Cheryl Wyatt - Soldier Daddy

“Okay.” Sarah sounded mildly curious.

He passed the phone to Braden.

As Sarah sat at the tiny motel-room table preparing to write one of her thrice-weekly letters, whimpers came across the line, causing her to pause.

“Mi-iss Sarah?”

Bryce or Braden? She couldn’t be sure. “Yes?”

“I—I—I—Please don’t be mad at me and not come back.”

Sarah’s heart melted. “Is this Braden?”

“Ye-heaw.”

“Do you have something to tell me?”

Sniffles. “Uh-huh.”

Shuffling came across the line. Then in the background she heard Aaron’s voice, softly coaching Braden. Then what sounded like an escalating, “I-don’t-want-to-I-don’t-want-to-I-don’t-want-to,” then a minor scuffle then sniffling back on the line.

“M-Miss Sarah, I took your phone.”

“Oh. Why? Did you just want to play with it?”

“No-oo. I wanted to play with you.”

Sarah covered the phone and turned her mouth away. Easier to quell the laugh. “You thought if you took my phone that I’d have to come back. Is that it?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Aaron whispered in the background.

“Yes, ma’am,” Braden corrected in a wobbly voice.

“Well, how about if I want to come back on my own? Wouldn’t that be better?”

“Uh-huh. Daddy says, wait…” The sound of a hand muting the phone but not covering it completely. “What did you say, Daddy?” Then Braden’s windlike breath came back across the phone. “He says it’s not wrong to wanna see you again. Just how I took the phone to get my way wasn’t right.”

A deep male voice from the background: “And I’m sorry.”

“And I’m…wait. Daddy, why are you sorry?”

A sigh. Then an Aaron-size chuckle. “Not me, son. You.”

“Oh. I’m sorry, Miss Sarah.”

“I forgive you, Braden. And I hope we get to see each other again, too. Your daddy loves you and your brother very much. So much that he wants to be very sure to pick the right nanny. If that’s not me, then God will send someone better. Do you believe that?”

“Guess so.”

“So you learned a lesson today. Sometimes I’ve learned lessons the hard way, too.”

“You did?”

“Yup. But you’re a good boy and I know your daddy knows that.”

“Kay. Bye.” More shuffling.

Then, “Sarah?” The deep baritone of the father whose voice should not make her want to swoon or melt. But did nonetheless.

“I’m here.” But wish I was there.

“Thanks for being so gracious with forgiveness.”

Please return the favor. “No problem.”

But there was a problem. Braden’s innocent words rang in her head like a gong.

Daddy says it’s not wrong to want to see you again.

Why did her mind question whether it was wrong to hope the boys’ father wanted to see her again, too?

“If you’ll shoot me your address, I’ll run this phone by.”

Nor could she deny the hope lifting her joy and her pulse in anticipation of seeing Aaron again.

Sarah fumbled with reciting the address. “If you want to bring the boys, that’s fine.”

“They’d love to come see you, but bedtime looms.”

“Ahh, yes. Very important to keep schedules consistent.”

“Especially since their emotional equilibrium is a little off with me returning to work.”

“Would it be better for me to come there to get my phone?”

“No, then the boys would be too riled to sleep. Besides, that’d reward Braden for taking your phone and Bryce for hiding the fact from me. Especially since they did so to force you back. I’ll just bring it by.”

“Okay.” Sarah hated for Mina to have to do the bedtime ritual alone. “If you need to wait until the boys are bathed and settled to come over, that’s fine.”

“That’d be good. I’ll help Mina put the boys down to sleep first if you don’t mind waiting.”

“I don’t have anywhere to be.”

“Great, then. See you in a bit.”

The call disconnected, but she could still imagine his voice on the line. See you in a bit. She melted at the notion.

Then she remembered she was wearing her oldest pair of snarled-leg jeans with her favorite—but falling apart—flip-flops.

She surged to her closet and searched for something nicer. She flipped through hangers, struggling to convince herself she was trying to impress Aaron her potential boss and not Aaron the drop-dead gorgeous man.

Sarah shoved down flares of attraction trying to ignite in her mind. Fended off fond remembrances of the way he said her name, of how deep and rich and soothing-suave his voice was. How intent and coordinated he looked when he walked: sure and solid yet graceful and sublime.

“That’s it.” She’d nip this nonsense right now. Sarah reached blindly and yanked a shirt, any shirt, from a hanger, vowing she’d wear whatever her hand landed on. The material slid off into her fingers, which recoiled at the feel of steely, pokey wool.

The closet mocked her like an open, laughing mouth.

Great. The ugly unisex fruitcake cardigan her family passed around at Christmas. Year after year they’d rewrap it and send it to someone else. Sarah had managed to avoid it until this year. It was four sizes too big, but oh, well. She must endure her choice and ensure her motives were pure.

After throwing the cardigan over her pink, paint-splotched T-shirt, Sarah intentionally resisted the urge to rush to the bathroom and freshen up her hair and makeup before he came.

She stood in front of the motel dresser mirror and pointed a finger at her reflection. “Don’t feed this attraction. Don’t. And it will starve into nothing.”

Deep inside, she knew she wanted this for the boys.

She sat on the creaky bed and picked up her Bible. “Please order this attraction back in its place,” she asked God and opened to where she’d started reading this morning.

Then she sat to write her letter.

I pray you always have people in your life who love and care about you. I wish you a full life. I’m sorry I might have taken that away. I pray for you every day. Not a day goes by that I don’t think about you and wonder how you are. I’m sorry for my choice beyond what words can say. With love, Sarah.

She stamped a flower on the front of the envelope and fancied it with her embosser. Sunflower this time. She rose and eyed the sparse parking lot. The clock. Paced the small room. Pondered how heavy a responsibility it would be to find the most well-suited long-term caregiver for those little cuties, who were obviously Aaron’s cherished treasures.

“And please, for their sake, let me have this job. I know I’m right for it. For them. Help Mr. Petrowski know that, too.”

“Could this be it?” Aaron stepped from his SUV into the parking lot of a run-down motel in the bad part of town. The sort of shady that had nothing to do with trees.

One of the unit doors opened. Sarah, dressed in a gaudy top and worn jeans, stepped out. “Hi there.”

“Hi.” He held out the phone and tried not to balk at the horrific attire. “Here’s the evidence.”

She laughed and stepped forward, reaching. Their hands brushed with the transference of the cell.

He paused, endeared at how her cheeks matched the color of her pink shirt beneath the V-neck of her old, Army tent-looking sweater. One that looked as if it had waged a war and lost. Still experiencing a zing in his fingers, he shoved his hands in his pockets at the same time as she fumbled her phone into hers.

“So,” they said simultaneously, then laughed.

“You live in a motel?” Aaron rocked back on his heels to view the buzzing sign, missing the first and last letters. “Or should I say an ‘ote’?”

Her shy smile faded. But only for a second. “For now. It’s a lot nicer inside than the outside looks.”