The Newlyweds (20 page)

“Is there anything I can do for you?” Pennington asked when she said nothing. “Is there anything you need?”

Oh, boy, what a question, she thought. “No,” she said. “Nothing.” Without Sam, Pennington could give her everything, and it would still be nothing to her.

“I wanted to tell you in person,” Pennington added. “Before you heard about it on the news. We're holding a press conference at six.”

“Is anyone making arrangements for Sam?” Bridget asked.

“Already taken care of,” Pennington told her.

Of course, she thought. His family would see to that. His real family. Parents, brother. The family with whom he'd once had a home. The family who loved him, and who'd told him he was loved.

“Sam's family has indicated it will be a small,
private
service,” Pennington told her.

The way he emphasized the word
private,
she knew he meant that it would be for family only. In other words, not Bridget. Because she wasn't part of Sam's family. And no amount of wishing it was different would change that.

“Bridget?” she heard Pennington say again. But his voice seemed to be coming through thick gauze, from very far away. “Is there anyone I can call for you?” he asked. “Your parents? You probably shouldn't be alone right now.”

She had to swallow the lump of despair that rose in her throat at his words. No, she shouldn't be alone right now, she thought. She shouldn't ever be alone again. She should be with Sam. But thanks to Everett Baker, she wouldn't be. Instead, she'd be alone—right now, and forever more. Because Baker had killed Sam. And Sam was the only person Bridget had ever wanted to build a life with.

She shook her head. “No, I'll call my parents myself,” she said. And then she realized that, from now on, she'd be doing everything herself.

From now on, she'd be alone.

B
ridget knew her mother and sister were waiting for her in the hospital cafeteria, and she knew they'd worry about her if she was late, but she couldn't bring herself to leave the stall in the women's room into which she had escaped just shy of making it to her destination. She understood that her mother and Jillian were only trying to take her mind off Sam when they invited her to lunch. She knew her mother was growing concerned about the way Bridget had shut herself up in her childhood bedroom at her parents' house. But it had been less than a week since Sam had… And Bridget just didn't want to see her mother and Jillian right now. She didn't want to see anyone. She just wanted to be left alone, with her whys and what-ifs, and wallow in self-pity for the rest of her miserable life.

Why hadn't she told Sam she loved him when she
had the chance? Why hadn't she taken more advantage of the short time they'd had together? Why had she wasted so much of it fighting her feelings for him, when deep down she'd known almost immediately that she cared so much for him? And what if she'd made her feelings for him known? When she thought back to the last time they'd seen each other, she recalled how he'd seemed to be waiting for her to tell him something, but at the time she honestly hadn't known what. And he'd seemed to want to tell her something, too. In hindsight, she wondered if maybe, in a way, they'd both been trying to tell each other how much they loved each other. But neither had said a word.

Because they'd both been much too professional to do something like that.

Would it have changed anything? she asked herself now. If she'd told Sam she loved him then, would he have stayed here in Portland with her instead of going after Everett Baker and Charlie Prescott? Would she be snuggled in his arms right now instead of trying to hide from the entire world?

Why…? What if…?

Oh, Sam…

She wouldn't cry, she told herself, not here, in a public place, where anyone might wander in and intrude on something eminently personal that she herself was just beginning to understand. But she did allow herself some sniffles, and she didn't begrudge herself the few tears that managed to escape her eyes and tumble down her cheeks. Again and again she pulled a tissue from her purse, dabbing at her eyes and nose, until the little plastic package was empty. She really wasn't going to cry, she promised herself. Just another sniffle or two,
that was all. And then she'd find her mother and Jillian in the cafeteria, and she'd tell them she wasn't staying for lunch. She wanted to go home, back to the bedroom she'd had as a little girl, because it was the only safe haven she could think of right now. She wanted to be somewhere safe right now. And she wanted to be there be alone, with her memories of Sam. They were still too precious to share with anyone else.

Just as she was starting to pull herself together, though, she heard the soft whoosh of the rest-room door as it opened, followed by the muffled sound of rubber-soled shoes as someone crossed the floor. Bridget peeked out from beneath her stall and saw white nurse shoes and pink scrub pants.

She decided to wait until the newcomer had left—or at least ventured into a stall of her own—before emerging from hers, knowing she must look a mess after all the not-crying she'd been doing, and she didn't want to have to explain her appearance, even to a total stranger. But whoever had entered the rest room evidently wasn't going to leave for a while, because as Bridget sat there listening for sounds of retreat, she heard instead the sound of someone bursting into tears—quiet, hopeless, heart-wrenching tears much like the ones she had been trying to keep inside.

