The Baby Connection
Dawn Atkins
He's a real game-changer…No better way to kick off her career than a fabulous weekend with a rock-star journalist! When Melody "Mel" Ramirez and Noah Stone part ways after those intense days, she knows nothing will stop her rise to the top as a news photographer.Nothing except a positive pregnancy test. Suddenly, Mel trades chasing breaking news with the routines of a single mom.Then Noah reappears. None of the intensity from that weekend has gone away. If anything, their attraction is stronger, thanks to the son they share. But is Noah ready to downsize his career for a family? As easy as it is for Mel and Noah to be together, being a parent isn't so easy. And if Noah stays, she wants him for good!
Need poured through Noah
He kissed Mel and felt her instant response. She grabbed the back of his neck and yanked him tighter against her. He smiled against her mouth. Mel didn’t do things halfway. Intense. The way it had been two years ago, the two of them connected. Career and ambition had been the bond then. And now? What tied them now?
An accident on both their parts, but a person had resulted. Daniel. And that changed everything.
Suddenly, Mel sat up and straightened her shirt. “I guess that’s the same,” she said.
“Yeah.” He watched her face, a million thoughts in his head.
“But we’re not,” she said, biting her lip.
“No.” He was far from the man he’d been. She was weighed down, too, but in a good way, by the child who was her whole world.
“I wish we could go back,” she said. “I do.” She touched his face, desire sparking in her eyes for a moment. “But we can’t.”
“I guess not.”
“Then go, Noah,” she said softly. “Get on with your life and we’ll get on with ours. Sometimes the right thing to do is to walk away.”
Dear Reader,
This book is dear to my heart. It stars people whose lives seem so distant from my own I don’t know how I got the courage to write their stories. Not to get all mystical on you, but it was as if they grabbed me and wouldn’t let go until I did.
I’ve always had an affinity for Latin culture, which has woven through my life in major ways. But I’m not Latina, so writing Mel threw me at first. Daniel, a baby, wasn’t easy either, since I haven’t dealt with bibs and bottles in, ahem, two decades.
Then there was Noah. Though I’ve been a freelance feature writer, I’ve never been to journalism school, nor have I covered a war, and I know nothing about the army or Iraq. Needless to say, I was somewhat lost when I began this book.
Thankfully, I got expert help from friends who planted me firmly in the unfamiliar soil I wanted to explore. Eerily, many of my instinctive ideas were borne out in what they told me of their lives and work, which gave me chills and made me even more proud of this book.
The story is about making tough choices in life, about living with mistakes that cost lives, about the sacrifices we make for those we love, and about filling life with meaning. It’s about love between mothers and daughters and fathers and sons and more—at least that was my intent. You can tell me if I hit the mark.
I hope this book touches your heart as it did mine, and that it reminds you of your connections with the people you love most.
All my best,
Dawn Atkins
P.S.—Please visit me online at www.dawnatkins.com.
The Baby Connection
Dawn Atkins
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Award-winning author Dawn Atkins has written more than twenty novels for Harlequin Books. Known for her funny, poignant romance stories, she’s won a Golden Quill Award and has been a several-times RT Book Reviews Reviewers’ Choice Award finalist. Dawn lives in Arizona with her husband and son.
In memory of Maria Irene Dominguez,
con todo cariño, forever in my heart
Acknowledgments
Heartfelt gratitude to Iraq veteran U.S. Army Sgt. Christopher Dodge, Scout Sniper, 1st Battalion, 8th Infantry, who made the Iraq sequences come alive. (All errors are mine.) Thanks to investigative journalists Eric Miller and Susan Leonard—gracious friends—and the Iraq war correspondents who contributed to Embedded: The Media at War in Iraq, by Bill Katovsky and Timothy Carlson. Mil gracias to Julia Martinez, who shared her life with me so I could more clearly see Mel’s; to Sonya Morillon, who loved my little boy as her own; and to my dear friend Irene Dominguez, who inspired me to create Mel in the first place.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER ONE
HIP-CHECKING A PERSISTENT blonde, Mel Ramirez broke through the clot of people to reach the star journalist who had packed half the Arizona State University student body into the auditorium. “Ready to head to the hotel?” she said to him.
“With you?” Noah Stone gave her a friendly once-over. “Oh, I’m down.” He was clearly teasing, but sparklers went off in Mel’s stomach all the same.
The blonde gave her the evil eye. Who the hell are you?
“I’m your driver,” Mel clarified, her cheeks a bit hot. She’d jumped at the chance to escort the J-school graduation speaker to his hotel, but didn’t want anyone to think she was propositioning the guy.
Cálmate, chica. Keep your dignity. She was no silly fan girl. She’d just graduated with highest honors and had a job at a prestigious newspaper, starting Monday. She and Noah Stone were now colleagues. The short drive ahead gave her precious minutes to glean secrets from a journalist at the top of his game.
Noah’s reporting was incisive, searing, brilliant. She knew that. What she hadn’t known was how flat-out hot he was.
Ay, Dios.
His publicity photos didn’t convey the knowing gleam in his caramel eyes, the friendly tweak of his mouth that let you in on a private joke, how he pulled you close with his voice, and that small dimple that peeked out when he truly smiled. The guy was mid-thirties, but looked more her age, twenty-five, and—
“Happy to meet you, uh…?” He paused, waiting for her name.
“Mel. Mel Ramirez.”
“A pleasure.” He offered a firm grip, warm and solid. “So you’re going to tuck me in?”
Tuck him in. Oh. Wow. She sucked in a breath. He’d read her as okay with a friendly come-on. Good. “More or less,” she said, determined to match him, flirt for flirt.
“I vote more. You?”
The question stalled her thoughts, so she was relieved when Paul Stockton, one of her professors, approached, buying time for a comeback to occur to her.
“Torturing one of our top graduates?” Professor Stockton shook his head in mock disapproval. The two men had been J students at ASU ten years before. Professor Stockton told stories about Noah Stone in his classes. Even as a student, Noah had been known for risk-taking and relentlessness.
“I hope not.” Noah shot his gaze to her, concerned. “Was I out of line, Mel?”
“Not at all.” She smiled.
“This whole show has thrown me off my game. My good friend here asks me to be his fill-in speaker, then introduces me like I’m some celebrity.”
“You don’t think a Pulitzer means star status?” Paul asked.
“I do my job, that’s all. I got lucky with a few stories.”
“It was great you could fit us in before Iraq,” Mel said. On Monday, Noah would start his embed with the last of the troops in Iraq. Professor Stockton had convinced him to detour to Phoenix to speak to the graduates of the Walter Cronkite School of Communications as a personal favor.
Noah turned to her, as if surprised she knew his plans, so she continued, “And what you said about self-censorship being more dangerous to investigative journalism than shrinking news staff was important for us to hear.”
“I was quoting Carl Bernstein, not me.” He smiled.
“Congratulations on the job, by the way,” Paul said to her. “You’ll like it at Arizona News Day. The pay’s modest, but the circulation’s huge and some pretty big names cut their teeth there.”
“You, for instance,” Noah said. “You won, what, two Virg Hills?” The Virg Hill was the top journalism prize in the state. “Which was why National Record was hot to hire him.”
“You got me that job, Noah. Don’t be modest.” National Record was the magazine Noah worked for.
“And then—poof—you torpedoed your career.”
“He means, I got married and started a family,” Paul said.
“Not that there’s anything wrong with that,” Noah added.
“Man plans, God laughs.” Paul shrugged, clearly not bothered by his friend’s jabs. “And now I get to spend time with remarkable students like Mel.”
“I’m jerkin’ his chain,” Noah said. “Paul’s wife and daughter are great. They put me up last night. Or, I mean, put up with me.”
ASU had paid him an honorarium and hosted two nights at a hotel, she knew. He’d evidently come earlier to spend time with Paul.
“You made Cindi laugh, which she needs these days. The guesthouse is yours anytime the in-laws aren’t using it.”
He nodded, then homed in on Mel. “So you nailed a job already?”
“Yep. I start Monday. I’m a photographer.” The award-winning alternative weekly had a rare opening in the art department. “It was your recommendation that got me there,” she said to Professor Stockton. “Thank you again.”
“I only got you the interview. Your portfolio got you the offer.”
Noah’s gaze seemed to linger on her face, then he glanced at the dwindling crowd. “So, Paul, if you’re okay with me cutting out, I’d like to take Mel up on her offer of a ride to the hotel.”
“No problem.” Paul paused. “Good luck over there, Noah.”
“Thanks.” The two locked eyes for a quiet moment, then hugged farewell.
Noah watched Professor Stockton walk away. “They don’t come more solid than that guy.”
“He’s a great teacher. Everyone loves him.”
“No doubt.” He drew his attention to her again. “So where were we? Waiting for you to vote on tucking me in, I believe.”
Her long-neglected libido voted yes, oh, yes, but the rest of her had some discretion.
Noah stood close and looked even closer, so clearly interested that if he were interviewing her, she’d want to spill her guts…or take off her clothes. Settle down, muchacha. You’re his driver. Nothing more.
Yet. Oh, she was tempted. Mel had put herself through school by working full-time at a department store photo studio, which left little time to date. Sex was a misty memory.
Picking up her hesitation, Noah’s dark eyes went gentle. “I’m being obnoxious. Your job is to drive me to my hotel. If you’d do that, I’d be grateful, Mel.”
Damn.
“Do you have bags?”
“Right here.” He reached under a table for a scuffed black leather backpack covered in stickers from different countries. When he placed a friendly hand on her back, the touch burned through her blouse like a brand.
You melt from one touch now? she chided herself. Clearly, her sex drought had gone on too long.
“You coming to the bar?” a girl from her internet journalism class called to her from a group, eyeing Noah as though he’d be dessert.
Mel glanced at Noah, gauging his interest.
“If you want to go with your friends, I can get a cab,” he said.
“No. I’m fine,” she said to him. “Not tonight,” she called to the girl.
“Where are they headed? We used to hit the Chuck-box. Older than dirt and grimy as hell, but the burgers were cheap and they didn’t hassle you for tying up a table for hours.”
“They go to Four Peaks Brewery now. Great food, good prices.”
“They go? What about you?”
“I join them when I can. I’ve been working full-time, too.”
“So you’re a real journalist, not one of those ‘mass communications majors.’”
“You mean, I reeeeally want to do news, I mean, totally, be on TV, helping people to understand, like, the world.” She flipped her hair.
He laughed. “You’ve got that impression down solid.”
“I’ve had many class hours to study it. I shouldn’t make fun. They’re young.”
