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Abruptly, a scene flashed into his mind—slowed down like a movie dream sequence. Pings…pops…a blast from behind…his body frozen…Daggett yanking him from the vehicle… Stumbling forward… Fuller:
Get Stone under cover… The black spot between Fuller’s eyes…Fuller on the ground.
Then the screen in Noah’s brain went blank.
The horror of what he’d done rolled over him like a semi. Fuller had assigned Emile Daggett as Noah’s bodyguard. Protocol said that reporters got babysat. Noah ignored that, believing it unnecessary in his case. But he’d been given a guard all the same and that fact led directly to Fuller’s death and Daggett’s capture.
Noah had caused this. It was on him. He gripped the sides of the bed, shaking with anger at himself and regret—so much regret.
Those soldiers. What they’d risked and lost.
All because Noah needed a hot story to impress his editor.
Sickness washed through him and he fumbled for the kidney-shaped dish on his tray to puke up bile. The spasm made his injured ribs seem to split wide-open, a punishment he welcomed.
A rattling sound made him notice his cell phone vibrating on his bed tray. Seemed someone had gathered the gear he’d left at FOB River Watch when he went on the fateful patrol. He scooped the phone close enough to see the call was from Hank.
His editor would want the story, of course, though Noah remembered little beyond what Nelson had told him. It didn’t matter. He was a reporter. He had a job to do. Fighting pain, he answered the call.
It did not go well. Words failed him over and over. There were long gaps where he could only breathe and struggle for language. Finally, Hank said, “We’ll get the basics and come back to you for a comment. You just get better.” His tone was gentle, as if Noah were a child or a volatile mental patient.
“Yeah.” He fought the helplessness, the frustration, the shame. He was a writer, but words were lost to him.
He still held the phone when a wave of terror washed over him. His heart pounded so hard he grabbed his chest, causing more pain. Was he having a heart attack? He was shaking and sweating and terrified. Of what? He was safe in a hospital bed. What the hell was going on?
Then he remembered the neurologist describing a panic attack, a common aftereffect of a trauma. They hit out of the blue, scary as hell, mimicking a heart at tack, but are essentially harmless.
The terror and pain had barely released him when his phone buzzed again. He checked the display. A number he didn’t recognize. He saw he had dozens of texts and voicemails, some from before the assault, he was sure.
People would want to know he’d survived. He couldn’t deal with their sympathy or questions. He deleted all the voicemails, then highlighted batch after batch of texts to delete in groups. On the last set, as he clicked Delete, he saw Mel Ramirez.
Mel.
Her name sent warmth pouring through him. She’d been in his mind a lot in the months since they’d met—her face, her smile, her fire. He’d been thinking he would look her up when he got back. But that could never happen now. Not after this. Just as well that her message was gone, unread, like the rest.
He decided to write one general “I’m okay” message. It took forever, the words elusive, his spelling hopeless, but he managed the equivalent of, Minor injuries. Be in touch. He ticked “all contacts.”
At the last second, he unchecked Mel, then hit Send. He owed her a personal note. She was probably doing great, living the life she’d been poised to launch that weekend. He mangled words and skipped letters in his communication, but the gist was: Not sure where I’ll end up. I know you’ll do great. I wish you every happiness.
Corny, but true. Thinking about her was a momentary escape from the hell of his thoughts. There was her number on his screen. He could hit Call and talk to her. Her voice would be like medicine. But he didn’t deserve to feel better. Not for a long, long time. He pressed End until his phone went black.
He would answer the questions he had to for the National Record story, then get out a media statement expressing regret for his irresponsible actions and gratitude for the soldiers’ bravery. The main thing he wanted right now was to get well enough to wheel 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 carrying a wounded man to safety, while soldier after soldier got shot between the eyes, dropping dead so that he stumbled over their bodies, until he looked down and saw he held a machine gun, realizing to his horror, that he’d been the one mowing down the men. Every time he had the nightmare, the horror hit just as hard.
The flashbacks happened less often. At first, he’d had them even in the daytime, triggered by sudden noises or quick movements—even smells. In crowds, he’d start sweating and shaking, his heart beating so fast he thought he might black out.
The doctor he’d seen when his leg flared had prescribed an anti-anxiety med, but Noah wasn’t willing to fog his brain any more than it already was. He coped day-to-day. Small spaces and dark rooms still sent his pulse pounding, but he could fight it off better every day that passed.
“So you’re bartending now?” Paul was clearly trying to hide his bafflement.
“Here, yeah. In Denver, I sold newspaper ads. I washed cars in Sacramento, parked them in Vegas. Whatever got me grocery money.”
“But no reporting?”
“Soon, I hope.” Besides, needing time for his brain to heal, he’d needed some soul-searching about the grievous harm his single-minded drive for copy-inches had caused. The thought sent a wash of shame through him. It always would. Steady, man. “How’s the family?” He dispensed seltzer over ice from the gun to wet his dry throat.
