the basket.” Mrs. Schmidt glanced up the road toward Montgomery House. “I’m old, so walking such a long ways is likely to kill me.”
Not if I do it first. Trish’s lips were beginning to hurt from so much fake smiling. “Don’t worry about the basket. I have more.” It was only her best one, the basket she usually packed picnic lunches in and sent with guests to the beach.
“Well, I’ve got no use for it. Don’t want my house cluttered. You can just come back and get it.” Mrs. Schmidt sniffed the muffins as though checking their safety for consumption.
Maybe I should have poisoned them…
“Come back tomorrow and I’ll have your basket.” The disagreeable old lady stepped back and began to shut the door.
“Mrs. Schmidt, please. Walking is hard for me, too.” She blew out a short breath and laid a hand on top of her abdomen. “I’m pregnant here.”
The door stopped moving. “Huh. So you can procreate. That’s my fault?”
“I — no. No, it’s not.” Trish sighed again. She’d lost pleasant and now struggled to maintain calm. “But I’m supposed to be taking it easy… not doing too much right now.”
Lips pursed, Mrs. Schmidt raked Trish with a reproving stare. “Hrmph. Fine. If you don’t care about the basket, I’ll leave it on the front porch. Your husband can come fetch it… if he can find his way here. Maybe your daughter can lead the way.”
The slammed closed before Trish could think of a scathing enough response.
“Well, that accomplished nothing,” she muttered under her breath as she waddled down the sidewalk to the blacktop road that would lead her back to Montgomery House. As she turned to shut the white picket gate, a fluffy calico cat strolled past, nose in the air, tail twitching. She pushed her way under a broken board on the gate then turned to regard Trish with a hot amber glare.
“Uh! Wally’s mother, I presume?”
The cat broke the stare with a careful swipe of her pink tongue across one white foot. Then she glanced up again as though to say “Are you still here?” After a final swish of her tail, the cat continued ambling toward the front porch.
The sun blazed with ruthless intensity. Trish wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. Why hadn’t she brought along a bottle of water? Or worn a hat? She shook back her long hair. That had to go. She knew Dan enjoyed it but it was hot and hard to care for and once the baby came it would only get in her way. Flicking her head, she caught a movement in the corner of her eye. The curtain in Mrs. Schmidt’s front window dropped.
Wasn’t that just great! Trish fought the childish urge to stick out her tongue. The unpleasant old woman was probably watching to make sure she got off the property before she collapsed of heat stroke.
****
Colonel Edgerton was silent except for an occasional grunt that echoed in the nearly empty room. Why the man had insisted this be turned into a formal presentation for one in a conference room instead of his office, Dan had no clue. The man was a pompous jerk.
Dan could hear the keys being tapped on the keyboard, but he had no idea which screens were being called up since his headset had mysteriously gone radio-dark.
A relentless hammering began behind Dan’s eyes and radiated into his temples, threatening to bloom into a monster migraine. He jammed his knuckles into his left temple. Something bumped his left knee. Then it hit again.
Nick.
Dan frowned. Nick was well aware of the time and place for games, and this wasn’t it. Nick whacked him with his knee again, harder this time, and then the touch remained as a firm pressure.
Nick leaned close and murmured, so quietly Dan almost missed it, “You okay, man?”
“Fine,” whispered Dan.
“Then why do you look like you’re trying to dig your brain out of your head?”
Instantly, Dan dropped his hand. Nick was right. Men like Edgerton didn’t tolerate flaws unless it was something they could exploit to their advantage. Edgerton held the opinion — and expressed it often — that those who’d been injured and remained impaired should be retired with a pat on the back. “Put out to pasture,” had actually come out of his mouth a time or two.
Dan was already flying with a few feathers short of a wing as far as the colonel was concerned. He couldn’t afford to show even a hint of weakness. The headache would have to be put on hold.
“Hrmph,” Edgerton grunted again. “I don’t see it.”
Dan drew a breath but Nick beat him to the response.
“Sir, if you’ll note the locations and dates, a clear convergence is being made on Kabul—”
“Captain Turner, you shouldn’t let friendship and loyalties cloud your judgment here.” Edgerton’s voice carried the hard edge of impatience. “I understand how invested Major Conway might be in bringing down Asim Al’alim. And a need to prove himself under his present circumstances is understandable.”
Prove himself? Dan pressed his fingers hard against the surface of the conference table to keep from clenching them into a fist.
“But I just don’t see the connections here. I think Major Conway is seeing…” He lost some of his bluster as he stumbled over the word. Then he cleared his throat and moved on. “Major Conway believes he has discovered patterns here that simply don’t exist, and he’s drawing illogical conclusions. I’m sorry.” He huffed out a breath as though the rest of his bluster needed somewhere to go.
