A Chance of a Lifetime (3 page)

Back in the kitchen, he slid into a down jacket, a black knit cap bearing the OSU Cowboys logo, gloves, and a scarf before ducking out the back door. The ice on his patio crunched beneath his feet, taking on a different pitch when he reached the grass separating his house from Lucy's, then another crunch across her patio. Welcoming light shone through the fixture over her door, scattered and prismed by layers of glass.

Norton's bark was just as welcoming, a loud
woof
accompanied by frantic scratching. An instant later, Lucy opened the door and Joe gratefully stepped inside.

Her house was laid out just like his, but his never felt like hers. Incredible smells filled the air, there were homey touches everywhere, and he swore the house had a personality all its own. But maybe that was because Lucy had so much personality that it spilled over, filling the space around her.

“Hey, Luce.” He crouched to rub behind the dog's ears, earning a grunt and a few thumps of tail against cabinet. “You need to go out, buddy?”

Usually, anytime was the right time for Norton to sniff the backyard and renew his own scents, but tonight the dog backed away from him and the doorway, not stopping until his butt hit the opposite wall. There he slid down, chin on his paws, and kept a cautious watch on both Joe and Lucy.

“You know his last encounter with ice wasn't much fun,” Lucy said as she dished up two bowls of stew.

“Not for him, though as I recall, you got a good laugh from it.” It had been last winter, and Norton had gone bounding out the door, unaware of the two inches of sleet covering everything. When he'd hit it, his feet had slid out from under him and he'd sailed halfway across the yard before an oak tree stopped him. He'd struggled to his feet, peed, and inched his way back to the house, body intact, dignity totally disintegrated.

Joe stripped off his outdoor clothes, tossing them on the kitchen table, then filled two glasses from a pitcher of water with lemon slices floating in it. He carried them to the coffee table, went back for napkins and silverware and a basket filled with thick slices of sweet, yeasty bread. The crust was golden and buttery, dotted with flakes of sea salt and rubbed with roasted garlic. It was in the running for one of his favorite foods ever.

They sat on the floor between the couch and the coffee table, shoulders bumping as they settled. In all the hundreds of meals he'd eaten here, not once had they ever used the kitchen or dining table. On the couch, on the floor, outside on a pretty day…they always chose best-buds comfort over propriety. It was just one of the things he liked about Lucy.

One of about seventeen million and counting.

L
ucy lay on her side on the sofa, her stomach full, the heavenly tastes of butter, salt, and garlic lingering on her tongue. If she put one more bite in her mouth, she would get that achy, shame-inducing discomfort that she'd become so familiar with in the last seven years, but her brain still followed the rules it had learned when she was a child: After dinner, you offered a guest dessert. “You want dessert?”

Joe lay on the love seat, head resting on his bent arm, legs hanging off the other end. He'd kicked off his size fourteen shoes at some point, and his left big toe poked through a hole in its white cotton sock. She'd suggested to him once that he throw away all his athletic socks that had worn toes or heels, and he'd looked genuinely puzzled because
the sock still works fine
. “What've you got?”

Mike's reasoning had gone along those lines, which was why she'd tossed out so many ragged jeans and shirts when she'd finally found the courage to clean out his closet.

Feeling the squeeze of her heart that always accompanied thought of Mike, she smiled. “Cupcakes in every flavor you can imagine, coffee cake, or sweet little tarts. Apple, cherry, lemon, or chocolate.” She was already getting to her feet because Joe always liked dessert and had the muscle-to-fat ratio that allowed him to eat it without worrying where the calories went.

She didn't worry, either. She knew every excess calorie in her body went to her butt and boobage.

Instead of heading toward the kitchen, she went down the hall to the guest bedroom, opening the door carefully so Norton couldn't push his way inside. The furniture that had filled the room, hand-me-downs from both her and Mike's grandparents, had been moved into storage in her friend Marti's garage. Now five-foot-long tables ran the length of the room, with narrow aisles for squeezing through, and every table was filled with luscious, beautiful pastries, secured in clear plastic containers to keep them fresh.

Sugar and butter and flavoring—vanilla, almond, hazelnut—perfumed the air with a sweet, heavy aroma. Six months ago, if she had baked this many desserts, she would have eaten enough of them to make herself sick. Now all it took was a whiff of the scents to give her stomach a queasy tumble.

“Jeez, Luce, you should take pictures,” Joe said over her shoulder.

“For what?”

“Your website. If you're going to start a business, you're going to need a website.”

“They are pretty, aren't they?” she said with satisfaction even as his words—
a business
—sent flutters through her, both the anticipatory kind and the scared-out-of-her-wits kind. What did she know about starting or running a business? More than she had four weeks ago, she admitted. In the past month, she'd read endlessly, talked to small business owners and small business advisors. At the last three Tuesday night dinners with her best-friend margarita girls, they'd discussed nothing else. Therese's stepdaughter Abby had even come up with a name that Lucy loved: Prairie Harts. Abby had sketched a logo, too, a spring prairie scene with wildflowers, each of their blossoms heart-shaped.

