Homefront Holiday. Jillian Hart
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doesn’t surprise me one bit.” Mike ruffled Ali’s hair. “If it’s all right with Sarah, why don’t you take me out in the backyard and show me?”
“Can I, Sarah?”
She looked into the pleading, delighted eyes of her foster son and couldn’t say no. “You’ve got time before dinner is on the—”
Sneakers beat against the hardwood floors and the French door in the living room was wrenched open.
“—table,” she finished.
“It’s good to see him so active.” Mike took a more leisurely pace, his presence filling the small room. “The first time I saw him in triage, hurting and little and scared—” He fell silent, keeping his emotions to himself.
Sarah’s knees weakened at the picture that created in her mind—a picture she squeezed out as soon as it lodged there. It was too much to imagine Ali like that. What she could see was Mike watching over the boy, one hundred percent committed to saving him. Maybe that was the message God had been trying to get into her head.
She set the vase on the counter. “It must be rewarding for you to see him happy and playing.”
“He’s more than that. He’s thriving, Sarah. After all he’s been through—” Mike swallowed hard and looked away, clearly emotional.
Or as emotional as she had ever seen him. “You had a hand in his recovery.”
“I didn’t do much.”
“You performed the emergency surgery that patched him up and got him here. Dr. Blake told me what a fine job you did.” So many emotions were swirling around inside her that she couldn’t begin to separate them. She stepped around the edge of the counter, wanting to be closer to him. “I don’t know if anyone has told you, but I’m adopting Ali. I’ve fallen in love with him. I couldn’t help it.”
A muscle ticked in his jaw as if he was unhappy about something, and when he spoke his baritone was strained and raw. “You’re adopting him?”
“I filed the papers last week.”
“Last week?”
“You look surprised. I’m sorry if you don’t approve, Mike—”
“No, it’s not that.” He couldn’t seem to make his thoughts move past her words. His usually clear, crisp, problem-solving mind had broken down. He shook his head, but it didn’t help.
“I just love him so much.” Sarah, so sweet and bright and beautiful, turned on the water at the sink. She pumped soap into her small, slender hands. The fall of the overhead light seemed to spotlight her, drawing his gaze and his heart, forcing him to remember how dear to him she had always been.
His ripped-out heart hurt beyond bearing. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right. He shouldn’t have to look at her like this, being tied up in knots. He didn’t love her, not anymore. But it surprised him that his memories of her were still alive and dear. Memories of the quiet evenings they had spent together in this kitchen fixing meals, laughing over nothing, their conversations easy.
Maybe what hurt was that she had never loved him enough, the way he had always loved her. Her affection for the boy was plain to see. It transformed her. She was glowing.
He yanked open the French door and the agony hit. Ali was not going to be his. Bleakness battered him like a desert windstorm. He tried to tell himself that he’d lost nothing, at least not anything that hadn’t been his at the start.
The trouble was, it didn’t feel that way. He wrestled down the last of his feelings. He caught a glimpse of Sarah as he closed the door. Sarah’s big blue eyes filled with regret and sadness. Pain clutched in his chest. She could still get to him.
The sinking sun hit him square in the eye as he crossed the little stone patio.
“Dr. Mike! Look! I’m the best kicker.” Ali dropped the soccer ball and gave it a boot with his sneakers.
Who was he kidding? He had lost everything. He had lost his chance for this child. It was another hard blow in a year full of them.
“That’s the best kick I’ve ever seen,” he told Ali, and ran to retrieve the ball.
What had come over Mike? Sarah’s heart felt heavy as she pulled the steamer package from the microwave. She had asked him over to dinner for Ali’s sake, definitely not for hers. She tore open the package and poured the piping hot green beans into a serving bowl. She wanted to be over him. She prayed to be over him. So why wasn’t she?
She dropped a spoon into the bowl and carried it to the table. Maybe the reason why wasn’t such a mystery. Outside in the thinning daylight Ali kicked the ball to Mike, who gave a gentle return kick, sending Ali running and laughing. The faint sound of it warmed the air with joy.
It was like something out of her lost dreams to see Mike playing with a little boy in this backyard. How many times had she pictured that over the years she had been waiting for him to commit? She set the bowl on the table, filled with remorse. She had meant to push him closer to her, when all she did was push him away. She had let go of her dreams when she watched him board the transport plane that had carried him off to war.
Now, those dreams taunted her once again with what she could never have.
Don’t think about it, she told herself as she crossed to the French door. Ali had kicked the ball again and Mike pretended to miss, making the little boy clap his hands and laugh with glee. Her feet came to a stop and she stood there watching the man with her broken heart on her sleeve. Mike would be a great dad one day. She had always known that. His concern for children was one of the first things she had loved about him.
You weren’t going to think about that, remember? She shook herself, gathered her fortitude and opened the door. “Dinner is ready.”
“Aw, just one more kick,” Ali pleaded.
As if she could easily say no to that sweet face. She knew Mike was watching her; she could feel the burn of his gaze.
“One more, kiddo, then in you come,” she called out. “I have mac ’n’ cheese waiting.”
“Yay!” Ali dropped the ball, gave it a kick and sent it reeling into the fence.
Mike’s low rumbling voice as he commented on that professional-style kick stuck with her as she retreated into the safety of her little house. Why did she feel choked up? She went to the sink, set out an extra hand towel for the two of them and fetched milk from the fridge.
Mike and Ali burst into the living room. The crisp evening air blew in with them, and their happiness warmed the place like fire in a hearth.
“Something smells good,” Mike complimented as he shut the door behind them.
“Yum.” Ali raced through the house, his sneakers thudding on the wood floor, beaming with excitement. “We put up the lights after, right?”
“As soon as your plate is clean.”
“Yippee.” Ali went up on tiptoe at the kitchen sink. It was their evening thing for Sarah to scoop him up so he could reach the faucet to wash his hands.
But Mike was there, chuckling deep in his throat. “Let me help you, little buddy.”
“I can almost reach,” Ali insisted, although he had a long way to go.
“I can’t believe how big you’ve gotten.” Mike grabbed the boy around the middle and hefted him up.
Ali laughed, a blessed sound. Sarah tore her gaze away from the man and child, so natural with one another. She set the milk carton on the edge of the table. Her hand was too shaky to pour. Memories she had tucked away came back to her—of Mike’s deep baritone rumbling in her kitchen, talking of his work and of his dreams, captivating her then just as surely as she was now.
The distance between them now was so vast, the entire