Healing A Hero (The Camerons of Tide’s Way #4) (8 page)

Chapter 14

February 2015

Camp Lejeune, North Carolina

“I LIKE YOUR friend,” Julie said as she plopped into the passenger seat.

“You mean Terry?” Elena glanced over at her daughter, then put her key in the ignition and started the car.

“I mean Philip Cameron. The guy who sent you the flowers.”

“When did you meet him?” Elena’s heart raced at the thought of Philip and her daughter meeting without her there to make the introductions.

“While he was waiting for his appointment.”

Elena felt a little faint. It was a meeting she’d feared would happen sooner or later, but she’d hoped later. Later, after she’d figured out how to handle it.

“Was Mr. Cameron ever your boyfriend? Before you met Dad?”

Elena’s heart jolted at the question. Did a passion-filled, one-month affair count as a boyfriend? Probably not. At least, not in Philip’s mind. They’d parted with all kinds of promises to stay in touch, but those promises had gotten broken pretty quickly. Out of sight, out of mind.

“It’s Sergeant Cameron,” she corrected, then answered her daughter’s question carefully. “Not really. We hung out together for a few weeks when he was home on leave one summer. Then he left for the other side of the world and I went back to school.”

“He didn’t mind that you were late for the appointment, either.”

“He was early.”

“Maybe, but don’t kid yourself, Mom. You were late. Like almost a half hour late. You were supposed to be done by five. Right? Then we were going shopping. But you didn’t even start his appointment until four-thirty.”

“He’s a patient man.”

“Good thing he’s not like Dad, I guess.”

Definitely not like Eli. Her perpetual tardiness was just one of the many sins Eli had complained about as their marriage began to unravel.

Julie went silent for a while. Then, “I didn’t think I was going to like Sergeant Cameron. I mean, I was all prepared to hate him. But he’s too nice.”

Dismay flooded through Elena. No one hated Philip. He was smart, and funny, and sweet, and downright hot. Just because she’d lost her heart to him and assumed more than he’d intended, didn’t take away all the good things about him. “Why would you want to hate him?”

“First you have coffee with him. Then he sends you flowers. I didn’t like the direction things were going.”

Elena sighed. Back to that old argument. It was one of the reasons she hadn’t been serious about dating after the divorce.

“I know you wish your dad and I would get back together, but it’s not going to happen. The sooner you accept that, the better off we’ll both be.”

Julie directed her gaze out the window and didn’t respond.

“Our marriage died a long time ago. We just stuck it out for you. But, in the end, we felt that exposing you to the constant round of icy silences and occasional blowups was more hurtful than an amicable divorce would be.”

“Can I fly out to spend spring vacation with Dad?”

This wasn’t something she and Eli had come to any agreement on. Elena had sole custody even before the move east. That hadn’t stopped Julie from spending weekends with Eli when he wasn’t on a book tour somewhere, and Elena had never objected. But letting her fly across the country on her own. . . . “Let me talk to Eli about it.”

ELENA WAITED UNTIL Julie had gone to bed before calling Eli. However this conversation went, she didn’t want Julie listening in. Eli picked up on the third ring.

“Hey. Elena. How’s life on the east coast treating you? Is the new job everything it was cracked up to be?”

“The job is great. I like my boss and my co-workers. Things are okay.” Mostly okay. Except for Julie’s resentment and Philip’s re-entry into her life and the emotional upheaval that both brought. “You?”

“
Meshuga.
But no crazier than usual. What’s up?”

He must be busier than usual, considering how quickly he was ready to dispense with the small talk. “Julie wants to spend her spring vacation with you.”

Silence greeted this announcement.

“She’s still angry about the move. Says all her friends are out there and life’s not fair that she’s here.” Elena tried to keep the frustration out of her voice.

“And you’re okay with her coming out to spend the week with me?”

“I’m not excited about it, but I understand.”

“I know I don’t have any say about it, but I miss her. I’d love to have her come.”

“And your fiancé won’t object?”

“There is no fiancé.” Eli sighed.

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Why do I think you don’t mean that?”

“Eli, we’re friends. Of course I mean it. Just because things didn’t work out for us, doesn’t mean I hope things never work out for you with anyone else.”

“I thought you hated Rachel.”

It was Elena’s turn to sigh. They’d had this discussion before. Too many times. “I don’t hate Rachel. I only hated that you cheated on me with her. But your mother loves her.”

“Well, it no longer matters. We broke up a month ago.”

“I’m sorry, even if you don’t believe me. You deserve a woman who can give you her whole heart. You’re a good man. You were good to me when you didn’t need to be, and for that I will always be grateful.”

“I didn’t want gratitude.”

“We’ve worn this argument out.”

“
Badoyeren
,” Eli growled. He really was a decent man, and their breakup had as much to do with her as with him.

“I’m sorry, too. So, do you want Julie to come out for the week or not?”

“Just tell me when her flight arrives. I’ll be at the gate to meet her.”

“Thanks, Eli. I’ll get the details to you as soon as I have them. And, I’m really sorry things didn’t work out for you and Rachel.”

“You’re just overflowing with apologies tonight. Is something bothering you?”

