Mixed Blessings (16 page)

The partnership worked well. He'd go home, they'd have supper with the boys, have family time and bedtime prayers then he'd slip off to his study and work or do whatever he wanted. Marie never asked or expected anything from him.

Indeed, odd as it was, he believed theirs was a match made in heaven. He had no heart to give to a woman; her heart still belonged to Jack. Two wounded souls, neither with the ability to love again—but still able to forge this
union for the boys' sake. He felt thankful for how much Marie gave to make it all work.

That afternoon, his intercom buzzed. As he hit the button, he looked at the picture he'd taken of the boys building a lopsided sand castle. That day had been every bit as golden as the sun glowing all around them. His secretary's voice broke through that fleeting memory. “I've put this call straight through as you asked, Mr. Hallock. It's your wife.”

Marie hadn't ever called him at work. Peter was astonished. He'd made provisions with his executive secretary to interrupt whatever he might be doing if ever Marie called, but this was a first. She'd already called and left a message with Paulette regarding a date for the blueprint appointment, so that couldn't be why she'd called. He grabbed the receiver. “Marie! This is a surprise. Are the boys all right?”

“Yes.”

The butter-soft leather of his desk chair squeaked slightly as he leaned back. He couldn't imagine why she called, but knowing her, she'd tell him in a second. Marie always thought for a moment before she spoke. His gaze went back to the photo, and he suggested, “Marie, how would you like to take off for a little mini-vacation this weekend?”

“I…um, need some help.”

“Sure, I'll help. Want me to make reservations and—”

“No.”

Something in her voice struck him as odd. His seat thumped forward. “Marie? What's wrong?”

W
hen she didn't respond right away, his concern skyrocketed. “Marie? Marie! What's going on?” He'd ask to speak to Mrs. Lithmas, but she'd taken a few days off for a root canal.

“I tried to get Brianna, but she's not home.”

“Why do you need Brianna?”

“To watch the boys.” She paused again, and when she spoke again, her voice came across the line in a mere whisper. “I think I might need stitches.”

Stitches. Blood. She's hurt.
“Do you need the paramedics? An ambulance?”

“No, Peter. Who's your doctor?” Her strained laugh came across the line. “You're surrounded by doctors every day, but I don't even know who ours is.”

“Where are you bleeding? How bad is it?”

“It's just my arm. I'm okay. Really, Peter—the big problem is, I can't strap the boys in their car seats. If you can come watch them, I'll drive to the doctor.”

Fat chance I'd let you drive.
“I'll get home in ten minutes. Will you be okay for ten minutes?”

“Yes.”

He let out a sigh of relief. As he dashed out of his office, he called over his shoulder, “Marie hurt herself, Paulette. Cancel the rest of the afternoon appointments.”

Traffic was light, but time seemed to drag.
How bad is the cut? She sounded calm. Maybe it's not so bad. But Marie wouldn't call if it weren't severe…
He stepped on the gas. He used his cell phone and reached his parents. “Mom, can you meet me at my place? Marie hurt herself. I need you to watch the boys.”

Peter skidded into the driveway, raced into the house and hollered, “Marie?”

“In the kitchen.”

Both boys sat at the kitchen table. They were wearing more cookies than they were eating. Marie had her back to him as she grabbed something out of a cabinet. “Marie! What are you doing?”

She turned around. With almost no reaction, she wrapped the dishcloth atop a sizable wad gracing her arm. Peter's eyes narrowed. The cloths she covered were dark. He glanced down and noted the red trail on the floor. “Let me see that.”

She pulled her arm close to her ribs. “It'll be okay. Just tell me where the doctor is.”

“You have to go to the emergency room for stitches, Marie.” He covered the distance between them as he spoke. “Trust me—I'm an expert on the finer details of where to go when, and who does what. Now let me see.”

She gazed up at him. Her eyes were bigger than usual, and her face looked pale. Though she made no complaint, Peter knew her arm hurt.

She whispered, “I haven't looked at it yet.”

“I'll take a peek. You sit down.” He hooked his foot around the leg of a chair and dragged it over. From the
way she looked, he expected her to melt into it, but Marie gracefully lowered herself onto the edge. “Scoot back,” he said gruffly.

“I don't want to ruin the upholstery on the chair.”

