“There were two and both of them were clean hits. Luckily there’s no bone damage. It’s going to hurt for a while, but you’ll recover. Think of the next few weeks as a long overdue vacation.”
“This may come as something of a surprise,” Jordan said, “but if I’m going to take a vacation I’d prefer to do it on a nice peaceful Caribbean island instead of someplace where I’m fighting off rebels.”
“I couldn’t agree with you more. I could arrange for us to fly to the Virgin Islands. A couple of weeks there soaking up the sun would do us both good.” Her face brightened with the idea. He could almost see her creating some romantic fantasy.…
Jordan closed his eyes. He’d walked into that one all by himself. There was no way on earth he could spend two weeks in some tropical paradise with Molly when he had every intention of going through with the divorce.
“How soon can I travel?” he asked abruptly.
“A couple of days. You’re weak now because of the blood loss, but with proper rest you’ll regain your strength pretty fast.”
“I have to get back to Chicago. I don’t have time to hang around on a beach.”
“Okay, fine.”
Jordan heard the hurt and disappointment in her voice and felt like a jerk. That, together with everything else, left him feeling sick to his stomach. He’d never intended to make love to Molly; of course, he’d never intended to get shot, either.
“How soon can I get out of here?” he asked next. The question sounded gruff and impatient. He felt both. The sooner he broke off with Molly, the better. Unfortunately he’d ruined any chance of making it a clean break.
“You should be released the day after tomorrow,” Molly told him. “I’ve booked a hotel room. I’ll arrange the flight back to the States if you want. We’ll have to go via London.”
Jordan nodded curtly.
Molly walked over to the window and gazed out for a moment. She turned, crossed her arms, then asked, “Why are you so angry?”
“Maybe it’s because I’ve got two bullet holes in my shoulder. Then again, it might be because I was forced to fly halfway around the world to get you when you should’ve had the common sense to leave on your own. You’re the one with the death wish, not me.”
“I didn’t ask you to come,” she flared.
“No, your father did.”
“Next time I suggest you stay home,” she said heatedly as she walked past the bed.
“Next time I will,” he called after her.
Jordan didn’t see her again until he was ready to be released from the hospital. Zane stopped by, but Jordan wasn’t in the mood for company. They shook hands, and Jordan didn’t expect to see his friend again.
Molly was frequently at the hospital. He heard her talking to the doctor outside his room once and she came in to sit with him when he was sleeping. He wasn’t sure how he knew this, he just did.
Jordan wasn’t a good patient at the best of times. He suspected that the day he left the hospital, the staff was more than happy to be rid of him. Not that he blamed them.
Molly was waiting for him outside the room with a wheelchair.
“I’ll walk,” he insisted.
“Jordan, for heaven’s sake, be sensible.”
He threw her a look that said if he had any real sense he would’ve stayed in Chicago.
The cab ride to the hotel seemed to take hours. By the time they arrived he was exhausted, much too tired to complain that she’d only booked them one room. At least there were twin beds.
Molly ordered lunch from room service and they ate in silence. Jordan fell asleep afterward and woke up two hours later.
Molly was gone, which was just as well. He was uncomfortable around her. If he wasn’t such a coward he’d talk to her about the divorce, the way he’d originally planned. Somehow it didn’t feel right anymore, not after their night in the supply hut. He didn’t know what he was going to do now.
Sitting on the end of the bed, Jordan carefully worked one shoulder. Pain ripped through him and he gritted his teeth. The medication the doctor had given him was in the bathroom and he walked in there without thinking.
He realized his mistake the moment he stepped over the threshold. Molly was in the shower, standing under the spray of warm water. The glass door was fogged with steam, but it did little to hide her lush figure.
Jordan’s breath caught in his throat, and he reached out and gripped the sink. He was instantly aroused.
The view of his wife hypnotized him, and for the life of him Jordan couldn’t force himself to look away. He could barely control his need to touch her again. He meant to turn and walk out but his feet seemed rooted to the floor.
“Jordan?”
“Sorry,” he muttered. “I didn’t mean to interrupt you.”
“It’s no problem.” She turned off the water, opened the shower door and grabbed a towel.
Jordan stood transfixed, unable to manage more than the simple breath as she dried herself. Jordan was a strong-willed man, not easily tempted. The past three and a half years of celibacy were testament to that. Despite his recent engagement to Lesley, he’d still considered himself married. He’d taken his vows seriously and hadn’t yet made love to his fiancée. Just to his wife…here, in Africa, with gunshots ringing in the night and the threat of death hanging over them.
Somehow he made it back into the other room, fell into a chair and flicked on the television. At least five minutes passed before he realized the broadcast was in French.
A couple of minutes later, Molly strolled barefoot out of the bathroom, dressed in a white terry-cloth robe. She was toweling her hair dry and wore a silly grin as if she was aware of the effect she’d had on him. Apparently she enjoyed seeing him suffer.
“Did you need a pain pill?” she asked ever so sweetly.
Jordan shook his head and concentrated on the TV as though he understood every word.