Once upon a time, she could have confided in Eli. “I’ll email you her itinerary.”

“Good night, Elena. Take care of yourself.”

The line went quiet, and Elena sat holding the receiver. Wisps of memories of the last fourteen years flitted through her mind. The contrast between Eli and Philip could not have been greater, although both men were thoughtful, decent people who’d come into her life and changed it.

Philip with his patriotic zeal, his easy-going patience, and his mind-blowing lovemaking had rocketed into her life and turned it upside down in a matter of weeks. Eli, on the other hand, had been a friend first, then an attentive lover, and, finally, a caring husband and a good father.

Philip had broken Elena’s heart and she had broken Eli’s.

Chapter 15

February 2015

Camp Lejeune, North Carolina

“TODAY, WE’RE GOING to work mostly on fine motor skills, Gunny,” Elena greeted Philip when he arrived in the PT department, punctual as always, but preoccupied with thoughts that didn’t appear to have anything to do with his therapy. His distraction was welcome since she was trying to put a little healthy distance between the feelings Philip evoked in her and the reality of her life.

He started to remove his uniform jacket. She shook her head.

“No need to strip down right off.”

Philip shrugged and settled into the chair she’d indicated on the far side of the desk, his hands resting loosely in his lap. The sling was gone. He must be happy about that. She almost commented on it, but he didn’t look happy, so she said nothing.

“I want to test your current level of sensory loss. I have the report from Walter Reed, and we’ve certainly seen some gains, but I want to know exactly where things stand now. ” She set a bowl filled with uncooked rice in front of him. “With your eyes closed, can you find and identify the things I’ve hidden in the rice?”

Philip sighed. “This isn’t how they tested me at Walter Reed, but whatever.” He closed his eyes and groped toward the bowl of rice.

Elena ignored the edgy frustration in his voice and guided the bowl under his hand. He pushed his fingers into the rice and wiggled them.

“Feels like rice to me.” One corner of his mouth tipped up.

“Humor me.”

“A bolt?” he asked holding up a screw with his eyes still shut. He rolled it between his fingers and thumb. “No. A screw.”

She took it from him. “Score one for the gunny.” She pushed his fingers back into the rice.

Philip found and correctly named a large button, guessed AA battery on the second try, but then fished a coin from the rice, his brow furrowed. It slipped from his grip and he opened his eyes. “A quarter,” he announced as it rolled to a stop on the desktop.

“That’s going to be your homework over the next week or so. There are a few ways to play this game.”

“I don’t consider this”—he held up his right hand—“a game.”

“What happened to the man I knew fourteen years ago?” she shot back. “He never lost his sense of perspective. Or his sense of humor.”

“Sorry.” Philip’s voice immediately softened.

“The flip side of strength recovery is sensory and dexterity. Practice at home. Vary the things you put in the bowl. Challenge yourself.” She shoved the rice to the side and set a yellow lined tablet in front of him. “You mentioned your frustration at writing with your off hand.”

“It takes forever,” he complained.

“It will get easier and faster if you have to rely on writing lefty, but hopefully it won’t be forever.” She opened a box of fat crayons and dumped them on the desk. “Let’s see what we can accomplish with your right hand, starting with these.”

“Crayons?”

“Toddler crayons are fatter. They’re easier to hold onto,” she told him, pushing a pad of the kind of paper children learn their letters on in kindergarten across the desk.

Philip picked up the green crayon. He held it awkwardly for a moment, and then settled it into position using his other hand. He placed the blunt green tip on the top line, but as soon as he pressed down, the crayon slipped from his grip and skittered across the table.

“Damn!” He grabbed for the crayon. “Sorry.”

This time she helped him, holding his fingers closed around the crayon and trying to ignore the sensations running through her when their skin came into contact. Together, they formed the letters of his first name. Sweat beaded up on his forehead.

“Does it hurt to hold the crayon?”

“No.”

“On a scale of one to ten,” she admonished him. She quashed the urge to press her lips to his scarred hand and kiss it better.

“A one.” He scowled, and pressed the crayon back to the pad without her help. It took several tries before he had a legible C that filled the space.

“I think I might have something that will help. I’ll be right back.”

She left him still struggling over the A as she headed for the supply closet. She should have gotten the pencil grips out beforehand. Although Philip hopefully wouldn’t need one permanently, it might help in the short term.

She rummaged in the closet. Where were they? Ah! She grabbed the grip and began putting things back.

Terry poked her head around the door. “Your Marine is throwing things out here.”

Elena glanced past Terry’s shoulder in time to see Philip sail the lined pad like a Frisbee across the room. Then he swept the remaining crayons off the desk with his forearm.

Where was all the patience she’d assured Julie he possessed? She hadn’t been away more than a couple of minutes. Hardly enough time to have this kind of meltdown. She hurried toward him.

“Philip, please,” she said as he cocked his left arm back in preparation to fling her yellow pencil after the crayons. He ignored her, and the pencil skittered off the wall and fell to the floor. He reached for his half-empty bottle of water.

“Gunny! Stop. Right. Now.”

