Having The Soldier's Baby

She nodded. She could do that. “Thank you,” she said, grinning—and crying again, too. She was guessing it was too soon to blame that on hormones.

“Of course,” Dr. Hamilton said. “If you have your own obstetrician, you’ll need to schedule an appointment, but if you’d like us to continue to follow you, we’ll get you scheduled for everything now.”

They both stood, Emily on weak knees. “I’m staying here,” she said. There’d never been any question on that one.

Dr. Hamilton opened the door, led the way down the hall, and for a second there, as she followed the woman, Emily hugged herself.

Wednesday, June 26. Winston’s baby was growing inside her!

She prayed that wherever he was, he knew. And was smiling, too.

* * *

He’d been by the house twice. Once when he’d first arrived in San Diego. He’d rented a car and driven up to Marie Cove just to see the home he and Emily had purchased together. To see if he could tell if she was still living there.

The curtains had been the same—which didn’t say a lot. The yard had been manicured in a way that pleased him—which was saying a lot, but not that she was still living there. He hadn’t hung around long enough to notice anything else. Where she was hadn’t mattered. What mattered was knowing she was okay.

He’d requested that someone he trusted on base ask around for him. And had toasted her with a few beers when he’d heard that she was still at the same firm, with the same home address. He knew nothing more than that. Hadn’t wanted to know.

If she was remarried, living with someone, it was none of his business. He wished her well from the bottom of his heart. Needed her to be happy.

The second time he drove by, he’d meant to stop. In light of the agreement he’d made with the naval psychiatrist, he’d asked if he could be the one to let his wife know he was still alive. After all, he wasn’t assuming a new identity. Which meant that they had to divorce for her to be free to continue living her new life. No one but him was going to be able to convince her of that. And her seeing what he’d become, understanding from the moment she heard he was still living that her husband was never coming back, was mandatory for her well-being.

But that Wednesday in June, a week after his first meeting with his shrink, he drove a different rental car right by the house he now knew to still be Emily’s home, without even slowing down. Thing was, it struck him, turning onto that street, that the house was still his, too. His name was on the title.

Which made things messy. He didn’t do messy these days. His life had one dimension left, and messy didn’t compute there.

So he drove on by.

* * *

There were just too many cribs in the world. And not enough to choose from in the stores. Pulling into her driveway Saturday, just before noon, Emily barely noticed the car parked out front. Her mind was on the four-in-one convertible crib she’d seen online—the one with the drawer underneath and the far side that was taller than the others, like a headboard. She’d hoped to find it that morning, to have a chance to make sure in person that it was easy enough for her to manipulate alone before she purchased it. And she wanted it in white. Or brown. Half of what she’d seen was gray. As popular as the color was apparently becoming in the home design world, she just couldn’t bring more gray into her life. And most particularly not into the nursery.

It wasn’t until she’d pulled into her garage, pushed the button to close the door behind her, entered in through the kitchen and heard a knock on her front door that she thought of the car out front. A dark, expensive-looking sedan. In the back of her mind she’d figured it belonged to someone visiting the family across the street. The Bloomingtons had a lot of extended family, and an endless number of weekend get-togethers. They had a lovely backyard pool. Had invited her over a few times...

Reaching for the front door handle, she wondered if the visit was just that—another Bloomington family invitation. It was June, soon to be July. Warm and sunny. Made sense they’d be having a pool party...

Stopping just short of unlocking the door, she peered out the peephole.

What?

She knew the white dress uniform of the naval officer, thought maybe she recognized the female chaplain who accompanied him. And maybe the other guy looked familiar, too, a medical something or other. The team that had come within a day of Winston going missing two years before had looked eerily similar.

With a sick feeling, she stood still for a moment. Even with a mental rundown of every loved one she could ever remember having, she couldn’t come up with someone they’d be there to tell her about. She’d already lost the only navy officer she’d ever loved.

Were they there about the baby? Winston’s heir? No. She shook her head. That made no sense. But thinking of the small life inside her gave her the strength to straighten up and open the door.