“And you’re, what, all of twenty-two?”
“Twenty-five, thank you very much.”
“Not that old. The difference is that you seem to know what you want.” He looked her over again, holding the exit door so that she passed close enough to catch the dark spice and deep woods scent of his cologne.
She led him to her Jetta and unlocked the doors. The car was stuffy from the day’s heat. It was only May, but the broil hit early in Arizona. Noah sat, then lifted something from the floorboard, which he held out. “Your portfolio?”
“Yeah. Thanks.” She put it in the back. He followed it with his eyes, which she thought was cool. He seemed curious about her work.
“I liked your description of the nitty-gritty of an investigation,” she said, making the most of the short drive to the hotel. “Combing through boxes of legal files, Dumpster diving for phone bills, waiting hours in a parking lot to ambush a bad guy trying to slip away.”
“Yeah, it’s a glamorous life, all right,” he said, chuckling. “I’ve got the scars.” He shoved up his sleeve to show her a bite mark. “Drug dealer’s pit bull.”
“Was that for the Life of a Banger series?”
“You read that?”
“I’ve read all your pieces.” She hoped that didn’t come out too breathless. Why wouldn’t she study the best in the business? He said he’d just been doing his job and she intended to follow his lead. She couldn’t wait to get started.
“Some of that early stuff was pretty rough.” He shifted in his seat.
“Not that I could tell. And you got a Pulitzer for the pain-med racket series that came out before that.”
“The team got the prize, Mel. And the magazine.”
She liked his modesty. “How did you get that guy to give up the doctors’ names to start with?”
“I found out his sister died of an OD, and when I mentioned her, he folded. It was pretty heavy. Sometimes you get deeper than you intend.”
“But it was so worth it. Those stories led to new regulations.”
“They were a factor, sure, but lots of people were in that fight.”
She let a second pass, then said, “My favorite was your story on that national guard soldier who missed his child’s birth due to redeployment.”
“Yeah? That one was tough. I knew he’d get flack from his superiors for breaking rank and talking to me. Afterward, though, he told me he was glad. That’s not always the case. A hell of a lot of people regret talking to me.”
“But it’s your job to get the truth, even when it hurts.”
He shot her a look, then stared out the windshield. She could tell he liked what she’d said. The conversation felt so natural. It had to be their shared passion for journalism, but it felt good to her. Damn good.
She’d been thirsty for this kind of talk, dreamed of it from the first day of her first class, but rarely experienced it, because she never had time to hang with classmates or professors. And now she was doing it with Noah Stone, the best of the best.
The hotel sign appeared, signaling the end of the trip. Damn. She pulled in and stopped. “The reservation’s prepaid for two nights, so you shouldn’t have any charges or—”
“Have a drink with me, Mel,” he said. “In a couple of days, I’ll be lost to the assignment and I won’t come up for air until it’s over. This feels good, talking with you. How about it?”
Yes, oh, yes, please. But she made herself look at her watch. “I guess I’ve got time for one drink….”
“Great.” He reached around for her portfolio. “All right if I look at your stuff?”
“If you want to. Sure.” She felt like pinching herself with excitement.
They headed straight to the bar, where they sat knee-to-knee at a small table, leaning in to hear each other over the soft piano someone played.
“This feels like a martini night to me,” he said. “We’re both about to take off—me to Iraq, you to your new job. Sound okay?”
“Sounds great.” She was celebrating her graduation, after all. The launch of her career. At last, she’d achieved what she’d worked so hard for. And she was doing it with Noah Stone, no less. This called for more than an ordinary glass of red wine for sure.
“Two martinis, up, two olives,” he told the waiter. “With gin, as God intended.”
As soon as the waiter left, Noah opened her book, shifted to the side so they could both look at the pages. They were so close she could see the crinkles around his eyes, the streaks of darker color in his light brown hair, which curled, untamed, to his collar. He had a beauty mark above one ear, and his cologne filled her head.
Their arms touched and they breathed in sync as he flipped the pages, commenting on the subtlest detail of shot after shot. His praise thrilled her, but she kept getting distracted by how close he was, how sexy, how mmm.
“I like these street graffiti ones a lot,” he said.
“The gang-squad cop told me they signified a turf war. I thought the way the styles clashed told that story.”
“Only because you got the right angles and depth of field. Your composition is, hell, poetry.”
“Thanks.” He really got what she’d been trying to do. And he knew what he was talking about, so it was high praise indeed. Meanwhile, his nearness electrified her. It was as though her skin was vibrating. Sparks flew so hot and fast she swore she could see blue flashes.
The drinks came and Noah tapped his to hers. “To good gin, remarkable art and great company.”
“To all that,” she said, and they both drank, watching each other over their glasses. The icy cocktail burned all the way to her toes.
“Good?” Noah asked, his chocolate-brown eyes twinkling.
“Mmm.” She smiled. “Perfect.”
He nodded, satisfied, then flipped to the next page. “This guy has a great face.” He tapped the shot of a Hispanic man with a leathery tan and sad eyes beneath a white straw hat. “How’d you get so close?”
“It wasn’t easy. He waved me off at first. People tend to stiffen, preen or shy away from a camera, but I hung around long enough to become scenery.”
“Smart. Are Latino issues of particular focus to you?”
“I’m passionate about my heritage, but I won’t let that limit me. There’s a knee-jerk tendency to slot Latino reporters into any story that involves brown skin or speaking Spanish. I intend to resist that.”
“Good for you.” He closed the book. “This is great stuff, Mel. No wonder News Day snapped you up.” He searched her face. “So why photojournalism? Why not art or commercial photography?”
“How can you ask that?” she demanded. “You know why. Journalism matters. And with people barely reading these days, photos are crucial. A picture stops you cold, makes you see what you’d rather ignore. Think of the photo of the Viet Cong soldier being shot in the head, the leash shot at Abu Ghraib. The starving children in Darfur. News photos galvanize people. They can change the world.” She realized she’d gotten louder. “Sorry. I get carried away.”
“Don’t apologize. You need that kind of passion or this work will kick you in the teeth.” He hesitated. An emotion she couldn’t identify flickered in his eyes. Fatigue? Sadness? “Keep your fire, Mel. No matter what.”
“What else is crucial in an investigative reporter? Personality traits, I mean.” She was eager for his answer.
“You interviewing me, Ramirez?”
“Taking notes.” She tapped her skull.
He smiled. “Curiosity is bedrock. For me, anyway. It’s like an itch, a craving to know. I hate secrets. I have to get to the bottom of things. You’re that way, too. I can see it in your work. You drill to the core, the essence.”
“That’s what I go for, yeah.”
He nodded. “You also have persistence, which is vital. You have to be unstoppable. I think Bobby Kennedy said truth is ruthless. Sometimes that’s all that gets you through the black nights of doubt.”
“You have doubts?”
“Always. Am I asking the right questions? Talking to the right people? Am I being fair? Is every fact checked and double-checked? Have I gone too far or not far enough?”
“That’s a lot of pressure.”
“Part of the package. It’s our job to speak up for the underdog. The powers that be will steamroller the little guy every time. We have to shine a light on that.” He took a sip of his drink. “For investigative work, you have to ask why. Humans never act without motivation, usually selfish, so you have to dig for who would gain, how and why.”
One drink turned into two and the words flew, both of them full of the same fire for their work. She was so attracted to the man that she was afraid if he touched her, she might combust on the spot.
“You have to follow the story wherever it leads for however long it takes,” Noah said. “It helps to be single.”
“Lots of reporters have families.”
“If you’re good, the job has to be number one. The hours are unpredictable and always long. I’ve watched my married colleagues struggle. They’re always on the phone apologizing to their kids, their wives, their boyfriends. Apologizing or fighting. Paul hated leaving National Record, but Cindi got pregnant and that was that.”
“He seems happy to me.”
“People adjust.” He slid his martini glass forward and back. “Maybe it’s just me. I was an Army brat, so we moved a lot when I was a kid. I learned how to make friends easily and let them go when I had to.”
He took the last sip, clearly thinking about what he’d said. Then he smiled. “That’s me, though. What about you? You have a family?”
“It’s just me and my mom.”
“What about…a boyfriend?” He spoke slowly, tracking her reaction.
She shook her head.
“That’s hard to believe.”
“Not really. I’ve been busy.”
“School and work, sure. I get that. But for certain things, you make time…” He was looking at her like that and she returned the look, full throttle. The gin, the talk, the fact she was sharing her graduation night with a man whose work she so admired made her bold. She wanted him to touch her, to kiss her. She wanted to touch and kiss him. She wanted, period. The roar of a vacuum cleaner startled her and she jumped.
Noah smiled. “We should let these folks close up.” He’d long ago paid the tab, but he laid a twenty on the table and nodded at the bartender.
When they stood, Mel swayed, surprised by how unsteady she felt.
Noah caught her elbow. “You okay?”
“Martinis are not for sissies,” she said, embarrassed to be such a lightweight. She’d been so excited she hadn’t felt the effects of the gin. “I’d better not drive. I’ll get a cab.”
“I have a better idea,” he said with a slow smile. “Stay with me, Mel. Tuck me in.”
Dios mio. That was the sexiest thing a man had ever said to her. He clasped her hand, pulled her closer and kissed her.
Pure power roared through her—like lightning or a nuclear blast, something spinning off a supercollider maybe. Her knees turned to water and her body shook so hard that her teeth bumped Noah’s.
Noah broke off the kiss, looking equally blown away. “What the hell was that?”
“I’m not sure, but I vote for more,” she managed to say.
He laughed, deep and easy. “Then it’s unanimous. Come on.” He took her arm and they headed out of the bar.
The elevator ride was a forever of agony while Mel’s body burned with desire—pure, raw, uncut—the best rush of all. When they had to stop at the door for Noah to find his key card, frustration made her groan.
“Hang on, let me get us to a bed,” he said, kissing her temple tenderly, as if to sustain her through the wait for the lock to whir and flash green.
Inside the room, they kissed in the dark. Mel held on tightly to Noah, afraid if she didn’t she’d melt to the floor. She felt the ridge of his erection against her stomach while his hands kneaded her backside. Wow. Just wow.
With a groan, he broke off. “Hang on…I need to make sure…” He bent for his backpack and unzipped a compartment, from which he tossed a toothbrush, comb, other stuff, then held up a strip of three condoms. “Let’s hope these haven’t passed their use-by date.”
She started to tell him they didn’t need condoms—pregnancy was virtually impossible for her, plus she was on birth control for irregular periods—but by then Noah had her on the bed and nothing else mattered. They tore off their clothes as though they were each other’s most-longed-for Christmas gift, tossing items left and right like so much shredded wrapping paper.