“With all due respect, Colonel…” Dan pushed to his feet, a mix of frustration and determination coiling through his system. “I’m the one you should be discussing this analysis with. I made the discovery and I’m sitting here in this meeting. I can address your questions.”
“Son, I don’t have questions. I do not see the pattern you claim to have… found.”
There it was again, that slight hesitation over the correct word to use. Edgerton was a jerk, but he strove to be a politically correct jerk.
“Colonel, the pattern is there.” He knew it was but his superior was too close-minded to want to see it. “It exists. It’s undeniable, based on solid intel. It doesn’t matter that I can’t physically see the data I’m analyzing or the pattern. If you factor in the data from the AP wire—”
“Now, son, are you saying the news media got it right and our own top intelligence specialists did not?” Edgerton tapped the table with a pen, the rhythm mimicking the drumming in Dan’s skull.
“That’s exactly what I’m saying.” He kept his voice calm and even, but he studiously made sure his fingertips remained in contact with the cool table.
“Son… That’s you. You’re on the intelligence team.” Edgerton chuckled. “So you’re basically saying you got the analysis wrong.” His tone was indulgent, condescending, as though he struggled to reason with a child.
Dan squeezed his eyes shut. The migraine trolls began to drill tunnels through his brain and phantom flashes of white light fired in what would have been his peripheral vision. “Sir,” he squeezed through gritted teeth. “On slide seven, I’ve placed yellow markers at five separate locations.”
“Yes, I saw that, too.” Edgerton released an impatient sigh. “Am I to believe you’re somehow predicting the location of the next bombing?” Incredulity colored his voice.
“Not the next strike in general, sir.” Dan blew out a long, exasperated breath. “I’m predicting the next strike by Asim Al’alim.”
Edgerton laughed harshly. “And should I assume you have a crystal ball that will tell us when to expect it?”
Dan slumped in his chair. “Sorry, no. Al’alim’s timing pattern is even more random than his strike pattern. But my best educated guess would be Four July. He likes sensationalism and terror. If any morale-related activities are planned for the troops in the vicinity—”
“The Fourth of July. You think Asim Al’Alim really gives a hoot about America’s Independence Day?” Edgerton made a rude noise. “Major Conway, I’m afraid you’re grasping at straws. You’re handing me conjecture and guesses based on scant data, some of which you gathered from… the AP wire.” His emphasis suggested he had a bad taste in his mouth. With a final harsh laugh, he left the table and headed for the door, the interview apparently over. “If you come up with something concrete, come see me. Until then, I’m sure you have plenty of work assignments to occupy your time.”
After the door closed with a solid click, Dan flopped back in his seat and expelled a long, gusty sigh of exasperation.
****
The growl of Nick’s classic muscle car reached out to Trish from the driveway just as she removed Jay’s tuna salad from the fridge.
Danny!
Trish directed a last glance into the distressing mess her typically organized refrigerator had developed and sighed. She didn’t want to work on rearranging it at that moment anyway. Much better to spend a few extra moments with the love of her life. She shut the refrigerator door with a smile.
Dan’s tread was heavy on the back steps. Oh dear, he must have had a long day.
When he pushed open the back door and set foot into the kitchen, his haggard expression told the story. Fine white lines radiated from the corners of his eyes, the remains of scars that only showed up when he squinted his eyes against pain.
“At ease, Jack,” said Dan with a heavy sigh.
Instantly, the dog dragged himself to the water bowl and began a slow, half-hearted lapping. Even poor Jack seemed to be channeling Dan’s exhaustion.
Trish stifled the urge to run to her husband and sooth away the day. From the beginning, he’d squashed what he called her Mama Bear tendencies as applied to him, with the admonishment that he already had a mother.
“Hi, sweetie! You look like a hundred shades of death.” She leaned forward for a closer inspection. Actually, his face was pale with a tinge of green.
“Thanks, babe. Nice to know I can count on you for the ugly truth.” He shot her a wan smile then felt for the edge of the counter. With a huge sigh that sounded like relief, he slung his laptop bag and briefcase up and dropped them on the granite. They landed with a pathetic plop.
For the first time in nearly two years of marriage, Trish broke the rules. After setting the salad on the countertop, she covered the two paces between them with decisive steps. If Dan didn't want to be mothered, then fine. He could be wifed.
“You’re hurting. Is it one of your headaches?” Leaning in, she slid her fingers up to his temples and massaged in tiny circles. His blood pulsed quick and heavy beneath her touch.
Amazingly, Dan didn't protest. In silence, he closed his eyes and drew deep, even breaths. His shoulders slumped and many of the pinched lines eased from his brow.
“I suppose you didn’t take anything for it.” She sighed. He could be such a mule sometimes.
