One September Morning (29 page)

Fort Lewis
Flint

“T
hat’s the last one.” Flint shoves the box into the tiny attic crawlspace over Abby’s bedroom closet, then flips up the ladder and slides the hatch closed. “All taken care of.”

“Until I have to move in a few months,” Abby says, scowling up at the attic space. “And then, come March or April, I’ll have to decide again what to keep and what to let go and…” Tears glaze over her green eyes. “It’s stupid to hold on to some of those things. What am I going to do with a key chain Madison glued gems on when she was five?” She sucks in a shaky breath. “It’s not like we had any kids to pass this stuff on to.”

Flint folds her into his arms, closing his eyes as she sobs into the shoulder of his cotton sweater. “I know,” he says softly, rubbing her shoulder blades, which seem so delicate and compact beneath her gray Rutgers sweatshirt. “It really sucks.”

“And they stole his journals,” she says raggedly. “How can they do that? Claiming that they include sensitive intelligence. That they need to be held until the investigation is complete.” She pushes away from Flint and throws her arms up, her grief flipping into fury. “What investigation? If that isn’t a crock.”

Much better, Flint thinks. This is the Abby he fell in love with.

“Chenowith told me there
was no
investigation.” She stabs a finger in the air to drive home the point. “They’re lying through their teeth, and I’m sick to death of it.”

“So let’s nail them to the wall on it. The military told a blatant lie and if you stay on them, keep hammering away, you’re going to chisel it down to the truth eventually, Abby.”

She shakes her head as she marches out of the closet. “I thought I could do this on my own, but talking to Emjay, seeing him break down, I realize I am in way over my head.”

He follows her out to the bedroom where she whips two tissues out of a box and presses them to her eyes.

“Way over my head.”

“Don’t say that. You’ve made a lot of progress. You reached out to people who were at the scene and you asked the tough questions. That’s more than anyone else has done.”

“But it’s not enough. I thought, somehow, if I asked the right questions and I studied John’s journals, I’d figure out who did it. Who did it and
why
. Why would anyone want to kill him…murder him?”

“And no one is saying you won’t get to the truth. Sometimes it’s a circuitous route, but you can’t give up now.” He paces to the bureau and nearly smacks into a wedding photo of John and Abby, John in his dress uniform and Abby in that veil that had tiny sprigs of baby’s breath quivering against her red-streaked hair. “The truth exists. Like a gemstone that’s buried, Abby, it just needs to be uncovered.”

“I’m so tired of fighting for it.” She collapses onto the bed, her head resting on her knees. “I’m sick of being the shrill widow. The lunatic fringe.”

He sits beside her, wary when his hands sink into the brushed corduroy of the quilt, so soft and pliant. Good God, they’re sitting on a bed together. It’s dangerous territory for him, but apparently a safe haven for Abby.

Which is what he wants her to have right now. It’s too soon for things to go any further between them, he knows that. But this…this close proximity is torture for him.

He leans back on the bed, elbows folded beneath his head. There…that should remind him to behave. “You have always been a lunatic,” he says. “But you can never be shrill.”

She lifts her head and scowls at him. “Thanks, Flint. You always had a flair for the backhanded compliment.” Despite her rebuke, she stretches out beside him, pressing her face to his chest. Her hands curl beneath her chin, her legs tucked in a fetal position, and it requires all the strength he can muster to keep from turning on his side and pulling her into his arms.

They remain silent for a while, Flint focusing on the sound of her breath and the scent of her hair so close—a mixture of citrus and lavender. Is the citrus from the oranges in the salad?

In exchange for his help she had made him dinner—vegetable quiche and orange-spinach salad. A good thing, because he was famished after the five hours they spent sorting through the boxes, dividing items destined for trash, Goodwill, and storage in the attic. During the short break they took, sitting on the couch in the warm glow of Abby’s little Christmas tree to eat and drink some of the Chardonnay he’d brought, he steered the conversation away from John to more upbeat topics. Abby’s upcoming internship, nightlife in Seattle, the civil rights issues in the trial he’s covering in Atlanta. With Abby, conversation expanded exponentially. That woman was never at a loss for words, never more so than when topics included controversy. God, he loved that about her.

