Читать книгу The Other Soldier - Kathy Altman - Страница 10

CHAPTER TWO

REID SQUINTED THROUGH the windshield. The motel outside Castle Creek looked about as inviting as a trailer park after a tornado. But according to Harris Briggs, it was his only option. Unless he wanted to sleep in the Jeep.

Still, the dingy, mildew-coated structure almost made him homesick for the pitiful piece of real estate he’d been assigned over in southern Afghanistan—which had included room for his bunk and his footlocker, and not much else.

Hell, who was he kidding? He’d been homesick for his unit since stepping off that cargo plane at Godman Army Airfield. Especially after learning he’d been kicked out of Fort Knox housing. New regulations—all unmarried soldiers had to find accommodations off-post. His shoulders tightened, and he rolled them back to shrug off the tension.

He pulled into the motel’s crumbling asphalt lot and parked in front of a battered metal post turned golden by the afternoon sun. The pole supported a newly made sign that read Sleep at Joe’s.

Clever. And just the kind of place he didn’t need. Odds were that behind the registration desk lurked an attention-starved, big-haired woman who would set aside her latest diet bible and siphon Reid for information like she was a ’78 Lincoln and he was the last gas pump for five hundred miles.

The backseat of the Jeep was looking better every second.

Then he thought about his unit over in the sandbox, and how during missions they had to sleep in trenches dug for protection from mortar fire. What did he have to complain about? He got out of the Jeep, stepped over a cluster of wilting daffodils and entered the office.

The clerk manning the desk was just that—a man. Despite his stubbly jaw and frayed jeans and T, he didn’t seem the casual-conversation type. And the book he set aside when Reid walked in had nothing to do with weight loss—it was bulky, yellow and full of telephone numbers.

The clerk gave Reid and his uniform the once-over and leaned forward, elbows on the counter. “Need directions?”

The man’s eyes held respect. Reid lowered his own gaze and pulled his wallet from a back pocket. “Only to an available room.” He slid a credit card across the counter. The clerk didn’t even glance at it.

“Sorry, man. Not open for business yet.”

Damn. “Any recommendations?”

“There’s a Motel 6 twenty-five miles east.”

“Thanks.” The phone trilled and the man nodded, then turned away. Reid was at the door when he called after him. “Not one to ask for favors, are you?”

Slowly Reid turned. “Meaning?”

“That was Harris Briggs on the phone. Said he’d told you to mention his name.” The clerk shrugged. “I have a room that’s clean but postapocalyptic ugly. I just bought the place. The reno’s barely started.”

“I can handle a lot of ugly.”

Another survey of his uniform. “Bet you can.” The clerk pushed across a registration form. “Staying long?”

“No idea.”

“Just keep me posted.”

Reid signed the form and offered his hand. “Reid Macfarland.”

“Joe Gallahan.” He held out a key card. “Room six. Questions?”

“Yeah. Where can I get something to eat?”

An hour later, on the toaster-size TV—hell, a laptop could have gotten a better picture—James Coburn demonstrated his prowess with a knife in The Magnificent Seven while Reid eyed the remains of a pepperoni pizza that had looked a lot better than it tasted. He’d wanted to do better than fast food, but he hadn’t had the energy to take Gallahan’s advice and get something to eat in the next town.

Of course if he had, he’d have missed soaking in the atmosphere of Castle Creek’s only motel. He looked around with a grimace. The place must have been sitting empty for years. Considering what kinds of creatures had probably been hanging out rent-free, he probably shouldn’t be making jokes.

Probably shouldn’t be breathing without a mask, either.

Gallahan had one hell of a job ahead of him.

If the motel’s exterior, with its lime-green paint, scraggly landscaping and crevice-ridden concrete qualified as a horror flick, then the interior had to be every Michael-Myers-on-Halloween-night movie ever made spliced into one gory, never-ending saga.

The cheap paneling on the walls bore twice as many scars as the plastic covering Parker Dean’s greenhouses. Cigarette burns decorated the dresser, the table and the nightstand. He suspected that the carpet, which had been repaired many times over with duct tape, hadn’t started out that muddy-brown color. And someone had painted the ceiling turquoise, presumably to cover up water stains. Reid muttered a quick prayer that it didn’t rain.

But despite the less-than-lovely interior, the room was clean, just as Gallahan had promised. Not a speck of dust in sight. Someone had worshipped the bathroom with a scrub brush, and the fresh scent of lemon lingered just beneath the smell of tomato sauce.

He let the slice of pizza fall back into the box and found himself wondering what kind of meal Parker Dean and her daughter were sitting down to. Something healthy and hearty, no doubt. Like roast beef and mashed potatoes. Or spaghetti with meatballs. He frowned at the grease-laden pizza and closed the lid.