He cupped his hands around her hips and slid her deep into the seat. “I don't care about the upholstery, and it makes me feel better for you to be back here.”

“The boys are a mess.”

It's got to be bad if she hasn't looked at it and doesn't want the boys to see.
Peter played along with her. “Boys, you've had enough cookies. Get down and go wash your hands and faces. Use your bathroom.”

“Keep your hands together and don't touch the walls,” Marie added.

Once Luke and Ricky started down the hallway, Peter's patience evaporated. He opened the dishcloth so he could assess the damage. Peter strove to act nonchalant. Marie stayed so incredibly calm, it seemed ridiculous for him to lose control if she was handling this so well. He gently peeled away three more dishcloths and sucked in a sharp breath.

“It's not too bad, is it?”

He looked up at her. She'd trained her wide eyes on the ceiling. They glistened with tears that she kept blinking back. He didn't have the heart to tell her the full truth. “You're right. You need some stitches. I'll wrap your arm with a makeshift dressing. How did you do this?”

“Out on the patio, by the barbecue. Luke pedaled full tilt on his trike, and I realized he was going to hit the nook. There's aluminum flashing underneath it. It's pretty sharp.”

There's an understatement!
Peter didn't want to leave her to go get a first aid kit. If Marie looked down at her
arm, she'd probably faint. Dishcloths were handy—he used them to make a replacement bandage.

“You spared Luke quite a bump. I'll get someone out to work on the nook right away.”

“Please,” she agreed.

Peter inched closer and cupped her head to his chest. His other hand soothed back and forth across her shoulders. “Mom is coming to watch the boys. I'll take you in as soon as she gets here. Why don't we have you lie down on the couch?”

“No, I'll get it stained.”

She nestled into him more fully. Actually, he wasn't sure she hadn't simply slumped or fainted until her left arm slid behind him and curled loosely around his waist in a silent bid for more support and closeness. It was the first time she'd even initiated any contact, and he liked the feel of her in his arms. Peter dipped his head and lightly kissed her soft, fragrant hair. He could tell her he wasn't worried about the couch—but he'd already told her that about the chair. If they stayed right here, he could continue to hold her. She seemed content enough.

“Be sure to tell your mom not to let the boys go out there,” Marie whispered into his shirt. “Not 'til it's fixed.”

“Okay.” He heard the boys playing gleefully at the sink.

“Luke's forehead looks all right.”

He gently rubbed his thumb back and forth over her temple. “You spared him, Marie. I'm really mad at myself for not realizing the nook had a sharp edge. I should have—”

“Shh,” she cut him off. Her hand patted his hip in a lulling cadence. “It was an accident. The boys are fine.”

“But you—”

“Just a few stitches, Peter.”

His mother sailed in. Peter simply scooped Marie out of the chair and into his arms. “Thanks, Mom. The boys are washing up.”

 

That evening, Marie pretended not to notice when Peter slid his arm around her and coaxed her to let her head rest on his chest. He'd been terrific.

Until she got into the emergency room, she'd actually managed to fool herself into believing the cut wasn't very big. When Marie saw how the deep cut sliced from just above her wrist clear up toward her elbow, she let out a cry. Peter gathered her close then, too. Just like now. He was comforting, protective…and she was thankful for the strength he shared so freely.

Peter arranged for an expert to examine her. He'd made sure she didn't have any nerve or tendon damage. She hadn't thought about the fact that anything else might be wrong, and Peter's clear thinking reassured her. Once the doctor evaluated her, things moved quickly.

She'd whispered tightly, “I hate needles!”

“Everyone does. You're just a tiny little pincushion, too.” Peter kept her face turned toward his as the doctor started to suture her. “Speaking of needles, those jammies you made for the boys out of the race-car-print flannel are pretty spiffy.”

“Do you—” she paused and winced as another needle pierced her arm “—want me to make you a pair, too?”

He winked. “I'll get back to you on that.” He didn't even take a breath as he addressed the doctor. “Sam, she felt that last stitch. Numb her up a bit more, will you?”

Peter babied her while they put in nearly thirty stitches. His voice kept her calm, and his hold kept her anchored.

Now the TV flickered. She wasn't really watching the
movie. Content, Marie rested in Peter's arms. They remained like that—a pocket of comfort—for some time. She wasn't in any hurry to move, and he seemed at ease with her. He finally rubbed his jaw in her hair. “You're about due for a pain pill.”

