One September Morning (28 page)

“Oh, honey.”

The flash of memory of how it feels to be sixteen, heartbroken, misunderstood, and barfing in the bushes shoves aside Abby’s long-term worries. For now, it’s enough to be helping the girl inside to the sink, finding a clean washcloth, splashing a pot of warm water over the porch.

Abby finds an extra blanket and pillow in the closet but doesn’t bother to open up the couch when she finds Madison already nestled into the crook beside the overstuffed arm, her black fingernails curled under her chin.

As Abby tucks the soft fleece around Madison’s shoulders, she stirs and lets out a tiny moan. “I’m sorry.”

“It happens,” Abby says, knowing this is not the time for a lecture or a discussion of Madison’s pattern of alcohol abuse. Right now Madison doesn’t need her to be a therapist or a parent; she needs a friend. “Get some sleep,” she says, but Madison is already off and dreaming.

Inside the bedroom, she closes the door and dials Sharice and Jim’s number. When Sharice answers, the worried tone in her voice overrides Abby’s annoyance at having to intervene.

“Sharice, it’s Abby. I’m calling to let you know that Madison is here, and she’s safe. She’s been drinking and I’d say she’s down for the night.”

“Oh, dear.” Silence, while Sharice does what? Dries her tears? Unloads the dishwasher? Pounds the wall with her fist? Despite the fact that she’s known Sharice for more than five years now, Abby realizes she doesn’t really
know
her mother-in-law.

“I…Maybe I should come get her. You shouldn’t have to deal with this.”

“It’s okay. In fact, I think it will be better if you come in the morning.”

“If you don’t mind. I…” Sharice lets out a breath. “I’m just so relieved that she’s all right.” Her voice quavers, and if she closes her eyes Abby can see the tears. “Jim is already asleep, and I’d hate to wake him. He gets that insomnia in the early morning.”

“She’s welcome to stay the night, though I might try and talk to her about teenage drinking in the morning. Most kids experiment, but there seems to be a pattern here.”

“Look, I’m aware that there’s a problem, and I suspect it’s not just that my daughter likes to have a cocktail now and again.”

“It’s good that you recognize the big picture.”

“I’ve been trying to get Jim to go into family therapy with us, but you know how stubborn he can be. He’s big on toughing things out. That may work for him, but it’s clear that Madison is her own person, and I’m not going to stand idly by while she’s in pain.”

“I’m glad you’re intervening, Sharice. Would you like me to get you some names? I can ask around at Lakeside, see who might be the best match.”

“We’ll need to go through the army medical services, but if you can find some candidates, I’d appreciate it. I’ve…” her voice grows strained. “I’ve never had to ‘shop’ for a psychologist before. It’s very nerve-wracking.”

“You’ll do fine,” Abby assures her. “You’re taking a very positive step here. Let me know any way I can help, okay?”

“Okay. And Abby? Thank you.”

Abby blinks, wondering if she’s ever heard those words said with such sincerity before. She may not understand Sharice, but here is one small connection.

“You’re welcome.”

The King

H
e clicks on the color pot and adds a bit of color to her lips, bringing them to a shade closer to cherry red. Mmm. Much better. The photograph is from the funeral, and she’s pale and a bit washed out, but with a little Photoshop he can fix that. By the time he prints it out he’ll have a regular centerfold spread hanging over his bed.

Abby Fitzgerald’s lips are most enticing, thick and voluptuous. John must have loved the feel of those fat lips against his body.

Well, John isn’t feeling anymore.

And he’s determined to be next in line to plunder the pleasures of Abby’s succulent lips.

Let it be a lesson to older brothers everywhere that they can’t bulldoze over their siblings, stealing all the glory from the younger ones. Badgering and bullying. The firstborn gets all the credit. The firstborn gets away with murder. Well, in the end, John got the punishment he deserved.

The clothes Abby is wearing in the photo are a bit grim. He has already experimented with superimposing a naked body over her dark dress, but somehow that cheapens her whole appearance. The clothes will stay on for now, and his imagination can wander over her supple white skin, the curve of her waist, the round fullness of her breasts.

For now, he will imagine the seductive woman beneath the dark dress.

Soon enough, she will peel away the layers for him, tear off her dress and panties and bra to press her flesh against him.

Yes, she will go crazy for him, seduce him, serve him.

In the end, she will become his wife, his possession, his arm candy.

Just one trophy from the king’s collection.