Then again, maybe she didn’t have time to cook, since she was a single parent. Thanks to him.

He grabbed the TV remote and stabbed at the power button. Wondered for the hundredth time if he’d done the right thing, coming to Castle Creek.

No way Harris Briggs would be able to talk Mrs. Dean into letting him help out. And even if he did, was it fair of Reid to do so? What the hell had he been thinking, expecting a grieving family to accommodate the man responsible for their grieving in the first place?

Money was the kinder option. Before he took off in the morning, he’d leave a check with Gallahan.

He finally recognized a far-too-cheerful chirping as his cell phone. The screen displayed an unfamiliar number and for a second or two his lungs went AWOL. Had Harris Briggs managed the impossible?

“That you, Corporal?”

“Mr. Briggs.”

A pause. “I’d tell you to call me Harris but I doubt we’ll be usin’ each other’s names much.”

Right. “She said no.”

“That’s puttin’ it mildly.” Reid snorted softly. Harris Briggs cleared his throat. “Was a pleasure to meet you, son. We appreciate what you boys are doin’ over there.”

Reid thanked him and ended the call. So that was that.

Son. He sat back and mentally sifted through years of memories, scrambled to single out the one where his father had last called him “son.” Couldn’t find it. And suddenly, desperately, he needed it.

A quick, disgusted shake of his head. Enough with the self-pity.

He should be relieved. Should be grateful he didn’t have to spend his leave trying to fix something destined to remain forever broken. He’d tried. And failed. He’d write that check, and when the loan came through he’d write a bigger one. One that would require years of monthly payments.

So why did he feel like he was getting off easy?

No doubt Parker Dean would agree. His mouth relaxed as he pictured her. She’d looked like she’d been digging an underground tunnel to Canada. She’d worn a sweat-soaked T under an oversize pair of mud-streaked overalls. Dirt marked both cheeks and flecked the cinnamon hair gathered at the back of her head. But despite all that mud he’d registered creamy skin, a curvy figure and eyes that promised sincerity and humor.

And once she’d found out who he was, she hadn’t hesitated to tell him to go pound sand.

Tim Dean had been a lucky man. Too bad Reid had no business thinking of Parker Dean as anything other than someone he owed a hellacious obligation to.

Out of the corner of his eye he spotted movement. The stealthy, scampering, wall-hugging movement of a mouse. Squatters. Terrific. They’d have to go. He hadn’t signed on for roommates. Not even for one night.

He stood and reached for the phone, intent on petitioning Gallahan for a few traps. A glance at the corner where the mouse had disappeared and he hesitated, let his hand slide off the receiver.

For fifteen months he and thirty other guys had tolerated a family of sand rats in their tent. Certainly he could handle a mouse or two.

Live and let live, and all that.

He collapsed onto the bed, and threw an arm across his face so he wouldn’t see the room start to blur.

* * *

PARKER CREPT DOWN THE hallway past her daughter’s bedroom. Thank goodness for the night-lights Nat had insisted on when they’d moved in. Their eerie green glow helped her reach the attic without breaking a toe. She eased the seldom-used door open, flipped on the light switch and pulled the door shut behind her.

She shivered and hesitated on the bottom step. A short-sleeved T and flannel pajama bottoms were no match for the attic chill. Why hadn’t she thought to grab a sweater? She grunted. Forget the sweater. It was the middle of the night. Why hadn’t she stayed in bed, instead of baking muffins and playing safari in her own attic?

She wrapped her arms around her waist and peered up the worn, narrow flight of stairs. But it wasn’t the cold or the cobwebs draped along the walls that rooted her in place. She hadn’t ventured up there since she’d tucked Tim’s things away a year ago.

Don’t be such a baby.

She took in a breath, then another, and started to climb. The air smelled thickly of dust, faintly of machine oil and faded roses. But the way her stomach was rebelling, anyone would think a family of skunks had moved in.

Five steps up she snagged a sock on a nail head. She yanked her foot free and kept going. She’d have to come back with a hammer.

If only all of her problems could be solved so easily.

Half an hour later, sitting cross-legged on a comforter she’d scavenged from a cardboard box, she thumbed through the last of the seven photo albums stacked at her hip. She’d had the sudden urge to look through them all—the pictures of her college days in Blacksburg, Virginia, where she’d met Tim; their wedding photos; their first home on post at Fort Bragg in North Carolina; Nat’s birth and progression from toddler to second-grader.

Parker closed the album. So many blank pages.

Nat was now in third grade. They’d stopped taking pictures after Tim died.

