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Synopsis
A Tallgrass Novel
A MAN TO HOLD ON TO
Therese Matheson doesn't know if she'll ever get over losing her husband in Afghanistan. Surviving Paul's death has been hard, but raising his sullen son and his thirteen-going-on-thirty daughter alone has been even harder. All they need is a fresh start, and Tallgrass, Oklahoma, could be the perfect new beginning . . . especially when Therese meets Sergeant Keegan Logan. The sexy combat medic and single dad soon awakens a desire she'd thought long buried.
Keegan always wanted to be a father . . . someday. So when his ex-girlfriend disappears, leaving her daughter in his care, Keegan's hands are tied. He has to find the girl's father. His search leads him to Tallgrass and to a beautiful brunette widow who has no idea her husband was ever unfaithful. What begins as a friendship soon ignites into something far more and gives him the courage to be the kind of man-and father-he always dreamt he could be. But his secret still stands between them. Can Keegan reveal the truth and convince Therese they share something too special to lose-a love that can bring two families together?
(95,000 words)
Release date: February 25, 2014
Publisher: Forever
Print pages: 400
* BingeBooks earns revenue from qualifying purchases as an Amazon Associate as well as from other retail partners.
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A Man to Hold on To
Marilyn Pappano
Chapter 1
The first thing Therese Matheson did when she arrived at Tulsa International Airport was head to the bathroom and blot her face with a damp paper towel. She should have taken an extra antianxiety pill this morning or skipped the pancakes and blueberries for breakfast. Maybe she should have stopped off somewhere for a fortifying drink, even though it wasn’t yet noon, or guilted one of her friends into coming along.
“It’s not that scary,” she whispered to the pale reflection staring wide-eyed at her. “You’re just picking up the kids after their spring break trip. Paul’s kids.”
Usually, reminding herself that Abby and Jacob were Paul’s kids helped calm her. Paul had been the love of her life, and when his ex-wife had sent the kids to live with them nearly four years ago, Therese had embraced the opportunity for a ready-made family. When he’d deployed to Afghanistan not long after, she’d promised to keep them safe for his return. When he didn’t return, well, she’d been shocked that their mother didn’t want them back, but she’d done her best. They were his kids, after all.
Now, she’d used the time they were gone to seek advice about giving up custody of them.
Shame crept into the reflection’s eyes. She’d promised Paul. She’d wanted to love them. She’d tried, God help her, but in the end, it had come down to two choices: keep them or find some much-needed peace. Break her promise to their father or break her own spirit.
She was surviving Paul’s death, but she wasn’t surviving life with his angry, hostile, bitter children.
Child, she corrected. Before they’d left for the visit with their mother, Jacob had shown her some sympathy, even some respect.
It was Abby who was breaking her.
With a deep breath, she forced the shame from her gaze, then left the bathroom and took the escalator to the baggage area above. There weren’t many people waiting for the incoming flights. She missed the happy reunions that once were common in airports. Getting off the plane and finding someone waiting for her had been part of the fun.
Someone who was happy to see her, she amended when passengers started appearing in the skywalk from the main terminal. She wasn’t happy to see Abby, already texting on her cell, strolling lazily, mindless of the people who dodged her snail’s pace, and the swell of pleasure brought by the sight of Jacob wasn’t really happiness. It was a start, though.
Tall and broad-shouldered, Jacob had a pack slung over one shoulder—his only luggage for the six-day trip—and buds in his ears. A person could be forgiven for thinking him six or eight years older than his eleven, not only because of his size, but also the look in his eyes, the air of having lived about him. He looked so much like his father that most days seeing him made Therese’s heart hurt.
Next to him Abby looked even more petite than ever—and less angelic. For once the bright streaks that sliced through her blond hair were gone, and the blond was platinum instead. It had been cut, too, in a sleek but edgy style, sharp angles, short in back, longer in front, no bangs but a tendency for the entire left side to fall over her face—her made-up face.
Her clothes were different, too. Therese had seen swimsuit bottoms that covered more than Abby’s shorts, and the top looked more like a beach cover-up than a blouse except that it was too short to cover anything adequately. The bright print was semi-transparent and kept sliding off one shoulder or the other, revealing the straps of her new black bra.
Therese’s efforts to breathe resulted in a strangled gasp. Another pill, two more pills, and definitely a drink, or maybe she could borrow a sedative. Surely someone in the Tuesday Night Margarita Club still had a stash of sedatives somewhere.
She couldn’t pull her gaze from her stepdaughter even when she had to move left or right to maintain line of sight. Abby’s skin was darkly tanned, a startling contrast to her white shorts and platinum hair and her shoes—
Another strangled sound escaped. White leather, heels adding at least four inches to her height, skinny straps crisscrossing her feet and wrapping around her ankles to end in bows in back.
Oh, my God.
Beside Therese, the conveyor belt rumbled to life and people began nudging her aside to get prime spaces for reclaiming their bags. She took a step toward the kids as they neared, digging deep to find a neutral expression and to stifle the shriek inside her. What was your mother thinking?
Abby barely slowed when she reached Therese. Recently manicured nails didn’t pause in typing as she said, “My bags are pink. I’ll be waiting at the door.”
Therese turned to watch her go, then whispered, “Oh, my God.”
Jacob stopped beside her and pulled the buds from his ears. “Scary, isn’t it?”
Forgetting Abby for the moment, she studied her stepson. He looked exactly the way he had the day he’d left. He might even be wearing the same clothes. Whatever effects the visit with Catherine had had on him, they weren’t as painfully obvious as with Abby.
She wished she could hug him or even just lay her hand on his arm to welcome him back home, but he kept enough distance between them to make it difficult. “Did you have a good time?”
He shrugged. “It was okay. We didn’t do much.”
Of course not. By the time Catherine had bought new clothes and shoes for Abby, taken her to a tanning salon and gotten her hair cut and colored, there probably hadn’t been much time left over for Jacob.
“If you want to go on and get the car, I’ll get her bags.”