Now that they are finished going through the boxes, he’s tired, but Abby is totally wiped from dealing with the emotional attachment to John’s possessions and from the sheer volume of items—dozens of books, khaki T-shirts, and socks. His worn desert combat boots, even a bar of used soap and a can of shaving cream, which she lifted to her nostrils, sniffed, and burst into tears at the familiar scent of him.

Abby breaks the silence with a sigh. “So what do I do next?” she asks quietly. “That is, if I can pull myself together to make one more strike?”

“Write up everything you know: the facts, the theories, the conjectures. Put it all in writing. I’ll help you if you want. I can be your editor. So you get it down on paper and send it to the army. All the chiefs and generals on your list. Send it to any name and address you can get your hands on.”

“I’ve got a very long list.” When she speaks he can feel her breath warm the right side of his shirt. Torture.

“So you exploit any military connection you have,” he goes on, focusing on the pattern of dots and bumps textured on the ceiling. “You see if you can hook someone on trying to take the investigation to the end.”

“A bigwig at the Pentagon or a politician?”

“Either of those would work. At the same time, we’ll try to get your opinion published, too. Probably as an editorial, I’m thinking. I’ll put in a plug for you at the paper in Seattle, and I’ve got a few contacts around the country I can e-mail it to.” He lifts his head to look down at her. “What say you?”

“I say…it sounds like a plan.”

“Now you’re talking. I’ll do what I can to help you.”

“I’d better get cracking on it soon,” she says, stifling a yawn. “Come January, I’ll be working full-time in my psych clinical. I’m looking forward to it, though other students warn you that it’s all-consuming.”

“I wish like hell this trial would wrap up, but looking at the witness list, I have a feeling I’ll be camping out in Atlanta for a few more weeks.”

“I can’t believe they’ve got you living out of a suitcase when you were embedded in Iraq all those months. Don’t they reward you for your hard work?”

“Abby, this story
is
the reward. A prominent man on trial for homicide in his role as Klan leader? They don’t give these assignments to the newbies. Besides, living out of a suitcase at the Hilton definitely beats sleeping in an armored vehicle. The Hilton has better martinis. Correction. It
has
martinis.”

When she is quiet, he adds, “But I do wish I was closer to Seattle right now. I’d like to help you more.”

“And you must miss Delilah. I’ll bet she wants you here, too.”

“Delilah and I…” He searches for the right terminology.
Breakup
sounds so juvenile for anyone past eighteen. “We’re not seeing each other anymore.”

“Oh, Flint…I thought she was the one for you.”

“Apparently, she thought the same. I’m the one who balked.”

“Oh, no, Flint…” She presses her palm to his chest and jostles him. “After all these years, you’re still running from commitment?”

“I’m not going to grace that question with a response,” he says, very aware of her hand splayed on his chest.

“Chicken.” She digs a finger into his ribs, tickling.

He sucks in a breath and smacks her hand lightly. “Okay, I am. I’m ready to commit, but Delilah just wasn’t the right girl.”

“That’s too bad, because I really, really, really thought you’d found it. I always wanted you to fall in love, maybe because you were such a tough nut to crack. But you know what? I’m not giving up on you.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“I mean it, wise guy.” She nudges his rib cage again. “That’s my wish for you. That someday, soon, you’ll find that amazing, knock-your-socks-off, once-in-a-lifetime love,” Abby says drowsily. “The kind of love John and I had. That’s my wish for you.”

I already found it.
Flint thinks as Abby’s hand slides off his chest to the mattress. He glances down at her smooth brow, the bridge of her nose sprinkled with freckles. She is asleep.