Guilt settled in. The final picture in the album was one Tim had taken of Nat. She stood beside their car in sneakers and a pink-and-purple-striped bathing suit, her hair in pigtails, her face tearstained and tragic. In her left hand she held what was left of Tim’s favorite fishing pole. She’d slammed the car door on it, shearing off the tip. Tim had spent thirty seconds raging, five minutes mourning, and three days laughing. Since Nat already had her swimsuit on he’d taken her to the water park, to show there were no hard feelings.

Her husband had been a forgiving person. Unlike his family.

Parker’s parents had been in their late forties when she was born, and neither her mother nor her father had lived past seventy-five. Which meant that Tim’s mother and brother were the only other family Nat had. But they were family in name only. They hadn’t spoken to Parker since the falling-out at Tim’s funeral. No one would ever describe them as forbearing.

She should be grateful. If not for that she might have backed out of buying this property. She and Nat would never have moved to Castle Creek. Would never have realized Tim’s dream.

And anyway, who was Parker to judge? She hadn’t contacted Tim’s family, either. Of course, she had no illusions about herself. Forgiveness was beyond her.

Her eyes filled. She hugged herself and began to rock. I can’t do it, Tim. I can’t forgive him for taking you away.

The door at the bottom of the stairs squeaked a warning. Parker barely managed to dry her face with the hem of her T before her daughter’s head poked up out of the stairwell. Her hair was flat on one side and tousled on the other and she was knuckling the sleep from her left eye. A series of thumps and some heavy breathing signaled Chance was close behind her.

“Mom?” Nat yawned. “Something’s burning.”

Oh, God. “The muffins!”

The album slid to the floor with a muffled whump as Parker scrambled to her feet. That’s what she got for indulging in a one-woman pity party. She hustled down the stairs behind Chance, whose tail wagged with delight at this new game. Parker’s foot caught the nail again and this time she left her sock behind. When she hit the first floor the smell of scorched batter was unmistakable. By the time Nat reached the kitchen Parker had pulled the pans out of the oven and both she and Chance were staring at the shriveled, blackened remnants.

All those ingredients, wasted. She sighed and dropped the potholders onto the counter. “Not even Chance would go for these.” He barked once, and plopped down onto the braided rug. Parker made a face. “Didn’t think so.”

Nat peered over her shoulder. “Isn’t charcoal supposed to make you hurl?”

“If you can get past the smell long enough to actually take a bite, then yes, I think it’s a given you’ll puke. And speaking of smell…” Parker heaved open the kitchen window. When she turned back around Nat sat hunched over the kitchen table, chin propped in both hands.

“Hot chocolate?”

Nat nodded, then bit her lower lip. “He made you sad, didn’t he?”

“Chance?”

“That soldier.”

Parker paused, the two mugs she’d selected from the tree on the counter poised in midair. “What makes you think I’m sad?”

“Mom. Why else get up in the middle of the night to bake muffins?”

“Maybe I was hungry.”

Nat rolled her eyes. “You were hanging out in the attic. With a bunch of photo albums. If you were hungry you wouldn’t have let the muffins burn.”

Busted. Parker set a container of water in the microwave to heat and sat next to her daughter. “All right. Yes, he made me sad. I miss your father, and I know you miss him, too. Seeing someone wear the uniform Daddy used to wear…that was tough.” She paused. She’d tried to ask Nat about it earlier, but the little girl had first clamped her lips tight and then, when Parker had gently persisted, she’d scuttled up to her room. Now Parker tried again.

“Harris said you saw him, too. Did it make you sad?”

Nat hung her head. She swallowed, and the sound was loud in the midnight kitchen. Parker reached out and tucked Nat’s soft auburn hair behind her ear. “Want to talk about it?”

She mumbled something and sniffled. Parker waited, and was about to ask again when suddenly Nat raised her head, and Parker’s heart ached at the hurt in her daughter’s eyes. “At first I was so h-happy,” Nat whispered. “I thought it was Daddy. I mean, I knew it couldn’t be, but then I thought maybe it was a mistake after all, that the bomb had missed him and they couldn’t find him but then they did and he wanted to surprise us and—” Her chin trembled, and she swiped at her nose with the heel of her hand. “Then I saw it wasn’t him and I ran away because…Daddy always told me to be a little soldier and…and…and I didn’t want his friend to see me cry.” She squeaked out the last few words and broke into sobs.

“Oh, Nat. Oh, sweetie.” Parker gathered Natalie onto her lap and into a hug. She squeezed her daughter hard, fighting and losing the battle against her own tears.

Nat pressed her face into Parker’s T. “Did he leave because of me?”

