Somebody Like You (40 page)

She closed her eyes, listening for a faint echo of Sam’s voice telling her, “
You can do this, Hal
.”

Nothing.

Instead, Stephen’s voice—so like his brother’s and yet so different—slipped past her defenses.
“I pushed things. Got ahead of myself. I wasn’t thinking clearly.”

Why would he say that and go AWOL instead of driving her to the airport, leaving her to scramble to find alternate transportation, and then show up today?

One thing was certain: he didn’t want to be here with her.

Once the service started, her mother-in-law stopped talking—and began crying. With one arm cradling Kit, she
wrapped her other arm around Haley’s waist and leaned against her, the tears trailing down her face to her neck, wetting the collar of her black dress.

For Haley, the music, the words of comfort, even the memories of Sam spoken by some of his high school friends were muted. Was Kit going to start crying? Would Miriam ever stop crying? How was Stephen holding up?

As she took her seat before the succession of speakers—the mayor, Sam’s wrestling coach, one of his teachers—Haley searched the back of the church. Stephen still sat in the last pew, his lips thinned into a straight line, his eyes focused on her, not on the activity up front.

Enough of that.

She was here to remember her husband, not have her emotions twisted around by his twin brother. She would never have met him if Sam hadn’t been killed. She needed to unravel loneliness for her husband from any sort of mixed-up longings for Stephen. Somehow she had let the two brothers become interchangeable—and that was so, so wrong. It dishonored both of the Ames brothers. Lily had been right: She could fall in love again. Sometime—but not with Stephen. She’d be replacing Sam with his reflection.

When the memorial ended with the honor guard marching out of the church, Haley closed her eyes, bracing herself to see Stephen again. She gathered up the diaper bag and took Kit from her mother-in-law, who soon became surrounded by friends. Haley couldn’t stop herself from glancing back to where Stephen and the unknown man were sitting.

They were gone.

She bit her lip. It was easier this way.

Haley closed the door to the guest bedroom, breathing a sigh of relief. Off duty at last. The memorial service was over. Kit was asleep. Miriam had disappeared into her bedroom right after dinner, saying she had a headache.

The house was quiet. And it wasn’t her house, so there wasn’t any dirty laundry to deal with or bills to pay or letters from the homeowners’ association to open or dishes to load in the dishwasher. She had nothing to do except relax.

Relax.

Did she know how to do that anymore?

She could watch TV. Or lounge on the couch and flip through one of the many magazines Miriam subscribed to. Or maybe soak in the tub. Claire said a long soak in the tub always relaxed her.

A knock at the front door halted her decision.

Or she could answer the door. It was probably another flower delivery for Miriam. She’d add the bouquet to the assorted arrangements set throughout the living and dining rooms, filling them with an overwhelming floral scent, and then go take her long soak.

A tall, broad-shouldered older man with a full head of gray hair stood on the stoop—no bouquet, not even a single flower in sight. In the dim light, he looked familiar. “Can I help you?”

“You’re Haley Ames, correct?”

“Ye-es. And you are . . . ?”

“I’m Joe Ames—Sam’s father. And Stephen’s father, too, of course.”

Haley’s grip on the doorknob tightened. “You were at the memorial today with Stephen.”

“I was. We left just before it ended. I didn’t want to create any tension with my ex-wife.”

“But you’re here now.” Haley bit back the “Why?” She was tired of fighting with Sam’s relatives.

“I wanted to meet my son’s wife—to meet you.”

They stared at one another in silence for a few seconds. Haley caught glimpses of Stephen—and Sam, of course—in their father’s build, the cleft in his chin, the timbre of his voice. She offered her hand, hoping he saw past the tears in her eyes to the smile on her lips. “Won’t you come in? I think Miriam’s asleep. There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

Sam’s father moved into the foyer, his hands stuffed into his pants pockets. “I’m sorry if I’m interrupting your evening.”

“No, not at all. I’m glad you stopped by. Wait right here.”

When she reappeared a few moments later, Kit rested in her arms, her eyes opening and closing, as if she wasn’t certain if she was supposed to be awake or asleep. “This is your granddaughter, Katherine Elizabeth. I call her Kit.”

“Kit.” Joe Ames reached out his hand and caressed the bits of blond hair that feathered across Kit’s head. His eyes were wet, and a single tear ran down his weathered cheek.

“Stephen told me how he and Sam were named after Marvel superheroes. Kit’s named after a female Hawkeye. I thought I’d continue the family tradition.”

“I like that.” The man never took his eyes off his granddaughter. “She has the Ames’s brown eyes.”

“Yes.” Footsteps sounded behind her. Haley stopped talking. The only person it could be was her mother-in-law.

Joe Ames’s hand fell to his side. “Miriam. I didn’t want to upset you. I just wanted to see Sam’s wife . . . nothing more. I’ll go now.”

“Hush, Joe. I’m not upset.” Miriam stayed behind Haley. “I saw you at the memorial earlier. I didn’t get upset then, did I? Sam was your son, too—and Kit’s your granddaughter. The truth is, we’ve both been fools—and we hurt our boys because
of it. We’ve lost one—” Miriam’s voice thickened with unshed tears. “But we still have Stephen . . . and a daughter-in-law and a granddaughter. Maybe we can do better in the future.”

His ex-wife’s words seemed to stun Joe Ames into silence. After a moment, he exhaled. Nodded. “I think we can, Miriam. I think we can.”