“Okay.” Therese took a few steps, then turned back. “Why are her bags pink? She left with black luggage.”
He grimaced. “Mom bought her new ones. She said only—”
After a moment, Therese said, “It’s okay to say it.”
“Only boring people use black luggage.”
She forced a smile. “Well, I never aspired to be exciting. She did bring them back, didn’t she?” Black though they were, the suitcases were sturdy and still had a lot of miles left on them.
At the hopefulness in her voice, he grinned. “I did.”
“Thanks.” This time she did touch his arm, just for an instant. “I’ll meet you guys out front. Make her carry her own, will you?”
He grunted as he stuck the earbuds back in.
A warm breeze hit Therese as she walked out of the terminal, then crossed the broad street to the short-term parking lot. Her flip-flops keeping familiar tempo, she pulled out her cell and dialed her best friend back in Tallgrass.
The call went straight to voice mail. No surprise since Carly had gotten engaged just a few days ago and was still celebrating. After the beep, Therese said in a rush, “I know you’re probably busy with Dane, so don’t call me back. I won’t be able to talk for a while anyway. I’m at the airport, and oh, Carly, I sent a wholesome sweet-looking thirteen-year-old to visit her mother and got back a tarted-up twenty-three-year-old streetwalker-wannabe! Makeup, high heels, platinum hair! I’d be afraid she’s got tattoos or piercings or something even more inappropriate except that there’s not enough of her clothing to cover anything like that!”
She drew a deep breath. “Okay. I’m breathing. I’m in control. I’m not going to explode. Yet. I’ll call you later.”
Once she reached the mom van, she buckled herself in and practiced a few more breaths. As she flipped down the visor to get the parking ticket stub, her gaze landed on the photograph of Paul she always kept there. He’d been in Afghanistan, smiling, full of life, in a khaki T-shirt and camo pants, with dark glasses pushed up on top of his head. He’d e-mailed the photo to her, then followed it up with a print copy, where he’d scrawled on the back, Major Paul Matheson, Helmand Province, counting the days till he sees his beautiful wife Therese again.
“Oh, Paul, I wish you were here. You were the only person in the world who loved both Abby and me. Maybe you could negotiate a truce, because, sweetheart, we are facing a major battle. Send me some strength, will you?”
She sat there a moment, wishing she would actually feel something. Just some small sign—a bit of warmth, encouragement, hope.
The only thing she felt was sorrow.
It took a few minutes to exit the lot and circle back around to the loading lane in front of the terminal. She was breathing normally, and a glance in the rearview mirror showed her shock was under control. It also showed the grimness in her eyes, dread for the upcoming skirmish.
The kids were waiting, Jacob with the suitcases, Abby still texting. She did pause long enough to open the rear passenger door, slide inside, and fasten her seat belt, then she ducked her head and went right back to it.
Therese helped Jacob load the luggage. The black one was easy to lift, since it contained nothing but the other empty black one. His muscles bulged as he hefted the matching pink ones inside. “Thank you, Jacob.”
He started to go around to the other passenger side, then stopped. “Can I ride in front?”
Her first response was a blink. For years, she’d chauffeured the kids nearly everywhere, with emphasis on the hired-driver concept. On the rare occasions it was just her and Jacob, he sat in the front seat, never talking to her but listening to music and playing video games, but if she had both kids, they always sat in back and pretty much pretended she wasn’t there.
“Sure. That’s fine.” It wasn’t much, but as she’d thought earlier, it was a start.
* * *
Jessy Lawrence rolled onto her side with a groan and opened one eye. All she saw was pale aqua with a strip of brown on one edge. Closing her eye again, she digested that bit of information. She was lying on the couch, and it was daytime. Late morning, judging by the light coming through the south-facing windows of her apartment. It was Saturday, so there was nowhere she needed to go, nothing she needed to do.
She did a little shimmy, just enough to realize she was wearing clothes and not the tank top and boxers she normally slept in, and a flex of her feet revealed she still wore the heels she favored to disguise the fact that she was vertically challenged.
That little movement was enough to make her aware of the queasiness in her gut and the throb in her head. She hadn’t felt so bad since she’d gotten the flu last winter. She’d stunk of sweat then, too, and had been certain that the slightest movement would make her puke.
Slowly she nudged the pumps off, and they fell to the floor with a thud muffled by the rug. Her arches almost spasmed in relief. Next she rolled onto her back and opened her eyes, then oh so slowly she sat up. Her stomach heaved, the sour taste making its way into her throat, making her clamp her hand over her mouth, and that movement sent daggers through her head. She could only hope the brain tissue they destroyed was nonessential, but she wouldn’t count on it. After all, this wasn’t the first time she’d done this to herself.
The absence of sound in the apartment both soothed and pricked at her. It was always so empty, and it made her feel even emptier. She lived there alone. Slept there alone. Got sick there alone. Grieved there alone.
Home was the second floor of an office building in downtown Tallgrass. Originally, an abstract company and a dentist had shared the space, then a dance school, but after it had stood empty for twenty years, the owners had converted it into residential space. It was the first place she and Aaron had looked at when the Army had transferred him to Fort Murphy, and the last. She’d loved it on sight, with its high ceilings, tall windows, and ancient wood floors. She’d loved the old architectural details of the moldings and the couldn’t-be-more-modern kitchen and bathroom and the convenience of being within walking distance of restaurants, shopping, and clubs.
Aaron hadn’t loved it so much. He had wanted an extra bedroom or two for kids and a yard to mow and play in, but he’d loved her so he had agreed to the apartment. It wasn’t like it was permanent, he’d said. They could always move as soon as she got pregnant.
She hadn’t gotten pregnant.
He had died eleven and a half months into a twelve-month tour in Afghanistan.
And she was so sorry that she was drowning in it.
It was too early to start feeling bad—worse—so she carefully pushed to her feet, swayed a moment, then started toward the bedroom. She was halfway there when the doorbell rang, the peal slicing through her. Cursing the day she’d given her friends keys to the downstairs entry, she reversed direction and went to the door, opening it without looking through the peephole.
