The Marine's Embrace. Beth Andrews
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eyed the flats of flowers—over a dozen perennials and annuals of all shapes, sizes and colors littered the space between the driveway and sidewalk, plus two azalea bushes, a rosebush and three different kinds of decorative grass.
She chewed on her pinkie nail. Perhaps she’d gotten a tad bit carried away, but there was nothing better than tending a garden, caring for it so it flourished. Bloomed. Cullen’s Greenhouse had just received a new shipment, and she’d had a hard time reining in her enthusiasm.
And, it seemed, her business credit card.
Not that Neil would complain. Or even question the purchase. He never did. Her brother trusted her to run Bradford House as she saw fit, and encouraged her to make every decision, from what sort of linens to use to whom to hire. Whatever she wanted, he made sure she got.
But sometimes she wondered if his being unable to refuse her anything had less to do with trust and more to do with him thinking if he denied her something she’d break into a million pieces. Pieces he’d be unable to put back together.
“I got three, Mama,” Mitch said, his little arms around three plastic containers as he headed toward her. “See?”
“I do see,” she said, crossing the short distance to take two of the flowers from him. “These will look very pretty together.”
“Yeah. I got yellow ’cuz it’s your favorite color and red ’cuz it’s mine and orange for ’Lijah. It’s for all of us. They’ll be a family like we are.”
She hated that he didn’t remember a time when they’d been a real family. That he’d never had his father in his life full time.
She brushed his hair back. The once almost-white strands were now darker, with a definite reddish tint, but it was still baby fine and stick straight. “You know,” she said, wanting to ease Mitchell into getting used to having Shane around, “Daddy’s favorite color is red, too. Just like you.”
Mitch seemed more curious by the idea than happy over it. Then again, he was shy around strangers, especially men. And that his father was a stranger broke Fay’s heart.
Thank God all of that was about to change.
“It is?” he asked.
She nodded. “So maybe these flowers could be for all of us. You and me and your brother and your daddy.”
“Do you want them to be?”
She knew what she should say. That she wanted him to make that decision. That he didn’t have to include Shane in anything he did, not after Mitch had spent only a handful of days with Shane since he was a baby.
But that wasn’t all Shane’s fault. She bore some responsibility for the problems in their marriage. For not being strong enough to weather the tough times. For wanting too much. For needing too much.
“I do want that,” she said, unable to hide what was in her heart. “Very, very much.”
“Okay,” he said reluctantly.
“Thank you. That’s very sweet of you.”
He grinned, so eager to please. So thrilled to be praised. Even when it was obvious he was only doing it to make someone else happy.
Just like she did.
“Can I put the dirt in?” he asked.
She couldn’t speak, her throat was too tight, so she nodded. Worried now that she’d made a mistake in speaking the truth. That she’d somehow tainted him with her fears.
“But not too full, right?” he asked, hopping from foot to foot, either in excitement or because he had to pee. “’Cuz there has to be room for the flowers’ roots. Right?”
“Right.” But the word came out a whisper, so she cleared her throat. Tried again. “That’s right.”
He dived at the bag of potting soil, using his hands to scoop some out. Most of it drifted to the ground before it reached the pot, and even more clung to his pants and shirt, covered his arms.
She was surprised he didn’t climb into the bag and just dig it out like a dog.
He stopped jiggling, which meant his little dance had been excitement. Best of all, he was smiling, talking cheerfully, a running commentary about what he was doing. He was, in this moment, happy.
Maybe she wasn’t ruining him after all.
Still, she only had so many bags of potting soil, and at this rate, more than half of it was going to feed the yard.
“Wow, great job. If you want,” she said, as if just coming up with the idea, offering to do him a huge favor, “I could finish filling it. Then you can dig the holes for the flowers.”
She held out a small garden shovel. His eyebrows drew together into an adorable frown, as if he wasn’t sure whether this new development was to his advantage. She could almost see him weighing his options: play in the dirt or get to use the potentially lethal tool.
He grabbed the shovel. Lethal it was.
Using an empty flower container, she scooped the soil into the pot. “There you go.”
“Three holes, right?” he asked, his pudgy hand gripping the shovel tight. His tongue sticking out, he stabbed the pointed edge of the shovel into the pot then flung it up in an explosion of dirt that showered his hair and clothes.
“Yes. But maybe not quite so hard?”
He nodded. And showered himself with even more dirt.
Oh, well. No harm in getting dirty. Clothes—and little boys—were washable. Though she might have to hose him off before getting him into the tub.
“Look! I did it,” he said. “I made a hole.”
“Yes, you did. Good job. Two more to go.”
She thought she felt her phone buzz in her pocket. Covered it with her hand, holding her breath. Yes, that was a vibration. Wasn’t it? She pulled it out and exhaled heavily at the blank screen. She quickly unlocked it just to double-check. But there were no texts, no emails, no missed calls.
Where was Shane? Why hadn’t he called her? Or better yet, stopped by?
She’d practiced her apology to him in the shower, had it memorized and perfected only to have her call—all five of them—go straight to voice mail. Which was understandable. She was sure he’d been busy preparing for his interview, showering and shaving and getting dressed. So she’d texted him, had poured her heart out to him, told him how sorry she was, let him know how much last night had meant to her. How excited she was for the future.
That had been hours ago. It was now past two and she hadn’t heard from him yet. She just didn’t understand what she’d done wrong. If he’d tell her, she could fix it. She could change.
“Mama, are you sad?”
She looked down to find Mitch frowning up at her. He was so like her—from his coloring to his blue eyes to the shape of his mouth. They both hated peas, burned easily in the sun and hummed constantly. He’d inherited her sensitivity, too. Was always wondering how others were feeling. Worried if they were sad or upset or angry with him. Needed to be told constantly that the people in his life would always be there. That they loved him—would always love him.
She didn’t know whether to hug him tight and reassure him that everything was fine or demand that he snap out of it. That he not be like her.
She wanted him to be stronger than she was. More confident, capable of facing challenges. Able to live without constantly worrying.
All good life skills. She wished someone would teach them to her someday.
Crouching, she smiled at him. “I’m very happy. It’s a beautiful day, I’m planting flowers with my best helper and after we pick up your brother from school, we’re going to stop at City Creamery.”
Eyes