Her Soldier's Baby. Tara Taylor Quinn

Eliza required much from him. He’d give everything and more to be with her.

      So he socialized with their guests, thankful to be able to look across the room and see her beautiful smile. He carried a box of the author’s files up to her room for her. Cleared empty dishes and ran the vacuum in the parlor after the crowd had dissipated. He even stopped by the library to chat with one of the businessmen who liked to spend an hour or two in the evenings sitting in one of the antique leather wing chairs, reading from the collection Eliza’s grandmother had amassed.

      And when the house had settled, he joined his wife in the kitchen. Eliza was putting finishing touches on breakfast and preparing hors d’oeuvres for the two nights she’d be gone over the upcoming weekend. She’d given Margie a couple of days off to make up for working all weekend, and had spent her day cleaning and refreshing.

      “Can I help?”

      He couldn’t blame her for the surprised look on her face. Pierce’s kitchen skills were nil. Boiling water was debatable.

      “I can chop,” he told her, meeting her gaze head-on. She’d barely slept the night before. He could tell by the shadows under her eyes.

      And so, with her careful instruction, he took up knife and onion and set to work, slicing it into precise cubes. And then celery.

      He’d come in to have their talk.

      They worked in total silence.

      But it was a peaceful silence, he told himself. Companionable.

      Silence was right up his alley. But it wasn’t like Eliza not to fill in his gaps.

      Words ran through his mind. Slowly at first. And then more rapidly. What to say? How much to say? When to say it?

      He owed her. So much. For the previous night. For the past. And for the happily-ever-after he probably wouldn’t be able to give her.

      “I did marry Bonita because I thought I could be the father her son clearly needed.” Celery stalks, cut into thin strips, took turns beneath his blade. Quick. Precise. Sharp cuts that left no strings.

      He’d had some asinine plan back then that it would be his way of atoning for his sins. That he could give back some of what he’d taken. As Eliza had stated the night before, he had, at one time, thought that he’d make a great dad. Had wanted kids of his own almost as badly as he’d wanted Eliza.

      Standing at the stove across the counter from him, she’d been stirring. Her hand still on the big metal spoon, she seemed to freeze, her spoon standing upright in the pan.

      Pierce had more to say. He just wasn’t sure what. He chopped. And eventually she started to stir again, too.

      They finished their preparation, classical music playing softly in the background. Did the dishes side by side. And went into their room.

      He brushed his teeth while she washed her face. But when she was about to undress and get ready for bed, Pierce took her hand, led her over to the chintz-covered stool at her antique dressing table. He lit candles. Put on Beethoven. Turned off the lights.

      And drew her a lavender-scented bath.

      Tonight wasn’t about him. It was about making it up to her—all of the things she’d lost because of him, the things she continued to sacrifice.

      It was about showing her the things he couldn’t say.

      As his lovely wife sat on the edge of the tub, still in her robe, waiting for the bubble bath he’d started for her to fill, he slipped out to pour two glasses of iced lemon water. Placing them on one of her silver serving trays, he added a small dish of milk chocolate shavings—Eliza’s favorite indulgence—and, for himself, a couple of her chocolate cream cookies.

      She looked up when he returned, tray in hand, fully dressed in his dark blue pants, shirt and slip-on boat shoes.

      “You’ll stay with me?” she asked. Even now, she welcomed him.

      Pierce swallowed. Shook his head. Set down the tray and handed her a water and the plate of chocolate.

      “I wish you’d at least get comfortable,” she said, testing the water in the tub with a frown.

      He was scaring her. The last thing he’d meant to do.

      So he went to change into the blue chenille robe she’d bought him for Christmas, and sank to the floor of the bathroom, his back against the wall.

      That was Pierce. Always with his back to the wall. Or against a wall.

      Still in her robe, she’d turned off the water, but he knew she wouldn’t get in until he’d said what he had to say.

      “Two things,” he said, keeping his voice low as he invaded the peace with which he’d purposely surrounded her. “First, it took less than a year of marriage for me to know that the man I am today, the man I became in the Middle East, could not ever be a father.”

      Her chocolate sat untouched on the side of the double-wide cast iron tub—a luxury he suspected had been built in more modern times to emulate a tub of old. It had been holding court in the largely decorated with roses room the first time he’d visited Eliza.

      “The responsibility, the constant need to be one step ahead, knowing that someone was relying on me for safety and security on a constant basis, being in charge of someone who could not always fend for himself...it triggered nightmare after nightmare. No matter what I did, how hard I tried, how much counseling I sought...the boy triggered nightmares.”

      He knew why. His counselor hadn’t, not specifically. Because he hadn’t told him. But the PTSD professional had known enough.

      “Last night was because of me,” Eliza said. “Because I wanted to talk about kids.”

      “It’s not your fault, Eliza. And you need to talk about what you want and need. You have a right to. And our marriage needs you to do so. Our relationship needs it.” The words flowed freely when he was dealing with her. Loving Eliza was the one thing that had always come easy to him.

      Too easy for her own good.

      “And we need to deal with the fact that I am not a man who can have kids with you. Not in any way. Biological or not.”

      Surrounded by roses, cast iron heart shapes adorned with roses, wallpaper depicting rose trellises, he felt like he was spewing ash on her beauty.

      She wasn’t saying anything. But watching her expression, he knew she was thinking. Knew, too, that he had to nip any hope in the bud.

      “It’s not just the nightmares,” he told her. He’d known that morning that he was going to have to give her more. Because they were dealing with so much more.

      He wasn’t going to break the pact. Not yet, anyway. He couldn’t predict the outcome and was not going to get in the way of her reaching for her dreams. But she deserved the truth he could give her.

      “I was a terrible father,” he told her. “Jeremiah thought I hated him. He was a good boy. Got good grades. Was respectful. I truly cared about the kid, but my silences scared him. So I’d try to talk and end up saying the wrong thing.” Because he’d had nothing to say. “I don’t have the ability to nurture a child. One night when I got home, Jeremiah ran up to me and threw his arms around my waist. I immediately dislodged them and backed up. And when I saw what I’d done, saw the hurt on his face, I still couldn’t hug him.”

      He shuddered inside just thinking about that night.

      “I was already sleeping in my own room by then, behind a locked door, because of the nightmares. I had to struggle, every day, for patience with Jeremiah. Listening to his boyish chatter, I’d go on a mind freeze and hope that he finished soon.” The boy would talk and Pierce would see all of the ways in which he was setting the kid up for hurt. For disappointment. Setting himself up for failure. And know that he couldn’t do anything to prevent any of them.

      Jeremiah’s innocence had not