Ilena Gomez stood there, blond hair loosely pulled back, face pink from the exertion of climbing the stairs. Her hands were in the small of her back, and she was stretching, making her pregnant belly look huge compared to normal. She greeted Jessy with a smile, all white teeth and pleasure, and said while patting her belly, “Hector and I are starving. Are you ready?”
Jessy tried to erase the dull look she was certain glazed her eyes while searching her mind for a clue. Starving meant food; obviously she had agreed to go to lunch with Ilena today. She must have been insane at the time—or as fuzzy as she was right now—because Saturdays were never her best days.
But she couldn’t renege. Sure, Ilena would understand, but that was rule number one in Jessy’s life these days: never fail to be there for any member of the Tuesday Night Margarita Club, also known around town as the Fort Murphy Widows’ Club. Without them, she wouldn’t have survived the past year, and by God, she would return the favor.
“Give me ten minutes. Come on in and sit down.” As quickly as her stomach and head would bear, Jessy went into the bedroom, then the bathroom with an agenda. First: take aspirin. Second: brush horrible taste out of mouth. Third: shuck clothes and give sigh of relief that everything was fastened properly and she still wore her underwear. Fourth: shower, dress, and apply makeup. Fifth: avoid looking in mirror until absolutely necessary.
Missing her target by only four minutes, she returned to the living room. She wore one of her girl-next-door outfits: cargo shorts, T-shirt, sandals with a thin sole. Her red hair was short enough that all it needed was a finger fluff, and her makeup was minimal to go along with the innocent look.
She would feel more innocent if she could remember what she’d done last night.
Ilena was sitting on the couch, holding the digital picture frame from the end table and gazing at some of the photographs Jessy had taken over the years. “You take beautiful pictures. Majestic. Haunting.”
“Sometimes I feel like a queen,” Jessy said flippantly.
“And sometimes like a ghost?” Ilena’s look made it clear she found that odd. That was okay. A lot about Jessy was odd, but they hadn’t stopped loving her because of it yet.
She found her purse on the dining table instead of hanging from its usual hook near the door and slung the strap over her shoulder, then went to help Ilena up from the too-comfy couch. “What does Junior want for lunch?”
“My boy may be here by way of Guadalajara, but we need some pasta and cheese today. How about Luca’s?”
“Sounds good.” Comfort food, and she definitely needed comfort.
* * *
“You should take her with you.”
Keegan Logan secured the duffel that held his clothes, then rummaged through an olive-drab backpack to check its contents: laptop computer, power cords, paperwork, a handful of CDs. After zipping it, he finally met his mother’s gaze. “It’s a nine-hour drive.”
“You can stop every few hours to give her a break.”
“That would make it an eleven- or twelve-hour drive.” When that didn’t faze Ercella, he made another excuse. “She’s not comfortable alone with me.”
Ercella gave him a dry look. “You mean you’re not comfortable alone with her. You could fix that if you just tried. Get down on the floor with her. Play with her. Talk to her. Bounce her on your knee. Lord, Keegan, you know how to act with babies. I’ve seen you with your sisters’ kids.”
“Yeah, you saw me ignore their existence until they were old enough to be fun. Besides, they’re boys.” Both his sisters lived in Shreveport, so he didn’t see their kids that often. And he was good at doing boy things. And his nephews didn’t look at him like they’d summed him up and found him lacking. They didn’t narrow their eyes into little squints and let out shrieks that could shear metal.
They didn’t look lost and alone, the way Mariah sometimes did.
“Besides,” he went on before Ercella could speak. “I want to check this guy out. I want to see…”
His mother’s eyes narrowed into little squints, and she held the baby a little tighter. “Are you sure…Have you really thought about this?”
Hell, he’d done nothing but think about it for the last month. He woke up wondering what to do about Mariah, and he fell asleep considering the same thing. He’d been going into work late and taking off early, talking to social workers and a lawyer and the chaplain in his unit at Fort Polk. He hadn’t done a damn thing besides think about Mariah.
And regret the day he’d ever met her mother, Sabrina.
He’d loved her, he’d hated her, and since she’d abandoned Mariah with him, he’d been furious with her. Not that she knew or cared, since he hadn’t heard from her for more than a year before she’d decided to take a vacation from being a mother. He hadn’t even seen the nearly three-year-old Mariah until the day the social worker had led her by the hand to him and performed the introductions.
If he could get his hands on Sabrina…
He risked a look at the little girl, settled into his mother’s arms as if she belonged there, blond hair curling delicately around her chubby-cherub face. Her brown eyes watched him with a seriousness no two-year-old should ever know, and he wondered for the hundredth time what was going through that little brain of hers. Faultfinding? Her mother had certainly excelled at that. Disillusionment? Sabrina had that in spades, too. Wariness that, like her mother, one day he and Ercella would disappear from her life without notice?
Guilt prickled his neck because that was exactly what he planned. If everything checked out in Oklahoma, she would be going to another family. Another man would get on the floor and play with her, talk to her, and bounce her on his knee. Another man would fall in love with her and do his best to protect her and keep her safe.
Keegan wasn’t meant for that role. He wasn’t father material. Especially for another man’s daughter.
Deliberately he shifted his attention from Mariah and that line of thought. “When are you guys going home?” Home for Ercella was Natchitoches, fifty miles from Leesville, half that again from Shreveport. She had more or less moved in with him when Mariah had come, but with him out of town, she was happy to be returning to her own place.
“Soon as I get her stuff packed. I’m going to show her all the places my other grandkids—I mean, my grandkids—love and all the places you knew growing up.” Regret pinched the corners of her mouth. He’d warned her before she’d come here that Mariah’s presence in their lives was short-term, and she’d insisted that she understood. Still, it hadn’t taken her more than about five minutes to get totally charmed by the kid. Left to her, he would be Mariah’s father, despite proof to the contrary, and Sabrina’s daughter would be a Logan forever.
