A Man to Hold on to (A Tallgrass Novel)

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T
he first thing Therese Matheson did when she arrived at Tulsa International Airport was head to the bathroom and blot her face with a damp paper towel. She should have taken an extra antianxiety pill this morning or skipped the pancakes and blueberries for breakfast. Maybe she should have stopped off somewhere for a fortifying drink, even though it wasn’t yet noon, or guilted one of her friends into coming along.

“It’s not that scary,” she whispered to the pale reflection staring wide-eyed at her. “You’re just picking up the kids after their spring break trip. Paul’s kids.”

Usually, reminding herself that Abby and Jacob were Paul’s kids helped calm her. Paul had been the love of her life, and when his ex-wife had sent the kids to live with them nearly four years ago, Therese had embraced the opportunity for a ready-made family. When he’d deployed to Afghanistan not long after, she’d promised to keep them safe for his return. When he didn’t return, well, she’d been shocked that their mother didn’t want them back, but she’d done her best. They were his kids, after all.

Now, she’d used the time they were gone to seek advice about giving up custody of them.

Shame crept into the reflection’s eyes. She’d promised Paul. She’d wanted to love them. She’d tried, God help her, but in the end, it had come down to two choices: keep them or find some much-needed peace. Break her promise to their father or break her own spirit.

She was surviving Paul’s death, but she wasn’t surviving life with his angry, hostile, bitter children.

Child, she corrected. Before they’d left for the visit with their mother, Jacob had shown her some sympathy, even some respect.

It was Abby who was breaking her.

With a deep breath, she forced the shame from her gaze, then left the bathroom and took the escalator to the baggage area above. There weren’t many people waiting for the incoming flights. She missed the happy reunions that once were common in airports. Getting off the plane and finding someone waiting for her had been part of the fun.

Someone who was happy to see her, she amended when passengers started appearing in the skywalk from the main terminal. She wasn’t happy to see Abby, already texting on her cell, strolling lazily, mindless of the people who dodged her snail’s pace, and the swell of pleasure brought by the sight of Jacob wasn’t really happiness. It was a start, though.

Tall and broad-shouldered, Jacob had a pack slung over one shoulder—his only luggage for the six-day trip—and buds in his ears. A person could be forgiven for thinking him six or eight years older than his eleven, not only because of his size, but also the look in his eyes, the air of having lived about him. He looked so much like his father that most days seeing him made Therese’s heart hurt.

Next to him Abby looked even more petite than ever—and less angelic. For once the bright streaks that sliced through her blond hair were gone, and the blond was platinum instead. It had been cut, too, in a sleek but edgy style, sharp angles, short in back, longer in front, no bangs but a tendency for the entire left side to fall over her face—her
made-up
face.

Her clothes were different, too. Therese had seen swimsuit bottoms that covered more than Abby’s shorts, and the top looked more like a beach cover-up than a blouse except that it was too short to cover anything adequately. The bright print was semi-transparent and kept sliding off one shoulder or the other, revealing the straps of her new black bra.

Therese’s efforts to breathe resulted in a strangled gasp. Another pill, two more pills, and definitely a drink, or maybe she could borrow a sedative. Surely someone in the Tuesday Night Margarita Club still had a stash of sedatives somewhere.

She couldn’t pull her gaze from her stepdaughter even when she had to move left or right to maintain line of sight. Abby’s skin was darkly tanned, a startling contrast to her white shorts and platinum hair and her shoes—

Another strangled sound escaped. White leather, heels adding at least four inches to her height, skinny straps crisscrossing her feet and wrapping around her ankles to end in bows in back.

Oh, my God.

Beside Therese, the conveyor belt rumbled to life and people began nudging her aside to get prime spaces for reclaiming their bags. She took a step toward the kids as they neared, digging deep to find a neutral expression and to stifle the shriek inside her.
What was your mother thinking?

Abby barely slowed when she reached Therese. Recently manicured nails didn’t pause in typing as she said, “My bags are pink. I’ll be waiting at the door.”

Therese turned to watch her go, then whispered, “Oh, my God.”

Jacob stopped beside her and pulled the buds from his ears. “Scary, isn’t it?”

