Chapter 1
Chapter 1
Chantel
I crawled in darkness through the spare walk-in closet in my new hubby’s bedroom. Junk threatened to rain down and flatten me. Why didn’t Charlie throw this stuff out before our wedding? I leaned back on my heels and stifled a groan—sort of.
Husbands aggravate their wives. This is what they were trained for. I grinned in spite of my annoyance. Despite his few flaws, I married the sweetest, kindest man in the world.
After my late husband’s passing, I never dreamed I’d find another good man. I’d “gone-over-the-hill,” so to speak, and hit my fifties. Who wanted an old lady?
I wormed my body toward the back of the overstuffed abyss, fearful of the door slamming. No one could find me under the detritus shoved in here.
A heavy-duty paper bag with twine handles sat in the rear of the closet. Charlie probably stuffed the sack with empty boxes. Charlie’s nothing if he’s not a hoarder. He saves the Sunday papers, bread ties, and the rubber bands from bunches of broccoli. He says there’s a use for them.
Yeah. I realized their use a year and a half ago when we started dating. For me to throw out.
I hoisted the bag, prepared to toss the sack onto the pile of stuff already removed from the floor, but I stumbled at the unexpected weight. Had he stored dumbbells in this bag? His saving everything and stuffing junk anywhere was his MO. However, he’d use the dumbbells, so he wouldn’t cram them back here. They’d be in his main closet—the one with no room for me.
One of the twine handles tore loose as I heaved the bag out of the corner, through the closet, and into the light. A vase lay inside. On the attached tag was her name. Ruby Sanders.
“Charlie!” The bag slipped from my hands and clunked on the floor.
I held my breath. He stowed his mother in the closet? I didn’t hear Mamma Sanders’s urn shatter. Still, what if she now lay puddled at the bottom of the bag, all dust and ashes and worse—bone bits?
Bone debris horrified me more than the spider that had crawled into my ear during our honeymoon. I shuddered despite the August heat. How do you extract an eight-legged creepy crawler from your ear canal? Press against the horrid creature and squish it inside? No thanks. Tweezers? I ditched them when I discovered the glories of waxing my eyebrows.
No need for tweezers should I grow chin whiskers. My kids had strict instructions to shoot me if that happened.
Fortunately, the revolting arachnid—a black widow, I’m sure—found no food in my ear. The creature got hungry and crawled out on its own.
I looked at the bag holding the urn. My lungs constricted with anger, and I fought to keep the ire out of my voice. I failed. “Charles Anthony Sanders!” My hands flapped like a turkey taking off.
No husband came to help. He had gone to the garage to stow our—or should I say his—camping gear.
I stormed down the hallway and through the spare room. Since he added on his office off the garage, this room became little more than a pass-through. I stepped down the two stairs into his study and into the attached two-car garage that faced the circular drive in front of the home.
“Charlie. Didn’t you hear me?”
He stood on a ladder, his head hidden in the rafters. Had I been an English teacher rather than a music one, there’d be joy in the potential in my metaphor. Charlie never had his head in the clouds. His solid, reliable nature was one of the billion things I loved about him—predictable, dependable. An adorable, middle-aged jock.
Boxes shuffled overhead. He bent down, and his gorgeous, salt-and-pepper-haired head appeared. Lips, full and lush—smackers a starlet would envy—curved up. His dimpled chin deepened with his Harrison Ford lopsided grin.
No. Looks and desire would not make my anger go away. I fisted my hands on my hips and widened my stance. No way would I let him leave Mamma Sanders’s urn lying in what was now my closet waiting for me to break the thing scattering her remains all over the bedroom.
“I know that look.” He winked. “Here to ravish me, babe?”
My anger sputtered like the dying notes of a sousaphone. All heat vanished. At least the heat of anger evaporated. I stood in the doorway, mute as Harpo Marx.
“Not until you stash those camping supplies.”
“Do you mean ...” His voice trailed off as his head poked up through the ceiling. Boxes and gear shuffled above my head. Charlie had made camping sound so romantic—isolation, pristine nature, and hours on Moosehead Lake in Maine where we’d hear nothing but our beating hearts or a moose call, and the Penobscot River’s rustle.
He never mentioned torrential rain, dirt, and spiders.
That’s what happens if you marry a jock.
Downpours never ended in Maine. Not the whole week. Not even in Charlie’s jeep. We discovered the canvas top leaked. Over the passenger seat.
After I demanded for about the thirty-eighth time that we get a motel room for our last two days, hubs caved. Our honeymoon turned divine.
I leaned against the doorjamb and dreamed of those spa-filled days.