Realizing that whoever was out there wasn't going to be leaving anytime soon, Bridget unlocked her stall and pushed the door open, then ventured out into the rest room proper. A young woman about her age was standing in front of one of a half-dozen sinks, her scrub top spattered with images of Disney princesses, her curly brown hair just barely contained in a bun. She started visibly when Bridget emerged, clearly thinking
she had been alone until then. A quick glance at the name tag pinned to her top told Bridget the other woman's name was Rebecca Holley, RN.

“Oh, I'm so sorry,” she apologized when she saw Bridget, glancing quickly away. She lifted a tissue to dab first at one eye, then the other. “I didn't think there was anyone in here.” She looked at Bridget's face full on then, and must have noticed that Bridget was in a state similar to her own, because she smiled, albeit a bit sadly. “Guess there's something going around, huh?”

A quick glimpse of herself in the mirror told Bridget she was even more pink-nosed and red-eyed than her companion. Good thing she hadn't let herself cry, otherwise she
really
would have been a mess. She sighed heavily, lifting one shoulder and letting it drop. “Sometimes,” she said wearily, “life just throws you a curve you didn't see coming, you know?”

The nurse nodded at that. “You said it. And sometimes it's a beanball that smacks you right in the head. And all you can do after that is see stars.”

Bridget laughed lightly, thinking it was the first half-decent feeling she'd had in days. “Or those annoying little cupids in diapers,” she said, forcing a smile, thinking that was a more appropriate symbol of what had caused her own dizziness over the past few weeks.

The woman didn't smile back, though. Instead, her eyes filled with tears again, and she lifted her tissue to her nose. “I'm sorry,” she said again. “You've caught me at a bad time.”

Bridget's instincts told her to reach out to the other woman, but she held herself in check. They were total strangers, and Rebecca Holley, who seemed friendly enough, might not be the sort of person who wel
comed an extended hand. There had been a time when Bridget was like that, too, but since meeting Sam, that had changed. It had changed, in fact, that first night he'd reached out to her, literally and figuratively. One touch, that was all it had taken. And it was a touch that Bridget would replay in her mind over and over again for the rest of her life. She had so few memories of Sam, thanks to the brevity of their time together. So she would take them all out every day, and she would enjoy them again and cherish them and hope that maybe that would be enough to sustain her.

Why…?
What if?

“Are you okay?” Bridget said, not knowing why she was prolonging an awkward situation but just wanting to do something to ease the other woman's distress if she could. It was kind of eerie the way the two of them, total strangers, had ended up in the same place at the same time, feeling the same way. It created a strange sort of bond between them that defied explanation.

Rebecca Holley nodded a little jerkily, then, countering her words, she lifted her tissue to her teary eyes again. “I just got some bad news a few minutes ago, that's all,” she said. “Nothing I can't handle, though,” she hastened to add. “Eventually. I'll be fine, though. I always am.” She smiled sadly as she lowered the tissue and squared her shoulders. “Eventually.”

Bridget nodded. She knew how that was. As horrible as it had been to hear about Sam's death, she knew she was strong enough to handle it. Eventually. Probably. Someday. If she drank heavily and mired herself in denial and split herself into twelve distinct but individual personalities that lived lives separate from hers, and renounced
completely the one that went by the name of Bridget Logan. That might work. Eventually. Probably. Someday.

“Me, too,” she told the other woman. “The bad news, I mean,” she amended, thinking that the being-able-to-handle-it business might not be as easy to come by as it obviously would be for Rebecca Holley.

This time it was Bridget who lifted the tissue to her eyes in an effort to stop fresh tears.

Rebecca noted the gesture and asked, “Are
you
okay?”

And even though Bridget was thinking she'd never be okay again, she nodded. “Yeah. For now I am.” And that much, she thought, was true. Because in that moment, at least, she was okay.

Moment by moment, she told herself. That was how she was going to have to live from now on. Get through this moment however she could—whether it meant commiserating with a total stranger in a women's rest room, or lying in bed curled in a fetal position, crying her eyes out. And then, when the next moment came, she'd deal with that one, too. And then the next. And the next. Eventually, the moments would turn into hours. And then the hours would turn into days. The days would turn into weeks, and the weeks would turn into seasons, and the seasons would turn into years. And then someday, Bridget would be an old woman, sitting in a rocking chair, watching her great-nieces and -nephews cavorting around the yard.