“I’m Senior Chief Petty Officer Greg Hall...” The man introduced himself and the chaplain and medic with him. She stood frozen. “May we come in?”

Standing back, she let them enter, closed the door, showed them to the couch in the living room. Two years before, she’d brought them to the dining room table. And had had trouble eating at the table for weeks after they’d left.

She didn’t use the living room much anymore. She was always in her office, where she had a comfortable lounger and television, or going to bed, when she was at home.

That would change, though. Now that she was going to be a family.

And then it hit her.

“I already got the letter,” she said, before Officer Hall could do more than settle on the edge of the chair across from them. “I know Winston’s been proclaimed dead.”

“That’s what we need to speak with you about, Mrs. Hannigan.” Officer Hall, a man looking to be close to forty with a hint of silver at his temples, spoke as his small team watched her.

They were ready to react, she supposed, to needs she might express. Whether emotional or physical. Nice of them, really. But quite unnecessary at this point.

She’d held it together the last time a team had visited her, too. Back then she’d been certain that Winston would return to her.

“That letter... I don’t quite know how to express this...it’s unusual, to be sure...”

She waited. Felt for the guy. What, her death benefits weren’t going to be as described? She could tell him she didn’t care, but knew that the navy had its protocols. That there was probably a manual description Officer Hall was attempting to adhere to. Protocols were there for good reason, Winston always used to tell her.

Chaplain Blaine, her tag read on the navy blue jacket, leaned forward, almost reaching out a hand that, instead, landed on her own knee.

Hall coughed. “Are you here alone, ma’am?”

“Yes.” If you didn’t count the baby.

“And, since your husband was declared dead, are you in a relationship...?” He cleared his throat. “Is there anyone else who could or should be here with you?”

Frowning, Emily looked from one to the other of the three of them. All in their uniforms. Looking so...uncomfortable. She didn’t get it. She’d already been told Winston was dead.

What could they tell her that would be worse than death?

“I don’t need anyone here with me,” she said. “I live alone. And no, I’m not in a relationship, though what that has to do with anything...” She let her words trail off as she heard the defensiveness in her tone. They were good people doing their jobs. Apparently a very difficult one that morning.

Stomach churning, Emily was taking a breath to ask what was going on when Officer Hall spoke.

“We’re here to tell you that your husband is not dead, Mrs. Hannigan...”

He said more. She could hear the drone of a male voice. Felt eyes on her. Met the gaze of the redheaded chaplain and locked there.

Your husband is not dead, Mrs. Hannigan.

Was she going crazy? Had he really said those incredible, beautiful, miraculous words? But...

There was compassion in the chaplain’s gaze. Along with other things she couldn’t decipher at the moment. But one thing was pretty clear. There was no light of joy. No sparkle. With jerky movements, she turned her head, taking in the two officers on either side of Chaplain Blaine.

“Winston’s alive?” Before she could figure this out, she had to make certain she’d heard right. That she wasn’t losing her mind right there in her own living room just three days after she’d found happiness again—in the form of the life inside her.

“Yes.” Officer Hall nodded, as though to emphasize the word. Maybe knowing that emphasis was needed on her side of the room?

“He’s alive!” She stood, clasped her hands, teared up, as all three officers remained seated, watching her. Seemingly concerned, as opposed to just being polite.

So though she needed to run outside and scream to the world, she figured that could wait until she was alone. She sat. Faced them.

“What’s wrong?” It didn’t matter what they told her. Her man was alive. They could get through anything else.

Winston was alive! And she had a baby to give him! There could be no mistake in that timing. Finally! Yes! Life was making sense again and...

“He’s been living with extremists for the past two years, Emily,” the chaplain spoke now. “He’s not the man you knew him to be.”

They had no idea what she knew of Winston—bodies changed, thoughts changed, even hearts changed sometimes, but souls...they were forever. And that’s what she knew. Souls didn’t change.

Winston had shared his with her. She still kept it tightly held within her heart.