Once they were naked, though, everything slowed way, way down. Noah lay on top of her, taking her in. “You are so beautiful.”
And he was so handsome. His tousled hair framed his face, looking soft, but masculine. His eyes, a mesmerizing brown with swirls of gold, seemed to study her forever. His dimple was a hint of a dent, like a secret he shared only with people who really pleased him. And he seemed really, really pleased with her.
“I can’t believe I’m actually here.” She’d been thrilled about a ten-minute car ride with the man. Now she was in bed with him.
“If you’re not, then this is a damn fine dream.” He cupped her face with warm palms. “I hope it lasts all night.”
She lifted her hips against him, bending her knees, letting him know where she wanted him to be.
“I need more of this,” he said, casting a hungry eye over her body.
Inwardly, she groaned with impatience. Then his fingers traced her nipples and she shuddered with pleasure. Maybe he had a point. Slow could be very good….
He explored her with careful fingers—her breasts and stomach, her hips and thighs. When he finally touched her where she most burned for him, she bucked against his hand, white-hot need coursing through her.
“Be…inside…before I…come.” She could barely form the words.
He applied the condom and did what she’d been waiting for with one sweet stroke. It felt so good she nearly yelped.
He stilled there, inside her, letting the desire between them build, while their hearts pounded, their breaths came in harsh gasps, their bodies pumped out heat. Finally, they began to move together, sliding forward and back in glorious unison, like a dance they knew to their bones.
Mel’s climax came fast.
Noah watched, holding her. “Yeah…that’s it… So nice,” he said while she quivered and quaked against him, saying “Oh” over and over again.
When she stilled, he murmured, “Beautiful,” and sped his thrusts and soon pulsed inside her.
Afterward, she lay across him, recovering little by little, amazed by what had happened. She’d had sex with a man she hardly knew, except through his work, and it had been easy and natural, with none of the usual first-time awkwardness or adjustments.
This felt like a dream. It looked like one, too, with the lamplight washing them in gold, the same glowing shade that colored her best dreams—all of the sex ones, where she awoke rocking her hips against the sheets.
Noah rose on an elbow to study her, tracing her jaw with the tips of his fingers, then her cheek. “You have a great face. Like a model. The cheekbones and shape. Beautiful skin, too.”
“That’s the Indian in me. The bone structure and skin color. Some Latinos think the whiter you are, the more class you have, but my mother taught me to be proud to be mestizo—a mix of Spanish and Indian.”
“Were you born in the U.S.?”
“Just barely. When my mother fled Salvador, she was pregnant. The trauma of the crossing put her into labor.”
“She fled?”
“She’d been speaking out against the death squads, even though her family begged her not to. Others who’d protested had been killed or disappeared. The guerrillas helped her escape. Sympathetic clergy connected her with American college students who got her over the border, but the desert trek was brutal.”
“She must have been very brave.”
“She was. She was only twenty. She had a mission, too. A journalist named Xavier Sosa had taken pictures of a village massacre he wanted the rest of the world to see. She brought the film to the U.S.”
“And…?”
“And the photos did shift public opinion, but not enough to change U.S. policy, which supported the regime at the time. Her request for asylum failed as a result.” She paused. “Eventually, she applied for amnesty and got her papers.”
“I’m glad to hear that.”
“The tragedy was that Xavier Sosa ‘disappeared.’ Killed, like other brave reporters and dissidents, even clergy. I think about him a lot. He laid down his life for the truth.”
Noah didn’t speak, simply held her tighter.
She didn’t usually get so fervent, but this night was special.
“Did what happen to him influence your career choice?” he asked.
She returned his gaze. “Yes. He’s a good part of why I wanted to become a news photographer. I never told anyone before.” In a way, that was more intimate than the sex they’d shared. She knew he would respect her secret.
“It’s a powerful story, Mel.” He paused. “I’m curious. What about your father? Where was he during all this?”
“Chasing an earthquake probably. He was with the Red Cross and left her village before my mother even knew she was pregnant. She wrote to him. He visited when I was little. It was…strange.” She shrugged, her feelings so mixed she kept them shut away. “He had a different life in mind for himself.”
“You were still his child.”
“By accident. Not his decision.”
He let her words hang for a few seconds. “When my mother got pregnant, my father married her. He was nineteen, he’d just joined the Army, and the last thing he wanted was to be tied down. He loved the nomad life. If he was stationed somewhere too long, he got irritable and antsy. He should never have married.”
“That’s harsh, don’t you think? He was young.”
“Some people aren’t cut out for families. They’re too restless, too tied up in their work, too selfish maybe. I’m like him that way, but at least I figured it out before I did any real damage.”
“So, no broken hearts in your wake?”
“We parted by mutual agreement.” He gave her a rueful smile. She could see he’d be easy to fall for. He was warm and sexy and so interested in whatever she said. But he was restless and his career came first.
She felt the same way, though when the time was right she wanted a family and a man to share it with, of course. “How do you get along with him now? Your dad?” she asked him.
“He’s gone—killed in a truck crash on the base when I was in college. I hope to hell he never knew what hit him. He would have hated dying so stupidly.”
“Was that hard on you, losing him?”
“I didn’t really know him.” He shrugged.
She understood the feeling well enough. Her father wasn’t dead, but he hadn’t wanted Mel any more than Noah’s father had wanted him. “What about your mom?”
“After he died, Eleanor found her wings, she told me. Started traveling. She has a condo in Florida, but she’s rarely there.”
“Are you close with her?”
“We’re different people. She wasn’t that happy about having a kid, I don’t think, though she did her best and I turned out okay. How about you and your mother?” He clearly didn’t want to talk about this.
“We’re close. She’s my best friend. I’m lucky that way.” She yawned, her body sinking into the mattress, feeling drowsy. She should probably head home before she drifted to sleep.
“You have plans this weekend?” he asked softly.
“Laundry, groceries, sleeping in.” She’d quit the studio job and the free weekend was her graduation gift to herself. “What about you?”
“Background reading and research calls. I fly to Fort Bragg Sunday afternoon, then leave for Iraq two days later.” He ran his fingers lightly along her arm. “What I’d rather do is order room service and enjoy you.” He traced her side, then moved to her thigh. “Stay with me, Mel.”
“Mmm.” She breathed, waking to his touch. Stay? Should she? It was such a non-Mel thing to do, but how could she pass up more time with this glorious man, talking about the work they both loved and having great sex? “I vote yes.”
“That’s settled then.” He shifted so they faced each other, lying on their sides. “So what’s Mel short for? Melanie? Melissa?”
“Melody. Actually, Melodía, but I prefer Mel.”
“Melody is pretty. Melodía even prettier.”
“Exactly. Pretty like a song, la-la-la. No, thanks. I want people to take my work seriously. Plus Mel is gender neutral.”
“One of the toughest reporters I know goes by Chrissie, so I don’t know that that makes much difference. Your work will speak for you, Melodía.”
Her name on his lips didn’t sound weak or frivolous. It sounded like a beautiful, powerful song. He lay back and pulled her on top of him, looking up at her with so much heat it took her breath away.
Noah made love the way he worked, with persistence, curiosity and a hunger to get at her core, her essence, her truth. What better way to launch her new life?
CHAPTER TWO
“MY PLANE LEAVES SOON,” Noah murmured near Mel’s ear, hating the fact that he would have to get out of this bed they’d rarely left all weekend.
Mel snuggled into him with a little moan of pleasure—a fainter version of the sound she made when she climaxed. In response, he went hard as a rock.
Damn, he didn’t want to go yet. He studied her golden skin, the way her dark hair shone in the gray light leaking through the hotel curtains.
She had the best smell—reminding him of that old-school tropical drink, the Zombie—sweet with a peppery stinger. The cocktail was red, too, which felt like Mel’s color. Intense and fire-bright.
He would have to hustle once he got to Fort Bragg to get his advance work done before he flew out with officers headed to Iraq, where U.S. troops remained to advise and train Iraqi soldiers.
Not the way he usually approached a big assignment, but he wasn’t sorry he’d spent his last free days with Melodía Ramirez. She was one of a kind. A straight shooter and passionate as hell, with a laugh like liquid silver.
She reminded him of himself after J school—hard-driving, totally on fire for the work. Which was how she was in bed, too, he’d been happy to discover.
She lifted her head to shove her thick hair out of her face. He helped her with the rest, running his knuckle along her cheek, enjoying the buttery firmness of her skin—strong and soft like her personality and her name. She had the best mouth. What she could do with that sweet tongue of hers…
She noticed the tent he’d raised and smiled, taking hold of him. “How much time do we have?”
“Enough for what you’ve got in mind.” He rolled her onto her back, she shifted her hips and he entered her, easy as breathing.
All weekend long, when they weren’t having sex, they were talking nonstop and they kept at it all the way to the airport. Mel had a million questions and more ideas than that. At the terminal curb, she bounded out of the car. “I had a great time,” she said, clearly trying to sound cheerful despite the wistful mood that had descended on them both.
“Me, too, Mel.” He pulled her against him, holding tight. I’ll miss you. He had the urge to say it. She was a smart, sexy woman who knew who she was and what she wanted. In life and in bed. It didn’t get much better than that.
“I wish I could go with you,” she said, quickly adding, “to take pictures.” As if he might think she was being clingy. Not Mel.
She stood on her own two feet. He liked that about her.
“Me, too,” he said. “Sadly, I’m taking my own shots, since they won’t spring for a photographer. I’m no Mel Ramirez.” But he wanted her along for more than her camera.
Predictable, he supposed. The result of that postcoital glow, when it all seemed perfect. That was where he’d gone wrong with Pat, his girlfriend for almost a year. Because she was a reporter, he’d figured she would roll with the punches, but he would return from weeks on the road to stony silence and slammed doors, then tears and bitterness when she finally did speak. It was a mistake he hadn’t made since. He knew better than to let anyone or any place sink its hooks in him.
“You’re my hero, you know,” she said.
“God, don’t say that. I’m just a news monkey. I’m all about the byline.”
“We both know better than that.”
He’d told her how hard it had been to convince his editor there were still important stories in Iraq. “If I don’t hit this one out of the park, I’m dead.”
“I have no doubt you will.”
“Talking with you has been good. You remind me why I’m in this crazy business. I owe you for that.” To lighten the moment, he added, “And for the sex. Man, do I owe you for that.” He wrapped both arms around her and she tucked in tight. Damn, she felt good in his arms.