He dropped his hand to the desk and looked up at her with such a look of loss and defeat that it nearly broke her heart.

Philip flushed and looked down. Then he got up to retrieve the crayons and pad of paper. Her first reaction was to help, but he’d behaved like a thwarted three-year-old, so she would treat him like one and let him pick up his own mess. She set the pencil grip on the table and waited until he’d collected everything and brought them back.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled.

“Is something bothering you? I mean, more than just the frustration with the crayons?”

He shrugged and gazed across the room. Thankfully, it was empty this late in the afternoon. Then he brought his gaze back to her. “My unit deployed today.” His voice was carefully neutral, but his eyes were dark with emotion. He’d never make a good poker player. His eyes gave too much away.

The Philip she’d known and fallen in love with years ago would never have flung things across the room, however sorely he was tested. She’d dealt with frustrated, angry soldiers and sailors before. And it was easy to empathize. Easy to understand why a man in the prime of his life, used to being able to do anything he set his mind to would lash out in fury at failure. But with Philip, it went beyond empathy. She felt his frustration to her very core.

Because her heart was involved. The realization swept over her like a bucket of ice water. She’d known working with him would be difficult, but not like this. Not because his loss would break her heart as much as he had.

“I’m sorry. I—” She’d almost said she understood. But she could never really understand what he was going through. “It must be difficult. Not going with them.”

“And I get stuck ashore taking orders from Captain Clueless.” Disgust dripped from his voice.

Elena snorted out a laugh in spite of the tumult in her heart. “Captain Clueless?”

“Captain Clooney. He’s an arrogant little pri—jerk who thinks he knows everything, and won’t listen to anyone. I don’t even know why they put him in charge of this unit unless they figure he can’t get anyone killed on a desk job at Lejeune. They should have put him in charge of counting rolls of toilet paper.”

“I know this is frustrating for you, but—”

“Frustrating! You don’t know the beginning of frustrating.”

“Suppose you tell me.”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me.”

The tension in Philip’s jaw should have cracked his teeth. Elena had the strongest urge to reach across the desk and smooth away the strain.

“Are you most frustrated with Captain Clueless? Or with me?”

“It’s not you.” Philip made an obvious effort to relax his jaw and regain control. “It’s not Clooney either. Not really.”

“Your injury, then. Or being left behind?”

He looked at his hand, flexing and straightening his fingers several times. “Fourteen years, Elena. Fourteen fucking years of combat in some of the crappiest places a man could imagine. And I’ve always brought my men out.” His gaze rose up to meet hers. His eyes were bleak and filled with pain. “It’s not just about my hand, or what I can’t do with it anymore. It’s a reminder. Every minute of every fucking day. They’re going and I’m here. I won’t be there to watch out for them, and make sure they get home.”

The unaccustomed language gave her some idea of the level of his distress. He might talk like that among his men, but Philip was a gentleman to the core. He was not the kind of man who had temper tantrums and cussed in the presence of women.

“I understand that, unless you’ve been there, you really can’t know what it’s like, Philip. So, I won’t pretend to know what you’re going through. What I do know is that talking about it can help. Maybe you’re already seeing someone. Professionally, I mean. But you can talk to me, too. Any time. I’m a good listener.” And she was going to pull every string she knew of to find out what had happened so she could begin to understand the grief that filled his eyes, even if he couldn’t or wouldn’t share it.

Philip sank back into his chair, his eyes not meeting hers. “Thanks, but I’m—I’ll be good.”

“At least tell me what set you off. Was printing your name with the crayon painful?”

“It didn’t hurt . . . much.”

“Can you put a number on not much?”

He clenched his jaw until a muscle jumped in his temple, then sighed. “A five.”

Five! That was some concession.

“The damned crayon kept slipping, and I couldn’t squeeze it hard enough. That part hurt,” he explained.

“In that case, let’s try this.” She slid the finger grip over the end of the pencil and demonstrated how it was to be employed. “Try it.” She gave him the pencil.

The pencil didn’t slide out of his grip, but his movements were spastic and poorly coordinated. Again, he was sweating by the time he’d gotten his first name printed. He looked up for her approval.

“Not bad, considering. Practice often, but not for too long. If the pain gets to five, it’s past time to quit. I’m also going to give you these.”

She handed him a deck of cards. “You used to shuffle cards like a Vegas dealer. Take them home and learn how to do it again. You can swear and fling them at the wall all you want. Maybe it will help to blow off steam once in a while.”

He shoved the cards into his pocket along with the pencil with the special grip. “That it for today?”

“Hardly.” She glanced at the clock. “We have almost twenty minutes left. We’ll spend it working on range of motion with your shoulder, so you can strip down.”

“Everything?” A hint of the old Philip colored the query.

“Just to your waist,” she told him, trying desperately not to picture him naked. His bare chest was more than enough to bring back memories that were better left buried.

While he moved to comply, she picked up the paper he’d just printed his name on and studied it.
Philip B. Cameron
.

The last time she’d watched him print his name had been with a stubby little pencil like the ones they use at golf courses. His hand had moved so deftly, but she hadn’t really been looking at his hand. She’d been looking at his face through her tears.