A warm hand stirred me from my reveries. I opened my eyes and stared into the warmest brown eyes framed by lashes so dark, the girls we taught at Breezy Point High School whispered he wore mascara.
Those eyes—so hungry. So innocent. Harrison Ford and Antonio Banderas had nothing on Charlie and his chocolate-pudding peepers. His arms slid around me. His lips nuzzled my shoulder. I slipped my hands behind his head and pulled his lips to mine.
I floated, almost literally, as Charlie lifted me and took a step up toward his office. The honeymoon hadn’t ended.
A wild groan escaped. A moan.
Sadly, not from us.
The garage door screeched open, and my daughter’s battered green Kia Soul inched its nose into the garage. A horn blared.
I jumped like an Olympic gymnast.
To Charlie’s credit, he didn’t drop me.
My feet touched the ground. Still, Charlie’s arms held me against him.
“For heaven’s sake, Mom, rent a room.” Sissy slid her swelling frame from her boxy car and cupped her hands around her baby bump. “Charlie, can you help me carry the groceries? I’m making dinner. Have a hankering for summer salad pie.” She waddled past with one nearly empty canvas shopping bag in one hand, her purse in the other. “Oh, and move the ladder so I can drive my car in.” She continued chatting as she walked through the house. Thankfully, we heard only mumbles.
“Sissy’s cooking again?” Charlie swallowed hard, as though avoiding a gag. For over a month, he’d endured my daughter’s hormonal cravings—bacon-banana muffins, ice cream and olive oil, or strawberries and blood orange infused balsamic vinegar.
I wouldn’t have blamed him if he retched.
He stepped toward her car. Such a fine figure of a fifty-year-old. Nine months younger than I, we teased about me being the cougar and he the studly youth. My child-groom didn’t need to know what summer salad pie contained. I’m sure, given her other menu choices, he knew whipped cream wouldn’t be in the ingredients.
Lemon Jell-O, pimento-stuffed olives, and tuna fish. Even before she became pregnant, Sissy devoured the concoction.
I joined Charlie and grabbed a few bags. “By the way, can you move your mother’s remains? Maybe store her in your closet? She scared—”
“Mom! Come here! Mom, Mom, Mom!”
My heart thumped as Sissy’s words screeched through the garage. I dropped my grocery bags—not even worrying whether they contained anything breakable—and sprinted into the house—with hubby right behind me.
Sissy sat on the closed toilet in the guest bath with the blood-pressure monitor still wrapped around her arm. Her face matched the bathroom’s white porcelain. Her lips, drained of color, almost mirrored her skin.
“Cecilia, you scared your mother—”
“It’s 180 over 110.” Sissy’s brown eyes stared up at us, tears clouding them.
“Take a deep breath,” I told her. “You’ve taken your medicine, haven’t you?”
“Of course. I’m not an idiot.” She inhaled.
As though her inhale infected me, I, too, took a deep, cleansing breath. My nerves steadied. My daughter was nothing if not dramatic.
The swoosh of the pressure cuff refocused me. Sissy’s breathing had changed the pressure—182/115.
“We’re heading to the ER.” I helped Sissy stand.
“Wait.” She slipped a wallet out of her pocketbook. The purse tumbled over, spilling the contents alongside the toilet. “They’ll want insurance stuff.” She waved the leather in front of my face. She stooped to pick up her junk.
“Let’s go. We’ll worry about this later. I took her damp, cool arm.
Her wide eyes pooled with tears, and she trembled.
Like a gallant knight, Charlie guided her through the pass-through former bedroom abutting the bath. He held her arm as they shuffled through the garage, and he half hoisted Sissy into the back seat of his jeep, not an easy accomplishment, nor comfortable. I scrambled—with a hand up—into the back with my baby.
My husband was a cautious driver—or so he led me to believe. I figure this was why I drove my Mustang and he a Wrangler. Today proved me wrong. Charlie raced down the street at a speed that would make Dale Earnhardt—father and son—proud. Charlie took curves on two tires, raced through every red light, passed a speeding cop car—or so I imagined, and I didn’t care. I held my little girl. My hand smoothed her hair as we both mumbled prayers.
She had her daddy’s blood pressure issues. What if she died on me like Henry had?
God wouldn’t be so brutal.
***
Charlie
Northport blurred into Kings Park, then turned into Smithtown. Finally, St. Luke’s Hospital came into sight.
I swerved into my right-hand turn. My Wrangler’s tires squealed against the black pavement. Sissy might die. She couldn’t. Not on my watch.
I loved this young woman. In the six weeks she lived with me, she became as much my daughter as Margo.
