affection. “I’m no gourmet chef, and you’re not helping my cake appear any better.” She smiled. “My cousins,” she told Brig. “Second cousins.”
Crooked or not, the cake made Brig’s mouth water. The whole room smelled of comfort foods: fried chicken, baked beans laced with brown sugar and onions, and, if Brig wasn’t mistaken, his favorite macaroni and cheese.
Red heart decals—the same kind Molly wore on her face—skipped gaily across the kitchen chairs, and in the dining room on his way through, a green balloon had bounced from the ceiling on his head.
He didn’t belong here. This was like all those birthday parties he’d gone to as a kid but had never felt part of. As though he’d forgotten to bring a present. With a father in the military, he and his parents had lived all over, and making friends became harder and harder as Brig grew older. It was the only life he knew and one reason he’d followed in his father’s and grandfather’s footsteps. Now, after hearing Dari and Pashto being spoken every day in Afghanistan, even the cadence of English sounded foreign to him. Brig kept losing words in what was being said.
Molly, on the other hand, fit right in. She handed the boy and girl a bowl of potato salad and a relish tray from the fridge. “Set these in the dining room, please.”
When the giggling pair vanished, she waved Brig toward a chair.
“Sit. You look like you need to.”
Brig put down the diaper bag but stayed on his feet, gently rocking Laila in his arms. His head ached.
All he wanted was sleep. All Molly wanted, he guessed, was to avoid him. She hadn’t taken one real good look at the baby, either, and like a cat, Molly maintained a deliberate space between herself and him. Obviously, she hadn’t forgiven him for breaking their engagement years ago. Not that she should. Not that he expected her to.
At the same time he couldn’t seem to stop staring at her. The instant he’d seen her, his memories and his guilt had overwhelmed him. His gaze traveled now from her blunt-cut brown hair—shorter than he remembered—to her trim sweater, her fitted jeans and her feet in scarlet socks. But the red heart by her mouth was what kept his eyes riveted. Thick honey seemed to flow through him. And what kind of jerk am I? Molly, with her warmth and openness, had always deserved more.
“Do you have formula?” she asked, still keeping her distance.
It took Brig forever to find a can in the overloaded bag, a clean plastic liner for the bottle and one fresh nipple. Juggling Laila, he managed to put the whole contraption together. Then, Molly eyeing him with obvious suspicion as he walked past her, he opened the microwave and stuck it inside. One minute should do it. He hoped.
Right behind him, Molly almost stepped on his heel.
“You can’t warm a baby’s milk in there.”
“Why not?”
“The bottle might feel cool to the touch, but the milk could be too hot in spots and burn a baby’s mouth and throat.” With an efficiency he could only admire, she took the bottle to the sink and held it under the water. When she seemed satisfied with the temperature, Molly thrust the bottle at Brig. “Shake some on your inner wrist before you give it to her—to make sure.”
He sat down at the table, tried to nestle Laila into a good position, then watched her latch on to the nipple. He could hear the party noise swell from the living room, and the teenagers in the dining room were still giggling. When he glanced up, Molly was all but tapping her foot at his incompetence.
He knew she adored children, but how did she know about babies?
Brig guessed it was time to explain what he was doing with one. Or try to.
“This is Laila,” he began. “She’s two months old.” He smiled down at the baby’s intent expression as she drank, her dark eyes fixed on his face. He cleared his throat. “She isn’t mine, in case you’re wondering....” He trailed off, reluctant to call up the painful memories.
Molly waited for him to go on.
After a long moment Brig tried again. “I was on duty overseas. Hush-hush stuff, flying under the radar, the kind of thing we always do.” It was one reason he’d left Molly. He hadn’t wanted to worry about her worrying about him. At least, that was what he’d told himself then. “Long story short, Laila’s dad was one of my men, one of the team. Sean...fell in love there with a local woman.”
“And they had Laila,” Molly guessed.
Brig nodded, still gazing down at the baby. Her tiny hand closed around his little finger, and his heart melted, which happened about ten times a day.
“They had Laila,” he echoed, his tone husky. “Then, while she was still in the hospital with her mother after the birth, a bunch of insurgents hit the place. Boom. In the bombing, Laila’s mom died instantly.” He paused. “Her name was Zada. You know what that means?”
“No.”
“The lucky one. But that day she wasn’t so lucky...and Sean lived just long enough to make sure Laila was okay.”
Molly’s eyes had softened. “This must be hard to talk about. You don’t have to go on, Brig.”
Why was he surprised at her words? Molly had always been sensitive to other people. Once, she’d even been sensitive to him. Now he swallowed the pain that sometimes threatened to consume him. His anger over Sean and Zada was easier to feel and just as hard to forget.
“But I ask you, Molly—what kind of thing was that? A man goes to see his wife, his new daughter, the happiest kind of day for a young couple in love—a family for the first time—and he ends up dead. They do,” he added.
Molly seemed to be holding her breath. “What about the baby? How did Laila survive that ghastly explosion?”
“The nurses claimed they wanted to give Sean and Zada some time together. They took the baby back to the nursery at the other end of the building minutes before the device went off. She didn’t get a scratch, which is a miracle in itself. I spent the past two months entangled in red tape before I got permission to bring Laila to the States.”
Molly’s gaze brightened, as if a light had been turned on. “Your friend...asked you to keep her. If anything happened to him.”
Brig nodded again. “We all make wills,” he said, “before we deploy. Kind of a downer, wouldn’t you say? But necessary when you think about it. I’m officially Laila’s guardian now. Not the best choice of ‘parent’ for her in my opinion, but, yes, I promised Sean. Who would have guessed that he and Zada would both...that Laila...” How was Brig going to care for the little girl, though? She could stay with his folks when he was in the field, as they’d already agreed, but that arrangement would be temporary, and now he had to find them first.
Molly briefly touched his arm. “You’ve had a really bad time.”
“Not just me,” he said, wanting to change the subject before he totally fell apart. “I’m sorry about your husband. Mom told me.”
There was another long silence while Molly appeared to gather herself, and Brig wondered if she felt as uneasy talking about this as he had about Sean and Zada.
“Thank