But it wasn’t just for himself that he was heading off to track down her father. She deserved to be with real family. She deserved to know who her people were, and they weren’t Logans.
“Okay. Well. Guess I’ll take off.” He circled the dining table and hugged his mother, inhaling the scents of bacon lingering from breakfast, perfume, and clean laundry and recently bathed baby.
Ercella squeezed him tightly, then forced a big smile for Mariah. “Sweetie, want to give Keegan a hug good-bye?”
As usual, the girl studied him, fingers stuffed in her mouth, as if he were an alien creature. She wasn’t going to give him a hug, say good-bye, or do anything but look at him and judge him, and he and his mom both knew it.
This time, she surprised them both. Just as he started to step back, she pitched forward, tumbling out of his mother’s arms and landing in his, her arms wrapping around his neck.
Keegan froze, not quite sure what to do. Her solid little body felt foreign—too soft, sweet, innocent. He’d never held her, not once, because she hadn’t allowed it, because he hadn’t wanted it. She’d never spoken to him, never touched him, never done anything but watch him warily, and now she was holding on as if she might never let go.
It felt…nice.
Aw, hell, he really needed to get on the road.
He was about to tug loose and return her to Ercella when she reversed her earlier move, leaping into his mother’s more familiar embrace. His throat tight, he forced a smile. “Gotta go.”
“You call me as soon as you get to Tallgrass. And be careful.”
He nodded, picked up his bags, and left the apartment.
His destination was programmed into the Garmin: 718 Cheyenne, Tallgrass, Oklahoma. He felt bad about leaving Mariah, though she was happier with his mom than she was with him. It was necessary, though. Since Sabrina had named him as father on Mariah’s birth certificate, no one else was much interested in finding her real father. Besides, like he’d told his mother, he wanted to check the guy out. He wanted to make sure he was a good fit for Mariah. Wanted to be sure she would be welcomed into his family.
And if he decided she didn’t belong there? she had asked. Then what?
“I’m not her father.”
Too bad that didn’t solve the problem.
And way too bad that saying the words didn’t ease the guilt still prickling at the back of his neck.
* * *
On the hour’s drive northwest to Tallgrass, Therese asked the kids if they wanted to stop for lunch. Jacob declined, and Abby ignored her. She asked if they’d taken lots of pictures. Jacob said no, and Abby ignored her. She asked how their mother was. Jacob grunted, and Abby ignored her.
Once they got home and she told Abby that she wouldn’t be wearing those clothes or that makeup for at least another few years, Abby would no longer pretend Therese didn’t exist. Therese half-wished she could do the ignoring and just close her eyes to what the girl did, but there was no way any child in her care was going to leave the house looking like that.
Tallgrass was a small and lovely old town, dating back to Oklahoma’s pre-statehood days. Its early purpose had been to provide for the area ranches and the settlers brought there by the land run. Later it had supported the oil-field workers, as well, and for the last sixty years, it had been home to Fort Murphy, which tripled its population.
Paul had been transferred there four years ago, and she’d fallen in love with the place. They’d bought a house big enough for his kids and the babies they’d intended to have together, with a manicured front lawn and a big backyard for play and family cookouts. But there hadn’t been any babies, his kids weren’t interested in outdoor play, except for Jacob’s football and baseball teams, and Abby never missed a chance to remind her that they weren’t a family.
Someday the kids would be gone. Either their mother would take them back, or her parents, or maybe Paul’s parents. Or maybe Abby would miraculously start behaving like a human being, or Therese would find peace with the idea of putting her in foster care. Failing all that, if she could hold herself together for five more years of misery, then she could be free.
Freedom had never sounded so good…or seemed so impossible.
As she shut off the engine in the driveway, she said, “Abby, put the phone away, take your stuff inside, and unpack.”
Abby either didn’t think Therese saw the face she made or simply didn’t care, but she tucked the phone into her tiny purse before sliding to the ground and stalking to the back of the van. The high school boys sitting on the porch across the street came to sudden attention, eyes popping, mouths gaping.
Oh, Lord, please not that. Therese had enough worries without adding males to the list.
Abby dragged her pink bags into the house, leaving the door standing open, and the boys slowly sank back into lethargy. Therese wanted to yell at them, She’s thirteen! She wanted to go upstairs to her room and march back down with the .40 caliber handgun locked in Paul’s gun safe and warn them what would happen if they even thought about his baby in that way.
She settled for scowling at them, then jerking the black bag out, slamming the hatch, and following Jacob inside. He went to the laundry room off the kitchen, unzipped his backpack, and dumped the contents into the hamper there. After grabbing a bottle of water from the refrigerator, he headed past her with a grunt on his way upstairs. Within minutes he would be on the computer, headset on, jumping with both feet into the game he’d last played six days ago. He wouldn’t make another appearance until hunger drove him to it.
Therese put her purse and keys in the kitchen, blew out a breath, and much more slowly climbed the stairs. Abby’s door was open, and she was reclining on the bed, one sandaled foot on the white spread, the other stretched high so she could admire the shoe. As usual, she was talking on the phone to Nicole, her BFF and, until very recently, the coolest kid in town. No doubt, Abby now felt that title belonged to her.
“—so much fun,” she was saying when Therese stopped in the doorway. “I can’t wait till you see my hair and all the clothes she bought me. And the shoes! They make me taller than you. We spent a whole day at the spa, and I’ve got the best tan ever, and the cutest outfits! It was the best week of my life.”
Therese waited, hands hanging limply at her sides. She really wanted to fold her arms across her chest and scowl as hard as she had at the boys outside, but there was no reason to start off openly aggressive. They would get there quickly enough.
Tiring of admiring her right foot, Abby lowered it to the mattress and raised the left one, twisting her ankle this way and that. It was a pretty ankle, a pretty leg, all bronzed and lean and leading to a compact lean body. She was more assured at thirteen than Therese had been at thirty, more aware of the attention she received from others. The teenage girl Therese had once been envied her; the woman charged with overseeing her welfare was cringing in the corner with her hands over her eyes.
