Safe in Noah's Arms. Mary Sullivan
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down the back of my pants? I was only ten, and she did it at school. I ran around the schoolyard like a chicken with its head cut off, trying to get that thing to shake out of one of my pant legs.”
He laughed. “I pretended to be angry with her, but I wasn’t really. I was already halfway to being in love with the girl.”
Daddy’s memories about Monica’s mother had always been a lonely little girl’s favorite bedtime stories.
That evening when she got home from work, she reached for the only photo she had of her mother. Her mood threatened to turn melancholy. That troublesome loneliness dogged her again. Look how it had gotten her into trouble last week. She couldn’t let it get to her tonight.
Best to shake it off.
One thing she could do was make amends to Noah as best she could.
She turned on her computer and went online to search for vintage bikes. She had told Noah she would replace his bike and she meant to. He might not think her useful or smart, but there were two things she knew well—shopping and vintage anything.
Two hours later, she was ready to admit defeat. Who knew vintage bikes would be so hard to come by?
The only lead she found was a man in California who rebuilt bikes from parts. Tomorrow morning, she would get Noah’s wrecked bike from him.
* * *
MONICA ROLLED OVER in bed onto her back and stared at the ceiling, motivation to get up and start another day eluding her. Her radio alarm had gone off at 6:00 a.m. and the same questions she faced every morning troubled her.
Do I care? Should I care? Why should I care?
On the radio, a female sang a bright and chirpy song. The falsely engineered cheer passed over her like a specter.
She spread a hand across the empty side of the bed, across the sheets that had been washed hundreds of times since Billy had gone to war. His pillowcase, though? That she hadn’t changed or washed since he’d left for Afghanistan. For many nights afterward, she had curled herself around his pillow, drinking in his scent and missing him.
She changed and washed the sheets every week, turned and flipped the mattress twice a year, vacuumed under the bed, but never, ever, washed her late husband’s pillow or pillowcase.
I miss you, Billy.
He’d been dead five years. Shouldn’t the pain have eased by now? Why couldn’t she let go of the grief?
You already know, don’t you? What would you replace it with? What would fill your emptiness without your grief for your dead husband?
She hated when her smart-alecky brain or psyche or common sense, or whatever it was, knew the answers to questions she didn’t really want solved.
The vacancy on Billy’s side of the bed represented the gap in her life, in her soul, but then, it had always been there, hadn’t it? Even long before hormones had kicked in and she’d started looking at cute, funny Billy Stone differently, she’d been empty. He’d become the most magical creature she’d ever known. He’d made her laugh.
He’d been everything. Her first, her one and only. He’d made love like an oversized puppy dog, with enthusiasm and greed and joy. Even in bed, they’d had a lot of fun.
She’d never slept with another man. She wouldn’t even know how to approach sex with someone else.
He’d filled in the hollow, hungry holes that had been part of her for as far back as she could remember. Now he was gone and those holes were back, and she didn’t have a clue how to fill them.
She reached over and flicked off the radio, cutting off some irritating song that would be played half a dozen more times before the day was over. The ensuing silence closed in on her, broken only by the tick of the ormolu clock on the mantel in the living room.
She hated the silence, hated all silence, had always hated that void that needed filling, and the feeling that something was missing. There was too much quiet and emptiness in her life these days.
On Friday night when she’d gone out drinking, she’d been going bonkers in this apartment. She’d been sick of the sound of her own voice, of the irritating ticking of the clock, of the useless, mind-numbing junk on TV.
Billy used to keep the void at bay. His practical jokes, wisecracks and ceaseless banter used to destroy the silence. Used to annihilate it. Now it was back in full force and Monica was lost.
No wonder she’d gone drinking when the silence of her apartment had made her climb the walls. She just shouldn’t have driven home afterward.
She crawled out of bed with the energy of an old woman, reluctant to face Noah’s wrath when she pulled plants instead of weeds. They all looked the same to her.
Then she remembered she was going to the farm her mom had grown up on.
Okay, maybe today she cared a little.
* * *
NOAH WALKED ALONG the row of green peppers to check on Monica and found her with her back to him, bent over at the waist plucking something from the earth.
Gold stitching on the back pockets of her blue jeans hugged the curves of her perfect derriere. Why, oh why, couldn’t he lust after a normal woman, someone with as much depth as the people he admired in life? But no, he had to be as shallow as the next man and want the one woman in town with the least depth of character.
Audrey’s voice rang in his memory. Everybody underestimates her.
He tried to soften his stance. Hard to do when he desired a woman he didn’t respect. Cripes, he wished she would squat to weed instead of bending over.
She straightened, noticed him watching her and pointed to the pile beside her. “See? Only weeds.”
“That’s great.”
“Before I leave today, will you put your wrecked bike into the trunk of my car?”
“Sure, but why?”
“I’m going to take care of it.”
It was useless to him. She could do what she liked with it. “Listen, are you going in to work today?”
“No. Your mom and Aiden are both there. I have today off because I’ll be working on Saturday.”
“Good.” He hated to ask, didn’t want Monica anywhere near this task, but had no choice. He needed her two good arms. “We have to leave the farm, to help some locals.”
“What kind of help?”
“Feeding their families. I need you to come with me.”
“You mean as part of my sentence?”
Heaven forbid she should give of herself unless someone forced her to. “Yeah, as part of your community service. I have to pack and deliver food, but I can’t do it with this bum arm.”
“Okay, show me what to do.”
“Let’s fill this first.” He pulled from behind him an ancient child’s wagon.
“That looks old.”
“I guess it is,” he answered with a shrug. All he cared about was that the thing was useful. “I found it in the shed.”
She grasped his arm. “That’s a Radio Flyer.”
“So?”
“So, it’s a vintage children’s wagon. I love vintage.”
She did? He would have never guessed she’d like old stuff. “Never mind that. We need to harvest some of the spring vegetables today.”
“There are vegetables ready this early? Which ones?”
“Spring onions. Garlic scapes. Asparagus. Broccoli rabe. A little watercress.”