“I realize that combat takes its toll,” she said now. Had he lost his legs? Or maybe his face had been blown up? Whatever, she didn’t care—other than for the pain he’d suffered and could still be suffering. “It’s fine. I’m fully capable of handling it. Just tell me where he is and when I can see him.”

“That’s just it, ma’am,” Hall said. “He doesn’t want to see you. Not yet.”

So he was that bad. She shook her head. Confused. Winston knew that while she was wildly attracted to him, physical appearance was only a small part of the bond between them.

“Not yet.” She homed in on what she felt she could master in the moment. “When, then?”

“Soon,” Chaplain Hall said while the medic remained alert, but mute. “He’s going to contact you, but felt that just dropping in on you would be too much...”

Too much? Frowning, she was done with the polite talk.

“Tell me what’s going on. What happened to him? He’s capable of just dropping in? Where is he? And how long have you known he’s alive?”

“We aren’t at liberty to answer all of that,” Hall said, his hat in his hands, literally. “I can assure you that physically, your husband is fine. In top shape. Mentally he’s as sharp as ever.”

Which left... “And emotionally?”

“He’s a changed man, Mrs. Hannigan. You need to be prepared.”

Suddenly she didn’t want to hear any more. Not from a team. Not from strangers. “Do his parents know?”

“No. He’s only been back in the States a short time. Because he was already declared dead, and because he’s of sound mind, and because everything about him right now, everything he’s been through, everything he knows, is of a sensitive nature, his wishes to remain as though dead were granted for a short time.”

“So now they’re being told as well?”

“Not yet. But soon.”

“So I’m to keep quiet about this?” Finally, a charge she could grasp hold of. Something she could be a part of.

“That’s up to you, Emily.” Chaplain Blaine spoke again. “Winston made it clear that if you needed to talk with your parents, or his, you were to be at liberty to do so. We’d only ask that you give the navy a chance to visit them first.”

She shook her head. Her husband obviously hadn’t wanted their families to know yet. He’d have reasons. “I’m fine to wait,” she said. “For as long as he needs.”

Forever, if that’s what it took him to be able to find his way back to her.

Because he would. She knew he would.

And when he did, she’d have a gift that would heal his hurting heart as only a miracle could do.

Chapter Five

He’d had no plan. Why hadn’t he seen it? He’d changed his mind, told them to tell her and then he’d had no immediate plan for what came next. Shaking his head, Winston tried not to notice the possible mirrored shaking in his hand on the wheel of yet another rental car on Sunday morning.

He could buy his own car.

On base, he didn’t really need one. Had been able to borrow a ride, or, for the trips to Marie Cove, rent a vehicle quite easily. Much cleaner. No loan. No mess. California was a “community property” state. If he bought something while married, his wife had joint ownership. And joint responsibility for any debt.

He had no right to land Emily with debt.

Renting a car, driving to Marie Cove, had been nowhere on Sunday’s agenda. He’d had a visit from Officer Hall on Saturday afternoon, letting him know that Emily was aware he was alive. And that she’d said she’d keep his being alive a secret until he wanted it otherwise.

That was it. Hall had given him nothing else. Not a word about how she looked. How she took the news. If she had another man in her life.

Not one damned thing.

How could he know how to proceed with her on nothing? He needed intel, for Chrissake. He’d worked out on the lifting machine. Then run. Had a late dinner. Tried to write a bit—doing as ordered and making notes of his time in Afghanistan, cataloging things that had happened as they came to him.

Eventually he’d slept—without the help of the sleep aid one of the doctors he’d seen over the past weeks had prescribed to him.

And woken to stare at the ceiling and wonder if Emily was doing the same. Staring at the ceiling. Trying to understand why the man who’d known her deepest fears—and her greatest desires and secret fantasies—didn’t want to see her.

Had she asked how he was? Where he was?

What must her mind be doing to her this day? He’d been at the car rental place before they opened, and was on the road before he’d had time to think about the plan. And realized there wasn’t one.

Was he just going to show up on the doorstep? Would it be kinder to call first? And how would that go? “Emily, this is Winston...”