Trying to feel more like the woman, she moved into the room and picked up the larger of the suitcases, set it on the foot of the bed, and unzipped it.
Frowning at her, Abby said, “Gotta go, Nicole. See you tomorrow.” She set the phone on the nightstand, then sat up, arms folded over her middle. “Those are my bags. They’re private.”
“You live in this house. Nothing is private beyond your journal, if you keep one, your purse, and, to some extent, your room, so l. . .
The first thing Therese Matheson did when she arrived at Tulsa International Airport was head to the bathroom and blot her face with a damp paper towel. She should have taken an extra antianxiety pill this morning or skipped the pancakes and blueberries for breakfast. Maybe she should have stopped off somewhere for a fortifying drink, even though it wasn’t yet noon, or guilted one of her friends into coming along.
“It’s not that scary,” she whispered to the pale reflection staring wide-eyed at her. “You’re just picking up the kids after their spring break trip. Paul’s kids.”
Usually, reminding herself that Abby and Jacob were Paul’s kids helped calm her. Paul had been the love of her life, and when his ex-wife had sent the kids to live with them nearly four years ago, Therese had embraced the opportunity for a ready-made family. When he’d deployed to Afghanistan not long after, she’d promised to keep them safe for his return. When he didn’t return, well, she’d been shocked that their mother didn’t want them back, but she’d done her best. They were his kids, after all.
Now, she’d used the time they were gone to seek advice about giving up custody of them.
Shame crept into the reflection’s eyes. She’d promised Paul. She’d wanted to love them. She’d tried, God help her, but in the end, it had come down to two choices: keep them or find some much-needed peace. Break her promise to their father or break her own spirit.
She was surviving Paul’s death, but she wasn’t surviving life with his angry, hostile, bitter children.
Child, she corrected. Before they’d left for the visit with their mother, Jacob had shown her some sympathy, even some respect.
It was Abby who was breaking her.
With a deep breath, she forced the shame from her gaze, then left the bathroom and took the escalator to the baggage area above. There weren’t many people waiting for the incoming flights. She missed the happy reunions that once were common in airports. Getting off the plane and finding someone waiting for her had been part of the fun.
Someone who was happy to see her, she amended when passengers started appearing in the skywalk from the main terminal. She wasn’t happy to see Abby, already texting on her cell, strolling lazily, mindless of the people who dodged her snail’s pace, and the swell of pleasure brought by the sight of Jacob wasn’t really happiness. It was a start, though.
Tall and broad-shouldered, Jacob had a pack slung over one shoulder—his only luggage for the six-day trip—and buds in his ears. A person could be forgiven for thinking him six or eight years older than his eleven, not only because of his size, but also the look in his eyes, the air of having lived about him. He looked so much like his father that most days seeing him made Therese’s heart hurt.
Next to him Abby looked even more petite than ever—and less angelic. For once the bright streaks that sliced through her blond hair were gone, and the blond was platinum instead. It had been cut, too, in a sleek but edgy style, sharp angles, short in back, longer in front, no bangs but a tendency for the entire left side to fall over her face—her made-up face.
Her clothes were different, too. Therese had seen swimsuit bottoms that covered more than Abby’s shorts, and the top looked more like a beach cover-up than a blouse except that it was too short to cover anything adequately. The bright print was semi-transparent and kept sliding off one shoulder or the other, revealing the straps of her new black bra.
Therese’s efforts to breathe resulted in a strangled gasp. Another pill, two more pills, and definitely a drink, or maybe she could borrow a sedative. Surely someone in the Tuesday Night Margarita Club still had a stash of sedatives somewhere.
She couldn’t pull her gaze from her stepdaughter even when she had to move left or right to maintain line of sight. Abby’s skin was darkly tanned, a startling contrast to her white shorts and platinum hair and her shoes—
Another strangled sound escaped. White leather, heels adding at least four inches to her height, skinny straps crisscrossing her feet and wrapping around her ankles to end in bows in back.
Oh, my God.
Beside Therese, the conveyor belt rumbled to life and people began nudging her aside to get prime spaces for reclaiming their bags. She took a step toward the kids as they neared, digging deep to find a neutral expression and to stifle the shriek inside her. What was your mother thinking?
Abby barely slowed when she reached Therese. Recently manicured nails didn’t pause in typing as she said, “My bags are pink. I’ll be waiting at the door.”
Therese turned to watch her go, then whispered, “Oh, my God.”
Jacob stopped beside her and pulled the buds from his ears. “Scary, isn’t it?”
Forgetting Abby for the moment, she studied her stepson. He looked exactly the way he had the day he’d left. He might even be wearing the same clothes. Whatever effects the visit with Catherine had had on him, they weren’t as painfully obvious as with Abby.
She wished she could hug him or even just lay her hand on his arm to welcome him back home, but he kept enough distance between them to make it difficult. “Did you have a good time?”
He shrugged. “It was okay. We didn’t do much.”
Of course not. By the time Catherine had bought new clothes and shoes for Abby, taken her to a tanning salon and gotten her hair cut and colored, there probably hadn’t been much time left over for Jacob.
“If you want to go on and get the car, I’ll get her bags.”
“Okay.” Therese took a few steps, then turned back. “Why are her bags pink? She left with black luggage.”
He grimaced. “Mom bought her new ones. She said only—”
After a moment, Therese said, “It’s okay to say it.”
“Only boring people use black luggage.”
She forced a smile. “Well, I never aspired to be exciting. She did bring them back, didn’t she?” Black though they were, the suitcases were sturdy and still had a lot of miles left on them.
At the hopefulness in her voice, he grinned. “I did.”
“Thanks.” This time she did touch his arm, just for an instant. “I’ll meet you guys out front. Make her carry her own, will you?”
He grunted as he stuck the earbuds back in.
