was sporting the Valley Girl look complete with big hair, she was into Flashdance fashion and cut her waist-length locks pixie short. When the uppity clique in school shunned a pregnant senior, Devan didn’t just ruin her cheerleader chances by befriending her, she dumped her Jell-O into the squad captain’s chicken noodle soup. Insignificant fluff compared to what was going on in the world today, but patterns were patterns.
Mead… All of this analysis was about seeing him again. Granted, she was grateful that he was alive, but she hadn’t been happy to find herself face-to-face with her past. To realize that her child had been exposed to the unknown commodity he’d become had almost caused her an internal meltdown. Why hadn’t he remained where she’d hidden him—deeply suppressed in her memories?
Odds are he should be dead. Would that be better?
Almost hiccuping as she pushed away those thoughts, Devan glanced into the rearview mirror. “Sweetie, are you sure there isn’t anything we need to do before tomorrow?”
“No…the permission slip for the trip to the Christmas tree farm is in my backpack.”
“Good. Then we can—” Blakeley’s gasp silenced her.
“Who’s that, Mommy?”
Beginning to turn into her driveway, Devan was slower than her daughter to see the person sitting on the front stoop; the porch light only gave her the benefit of identifying the person as male, an adult male, and yet fear never came into play. A sense of fatalism did. Somehow she knew from the first who it was. He had owned part of her mind since the instant she’d recognized him yesterday. That didn’t mean her heart didn’t start pounding harder as adrenaline surged through her veins.
Knowing it would be only moments before Blakeley recognized him as the man from the park, Devan said quickly, “He’s an old friend, sweetheart. The man in the woods? He’s a soldier come home.”
Blakeley said nothing.
A glance in the rearview mirror told Devan that her daughter was confused and apprehensive. Parking and shutting down the engine, she said gently, “Let’s get you inside and you can watch a little TV, while I talk to Mr. Regan, okay?”
“Should I call 911?”
Devan swept her shoulder-length hair back as she realized this was no lightweight decision. “No, ma’am. When you get inside, change into your pj’s, wash up and brush your teeth, and then you can see if there’s something on your TV channels in my room. Okay?”
“No. But I guess.”
Heaven help her, Devan didn’t know what else to say to reassure her. Exiting the truck and slipping her purse strap over her shoulder, she circled around to Blakeley’s door. Opening it, she stroked her daughter’s cheek. “It will be fine. Fine. This man has never, ever, been unkind to me or to children, sweetie. Ever.”
“Okay. Hurry, though.”
Mead stood as they approached. He waited down on the lawn as she ushered her daughter inside. Blakeley kept her head down all the while, then ran to the back of the house as Devan shut off the alarm system and set down her purse. Then Devan stepped outside again and closed the door behind her.
When she joined Mead on the lawn, her confidence wavered slightly. “Do you realize what it was like for her to see you sitting here?”
“I can’t say I did before,” he began, glancing at the door. “I do now. Sorry.”
He was wearing the denim jacket and jeans again, but tonight the weather was milder and the jacket was open. She could see he had on a white T-shirt and noted that while she was right about him being thinner than she remembered, his body appeared toned. The lack of a bandana was the only other difference. Instead a clear Band-Aid covered his scar. Devan wondered about it. Was covering it for her or Blakeley’s benefit? It had been a long time since he’d been hurt, so surely he didn’t need a bandage anymore.
“What are you doing here?” she asked more kindly. “I’m surprised my neighbors haven’t already notified the police that a stranger is lurking about.”
Exhaling, he rubbed the back of his neck. “At the risk of upsetting you more, they’re, um, not home.”
She could have seen that if she had been more alert. Everyone on their block had full lives with most families including several children who were heavily involved in extracurricular activities. She bit her lower lip.
“I only came to apologize,” Mead said wearily.
The simple, humble remark drew her focus back on him. But for Blakeley’s sake if not her own, she had to remain cautious. “At this hour?”
“It’s barely—” he glanced at his watch “—eight.”
His confusion reminded her that even without his injury, he probably would know little to nothing of the kind of concerns and routines of young families. “Mead. As unfair as this may sound, these are difficult times, crime happens everywhere, even in small towns, and people can’t be too careful. Especially not when children are involved.”
“Yeah, I’ve been watching the news a lot. I don’t know what it was like before, but it’s sure a mess now. I should have realized how this would look.” He grimaced and shoved his hands into his pockets. “I really am sorry, Devan. Everything is a learning experience for me these days.”
That remark slipped straight through her defenses and touched her heart.
She couldn’t begin to imagine what his ordeal was like. “How are you doing with that?” she asked slowly.
He uttered a brief, mirthless laugh. “I don’t know. Compared to what?”
Devan saw a flash of vulnerability in him, and barely restrained frustration. Unwise as it was, the urge to reassure was instinctive and strong. “At least you’re alive. Physically—” she gestured to encompass his tall form “—you’re all there.”
“Yeah, two hands, two feet, two eyes that work…if only we could locate my mind.”
He sounded so sad Devan ached to go to him, to slip her arms around his waist and rest her head against his chest. She didn’t dare, though, for so many reasons. Dear God, he could just have warned her that he wasn’t to be trusted. “Do the doctors say, um, that you’ll regain your memory someday? Any of it?” she added as his expression went from serious to grim.
“I’ve heard ‘the brain is the least understood part of the body’ so many times, I’ve stopped asking the doctors. Or keeping therapist appointments,” he replied. “They’re about as clueless as I am because I didn’t just experience psychological trauma, I survived a head injury. As one surgeon put it without mincing words, my brain is going to let me know what and who it wants me to be. I can either go along for the ride, or opt out.”
“‘Opt out…’” Devan felt a cold finger race along her spine. No wonder there was such a haunted look in those dark eyes. He had to be constantly wondering—could he lose his mind rather than regain his memory or should he save himself prolonged torture by—she couldn’t think the word let alone accept he would consider it. The thought of a world without him did exactly what she’d hoped to avoid, and she pressed her left hand against her heart. “Oh, Mead.”
“Too