Don’t drag this out. He released her for the crucial reality check. “I’m not good about staying in touch,” he said. “Once I get deep into an assignment, I’m lost. The bases have good internet and cell reception, but away from there, there’s next to nothing, so I—”
“We had a great weekend, Noah,” she said. “That’s what matters.”
She was making it easy for him. He leaned in and kissed her goodbye. “You’re something else.” He couldn’t get enough of her eyes, which crackled with intelligence, humor and fire. They stayed with him on the plane.
Her mother’s story stuck with him, too. She’d risked her life in Salvador to speak out for the truth. And Xavier Sosa, who had died trying to force the world to see a reality it refused to admit.
Mel would carry Sosa’s mission forward, with her eye and her art, exposing truths, large and small, beautiful and surprising, hard to look at, but crucial to see. She was strong-willed, idealistic, but practical, too, with her head on square and her heart as big as hearts got.
Noah had had a weekend he wouldn’t soon forget with a woman he doubted he ever would. Her scent lingered on his clothes all the way to Fort Bragg—one last pleasure to hang on to before the hard work ahead.
Two months later
Phoenix, Arizona
“BE RIGHT BACK.” MEL tossed her camera bag over her shoulder, and hightailed it to the gas station restroom. It was big and shiny and very clean, gracias a Dios.
Since she’d been working for Arizona News Day she’d become a pro at identifying good restrooms from the outside. Lately, she’d spent more time in them than usual. She’d assumed it was some weird stomach flu, since her mother had complained, too. In fact, Irena had gone to the doctor that morning to find out what was causing her cramps and nausea.
Lately, though, Mel had had another idea about her own stomach upset and it had nothing to do with a virus.
She and Dave Roberts, the reporter she was working with, were about to leave for the housing development where police believed human smugglers were using foreclosure homes as drop houses, but she had enough time to test her theory about her health. She slipped into the bathroom and locked the door.
Five minutes later, she stared at the plus sign on the stick she held with shaking fingers. For some reason, it made her think of the X’s over the eyes of a cartoon character who’d been knocked unconscious. She could relate. She felt as though someone had kicked the wind right out of her. She was pregnant? How was that possible? She’d been on birth control—well, transitioning from pills to a patch. But that shouldn’t have mattered, considering the condition of her fallopian tubes. Endometriosis had so scarred them the doctor had told her she would need in vitro fertilization to get pregnant.
Someone tapped on the door. “We gotta roll, Mel.”
“Right, Dave. Coming.” She tossed the stick and the box in the trash. Her stomach surged, so she bolted back to the stall to lose what was left of lunch.
“You okay?” Dave asked when she emerged. He’d clearly heard her puke.
“The enchiladas were too spicy,” she mumbled, though Dave would never buy that—the two of them had regular contests over who could mouth-surf the hottest peppers in town.
Pushing back her panic, she hitched her camera bag higher on her shoulder and focused on the job ahead.
Their timing was ideal, as it turned out. Dave scored interviews with the smugglers’ neighbors and a family of immigrants who were held hostage in the drop house while the coyotes extorted more money from their people back home.
Mel got great shots, including one of a mournful immigrant couple sitting against the post of a for sale sign in the yard. It would make a perfect cover. So far, she’d scored three covers. Not bad for two months at a new job.
Her job was exactly as great as she’d dreamed it would be. Arizona News Day wasn’t afraid of the tough stories, allowed its journalists to take risks and gave tons of editorial space to photos.
She’d picked up shortcuts and tips from veteran photographers, honed her instincts and was proud that her candid images often seemed lit and composed as well as a studio shot.
Her editor loved her initiative and the managing editor, Randall Cox, called her “magic behind the lens,” though he seemed to dole out praise to distract them all from their less-than-fabulous salaries. Her highest compliment was that Dave, their top reporter, often asked for her to accompany him.
As the weeks passed, she’d loaded her print clips and photos into her portfolio so that it was always current and kept her eye on openings at bigger papers in other cities.
She would miss her mother, but when a spot opened up, she was ready to go. She longed to take the kind of world-changing photos she’d carried on about to Noah—whom, after a mere three emails, she hadn’t heard from in a month. Noah who, it turned out, had gotten her pregnant.
It was her fault. When they’d run out of condoms, they could have simply hit the gift shop, but, oh, no, she’d told Noah she had it handled.
Evidently not.
On the way home, she dropped into a Planned Parenthood clinic to learn how the impossible had happened. It turned out she’d missed the warning about elevated pregnancy risk while switching methods. As to her fallopian tubes, “The body is amazingly resilient, Mel,” the nurse practitioner told her sympathetically, then went through her options, giving her pamphlets for each. “Are there questions I can answer right now?”
“Yes. How could I have been so stupid?”
“No contraceptive is flawless. And we’re all human. We make mistakes. Think this through, talk about it with people you trust. Family. Clergy. A counselor. Are you in contact with the father?”
“No. He’s not in the country.” When Noah heard about this…
She cringed. She was already embarrassed by how often she replayed their time together—the sex and the conversation. She’d made too much of it, she knew. He’d warned her that he disappeared, so she had no right to feel hurt, yet she did. She’d thought they had a connection.
They did now, all right. A baby—the last thing either of them wanted.
“Do you feel faint?” the nurse asked, reaching toward her.
She shook herself back to the moment. “No. I’m just shocked. You’ve been very helpful.” She left the clinic, desperate to go home to think, but she’d promised she’d stop by Bright Blossoms, her mother’s day-care business, to take photos of the Fourth of July party.
Mel parked in front of the strip mall where her mother’s business nestled. An American flag proudly jutted from its eaves, waving in the light breeze. It was muggy, with monsoon clouds heavy on the horizon and the muted sunlight looked nearly golden. The magical smell of creosote filled the air from last night’s warm drizzle.
Bright Blossoms stood out among the bland shops in the mall. The bricks were painted canary-yellow and covered with tropical flowers and birds matching what Irena remembered of how her father had painted their small home not far from San Vicente in Salvador.
The place was so much like Mel’s mother—bright and colorful and cheerful. Though, behind Irena’s constant smile, Mel knew she missed her family terribly. Irena’s father had died a year after she left, and her mother, brother and two sisters never forgave her for leaving. Irena had visited three times, bringing Mel when she was five, but Irena found the trips almost more painful than missing her people from half a continent away.
Inside the building, Mel’s ears were hit with a Sousa march and a confusion of percussion. Through the glass wall, she saw the preschoolers marching around the refreshment table, wearing patriotic paper hats, beating toy drums, shaking maracas, banging cymbals or clacking castanets. A few parents sat in the tiny chairs, clapping along.
In the hallway, her mother crouched beside a sobbing toddler. Irena wiped his tears with a flag-decorated napkin. “Where does it hurt, mi’ jo?” she murmured, her voice rich as music.
“My finger,” he said, holding it out, clearly not in pain. He wanted the little ritual that came next. Her mother gently rubbed the boy’s finger while reciting the Spanish rhyme that translated as: “Get well, get well, little tadpole. If you don’t get well today, you’ll get well tomorrow.” All through Mel’s own childhood, Irena had soothed her with the incantation that magically took away all hurts, big and small.
Her mother had filled Mel’s life with poems and songs and sayings. Spanish was so beautiful, sensual and full of rhymes. Whenever Mel heard it, she remembered the comfort of childhood in the tiny apartment they’d lived in until Mel had graduated high school.
“Next time, keep your fingers away from drumsticks that are playing, eh, muchacho?” her mother said, giving the boy a hug. He nodded solemnly and ran into the parade room.
“Mamá,” Mel said.
“Melodía, you’re here.” Her mother smiled, but her eyes stayed serious.
“Is everything okay?”
“Of course. Come take the pictures.” She motioned Mel into the room. Her mother was in her element, surrounded by children. She’d never made a big deal of it, but she’d clearly wished for more babies after Mel, though it wasn’t possible. Bright Blossoms helped relieve that sorrow, Mel believed.
Mel nodded at Rachel and Marla, two of the caregivers who’d been here since they’d opened five years ago, then moved around the room taking shots of the kids marching and playing along with “God Bless America.”
As always, the song put tears in her strong mother’s eyes. The promise of America had sustained Irena through her terrible trip and the dark days and nights in a foreign land, where the warm welcome she’d hoped for had been denied over politics. She’d survived…and, in the end, thrived.
The final activity was decorating cupcakes and soon the small faces were smeared with bright frosting. As Mel took shot after shot, her mother’s words played in her head: You modern girls, you wait and wait for children. You will have gray hair and be chasing your niños with a cane if you’re not careful.
And that was without knowing about Mel’s fertility problem. Against all odds, a miracle had occurred. Mel was pregnant. What would her mother say?
“Estás bien, mi’ ja?” her mother asked, her eyes lingering on Mel’s face.
Mel forced a smile. “Will you be home soon?”
“Soon. Yes. And we will talk.” Her mother started to walk away, then came abruptly close and hugged Mel hard. “Mi cariña.” My beloved. “Mamá? What’s up?” Her mother was an affectionate person, but this felt as though they were parting for years, not an hour or so.
“Hablámos en casa.” We’ll talk at home.
An hour later, Mel’s mother shut the front door behind her and said, point-blank, “It is cancer,” pronouncing it the Spanish way—kahn-sare. “In the ovaries. There is treatment, now, the doctor says to me, that is better than before. First a surgery, then chemotherapy and, perhaps, radiation.”
“Oh, Mamá.” She threw her arms around her mother, who was holding herself stiffly erect, fighting emotion, Mel was certain.
Cancer. Her mother had cancer. She might die.
And Mel was pregnant.
She felt as though the world was closing in on her. “You’re strong, Mamá. You’ll beat this,” she said, holding back the tears, keeping her voice steady. “We’ll get you through this.” The idea of losing her mother was almost more than she could bear. Her mother was so vibrant, so alive. She had so much to live for. She was Mel’s best friend, her entire family. She fought a swirl of nausea.
“The doctor says that with my fibromyalgia, the treatment will be difícil. I will be more sick for longer times and some medicines will not work so well.”
“We’ll do what we have to do to get you better.”
“Of course. I have to live to be an old woman if I am to finally be a grandmother.” Her mother winked, making a joke she had no idea was no longer funny at all.
What if her mother died?
Ice froze Mel’s heart in her chest.
She had to be strong for her mother. She had to hope for the best. It’s what Irena would do. But Mel was too realistic to deny the terrible possibility. If the worst happened, if her mother’s life was cut short, then Mel would make every day that remained as happy and joyful as possible.