She’d know his voice the second she heard it. Maybe. Unless tonal quality changed with loss of soul.

She wouldn’t know the number. The navy had given him a temporary phone, pay-as-you-go, with its own number. Had Emily kept his number active? Been paying for it on their plan for two years even though he hadn’t been using it?

He knew she had. It’s what she’d do. Emily hadn’t changed. He had.

Of course, she’d thought him dead. For at least a month. A billing cycle. The number might be gone.

He didn’t think so.

Didn’t know why he was obsessing over a frickin’ number.

He wasn’t going to call her. What would be the point? He had to see her. To work out the legal details. He’d given his word.

And now that she knew he was alive, she deserved the truth. She needed to know that he was dead inside. It was the only way to set her free.

Pulling into the drive, he took a deep breath, allowing himself to experience fully as he’d been ordered. And felt...nothing. He knew the slope. Most of the cracks. Saw the little dent in the garage, lower right, where he’d run the riding mower a little too close because he’d been busy gazing at his wife, who’d come outside in a pair of really short denim shorts and a black halter top.

His brain computed the memory. Nothing else happened. Not anywhere. Not even a little twinge beneath the fly of his uniform khakis.

He hadn’t needed to wear them. He was off duty. He just needed to hit a store and get some clothes. Everything he’d had with him had been lost in the desert when he’d walked into the enemy camp and offered to become a traitor to his country to distract them long enough for his comrades to get to safety. Everything he’d left behind that day had been returned in a box of effects to his widow.

The navy had helped him get a new driver’s license. Had provided uniforms, skivvies, socks, shoes. Enough to last a few days. His barracks had a laundry facility.

He had to get out of the car to get the job done. So he did. Shut the door like a man with a job to do. Walked with straight shoulders and purpose toward the front steps. Climbed them.

The front door had been painted. It was beige now. Used to be white. Hand raised to knock, he was startled as the door flew open.

“Winston? Oh my God, Winston! I knew you’d come. I was waiting. I knew!” The chatter went on, slightly garbled with tears, as weight slammed against his body.

He grabbed for it, lest it fall. Or lest he did. Arms clung to him, around his neck, as breasts fitted against his chest in a familiar, completely natural way. His arms lowered enough to find their place at the curve of waist just below his waist as his foot scooted, allowing room for the smaller foot sliding in between his two.

The drill was embedded. As much of his naval training had been. It all came back to him with ease. Until Emily lifted her head, gazed into his eyes, and planted her mouth against his.

Lips pursed tightly closed, he stood there, eyes open.

And waited for her to figure out that the man she’d known and loved no longer existed.

* * *

Eyes closed, Emily couldn’t have stood alone. Couldn’t think at all. Her heart pounded with Winston’s pulse, her hands clung to the warmth of the skin at his neck, her body leaning into him as it had always done.

Tears poured out of her, two years of sorrow, and joy, too, so much that she was wrapped in a sense of unreality—as though sensation was all there was.

No time. No place.

If heaven existed on earth, she was in it. And content to explode joy within it forever and ever. World without end.

Her lips on his were only more of the joining—not a kiss; basic lust was far too coarse for that world—as Winston seemed to know. He didn’t open his mouth. Or devour her.

Even his usual hot and heavy desire respected their space. Souls long parted, together again. Nothing touched that.

At some point he picked her up and carried her inside. Snuggled up against his big strong navy man body, she held on, feeling uncharacteristically needy. Winston was home. She didn’t have to be strong. To carry all the weight. She sniffled. Knew she had to stop the tears. They’d been bottled up for so long...

He laid her back against the couch. Let her go.

She waited for him to sit so she could climb up onto his lap. He’d liked it, when they’d go out to a bar, when she sat on his lap. She knew why.

Sex wasn’t why she wanted to be there now. Their sexual connection could wait. She just needed the reality of him. The warmth. The feel of him breathing.

He didn’t sit. At least, not on the couch. He lowered himself to the edge of a chair neither of them had ever used—not in her memory. It had come with the set. But he sat there now.