Haley reached back and clasped Miriam’s hand. If only Sam could see his parents’ halting attempt to make peace with each other.

V
illa Stella’s hadn’t changed that much since the last time Stephen had been there with Sam and their mom. The same orange neon sign spelled out the restaurant’s name in looping cursive letters across the side of the brick building. The white and green awning still covered the outdoor patio, filled with diners sitting at the black wrought-iron tables and chairs. When he walked inside, the back wall still boasted a hand-painted mural of a Venice waterway.

“Do you have a reservation?” The hostess, her blue eyes heavily made up with glittering green eye shadow, stood guard at the hostess station.

“No. I’d like that booth over there, please.” He motioned to one in the back corner of the restaurant. Filled now with a family of five, including a rambunctious toddler in a high chair, the booth would easily accommodate six adults. “I don’t mind waiting.”

“Are you sure I can’t seat you at a table—”

“No. That booth, please. I’ll wait.”

He settled off to the side, waiting for forty-five minutes while the family finished their dinner and then the busboy cleared the table.

He ignored the menu—updated since he’d been there last—that the hostess set in front of him, speaking before the waiter could deliver his “Would you like a drink or an appetizer?” spiel.

“I know what I want.”

“Okay.” The waiter held a ballpoint pen over his paper pad.

“I’d like two Cokes, light on the ice. An order of your garlic bread. And then two orders of your spaghetti and meatballs—extra meatballs.”

“Are you expecting someone else to join you, sir?”

“You could say that.”

The memories stayed at bay until the man delivered the wire basket overflowing with long pieces of toasted bread, fragrant with butter and garlic. Stephen took the top piece, nodding across the table. He had the bread to himself tonight—but how many times had he and Sam gone through two baskets of garlic bread after a middle school wrestling tournament?

“What are you having?”

Stephen shrugged, his mouth full of toasted bread slathered in butter. “Spaghetti. Extra meatballs. You?”

“Same. And another basket of bread.”

They downed half their drinks when the waitress delivered them; she knew the routine and would return with more garlic bread and a second set of Cokes. Their mom nibbled on a house salad.

“You had a great day out there.” Sam leaned his elbows on the table, his grin wide.

“I shoulda pinned that last guy—I just ran out of time.”

“You’ll get him next time.”

“Maybe. Did you see the high school coach watching tonight? Ross said he was checking out the incoming freshmen.”

“You’ll make the team for sure.”

“We’ll make the team together.”

The waiter disrupted the memory, standing beside the table with two plates piled high with pasta drenched in marinara sauce and loaded down with meatballs.

“You want both of these in front of you?”

“No. One here—” He tapped the wooden tabletop in front of him. “—and one across from me.”

“Okay.” Setting down the plates, the waiter disappeared, returning with a white grater and a block of Parmesan cheese. “Would you like some cheese?”

“Just on mine, please.”

Sam would have laughed until Coke came out of his nose at the look on the guy’s face as he grated cheese over one plate of spaghetti.

But Stephen hadn’t come here to amuse the restaurant staff.

If he’d been smarter . . . more mature . . . more forgiving when he was eighteen, he would have had dinner with Sam at Villa Stella’s the night before he left for boot camp. They would have stuffed themselves full of garlic bread and soda and spaghetti and meatballs. Reminisced. Laughed.

And then he would have gone with his mom and his brother to the airport. Walked him to his gate. Hugged him. Said good-bye.

But there’d been no chance for farewells because he’d gotten angry when Sam announced his decision to join the army during spring break. Not a sulk-in-his-room kind of angry. No, he’d shouted at his brother, grabbing his arm when Sam had tried to walk away. And then Sam had turned around and pushed him into the wall. Before he knew what had happened, they were screaming at each other.

“This is crazy, Sam! What about college?”

“What? You’re gonna fight me? This is my decision, not yours!”

The yelling stopped. But the bitterness remained. The hurt.

And he’d chosen to stay angry. And so had Sam.

And the day Sam left for boot camp he was back in Pennsylvania. Trying not to think about his brother. And failing.

He raised his red plastic cup. “I’m sorry, Sam. Here’s to you. I bet you tore up boot camp.”

He set the cup back down and dug into the pasta until the next memory came. “You remember that time you told me you kissed Andrea Saunders up in the tree house? And then I told you that I kissed Mindie Jacobs? Well . . . I lied. I couldn’t let my brother think he’d one-upped me with a girl, ya know? I mean, I tried to kiss her, but she ran out of the tree house saying she was going to tell her mother.”

He stopped talking as the waiter came back to the table. “Do you, um, need anything, sir?”

“No. Everything’s perfect. Just as good as I remember.”

The waiter walked back to the drink area that was separated from the dining area by half of a brick wall. He tried to act as if he wasn’t watching Stephen. The guy probably thought he was certifiable. Well, he just needed to leave Stephen be so he could finish his long-overdue conversation with his brother. He wanted to talk about the time Sam filled his school locker with white packing peanuts on their thirteenth birthday. And how he retaliated by stuffing every single piece of Sam’s clothes—underwear and socks pulled from the dirty clothes hamper, too—into his brother’s locker. How Sam did their science homework and he did their math homework when they were in eighth grade—until their mother caught on. How they used to lie awake the night before their birthday so they could be the first ones to say, “Happy birthday!”