Were they still talking about their visitor? “You mean—”

“Did he leave because I ran away?”

“No. No, honey. He left because of me.” The microwave beeped. Parker ignored it.

“Why?”

“He wanted to stay for a while. And I thought that would be too painful for us.”

Silence. Then, “Did he know Daddy?”

Parker shook her head, realized Nat couldn’t see her, and leaned away. She smoothed the hair out of Nat’s face and shook her head again.

“So why did he come?”

“He’d…heard that Daddy had died.”

“And he wanted to help?” Parker nodded. “That was nice.” Nat sniffled, and dipped her head. Chance abandoned the rug and pressed against her knee. “So you think he might come back?”

“Not unless I ask him to.”

Nat opened her mouth, shut it, frowned. Parker braced herself. “Why?”

“Maybe he’s lonely.”

“What?”

Nat slid back into her own chair, tearstained face suddenly animated. “Maybe he was lonely, and he heard about what happened to Daddy, and he figured we must be lonely, too. So he came to keep us company.”

Blindly Parker stood and groped for the microwave. “I already told you why he came. He isn’t lonely.”

“How do you know? Did you ask?”

“Nat, we can’t invite every lonely person in the world to stay with us. It’s not feasible.”

“But I’m not asking about every lonely person. I’m asking about him.”

“Nat.” Parker stirred the powder into the water and set a mug on the table. “Drink your hot chocolate and go to bed. You have school tomorrow.”

Her daughter frowned down into her mug. “No marshmallows?”

“Natalie.”

“Remember when we took in Chance, Mom?”

Oh, dear Lord.

Nat bent down and hugged the Lab, resting her cheek on top of his head. “You said it was wrong to turn your back on someone in need.”

“Chance is a dog.”

“Yeah, but he’s human like the rest of us.”

Parker wanted to laugh but didn’t have the energy. “What is it about this man? You never even talked to him.”

Nat straightened, and up went the chin she’d inherited from her mother. “What if it was Daddy? What if he didn’t have anyone? Would you want a family like us to turn him away?”

It was like facing a nine-year-old Harris Briggs. Parker’s fingers curled tight and she fought the urge to kick a table leg.

“He’s not your father. And he won’t be staying long. He has to go back overseas.”

“To be a soldier.”

“Yes, to be a soldier.”

“What if he dies like Daddy?” Her eyes filled again. “And he doesn’t think anybody cares?”

It was a conspiracy, that’s what it was. Nat didn’t even know the whole story but just like Harris, she was determined to make Parker out to be the bad guy. Her fingers started to ache, and she frowned down at the dishrag in her hand. She’d squeezed all the water out onto the floor.

“Mom?”

Parker squatted and scrubbed at the linoleum a lot harder than she had to. Then she jerked to her feet and carefully laid the dishrag over the rim of the sink. “I’ll give it some thought. All right? No promises. Now if you don’t want your drink you need to get to bed.”

Nat heaved a put-upon sigh and carried her mug to the sink. She eyed the ruined muffins. “You making another batch?”

Parker nodded. Might as well. No way she’d get any sleep. Not now.

“Could you add some chocolate chips this time?”

That was how Harris preferred them. “You planning to share?”

“We should do something nice for Harris. He works hard.”

Parker’s breath snagged. “Yes, he does. Have you—” she swallowed “—noticed he looks more tired than usual lately?”

Nat nodded slowly. “I didn’t want to ask him about it ’cause I figured he’d just yell.”

Parker gripped the back of the nearest chair. Had she been that blind? She straightened and motioned Nat toward the stairs. “Time for bed, kiddo. And on the way you can tell me all about it.”

* * *

HARRIS OPENED THE DOOR the following morning and Parker thrust the plate of muffins at him. “You’re sick, aren’t you?”

He backed away from the doorway, rubbing his stomach where she’d shoved the plate. “A moment ago I felt fine. But that was before the bruised rib.”

“Stop it. Talk to me. What’s going on?”

“You tell me.”

She pushed past him into the living room. “I thought you were scamming me. When you said you were tired. I thought you were trying to play on my sympathies so I’d let Macfarland stay. Then Nat said something and—” She shoved her hands deep into the pockets of her overalls. “It’s true, isn’t it? You’re sick.”

“You make it sound like I have TB or cancer or schizophrenia. Something that’ll put me in slippers and a hospital gown, eating baby food and watching game shows for the rest of my life.”

“You don’t have cancer.” Thank God. Her knees went weak and she sank down onto the seen-better-days sofa. It went so well with the battered pine coffee table and the over-the-hill leather recliner. “How long will that be?”

“What’s that?”

“The rest of your life.”