The answer was obvious. Mel would keep the baby. It would turn her life upside down, ruin her plans, but así es la vida. That’s how life is. She would make the most of it. Man plans, God laughs. Professor Stockton had foretold her future the night she’d met Noah.
Noah. What about him? Should she tell Noah about the baby?
Would he even want to know? He didn’t want children, he’d told her that first night. She would raise the child on her own, so what was her obligation to him? Her head was already spinning with too many questions.
Noah Stone would have to wait.
Five months later, near Balad, Iraq
“SO, NO BULLSHIT, YOU’RE seriously going to quote me about my girl in your article?” Sergeant Reggie “Horn Dog” Fuller turned from his shotgun seat in the Humvee to talk to Noah, sitting behind him.
“Of course. It’s a great quote.” Fuller was squad leader and Noah had convinced him to allow Noah to jump onto the patrol from Forward Operating Base River Watch, east of Balad, along the Al-Dhiluya peninsula, promising the quote, which would appease Fuller’s girl who was angry at him for reenlisting.
Fuller had discretion to patrol as he saw fit, but his commanding officer, Captain Gerald Carver—the officer Noah answered to—would not be pleased if he learned about it. Carver was totally by the book. Fully squared away, with combat experience in Afghanistan, he was primed for advancement, eventually to become a general, and would want no blot on his command.
Carver made it no secret he considered reporters deadweight best kept in the dark and tucked to the rear—the polar opposite of Noah’s purpose. Noah liked the guy. He was smart, worked hard, stood up for his officers and the enlisted men trusted him. He wasn’t afraid to get his hands dirty—he had once fixed an engine rather than wait for the mechanic to arrive.
Not clearing this reporter-carry with his CO would be a minor infraction for Fuller, who might get “smoked”—given some humiliating duty, such as filling sand bags in front of the chow hall—so Fuller wasn’t that concerned.
The patrol consisted of three vehicles—two HMVs and a small troop carrier. Noah rode in the lead Hummer, keeping his eyes open for the turnoff he wanted. What he hadn’t told Fuller was that he intended to be dropped off for an interview with the Iraqi captain, Sajad Fariq.
Regulations forbade embedded reporters from traveling on their own, but the elite Iraqi unit Noah wanted to meet with was being trained by Carver’s men and the area was virtually secure.
There were rumblings of an insurgent assault being planned farther north, and Noah wanted to talk with Fariq, who spoke decent English. If he could manage it, Noah hoped to ride north with the Iraqis. He’d be off his embed and Carver would ream his ass later, but it was easier to get forgiveness than permission, in Noah’s experience.
The deal was he needed a big story. His editor, Hank Walker, was demanding more blood, guts and glory and Noah was determined to get it. The stories he’d been writing were rich with characters and insights about U.S. troops here, Iraqi troops and the future of Iraq. They were some of his best work, important human stories, he believed, but if he wanted to keep writing them, he had to satisfy Hank’s bloodlust.
“So why did you volunteer for patrol?” Noah asked the driver, Bo Dusfresne, a trucker from Georgia.
“’Cause I’m sick of sittin’ on my ass,” he said, scratching at his head beneath the ghutrah, the white Arab scarf he wore do-rag style. “I’d rather be making a goddamn motocross track for the Hajjis to practice RPG runs on than sit around the base, stewin’ in my own tang.”
Noah brushed his boonie back on his head. The canvas cap with a soft brim was far more comfortable than the helmet he’d had to wear on his first embed, early in the war. He shook out the ends of his ghutrah, which kept sun and mosquitoes off his neck, to generate a tiny breeze. Fuller had insisted Noah wear body armor, which made Noah feel like roast in a pot.
Over the Kevlar, he wore a khaki T-shirt, then his pocketed vest, stuffed with a mini tape recorder and his digital camera, along with spare media cards and batteries for both. He worked mostly old-school—pencil and small pad.
The Humvee stank of sweat and hot metal. The humidity was high this close to the Tigris. Flies were few, but mosquitoes buzzed at dawn and dusk. The dust wasn’t bad here and haboobs—gigantic wind storms—were rare. The one he’d experienced had been strange. It was as if dust had instantly coated every nook and cranny, human or object, inside the CHU—Containerized Housing Unit—that served as barracks.
The road beside them was lined with short palm trees. They passed a small orchard of pomegranate trees.
“Somethin’ at my eleven,” Specialist Chuy Gomez barked from where he stood in the gunner position beside Noah. A sharpshooter, Gomez hailed from East L.A. and claimed he’d honed his skills in drive-bys. Half his blood-curdling stories were total bull, designed to distract the guys from their poker hands, but they were convincing as hell. Shee-it. You crackers believe any evil thing a Mexican says.
“Can’t you tell goat herders from a hunter-killer RPG team?” Private First Class Emile Daggett growled. “You been in the sun too damn long, Spic.”
“Be glad I have crystal clear vision, Hick. If I hadn’t eyeballed that trip wire on that dud IED, you’d be missing the family jewels at least, cholo.”
“Who you calling cholo? There are no cho-los in the Upper Peninsula.” Daggett talked nonstop about the bait shop he intended to buy and run when he returned to his small town in northern Michigan.
“There will be if I buy that worm shack you keep talkin’ ’bout. Serious investment opportunity, amigo. Get me one of those hot Upper Peninsula shorties. Oye, cabrón, that’s the life.”
“Shut the hell up,” Daggett said. The two men, who’d named each other Spic and Hick, kept up running insults, but had each other’s backs.
The goat farmers, now visible, wore the traditional taloub—a long tunic, loose pants and head wrap. They whistled and called to their animals, urging them across the narrow irrigation ditch at the side of the road. The pastoral sound of “baas” and bells seemed proof the country was striving for normalcy. If only the government could keep the uneasy peace.
Noah snapped a photo of an Iraqi on a horse, sagging in the saddle, looking as dispirited as the town council in Balad after mortar fire had destroyed the new police building.
He checked the image. Not bad, but not brilliant. Mel would have managed a far more striking shot, he was certain. She’d been in his thoughts a lot in the months since they’d slept together. Too much, really.
“So what’s that picture for?” Fuller asked. “Some symbolic shit about tired old Iraq riding its broke-back nag into the sunset?”
Noah shrugged.
“You gotta be bored as shit watching us sweep sand into the sea.”
Noah scribbled notes: Soldiers pissed and bored and bitter. Missions seem pointless…sweeping sand into the sea, according to Fuller.
The buildings and mosques of Balad rose in the distance. He picked up the tinny murmur of a prayer playing over loudspeakers.
“Hear the prayers?” Chuy said to Noah. “Five times a day, hombre, right? So we’re driving down this street in Balad… Real narrow and twisty, sniper spots every-damn-where, and the prayer blares out. After, comes this eerie silence.” He paused, milking the moment for drama.
“Yeah?” Noah said, unobtrusively clicking on his tape recorder.
“Yo, so, they all s’posed to be in their houses or mosques, prayin’ like crazy. So anybody still runnin’ the street is up to no good, right?”
“Right.”
“I’m up in the gun, scalp pricklin’, adrenaline so high I’m not even blinkin’—you can’t blink when your blood’s hitting that hard—watching for movement, any change, a clue to something coming down. So I see this kid at my three o’clock. He’s holding something. A candy bar? An orange? Or maybe a detonator to an IED we’re about to drive over.”
“Sounds terrifying.”
“Nah, man. ’S cool. Just a day in the neighborhood in East L.A.” He laughed, but Noah could tell this situation had been bad.
“Then what?”
“The kid runs in front of us, across the road. Seconds later, boom. Direct hit on the troop carrier behind us. Driver got shrapnel, a first-class flight to the States, champagne all the way, and a Purple Heart. We all envied his ass.”
Noah stayed silent, taking in the real story Chuy was telling. He’d had the lives of the men in his HMV and those in the vehicles behind in his hands. He could never have shot the kid because he possibly held a detonator, but that explosion could have killed a dozen of his comrades and it would be on Chuy—at least in his mind. That was a catch-22 that would be tough to endure, day after day, patrol after patrol. It was no wonder post-traumatic stress disorder rates were so high among Iraq vets. Friend and foe were impossible to tell apart, making civilian casualties common, but no less horrifying.
Bo hit a bump in the road and swore as the tobacco he constantly chewed missed the window and dribbled down the inside of his door.
They passed the low mud-brick wall with a chunk blasted away that Noah had been watching for. The turnoff was close. He leaned forward to talk to Fuller. “Half mile up, there’s a road going west. I need you to drop me there. I want to walk up to talk with Captain Fariq.”
“Say what?” Fuller shifted to glare at Noah. “This is not a bus line. You don’t ring the bell at your stop. You go on patrol, you stay on patrol, Stone.”
“It’s Fariq. You know him. You work with his men. Drop me off and I’ll meet you at the turnoff on your way back.”
Fuller stared at him, unmoved.
“Look, I need this interview or my editor will yank me home. It’s the dirt road up ahead. There’s a sign pointing to Al-Talad. The area’s secure.”
Fuller turned and stared out the mud-spattered windshield. “No such thing as secure in this godforsaken land. Give a reporter an inch and he takes out a convoy,” he muttered, but Noah picked up assent in his tone, so he kept his mouth shut.
When they reached the village sign, Fuller grumbled, “Halt.” Yards back, spaced for safety, the other vehicles slowed, too.
Up the road, Noah could see corrugated-steel structures and smaller buildings, some military vehicles and a few Iraqi soldiers.
“Looks hinky to me,” Chuy said.
“Everything’s hinky to you,” Noah said, opening his door. “I got this.”
“Do not exit the vehicle, Stone!” Fuller barked. “Take us there, Dusfresne. You get twenty minutes, Stone, then we haul you into this truck. You got that?”
“Yes, sir,” he said. “Got it.” Damn. Depending on what Fariq said about him hitching a ride, he’d have some fast talking to do with Fuller, for sure.
Bo turned onto the dirt road.
As they drew nearer to the buildings, the Iraqis seemed to stiffen, weapons half raised, as if expecting a confrontation. Noah’s scalp prickled. Chuy was right. This did feel hinky. The soldiers around him in the truck tensed, shifted positions, readying their weapons.
There was a sudden thud, as if a boulder had slammed into the driver’s side of the vehicle, followed by pops and pings from bullets hitting the front grill. The windshield cracked.
Then an explosion rocked them. Noah’s eardrums felt as if they’d burst. Smoke and dust filled the air. Around him, men were shouting, but it sounded like he was underwater in mud.
