Love Me: The Complete Series (69 page)

An idea zapped Caroline. She’d badgered Abby to let her do some advertisements for the store and tinkered with a blog post.
That’s it!
She shoved her scarier memories into the closets of her brain and starting working on a blog ad, punching the keys of the computer between helping customers. At least she could put her journalism degree to use in a way that didn’t haunt her when she hit the sheets at night. Her head was glued to the screen when Abby returned and delved into the back office to do the bookkeeping. It wasn’t until Abby returned to nix the lights that Caroline let herself relax and ease back into the cozy fragrance of the store. She’d immersed herself in the lighthearted blogging and advertisement efforts enough to banish her nightmares, at least for now.

She looked down at the striped leggings she’d worn to work. In a whimsical fashion, they ushered away the tenseness in her body. She’d always had a thing for fun colors. The leggings were bright, cheerful, and so
not
the drab green and tan camo she’d worn while trekking across Europe. Thank God.

The door to the store jingled, and she turned to acknowledge the new guest. “Welcome to—Oh ... Dad.”

“Hi there.” Bob Sanders gave a sheepish grin and shrugged with hands extended, acknowledging her disappointment. She hadn’t quite adjusted to having him back in her life after all the years he’d been searching out stories for the
New York Times.

It took her mother’s catastrophic illness and the associated family drama to bring him home to stay. Still, somehow they’d managed to piece a strange but comfortable relationship together from the catacombs of silence. Theirs was a love-hate relationship—or maybe it was hate-love. She hated him for missing her childhood. She loved him for coming back when her mother was ill and never leaving her side. It was odder than odd, but she’d be a fool to complain and lose them both.

And why was he still here? Her mother’s illness had taken a bad turn right after the big blow-up in Teslehad, which gave Caroline a convenient excuse to come home. Thankfully she’d never had a chance to tell her about that day, though she was still angry her mother hadn’t divulged the illness before she left.

“Feel like joining an old man for dinner?” Her father was sixty going on forty-five. He still drew glances from the older women, but he was oblivious. Caroline found it odd considering he’d so rarely been around his wife. It seemed unlikely he could be that devoted. He wasn’t gay either—she’d seen the pile of girly magazines hidden in his closet. He must simply be ambivalent about women, she thought.

Caroline stared out the window. “I finally finished that boring book you wrote.” He’d given her a copy of his life’s work—a story about the many Korean War veterans who had fallen through the cracks of the system and disappeared into lives of trouble and desperation. It was his obsession.

“I’m guessing you slept through most of it.” He moved closer as the door jingled closed. Her father wasn’t a towering man, but he held himself well and stayed fit. His hair was the color of tree bark, and his eyes a cloudy blue. Caroline was glad she’d inherited her mother’s eyes. Still blue, but sharper—crisp. Clear and honest.

“Not really. It was ... interesting. How’d you end up with that assignment anyway?”

He shrugged. Abby doused the remaining lights and ushered them toward the door. He waited for Caroline to gather her bag. “A family thing. Your mother’s dad served, and he was—”

“Killed. I know.”

“Yes, well, not exactly. ... Sometimes things aren’t always what they seem. So, what’d you think of my stories?”

Should she admit that she’d had to put the book down because too many painful memories rushed through as she read? Recent memories of her own experiences with losing her mother.

She gave a vague answer as they strolled to his car outside and drove to dinner. Her father was a creature of habit, eating at the same dive a few blocks from his house two or three times a week. The place served crazy foods like sausage and spaetzle quiche, and their recipes were filled with flour, salt, and enough carbs to wallpaper Fort Knox. A heart surgeon’s nightmare.

It wasn’t until they’d finished their meal and were waiting on the check that Caroline noticed the manila folder he’d tucked under a leg. Had he brought it with him? He opened the clasp and reached inside to pull something from within. The papers he tossed in front of her slid to a stop with a solid hiss. Pictures.

Caroline focused on the images of the glossy photo stock. They were eerily similar to ones she wished to forget. She blinked and shifted her gaze to his eyes. “You took these?”

He nodded. “Yep, but not these.” He tossed a couple more photos that sprawled haphazardly over the first. She recognized them as ones she’d taken of locals in Teslehad. He tapped each print. “They’re good.”