But even then she knew, she would still be thinking about Sam Jones and wondering,
Why…? What if…?

 

Sam's house in the working-class neighborhood where he'd grown up was small but cozy-looking, Bridget thought as she stood across the street from it.
She still didn't know why she had come here. Instead of returning to her parents' house after her run-in with Rebecca Holley, she'd found herself driving in the opposite direction, until she'd ended up here instead. She'd just wanted to see Sam's home, the place where he had grown up, the place where he lived now—or, rather, where he had lived until he…

She'd just wanted to see his home, that was all. And now that she saw it, she realized it was exactly the sort of place she would have expected him to occupy. The brick bungalow with the broad front porch was earnest and down-to-earth, firmly built and no-frills. It looked solid and safe, strong and secure. Like Sam. Just like Sam. It was the kind of house where a person could be happy knowing she had everything she would ever need close at hand.

Bridget lifted her hand then, the left one, and studied the wedding ring she still wore. For some reason, she hadn't been able to bring herself to remove it. She shouldn't have it on, should have returned it to Pennington. It belonged to the Bureau. But it had given Bridget some small comfort to have it on; it had preserved a link to Sam. Maybe she'd see if Pennington would let her keep it. She'd pay the Bureau back. It was, after all, a very pretty ring. She turned it slowly around her finger—a distracted sort of habit she'd developed over the past few days—and glanced up at Sam's house again.

She saw movement beyond one of the windows.

Heat filled her belly, and she squeezed her eyes tightly shut, certain she must have been mistaken, that the sunlight had just glinted off the glass and made it look as though there was someone inside. Then she remembered that it was cloudy today, as it so often was
in Portland and had seemed to be even more so since Sam had… She opened her eyes again and fixed her gaze on the same front window. For a moment, nothing happened, then…yes, there it was again. There was definitely someone inside Sam's house.

It must be a family member, she decided. His brother, probably, there to go through some of Sam's things and take stock of his belongings. She battled an urge to go to the front door and introduce herself as one of Sam's friends. It only now occurred to her that in spite of the month they had spent together, and all the intimacies they'd shared, she knew so little about Sam's family and his childhood and youth. It might be nice to hear more about him from someone who'd known him since childhood.

But his family was grieving, she reminded herself, and might not welcome the questions of an outsider.

But she was grieving, too, she thought further. And it would bring her comfort to talk about the man she loved. Surely his family would feel that way, too.

Before she could reconsider what she was doing, Bridget glanced both ways and crossed the street. The neighborhood was quiet in the middle of the day, most of its inhabitants at work or school. Off in the distance, she heard the steady metallic sound of factory machinery humming, and, closer by, the sound of a radio playing a top-forty tune. A trio of birds fluttered overhead and landed in a tree in the front yard of Sam's house, chattering loudly at each other. The driveway was cracked in places, loose gravel spilling from the crevices, and one step on the front walkway was chipped. The scars only brought more character to the place, though, Bridget thought. Made it seem that much more
real, that much more human. Like Sam, she couldn't help thinking.

When she reached the front door, she hesitated, feeling a little buoyant for no reason she could name. Because she was about to meet someone who had a tie to Sam, she realized, and even that small connection to him made her feel better.

She rapped swiftly three times on the screen door and waited. Although she heard what sounded like the creak of a hardwood floor on the other side of the door, no one came to answer it. So Bridget knocked again, harder this time. Her only response, though, was silence.

She was almost sure someone was inside. Striding to one end of the porch, she leaned over the railing and looked at the garage, which sat back, detached, from the house. There was a car parked inside, she could see through the glass in the door. Of course, that could simply be Sam's car, not the car of some visitor. But somehow, she knew there was someone inside the house.

She went back to the door and knocked again, this time punctuating the gesture with what she hoped was a breezy-sounding, “Hello? Is anyone in there?”

She cocked her head to one side and listened. There. Again. The definite creak of a floorboard. Bridget moved to one of the front windows and tried to peek through the blinds but they were closed too tightly. “I'm a friend of Sam's,” she called out further. “I just wanted to…”

But her voice trailed off without finishing the statement. Just what did she want to do? she asked herself. The truth was, she had simply wanted to feel closer to Sam in whatever way she could. And how did she explain that to someone Sam had probably never even mentioned her name to?