A warm breeze hit Therese as she walked out of the terminal, then crossed the broad street to the short-term parking lot. Her flip-flops keeping familiar tempo, she pulled out her cell and dialed her best friend back in Tallgrass.
The call went straight to voice mail. No surprise since Carly had gotten engaged just a few days ago and was still celebrating. After the beep, Therese said in a rush, “I know you’re probably busy with Dane, so don’t call me back. I won’t be able to talk for a while anyway. I’m at the airport, and oh, Carly, I sent a wholesome sweet-looking thirteen-year-old to visit her mother and got back a tarted-up twenty-three-year-old streetwalker-wannabe! Makeup, high heels, platinum hair! I’d be afraid she’s got tattoos or piercings or something even more inappropriate except that there’s not enough of her clothing to cover anything like that!”
She drew a deep breath. “Okay. I’m breathing. I’m in control. I’m not going to explode. Yet. I’ll call you later.”
Once she reached the mom van, she buckled herself in and practiced a few more breaths. As she flipped down the visor to get the parking ticket stub, her gaze landed on the photograph of Paul she always kept there. He’d been in Afghanistan, smiling, full of life, in a khaki T-shirt and camo pants, with dark glasses pushed up on top of his head. He’d e-mailed the photo to her, then followed it up with a print copy, where he’d scrawled on the back, Major Paul Matheson, Helmand Province, counting the days till he sees his beautiful wife Therese again.
“Oh, Paul, I wish you were here. You were the only person in the world who loved both Abby and me. Maybe you could negotiate a truce, because, sweetheart, we are facing a major battle. Send me some strength, will you?”
She sat there a moment, wishing she would actually feel something. Just some small sign—a bit of warmth, encouragement, hope.
The only thing she felt was sorrow.
It took a few minutes to exit the lot and circle back around to the loading lane in front of the terminal. She was breathing normally, and a glance in the rearview mirror showed her shock was under control. It also showed the grimness in her eyes, dread for the upcoming skirmish.
The kids were waiting, Jacob with the suitcases, Abby still texting. She did pause long enough to open the rear passenger door, slide inside, and fasten her seat belt, then she ducked her head and went right back to it.
Therese helped Jacob load the luggage. The black one was easy to lift, since it contained nothing but the other empty black one. His muscles bulged as he hefted the matching pink ones inside. “Thank you, Jacob.”
He started to go around to the other passenger side, then stopped. “Can I ride in front?”
Her first response was a blink. For years, she’d chauffeured the kids nearly everywhere, with emphasis on the hired-driver concept. On the rare occasions it was just her and Jacob, he sat in the front seat, never talking to her but listening to music and playing video games, but if she had both kids, they always sat in back and pretty much pretended she wasn’t there.
“Sure. That’s fine.” It wasn’t much, but as she’d thought earlier, it was a start.
* * *
Jessy Lawrence rolled onto her side with a groan and opened one eye. All she saw was pale aqua with a strip of brown on one edge. Closing her eye again, she digested that bit of information. She was lying on the couch, and it was daytime. Late morning, judging by the light coming through the south-facing windows of her apartment. It was Saturday, so there was nowhere she needed to go, nothing she needed to do.
She did a little shimmy, just enough to realize she was wearing clothes and not the tank top and boxers she normally slept in, and a flex of her feet revealed she still wore the heels she favored to disguise the fact that she was vertically challenged.
That little movement was enough to make her aware of the queasiness in her gut and the throb in her head. She hadn’t felt so bad since she’d gotten the flu last winter. She’d stunk of sweat then, too, and had been certain that the slightest movement would make her puke.
Slowly she nudged the pumps off, and they fell to the floor with a thud muffled by the rug. Her arches almost spasmed in relief. Next she rolled onto her back and opened her eyes, then oh so slowly she sat up. Her stomach heaved, the sour taste making its way into her throat, making her clamp her hand over her mouth, and that movement sent daggers through her head. She could only hope the brain tissue they destroyed was nonessential, but she wouldn’t count on it. After all, this wasn’t the first time she’d done this to herself.
The absence of sound in the apartment both soothed and pricked at her. It was always so empty, and it made her feel even emptier. She lived there alone. Slept there alone. Got sick there alone. Grieved there alone.
Home was the second floor of an office building in downtown Tallgrass. Originally, an abstract company and a dentist had shared the space, then a dance school, but after it had stood empty for twenty years, the owners had converted it into residential space. It was the first place she and Aaron had looked at when the Army had transferred him to Fort Murphy, and the last. She’d loved it on sight, with its high ceilings, tall windows, and ancient wood floors. She’d loved the old architectural details of the moldings and the couldn’t-be-more-modern kitchen and bathroom and the convenience of being within walking distance of restaurants, shopping, and clubs.
Aaron hadn’t loved it so much. He had wanted an extra bedroom or two for kids and a yard to mow and play in, but he’d loved her so he had agreed to the apartment. It wasn’t like it was permanent, he’d said. They could always move as soon as she got pregnant.
She hadn’t gotten pregnant.
He had died eleven and a half months into a twelve-month tour in Afghanistan.
And she was so sorry that she was drowning in it.
It was too early to start feeling bad—worse—so she carefully pushed to her feet, swayed a moment, then started toward the bedroom. She was halfway there when the doorbell rang, the peal slicing through her. Cursing the day she’d given her friends keys to the downstairs entry, she reversed direction and went to the door, opening it without looking through the peephole.
Ilena Gomez stood there, blond hair loosely pulled back, face pink from the exertion of climbing the stairs. Her hands were in the small of her back, and she was stretching, making her pregnant belly look huge compared to normal. She greeted Jessy with a smile, all white teeth and pleasure, and said while patting her belly, “Hector and I are starving. Are you ready?”
Jessy tried to erase the dull look she was certain glazed her eyes while searching her mind for a clue. Starving meant food; obviously she had agreed to go to lunch with Ilena today. She must have been insane at the time—or as fuzzy as she was right now—because Saturdays were never her best days.