Forgetting Abby for the moment, she studied her stepson. He looked exactly the way he had the day he’d left. He might even be wearing the same clothes. Whatever effects the visit with Catherine had had on him, they weren’t as painfully obvious as with Abby.

She wished she could hug him or even just lay her hand on his arm to welcome him back home, but he kept enough distance between them to make it difficult. “Did you have a good time?”

He shrugged. “It was okay. We didn’t do much.”

Of course not. By the time Catherine had bought new clothes and shoes for Abby, taken her to a tanning salon and gotten her hair cut and colored, there probably hadn’t been much time left over for Jacob.

“If you want to go on and get the car, I’ll get her bags.”

“Okay.” Therese took a few steps, then turned back. “Why are her bags pink? She left with black luggage.”

He grimaced. “Mom bought her new ones. She said only—”

After a moment, Therese said, “It’s okay to say it.”

“Only boring people use black luggage.”

She forced a smile. “Well, I never aspired to be exciting. She did bring them back, didn’t she?” Black though they were, the suitcases were sturdy and still had a lot of miles left on them.

At the hopefulness in her voice, he grinned. “I did.”

“Thanks.” This time she did touch his arm, just for an instant. “I’ll meet you guys out front. Make her carry her own, will you?”

He grunted as he stuck the earbuds back in.

A warm breeze hit Therese as she walked out of the terminal, then crossed the broad street to the short-term parking lot. Her flip-flops keeping familiar tempo, she pulled out her cell and dialed her best friend back in Tallgrass.

The call went straight to voice mail. No surprise since Carly had gotten engaged just a few days ago and was still celebrating. After the beep, Therese said in a rush, “I know you’re probably busy with Dane, so don’t call me back. I won’t be able to talk for a while anyway. I’m at the airport, and oh, Carly, I sent a wholesome sweet-looking thirteen-year-old to visit her mother and got back a tarted-up twenty-three-year-old streetwalker-wannabe! Makeup, high heels, platinum hair! I’d be afraid she’s got tattoos or piercings or something even more inappropriate except that there’s not enough of her clothing to cover anything like that!”

She drew a deep breath. “Okay. I’m breathing. I’m in control. I’m not going to explode. Yet. I’ll call you later.”

Once she reached the mom van, she buckled herself in and practiced a few more breaths. As she flipped down the visor to get the parking ticket stub, her gaze landed on the photograph of Paul she always kept there. He’d been in Afghanistan, smiling, full of life, in a khaki T-shirt and camo pants, with dark glasses pushed up on top of his head. He’d e-mailed the photo to her, then followed it up with a print copy, where he’d scrawled on the back,
Major Paul Matheson, Helmand Province, counting the days till he sees his beautiful wife Therese again.

“Oh, Paul, I wish you were here. You were the only person in the world who loved both Abby and me. Maybe you could negotiate a truce, because, sweetheart, we are facing a major battle. Send me some strength, will you?”

She sat there a moment, wishing she would actually feel
something.
Just some small sign—a bit of warmth, encouragement, hope.

The only thing she felt was sorrow.

It took a few minutes to exit the lot and circle back around to the loading lane in front of the terminal. She was breathing normally, and a glance in the rearview mirror showed her shock was under control. It also showed the grimness in her eyes, dread for the upcoming skirmish.

The kids were waiting, Jacob with the suitcases, Abby still texting. She did pause long enough to open the rear passenger door, slide inside, and fasten her seat belt, then she ducked her head and went right back to it.

Therese helped Jacob load the luggage. The black one was easy to lift, since it contained nothing but the other empty black one. His muscles bulged as he hefted the matching pink ones inside. “Thank you, Jacob.”

He started to go around to the other passenger side, then stopped. “Can I ride in front?”

Her first response was a blink. For years, she’d chauffeured the kids nearly everywhere, with emphasis on the hired-driver concept. On the rare occasions it was just her and Jacob, he sat in the front seat, never talking to her but listening to music and playing video games, but if she had both kids, they always sat in back and pretty much pretended she wasn’t there.

“Sure. That’s fine.” It wasn’t much, but as she’d thought earlier, it was a start.