“Great. Cindi’s pregnant again. Surprise! Never take birth control for granted, bro.” He gave a sheepish smile. “It’s wild this time. She’s had morning sickness from day one and Princess Emma, three-and-a-half going on fifteen, has started acting out big-time.”
“Of course. Her kingdom’s under siege.” Jesus. Another kid to raise and worry about and send to college. “But you two were born to be parents.”
“No one is, trust me. It’s on-the-job training. Day one, they let you walk out of the hospital with this innocent being who depends on you for everything. You’ll see.”
“You know me better than that.” He couldn’t imagine a less-likely fate.
“One day, you’ll get your gills caught in some poor girl’s net and she won’t have the sense to toss you back.” He was joking like the old days, but his tone was faint. He was clearly disturbed by Noah’s condition, which made Noah realize he maybe wasn’t as improved as he’d imagined.
“You’re catching me on a bad day. I’m in good shape. In fact, I’m headed to Phoenix to help my grandmother get moved. I need a job if you know of anything.”
“Yeah? I bet I could get you on as an adjunct professor.”
“I’m the last person you want teaching J school.”
“It would be a coup to have you.” Paul stopped as though sensing Noah’s resistance, and because he was a good friend, letting it go. “Public affairs needs writers for the web, I think. I’ll check the in-house postings. Where will you stay?”
“Camping at my grandmother’s place out in Apache Junction until I get it emptied out, then renting somewhere, I guess.”
“That’s way the hell out there. Why don’t you stay in our guesthouse?”
“Seriously?” They had a great location, which would help with whatever job he got. “That would be great.”
“Absolutely. You’ll be doing us a favor.”
“How’s that?” he said, taking a drink of the seltzer water he’d poured.
“Isn’t it obvious? Emma needs a babysitter.”
Noah choked on the water, but he was smiling. Smiling big.
“OOOH! OOOH! CAN I HAVE a Popsicle, Uncle Noah?” Emma asked from the backseat of his Jeep. He’d offered to drop her off at day care to save Cindi time, since he was headed to the downtown ASU office. “You get one and only one. After school. Your mom said.”
“Pullleeeeze, Uncle Noah?” Hanging out with the pint-size tornado two nights ago so that her parents could have a date, he’d unknowingly broken Cindi’s one-Popsicle-a-day rule. Now the little terror figured him for an easy mark. She was correct.
He swung over to the ice cream truck she’d spotted. “What flavor?”
“Grape! Purply-purple! Yay! I love you, Uncle Noah!”
“Food does not equal love, little girl. That’s half the reason we have an epidemic in childhood obesity. You’ll have to bite it down, no licking, so it’s all gone by the time we get there, or the other kids will feel left out.”
She nodded, eager to please now that she’d wrapped him around her pinkie. He was a sucker for those big eyes of hers. When she smiled, they lit up like two blue flashlights in her elfin face. Had to be some biological wiring to make sure you didn’t leave your offspring in the dust of the veldt when lions were on the prowl. Whatever it was, it worked like a charm.
He parked in the strip mall where the day-care center was and went to open Emma’s door. “Good lord, look at you.” Her mouth was purple and two rivulets of juice streaked her arm to her elbow. “We’ll clean you up inside so they don’t report your parents to Child Protective Services.”
“What’s protector service?”
“Sort of the police who look out for children in trouble.”
“I’m not in trouble, Uncle Noah,” she said, giving him a look of pure disdain. “You are if Mommy finds out.”
“Then let’s keep it our little secret.”
She made a crisscross over her heart, then undid the belt on her car seat—she was better at it than he was. He set her on the sidewalk, then grabbed her glittery pink backpack, which weighed twenty pounds because she’d crammed half her toy chest into it before they left. You never knew when you might need a plastic pony or a comb the size of a toenail.
He pushed open the glass door of the place. No one stood at the reception desk and he spotted the restroom sign, so he headed that way, Emma clacking in the wooden shoes her mother had reluctantly let her wear.
The place was bright—painted yellow and purple with jungle flowers. One side of the hallway was a photo studio behind a glass wall. Eyes of a Child was lettered in gold on the door. He glanced inside. Huge framed prints of babies, toddlers and young children were everywhere. The photos were strikingly good.
The photographer, her back to him, was snapping a close-in shot of a little boy sitting on a giant ABC block in front of a bright blue backdrop. The woman rose and turned his way. He did a double take.
It was Mel Ramirez. Mel? He’d expected she’d be in Uganda by now, taking world-stopping photos for a wire service, but here she was snapping kiddie candids. How odd.
She looked startled to see him—her eyes wide, her lips parted.
They stood, staring at each other through the glass, neither moving for long seconds. Mel. Melodía. The fired-up angel he’d spent that last weekend with. He’d pictured her a million times, dreamed her twice that. He wasn’t sure he wasn’t dreaming her now. “Uncle Noooo-aaaah, I want to gooooo.” Emma leaned back hard, struggling to escape his grip. He released her, his gaze still glued to Mel. He had to go in and talk to her. What the hell would he say?
