Laura Altom - The Marine's Babies

“Language!” Pam snapped.

Jace rolled his eyes. “The kids can’t say more than ‘goo.’ How are they supposed to know what hell means?”

“I’ve had it—with both of you.” She pulled the lever on the recliner, forcing it upright.

“What the hell?” Granola said.

“Your wife’s out of control,” Jace mumbled.

“She’s also leaving,” Pam said, snatching up her purse then storming to the door. “Come on, William. If you’re so hungry, then you can take me out for dinner.”

“What about me?” Jace asked, eyeing the pink bundle squirming in his arms. “What happens when the other one starts crying? You haven’t left me alone with them since they got here, and—”

Pam glared. “And my back aches from sleeping on your sofa. Face it, Jace, sooner or later, you’re going to have to figure out this whole parenting thing.”

“Later works for me.”

“Come on,” Pam said, dragging Granola by his desert-camo shirtsleeve. To Jace, she said, “When we’ve finished dinner, we’ll stop by to check on you and get our stuff. After that, you’re on your own.”

FRIDAY MORNING, following her breakfast routine, Emma walked the beach. Summer heat had set in. Even at nine in the morning, humidity made the air feel thick to breathe. The Gulf was glassy, the usual churning surf little more than a slap on the sand. Despite the climbing temperature, Emma walked and walked, cooling her feet in the water, doing her best to ignore the sun beating down on her head.

As she neared the resort-style hotel, the fifties-era pop that she’d heard faintly at her house became loud enough for her to recognize Elvis.

She’d never been all the way to the hotel, but today, drawn by children’s laughter, she kept walking. Heart pounding, she strode past hotel employees setting out white beach chairs and red umbrellas along the powdered-sand shore. She mounted wide, whitewashed steps leading to the wooden boardwalk guests used to traverse the low dunes.

At the boardwalk’s end, paradise awaited. Majestic palms circled a free-form pool featuring a two-story rock waterfall and a slide on one end, and a swim-up bar on the other. From hidden speakers, Johnny Mathis crooned, and now she was close enough to hear every word. Red hibiscus and cannas lined winding, sun-bleached brick paths leading to tennis courts and mini-golf courses.

The air smelled of coffee from an outdoor dining patio, chlorine from the pool and decades of sun-baked tanning lotions and oils.

While the children’s laughter grew ever closer, Emma still hadn’t found them. On and on she searched, alarmed to find herself almost frantic. She had to see them—just to watch from afar. To give voice to such a thought would make her a psych-ward candidate, but since she didn’t plan on telling anyone, she increased her speed. Private, Southern-mansion-style villas circled the grand hotel. The buildings were all white, making the foliage all the more vibrant. Palms were now mixed with ferns and magnolias and red impatiens for added color.

A couple holding hands approached.

Lowering her gaze, Emma didn’t look at them as they passed by.

The laughter became distinct enough that she could pick out individual pitches, and Emma hastened all the more. Rounding the next bend, she nearly crashed into a maid and her cart. She said a hasty, “Excuse me,” before barreling on.

And then suddenly, there it was—a separate, shallow pool filled with toddlers and moms and dads. A few of the mothers held infants for what looked to be a swim lesson being taught by an animated young man and woman dressed in dolphin costumes.

Easing onto a red chaise lounge, Emma stared, enraptured by the sight of so many happy families. Had she really once been one of these people? Laughing and enjoying life? It seemed inconceivable.

“Pardon me,” a sunburned redhead said, jolting Emma from her thoughts, “but would you mind taking a quick family shot?” She held out a green disposable camera.

“Um, sure…” Rising, willing her trembling hands to still, Emma forced a deep breath. The woman held a redheaded infant wearing primary-colored swim trunks and a blue hat. The man beside her carried a bulging diaper bag and a squirming toddler.

“Daddy, down!” shrieked the carrot-topped little girl. “I want fish!” She pointed to the costumed instructors.

“I’m sorry,” the woman said while the girl continued to fuss. “If I’d known Mary was going to be difficult, I wouldn’t have asked.”

“It’s all right,” Emma said, “take as long as you want.” I could stand here looking at your son forever, imagining the fun Henry and I might’ve shared.

“Thanks. I hate wasting a single shot,” she said, tickling the girl. “We went off and left our digital camera at home. It’s scary how dependent you get on being able to take hundreds of pictures of your kids.”

Throat too tight to speak, Emma smiled and nodded.

“Okay, I think we’re ready. Smile, silly rabbit!”

Emma snapped the shot, but just at that moment, the curly-haired toddler bucked, sending the diaper bag into the pool.

“My wallet and Mary’s asthma medicine are in there!” the woman shrieked.

Hurtling to action, the father set down Mary, then jumped in after the bag. Mary took off after him, yelling, “Fish! Fish!”

“She can’t swim!” Mary’s mother screamed. Before Emma even realized what was happening, the woman had thrust her infant son into Emma’s arms, and then leapt into the pool.

The entire incident took mere seconds. From the outside, the scene had been so unremarkable, no one from the splashing, shrieking swim class had even noticed.

Mary was safe.

The bag, medicine and wallet were still fairly dry.

Emma, meanwhile, holding a baby boy who was larger than her son had ever grown to be, felt in danger of fainting. But she wouldn’t, because she’d rather put herself in jeopardy than a precious child. Grief squeezed her chest, making air a rarity in her lungs.

“Thank you so much,” Mary’s soggy mother said, her daughter safely in her arms. “I don’t know what we’d have done if you hadn’t been here.”

“S-someone else would’ve helped,” Emma reasoned, inhaling the infant’s sweet scent. Lotion and baby shampoo. It all came rushing back. How Henry had smelled right out of the tub, giggling when she tickled his belly while wrapping him in a fluffy, giraffe-patterned hooded towel.

“Regardless,” the man said, “how about we at least buy you a coffee or tea? Maybe one of those frilly, flowery drinks?”

“Really,” Emma said, fighting with everything in her not to cry, as she passed the infant to his father. Never would she give in to the insane voice telling her to run off and never let the baby go. “I’m good.”

“Sure?” the man asked. “We could flag down a waiter and have him put something on our bill for you to enjoy later.”

“Oh, let’s do that,” the woman said. “What’s your room number?” she asked Emma. “We’ll stop by the concierge’s desk and buy you and your husband lunch and fruity drinks.”

Husband? Emma glanced at her left-hand ring finger and realized she had yet to remove her thin, gold band.

“Thank you,” Emma said, pulse racing, already backing down the path leading from the children’s pool, “but I have to go. I’m late. Terribly late.” I should’ve been back at my safe, quiet house an hour ago. There, I never would’ve had my heart broken all over again.

FRIDAY NIGHT, both babies finally asleep, Jace leaned his forehead against the makeshift nursery’s window, squeezing his eyes shut. The paternity test had proven with 99.99 percent certainty that Beatrice and Bronwyn were his. The gravity of that knowledge weighed heavily on his shoulders.