Noah fumbled with the door handle, but it wouldn’t give. He was moving through a nightmare’s quicksand, stunned and slow.
The door flew open and Daggett yanked him to the ground. A few feet out, Fuller was giving hand signals to the other men. He turned back to Daggett and yelled, “Get Stone under cover. Go, go—”
Abruptly, Fuller froze. A hole appeared in his forehead, his jaw sagged and he dropped to the ground. Before Noah or Emile could react, another blast struck—a direct hit on the HMV, now empty, behind them. A wave of heat and sound plowed him down. Hot knives seemed to slice his shoulders, belly and legs. He heard an ungodly scream. Just before everything went black, he realized the scream had come from him.
WHEN NOAH CAME TO, HIS body burned with pain and every breath was a stab of agony. He lay on his side, tasting dirt and swallowing blood. His ears rang and his mind kept flickering like a lightbulb about to blow. He tested his body for mobility. His right leg and left arm seemed to be broken. Any movement made him nearly pass out. His ribs were at least cracked and every breath was torture.
He was being shouted at, but with his ears ringing, he couldn’t detect the language. A rifle jabbed him in the chest. An Iraqi soldier above him wanted Noah up.
Adrenaline was all that got Noah to his knees, despite his injuries. He saw Emile Daggett, also kneeling, bleeding from the head and mouth, one eye swollen shut, a rifle trained at his temple.
The two Iraqis arranged themselves in front of Noah and Emile, clearly readying to execute them. Dully, Noah wondered why his life wasn’t passing before his eyes. Instead, he thought, This is a great story, but you’ll be too dead to write it.
Suddenly, shots chinked nearby, zinging off metal, pocking the dirt. Another Iraqi ran up to the two guarding Noah and Emile and yelled something. Agitated, the soldiers dragged Emile and Noah to their feet and shoved them forward. Noah’s leg gave out, so he got dragged along the ground into a machine shop, then to a small room filled with tarp-covered crates and what looked like engine parts. The space stank of wet earth, motor oil, blood and something foul.
Emile turned to speak and got slugged by a rifle butt. He dropped to the ground, unconscious, possibly dead. When Noah looked up, he saw the stock of a machine gun coming for his head. Once more, he dropped into blackness.
THE NEXT TIME NOAH WAS conscious, the dimness of the light leaking through the seams in the steel walls told him hours had passed. His mouth was coated with dust and he was desperate for water. His pain had localized to his injured parts, including his skull, where he fingered a baseball-size lump. Emile was out, but breathing.
Going under with a concussion was bad news, so he fought to stay awake, but failed. When he came to again, he heard machine-gun and rifle fire and an occasional mortar landing nearby. He wet Emile’s lips from a bucket of foul-smelling water that had appeared while Noah was unconscious. Emile groaned.
Hours passed. Noah faded in and out. At one point, he heard men talking overhead. He thought he recognized Fariq and tried to say his name, but his mouth was too dry, his voice too faint.
He tried to find a way out. There was something about the crates he needed to check. He felt for his camera, thinking he should take pictures, if he could stay awake long enough and clear his vision…?.
He woke in different parts of the cramped room, forgetting what he’d been trying to do. At one point, a guard came in and caught him writing in his notepad. This time, when the blow struck and the blackness came, Noah expected never to see light again.
CHAPTER THREE
Phoenix, Arizona
AT 3:00 A.M., MEL woke to wet sheets and a sharp pain. Instantly, she knew. Her baby was coming. Her water had broken and she was having contractions. Game on. A few weeks early, but safe, gracias a Dios. Endometriosis could lead to premature birth, but at her last appointment, the doctor had told her the baby was developed enough to be born anytime and likely not need neonatal care.
Okay. This is it. Here we go. Excitement poured through her. Adrenaline, too, waking her up, putting every cell of her being on alert. She was a little scared, her heart pounding, but she stayed in charge, her tasks scrolling through her mind: Call the doctor. Wake Mamá. Dress. Pack a quick bag. Drive to the hospital. She pushed to her feet and got started.
The doctor told her to meet him at the hospital, so she went to wake her mother. She hated to rob Irena of vital sleep, but her mother would have her head if Mel left without her. “Mamá, it’s time.”
Irena threw back the covers. “Lista!” she said, bounding out of bed. Ready. Mel’s heart ached at how hard her mother tried to hide her pain from Mel.
Irena was still weak from a second surgery, required because her fibromyalgia flare-ups had delayed chemotherapy. Mel had moved home to be more useful to her and had been helping out more at Bright Blossoms.
Mel carried her mother’s condition constantly with her—a drumbeat in her head, a throb in her heart. What if she didn’t recover? What if she got worse? What if she died?
At least Irena would see her grandchild. Mel knew that and it filled her with relief. No matter what happened, she’d have given her mother this gift.
“Are you excited, mi’ ja?” her mother said, a happy light overriding the gray exhaustion that ruled her features. Just the sight of Mel’s growing belly had seemed to cheer her and daily Mel had been grateful for that.
“Very,” she said, going close to hug her mother, taking in the comfort, the warmth, the love that meant so much to her. “Gracias a Dios I am here to see this day,” Irena whispered, her voice urgent, her eyes gleaming with tears. It was rare for her to admit this possibility and it hit Mel hard.
She bit her lip and swallowed against the lump in her throat. “Of course you are here. You’ll be here for years and years.” She pressed her cheek against her mother’s, praying that what she’d said would prove true.
“Get dressed while I pack.”
Then, in her room, throwing toiletries into a bag, it hit: What about Noah? She’d put off calling him, not wanting to deal with his shock and possible outrage over her carelessness with birth control. Plus, she hadn’t heard from him since that first month. He’d clearly moved on. She should, too.
Oh, Noah. Her heart surged with longing for him, as it had over and over again during her pregnancy. It was weak and stupid, but at night, she’d often fantasized him with her, spooning in bed, his warm hand cupping her swollen belly, cozy in their cocoon.
Pregnancy hormones, no doubt, but embarrassing as hell.
And now? Now that the baby was here? She had to tell him. The man hated secrets. She owed him this truth.
She reached for her cell phone, where she had his number, but a contraction gripped her. Pain ripped through her insides, twisting her organs, taking over her brain and body, making her gasp. She grabbed the bureau, panting, fighting to remember the Lamaze technique. “Ow, ow, ow,” was the best she could manage. How many minutes had gone by since the last contraction?
She didn’t remember. There was no time for a phone chat, that was certain, so she settled for a text: Got pregnant that weekend. Baby coming. No need for anything. This is what I want. No regrets.
She took a deep breath and hit Send. For better or worse, Noah would know. Putting her phone in her bag, Mel set off to have her baby.
Two days after the attack
Landstuhl, Germany
NOAH OPENED HIS EYES and jolted upward. Pain stabbed his chest and his hand hit a metal bar. He saw he was in a hospital bed. Alive. Safe. At least that. He checked himself out, moving as little as he could to minimize the pain.
His chest was taped, he had casts on his left arm and right leg and stitches pulled at the skin at his shoulders and his thigh. He touched a thick bandage around his head. Okay. Got it. That was all the activity he could stand, so he closed his eyes and drifted off.
After that, he slipped in and out of awareness for a while, hearing voices, beeps, clicks, the whisk of curtains, feeling his body being shifted, getting jolts of pain, the stab of injections, hearing groans, seeing lights go bright, then dim.
Eventually, he was alert enough to understand that he was in the medical center at the Ramstein Air Force Base in Germany, where military personnel and some civilians were cared for when injured overseas.
The neurologist explained that Noah had suffered a traumatic brain injury. His language center had been damaged, so speech and attention span would be compromised, but they were hopeful he would recover. They were hopeful. Okay. He’d hold on to hopeful. He was so foggy he could barely form a thought, let alone ask many questions.
Not long after that, he awoke to find an officer in a dress uniform at the end of his bed, hands crossed at his crotch, chest loaded with medals.
“I’m Brigadier General Wade Nelson,” the man said, “here to extend the Army’s best wishes for your recovery. What happened over there was regrettable.”
“What about…the men?” Noah croaked out, fighting the gaps in his brain for words. “Daggett was…hurt. Others…?” Every thought was a battle.
“Private Daggett is recovering in this facility,” Nelson said. “Sergeant Fuller, killed in action, yourself and PFC Daggett were the only casualties incurred during the incident in question.”
Noah nodded, relieved no more men had been hurt.
Nelson then rattled off a military description of what had occurred. Noah concentrated as best he could, fighting to understand, though words kept dropping through holes in the sieve his brain had become.
In essence, Nelson told him that Fuller had acted against orders by allowing a civilian to join the patrol, that Noah had forced a detour to an unsecured area, where Fuller’s men initiated unprovoked combat resulting in Fuller’s death and the capture of Noah and Emile by the Iraqi soldiers who believed themselves under attack by U.S. troops.
Noah and Daggett had been “secured” some time later. There would be an investigation…disciplinary actions taken…and serious consequences.
“It was…me…” he managed to say. “I’m at fault.”
“We are well aware of that fact,” the brigadier general said, his mouth a grim line. He moved to the side of the bed and looked down at Noah, his eyes dark with anger. “Your irresponsible actions have jeopardized our status with the Iraqi military, its government and its people, Mr. Stone.” The words hit like hammer blows, pounding straight through Noah’s mental fog. He would remember each one, he knew.
“On behalf of the U.S. Army and the American people, I urge you, in any reporting you may do, to respect the men who risked their lives to save yours and be utterly clear about your culpability in what transpired on that ill-advised patrol.”
My duty…is to…the truth. The words slowly lined up in his brain, but refused to become speech. The most he could manage was, “The men…were…brave.” That was one truth he knew.
The remainder of Nelson’s words became a meaningless jumble. After he was gone, Noah tried to recall the attack. All he got were flashing images: Chuy and Emile hassling each other…Bo spitting tobacco…goats in the road…spiderwebs of cracked glass in the HMV’s windshield….
Why couldn’t he remember? He tried not to panic. The neurologist had warned him that he’d likely experience something called retrograde amnesia and be unable to recall anything around the time of the trauma, at least for a while, though it sometimes became a permanent loss.
Abruptly, a scene flashed into his mind—slowed down like a movie dream sequence. Pings…pops…a blast from behind…his body frozen…Daggett yanking him from the vehicle… Stumbling forward… Fuller:
Get Stone under cover… The black spot between Fuller’s eyes…Fuller on the ground.
Then the screen in Noah’s brain went blank.