CHAPTER FOUR
NOAH PUSHED THROUGH the door into the photo studio. “Mel.”
“Noah.” She smiled an uncertain smile.
He picked up her scent, that sweet peppery perfume, and was swamped by the memory of her from so long ago. They breathed at each other for a few seconds. “I didn’t realize you were in Phoenix,” she said finally.
“Just got here a week ago.”
“How are you?” She glanced at his leg, so he knew she’d noticed his limp.
“Good.” He straightened his shoulder. He tended to hunch to protect the weakened arm. “You?”
“I was sorry about what happened…what you went through over there.” She tilted her head, ready to offer sympathy, which was the last thing he wanted or needed.
He shrugged it away. “Old news.”
She blinked, as if unsure how to take that. “So…what brings you to Bright Blossoms?” She nodded at the backpack he still held.
“This? Oh, it’s not mine.” He laughed. “Neither is the little girl.”
“Of course not.” She went bright red, as if that embarrassed her.
“Emma is Paul Stockton’s daughter,” he said. “I’m staying in their guesthouse and this place was on my way to work.”
“I didn’t realize we had Paul’s daughter with us. I don’t know all the kids. Bright Blossoms is my mother’s business. So where do you work?” She glanced over at the little boy, who had left the block and was crawling across the room.
“ASU. I write for the alumni magazine right now. It’s a paycheck while I’m getting my grandmother into assisted living and clearing out her house. What about you? Did you go part-time with Arizona News Day?”
“I had to quit. Life got in the way.” She seemed to think that choice would make sense to him. Hardly. News photography had been her life. She turned to the kid, who had pushed himself upright and now teetered toward her like someone new to stilts.
She crouched down and held out her arms. “That’s the way… You can make it.” The kid made an excited sound and sped up, leaning perilously forward. Right before he took a header, Mel caught him. “Good boy!” she said, taking him into her arms, then standing to face Noah, almost as if showing him off.
“You’re still taking pictures at least,” he said, nodding at the wall shots.
“Mom had the space. I help her out here, too.”
“Oh. Sure.” She’d quit the paper to help her mother. What a shame, with her talent and ambition.
“This is Daniel,” she said, very pink in the face all of a sudden.
“Cute kid,” he said. He had curly brown hair and a big smile that showed a couple of tiny teeth, but his face was streaked with green paint, as were his clothes and hands. “You’d think his mother would clean him up for a portrait.”
She looked startled. Then something seemed to dawn on her and she took a deep breath before speaking. “That would be me. I’m his mother.”
“Oh. God. I didn’t realize. Congratulations,” he said, recovering from his shock. So that was what had gone wrong. She’d gotten pregnant, had a kid and quit her job. Her left hand, which braced the boy on her hip, had a bare ring finger, so she hadn’t married the guy.
As these thoughts raced through his head, Mel studied him, looking nervous and embarrassed. Why? It was hardly his place to judge her.
Finally she spoke. “When I got your text, I assumed you’d gotten mine.”
“Your text?” He flashed on the moment when, jumble-headed, barely past a panic attack, he’d deleted everything on his phone. “I wasn’t up to much at the hospital.”
“I should have verified, I guess….” She cleared her throat, looked away, then back. “See, the thing is—” She blew out a breath. “Okay, I’ll just say it. I got pregnant that weekend.”
“You what?” His brain glitched, shorting out his thoughts like so many bad fuses. “You got…? But you told me—”
“That I had birth control handled, yeah. I thought I did. It’s a long story. I was between methods, but I wasn’t supposed to be able to get pregnant in the first place. I’m not a careless person and I felt really stupid about it, so…” She paused. “Forget all that. The point is…Daniel is your son.”
“My…son?” He felt as though someone had shoved him hard. He took a step back to stay upright. He looked at the kid in Mel’s arms with the same round curls he had, its color halfway between Mel’s black and his brown. The kid even had his dimple, he realized with a jolt.
As if on cue, the little boy reached out his arms, straining for Noah.
“You can hold him,” Mel said, as if to reassure him.
Noah accepted the kid—small, but dense, a solid weight on his good arm. The little boy patted Noah’s cheeks. “Da-da,” he said. “Da-da.”
Noah’s jaw sagged. “He knows?”
Mel burst out laughing. “D is one of the first sounds babies make,” she said. “He calls everything da-da—me, the dog, my mother. Cheerios even.” Daniel leaned toward his mother, so Noah handed him back.
“Oh, okay. Good.” Did he mean good? Good that Daniel didn’t know Noah was his father? That sounded bad. Damn. He was in deep weeds here.
“You must have thought I was an asshole ignoring you like that.”
“But you didn’t. You wished me well and said I’d do great.”
“I meant with your job, Mel, not…that. Christ, you were having a baby. That I…uh…caused.” He cleared his throat. “I should have been there.” He seemed to be walking on ground that could disappear beneath his feet.