And once Abby is in place, he’ll penetrate the rest of the family. Dad will want to show his support. Sharice can bake and sew for them. And little sister Maddy…

A girl on the brink of womanhood…tender, tormented and nubile. Probably a virgin. He sucks in a lusty breath. Oh, yes. He will enjoy having her, too.

All part of the king’s collection.

Fort Lewis
Abby

A
bby is typing the last line of an e-mail to Flint summing up last night’s party when the doorbell rings. Flint was eager to hear her impressions of the guys in the platoon, and she wants to share her experience with Emjay Brown, as well as her annoyance with the lack of cooperation from Lt. Chenowith.

She types the last sentence and quickly scans what she wrote.

Again, the doorbell chimes.

“Hold on!” she calls, clicking on the
SEND
button.

Bounding to the door, she trips and stubs her baby toe on one of three boxes on the living room floor—John’s things.

“Eeow!” She winces, hopping to the door.

At last, the army has released his possessions, but now that everything is finally in her hands, she’s lost momentum. That’s another reason she is writing to Flint: to ask for his help going through this stuff with an investigative reporter’s eye. If she does it alone, Abby is afraid she’ll be reduced to tears, making it a painful, unproductive process.

Peeking through the smoked glass of the sidelight, she can make out a man in uniform holding a box wrapped in silver foil paper and dripping with scarlet curled ribbon. A Christmas gift. For her?

She opens the door to find the gift box in the arms of Charles Jump.

“Hey, I took a chance that you’d be home. How’s it going?” His eyes fairly twinkle with concern, but she is not a fan of unexpected visits.

“I’m doing okay.” She rubs her sore toe against the other leg. Good thing she was wearing socks or she might have lost a toe. “What’s up?”

“I brought you a gift.” He holds the package up proudly. “I got to thinking that the holidays are getting close, and I thought of something that would make the perfect gift for you.”

“That’s very thoughtful of you.” She reaches for the package, hesitant. Right now presents have little appeal for her, but her mother taught her well. Accept a gift and say thank you. “Thank you, but it’s really not necessary.”

“You need to have something under your tree, right?”

Abby turns her gaze to the gift, the fat bow made of red ribbon imprinted with white velveteen holly leaves. “Actually, I’m not doing a tree this year.”

“Not doing a tree? Why, that’s positively un-American!”

She hugs the package close, shrugging in her fleece over-shirt. “I’ve been busy with school, and, without John here, it seems pointless to decorate.”

“But you’ve got to have a tree.” Jump checks his watch. “There’s still time. Put the gift inside and grab some shoes. We’re going to get you a tree.”

“I don’t think so—” She begins to argue, but Jump is adamant.

“Quick, before you turn into Scroogetta.”

Abby slips on her clogs, wraps a scarf around her neck, and grabs her black gloves. “This is silly,” she says as she locks the door behind her.

“Stop fighting it. This is exactly the sort of thing John wanted me to handle for you, so you might as well get used to it. I am going to be your new guardian angel.”

Jump drives to a local nursery, where they walk among the rows of fresh-cut fir trees, their steps muted by fallen needles underfoot.

“Don’t you love that smell?” Abby closes her eyes and is immediately transported to Christmases past—the morass of gift wrap underfoot after a present-opening frenzy with her cousins, the tradition of reading
The Night Before Christmas
with her dad, and the late nights spent with John kissing beneath the bejeweled tree.

“How about this one?” Jump holds up a tree that is easily a foot taller than he is—a seven footer.

“That would work—for a family of giants. I need something small this year. Easy to manage.”

He releases the tree and leans down to pick up a two-inch sprig that fell from it. “Is that small enough?”

She smacks his shoulder with her gloves and turns toward the interior of the nursery. “Wise guy.”

They settle on a live tree, a three-foot grand fir that can sit on Abby’s end table and then be planted outside after the holidays.

“John would have liked it,” Abby says as Jump lifts it from the backseat of his car. “He did a lot of landscaping in the yard here. Always looking out for the birds, trying to keep things green.”

“You can let me know when you want to plant it after the holidays,” Jump says in a strained voice as he lugs the tree up the porch step. “I’ll give you a hand with that. This thing is too heavy for you to lift.”

Abby unlocks the door and warns him to watch out for the boxes. He seems to strain as he navigates around them and sets the potted fir down on the end table in Abby’s living room.

