Just One Thing (17 page)

“I want . . .” He let the sentence fade away.

“You want?”

“You. I want you.”

He took her hand and led her back into the cottage, and for the first time in a long time, they made love. Oh, they’d had sex, but not like this. Not . . .

I let the sentence trail off. “I’m sorry.”

I was embarrassed. I treated my Mondays as if they were private. Just talks between me and Sam. But there was Jerry at the end of the bar and off-and-on others within earshot.

Plus, I was pretty sure that it was bad form to talk to someone you were dating about making love to someone from your past.

“Lexie, we all know you and Lee probably made love.”

“You had three kids, after all,” Jerry yelled helpfully from the end of the bar.

“You’re not helping,” Sam barked at Jerry, then smiled at me. “Go on.”

“Things were better. Two days later . . .”

“Come on, lazy bones.” Lee smacked her backside for emphasis. “We can’t stay in this bed for the entire trip.”

“Why not?” Lexie asked.

“We’re in Ireland,” was his response, as if that, in and of itself, answered her question.

“We’re newlyweds,” she protested. “People expect us to spend all our time in bed.”

Lee laughed and she thought maybe she was imagining that something was off. Those little niggles of nervousness about Lee were nothing. Everything was all right.

“We’re the longest-married newlyweds in history. Come on.”

They bummed around town, taking in the sights, then ended up at a small cemetery next to the church. They walked, hand in hand, up and down the rows of headstones looking for Morrows. They walked together as if they weren’t a couple who’d been married for most of their adult lives. They walked through the past—through rows of old headstones and newer ones. They walked among some headstones that were so old she couldn’t make out the names.

There was some commotion at the end of the cemetery, a couple of guys wheeling some machine just beyond the cemetery fence.

“Morning,” Lee called. “What’s going on?”

“We’re looking for the babies,” the man nearest to them said.

Lexie must have looked as confused as she felt, because the man clarified. “Unbaptized babies. Years ago, they didn’t want them buried in consecrated ground because their souls weren’t destined for heaven. There are mass graves out here and the mums are up in arms, so we’re extending the boundary of the cemetery to include the wee ones.”

“The wee ones,” she murmured as she thought about Gracie, about holding her throughout her illness. Gracie had been buried in the cemetery next to Lexie’s father, in her mother’s very practical extra plot. But she didn’t think of Gracie and that small stone that marked her resting place.

No, when she thought of Gracie, she thought about her alive and laughing. Reading books together. Like snapshots in an album, Lexie saw her. On the garage roof with her siblings. Sneaking halfway down the stairs after bedtime and stealing a few extra minutes of television.

She saw snapshots of Gracie with ease in her mind. She’d had that time with her daughter.

“I got to hold Grace,” she said. “I got to hold her, and I have memories. I know where she’s buried and can visit. But these moms . . .” Lexie started to cry for the babies whose souls weren’t destined for heaven. For the babies who hadn’t been allowed to rest in consecrated ground. “These moms don’t even have a headstone to visit. Nothing. No memories. No burial site. Nothing but a hole in their heart that never truly heals.”

“I’m not sure why it bothered me so much, but it did. We finally got up and walked back into town. We stopped at the pub and I had a Guinness. We talked about Gracie as we drank. Listening to the men talk about babies being buried in unconsecrated soil seemed horrible to me. But there, in the pub afterward, we talked about our past, about what we hoped to find in our future.

“Lee and I talked as I drank Guinness. For the first time, we talked with ease about the daughter we lost. We talked about our life together, even our divorce. We cleared the air and said so many things that needed to be said out loud. When I first came here and asked for it, it was because Guinness reminds me of comfort.”

“Then I’m doubly glad I ordered it in. If I’d known, I’d have ordered it sooner.”

“Now, when I drink it, it’s not just comfort; it’s a gift. Every time you bring me a pint of Guinness, that feeling of comfort is augmented by a feeling of . . .” I shrugged. I didn’t know how to put it into words. But it was there. Every time Sam brought me a pint, I felt a warmth. His gift of Guinness reminded me that despite the dark days, I’d found Sam. A friend. A place to belong.

“I don’t know how to explain,” I finally said. “But you’re there, too. Mixed into that feeling. Thank you for that.”

“I do know what you mean about a certain thing having a feeling associated with it. For me it’s birdseed.”

“Birdseed?” I wanted to laugh and one look at Sam’s grin, I knew it was okay. “All right, I think we’re all waiting to see what sort of feeling birdseed evokes for you.”

“When Mom and Richard got married, I was the . . .”

Sam walked his mother to the front of the church. She was wearing an ivory skirt and jacket. He’d have said white, but his
mother had assured him it was ivory. Since her son was going to be there, everyone would know she shouldn’t be wearing white.

Sam had pointed out she should wear whatever she wanted, and she’d assured him she was. She was wearing ivory.

They reached the front of the church and Richard was there waiting for his mom. Sam put his mother’s hand in Richard’s, then, rather than sitting down, he’d simply moved to one side.

He’d tried to talk his mother out of making him her maid of honor, but she wouldn’t hear of anyone else doing it. He’d begged her to call him her man of honor and she’d obliged, but every time she’d said the words, he’d known she was thinking maid of honor.

“Wait, wait,” Jerry called from the end of the bar, pulling Sam from his one-thing. “You mean, you were your mother’s maid of honor?”

“Man of honor,” Sam repeated.

“Oh, Romeo,” Jerry teased.

It wasn’t only Jerry and me laughing. A number of the patrons were obviously listening because there was a distinct laughter coming from the nearby tables. And Joanie, the waitress and sometimes cook, didn’t even attempt to disguise the fact she was listening. She sat down on the stool next to me.

Sam gave her a significant look, one I might have used on the kids when they were young, but Joanie just grinned and stayed put.

“Don’t listen to them, Sam,” I said. “I think it’s lovely your mom asked you to be her ma—” That
A
had started out with a long sound, but I quickly changed it to a short
A
and finished, “man of honor. Tell me about the birdseed.”

“The ceremony was short and to the point; then my mom and Richard walked down the aisle and I followed with his brother, who was his best man . . .”

Sam walked through the receiving line and hugged his mother. “Just be happy, Mom,” he whispered in her ear.

“How could I not be happy? I’m married to Richard and you’re home, safe and healthy. Now, if we could just work on the happy for you.”

“Well, I have enough happiness today to share some with you, Sam,” Richard said, taking his hand and shaking it, then pulling him into a hug. “I thought I’d grow old a well-established bachelor, but now, I’m not only married, but I’ve gained a son—that is if you don’t mind?”

Sam didn’t remember his father, but he remembered dreaming of one when he was young. Someone who cared about him, who’d show up at his games and graduations. Someone who’d maybe teach him to fish, or drive. Just a regular dad, like so many of his friends had.

Richard definitely wasn’t the fishing sort, and Sam had long since learned to drive, but he had a feeling he’d be the kind of man to show up at events, or to show up just because Sam asked him to. “I’d be honored, sir . . . Dad.”

The rest of the small assembly of friends and family filed through the line and shook hands with the happy couple and with Sam and Richard’s brother.