“Actually, I did take something, but I couldn’t get to my meds until the thing was in full force.” He moaned and pushed against her fingertips.
His job was too stressful. He did his best to leave it behind at the end of the day, but Trish could always tell when he grappled with a problem at work. She never knew the specifics. Dan was too professional and too security conscious.
But he probably didn't realize he brought the shop home some days. Like the tense set of his jaw or the deepening lines around his eyes. Trish rubbed her thumbs in circles around his temples, wishing she could wipe those fine lines away completely.
“Do you need to lie down?” she asked softly.
His muscles seemed to turn to mush as he sagged against her. But he quickly straightened up. “Naw, it’s not really that bad. Now that I’m home.” He kissed her on the forehead and grabbed her hands, then drew each to his lips in turn and placed kisses to her knuckles.
Right, love. Show no weakness. She sighed. “Well, at least sit down. You look tired. Ashley’s going to be here with Bella anytime now and she can help me serve dinner. How about a soda?”
“Now that I won’t argue with.” Dan kissed her forehead again before he released her and made his way a little gingerly toward the table. “How was your day?”
How typical of him to change the subject when he was the most stressed. A smile pulled at Trish’s mouth. “I took some banana bran muffins up to Mrs. Schmidt this afternoon.”
Dan stiffened. “I thought we decided to leave her alone.”
“No,” corrected Trish with a laugh. “You decided we would leave her alone. I decided to take her muffins.”
“I didn’t think she’d appreciate the gesture.”
“And you were right. She didn’t.” Which was why Trish planned to retrieve her basket and maybe take the old biddy some Shasta daisies from Gran’s garden. Mrs. Schmidt had an overgrown rock garden in her front yard with a lot of empty places. And some lavender. Who didn’t like the sweet smell of lavender? Besides maybe their elderly neighbor would find it soothing.
“…if we just steer clear of her.”
Oops! Dan had been talking while she’d been considering her next move. “Umm, I suppose. Are you hungry? I have tuna salad here. I’m trying to figure out if I should bake some rolls or just offer up some bread and butter.” She opened the cupboard and counted out enough plates for the guests, then pulled them off the shelf. Knife-sharp agony sliced across her belly from her naval to her right side. “Ow, ow, ouch!” The breath left her lungs in a rush and she set the plates down with a clatter.
As soon as she dropped her arm, the pain let up. But Dan was already at her side.
“Trish?” He touched her on the arm with his fingertips then moved his hand upward and grasped her shoulder. “What’s wrong, sweetheart?”
“It’s nothing,” she said with a long sigh, rubbing her belly where the pain had blossomed. “Just another twinge. They’ll come more and more often.”
Dan slid his arms around Trish’s shoulders and drew her close then rested his cheek against the top of her head, rubbing one hand in little circles in the center of her back. “You had contractions going on the other day, too.” He sighed. “You’re sure?”
“It’s just ligaments stretching, I promise.” Oh boy, did it feel good to be in his arms. She sighed, deciding it best to come clean. “I asked the doctor about it a couple of visits back.”
He stilled. “You’ve been having these things for a while?”
“Well, this one was a little harder than the others have been.” She shrugged deeper into his embrace. “But really… I had similar twinges with Bella.”
Dan pulled back without releasing her and pressed a kiss to Trish’s forehead. “This baby thing hasn’t been easy on you, has it?”
“Some of the best things in life take a little work.” She squeezed him around the waist. “But it’s worth it. You’re worth it.” She leaned back in his arms and studied his face. The lines of exhaustion had begun to fade. Whether it was because they were overshadowed by his concern for her or if he was relaxing made no difference. Trish was just glad they were going away. “You still look tired,” she murmured, unable to stop herself.
He puffed his cheeks and then released the breath. “It’s been… an educational day. I’m glad to be home.”
“At least you can rest over the next few days.”
Dan tensed again.
Trish’s stomach fell. “No… did they rescind the pass?”
He sighed. “I have something I need to monitor tomorrow, so my ninety-six was modified to a seventy-two, beginning Wednesday.”
“Oh for — I don’t believe it!” She just barely refrained from stomping her foot.
“It’s okay, babe.” His hands began the circular motions again. “It’s only one day and this is important, too.”
The front doorbell jangled, interrupting Trish’s temper tantrum.
“That’s probably Mr. and Mrs. Daly plus two.” She stepped back and Dan dropped his arms.
A frown marred his forehead, one that Trish suspected was more annoyance than pain at the moment. “Guests for the Fourth? I thought you’d taken the holiday off.”
“It’s a last minute reservation. Called up this morning. They’re in town to see a friend off to Afghanistan,” she said over her shoulder. Then she stepped into the foyer, a smile of welcome already tugging her lips upward.