* * *
Jordan had acted strange from the moment they’d left the East African Republic. Things weren’t any better now that they were on a flight to London. Afterward, they’d be flying to Chicago.
Molly didn’t know what to make of his irrational behavior. One second he was looking at her as if he was counting the minutes before he could charm her into his bed and the next he growled at her. One second he was sullen and sarcastic, the next witty and warm. Almost warm, she amended. Jordan had never been all that affable. He was too direct and blunt.
He fidgeted in the cramped airline seat next to hers, trying to find a comfortable position. The pain pills would have helped him relax if he’d agreed to take them. Molly had given up suggesting it. He was a stubborn fool, and if he hadn’t risked his life to save hers, she would’ve told him so.
The newsmagazine Jordan was reading slid from his lap onto the floor. Molly retrieved it for him and he immediately crammed it into the seat pocket in front of him, bending it in half.
“Take it easy,” Molly said under her breath.
Jordan muttered something she preferred not to hear, then glanced at his watch, which he did every five minutes or so. She considered reminding him of the old adage about a watched pot never boiling, but strongly suspected he wouldn’t appreciate it.
An eternity seemed to pass before the plane touched down at London’s Heathrow airport, where they were met by a U.S. Embassy official, who replaced Molly’s missing American passport—which was still in her room at the compound. The embassy’s assistance had been arranged by Zane, much to her relief. Later that evening they boarded a plane for Chicago and it landed at O’Hare the next morning. She was home, and the joy that swelled in her chest was testament to how glad she was to be back.
Customs took forever. When she was done, she found her father waiting for her, looking older than she remembered. His face lit up with a smile when she appeared and he held his arms open the way he had when she was a little girl.
“Daddy,” she said, hugging him close. Unexpected tears welled in her eyes and, embarrassed, s
he wiped them away. She clung to him, absorbing his love.
“It’s about time you came back where you belong,” Ian whispered, brushing the tears from his own eyes. He hugged her again, then slipped his arm around her waist.
Jordan shifted his weight from one foot to the other. He hated emotional scenes, Molly knew.
“Thank you,” Ian said, breaking away from her and shaking Jordan’s uninjured hand. He needed a moment to compose himself before he could continue. “I might have lost my little girl if it hadn’t been for you.”
Jordan shrugged as if he’d done nothing more than walk her across the street.
A porter walked past with his luggage and Jordan glanced outside, obviously eager to be on his way. His gaze met Molly’s and in it she read a multitude of emotions. Relief that they were home and safe. Regret, too, she suspected. His defenses were lower, dulled by pain and fatigue. He couldn’t disguise his feelings from her as easily as he had in the past.
“Take care,” Molly said, taking a step toward him before she could stop herself. She longed to press her hand to his cheek and thank him herself, although she could never adequately express her gratitude. She longed to kiss him, too, to prove that what they’d experienced had been as real as it was right.
He nodded. “I will. I’ll call you later in the week.”
He turned abruptly and followed the porter outside.
Molly watched him go. She’d lived apart from Jordan for three years, considered their life together forever gone, destroyed by grief and pain. But this week had proved that Jordan still loved her. Just as she loved him.
He wasn’t happy about it, she mused sadly. She doubted that he knew what to do. For now he was as confused and uncertain as she was herself.
* * *
Molly woke with the sun rippling across the cherry-wood dresser in the bedroom that had been hers as a girl. She lay on her back, head cradled by pillows, and reveled in the abundant comforts of home.
She wasn’t a teenager anymore, but a woman. A married woman. That thought made her frown. There were decisions to make regarding her relationship with Jordan, but neither of them was ready. Three years should’ve been plenty of time to decide what they were going to do about their marriage, but it wasn’t.
Molly put on a sleeveless summer dress she found in the back of her closet. A pretty white-with-red-dots concoction with a wide belt.
Her father was sitting at the breakfast table with the paper propped up against his glass of freshly squeezed orange juice. Little had changed in the years she’d been away. After her mother’s death twenty years earlier, he’d established a routine and never really varied it.
“Morning,” she said, kissing him on the cheek and pouring herself a cup of coffee.
“Morning,” came his absent response.
“I see you still read the financial section first thing every morning.”
“I’m retired, not dead,” he said with a chuckle. “Semiretired. I got too bored sitting at home, counting my money.”
“So you’re working again.”
“Don’t fuss,” he said, his eyes not leaving the paper. “I go into the bank a couple of days a week. The staff there were kind enough to let me keep my office, so I go down and putter around and they pretend I’m important.”
Molly smiled, pulled out a chair and sat down. Her father had always been big on formality. Lunch and dinner were served in the dining room on Wedgwood china and Waterford crystal. Breakfast, however, was eaten in the kitchen at the round oak table that sat in a comfortable nook where the sunlight spilled in.
Molly reached for a blueberry muffin and the pitcher of orange juice. “Dad, did Jordan sell the house?”
Her father lowered the paper, folded it in fourths and set it beside his plate. “Not to my knowledge. Why?”
“I was curious, that’s all.”
He studied her for a long moment. “I take it the two of you didn’t get much chance to talk.”
