Seeing Love: Saints Protection & Investigations (14 page)

He smiled and patted her cheek. “Maybe this payment will do it this time. I pray they’ll send him back to me after this.”

Tears hit the back of her eyes as she tried to speak over the lump in her throat. He looked so devastated, her heart ached for him as she was filled with a powerful image of despair. With a final goodbye, she stepped away, allowing Bart to move her toward the front door. Her mind swirled with the image of the boy in a room, on his bed, reading.

*

The trees on
the side of the highway once again flew by as Bart and Faith drove back toward Charlestown. This time, the trip was much friendlier than the one two days earlier.

The country music station was softly playing in the background when she suddenly reached over to turn up the volume. “I love this song!” she exclaimed.

Bart lifted his eyebrow, remembering his previous attempt at irritating her, but kept silent. He watched as she looked over at him, an expression of victory on her face.
Minx!
“So you like country music?” he asked, trying to sound nonchalant.

“Yep,” she declared. She decided not to torture him about the other day, keeping quiet instead while grinning widely.

Moving to a safer topic, she twisted around to look at him and asked, “Did you grow up in Virginia Beach?”

Nodding, he replied, “Yeah. My great-grandfather made his living in the shipbuilding industry during WWII and that’s been the family business ever since.”

“But not for you,” she stated, rather than asked.

“Shipbuilding wasn’t in my blood, but the ocean was. I joined the Navy after college and trained to become a SEAL.”

Not wanting to touch on a sensitive subject, she queried cautiously, “You were injured?”

Heaving a sigh, he nodded. “The last mission I was on, I blew out my fuckin’ knee. I’m strong but, as big as I am, knees can be a weak joint.”

“You sound…I don’t know…almost irritated with yourself.”

“Yeah well, I can’t even have a good war-injury story. I was carrying a bunch of shit and then a buddy got hit. Not bad, but he couldn’t travel fast and I was the closest.”

His story stopped, but her mind quickly put together the pieces. “Oh, my God! You carried him, didn’t you?” The silence filled the truck for a moment and she began to wonder if he was going to continue at all.

Finally, he nodded. “Yeah. I picked him up and got him to our transport. Right near the end, I stepped into some kind of hole and went down. Tore my knee to shit and almost fuckin’ dumped my team member.”

“Was…did he…?”

“Live? Yeah. He’s still a SEAL. Feels guilty as hell and every so often I remind him that he, at least, owes me a beer when we get together,” he laughed.

She decided that she liked hearing the sound of his laughter. “So then you went to work for the investigative company?”

He shook his head, saying, “No. I did a year with Border Patrol. I was interested in what they had to offer and liked the work.” Giving a little shrug, he said, “But with the SEALs, we could usually do what we needed to do to get the job done. With the BP, our hands were often tied with a lot of bureaucratic bullshit. Then I made a trip to visit a former SEAL buddy and happened to meet Jack. Found out about his business and I was all in. Turned in my resignation and moved to Charlestown.”

A comfortable silence ensued as each returned to their own thoughts. After several miles had passed, she asked, “What about your family?”

“Mom and dad still live in the house where I grew up in Virginia Beach.”

“The mansion?” she joked.

Glancing over at her smiling face, he could not hold the smile back either. “Yeah, the mansion.” Her face did not seem to hold any envy, so he continued. “My brother’s an accountant with the family firm and my sister is an engineer.”

“So you were the wayward son?”

“I’m the black sheep—the only one who did not go into the business.” He laughed again, saying, “Nah, it’s all good. Mom and dad, hell, even granddad, were proud of me being a SEAL and what I’m doing now.”

“Are you going to go visit them for Christmas?” she asked, curiosity and envy warring.

“Probably,” he answered. “At least for a day, just to see everyone. My parents’ll have a big meal with all the trimmings and we’ll head to Nonnie’s for some early presents to open. My whole family will be there, so I’ll probably go to spend Christmas Eve night and Christmas morning with them.”

He said the words so casually, but was instantly aware of the quiet in the truck. Not angry quiet. Not pouting quiet. He had heard a lot of that from women over the years to recognize it easily. No, this was a sad quiet. A grieving quiet.
Jesus, I’m a fuckin’ idiot
, he berated himself.
She has no family to spend the holidays with.

She broke the silence first, saying, “You seem close to your grandmother and you mentioned your grandfather in past tense. Is he…um…?”

“He died about five years ago and I swear, when I’m at Nonnie’s house, I can still hear his laughter booming through the halls.” He sobered thinking about his grandmother. “She’s never recovered from his death.”

“I don’t think people recover, Bart. They just learn how to live with grief.”

“Is that what you do?”

This time, the silence hung heavily, each to their own thoughts. Finally, she nodded. “Yes, I suppose it is. I live with the grief of my lost family.” Sighing deeply, she admitted, “But sometimes it’s a lonely place to be.”

Suddenly, Bart wanted to know about her. Their conversation had been all about him and he realized, for the first time, he truly knew nothing about her…and desired to.

Looking over, their gazes locked for a second. His eyes dropped down to her mouth. The smooth, pink, plump flesh drove him crazy and he wanted to taste it more than his next breath. Her tongue darted out to lick her lips and his cock jumped to life.

Sucking in a deep breath, he said, “Tell me about yourself?”

“Me?” she said, surprised at the question. “What’s to tell?” She sat silent for a moment, the peaceful truce between them slowly fading. “After all, I’m sure you’ve been checking me out. Have your co-workers discovered my hidden secrets yet?” She so did not want to be bitter but could hear the sharp tone of her voice and winced. Lifting her hand, she nibbled on her thumbnail while looking out of her side window.
Wow, we’re almost to Richland.
She realized the miles had passed quickly as she had gotten to know him.

