A Chance of a Lifetime (30 page)

“Yeah, I hear your logo designer has some ideas about that. She was talking to one of my boys about using his dad's welding equipment to make some heart-shaped flowers like the ones on your packaging. She plans to talk to you when she's got something to show.”

“Aw, that's so sweet of her.” Last spring, the idea of Abby Matheson with a welding torch in her hands would have sparked fear in the margarita girls' hearts. With a little love, the Princess of Whine had made an amazing turnabout. Nope, make that a whole lot of love. And prayers. Patience. Understanding.

Though the front area was dusty and needed plenty of work, when Lucy looked around, she could so easily imagine tables and chairs, display counters filled with goodies, and Abby's super-cool metal bouquets. Customers, too, of course, and Lucy herself, wearing an apron and feeling supremely contented.
That
was the kind of “event” she could look forward to.

Twenty-four hours after yesterday's marathon baking session, wonderful aromas still drifted on the air. They made Lucy's mouth water, not with hunger for sugar and spice and everything nice. It was food for her soul, that the church orders had gone out on time, thanks to her margarita girls; that the heart attack wasn't going to shut her down before she got started; that she had this incredible chance to do something with her life that made her so darn happy; that she had an incredible guy backing her a hundred percent.

The kitchen was spotless, with only a small bakery box in the middle of the worktable.
For Lucy and Joe
was swirled in black ink across the top—how had Patricia been so sure she and Joe would come by as soon as Robbie left?—and inside nestled four two-bite cupcakes and a stack of cookies tied with a ribbon. Lucy sighed. “I have to watch my sugar and fat intake.”

“And yet the cardiac diet in the hospital included dessert with every meal.” Joe broke off a quarter of a cookie and popped it in his mouth. “You've been watching your sugar and fat intake for the last six months, Luce. Now you add sodium and cholesterol to that, and you balance your proteins and carbs. Everything in moderation.” Then he grinned. “Except me.”

She rolled her eyes. In addition to the exercise physiologist and the nurses at rehab, she would have classes taught by a dietitian, a pharmacist, and other professionals, plus she had her own personal trainer, coach, and nutritionist. If she didn't come out of this event healthier than ever, it wouldn't be for lack of trying.

Joe polished off the cookie, closed the box, and slid his arms around her from behind. She let herself lean back against him, the way she'd been leaning on him for years, and gripped his forearm with both hands. He nuzzled her hair back from her ear and murmured, “You wanna go home and see what fun we can have now that your mom's not there?”

Letting her eyes drift shut, she tilted her head to give him better access to the sensitive skin around her ear and along her jaw. Shivers swept over her, raising tiny goose bumps on her arms despite the heat pumping through her veins. She'd waited so long to feel this way again—had sometimes given up hope of it ever happening. The pleasure of Joe's embrace and his little intimate kisses was so incredible that anything more just might kill her. But, oh, what a way to go.

She turned in his embrace, wrapped her arms around him, and just pretty much melted inside at the feel of his arousal against her. A blush heating her face, she lifted her gaze to his. “You know, the doctor didn't say I could have sex yet.”

Joe's grin was quick and boyish and far too charming. “He didn't say you couldn't.” Then his blue eyes went serious as he freed one hand to touch her face, and his voice turned husky. “I've waited all my life for you, Lucy. I can wait awhile longer.”

Then he let her go, picked up the dessert box in one hand, and took her hand in his other. As he pulled her toward the door, he glanced back over his shoulder, and the grin reappeared. “Besides, Luce, we can have all kinds of fun without actually having sex.” His brows arched, making the blue of his eyes pop. “I'll show you.”

Lucy flipped off the light switch as they passed it, then they made their way through the dining room with only the sun shining through the windows. With the exception of Mike, she had never been this happy. She could take the time to list all her treasures in her head: Joe loved her—incredible. She loved him back—naturally. She had the best family and friends—wonderful. Despite the heart attack, she was happy and surprisingly healthy. She had her baking business.

And the man she loved was looking at her, reaching for her as if he couldn't live without a cozier touch than just holding hands.

Her heart was about to burst in her chest with pure happiness.