“What are these for?”

“The singles and seniors Sunday school classes, plus a reception the colonel's having Monday.”

“Paid or donation?”

“Free to the church. The colonel insisted on paying.” Her boss wouldn't even accept the discount she'd offered. The reception was official Army business, and if they paid full price to anyone else for catering the sweets, he said, they would pay full price to her. “It's my first real event.”

Grinning, Joe bumped her shoulder. “It's official then. Prairie Harts is in business.”

She grinned, too, even as a tiny shiver rippled through her. She pretended she didn't know where it came from, but of course she did. It was from margarita girl Jessy, who'd innocently suggested last month that Joe deliver a hug and a kiss to Lucy, and from the morning of Mike's birthday when she hadn't been able to drag herself out of bed, so Joe had joined her there, offering sweet words of encouragement and a sweeter touch. Holding hands. So simple. So innocent. And exactly what she'd needed.

And since then…She stole a glance at him from the corner of her eye. Tall, lean, solid, his hair blond, his skin golden, and his eyes the prettiest blue. He was twenty-eight going on sixteen, irreverent, immature, and totally lacking in seriousness except when it came to his beloved football. The high school kids he coached revered him, the students he taught respected him, and women lusted after him. Every one of the margarita girls admired him, even the ones who hated sports.

Lucy had loved him from the moment they'd met. He was her best guy friend. But lately…

Remembering Ben Noble, the gorgeous surgeon she'd crushed on over the summer, she sighed. When had she started falling for guys so far out of her league?

But she'd gotten Ben, the woman inside her whispered. He just hadn't turned out to be what she needed. There had been plenty of affection and love, just no spark. She
wanted
a spark. Heavens, she wanted a whole wildfire.

Joe picked up a mini caramel-frosted cupcake and popped it in his mouth, closing his eyes for a moment. “Damn, Luce, that's good.”

“Thank you. And thanks to you and your team for being my taste testers.”

“What happens if the weather cancels church or the reception?”

“I will put on my coat and boots and personally deliver them to every parishioner. As for the reception, neither rain nor sleet…”

Plastic crackled as he removed a glazed tart from one of the containers. “That's the post office.”

“Well, it applies to the Army, too. Hospital staff has to be there, no matter what, to take care of the patients. I may have to walk all the way with the food on my back, but I'll get it there.”

Behind her, Norton whined before trotting down the hall to the living room. Lucy watched him disappear around the corner, tail curled in the air, then turned back to Joe. “I believe the baby is calling your name.”

He popped the rest of the tart into his mouth, took a second for good measure, and squeezed past her. “I'm coming, buddy.”

She breathed in the scents of fabric softener, shampoo, and man—eau de Joe—and smiled as she flipped off the light. Lord, she missed man smells: shaving cream, cologne, sweat, funky running shoes, and even the engine oil that had migrated under Mike's fingernails. Her house always smelled great, but these days it was distinctly feminine. She wanted the male fragrances back, both good and bad.

Just one of many things she wanted back.

When she returned to the living room, Joe and Norton were there. The man was standing in the doorway to the kitchen, swinging Norton's leash to tempt him to follow, but the dog was hunkered at the front door, frantically sniffing the bottom of it, his head down, his butt wiggling in the air, and agitated whines coming from his mouth. “What's up with him?” she asked. Norton rarely went out the front door, and he never got this anxious to potty. He was well known, in fact, for peeing in the middle of the kitchen floor whenever he felt like it.

“I don't know.” Joe came closer, waving the leash. “C'mon, buddy, let's go out.”

Norton didn't even spare him a glance. With a shrug, Joe went to the door, grabbed the dog's collar with one hand, flipped on the porch light, and opened the door. Norton's feet scrabbled on the wood floor as he lunged toward the small stoop, putting so much power into it that Lucy would have been tumbling down the steps about now, but Joe managed to restrain him.

“Damn, Lucy, get a towel, will you?”

She hurried down the hall to the bathroom and grabbed a large towel. When she got back to the living room, the door still stood open, but Joe had hooked the leash onto Norton's collar and pulled him to the couch. He traded the leash for the towel, and she braced her feet against the dog's straining while Joe stepped outside.

Norton's whimpers rose to a howl in the seconds Joe was out of sight. He stopped mid-
erooo
when Joe came back inside, holding the towel bunched in his hands. Sleet dotted his hair and shoulders, but he was grinning as he opened the towel to reveal the tiniest, scrawniest, wettest creature she'd ever seen, encrusted in ice and shivering violently. As she stared, the kitten lifted its little orange head, opened its little pink mouth, and pitifully meowed.

