down to Emile’s room and say how sorry he was he’d put him in harm’s way. If the soldier was well enough to punch his lights out, Noah would be happy to have him slug away.
Phoenix, Arizona
MEL STARED AT THE BABY she held, hardly able to believe they were home, in the room she’d prepared for him, painting and papering it in circus colors and accents.
Daniel Marco Ramirez, named for Irena’s father and grandfather, had been born tiny, but healthy after twelve hours of labor the previous day. “Welcome to the world, mi’ jo,” Mel whispered to him, her throat tight with joy.
She was so lucky and so happy.
Tired, too, of course. And worried. Now that the excitement had died down and reality set in, she was concerned. Would she be able to juggle caring for a new baby and her fragile mother? Irena had gone straight to bed when they got home from the hospital that afternoon. Mel had brought her soup on a tray for supper. There was a lot to handle now and it was all new.
Mel sighed. There was something else in her heart, too. She felt a little, well, sad. Her life had changed completely overnight. She already missed News Day. She would return to work after three weeks, but if her mother needed more help with Bright Blossoms, Mel would have to give up the job.
As for her goal of moving on to another paper in a bigger city? Out of the question for years, at least. In the ever-tightening market, news jobs would only grow scarcer.
She’d made the right choice, and she had no regrets, but she couldn’t help missing the dream she’d worked so hard for and barely had a chance to taste the rewards of.
She hadn’t heard from Noah yet.
She knew he was safe in a military hospital, recovering from his injuries. She’d been deep in labor when CNN on the TV in her hospital room scrolled the news of his rescue in Iraq. From what she could figure of the time differences, her text about the baby had reached him the day before the attack in Iraq.
Obviously, he had other things on his mind now. Her heart went out to him for what he’d been through. Eventually, he would respond to her.
Oh, Noah. Selfishly, foolishly, she wished he were here in the golden glow of the circus-seal night-light, sitting on the edge of the recliner, his arm around her, looking down at the brand-new person they’d created.
Daniel was so perfect, with ten tiny fingers and toes, two delicate shells for ears and his whole soul looking at her from huge, wise eyes.
It was ridiculous, of course, to even picture Noah in such a sappy, domestic scene. He would no more be here than sprout wings and fly. He never wanted kids. He’d been clear about that. He was too selfish, too restless, too career-focused. And she respected him for knowing what he wanted, for not playing games about it.
Still…
Maybe she would send a quick get-well text. She’d tried when she first saw the news, but hadn’t been able to get through.
Shifting the baby slightly, she reached her purse, then her phone. She had to turn it on, since she’d had it off in the hospital. She was startled to see she’d received a text from Noah.
Hope soaring, she clicked it.
Nt sure whr I’ll end up. I kno ull do great. I wish u evry happiness. N.
That was his response to the baby? I’m in the wind.
Good luck, be happy.
She felt…abandoned…alone…lost…and so very hurt.
Get a grip, chica. What did she expect? She’d said she didn’t want anything from him, so he’d only stated the obvious. They were both getting on with their lives. They wished each other well.
But how it hurt. Waves of lonely pain washed through her. She wanted him to care. She wanted him to come. She wanted him to wrap his arms around her and tell her it would be okay.
She scrunched up her face to keep from bursting into foolish tears. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Had to be a postpartum hormone dump, right? Mel was a sensible, sturdy and self-reliant woman, dammit. She and her mother and Daniel were plenty enough to make a wonderful family and an amazing life.
She looked at her sleeping boy to remind herself it was true. He had a mass of curly hair and a tiny dimple in his left cheek. Above one ear was a pale, but unmistakable beauty mark. Just like Noah. She had to laugh.
The bittersweet truth was that even if she never saw the man again, Noah would be with her every day of Daniel’s life.
One year later
Albuquerque, New Mexico
“I’LL BE THERE AS SOON AS I can, Eleanor. Don’t worry,” Noah told his mother over the phone, running a towel across the battered bar of Jake’s Hut. A patron entered, backlit, so Noah couldn’t tell if it was a man or woman. Either one would want a drink. “Got to work now. Enjoy your trip. I’ll handle Grandma fine.”
He hung up and sighed, shifting his weight to ease the strain on his bad leg. He’d told his mother he’d go to Phoenix to help his grandmother transition to an assisted-living place and empty out her home for the new buyers. His mother could have canceled her cruise and done it herself, but she and her mother fought like cats and dogs, so Noah’s help was a good solution.
Nothing held him in New Mexico. Or anywhere else, for that matter.
He would get a job in Phoenix, since he was cash-strapped. He hoped to start reporting soon. He’d only recently been able to read an entire newspaper without losing focus. And he was still having nightmares and migraines.
“Noah? Jesus. What are you doing here?”
Instantly, Noah recognized the voice behind him. The backlit customer was none other than his friend Paul Stockton. Dread sank in him like a boulder in a lake. He figured he’d see the guy in Phoenix, but he’d have time to get his story nailed down. He forced a smile, then turned to face his friend. “Serving you a drink, looks like. What’ll it be?”
“Draft… Whatever’s on tap…” Paul sounded stunned.
“You got it.” While he filled the glass, Noah steadied himself, so that when he pushed the beer forward, his smile was decent. “So what brings you to Jake’s Hut?” The ancient bar was well off the beaten track.
“I’m speaking at a seminar at the college. Someone recommended this place. How did you end up here? You dropped off the map. I called National Record and they said you’d quit.”
“They wouldn’t run my story.” Despite his brain’s deficits, he’d pecked out an apology about his foolhardy quest for bloody headlines, damn the human cost. Hank called it self-indulgent moralizing and refused to print it.
He’d probably been right.
“Truth is, the head injury made it hard to think or write. I was deadweight.” The first months his speech had been so faulty, he couldn’t deal with the phone. Email gave him time to look up words, but wore him out. Mostly, he preferred to be alone.
“You’re better now?”
“Getting there.”
“You broke bones, too, right?”
“All healed up.” His arm and leg were still stiff in the morning, coughing hurt his ribs and he would always limp. But he was alive and kicking, unlike Reggie Fuller.
“Well, you look good,” Paul said, clearly lying.
“I look like shit. It’s a hangover,” he said, not wanting to get into the truth—he’d had a flashback the night before, waking up crouched beside the bed, trembling and sweating, the echoes of gunfire in his head, the smell of motor oil and blood in his nose. He’d numbed himself to sleep with tequila, so he was hungover on top of that.
The flashbacks weren’t as bad as the nightmare—he remembered every detail of the nightmare. In it, he was