Sunday and Monday passed in a blur for Bennie, her mind stuck on a never-ending loop of Calvin's words:
I tried to kill myself…I was diagnosed with PTSD…I'm not fit for duty anymore…I don't think I'm fit for anything.

It broke her heart that he'd been suffering so much and she'd done nothing to help. Other than an odd behavior here or there, she hadn't guessed a thing, and she should have. The better part of their lives, she'd known what he was thinking and feeling just by looking at him, but she'd seriously failed him this time.

She knew she'd been distant at Sunday dinner and hated it, but she needed reassurance. Faith—or was it trust? She couldn't pretend that Saturday's conversation hadn't been a shock, that it hadn't changed things. She had emotions to deal with, questions to answer, decisions to make.

She'd spent every free minute since online, reading about PTSD, and had found hope and despair on every page. Troops were receiving better care than ever; the stigma was loosening its hold; but patients were still committing suicide in alarming numbers.

She wanted the stories to end:
And they lived happily ever after.
Not very many of them did. “You're not a child in a fairy tale,” she muttered as she walked down the hall at the end of her shift Monday afternoon. “We don't all get happy endings. Everyone you know is proof of that.”

“Talking to yourself, sweetie?” Trinity caught up, bumping shoulders with her as they turned into the staff lounge, each heading for her locker against the wall.

“Just thinking out loud.”

“You've been someplace else all day, and it doesn't seem like a happy place.” Trinity yanked out the clamp that kept her blond hair under control while working and shook her head, long waves falling halfway down her back. “Crap's all around, Bennie. No need to let it into your head, too.”

Bennie forced a smile. “I'm just trying to get a handle on a few things.”

“Any of them have to do with Calvin Sweet?” Trinity shrugged one shoulder through her backpack strap and gave a dreamy sigh. “He was always so cute once he got past that doofus geek stage.”

“I didn't know he got past the doofus geek stage.” The remark came out before Bennie could stop it. Calvin was many things these days, but neither doofus nor geek was on the list.

“He's in the grown-into-a-mighty-fine-man stage. If you decide to set him free, give him a shove in my direction, would you?”

“I'll keep that in mind,” Bennie said with a phony smile as she took her lunch cooler from the locker. With all the wonderful cooking Mama did at home, Bennie wasn't about to pay good money for bad cafeteria food.

“You ready to walk out?”

“Sure.” She gave the combination lock on her locker a spin, then left with Trinity. They didn't get far, though, when a sign on a lobby door caught her attention. “Hey, there's something I need to take care of, Trinity. Go ahead without me. I'll see you tomorrow.”

She waited a moment for her friend to walk out of sight, then she crossed the crowded lobby to a plain wooden door fifteen feet down the hall from the stained glass door of the chapel. Her knock was answered with an invitation to enter, and she opened the door with some hesitation.

“I don't bite.” The voice came from out of sight, female, the accent New England, the tone droll.

Bennie hesitated, thinking better of her decision, but before she could back out of the room, the woman popped around the door that had hidden her and took her hand. “I'm Chaplain Roberts. You can call me Andi if you prefer.”

Bennie shook hands and let go of the knob, nudging it shut with her foot. “I've gone to church my whole life, and I can't think of a single time my grandmother would have let me get away with calling a man—or woman—of God by his or her first name.”

The chaplain laughed. “Whatever you're comfortable with, Bennie.”

How did she—Bennie realized she still wore her name tag on a lanyard around her neck. It wouldn't have surprised her, though, if Chaplain Andi had just somehow known. God worked in mysterious ways.

“Have a seat. Would you like some coffee? Diet Coke?”

“No, thank you.”

The chaplain sat down behind her desk and folded her hands together. “What can I do for you, Bennie?”

She'd thought of talking to her own pastor, but the fact that he knew the Sweets had stopped her. She'd considered an appointment with an Army chaplain or a call to Loretta Baxter, the casualty assistance officer who'd helped her tremendously after J'Myel's death, but the Army connection made her wary, not without clearing it through Calvin first.

When she didn't speak right away, Chaplain Roberts said, “Anything you say to me is held in strictest confidence.”

