Beneath the Scars (45 page)

Watching him with our son was wonderful. His patience and capacity for play was boundless, his desire to teach and encourage, endless. His favorite times were spent with his son beside him in the studio, tiny fingers clutching a brush that dabbed and jerked on the paper as Zachary praised and cheered him on. Many of Matthew’s “masterpieces” hung on the walls all around the house. My parents and Auntie K were also gifted with many for their homes. The post office in Cliff’s Edge was well used to sending out tubular packages containing rolled up works of art, and greeted Zachary and Matthew with enthusiasm when they walked in.

His all-encompassing love surrounded both of us. Coming from a man who insisted he never understood what love was, it was a rare gift.

I ran my hand over my stomach in secret delight, knowing the news I could share with him today would be greeted with nothing but elation.

The need to feel him close filled me, and I hurried to get ready and make my way downstairs to my boys. The aroma of coffee filled the kitchen, and wrinkling my nose, I hurried past it. The same as when I was pregnant with Matthew, coffee was my nemesis. My first clue I was pregnant again was when the scent had made me nauseous the other day. Zachary hadn’t yet noticed my aversion to coffee—but I didn’t drink anywhere near as much of it as he did.

I stepped outside, inhaling the crisp air. Dixie spotted me right away, barking and racing toward the steps to greet me. In a synchronized move, two dark heads snapped my way, Matthew’s little hands waving frantically as if afraid I could miss spotting him. Zachary stood up, ruffling his hair, leaning down and speaking to him as he handed Matthew something from his pocket. Little legs pumped fast and I dropped to my knees to scoop up his warm little body. I peppered tiny kisses all over his sweet face and he giggled and squirmed trying to escape. “Look, Mommy!”

Grinning, I held out my hand for the small rounded stone, admiring it before giving it back for his collection. “Is this a keeper?”

He nodded with enthusiasm. “It has stwipes!”

“Ah.” Stripes or multi-colored ones ranked high.

He pushed off me, heading for the water. “Me get mo’e!”

I laughed as he passed his father, exchanging a rather glancing high-five. The air caught in my throat as Zachary came closer, dropping beside me on the sand and covering my mouth with his.

“Hi, sweetheart,” he breathed against my lips. “You look pretty this morning. Well-rested.”

“You let me sleep.”

“Hmmm. You were so tired last night, you didn’t even move when I came to bed.”

“You should have woken me up.”

“I tried,” he growled as his warm lips ghosted over my cheek, dropping soft kisses on my skin. “Am I losing my touch, woman?”

I chuckled. “Your touch is as effective as ever.” I grinned up at him, placing his hand on my stomach. “Highly effective, I’d say.”

For a second he frowned in confusion, then his eyes widened, his excited gaze flying to mine. Both hands spread across my stomach, his long fingers fisting the fabric. “Really?” he murmured. “Another baby?”

“Well, I hope it’s a baby. Not an alien or anything. ‘Cause that would be hard to explain.”

In an instant, I was in his arms, held tight to his chest. He buried his face into my neck and held me for a long moment, not saying anything. I felt his tears on my skin, warm and fast, as his emotions welled. I held him close, running my fingers along the back of his neck, giving him the time he needed to calm himself. I watched our son play with the dogs, smiling as I thought about this new little life joining him in a couple years.

Zachary drew back, eyes damp, but filled with light. “I won’t miss any of it this time.”

“No.”

“Another child.”

“Yes.”

“Are you feeling okay?”

“Aside from the fact coffee makes my stomach turn and feeling tired, yep.”

“You went to the doctor?”

“Yesterday.”

He chuckled. “That was your errand?”

“I wanted to make sure.”

He ran his hands over my tummy, his voice anxious. “Everything is all right?”

“Everything is perfect. You can come for the first ultrasound next time.”

He kissed me again. “I like ultrasounds.”

“I know.”

“I guess we’d better pull back on the writing.”

I chuckled as he settled behind me, drawing me into his arms. “I’m still capable of writing, Zachary. We’re almost done.”

When Matthew was about a year old, Zachary told me he wanted to write his story. I was surprised, but pleased when he asked me if I’d help him. A few days later, I left a pile of heavy, black, leather-covered journals on the shelf in his studio and didn’t say another word. He would let me know when he was ready.

Slowly, Zachary wrote his story. I never tried to push him, letting him set the pace. Sometimes weeks would pass until he picked up a pen. Other times, he wrote daily. His dark, bold script covered the pages of the journals. Some days he wrote on his own, bent over the kitchen table, his pen embedding the words so deeply onto the page you could feel the indents from the nib. Other days, his memories were lighter and the pages turned faster as the words poured out. The worst days were the ones he would sit, pulling me onto his lap as he spoke in low measured tones, while I recorded the pain and turmoil he allowed to escape. When it became too much, I would lay the book aside and wrap him in my arms, healing him the only way I knew how: with my love. That happened more as of late. He still found talking about what happened with Jared and our separation difficult. I knew, without a doubt, once he got past that part, he would be able to finish it himself. He wrote joy well.

He settled behind me, drawing me into his arms, and tucking me under his chin. “We’ll take it as it comes.”

