Counting Stars (18 page)

Part Two

Then Comes Marriage

Chapter Thirty-Two

February 2004

The plane banked right as they approached the airport, and Peter looked out the window at the beauty of Mount Rainier. After so long in the desert, the mountains and greenery below looked like paradise.
Don’t be deceived,
he reminded himself. The last two times he’d been home were far worse than his time spent in Iraq.

Losing Mom had been awful. He still missed her and felt angry and cheated. But his last visit had been even more terrible than Mom’s funeral. Peter still wasn’t sure how he felt about everything that had happened that November. The hurt from his fiancée’s betrayal had faded, but the shame of his own actions and the loss of his brother—both then and now—was still as fresh a wound as if it had happened yesterday.

Peter closed his eyes and laid his head against the seat.
Paul. How is it possible I’ll never see you again? I’d give anything to take back what I did—the things I said . . . It should have been me that died. Not you. I’m the one who’s been living on the edge.

Peter opened his eyes, glanced out the window again, then reached into his shirt pocket for the paper folded there. He took it out, pressed it flat on the seat-back tray, and began reading for what was surely the hundredth time since the letter had arrived nearly two months earlier.

Dear Pete,

It is with much sorrow I share with you the news that Tami was killed in a car accident. In the weeks since her death, I’ve been reeling. There are days when the pain seems almost too much to bear. During those times I think of you—your loss and how you must have felt. I’m sorry. Though I can’t take back the wrong I’ve done you, I hope you will someday forgive me.

I know I can never make up for my selfishness, but I’ve left you three presents. One is taller than the others, but all are equally fragile. Take care of them for me.

Peter frowned as he refolded the letter. It made sense now—sort of—or more so, anyway, than it had when he’d received it. The first time he’d read it, he wondered what on earth his brother was talking about.
Presents?
What, did Paul think sending him something expensive and fragile was going to somehow make up for stealing his brother’s fiancée, marrying her, and then letting her get killed in a car accident? Peter remembered the anger he’d felt as he stood in the doorway of his tent, shocked at what he’d just read.

Then, two days later, the chaplain had come with the news Paul had died—of cancer. And Peter, his only living relative, his twin, hadn’t even known his brother was sick. Pete recalled sitting on his bunk, rereading the letter carefully—aware of how close to death Paul had been when he’d written it.
I’ve left you three presents . . .
Left you. Of course. What else was there to do but leave everything?

A hollow ache, an awful remorse, had engulfed Peter from that moment on. He had yet to let it go. Too hurt and angry—at himself mostly—to talk to anyone, he had put away the letter and the note with the name and phone number of the woman who’d called to tell him about Paul. He’d spent the next two weeks working like crazy, taking every flight available, volunteering for every job he could—especially the dangerous ones. And why shouldn’t he? he’d reasoned. If he died, there would be no family to mourn his loss. No parents. No wife and kids.

No brother.

Pete had noted—on more than one occasion—that he was the only one in his barracks without pictures by his bed. When he flew, there was no good-luck token in his pocket. No endearing words to reread over and over again—except those from his deceased brother that promised him
presents.
Like he had any use for those.

Then Richard Morgan had called—and called again and again until Pete was finally around and had to talk to him. And Peter had discovered what those presents were.

And now he wanted them. Badly.

Well, two of them, anyway. The “taller one”—as Paul had so eloquently referred to the woman—Peter wanted nothing to do with. And therein was the nightmare that lay before him. According to Richard, Jane Warner also wanted Paul and Tamara’s children. She’d been caring for them the past five months and had no intention of giving them up. She’d hired an attorney, and Richard said that social services had given her a very favorable report.

Peter groaned inwardly, remembering his insistence during law school and his internship afterward that he would not practice custody law. He would defend sleazy criminals before using his skills to pitch family members against each other in battles over their children. He didn’t want a custody battle now, but he certainly didn’t want to set up residence with some strange woman, either. Peter wondered what in the world Paul had been thinking when he came up with the idea of joint custody. Had he really believed his brother would go along with the plan for an instant family?

Peter’s brow furrowed as he thought of the dilemma he faced. He’d loved his brother. He would love Paul’s children too. But if Paul had thought that this Miss Warner could somehow make up for taking Tamara, he’d been sorely mistaken.

The fasten seatbelt sign came on, and Pete felt his ears pop as the plane descended. He folded the seat-back tray into place and handed his cup to the flight attendant. Below him, he felt the landing gear unfolding, and he looked out the window at the approaching runway. He braced himself not for the landing but for the battle that lay ahead—the most important one of his life.