Bennie nodded, then studied the woman. At first glance, she'd figured her in her fifties or sixties, thanks to the short cap of startlingly white hair. A closer look, though, revealed much younger skin, blue eyes, and smile wrinkles at the corners of her eyes and mouth. The very best kind of wrinkles to have, Mama insisted. Despite the white hair, she was probably only ten years or so older than Bennie.

With a deep breath, Bennie blurted out, “Do you know anything about post-traumatic stress disorder?”

For just an instant, the chaplain's eyes widened, then the skin smoothed again. Her voice was smooth, too. “More than I want to. Is it you or someone close to you?”

“Someone close.” Someone she wanted to keep very close for a very long time. Not just because she loved him but because since Saturday, she'd been afraid for him. She wanted to wrap him up tight and make him stay at her side to make sure nothing bad happened.

“I know it can be devastating to a patient and a family. I know there are times when everything seems hopeless. They require counseling and medication, and they have good days and bad days, and if they're lucky, their good days outweigh the bad.” She paused. “I know it can be a difficult condition to treat. Treatment can last weeks, months, or years; sometimes it takes years for the symptoms to even appear. I know there's no cure in the traditional sense, and the saddest thing I know is that it has a high mortality rate.”

All things Bennie had read online. Hearing them in the chaplain's matter-of-fact manner made her feel like a balloon subjected to a tiny pinprick. It didn't go racing wildly around the room but instead drooped slowly but surely as its air leaked out.

As if sensing the disappointment, the chaplain continued in a more encouraging tone. “But there are varying degrees, Bennie, and there's always, always hope. A patient whose treatment is well managed can do anything anyone else can do. They can hold jobs, get married, have kids, be great parents and spouses. They may have to try harder sometimes—don't we all?—but they can do it.”

Calvin felt that he'd already expended tremendous amounts of energy just trying to survive until now. Did he have the strength to keep going? Even surrounded by his parents, Gran, Bennie, and Mama, could he dig deep enough on those bad days to hold on, even if it was by his fingernails, until the dawn of the next, hopefully better day?

“How long have you known him?” the chaplain asked quietly.

“Since we were nine.”

“He went to war?”

She nodded.

“What's his status?”

“He's separating from the Army. Not his choice.”

There was a pause. “Are you in love with him?”

Tears welled in Bennie's eyes, surprising her. She'd done her crying on Saturday, getting it out of her system. Since then, she'd focused on reaching a place of peace and acceptance, but apparently she wasn't there yet. “Like a crazy woman,” she replied, her chuckle turning into a hiccup. “But it's…”

“Complicated.” Chaplain Roberts smiled as if she'd heard that a thousand times before. “Why is it complicated?”

Bennie told her their history: the Three Stooges, the Three Musketeers, her and J'Myel's marriage, his death. “I just found out this weekend that Calvin attempted suicide a few months ago. I was surprised and shocked and scared and—and angry.” It even made her angry to admit the last. What kind of woman reacted to such horrifying news that way?

“Why the anger?”

She blew out her breath. “My husband wanted more than anything to come home from the damned war, and Calvin came home and did his best to throw it all away.” Her voice vibrated with the last words. She could keep that thought at bay most of the time, but every time it sneaked into her head, it stirred her sense of unfairness to the max.

“That's a fair reaction,” the chaplain said. “But you have to realize that Calvin was coming from a place that you've never been. You've never been to war. You've never watched your friends die. You've never killed people to stay alive. You've never felt guilty for being the one to survive. You've never been buried in despair.”

No, thank the sweet heavens, she had not. She couldn't imagine torment so unending that death would seem preferable.

“You know, when troops are killed, there's no doubt that they made the ultimate sacrifice in the war,” Chaplain Roberts said quietly. “The proof is painfully obvious in the lifelessness of their bodies. When people lose limbs or suffer horrific burns or head injuries, their sacrifice is usually pretty obvious, too. But when you get patients like Calvin, whose wounds are unseen, whose bodies survived intact, it's easy to dismiss or overlook their problems. They look okay. Most of the time they seem to function okay. The insomnia, the mood changes, the drinking or drugs, the hyperarousal, the nightmares, the paranoia…Most of that can be hidden or attributed to other causes. It's harder to identify casualties of the mind, especially when a lot of them don't want to be identified because it can mean the end of their military careers.