I knew that was as far as we’d discuss it today, so I hummed in agreement. “Okay.”

“Is it too soon to tell people?”

“Maybe my parents, and Karen and Chris next time they’re down. Other people can wait a bit.”

Karen and Zachary were still, to this day, restrained. They both accepted their place in my life and made great efforts to be cordial, but I knew they would never be close. They couldn’t see how similar they were, and still liked to argue over the most inane things, trading insults with each other until Chris or I stepped in. There were times I swore they did it on purpose, secretly enjoying riling each other up.

Zachary and Chris were closer and spent many evenings bent over the chessboard; often with a curious Matthew disrupting their game. Some very unique forms of chess were played by the three of them.

My parents supported me, having come to accept Zachary. They knew the whole story and it took them a while to warm to him, but they adored Matthew and visited when they could.

Our world was still fairly isolated. Zachary was far more comfortable now, but still wary of strangers. We both knew once Matthew was older we would need to move closer to another town for him with school, but we both agreed our life was best in smaller, more remote places. The fallout from Jared’s stunt had been minimal, affecting our lives in the smallest sense. To be safe, Zachary installed a gate at the end of the road, protecting our privacy even further. He was relieved to discover he’d been gone from the spotlight long enough that the odd reporter who did surface, quickly moved on to newer, bigger stories when a lead to Adam Dennis didn’t pan out to much of anything. Slowly, the fears of his past ebbed from our life and we were able to move forward—together.

My book had finally been published and was successful. My second book was now in the hands of editors and the outline of a third was taking shape in my head. Much like Zachary, I disliked the publicity side of my work and kept a very low profile. My publishers were pleased with the success of the books, and I still enjoyed the process. Although I had learned what made me happiest was the world I had here with Zachary and Matthew. My life with them fulfilled me like nothing else.

I no longer wrote the stories out by hand—Zachary’s gift of an ultra-light laptop had ended that habit. It was far more productive to type out the words as they came to me, saving the document when a certain little boy would interrupt the process. It also gave me the protection for my work, which, after all that happened with Jared, was a professional gift I treasured.

Zachary had converted a small room on the third floor into an office for me. I would sit, tapping away at the computer, finding the same inspiration in the beautiful vista spread out before me as did Zachary. He had tucked my desk underneath a large window and built shelves around it, which held some of the treasures found by Matthew. They also contained countless journals—a never-ending gift from him. I never knew when a fresh one would appear on the shelf, waiting to be filled. Now they contained happy memories I wrote out of our life together. He loved reading through them and reliving those special times we shared as a family.

Wrapped in Zachary’s arms, we watched our son playing in the low waves, picking up bits and pieces off the beach that the tide had deposited overnight; adding them to the small pile he’d started. We did this most days. Picking, sifting, sorting through his treasures, keeping only what he loved best, and putting it with the larger pile on the deck of the house.

Zachary’s hands covered mine, resting on my stomach. His fingers continually traced the back of my hands, finally tapping out a steady rhythm on my ring finger. I glanced up at him, caught in the intensity of his stare.

He lifted my hand, kissing my finger. “It’s time, Megan.”

“Time?”

“I want the mother of my children to share my name.” He tapped my finger again. “I want to put a ring on here and marry you.”

“Oh,” I breathed. We’d never discussed marriage. Neither of us felt the need of a piece of paper to know we were a couple. Until it seemed, this moment.

“Please. Live your life with me.” He paused and smiled softly. “Let me tell the world you’re mine.”

His.

I liked the idea of belonging to Zachary, and him to me.

I drew his head down, pressing my lips to his. “Yes.”

His arms tightened, his lips warm on mine. I could feel his wide smile against my mouth.

A small shout broke us apart, as Matthew pointed to some new curiosity he saw just out of his short reach. “You’re being paged, Daddy.”

Another warm kiss was dropped on my lips and Zachary stood up. “Hold that thought, Mommy.”

I leaned back on the sand, watching my family and smiling, already anticipating the day there would be another little set of legs standing beside Zachary in the low surf. I thought of the years ahead of me, watching my family grow, Zachary and me together.

My smile grew wider.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

To Trina, Caroline and Tracy, words can’t express how much

your help and encouragement has meant to me.

Flavia and Meire, your belief makes me smile.

Thank you Holly, for bringing the images to life. You rock!

Meredith—so many thanks are needed and I can’t possibly express them enough.

Deb, your red pen and hard work made it so much better,

but your friendship is what I treasure the most.

Suzanne—there aren’t enough mangos in the world.

Your help and guidance made this journey so much better.

My readers (online and otherwise) who support me so strongly – thank you.

You make my life so much richer.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Melanie Moreland lives a happy and content life in a quiet area of Ontario with her husband and fur children. Nothing means more to her than her friends and family, and she cherishes every moment spent with them. 

Known as the quiet one with the big laugh, Melanie works for the sporting teams of a local university. Her (box) office job, while demanding, is rewarding as she cheers on her team to victory.

While seriously addicted to coffee, and somewhat challenged with all things computer-related and technical, she relishes baking, cooking, and trying new recipes for people to sample. She loves to throw dinner parties and socialize, and also enjoys traveling, here and abroad, but finds coming home is always the best part of any trip.