I found that love.
Flint mouths the words silently as he watches her shoulders rise and fall with each breath.
But she’s grieving for someone else.

Fort Lewis Abby

“M
erry Christmas, Abby!”

Swiping the sleeve of her sweatshirt over her nose to scratch an itch, Abby looks up from the birdfeeder she’s filling with black sunflower seeds to see Jump jogging toward her. In his gray sweat pants, navy Nike jacket, and black leather gloves, Charles Jump has become a familiar sight along neighborhood running paths. It’s the third or fourth time he’s stopped by this week.

“Merry Christmas,” she calls. “I can’t believe it’s already Christmas Eve.”

“Indeed.” He takes the feeder she just filled and, reaching up beside the stepladder she needs to use, hangs it on its hook. “The holidays go so quickly. Hey, is my laundry done yet?”

She scoffs. “Like that’s ever going to happen. I told you, I’ve got enough on my plate right now, and washerwoman isn’t part of my career aspirations.”

“Ooh.” He plants his feet wide over the clear cylinder she’s filling with seed. “Have I hit a sore spot here?”

“Nope. I’m just being honest. You’re welcome to go on in and pick up your laundry bag right now if you want.”

“How about if I get a load of wash started? I’ll start the washer, go for my run, then double back and put it in the dryer.”

She shakes her head. What was he not getting about the word no? “I gotta ask, why is it so important for you to do your laundry in my house?”

He sucks in a breath through his teeth. “Okay…now you’ve hit my soft spot. It’s about more than clean clothes.”

“So I suspected.”

“The thing is, I miss having a home. I hate living single. Life in the BOQ can be dog-eat-dog, as you can imagine. It’s worse than dorm living, because these are grown men who are tossing your wet clothes onto the floor if you don’t get to the machines fast enough.”

“Sounds like you need a place of your own,” she says. And on a doctor’s salary, an apartment in the area should be no problem.

“I’m working on that. But in the meantime, can you help me out?”

She looks down at the paper parcel of black seeds. “Jump, please don’t beg. It’s so awkward.”

“Okay, here’s the deal. I was married before my first deployment to Iraq. Did you know that?” He lets out a breath, rubbing the stubble of his new-grown hair with one of the black leather gloves he always wears while jogging. “It’s not something I like to talk about. Suffice it to say, I got back to find my wife AWOL and my home gone…in the wind. God, that was devastating.”

“I’m sorry,” she says earnestly, tipping her head up to meet his gaze. “I didn’t know.” She feels like a jerk, not recognizing that Jump, like anyone else, has a history with difficulties he’s struggling to overcome. Has she been so wrapped up in her own grief, her own battles, that she’s unable to pick up on the needs of people around her?

“If you don’t mind, I’ll just go in and get the bag, then I’ll be out of your hair,” he says.

“No, don’t do that.” Abby rolls back on her heels and rises. “Why don’t you go in and start a load of laundry. Just push my basket aside if it’s in the way.”

“Thanks!” He takes a few strides forward, then stops, turns back. “Hey, do you have plans tonight? I’d be happy to take you for dinner at the Officers’ Club. Nobody should be alone on Christmas Eve.”

“Actually, I have people coming over. Friends and John’s family.” She pours sugar solution into the hummingbird feeder, thinking.
Oh, what the hell.
“You met John’s family, right? Would you like to join us?”

“That would be great.” This time his broad smile reaches his blue eyes, dazzling. He grabs Abby’s shoulders and plants a kiss on her cheek. “You’re a lifesaver!”

As he lopes along the patio and into the house, Abby wonders if she did the right thing. She needs to stay open to people, to keep her heart from folding up upon itself like an origami crescent. She’s well aware of that, but right now she feels far too vulnerable, too exposed.

“Eventually, I’ll get this all in balance,” she tells a gaggle of bushtits who have already overrun a seed cake. “It’s all about balance.”