Pamela Hearon - My Way Back to You

Had Mags done that, too?

He shouldn’t care, but the idea pricked at his heart just the same. She was, after all, the mother of his son. He didn’t know much about her and those first two or three years. They’d talked every day, but her reports were always simply that—reports on Russ. They never just chatted about what was going on in their lives. He’d found out a little more, but not much, about Mags through Russ once their son had gotten old enough to make the daily calls himself. He was a talker, that one.

A sudden image of the drive from the airport flashed in his mind—Russ keeping up the constant chatter and Mags with her white-knuckle hold on the steering wheel. And her tearful confession at dinner.

She may be a grown woman, but, in a myriad of ways, she was still that small-town girl he’d known...and loved.

A long-dormant protective instinct kicked in as he swallowed the rest of his Macallan in one gulp and set the glass down on the bar. “Nice meeting you,” he lied as he pulled enough bills from his wallet to take care of his bill and a hefty tip.

“See you tomorrow.” Spike saluted him with his drink.

The irony of the situation struck Jeff full force as he walked to the elevator. He was here in Chicago to move his eighteen-year-old son into the thick of the metropolis. Russ had spent the past thirteen summers of his life in San Diego, along with various other times such as spring and Christmas breaks. The kid took to city life like a native, never the least bit fazed by the crowds or the traffic. Jeff had no qualms whatsoever about Russ’s being here.

Mags, on the other hand, was a different matter completely.

* * *

ROSEMARY COUNTED SILENTLY. Twenty-nine elephant, thirty elephant, thirty-one elepha—

Eli gave a gasp and started breathing again, falling quickly into his deep, rhythmic, room-shaking snore.

She closed the book she’d been reading and rubbed her tired eyes. Well, actually, she hadn’t been reading. She’d been turning pages for two hours, but the progression of the story hadn’t imprinted on her memory. Eli’s long periods without a breath had consumed her attention. The snoring wasn’t so bad. She’d gotten used to that forty years ago. But the snorting and the gasping, and the long periods of silence freaked her out. She was aware of the dangers of sleep apnea—had read on the internet how it could lead to all kinds of nasty stuff, including heart disease and stroke. Coupled with the high blood pressure her husband already took medication for, he was a heart attack waiting to happen.

And she wasn’t prepared for widowhood.

She saw what it had done to her daughter.

Poor Maggie. Her chest tightened at the thought of how much her daughter had already been through.

And now Russ had gone away to college—another reason to worry. And, of course, there was the Maggie/Jeff dinner that had niggled at the back of Rosemary’s brain all night.

She’d hoped Maggie would call back and tell her what had transpired, but she didn’t, and Rosemary wasn’t surprised, although it hurt a little.

She tossed the extra pillow onto the love seat and turned out the light, sliding down in the bed to get comfortable. Maggie used to talk about everything with her. But her daughter had become so withdrawn since Zeke’s death that she didn’t recognize her at times. Closing herself off from the world, grieving for Zeke in such a vastly different way than she had for Jeff. When Jeff left, she’d cried for days on end. Refused to leave the bedroom. Refused to eat. Talked about him incessantly—so positive he would come back, and they would start again.

She’d kept up that nonsense for years.

But losing Zeke affected her differently. She’d quickly sold their beautiful home on Kentucky Lake, and rather than moving back to Taylor’s Grove, she’d bought the old Morris farmhouse outside of town. She would talk about Zeke only if someone brought up his name—and then reluctantly. She never brought him into the conversation on her own.

She had seemed angry, which Rosemary knew was one of the stages of grief. She’d read that on the internet, too. But it certainly had gone on for a long time now. Too long. Maggie didn’t date. Didn’t do much of anything except work and spend time with Russ.

What would she do now that he was gone?

Eli’s breathing stopped again, and Rosemary began her ritualistic counting. She wasn’t sure why she counted. He was never impressed with the numbers she spouted the next morning. Tomorrow, over coffee, she would report to him that he’d held his breath for almost thirty-five seconds. He’d shrug and say, “So which do you want—snoring or silence? Because you complain either way.”

Her retort would be that she wanted him healthy.

What would she do without him? The previous question echoed in her mind. Maggie was young—could easily start over. But she herself was sixty-one and had been with the same man for forty years. She had no desire to start over. She could never love another man the way she did Eli. Could never love again, period. The thought made her shudder.

Was it her imagination that Eli’s color was off?

She slipped her phone from the bedside table and turned on the flashlight app, shining it down on his face—the man could sleep through a rock concert once he got horizontal. He looked so peaceful and relaxed but definitely a little grayish in pallor.

One eye winked open and glared at her. “What are you doing, Rosie? Checking me for fleas?”

“You’ve been holding your breath.”

“And you’re getting back at me by shining a light into my eyes? You trying to make me think a train is coming through our bedroom?”

“I wanted to check your color. You look kind of gray.”

“You’d be gray, too, if you had to live with you. Now turn off the damn searchlight.”

She turned it off and placed the phone back on the table, but not because he told her to do it. She was finished looking... Definitely gray. They would resume this conversation in the morning. She settled under the covers again.

“Rosie.” Eli’s tender whisper shimmied through the darkness. “Slide back over here, and I’ll make you hold your breath.”

She laughed and did as he asked, snuggling into the crook of his arm. He kissed her sweetly a few times then with more purpose, and her tiredness got tangled among the sheets as their excitement rose and the pace of their movements accelerated.

They didn’t take long. After forty years, there was no experimentation and nothing new. The new had been sorted through years ago. What worked was kept and had now become part of the routine. What didn’t work had been lost with no remorse. What remained was the best of the best, carefully chosen, deeply intimate and immensely satisfying.

Their sighs mingled as they held each other in the afterglow, and soon the familiar rumble that would become Eli’s snore began to take form.

Rosemary changed her tactic and began counting the breaths rather than the non-breaths. It made more sense to pay attention to what gave life to this man she adored.

She’d only gotten to seventeen when drowsiness caused her to lose interest. With his body spooning her back and his arm across her front, she felt warm and complete.

Life without Eli?

The thought induced another shiver.

She snuggled closer against him.

CHAPTER FOUR

“WE COULD’VE WALKED faster than this.” Maggie blew out a breath and cut her eyes toward Jeff in the passenger seat. “It’s only seven miles.”

He pressed his lips together as if he intended to give that some serious consideration, but then he shook his head. “I’m not about to walk seven miles in this heat unless I have a golf bag over my shoulder.”