But she couldn’t renege. Sure, Ilena would understand, but that was rule number one in Jessy’s life these days: never fail to be there for any member of the Tuesday Night Margarita Club, also known around town as the Fort Murphy Widows’ Club. Without them, she wouldn’t have survived the past year, and by God, she would return the favor.
“Give me ten minutes. Come on in and sit down.” As quickly as her stomach and head would bear, Jessy went into the bedroom, then the bathroom with an agenda. First: take aspirin. Second: brush horrible taste out of mouth. Third: shuck clothes and give sigh of relief that everything was fastened properly and she still wore her underwear. Fourth: shower, dress, and apply makeup. Fifth: avoid looking in mirror until absolutely necessary.
Missing her target by only four minutes, she returned to the living room. She wore one of her girl-next-door outfits: cargo shorts, T-shirt, sandals with a thin sole. Her red hair was short enough that all it needed was a finger fluff, and her makeup was minimal to go along with the innocent look.
She would feel more innocent if she could remember what she’d done last night.
Ilena was sitting on the couch, holding the digital picture frame from the end table and gazing at some of the photographs Jessy had taken over the years. “You take beautiful pictures. Majestic. Haunting.”
“Sometimes I feel like a queen,” Jessy said flippantly.
“And sometimes like a ghost?” Ilena’s look made it clear she found that odd. That was okay. A lot about Jessy was odd, but they hadn’t stopped loving her because of it yet.
She found her purse on the dining table instead of hanging from its usual hook near the door and slung the strap over her shoulder, then went to help Ilena up from the too-comfy couch. “What does Junior want for lunch?”
“My boy may be here by way of Guadalajara, but we need some pasta and cheese today. How about Luca’s?”
“Sounds good.” Comfort food, and she definitely needed comfort.
* * *
“You should take her with you.”
Keegan Logan secured the duffel that held his clothes, then rummaged through an olive-drab backpack to check its contents: laptop computer, power cords, paperwork, a handful of CDs. After zipping it, he finally met his mother’s gaze. “It’s a nine-hour drive.”
“You can stop every few hours to give her a break.”
“That would make it an eleven- or twelve-hour drive.” When that didn’t faze Ercella, he made another excuse. “She’s not comfortable alone with me.”
Ercella gave him a dry look. “You mean you’re not comfortable alone with her. You could fix that if you just tried. Get down on the floor with her. Play with her. Talk to her. Bounce her on your knee. Lord, Keegan, you know how to act with babies. I’ve seen you with your sisters’ kids.”
“Yeah, you saw me ignore their existence until they were old enough to be fun. Besides, they’re boys.” Both his sisters lived in Shreveport, so he didn’t see their kids that often. And he was good at doing boy things. And his nephews didn’t look at him like they’d summed him up and found him lacking. They didn’t narrow their eyes into little squints and let out shrieks that could shear metal.
They didn’t look lost and alone, the way Mariah sometimes did.
“Besides,” he went on before Ercella could speak. “I want to check this guy out. I want to see…”
His mother’s eyes narrowed into little squints, and she held the baby a little tighter. “Are you sure…Have you really thought about this?”
Hell, he’d done nothing but think about it for the last month. He woke up wondering what to do about Mariah, and he fell asleep considering the same thing. He’d been going into work late and taking off early, talking to social workers and a lawyer and the chaplain in his unit at Fort Polk. He hadn’t done a damn thing besides think about Mariah.
And regret the day he’d ever met her mother, Sabrina.
He’d loved her, he’d hated her, and since she’d abandoned Mariah with him, he’d been furious with her. Not that she knew or cared, since he hadn’t heard from her for more than a year before she’d decided to take a vacation from being a mother. He hadn’t even seen the nearly three-year-old Mariah until the day the social worker had led her by the hand to him and performed the introductions.
If he could get his hands on Sabrina…
He risked a look at the little girl, settled into his mother’s arms as if she belonged there, blond hair curling delicately around her chubby-cherub face. Her brown eyes watched him with a seriousness no two-year-old should ever know, and he wondered for the hundredth time what was going through that little brain of hers. Faultfinding? Her mother had certainly excelled at that. Disillusionment? Sabrina had that in spades, too. Wariness that, like her mother, one day he and Ercella would disappear from her life without notice?
Guilt prickled his neck because that was exactly what he planned. If everything checked out in Oklahoma, she would be going to another family. Another man would get on the floor and play with her, talk to her, and bounce her on his knee. Another man would fall in love with her and do his best to protect her and keep her safe.
Keegan wasn’t meant for that role. He wasn’t father material. Especially for another man’s daughter.
Deliberately he shifted his attention from Mariah and that line of thought. “When are you guys going home?” Home for Ercella was Natchitoches, fifty miles from Leesville, half that again from Shreveport. She had more or less moved in with him when Mariah had come, but with him out of town, she was happy to be returning to her own place.
“Soon as I get her stuff packed. I’m going to show her all the places my other grandkids—I mean, my grandkids—love and all the places you knew growing up.” Regret pinched the corners of her mouth. He’d warned her before she’d come here that Mariah’s presence in their lives was short-term, and she’d insisted that she understood. Still, it hadn’t taken her more than about five minutes to get totally charmed by the kid. Left to her, he would be Mariah’s father, despite proof to the contrary, and Sabrina’s daughter would be a Logan forever.
But it wasn’t just for himself that he was heading off to track down her father. She deserved to be with real family. She deserved to know who her people were, and they weren’t Logans.
“Okay. Well. Guess I’ll take off.” He circled the dining table and hugged his mother, inhaling the scents of bacon lingering from breakfast, perfume, and clean laundry and recently bathed baby.
Ercella squeezed him tightly, then forced a big smile for Mariah. “Sweetie, want to give Keegan a hug good-bye?”
As usual, the girl studied him, fingers stuffed in her mouth, as if he were an alien creature. She wasn’t going to give him a hug, say good-bye, or do anything but look at him and judge him, and he and his mom both knew it.