“You look good.” She would remember those words forever. The first time she’d heard his voice in more than two years.

“I look a mess,” she told him, suddenly conscious of the cutoff sweat shorts and T-shirt she was wearing, both his, while she’d been sitting at her computer, drinking decaffeinated tea and looking at cribs. Her hair was just hanging there. Long and...straight. She’d always curled it. Done fancy things with clips and scrunchies. He’d liked it because he’d loved undoing all her hard work.

If there’d been any makeup, which there hadn’t, she’d have cried it all off anyway.

“You look good,” he said again. His gaze hadn’t left her. But for the first time in their lives, she couldn’t be sure what was going on with him. He didn’t seem to share her joy. Or seem...anything. Happy. Uncomfortable. Sad.

He’s a changed man, Mrs. Hannigan. Officer Hall’s words came back to her.

And she straightened up. Wiped her eyes. Took the handkerchief Winston handed her and cleaned up her face.

What a selfish witch she was being. Winston was the one who’d suffered. He needed her to be strong.

Just the day before, she’d sworn she’d handle whatever was to come, give him whatever he needed from her, love him back to health. She had it in her. There was no doubt about that.

Yet here she was falling apart like a sappy idiot. It was just that... With a small, intimate smile and fresh tears, she said, “You look good,” right back to him.

Relief filled her when he nodded, seemingly pleased. And, oh God, he looked good. So good. Better than she’d ever imagined.

He’d been well fed—though he was as lean as ever. His skin tone was tanned and healthy. She didn’t notice any scars, not that his uniform gave her a lot of opportunity in that area. His hair, as dark as always, was cut in its usual short style with the little bit of bang that she liked to run her fingers through just to tease him. His brown eyes were as big as she remembered, and those lips...still full of every ability to twist her stomach in knots.

“You’re well?” he asked.

She grinned again. “I am now. It’s been a bit lonely around here...”

His nod was curt, yet seemingly expressing satisfaction at the same time. She couldn’t explain it, but accepted the thought just the same.

“And you?” she asked. Reading Winston had always been easy for her. Not so now, and yet it was more critical than ever. She didn’t doubt for a second that she could do it if he gave her just a little more time. He was worth the effort.

“I’m well,” he told her. Still watching her. She wasn’t sure he’d even stopped long enough to blink. The stare might have been unnerving, except that this was Winston. Her soul mate, lover and best friend. Home again.

“There are things we need to discuss,” he said.

She nodded. And then, in a flurry of realizations, jumped up and ran to a drawer in the kitchen. Pulling out the key ring, she started to cry again for a second. She’d thought those keys had been put permanently to rest.

“Here,” she said, back in the living room, handing the keys to Winston. He took them, looked at them for a long few seconds.

Almost as though he didn’t recognize them. Hall had assured her that his mental faculties were all there.

“Your car’s still in the garage,” she told him. His house keys were on that ring, too.

Oh my God! He’s home!

His pillow won’t be empty tonight! She had to make meat loaf for dinner. He particularly loved her meat loaf. There was no ground beef in the house. She’d need to run to the grocery. Didn’t want to leave him for even a second. So maybe they could go together. He might need a new toothbrush. His had been sitting unused in the cup for a long time. Did bristles get brittle?

“Your clothes are all still in your closet and drawers.” She hurried into speech when he looked up at her with an expression she didn’t recognize. “You can change if you like.”

Yeah. Let him get comfortable. Thinking about his favorite shorts and T-shirts, remembering how he’d wear them on Sunday mornings because he could just relax, she was so thankful she’d held on to his things, rather than donating them as had been suggested to her by more than one well-meaning person. Her mother among them.

“Change?” He frowned.

“Into something more comfortable,” she told him. “I’m assuming all the navy has provided you with is uniforms.” Why else would he be in one so early on a Sunday morning?

He nodded. Frowned. And then nodded again, before he stood. “You mind if I go...” He pointed to the hall that led back to their bedroom.

“Of course not, Win, this is your home as much as it is mine!”