Caroline’s throat closed. The compliment of her work loomed between them but mattered little—she still couldn’t look at them. The staccato sound of gunfire burned her ears as memories flooded through the concrete dam she’d tried to build around her thoughts. Why had he brought them? And where had he found them? “I hate them.”

He picked his teeth with a toothpick he’d sweet-talked the waitress to provide. When satisfied with the result, he flicked his tongue across the veneers the dentist had recently put over his failing teeth. He still had trouble speaking. “Understood. I hated mine, too—at first.”

“What do you mean, at first?”

He shrugged. “Caroline, I read about what happened that day.”

“How? The article was never published. I made them promise not to. I—”

“My seniority has a few perks sometimes, or
had
at one time. After you pulled back your submission, the editor sent me an email attached with your draft and the pictures. He wanted me to encourage you.”

A weight of lead sunk further into her chest. He’d read her rant? Her throat turned to a crusted cavern that no words could pass through.

Her father pulled out another picture and tossed it forward. She knew it well. A small child with his arms closed over another in a failed attempt to protect. His sister was only a tiny fragment of his size. He’d done the best he could to cover her and take the blows of the gunshots, but the end result was fatal for both children. He’d tried so hard to wrap her up like a tiny doll in his arms.

Evil had a way of seeping through the best of packages and spoiling the contents. They had both died despite the good brother’s efforts. Caroline had felt the boiling surge of anger that day for the first time. It rose from deep within her, daring her to lash out at the injustice. But she had been too much of a coward. “I should have done something.”

Her father frowned. Was he disappointed in her, too? “What could you have done differently?”

She had no idea. “Anything. Something. They were children. They weren’t involved in what was happening over there. It was a war they hadn’t started and couldn’t fight.”

“True.” The check came; her father snatched it up and dug out his wallet.

“It wasn’t even a war, Dad. It was a skirmish—something that hadn’t even made the news here. It was like they’d never existed.” She choked on the last word. Hell, that was what had bothered her most.

After dropping a few bills on top of the check, her father held the picture in front of Caroline’s eyes. She met his gaze rather than stare at the lifeless bodies. He tsked. “They did exist. And because you were there to take this photograph, their sacrifice was recorded. That’s what journalists do. You couldn’t have stopped it, and had you tried, you would have been in the same grave.
Then
no one would have known. Honey, there was nothing you could have done and lived to tell.”

He was wrong. “I was a journalist—I was protected.” He knew they had safe passage—he’d scoffed at the Geneva Convention in his publications for years.

He cursed. “You think anyone doing
that
,” he tapped a finger on the pile of photos, “cares whether you have journalistic free passage? I know you’re not stupid. They would have killed you, buried you with those kids, and slept like logs afterward. Another journalist missing in a foreign country, presumed lost. Come on, you knew it too. You did your job—and you did the right thing.”

“I did nothing.”

“You told the story.”

A knife seared through her heart. “No, I didn’t. I was afraid, and as soon as I hit native soil, I warehoused the story and came running home to hide. Face it, Dad, I’m not a journalist. Not even close. I’m not like you. I can’t handle the death and brutality day after day. I want to shoot every damn one of those baby killers. And I don’t even own a gun.”

He slapped a hand on the table and slid to a stand. “You don’t need a gun. You have a camera and a brain. You ready to go?”

She nodded. Once they were back in his car, he laid a hand on hers. “I hate to tell you this, honey, but other than the fact you look more like your mother, you’re exactly like me. By the way, I liked hearing you call me Dad. You can do that more often if you want.”

They changed the subject before he dropped her off. She was thankful for the company and a chance to talk about anything that kept her mind off her ghosts. She wished he hadn’t delved into the painful memories. Why was it soothing to know he had ghosts of his own? That was borderline sick. She shook the thought away. There was one truly great thing about her new life: the serenity of knowing the worst thing she’d ever deal with was a grumbling customer or a late shipment.

Not death.

Roger shifted on his couch and blinked at the glow of his laptop screen.
Was that dollar amount real? Holy shit.
The website showed an income—
an income—
from the slew of pictures he’d uploaded. Carter was right, but he’d never tell him. To top it off, the money was automatically deposited in his bank account. He pumped his fist in a tiny celebration. “Yes.”