“Look, Luce, Norton found you a new baby,” Joe said, as if the thing she wanted most in life was another animal. “Good boy, Norton, good boy.”

Calvin dressed early Sunday morning and left his room to find a decent cup of coffee. What he got from the RN at the nursing station was a heavy mug, filled half with hot coffee, half hot milk, and smelling like his mom's cinnamon cookies.
My specialty,
the nurse had said with a wink before tucking the Thermos back into a cabinet. Warming his fingers on the hot pottery, he returned to his room, breathing deeply of the aroma, and took a seat in the chair next to the large window. The coffee smelled so good that it seemed a shame to drink it, but once the steam dissipated to occasional wisps, he took a sip. Damn, it was as good as it smelled.

“Good morning.” A medic let himself into the room, carrying a tray. “Normally, our ambulatory patients eat in the dining hall down on the second floor, but you're getting a special delivery. You want to move to the warmer side of the room for breakfast? Granted, I'm just guessing that this side is warmer based on the fact that at least there's no ice formed on the walls over here.”

Calvin glanced at the window behind him, traces of frost etched on the inside of the glass. When he was a kid, in the few minutes before his mom rousted him from the bed on winter mornings, he'd drawn all kinds of scenes on his windows, using his fingernail to scrape off the frost. “No, thanks. I'll be okay here.”

The medic set the tray on the bed table, wheeled it over, and adjusted it to the proper height. He lifted the lid. “Looks like you got the I'd-rather-have-MREs special. Lucky you.” He scanned the tray, then met Calvin's gaze. “Can you think of anything I forgot besides the flavor?”

Calvin shook his head.

“Okay, then, I'll be back in a while to pick up your tray. Enjoy your breakfast.”

Calvin took another sip of coffee while inventorying the tray. There were scrambled eggs, their color so pale that they must be egg substitute. The toast could have used another minute or two in the toaster, and the jelly was strawberry instead of his favorite, grape. A piece of gray sausage, probably substitute meat, and half an orange rounded the plate, while circling the plate was a single-serving box of cereal, a carton of low-fat milk, a four-ounce carton of grape juice—he'd rather have orange—and a cup of cold coffee. No sugar, no cream, and the little package of salt was fake.

If he were a few miles away at his parents' house, his mom would be fixing sourdough pancakes, eggs over easy, fried potatoes, homemade sausage, biscuits, and thick cream gravy. But she would expect something in exchange for that breakfast: some hint, some reminder of the son who used to be. She would want conversation—deep and painful or lighthearted and fake—and he wasn't yet up to either.

Picking up a plastic fork, he poked at the eggs, cutting them into chunks that held their shape. Not sure whether the movement of his mouth was a rueful smile or a grimace, he laid the fork down and picked up the cinnamon coffee again. He knew for sure it was a smile when he tilted his head back, closed his eyes, and savored every drop of it.

The air pressure changed as the door opened. He'd already learned that there was no such thing as privacy in a hospital, but he kept his eyes shut as footsteps approached, until the bed creaked.

“Coffee may be the drink of the gods, but it doesn't count as breakfast.” It was Valentina, the nurse responsible for the cinnamon brew. She leaned against the foot of the bed, hands pushed into the pockets of the jacket that covered her scrub top.

“I'm not hungry.”

“Hm. I've never had that problem in my life. But you have to eat something. If you don't, the dietitians find out, and they come and rag on me, and then I have to pull rank on you.”

“Which is hard since I outrank you.” Barely. She was a lieutenant, one paygrade below his own rank.

She smiled as she straightened. “You're on my turf now, Captain. Those bars don't mean a thing here.”

 A few years ago he would have made some joking remark—would have checked to see if there was a wedding band on her left hand and then flirted with her whether there was or wasn't. This morning, he couldn't quite remember what that was like, joking and flirting with a pretty woman. There was a part of him, though, that damn wanted to.

“I understand that home is somewhere near here.” She gestured toward the tray, and he automatically picked up the fork.

“The northwest part of Tallgrass. Neighborhood called the Flats.” He lifted a chunk of egg to his mouth. He still wasn't hungry, and it was as tasteless as he'd expected, but if he ever wanted to escape the close scrutiny brought on by his suicide attempt, Chaplain Reed back in Washington had told him, he had to try. He could never quit trying.

It sounded like a life sentence.

But better than a death sentence.

“The Flats?” the nurse echoed. “I've only been here at Fort Murphy a few months, but from what I've seen, the entire county is pretty much flat.”

“Aw, don't say that. The elevation of West Main Street is a good fifty feet higher than East Main.” That was kind of joking, wasn't it? She did laugh. “There's plenty of hills outside of town. They just come on so gradually that you don't really notice them.” Along with a lot of trees, wide-open spaces, and gullies cut deep by heavy rain and hard winds. Minus the trees, it didn't sound so different from the deserts of Iraq and Afghanistan. “Where'd you come from?”