At the ER entrance, my Wrangler screeched to a stop—tires smoking. I hopped out, leaving the door swinging. After hoisting Sissy from the back seat, I carried her through the doors reserved for ambulances.
“My daughter. Pre-eclampsia. Her blood pressure’s over 180.” I lifted her like an offering.
Nurses tucked Sissy into a wheelchair and whisked her away. “Sign her in at the registration desk,” said another nurse or attendant or someone in those pajama suits medical people wore.
Chantel clung to me. Her nails dug into my arm. I thought she was digging for blood. “Where?”
The medical assistant pointed. “Down the hall. Once she’s registered, go to the waiting room. We’ll find you once she’s stable.”
Fifteen minutes later, we found the aptly named waiting room.
I drew Chantel into my arms.
“Not now, Charlie. Sheesh.” Chantel pulled away.
Does she think ...? I wandered to the other end of the room.
Chantel gnawed her nails. A sure sign she wasn’t a happy camper.
How could I heal her pain? For too many years, my late wife kept me at bay, hiding her shame and her antics. Her addiction destroyed Margo and me. Because of Corinne, never would I ignore Chantel’s pain.
Chantel paced. At the wall, she pivoted like a soldier, then walked back to where she started.
I too strode across the room, then ran into my bride, knocking into her back. “Sorry—”
She flailed her hands—my signal to shut up.
We sat. We stood. Lingered. Dawdled.
Waited.
Now slumped in the chair, I watched Chantel’s marching as though her action riveted me like a Vin Diesel movie. Swallowing became impossible. Another death on my watch couldn’t happen. That’s why Sissy lived with us.
My mind drifted to a month and a half ago.
Sissy’s husband, Butch, had called. Sissy’s blood pressure had been running high. He didn’t know when the army would deploy him to a hot spot—rumor had it he’d be deployed any day. He’s a Green Beret, gone in a moment—who knew where?
“We can’t leave her in North Carolina by herself.” Chantel’s eyes had grown big and soulful when Butch asked if she could stay with us.
“Fort Bragg has doctors.” I teased my future wife. I’d already figured I’d put Sissy in the guest room across from the master, the only other private bedroom in my house. The third bedroom had been converted into a throughway into the study I had added on in the back of the garage. That room wouldn’t give her any privacy.
“But she’s my baby. What if she dies like ...?”
As if Sissy’s needs hadn’t already sacked me, my wife’s pleas completed the blitz. How could I look into her hound-dog eyes and deny her request?
Of course, I could never tell her I always thought of the soulful eyes of a hound dog when I peered into those gorgeous baby-browns. She’d spit fire and call me insulting.
Six weeks ago, Sissy moved to New York. Long Island. Northport. My house. With me.
Daughters. Had God ever created anything finer? Well, aside from football? Even without Chantel’s petitions, I would’ve insisted she come here as soon as Butch asked.
I enjoyed watching the love of my life beg, knowing full well she’d get anything she wanted.
My wife. Thoughts of Chantel turned my attention back to her.
After sitting for five minutes, I needed movement. Only action would work off my worry. I stood and paced while Chantel organized magazines on the table. Fear had to have slobberknocked her. Her head bent in concentration, and her hair hid her face.
My heart sped up, and my breath rasped like a freight train.
She was adorable when she worried.
“Why isn’t anyone talking to us? It’s been”—she looked at her watch—”two hours.”
Despite the unease in her voice and the stiffness in her shoulders, I wanted to kiss her sweet lips. “Probably because they’re looking after your daughter.”
“Don’t be fresh.”
Her words sounded harsh, but her voice purred. The plea of her heart shattered mine despite a smidgeon of hope. If they admitted Sissy, I couldn’t see how they wouldn’t, Chantel would be all mine for a few days—like newlyweds were supposed to be. Alone. We’d sit in the Jacuzzi, neck on the couch—in short, continue our honeymoon when our workdays ended.
I buried my head against Chantel’s. Her hair smelled good—kind of like the football field after the custodians mowed—only sweeter. I kissed her curls and dreamed of an extended honeymoon.
Except.
Marching band camp started Monday. If I complained about her obsession with band and the hours spent on it, she’d point out my football fixation. I’d be a sacked quarterback.
Her marching band and my Eagles? We were a matched set. Only she was prettier.
I ran my hand through her hair and whispered in her ear, “Sissy will be okay.”
She giggled.
“Glad my words cheer you.”
“Not your words. Your whispering tickles my ear.”
I blew again.
Her squirming nestled her closer.
“Mrs.—?” The doctor blew into the room, ruffling papers on his clipboard.