* * *

An hour and a half later, Peter drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair as he sat in his colleague’s office and listened to his speech.

“The only thing on your side is the claim of kinship,” Richard Morgan said. “And I’m telling you, it isn’t going to look good when her attorney mentions to the judge that you weren’t on speaking terms with your brother for the past two years—nor did you even attempt to contact Miss Warner after you learned about the babies.”

Peter scowled. “What was I supposed to say? Hi, I’m Peter—the other half of this parenting team. Would you like me to pick up some diapers on my way home from Iraq?”

Richard didn’t smile. “Joke all you like, Peter, but the fact is, you’ve shown no interest in those children and, blood relative or not, the court won’t give them to you—not when your brother’s will stipulates joint custody. What
will
happen—if you’re fool enough to drag this into court—is that those babies will end up in a foster home while the system takes its sweet time figuring this mess out.” Richard paused, then spoke again, his voice lower. “If you care at all for Mark and Madison, then you won’t try to take them from the stable home and loving mother they know.”

Pete threw his hands up as he stood. “She’s
not
their mother.” He walked to the window and stopped, hands in his pockets, looking down on the traffic below. Tamara was their mother. Tamara, whom he’d loved. If Paul had really cared for her, then why had he replaced her so quickly?

After a minute Pete spoke again. “The Service Members Civil Relief Act might work in my favor.”

“Why not try to make things work the way they are now?” Richard suggested. “Go see Jane Warner. Meet your niece and nephew. Make it immediately clear that you have no intention of taking the children and—”

“But I do.”

“Would you shut up and listen to me?” Richard demanded.

Pete turned to face him. “I’m listening.”

“What would you do right now, this very moment, if you had sole custody of the twins? If someone walked through that door and handed them to you?”

Pete shrugged. “Take them home. Take care of them . . .”

“Really?” Richard asked, leaning back in his chair. “Do you have car seats? Do you know what they eat? Do you have any idea of their schedule or the care they require? I told you Mark has already had open-heart surgery. Do you know what medicines he takes, how to administer them? Who his doctor is?”

“No,” Pete admitted, running his fingers through his hair. “But I’m certain that, given the right information, I could be an adequate father. I’ve been operating a fifteen-million dollar machine for the past twelve months. I think I can handle two babies.”

“I’m sure you can,” Richard said, though he didn’t sound all that convinced. “But wouldn’t it be easier if you had someone to help you? After all, who’s going to watch them when you return to work?”

“I’ll hire a nanny.” Peter began pacing across the office.

“Why not think of Jane Warner as a nanny?”

“Because . . .” Pete said. He withdrew the letter from his pocket and tossed it on the desk. “I don’t think that’s what my brother had in mind.” He nodded to the letter. “Read it.”

Richard picked up the paper, put on his glasses and began reading. “Hmm,” he said, looking up when he finished. “You know, Paul was pretty sick the last time I saw him. It’s very probable that he wasn’t in his right mind when he wrote this.”

Pete stopped pacing and returned to his chair. “So you don’t think he was trying to fix me up? You don’t think this Jane woman is expecting me to marry her or something?”

Richard chuckled. “She’s
hardly
expecting that. She didn’t even know you were in the picture until I had the misfortune of telling her.” He handed the letter back to Paul.

It was Peter’s turn to be unconvinced. “You sure it wasn’t an act? I mean, she’s had a pretty neat package dropped into her lap.”

Richard nodded. “That’s exactly what I thought, and when she got upset after I told her about the money being put into an account that has both your names on it, I thought for sure I was right. But since then . . .” He shrugged. “Let’s just say I feel differently.” He glanced at his watch, then rose from his chair. “Sorry, Pete, but we’ll have to cut this short. It’s my wife’s birthday, and I’m taking her out to dinner.”

Peter stood. “I’ll walk you to your car and you can tell me why you changed your mind.”

“I don’t want to tell you too much. You can form your own opinions about Miss Warner.” Richard took some papers from his drawer and placed them in his briefcase. “Here—I almost forgot.” He handed a file to Peter.

“What’s this?” Pete asked, opening it.

“Your first assignment. Holland versus Holland.” Richard shook his head. “A sixteen-year marriage ending in divorce. You represent Mrs. Holland. She wants to move out of state and wants full custody of their three children. He’s protesting it. Weston’s his attorney.”

“Uh-uh,” Pete said, trying to hand the folder back to Richard. “I don’t do custody, remember?”