Buttering a piece of her muffin, Molly shook her head. “Not really.” Her words were followed by a short silence.
“I see.” Molly looked at her father. He sounded downright gleeful, as if this small fact was cause for celebration.
“What’s the grin about?” she asked.
“What grin?” His eyes went instantly sober, then rounded with innocence.
“Don’t tease, Dad. Does Jordan have something to tell me?”
“I wouldn’t know,” he said, but the edges of his mouth quivered ever so slightly.
Molly stood and set her napkin on the table, frowning. “Something’s going on here.”
“Oh?”
She’d forgotten what a manipulator her father could be. She walked over to the patio doors, crossing her arms, while she thought about his comments.
“Can I have the car keys?” she asked, whirling back around, her decision made.
Her father held them in the palm of his hand, grinning broadly. “I won’t expect you home for lunch,” he said and reached for his paper again.
It was ridiculous to show up on Jordan’s doorstep before ten. Especially when he’d so recently arrived home from Africa. Unsure how to proceed, Molly drove to their favorite French bakery for croissants. To her surprise and delight, the baker, Pierre, recognized her. He called to her and hurried around the glass counter to shake her hand.
“I gave up hope of ever seeing you again,” he said in a heavy French accent. He got her a cup of coffee and led her to one of the small tables in the corner. “Please sit down.”
Molly did, wondering at this unusual greeting. He set the coffee down and his assistant brought a plate of delicate sweet rolls. The aroma was enticing enough to make her gain weight without taking a bite.
“Our daughter’s baby died the same way as your son,” he said, and his eyes revealed his sadness. “Amanda put her little girl to sleep and Christianne never woke. It’s been four months now and still my daughter and her husband grieve, still they ask questions no one can answer.”
“The questions never stop,” Molly said softly. Nor does the grief, but she didn’t say that. It grew less sharp with time. The passing years dulled the agony, but it never left, never completely vanished. The pain was there, a constant reminder of the baby who would never grow up.
“Our daughter and son-in-law blame themselves.… They think they did something to cause Christianne’s death.”
“They didn’t.” Molly was giving the textbook response, but the medical community had no cut-and-dried answers. Physicians and researchers offered a number of theories, but nothing was proven. There was no one to blame, no one to hold responsible, no one to yell at, or take out their grief on.
With nowhere else to go, the pain, anger and grief turned inward; it had with Molly. Over the months, the burden of it had maimed her. By the time she separated from Jordan, she was an emotional wreck.
“They need to talk to someone who has lost a child the same way,” Pierre said, “before this unfortunate death destroys them both.” He stood and took a business card from the display in front of the cash register. Turning it over, he wrote a phone number on the back.
Molly accepted the card, but she wasn’t sure she could make the call. There were others this young couple could speak to, others far more qualified to answer their questions.
“Please,” Pierre said, folding his much larger hand around hers and the card. “Only someone who has lost a child can understand their pain.”
“I …don’t know, Pierre.”
His eyes boldly met hers. “God will guide you,” he said. “Do not worry.” He brought her a sack of croissants and wouldn’t allow her to pay for them.
Molly left, not knowing what to do. If she hadn’t been able to help herself or Jordan, how could she reach another grieving couple?
Jordan’s truck was parked outside their home. So he hadn’t sold the house; her father had been right about that. Knowing that this one piece of their marriage was intact lifted her spirit
s. It was just the incentive she needed to propel her up the front steps.
This was the first time she’d been back, and she couldn’t decide whether she should knock or simply walk inside. She remembered where they’d always kept the spare key…and it was her home, after all, or at least it had been. No, she’d ring the doorbell, which was the courteous thing to do.
Jordan took an inordinate amount of time to answer. He opened the front door wearing a bathrobe. His hair stood on end and he blinked as if he’d just awakened.
“Before you chew my head off,” she said, remembering what a grouch he was in the morning, “I come bearing gifts.”
“This better be good,” he said, eyeing the white sack.
“Pierre’s croissants,” she informed him.
He grinned, opening the screen door. “That’s good enough.”
The house was exactly as she’d left it. Sort of. The furniture was arranged in the identical pattern. Jordan hadn’t changed the carpet or the drapes. The only difference was that there were blueprints and files stacked on every surface.
“I see you still bring your work home with you,” she commented dryly.
“Listen, if you’re here to lecture me, you can go right back out that door. Just leave the croissants.”
“Never mind,” she said, leading the way into the kitchen. This room wasn’t much of an improvement. Luckily she knew where he kept the coffee. She put on a pot, then got two mugs from the cupboard, black mugs embossed with silver lettering—Larabee Construction.
“Hey,” she teased, “you’re in the big time now. When did you give up the pencils and go for the mugs?”
Jordan frowned at her, and it was obvious that he had no intention of answering her question. Despite herself, Molly found his surly mood entertaining. She waited until the coffee had filtered through, poured him a mug and carried it over to the table, where he’d planted himself.
He wolfed down two croissants before she managed to get hers out of the bag. The return of his appetite encouraged her. She was tempted to ask him about his medication, but she resisted, knowing he’d consider that an invasion of privacy.