Jessy Lawrence rolled onto her side with a groan and opened one eye. All she saw was pale aqua with a strip of brown on one edge. Closing her eye again, she digested that bit of information. She was lying on the couch, and it was daytime. Late morning, judging by the light coming through the south-facing windows of her apartment. It was Saturday, so there was nowhere she needed to go, nothing she needed to do.

She did a little shimmy, just enough to realize she was wearing clothes and not the tank top and boxers she normally slept in, and a flex of her feet revealed she still wore the heels she favored to disguise the fact that she was vertically challenged.

That little movement was enough to make her aware of the queasiness in her gut and the throb in her head. She hadn’t felt so bad since she’d gotten the flu last winter. She’d stunk of sweat then, too, and had been certain that the slightest movement would make her puke.

Slowly she nudged the pumps off, and they fell to the floor with a thud muffled by the rug. Her arches almost spasmed in relief. Next she rolled onto her back and opened her eyes, then oh so slowly she sat up. Her stomach heaved, the sour taste making its way into her throat, making her clamp her hand over her mouth, and
that
movement sent daggers through her head. She could only hope the brain tissue they destroyed was nonessential, but she wouldn’t count on it. After all, this wasn’t the first time she’d done this to herself.

The absence of sound in the apartment both soothed and pricked at her. It was always so empty, and it made her feel even emptier. She lived there alone. Slept there alone. Got sick there alone. Grieved there alone.

Home was the second floor of an office building in downtown Tallgrass. Originally, an abstract company and a dentist had shared the space, then a dance school, but after it had stood empty for twenty years, the owners had converted it into residential space. It was the first place she and Aaron had looked at when the Army had transferred him to Fort Murphy, and the last. She’d loved it on sight, with its high ceilings, tall windows, and ancient wood floors. She’d loved the old architectural details of the moldings and the couldn’t-be-more-modern kitchen and bathroom and the convenience of being within walking distance of restaurants, shopping, and clubs.

Aaron hadn’t loved it so much. He had wanted an extra bedroom or two for kids and a yard to mow and play in, but he’d loved her so he had agreed to the apartment. It wasn’t like it was permanent, he’d said. They could always move as soon as she got pregnant.

She hadn’t gotten pregnant.

He had died eleven and a half months into a twelve-month tour in Afghanistan.

And she was so sorry that she was drowning in it.

It was too early to start feeling bad—worse—so she carefully pushed to her feet, swayed a moment, then started toward the bedroom. She was halfway there when the doorbell rang, the peal slicing through her. Cursing the day she’d given her friends keys to the downstairs entry, she reversed direction and went to the door, opening it without looking through the peephole.

Ilena Gomez stood there, blond hair loosely pulled back, face pink from the exertion of climbing the stairs. Her hands were in the small of her back, and she was stretching, making her pregnant belly look huge compared to normal. She greeted Jessy with a smile, all white teeth and pleasure, and said while patting her belly, “Hector and I are starving. Are you ready?”

Jessy tried to erase the dull look she was certain glazed her eyes while searching her mind for a clue. Starving meant food; obviously she had agreed to go to lunch with Ilena today. She must have been insane at the time—or as fuzzy as she was right now—because Saturdays were never her best days.

But she couldn’t renege. Sure, Ilena would understand, but that was rule number one in Jessy’s life these days: never fail to be there for any member of the Tuesday Night Margarita Club, also known around town as the Fort Murphy Widows’ Club. Without them, she wouldn’t have survived the past year, and by God, she would return the favor.

“Give me ten minutes. Come on in and sit down.” As quickly as her stomach and head would bear, Jessy went into the bedroom, then the bathroom with an agenda. First: take aspirin. Second: brush horrible taste out of mouth. Third: shuck clothes and give sigh of relief that everything was fastened properly and she still wore her underwear. Fourth: shower, dress, and apply makeup. Fifth: avoid looking in mirror until absolutely necessary.

Missing her target by only four minutes, she returned to the living room. She wore one of her girl-next-door outfits: cargo shorts, T-shirt, sandals with a thin sole. Her red hair was short enough that all it needed was a finger fluff, and her makeup was minimal to go along with the innocent look.