“I remember,” Richard said, grinning as he walked away from Peter and the file in his outstretched hand. “I thought this might be a good reminder why. Besides, we’re swamped right now. It’s good to have you back.”

Pete sighed. “I don’t know that I
am
back. Word was, before we even left for the States, that reserve units are being recalled after only a few months at home.”

The smile left Richard’s face. “I’ve heard that on the news. You ought to think about getting out when your time is up. You’re a father now. Those children need you.” He opened the office door and stepped through, holding it for Peter.

“First you make me feel like I’m totally inadequate, and now you’re telling me I’m
needed?
” Peter shook his head. He walked past Richard to Joan’s desk, retrieving the luggage he’d left there earlier. “Any chance I can get a ride?” he asked Richard. “I haven’t picked up the Jeep yet.”

“Sure,” Richard said. “Though maybe I’d better drop you off at a car dealership. Jane has refused to use any of the money left to her. She recently sold her car to pay Mark’s doctor bill, and now she drives the Jeep.” He turned to his secretary. “Good night, Joan.”

“Good night, Mr. Morgan. Good to have you back, Mr. Bryant.”

Peter managed to nod and give Joan a wan smile before following Richard to the elevator.

“She has my car, too?” he asked, exasperated.

“Yep,” Richard said as he pushed the level-one button. “Remember, you left it with Tamara, and then Paul drove it. Jane has no idea it belongs to you, and I
wouldn’t
advise taking it from her.”

“Of course not,” Pete grumbled. “At least she doesn’t live in my house—does she?” he asked, an alarmed look on his face as he glanced at Richard.

“No,” Richard said, unable to keep the corner of his mouth from lifting. “She lives behind it.”

Chapter Thirty-Three

“Hello, Karen?” Jane called as she walked through her sister’s family room and onto the adjoining deck.

“Hi,” Karen answered, looking up from the Primary manual she was reading. “How was the appointment?”

“Same as last time. Mark’s heart is still holding its own, and he has to grow more before the second surgery.” Jane put Mark’s car seat down and walked across the deck to the playpen. She reached down and picked Madison up. “Come here, cutie.”

“Any word from Iraq?” Karen asked, setting the manual aside. She took a soda from the patio table. “Want a drink?”

Jane shook her head. “No thanks, and I haven’t heard anything from Paul’s brother.”

Karen took a sip of her soda and set it down again. “Maybe you’ll never hear from him. Maybe he isn’t interested in the children, or maybe something will happen while he’s—”

“I’ve thought of that,” Jane said, looking grim. “And then I’ve thought what a terrible person I am to think such a thing.” She frowned. “I don’t wish anything bad for him, I just hope he’ll continue to leave us alone.” She looked across the yard at Karen’s husband Scott, who was measuring a length of the lawn with a tape measure. “You guys putting in a garden?”

Karen laughed as she glanced in Scott’s direction. “Are you kidding? The yard wouldn’t even get mowed if it weren’t for the boys.” She folded her arms and frowned as she watched her husband. “No. Scott is measuring for a basketball court. Apparently the driveway isn’t good enough anymore. We’re using our tax return to pay for it.”

“Ah—of course,” Jane said, nodding. Poor Karen was never going to get that cruise she kept talking about. Every year it was the same story—Scott had some project, all sports related.

“What are you going to do with the play fort?” Jane asked, watching as Scott measured around the attached swings.

Karen shrugged. “I guess we’ll put it in the paper—free for anyone who will come and get it. The kids haven’t used it for a couple of years, and Caroline’s family just got one last summer. I’d offer it to Emily or Michael, but they’re both in condos right now.”

“I’m not,” Jane said, excitement in her voice.

Karen looked at her. “Are you kidding? What would you want with a big swing set? And in that
awful
rental?”

“That
awful
rental isn’t so bad anymore,” Jane said, choosing to ignore her sister’s thoughtless comment. “I can attach a couple of those cute baby swings, and the twins can be outside more when I’m working in the yard.” She imagined the fort with a fresh coat of stain and a new awning. And best of all, beneath the fort was a sandbox for the children to dig in. They would grow up, sand squishing between bare toes, running through the sprinkler on the lush lawn and loving the outdoors. Jane looked at Karen hopefully.

“Well . . .” Karen began. “You’d have to take it apart yourself.”

“Done,” Jane said. She walked past Karen and picked up Mark’s car seat and the diaper bag. “Can I just leave the playpen here? I’ll go home and feed the twins, change, get my tools, and be back this afternoon.”

“Uh, sure,” Karen said.

“Thanks,” Jane called, feeling like a kid on Christmas morning as she went out the front door.