“They make me woozy.”

“So we'll put you to bed.”

When Marie emerged from her bathroom, Peter was waiting with a glass in his hand. As she accepted it and the pill, she said worriedly, “What if the boys wake up?”

“Stop fretting.” He pulled back the covers and scolded, “I'm perfectly capable of seeing to them. I'll wake you up at about midnight for another dose to keep you ahead of the pain.”

“Aspirin is fine.”

He gave her a sardonic look. “And you thought I gave Ricky his stubborn gene?”

She laughed weakly, but her laughter stopped short as Peter casually tugged the crisscrossed ends of her robe's sash. His grin faded, and his features went wooden. She still slept in Jack's old police academy T-shirt.

Do I say something? Do I stay silent? He looks so upset.

“Take the pills, Marie,” he growled.

She swallowed hard to get them down—but the lump remained in her throat. She'd hurt his feelings, and it bothered her.
I have to do something, say something…
Peter wordlessly took the glass from her hand. Just as he turned to go, she blurted out, “I don't think I can get out of the robe without your help. I was stupid to put it on, but I knew you were out here and—”

“And you didn't want me to find out you can't give up your other husband's shirts any more than you can relinquish his memories,” he cut in harshly.

A soft answer turneth away wrath.
She stared up at him in silence, then quietly explained, “It hadn't even occurred to me. It's a habit. Jack's T-shirts are all I have.”

“You've got to be kidding.”

She shrugged her left shoulder sheepishly. “It seemed silly to go shopping for a trousseau, and I didn't have time or money to do it, anyway.”

He looked at her intently, as if to read her mind. She stared back at him, willing him to understand she hadn't meant to insult him. Almost imperceptibly, he nodded and put down the glass. “Tomorrow. We'll get you new stuff tomorrow.”

Marie pivoted to the side and tried to shrug out of the robe. All of the sudden, she felt incredibly self-conscious. He held the back of the collar and tugged on her left sleeve. “Take your good arm out first. That way, it won't pull on your sore one so much.”

“Good idea. Thanks.”

Half of the robe's weight hung in his hand. He hovered behind her and ordered softly, right next to her ear, “Slowly straighten your arm and let the robe slide off. Don't tug.”

The feel of his breath brushing against her sent a shiver through her, and the bandaging caught on the chenille. Peter reached down and patiently freed it. “There you go.”

“Thanks.” She fought the crazy urge to turn into his arms.

“Lie on your left side—I'll tuck a pillow next to you.”

He moved, and she didn't know whether to be relieved that she hadn't thrown herself into his arms or disappointed that she'd lost the opportunity.

“You can elevate your arm, and it won't throb as much.”

“I guess I can try.” She wrinkled her nose and confessed, “I usually curl up on my right side. It's going to feel funny.” What really felt funny was telling him those oddly personal quirks. Strange how she never realized she had them—and they were the sorts of things
real
husbands and wives knew about one another. The awkwardness of the situation kept growing. She stammered, “I ought to go check on the boys.”

“They're fine.” Peter curled his hands around her waist and twisted. The action carried her right to the edge of the mattress. The pressure of his hands forced her to sit.

I sleep on the other side, closer to the boys' room….

“Brace your arm while I help you with your legs.”

Peter slipped a big, warm hand under her knees, lifted and effortlessly slipped her onto her side. He leaned over to put the extra pillow next to her body. When the back of his hand bumped her knee, he let go of the pillow and casually tugged downward on the hem of her nightshirt. Gratitude and embarrassment both washed over her.

She carefully positioned her aching arm on the pillow and sighed in relief as he drew the bedclothes up to her neck. “Thank you, Peter. Good night.”

His fingers slid through her hair from temple to tips just once, as he hummed, “Mmm, hmm.” He hovered over her for a silent moment like a guardian angel, then the comfort of his presence was gone. The carpet must have muffled his tread as he left.

From her shoulder clear down to her fingertips, she throbbed unmercifully. She hoped the medicine would start to work soon. Marie lay there and told herself she had a good deal. Peter was an excellent partner. He'd been very compassionate and helpful today. He was attentive
and undemanding—but most of all, he truly loved their boys. So why, when this was a simple, straightforward, chaste partnership, had she really wanted him to kiss her good night?