She watched him struggle with a smart-aleck response. Finally he shrugged. “Ten years. Ten days. Same could be said for us all.” He set the plate on a side table. Denim shushed against leather as he settled into the recliner.

“What is it?”

“Viral cardiomyopathy. Affects the heart muscle.”

Parker curled her toes inside her work boots, fighting tears he didn’t need to see. First they’d lost Tim and now— “What can they do for it?”

“They got me on some medications. Beta-blockers, they call ’em. And the usual no-sodium bull—uh, crap. Maybe someday a pacemaker.”

“Is that where you were last Tuesday? At the doctor’s?” He gave her a sheepish nod. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You have enough on your plate, my girl.”

“My God, Harris, how do you think I would have felt if something had happened to you? You’ve been loading the truck and hauling compost and dragging around hoses. And all this time, any one of those things could have killed you.”

“Now don’t go mixin’ pickles with your peppers. Workin’ won’t kill me. It’s not workin’ that would take me out. I just have to know my limits.”

“And when were you going to let me know about these ‘limits’?”

“I’m lettin’ you know now.”

“Harris Briggs,” she whispered, and swiped a palm across her cheek. “How long have you known?”

He slapped his hands to his knees and pushed himself upright. “Coffee?”

“Is this why you’re so determined about Macfarland?”

“Partly.”

A lengthy pause. “How long is his leave?”

“Thirty days. Give or take.”

One month. How would she manage, even for one day, to be civil to the man who’d brought the worst kind of tragedy into her life?

She moved to the front window of Harris’s small brick house and shifted the drapes aside. But she couldn’t see anything other than Tim’s face.

She had a right to her anger. Just as she had a right to her grief. No one was going to tell her how she should feel.

But Nat had come downstairs that morning looking more rested than she had in months. Before sitting down to her cereal she’d handed Parker a list of strategies to keep the corporal from feeling lonely. At the top of the list she’d written “spend time with him.” Which Parker took to mean that Nat herself was feeling lonely. And no wonder, since Parker spent most of her time in the greenhouses or tending to greenhouse affairs.

But there was no money for extra help. And now Harris had admitted to a heart condition. They should both be spending more time with him.

Slowly she turned from the window. “After thirty days, then what? He’ll be gone and we’ll still be short-staffed.”

“Let me tell you somethin’, Parker Anne.” Harris stood behind his recliner, his hands gripping the padded back. “I love you like a daughter. Best thing that happened to me in a good long time was the day you moved up here. I realize it was all arranged before your husband died, but you could’ve changed your mind. And I thank God every day that you didn’t. You’re my family now, you and Nat. Don’t make me spend the time I have left doin’ nothing else but worryin’ about you.”

Her chest went tight. She smiled, but had a hard time keeping it in place. “You’d worry no matter what.”

“I know, I know, and there ain’t no use puttin’ up an umbrella till it rains.” He pushed away from the chair. “How about this. How about we take it one day at a time. With an extra pair of hands around you might actually make payroll.”

“Low blow, Briggs.” But an accurate one. She rubbed her forehead. She wanted to kick and scream and cry and pack up Nat and spend the next month camping out in the mountains.

Harris had been right to scold her for being selfish. Natalie had suffered enough. Did Parker really want to teach her daughter to be unforgiving?

Still. Thinking about forgiving someone wasn’t the same thing as actually forgiving them. That bit of wisdom might get Parker through the next thirty days.

She scrubbed her hands over her face, then followed Harris into the kitchen. Enough about her. “Does your heart condition have anything to do with why you’re not seeing Eugenia anymore?”

He stiffened but didn’t turn away from the coffeepot. “We were finished before then. And it ain’t none of your business why.”

“Fine.” She inhaled. “I don’t want you to come in today.”

He whirled around so fast it made her dizzy. Thank God the mug he held was empty. She held up a hand before he could start bellowing. “It’s only one day. Besides, I have a list of things you can pick up at Cooper’s for me.”

“Errand boy. That’s what you’re reducin’ me to?”

“You know better than that, Harris Briggs. And considering how long you’ve kept me in the dark about this, you’re lucky I don’t cut off your muffin supply.”

He did his best to look menacing. She refused to flinch, and eventually his shoulders sagged. He swung back to the counter and poured his coffee.

“I’m sorry it didn’t work out,” she ventured. “Between you and Eugenia. She really seems to like you.”

“She doesn’t like people so much as she likes doin’ for them.”

“What does that mean?”

“Never mind.” He handed her a mug and scowled. “Guess it’s too much for a man to hope you put chocolate chips in those muffins.”

Parker sighed. Subject closed. For now. She patted him on the cheek and reached for the napkins.