Bart’s fingers tightened on the steering wheel. He wanted to dispute her accusation that he had been investigating her, but could not lie. He had looked over the documents Luke sent to him. He knew her bank account balance…for the past two years. Very little money had been deposited from her police work and teaching job. She lived in an old apartment in an ancient building in downtown Charlestown…and not in a safe area. He finally came to the absolute decision that she was not a swindler, scammer, medium for hire, or any of the other unsavory names he had called her.

Glancing to the side, he saw the sadness in her eyes as she stared forward, purposefully keeping her eyes from moving to his. Even though he had apologized before, he knew his earlier words had stung. He wanted to take his spiteful comments back, but the words caught in his throat. Somehow they seemed so trite, a reminder he had not believed her in the beginning.

Looking at the clock, he knew he only had her undivided attention for about another hour or so and wanted to make the most of it. Glancing at her stoic face, he knew if he did not take a chance to make it all right, then she might never want to be around him again once they got back home.

“No, really,” he said, tentatively. “I’d like to hear about you.” Grasping at straws, he prodded, “Tell me about your grandmother.”

The silence continued for several more minutes, leading him to believe she was no longer speaking to him.

“Babushka was my savior,” she began tentatively. After a moment, she continued. “My father left soon after I was born and my mother never recovered.” Giving a derisive snort, she said, “My mother’s hold on reality was…tenuous at best. Growing up, she would sometimes tell me my father went to fight in a war. Or went looking for treasure. Or whatever seemed to flit through her mind that made it easier for her to deal with the fact that he left her. It was my grandmother who stepped in and finally told me the truth. She said the truth was always better than make-believe anyway.”

Bart startled at this pronouncement.
Truth? She believes that fully in truth?
In the ensuing silence he realized whatever gift Faith believed she had, it was real to her.
So that doesn’t make her a liar if she believes it. Like Nonnie and her mermaids.

“And what was the truth?” he asked softly.

She stayed quiet for a second too long, nibbling on her thumbnail once more before adding, “My dad was not the type of man who wanted to be tied down. Certainly not to a squalling baby.”

Hurt stabbed his heart as he realized all the love he experienced as a child was a foreign concept to her. Another few silent moments had passed before he prodded again, “You said your mother never recovered?”

“She remained sweet, but a little…um…out of it for the rest of her life.” There was another pause as she sighed heavily before adding, “She died of cancer when I was twelve and Babushka became my guardian. As hard as that was, in some ways, it was better. My grandmother was fun-loving and taught me so much more about life than my mother did.”

“She sounds amazing,” he said honestly.

Faith pondered how much more to tell him. How much more of her story would he be able to handle without becoming angry again? He must have noticed her hesitation because he asked about her drawings.

Her head jerked around as she peered closely at him. “Seriously? You’re not just going to use this as an opportunity to slam me again?”

“No, no,” he promised. “Really, I’d like to hear about it. I can’t promise to…um…believe it the way you do, but I’d like to try to understand.”

This time, the quiet in the truck cab lasted for several miles. He wondered if he should have pushed—
maybe she doubts that I will keep my fuckin’ mouth shut.
He was about to tell her not to worry about it when she began to speak.

She sat for a moment, silent in her indecision.
Should I give him another chance?
The cold of loneliness crept over her and she longed for the warmth of human understanding. Glancing at his face, anger and doubt no longer appeared, but were replaced with interest.
How can I expect to be given another chance if I’m not willing to give back?
Deciding to open up, she prayed it was the right decision.

“I always loved to draw. I think it was my escape sometimes. I would read a book and think of how I saw the characters and spend hours drawing them. I would wake up at night from either a dream or a nightmare and have to draw what I had seen. The first time I ever had something different happen to me, I was at school and we were in an art class. I had drawn a picture of the boy sitting next to me in detail—his striped shirt, his red hair, everything. Except he was lying on his back in the classroom. About an hour later, he fell to the floor just like in my drawing. I didn’t know it at the time, but he had epilepsy and had had a seizure. When the teacher found my drawing from earlier in the day, she wanted to know how I knew he was going to become ill. I had no idea, but she never treated me the same after that. In fact, I know she told the other teachers because they all avoided me.”

Bart stayed silent, his mind searching for a reason.
Dogs can tell if a person is about to have a seizure, so maybe there was a scent she smelled.
The idea sounded ridiculous to him, but as usual, his mind desired a logical explanation.

“Another time, I drew our neighbor’s dog chained to a tall pole in an unfamiliar yard that had an old metal swing set in the back. Later that day, our neighbors came to ask if we had seen their dog because it had gotten loose. We hadn’t, but I showed my grandmother my drawing. She recognized the swing set from a yard several blocks away. She told the neighbors she had seen their dog several blocks over and when they went to look, they found him.”

“What did the neighbors say about your drawing?” he asked, afraid that, as a child, she had suffered again.

“We never told them.” Thick, soupy silence formed around them. Finally, slicing through, she admitted, “That was when Babushka told me about my gift.”

F
aith heard the
sharp intake of breath and knew Bart was reacting to the words
her gift.
She wanted to turn and look at him, see his expression, peer into his eyes to see his look of disbelief. Or anger. But she kept looking straight ahead at the highway.
I’m such a coward!
There had been several minutes of silence in the car while they had talked, but nothing like this one.
I guess that ends our conversation,
she thought ruefully.

The stillness was suddenly broken. “Tell me about your gift,” Bart encouraged. Catching her glare, he said, “Please. I want to try to understand how you see things.”