Mary Sullivan - Safe in Noah's Arms

Do I care? Should I care? Why should I care?

On the radio, a female sang a bright and chirpy song. The falsely engineered cheer passed over her like a specter.

She spread a hand across the empty side of the bed, across the sheets that had been washed hundreds of times since Billy had gone to war. His pillowcase, though? That she hadn’t changed or washed since he’d left for Afghanistan. For many nights afterward, she had curled herself around his pillow, drinking in his scent and missing him.

She changed and washed the sheets every week, turned and flipped the mattress twice a year, vacuumed under the bed, but never, ever, washed her late husband’s pillow or pillowcase.

I miss you, Billy .

He’d been dead five years. Shouldn’t the pain have eased by now? Why couldn’t she let go of the grief?

You already know, don’t you? What would you replace it with? What would fill your emptiness without your grief for your dead husband?

She hated when her smart-alecky brain or psyche or common sense, or whatever it was, knew the answers to questions she didn’t really want solved.

The vacancy on Billy’s side of the bed represented the gap in her life, in her soul, but then, it had always been there, hadn’t it? Even long before hormones had kicked in and she’d started looking at cute, funny Billy Stone differently, she’d been empty. He’d become the most magical creature she’d ever known. He’d made her laugh.

He’d been everything. Her first, her one and only. He’d made love like an oversized puppy dog, with enthusiasm and greed and joy. Even in bed, they’d had a lot of fun.

She’d never slept with another man. She wouldn’t even know how to approach sex with someone else.

He’d filled in the hollow, hungry holes that had been part of her for as far back as she could remember. Now he was gone and those holes were back, and she didn’t have a clue how to fill them.

She reached over and flicked off the radio, cutting off some irritating song that would be played half a dozen more times before the day was over. The ensuing silence closed in on her, broken only by the tick of the ormolu clock on the mantel in the living room.

She hated the silence, hated all silence, had always hated that void that needed filling, and the feeling that something was missing. There was too much quiet and emptiness in her life these days.

On Friday night when she’d gone out drinking, she’d been going bonkers in this apartment. She’d been sick of the sound of her own voice, of the irritating ticking of the clock, of the useless, mind-numbing junk on TV.

Billy used to keep the void at bay. His practical jokes, wisecracks and ceaseless banter used to destroy the silence. Used to annihilate it. Now it was back in full force and Monica was lost.

No wonder she’d gone drinking when the silence of her apartment had made her climb the walls. She just shouldn’t have driven home afterward.

She crawled out of bed with the energy of an old woman, reluctant to face Noah’s wrath when she pulled plants instead of weeds. They all looked the same to her.

Then she remembered she was going to the farm her mom had grown up on.

Okay, maybe today she cared a little.

* * *

NOAH WALKED ALONG the row of green peppers to check on Monica and found her with her back to him, bent over at the waist plucking something from the earth.

Gold stitching on the back pockets of her blue jeans hugged the curves of her perfect derriere. Why, oh why, couldn’t he lust after a normal woman, someone with as much depth as the people he admired in life? But no, he had to be as shallow as the next man and want the one woman in town with the least depth of character.

Audrey’s voice rang in his memory. Everybody underestimates her .

He tried to soften his stance. Hard to do when he desired a woman he didn’t respect. Cripes, he wished she would squat to weed instead of bending over.

She straightened, noticed him watching her and pointed to the pile beside her. “See? Only weeds.”

“That’s great.”

“Before I leave today, will you put your wrecked bike into the trunk of my car?”

“Sure, but why?”

“I’m going to take care of it.”

It was useless to him. She could do what she liked with it. “Listen, are you going in to work today?”

“No. Your mom and Aiden are both there. I have today off because I’ll be working on Saturday.”

“Good.” He hated to ask, didn’t want Monica anywhere near this task, but had no choice. He needed her two good arms. “We have to leave the farm, to help some locals.”

“What kind of help?”

“Feeding their families. I need you to come with me.”

“You mean as part of my sentence?”

Heaven forbid she should give of herself unless someone forced her to. “Yeah, as part of your community service. I have to pack and deliver food, but I can’t do it with this bum arm.”

“Okay, show me what to do.”

“Let’s fill this first.” He pulled from behind him an ancient child’s wagon.

“That looks old.”

“I guess it is,” he answered with a shrug. All he cared about was that the thing was useful. “I found it in the shed.”

She grasped his arm. “That’s a Radio Flyer.”

“So?”

“So, it’s a vintage children’s wagon. I love vintage.”

She did? He would have never guessed she’d like old stuff. “Never mind that. We need to harvest some of the spring vegetables today.”

“There are vegetables ready this early? Which ones?”

“Spring onions. Garlic scapes. Asparagus. Broccoli rabe. A little watercress.”

“I lo-o-ove asparagus. I could eat it year-round.”

The way she said lo-o-ove made him crazy, horny. Angry at his knee-jerk response, he reined himself in. He wasn’t a randy teenager, for God’s sake.

“It’s amazing in risotto. There’s this recipe I use—”

“You cook?”

She reacted to his surprise with a snooty lift of her chin. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I?”

“I’ve just never thought of you as being, I don’t know, domestic?”

Judging by the defiance in her expression, he’d offended her. “Cooking is one of my favorite hobbies.”

Noah just managed to bite his tongue before blurting cook for me . He liked food, but couldn’t bring himself to spend enough time in the kitchen to make really great, tasty stuff. Healthy, yes. Gourmet? No.

“It brings me joy,” she continued. “So to whom are you taking these veggies?”

He stared at her. To whom? Who used that kind of grammar anymore?

“Will they know what to do with garlic scapes?” she asked.

“Do you ?”

“Yes. In fact, may I buy some from you? There aren’t any in the shops yet.”

“I can’t sell them. I’m a nonprofit.”

“Hmmm.” She set a finger, with its pink nail, against her chin. “How can we get around that? I’d really like some for dinner tonight. Can I make a donation to a charity in your name or something?”

“Yeah. We can work out something like that. You can make a donation to the food bank in Denver.”

She smiled and his world became a brighter, ever-expanding thing. “Great! I’ll take some asparagus, too. Anyway, you didn’t answer my question. Will the people you’re taking these to know how to use scapes? They’re kind of a new trend. Most people just use straight garlic.”

He shrugged. “You can ask when we get there.”

She smiled...slyly, he thought. “You’re going to let me come inside when you deliver the groceries? You’re not going to make me sit in the truck?”

He’d wanted to do just that, but he couldn’t carry in the produce on his own. How had she known?