“Sanders.” Chantel slid from my arms.
He signaled us into a consultation room. “Cecilia’s doing fine. No significant protein in her urine. We changed her blood pressure medicine and added a corticosteroid. Her pressure’s down—140/90. Edema’s reduced.
“You gave her a what?” Seemed like an odd treatment.
“Edema. Means swelling.” Chantel winked. “Not enema.”
The doctor tugged his ear. As he crinkled his forehead, his bushy eyebrows resembled a wooly bear. He continued. “We’ll have to induce if her pressure doesn’t stay down.”
“But she’s not even eight months.”
“Let’s not assume the worst. We’ve had good results on this medication.”
“She’ll be okay?” Chantel clasped her hands in front of her chest like a beggar.
How pretty my wife looked. My throat thickened. How could desire overwhelm me when fear consumed her?
“Bed rest should keep the pressure down along with the swelling in her ankles. She’s at thirty-one weeks. If we can delay delivery until thirty-seven weeks, she should be okay.”
“Bed rest?” I did the math. “Five weeks? More than a month of lying around?” I checked myself. My alarm alarmed me. In my defense, I’ve already spent a month and a half with Sissy. Healthy, her moods and demands drove me insane. In bed? Bored?
I swallowed hard and refocused on the doc.
“... well to treatment. I see no reason she couldn’t go full term. We’ll keep her here a day—maybe two if we have to adjust medications. You can see her now. She’s in the ER until we can find her a room. He stepped aside.
Chantel swept past, a running back in all her glory.
I saw the offensive play heading my way. Chantel never returned home from marching band until late. Once school began, her schedule would include regular music. She’d dawdle at school every night ‘til November. Late November this year. Her band had made the cut and would march in Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade.
The Eagles, even with winning three state football championships, never spent so much time in practice. Two hours. Three max. But marching band? Didn’t the Eaglets exist for the team? Weren’t we the stars? Not the tuba players.
During the regular school year, I came home by six. I’d be spending three hours alone with Cecilia until Chantel returned from one practice or another. My marriage couldn’t survive all this Sissy-drama.
My worry isn’t as mean as it sounds.
When I stopped ruminating like an old cow, I stood alone in the waiting room. I hurried back to the treatment area where Chantel hovered over her daughter.
Six long hours later, time spent mostly waiting for an available room in the regular hospital, my stomach grumbled.
Rubbing her bloodshot eyes, Chantel looked up. “We should go, Charlie. Let Sissy sleep.”
She didn’t have to suggest leaving a second time. My stomach argued with me as I drove our Wrangler down St. Luke’s long driveway. “Want ice cream?” We might only have been married a week, but I knew how to tempt my bride.
“It’s after midnight.”
“Freddy-Lou’s is open twenty-four-seven. They make killer hot fudge sundaes.”
“Not for you.” Chantel swatted my gut. “You’ll eat a full banana split, not a microscopic sundae—after you devoured French fries and burgers. I didn’t marry Tweedledee.” She laughed.
At the stoplight, I studied her as her laughter turned to guffaws. Tears glinted in the lights of the headlights shining from a car behind us. She swiped her cheek.
Our light turned green as her horselaughs turned to sobs. I reached for her hand. The car behind us blared its horn.
I pulled into a convenience store and fumbled for her. My seatbelt restrained me. “Are you okay?”
“Will she live? How about her baby?”
“Have faith, babe. Sissy will be fine.”
She nodded, then burrowed back against her seat, her head settled on the headrest, and her hand grasped mine. Tension oozed out of the car. “I need espresso-almond-chip. A double scoop.”
Midnight had passed, but sweet things wouldn’t end with ice cream.
Five minutes later, I pulled into our favorite ice cream shop on 25A. Scooting out of the car, I raced around the front. I’d be a gentleman and make up for all my grousing while waiting for Sissy to be brought to her room. And, I guess, for my general crabbiness as the evening wore on.
The passenger door pulled too easily with my tug.
Chantel tumbled and hit the pavement.
A snicker bubbled up. Trouble would follow the humor I found in her nose-dive.
“Uhhhh.”
Don’t quote me on her words, but she moaned something like uhhhh. I lifted her and helped settle her back into the seat. I propped my knee on the running board. “Are you okay?” In the dim parking lot, I made out the slow shake of her head.
Chantel clutched her hand to her chest, cradled her arm with her other hand. She looked up at me with wide eyes.
“Let me see.” I took her arm.
“Yeow!”
No mistaking her yowl.
“Can you wiggle your fingers?”
“I am.” She moaned.
No fingers moved.
What do I do?