The horror of what he’d done rolled over him like a semi. Fuller had assigned Emile Daggett as Noah’s bodyguard. Protocol said that reporters got babysat. Noah ignored that, believing it unnecessary in his case. But he’d been given a guard all the same and that fact led directly to Fuller’s death and Daggett’s capture.
Noah had caused this. It was on him. He gripped the sides of the bed, shaking with anger at himself and regret—so much regret.
Those soldiers. What they’d risked and lost.
All because Noah needed a hot story to impress his editor.
Sickness washed through him and he fumbled for the kidney-shaped dish on his tray to puke up bile. The spasm made his injured ribs seem to split wide-open, a punishment he welcomed.
A rattling sound made him notice his cell phone vibrating on his bed tray. Seemed someone had gathered the gear he’d left at FOB River Watch when he went on the fateful patrol. He scooped the phone close enough to see the call was from Hank.
His editor would want the story, of course, though Noah remembered little beyond what Nelson had told him. It didn’t matter. He was a reporter. He had a job to do. Fighting pain, he answered the call.
It did not go well. Words failed him over and over. There were long gaps where he could only breathe and struggle for language. Finally, Hank said, “We’ll get the basics and come back to you for a comment. You just get better.” His tone was gentle, as if Noah were a child or a volatile mental patient.
“Yeah.” He fought the helplessness, the frustration, the shame. He was a writer, but words were lost to him.
He still held the phone when a wave of terror washed over him. His heart pounded so hard he grabbed his chest, causing more pain. Was he having a heart attack? He was shaking and sweating and terrified. Of what? He was safe in a hospital bed. What the hell was going on?
Then he remembered the neurologist describing a panic attack, a common aftereffect of a trauma. They hit out of the blue, scary as hell, mimicking a heart at tack, but are essentially harmless.
The terror and pain had barely released him when his phone buzzed again. He checked the display. A number he didn’t recognize. He saw he had dozens of texts and voicemails, some from before the assault, he was sure.
People would want to know he’d survived. He couldn’t deal with their sympathy or questions. He deleted all the voicemails, then highlighted batch after batch of texts to delete in groups. On the last set, as he clicked Delete, he saw Mel Ramirez.
Mel.
Her name sent warmth pouring through him. She’d been in his mind a lot in the months since they’d met—her face, her smile, her fire. He’d been thinking he would look her up when he got back. But that could never happen now. Not after this. Just as well that her message was gone, unread, like the rest.
He decided to write one general “I’m okay” message. It took forever, the words elusive, his spelling hopeless, but he managed the equivalent of, Minor injuries. Be in touch. He ticked “all contacts.”
At the last second, he unchecked Mel, then hit Send. He owed her a personal note. She was probably doing great, living the life she’d been poised to launch that weekend. He mangled words and skipped letters in his communication, but the gist was: Not sure where I’ll end up. I know you’ll do great. I wish you every happiness.
Corny, but true. Thinking about her was a momentary escape from the hell of his thoughts. There was her number on his screen. He could hit Call and talk to her. Her voice would be like medicine. But he didn’t deserve to feel better. Not for a long, long time. He pressed End until his phone went black.
He would answer the questions he had to for the National Record story, then get out a media statement expressing regret for his irresponsible actions and gratitude for the soldiers’ bravery. The main thing he wanted right now was to get well enough to wheel down to Emile’s room and say how sorry he was he’d put him in harm’s way. If the soldier was well enough to punch his lights out, Noah would be happy to have him slug away.
Phoenix, Arizona
MEL STARED AT THE BABY she held, hardly able to believe they were home, in the room she’d prepared for him, painting and papering it in circus colors and accents.
Daniel Marco Ramirez, named for Irena’s father and grandfather, had been born tiny, but healthy after twelve hours of labor the previous day. “Welcome to the world, mi’ jo,” Mel whispered to him, her throat tight with joy.
She was so lucky and so happy.
Tired, too, of course. And worried. Now that the excitement had died down and reality set in, she was concerned. Would she be able to juggle caring for a new baby and her fragile mother? Irena had gone straight to bed when they got home from the hospital that afternoon. Mel had brought her soup on a tray for supper. There was a lot to handle now and it was all new.
Mel sighed. There was something else in her heart, too. She felt a little, well, sad. Her life had changed completely overnight. She already missed News Day. She would return to work after three weeks, but if her mother needed more help with Bright Blossoms, Mel would have to give up the job.
As for her goal of moving on to another paper in a bigger city? Out of the question for years, at least. In the ever-tightening market, news jobs would only grow scarcer.
She’d made the right choice, and she had no regrets, but she couldn’t help missing the dream she’d worked so hard for and barely had a chance to taste the rewards of.
She hadn’t heard from Noah yet.
She knew he was safe in a military hospital, recovering from his injuries. She’d been deep in labor when CNN on the TV in her hospital room scrolled the news of his rescue in Iraq. From what she could figure of the time differences, her text about the baby had reached him the day before the attack in Iraq.
Obviously, he had other things on his mind now. Her heart went out to him for what he’d been through. Eventually, he would respond to her.
Oh, Noah. Selfishly, foolishly, she wished he were here in the golden glow of the circus-seal night-light, sitting on the edge of the recliner, his arm around her, looking down at the brand-new person they’d created.
Daniel was so perfect, with ten tiny fingers and toes, two delicate shells for ears and his whole soul looking at her from huge, wise eyes.
It was ridiculous, of course, to even picture Noah in such a sappy, domestic scene. He would no more be here than sprout wings and fly. He never wanted kids. He’d been clear about that. He was too selfish, too restless, too career-focused. And she respected him for knowing what he wanted, for not playing games about it.
Still…
Maybe she would send a quick get-well text. She’d tried when she first saw the news, but hadn’t been able to get through.
Shifting the baby slightly, she reached her purse, then her phone. She had to turn it on, since she’d had it off in the hospital. She was startled to see she’d received a text from Noah.
Hope soaring, she clicked it.
Nt sure whr I’ll end up. I kno ull do great. I wish u evry happiness. N.
That was his response to the baby? I’m in the wind.
Good luck, be happy.
She felt…abandoned…alone…lost…and so very hurt.
Get a grip, chica. What did she expect? She’d said she didn’t want anything from him, so he’d only stated the obvious. They were both getting on with their lives. They wished each other well.
But how it hurt. Waves of lonely pain washed through her. She wanted him to care. She wanted him to come. She wanted him to wrap his arms around her and tell her it would be okay.
She scrunched up her face to keep from bursting into foolish tears. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Had to be a postpartum hormone dump, right? Mel was a sensible, sturdy and self-reliant woman, dammit. She and her mother and Daniel were plenty enough to make a wonderful family and an amazing life.
She looked at her sleeping boy to remind herself it was true. He had a mass of curly hair and a tiny dimple in his left cheek. Above one ear was a pale, but unmistakable beauty mark. Just like Noah. She had to laugh.
The bittersweet truth was that even if she never saw the man again, Noah would be with her every day of Daniel’s life.
One year later
Albuquerque, New Mexico
“I’LL BE THERE AS SOON AS I can, Eleanor. Don’t worry,” Noah told his mother over the phone, running a towel across the battered bar of Jake’s Hut. A patron entered, backlit, so Noah couldn’t tell if it was a man or woman. Either one would want a drink. “Got to work now. Enjoy your trip. I’ll handle Grandma fine.”
He hung up and sighed, shifting his weight to ease the strain on his bad leg. He’d told his mother he’d go to Phoenix to help his grandmother transition to an assisted-living place and empty out her home for the new buyers. His mother could have canceled her cruise and done it herself, but she and her mother fought like cats and dogs, so Noah’s help was a good solution.
Nothing held him in New Mexico. Or anywhere else, for that matter.
He would get a job in Phoenix, since he was cash-strapped. He hoped to start reporting soon. He’d only recently been able to read an entire newspaper without losing focus. And he was still having nightmares and migraines.
“Noah? Jesus. What are you doing here?”
Instantly, Noah recognized the voice behind him. The backlit customer was none other than his friend Paul Stockton. Dread sank in him like a boulder in a lake. He figured he’d see the guy in Phoenix, but he’d have time to get his story nailed down. He forced a smile, then turned to face his friend. “Serving you a drink, looks like. What’ll it be?”
“Draft… Whatever’s on tap…” Paul sounded stunned.
“You got it.” While he filled the glass, Noah steadied himself, so that when he pushed the beer forward, his smile was decent. “So what brings you to Jake’s Hut?” The ancient bar was well off the beaten track.
“I’m speaking at a seminar at the college. Someone recommended this place. How did you end up here? You dropped off the map. I called National Record and they said you’d quit.”
“They wouldn’t run my story.” Despite his brain’s deficits, he’d pecked out an apology about his foolhardy quest for bloody headlines, damn the human cost. Hank called it self-indulgent moralizing and refused to print it.
He’d probably been right.
“Truth is, the head injury made it hard to think or write. I was deadweight.” The first months his speech had been so faulty, he couldn’t deal with the phone. Email gave him time to look up words, but wore him out. Mostly, he preferred to be alone.
“You’re better now?”
“Getting there.”
“You broke bones, too, right?”
“All healed up.” His arm and leg were still stiff in the morning, coughing hurt his ribs and he would always limp. But he was alive and kicking, unlike Reggie Fuller.
“Well, you look good,” Paul said, clearly lying.
“I look like shit. It’s a hangover,” he said, not wanting to get into the truth—he’d had a flashback the night before, waking up crouched beside the bed, trembling and sweating, the echoes of gunfire in his head, the smell of motor oil and blood in his nose. He’d numbed himself to sleep with tequila, so he was hungover on top of that.
The flashbacks weren’t as bad as the nightmare—he remembered every detail of the nightmare. In it, he was carrying a wounded man to safety, while soldier after soldier got shot between the eyes, dropping dead so that he stumbled over their bodies, until he looked down and saw he held a machine gun, realizing to his horror, that he’d been the one mowing down the men. Every time he had the nightmare, the horror hit just as hard.
The flashbacks happened less often. At first, he’d had them even in the daytime, triggered by sudden noises or quick movements—even smells. In crowds, he’d start sweating and shaking, his heart beating so fast he thought he might black out.
The doctor he’d seen when his leg flared had prescribed an anti-anxiety med, but Noah wasn’t willing to fog his brain any more than it already was. He coped day-to-day. Small spaces and dark rooms still sent his pulse pounding, but he could fight it off better every day that passed.
“So you’re bartending now?” Paul was clearly trying to hide his bafflement.
“Here, yeah. In Denver, I sold newspaper ads. I washed cars in Sacramento, parked them in Vegas. Whatever got me grocery money.”