This time, she surprised them both. Just as he started to step back, she pitched forward, tumbling out of his mother’s arms and landing in his, her arms wrapping around his neck.
Keegan froze, not quite sure what to do. Her solid little body felt foreign—too soft, sweet, innocent. He’d never held her, not once, because she hadn’t allowed it, because he hadn’t wanted it. She’d never spoken to him, never touched him, never done anything but watch him warily, and now she was holding on as if she might never let go.
It felt…nice.
Aw, hell, he really needed to get on the road.
He was about to tug loose and return her to Ercella when she reversed her earlier move, leaping into his mother’s more familiar embrace. His throat tight, he forced a smile. “Gotta go.”
“You call me as soon as you get to Tallgrass. And be careful.”
He nodded, picked up his bags, and left the apartment.
His destination was programmed into the Garmin: 718 Cheyenne, Tallgrass, Oklahoma. He felt bad about leaving Mariah, though she was happier with his mom than she was with him. It was necessary, though. Since Sabrina had named him as father on Mariah’s birth certificate, no one else was much interested in finding her real father. Besides, like he’d told his mother, he wanted to check the guy out. He wanted to make sure he was a good fit for Mariah. Wanted to be sure she would be welcomed into his family.
And if he decided she didn’t belong there? she had asked. Then what?
“I’m not her father.”
Too bad that didn’t solve the problem.
And way too bad that saying the words didn’t ease the guilt still prickling at the back of his neck.
* * *
On the hour’s drive northwest to Tallgrass, Therese asked the kids if they wanted to stop for lunch. Jacob declined, and Abby ignored her. She asked if they’d taken lots of pictures. Jacob said no, and Abby ignored her. She asked how their mother was. Jacob grunted, and Abby ignored her.
Once they got home and she told Abby that she wouldn’t be wearing those clothes or that makeup for at least another few years, Abby would no longer pretend Therese didn’t exist. Therese half-wished she could do the ignoring and just close her eyes to what the girl did, but there was no way any child in her care was going to leave the house looking like that.
Tallgrass was a small and lovely old town, dating back to Oklahoma’s pre-statehood days. Its early purpose had been to provide for the area ranches and the settlers brought there by the land run. Later it had supported the oil-field workers, as well, and for the last sixty years, it had been home to Fort Murphy, which tripled its population.
Paul had been transferred there four years ago, and she’d fallen in love with the place. They’d bought a house big enough for his kids and the babies they’d intended to have together, with a manicured front lawn and a big backyard for play and family cookouts. But there hadn’t been any babies, his kids weren’t interested in outdoor play, except for Jacob’s football and baseball teams, and Abby never missed a chance to remind her that they weren’t a family.
Someday the kids would be gone. Either their mother would take them back, or her parents, or maybe Paul’s parents. Or maybe Abby would miraculously start behaving like a human being, or Therese would find peace with the idea of putting her in foster care. Failing all that, if she could hold herself together for five more years of misery, then she could be free.
Freedom had never sounded so good…or seemed so impossible.
As she shut off the engine in the driveway, she said, “Abby, put the phone away, take your stuff inside, and unpack.”
Abby either didn’t think Therese saw the face she made or simply didn’t care, but she tucked the phone into her tiny purse before sliding to the ground and stalking to the back of the van. The high school boys sitting on the porch across the street came to sudden attention, eyes popping, mouths gaping.
Oh, Lord, please not that. Therese had enough worries without adding males to the list.
Abby dragged her pink bags into the house, leaving the door standing open, and the boys slowly sank back into lethargy. Therese wanted to yell at them, She’s thirteen! She wanted to go upstairs to her room and march back down with the .40 caliber handgun locked in Paul’s gun safe and warn them what would happen if they even thought about his baby in that way.
She settled for scowling at them, then jerking the black bag out, slamming the hatch, and following Jacob inside. He went to the laundry room off the kitchen, unzipped his backpack, and dumped the contents into the hamper there. After grabbing a bottle of water from the refrigerator, he headed past her with a grunt on his way upstairs. Within minutes he would be on the computer, headset on, jumping with both feet into the game he’d last played six days ago. He wouldn’t make another appearance until hunger drove him to it.
Therese put her purse and keys in the kitchen, blew out a breath, and much more slowly climbed the stairs. Abby’s door was open, and she was reclining on the bed, one sandaled foot on the white spread, the other stretched high so she could admire the shoe. As usual, she was talking on the phone to Nicole, her BFF and, until very recently, the coolest kid in town. No doubt, Abby now felt that title belonged to her.
“—so much fun,” she was saying when Therese stopped in the doorway. “I can’t wait till you see my hair and all the clothes she bought me. And the shoes! They make me taller than you. We spent a whole day at the spa, and I’ve got the best tan ever, and the cutest outfits! It was the best week of my life.”
Therese waited, hands hanging limply at her sides. She really wanted to fold her arms across her chest and scowl as hard as she had at the boys outside, but there was no reason to start off openly aggressive. They would get there quickly enough.
Tiring of admiring her right foot, Abby lowered it to the mattress and raised the left one, twisting her ankle this way and that. It was a pretty ankle, a pretty leg, all bronzed and lean and leading to a compact lean body. She was more assured at thirteen than Therese had been at thirty, more aware of the attention she received from others. The teenage girl Therese had once been envied her; the woman charged with overseeing her welfare was cringing in the corner with her hands over her eyes.
Trying to feel more like the woman, she moved into the room and picked up the larger of the suitcases, set it on the foot of the bed, and unzipped it.
Frowning at her, Abby said, “Gotta go, Nicole. See you tomorrow.” She set the phone on the nightstand, then sat up, arms folded over her middle. “Those are my bags. They’re private.”
“You live in this house. Nothing is private beyond your journal, if you keep one, your purse, and, to some extent, your room, so l. . .
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A Man to Hold on To
Marilyn Pappano
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