Home Front

His dark good looks and easy smile had literally taken her breath away. She’d followed him to a shabby little office and told him her problem. “I’m seventeen—eighteen in two months. My parents died this week. Car accident. A social worker came by and said I would have to live with foster parents until I turned eighteen. But I don’t need anyone. Certainly not some fake family. I can live in my own house until June—that’s when the bank is repossessing it—and then I’ll be done with high school and I can do … whatever. Can you make it so I don’t need to go to a foster family?”

Michael had studied her closely, his eyes narrowed. “You’d be alone then. ”

“I am alone. It’s a fact, not a choice. ”

When he’d finally said, “I’ll help you, Jolene,” she’d wanted to cry.

In the next hour, she’d told him a tidied-up version of her life. He’d said something about attorney-client privilege and how she could tell him anything, but she knew better. She’d learned a long time ago to keep the truth secret. When people knew she’d grown up with alcoholic parents, they invariably felt sorry for her. She hated that, hated to be pitied.

When they were done and the paperwork was filled out, Michael had said, “Come back and see me in a few years, Jolene. I’ll take you out to dinner. ”

It had taken her six years to find her way back to him. By then, she’d been a pilot in the army and he’d been a lawyer in partnership with his father, and they’d had almost nothing in common. But she’d seen something in him that first day, an idealism that spoke deeply to her and a sense of morality that matched her own. Like her, Michael was a hard worker and had a keen sense of duty. True to his word, Michael had taken her out to dinner … and that had been the beginning.

She smiled at the memory.

In the distance, lights came on along the shore, golden dots that indicated houses in the darkness. Gauzy clouds wafted across the moon; in their absence, it shone more brightly. It was full night now, and dark. She glanced at her watch. Eight thirty.

She felt a pinch of disappointment and pushed it away. Something important must have come up. Life was like that sometimes. Things were rarely perfect. He would show up.

But …

Lately, it seemed that their differences were more pronounced than the things they shared. Michael had always hated her commitment to the military. She’d left active duty for him and gone into the Guard instead, but that hadn’t been good enough for Michael. He didn’t want to hear about her flying or her drill weekends or her friends who served. He’d always been antimilitary, but since the war in Iraq had started, his opinions had grown stronger, more negative. Their once-companionable silences had become awkward. It was pretty lonely when you couldn’t talk to your husband about the things that mattered to you. Normally, she looked away from these truths, but tonight they were all that occupied the chair beside her.

She got up and went back inside.

8:50.

She opened the heavy yellow pot lid and stared into the meal she’d made. The rich sauce had reduced too far; it looked a little black around the edges. Behind her, the phone rang. She lunged for it. “Hello?”

“Hey, Jo. I’m sorry I’m late. ”

“Late was an hour ago, Michael. What happened?”

“I’m sorry. What can I say? I got into work and forgot. ”

“You forgot,” she said, wishing it didn’t hurt.

“I’ll make it up to you. ”

She almost said how? but what was the point? Why make it worse? He hadn’t meant to hurt her feelings. “Okay. ”

“I’ll try to get home quickly, but…”

Jolene was glad they were on the phone; at least she didn’t have to smile. The thought came to her that he hadn’t been trying hard enough lately, that his family—and his wife—seemed not to matter to him. And yet she still loved him as deeply as the day he’d first kissed her, all those years ago.

Time, she thought. It will be okay next week or next month. He was still grieving over the loss of his father. She just needed to be understanding.

“Happy birthday,” he said.

“Thanks. ” She hung up the phone and sat down at the kitchen table. In the shadowy room, decorated with her family photos and mementos and the furniture she had salvaged and restored herself, she felt alone suddenly. All dressed up, sitting in this darkened room. Lonely.

Then there was a knock at the door. Before Jolene even stood up, the kitchen door opened. Tami walked into the house, holding a bottle of champagne. “You’re alone,” she said quietly.

“He got caught up at work,” Jolene said.

“I was afraid of that. ” Sadness passed through Tami’s eyes, and Jolene hated how it made her feel. Then Tami smiled. “Well. It’s no good to turn forty-one without an audience,” she said, kicking the door shut behind her. “Besides, I’m dying to know if you’ll start wrinkling up right in front of me, like Gary Oldman in Dracula. ”

“I am not going to start wrinkling up. ”