“But no reporting?”
“Soon, I hope.” Besides, needing time for his brain to heal, he’d needed some soul-searching about the grievous harm his single-minded drive for copy-inches had caused. The thought sent a wash of shame through him. It always would. Steady, man. “How’s the family?” He dispensed seltzer over ice from the gun to wet his dry throat.
“Great. Cindi’s pregnant again. Surprise! Never take birth control for granted, bro.” He gave a sheepish smile. “It’s wild this time. She’s had morning sickness from day one and Princess Emma, three-and-a-half going on fifteen, has started acting out big-time.”
“Of course. Her kingdom’s under siege.” Jesus. Another kid to raise and worry about and send to college. “But you two were born to be parents.”
“No one is, trust me. It’s on-the-job training. Day one, they let you walk out of the hospital with this innocent being who depends on you for everything. You’ll see.”
“You know me better than that.” He couldn’t imagine a less-likely fate.
“One day, you’ll get your gills caught in some poor girl’s net and she won’t have the sense to toss you back.” He was joking like the old days, but his tone was faint. He was clearly disturbed by Noah’s condition, which made Noah realize he maybe wasn’t as improved as he’d imagined.
“You’re catching me on a bad day. I’m in good shape. In fact, I’m headed to Phoenix to help my grandmother get moved. I need a job if you know of anything.”
“Yeah? I bet I could get you on as an adjunct professor.”
“I’m the last person you want teaching J school.”
“It would be a coup to have you.” Paul stopped as though sensing Noah’s resistance, and because he was a good friend, letting it go. “Public affairs needs writers for the web, I think. I’ll check the in-house postings. Where will you stay?”
“Camping at my grandmother’s place out in Apache Junction until I get it emptied out, then renting somewhere, I guess.”
“That’s way the hell out there. Why don’t you stay in our guesthouse?”
“Seriously?” They had a great location, which would help with whatever job he got. “That would be great.”
“Absolutely. You’ll be doing us a favor.”
“How’s that?” he said, taking a drink of the seltzer water he’d poured.
“Isn’t it obvious? Emma needs a babysitter.”
Noah choked on the water, but he was smiling. Smiling big.
“OOOH! OOOH! CAN I HAVE a Popsicle, Uncle Noah?” Emma asked from the backseat of his Jeep. He’d offered to drop her off at day care to save Cindi time, since he was headed to the downtown ASU office. “You get one and only one. After school. Your mom said.”
“Pullleeeeze, Uncle Noah?” Hanging out with the pint-size tornado two nights ago so that her parents could have a date, he’d unknowingly broken Cindi’s one-Popsicle-a-day rule. Now the little terror figured him for an easy mark. She was correct.
He swung over to the ice cream truck she’d spotted. “What flavor?”
“Grape! Purply-purple! Yay! I love you, Uncle Noah!”
“Food does not equal love, little girl. That’s half the reason we have an epidemic in childhood obesity. You’ll have to bite it down, no licking, so it’s all gone by the time we get there, or the other kids will feel left out.”
She nodded, eager to please now that she’d wrapped him around her pinkie. He was a sucker for those big eyes of hers. When she smiled, they lit up like two blue flashlights in her elfin face. Had to be some biological wiring to make sure you didn’t leave your offspring in the dust of the veldt when lions were on the prowl. Whatever it was, it worked like a charm.
He parked in the strip mall where the day-care center was and went to open Emma’s door. “Good lord, look at you.” Her mouth was purple and two rivulets of juice streaked her arm to her elbow. “We’ll clean you up inside so they don’t report your parents to Child Protective Services.”
“What’s protector service?”
“Sort of the police who look out for children in trouble.”
“I’m not in trouble, Uncle Noah,” she said, giving him a look of pure disdain. “You are if Mommy finds out.”
“Then let’s keep it our little secret.”
She made a crisscross over her heart, then undid the belt on her car seat—she was better at it than he was. He set her on the sidewalk, then grabbed her glittery pink backpack, which weighed twenty pounds because she’d crammed half her toy chest into it before they left. You never knew when you might need a plastic pony or a comb the size of a toenail.
He pushed open the glass door of the place. No one stood at the reception desk and he spotted the restroom sign, so he headed that way, Emma clacking in the wooden shoes her mother had reluctantly let her wear.
The place was bright—painted yellow and purple with jungle flowers. One side of the hallway was a photo studio behind a glass wall. Eyes of a Child was lettered in gold on the door. He glanced inside. Huge framed prints of babies, toddlers and young children were everywhere. The photos were strikingly good.
The photographer, her back to him, was snapping a close-in shot of a little boy sitting on a giant ABC block in front of a bright blue backdrop. The woman rose and turned his way. He did a double take.
It was Mel Ramirez. Mel? He’d expected she’d be in Uganda by now, taking world-stopping photos for a wire service, but here she was snapping kiddie candids. How odd.
She looked startled to see him—her eyes wide, her lips parted.
They stood, staring at each other through the glass, neither moving for long seconds. Mel. Melodía. The fired-up angel he’d spent that last weekend with. He’d pictured her a million times, dreamed her twice that. He wasn’t sure he wasn’t dreaming her now. “Uncle Noooo-aaaah, I want to gooooo.” Emma leaned back hard, struggling to escape his grip. He released her, his gaze still glued to Mel. He had to go in and talk to her. What the hell would he say?
CHAPTER FOUR
NOAH PUSHED THROUGH the door into the photo studio. “Mel.”
“Noah.” She smiled an uncertain smile.
He picked up her scent, that sweet peppery perfume, and was swamped by the memory of her from so long ago. They breathed at each other for a few seconds. “I didn’t realize you were in Phoenix,” she said finally.
“Just got here a week ago.”
“How are you?” She glanced at his leg, so he knew she’d noticed his limp.
“Good.” He straightened his shoulder. He tended to hunch to protect the weakened arm. “You?”
“I was sorry about what happened…what you went through over there.” She tilted her head, ready to offer sympathy, which was the last thing he wanted or needed.
He shrugged it away. “Old news.”
She blinked, as if unsure how to take that. “So…what brings you to Bright Blossoms?” She nodded at the backpack he still held.
“This? Oh, it’s not mine.” He laughed. “Neither is the little girl.”
“Of course not.” She went bright red, as if that embarrassed her.
“Emma is Paul Stockton’s daughter,” he said. “I’m staying in their guesthouse and this place was on my way to work.”
“I didn’t realize we had Paul’s daughter with us. I don’t know all the kids. Bright Blossoms is my mother’s business. So where do you work?” She glanced over at the little boy, who had left the block and was crawling across the room.
“ASU. I write for the alumni magazine right now. It’s a paycheck while I’m getting my grandmother into assisted living and clearing out her house. What about you? Did you go part-time with Arizona News Day?”
“I had to quit. Life got in the way.” She seemed to think that choice would make sense to him. Hardly. News photography had been her life. She turned to the kid, who had pushed himself upright and now teetered toward her like someone new to stilts.
She crouched down and held out her arms. “That’s the way… You can make it.” The kid made an excited sound and sped up, leaning perilously forward. Right before he took a header, Mel caught him. “Good boy!” she said, taking him into her arms, then standing to face Noah, almost as if showing him off.
“You’re still taking pictures at least,” he said, nodding at the wall shots.
“Mom had the space. I help her out here, too.”
“Oh. Sure.” She’d quit the paper to help her mother. What a shame, with her talent and ambition.
“This is Daniel,” she said, very pink in the face all of a sudden.
“Cute kid,” he said. He had curly brown hair and a big smile that showed a couple of tiny teeth, but his face was streaked with green paint, as were his clothes and hands. “You’d think his mother would clean him up for a portrait.”
She looked startled. Then something seemed to dawn on her and she took a deep breath before speaking. “That would be me. I’m his mother.”
“Oh. God. I didn’t realize. Congratulations,” he said, recovering from his shock. So that was what had gone wrong. She’d gotten pregnant, had a kid and quit her job. Her left hand, which braced the boy on her hip, had a bare ring finger, so she hadn’t married the guy.
As these thoughts raced through his head, Mel studied him, looking nervous and embarrassed. Why? It was hardly his place to judge her.
Finally she spoke. “When I got your text, I assumed you’d gotten mine.”
“Your text?” He flashed on the moment when, jumble-headed, barely past a panic attack, he’d deleted everything on his phone. “I wasn’t up to much at the hospital.”
“I should have verified, I guess….” She cleared her throat, looked away, then back. “See, the thing is—” She blew out a breath. “Okay, I’ll just say it. I got pregnant that weekend.”
“You what?” His brain glitched, shorting out his thoughts like so many bad fuses. “You got…? But you told me—”
“That I had birth control handled, yeah. I thought I did. It’s a long story. I was between methods, but I wasn’t supposed to be able to get pregnant in the first place. I’m not a careless person and I felt really stupid about it, so…” She paused. “Forget all that. The point is…Daniel is your son.”
“My…son?” He felt as though someone had shoved him hard. He took a step back to stay upright. He looked at the kid in Mel’s arms with the same round curls he had, its color halfway between Mel’s black and his brown. The kid even had his dimple, he realized with a jolt.
As if on cue, the little boy reached out his arms, straining for Noah.
“You can hold him,” Mel said, as if to reassure him.
Noah accepted the kid—small, but dense, a solid weight on his good arm. The little boy patted Noah’s cheeks. “Da-da,” he said. “Da-da.”
Noah’s jaw sagged. “He knows?”
Mel burst out laughing. “D is one of the first sounds babies make,” she said. “He calls everything da-da—me, the dog, my mother. Cheerios even.” Daniel leaned toward his mother, so Noah handed him back.
“Oh, okay. Good.” Did he mean good? Good that Daniel didn’t know Noah was his father? That sounded bad. Damn. He was in deep weeds here.
“You must have thought I was an asshole ignoring you like that.”
“But you didn’t. You wished me well and said I’d do great.”
“I meant with your job, Mel, not…that. Christ, you were having a baby. That I…uh…caused.” He cleared his throat. “I should have been there.” He seemed to be walking on ground that could disappear beneath his feet.
“No. That’s the point. I didn’t consult you about what you wanted. I didn’t need you.” She hesitated. “I mean, I didn’t want you to feel obligated. I knew you never wanted kids. And I took full responsibility on my own.”
“Okay. I get it. I just… Hell.” He was stranded in a weird limbo. He always knew what to do. Here, he was stumped. “So, how old is he?”
“Almost a year. His birthday’s the twenty-fifth. He’s small for his age—he came a little early—but he’s very healthy.”
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