John would have carried the small tree with ease,
Abby thinks, her mind making the comparison before she can catch herself.

“What’s in the boxes?” Flint drops his coat on a chair.

When Abby explains that they’re full of John’s possessions from Iraq, he offers to go through them with her, acknowledging how emotionally trying that sort of thing can be.

“One of my friends has already offered,” she says. “And you’re doing so much already.”

“Okay, then. Do you have any wine?” Jump asks as he plugs in the string of lights to test them.

Abby hesitates. This is not a date.

“I like to unwind with a glass at the end of the day,” he says.

“I probably have something.” In the kitchen, Abby finds a bottle of red wine someone brought to their house for a party once. She opens it and pours a glass for Jump.

Wait a minute, she tells herself. Why are you reading into this? Just sip some wine and relax. A little red wine is a great destresser and a good source of antioxidants.

Jump thanks her for the wine, and while he strings the lights she goes into her closet to dig for Christmas ornaments. It’s not hard to find them with half of her walk-in closet empty now. Sharice has spent two days helping her go through John’s things, determining what should be donated and what the family might want to hold on to as keepsakes. Since then, the empty half of her closet has been symbolic of her half-empty heart, incomplete without John.

Abby takes a deep sip of wine for fortification, then chooses a small box of wooden ornaments that have been in her family for three generations.

It doesn’t take long to fill the small tree, and soon the corner of Abby’s living room is aglow with light and tiny bits of nostalgia.

Sipping the last of her wine, Abby takes a moment to admire the small bit of magic. “It’s lovely, Jump. Thank you so much.”

“I’d say it’s just what you needed.” He moves up behind her, slips an arm over her shoulders and squeezes the top of her arm.

His move takes Abby by surprise and she feels herself tense. His touch is soothing, but she’s not completely clear on his intentions.

“It’s nice of you to look out for me.” She steps away, out of his reach. “I appreciate all your help, Jump, but I’m not comfortable with this.” She swirls her fingers in the air, as if drawing a lasso around the two of them.

“Hmm…the swirling, invisible
this
. Don’t worry.” He grins, that reckless cowboy look as he cocks one eyebrow and loops his thumbs into his belt. “I just want to be your friend. Sorry if I gave you the wrong impression.”

She shrugs. “Just as long as we’re square.” Between the wine and the warm glow of color from her tree, Abby is beginning to feel relaxed and more festive.

“Why don’t we go for a walk, get some fresh air?” he suggests. “Bundle up and we can walk around and check out the Christmas light displays.”

“Now that sounds like fun,” Abby says, feeling more at ease with the notion of the cool night air and the safety of being in public to cool any attraction between them.

They stroll along the small streets of the base, where the twenty-five-mile-per-hour speed limit keeps things more laid-back and quiet. With the A-frames of houses outlined in dripping icicle lights, the base reminds Abby of a Nordic village. In the stretch of unattached homes known as Officers’ Row, every house is decked out with lights or an interesting display of characters, from a blow-up Tigger in a Santa cap to a detailed gingerbread house large enough for children to walk through. For Abby, the evening seems infused with charm as a group of carolers passes by and serenades them, puffs of white forming in the cool air in front of their mouths.

“This was a great idea,” she tells Jump when they arrive back at her house.

“I’m glad you enjoyed yourself.” He unlocks the trunk of his car and pulls out a white canvas sack. “You need a break now and then, Abby. Don’t be so hard on yourself,” he says as he hoists the sack onto his shoulder.

“What is that? Going off to play Santa Claus?” she teases.

“It’s my laundry,” he admits with a sheepish grin. “I was hoping I could do it at your place sometime. The laundry facility in the BOQ is the pits, always crowded.”

Abby lets out a laugh. “You’re kidding, right?”

“It would be a huge favor to me. Look, can I just leave it here in your laundry room? I can come back and work on it some other day. I’ll do it when you’re not around if you want to give me a key.”

The whole idea makes Abby a little uncomfortable, but isn’t it a small favor after everything Jump has done for her this afternoon? “You can leave it in the laundry room,” she tells him. “We’ll figure out a time for you to get it done.”

He stows the laundry sack, takes one last look at the little twinkling tree, then heads out, promising to call her.

Abby stands at the threshold and watches him go, all the while telling herself to just chill out. Don’t read into things. Don’t let your mind run rampant.

It’s okay to accept someone’s help, she tells herself.

And it’s okay if that someone is a man.