A soft whimper forced him to change focus. He’d been wrestling with finances and work projects for too long. He glanced at the gray whiskers and clouded eyes of his old friend. “Hey, Conan. You need to go out, buddy?”

Ruff. That was affirmative.

Roger grabbed the leash and waited as the dog lumbered toward the door. Eventually he’d need to accept the inevitable and take the fateful visit to the vet. Not today. Or anytime soon. He couldn’t handle such a monumental decision. Besides, as long as Conan could walk, Roger wasn’t cutting his time on earth short. It was wrong.

Outside, the dog maneuvered down the ramp Roger had added when the steps became too difficult. It had taken only a few times for Conan to realize the ramp was his. He was a smart dog. Old, but not stupid.
I’m gonna cry like a baby when he dies.

A cool breeze scattered leaves across the sidewalk. Roger dropped to sit on the steps while the dog shuffled around the same territory he’d marked earlier in the day. Heaven forbid another dog try to take over his yard; it’d take all night for him to repair the damage.

Roger’s cell jolted into action inside the house, and he jumped up to answer. Conan lifted his head, drool dribbling from his chin into the grass. Roger glanced at the screen and debated answering. History proved that not answering his mother didn’t deter her efforts, and that she’d just call again in a few minutes. He turned off the volume, grabbed a glass of water, and returned to the peacefulness of his front step.

Fifteen minutes later, the sound of tires crunching on the loose pavement of his driveway woke him from a daydream. He really needed to get the driveway fixed, but he liked its dual functionality. It gave him advance warning of pending confrontation. Ahem, company. He grimaced at the silhouette of his mother in her aging Buick.

“Why don’t you answer your phone, son?”

He shrugged. “It’s inside.”

Conan glanced at Ruth, sighed, and lumbered up the ramp to wait by the door. He was thrilled to see her, too.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Were those heels on the sidewalk? His mother seldom wore heels; they hurt her corns. Her feet came into view. Nope. Sneakers. Still, the clatter continued.

Where was it coming from? Ruth jogged toward him. “I wanted to warn you, but I didn’t get here quite fast enough. Remember that young lady, Marina, that I mentioned meeting at the vet? The one who’s a decorator? I told her to come by and take a look—it’s on me.” A decorator for his house? The thought was laughable. On her? Yeah right.

Oh, hell, just shoot me.
He’d told her not to ever try matchmaking him again, and damned if she hadn’t ignored his words. His mother meant well but was always seeking a “suitable” woman who had as much personality as a piece of grass in the winter.

A sharp growl came from behind, and Roger rose to his feet and pushed the door open for Conan. “
Now
? You told her to come by today? Mom, I can’t—I have plans.” Actually, he had a blank slate but wasn’t telling her.

“Oh, sorry. You can just let her in, and she’ll take a look, and then you guys can get together later to go over her ideas, right? Maybe one night this week.” Ruth reeked of hopeful conniving and fake pleasantries. There was no way in hell he’d let a random woman peruse his apartment. Not happening.

Tap. Tap. “Hi there!” Marina called out. Stilettoes, twiggy legs, and a too-short skirt rounded his mother’s vehicle, and Roger shut his mouth as the sleek and shiny woman approached. “Thanks for letting me stop by. I’m so excited about this project. I haven’t done a bachelor’s place in a long time.”

Today wouldn’t bring an end to his dry spell, either. He forced himself to smile. “Um, I’m not really prepared for company ... I’m leaving in a bit.” He tried to think of somewhere to go. Maybe over to Carter’s to watch the game. The Astros played at one. “I can’t afford—”

Marina waved a manicured hand. “Don’t worry about it. Our parents go way back, and it’s on me.”

“I’m not a charity case either.”

Her eyes flared defensively. “I didn’t mean ... I wasn’t saying you were. It’s just ... your mom thought we should meet.”

“My mother thought? Really? She can think for herself, not me, and I’ll do the same.” Roger yanked the door open and retreated inside. Their hushed murmurs sounded like static as he slammed the screen shut. Marina and his mother weren’t deterred by his gruffness—they simply followed him inside. What to do? He wasn’t in the mood for a fight. He just needed peace and quiet. Roger plodded out of the living room to his bedroom and clunked the door closed. He twisted the lock into place and grabbed a book from his bedside. Perhaps they’d leave if he hid out long enough.