Page 13 of Walking Wounded

~*~

The Maddox family lives in a handsome townhouse with a shiny black-painted door flanked by urns potted with yellow mums. A fall wreath hangs above the knocker and a bright red umbrella rests against the iron railing.

Hal parks at the curb and when he kills the engine, the air inside the Jeep rings with too much silence. Dread. The kind that sits acidic on the back of the tongue, and Luke wonders if he might need to puke in one of those mum pots before they ring the bell.

Hal claps him on the shoulder once, hard, it almost hurts, and says, “You’ll be fine. Just be you.”

“Ha,” Luke says, because when has he ever been able to be anyone but him? More importantly, when was that ever enough for anyone?

It takes an obscene amount of time to disengage his seatbelt and climb out of the Jeep. The sidewalk feels too far away and he almost stumbles. Almost. Hal comes around to his side and together they start up the stairs. Luke ghosts his fingers up the iron railing on his right. He starts to reach for Hal’s sleeve with his left, realizes he’s being entirely stupid and childish about all this, and shoves the hand in his pocket, making it to the top step with his pulse pounding in his throat.

Hal gives him one last look, a quick smile meant to be reassuring. Then he presses the bell.

It’s only a moment before footsteps can be heard on the other side of the barrier, and the muffled voice of a woman. Luke imagines someone approaching, tossing a comment, a laugh over her shoulder. The little missus, must be, and his writer’s mind supplies a fuller picture: stiff cotton dress, pearls, heels, cashmere cardigan, hair in a godawful chignon, of all things. She’s plump and wearing a garish shade of makeup, and in his head is some sci-fi rendering of June Cleaver, for reasons he doesn’t want to examine too closely. He envisions false, saccharine smiles, cheek pinches, and layers of judgement too deep to be believed, too well-veiled to be deciphered. She will hate him, of course.

But then the door opens, and his assumptions shatter.

The woman standing on the welcome mat looks mid- to late forties, highlighted dark hair loose around her shoulders, face smooth save for laugh lines, a smatter of crow’s feet, and a little scar on her chin that her light layer of makeup doesn’t quite cover. Her eyes absolutely sparkle, dark brown and full of life. It’s a face that projects no falsity, no judgement, no emotion aside from true gladness.

“Morning, Hal,” she greets, and she has a Southern drawl. Really Southern. Luke thinks of Savannah, Georgia’s antebellum porches and Spanish moss trailing in the salt-scented breeze. Her kind eyes flash over to Luke, and her smile widens a little, if that’s possible. “You must be Luke. Hi.” She shoves a hand toward him: no nail polish, no jewelry, save a rattling gold charm bracelet. She has freckles on her knuckles, like she spends time outdoors. “Sandy Maddox,” she introduces herself, as Luke takes her hand and finds her grip strong and dry. “I’m so glad I get to meet the famous writer best friend Hal won’t stop talking about.” She shoots a stage wink at Hal, releases Luke’s hand and turns away from them, waving over her shoulder. “Well, come on in, coffee’s on.”

Luke notices she isn’t wearing the June Cleaver getup he’d imagined, but yoga pants, a sweatshirt, and black Nikes with hot pink soles. She is trim, fit, and either fresh from a workout or about to start one.

“Luke, have you had breakfast?” she calls as she shrinks farther down the plank-floored hallway.

“Um…no…ma’am,” he says, and joins Hal in hurrying after her.

The hall leads into a kitchen that will be sunny later in the day, when the sun is actually up, two walls of white-framed windows offering a view of a walled back garden illuminated with landscape lights. The kitchen is split in half: one side for a large sturdy table ringed by chairs, a TV mounted up in the corner and angled toward it. A banquette borders the area, loaded with cushions and pillows, a perfect spot for someone who wanted to steal a moment reading in the window.

The other half is the workspace: industrial-grade appliances softened by warm granite and cream cabinets. A bar at the end of the giant prep island sits beneath a row of pendant lights. The stools gleam faintly beneath their glow, matte black metal.

The sort of massive hub-of-the-house kitchen that serves a dozen purposes and pumps blood through the rest of the home.

Sandy Maddox stands at the six-burner stove set in the island and steam billows up from a loaded skillet.

Luke smells bacon and his stomach full of coffee rumbles.

“Have you had breakfast?” she repeats, shaking her head. “Listen to me. It’s five in the morning, no sane person has had breakfast.” She grins. “Come, sit. I’ve got dark roast, and there’s pancakes and oatmeal on the way. Sound okay?”

“Sounds great,” Luke says, honestly. And though he feels like an intruder, and like it’s too forward somehow, he takes the stool across from her that she indicates with her fork, because he thinks if he doesn’t it will disappoint her.

He sits and glances over at Hal, brows lifting in silent question.

“Sandy’s nice enough to save me a plate for later,” Hal explains, and he looks as bashful and respectful as a schoolboy again. It’s adorable.

“Well, I have to save one for that maniac,” she says, gesturing over her shoulder with a butter knife, and in walks Senator Maddox.

Luke knows the stats on the man: fifty-five, youngest of four children, Marine Corp vet, a social rebel, and staunch fiscal conservative. But stats are colorless and rote. Nothing vital or alive or persuasive in a stat.

Whereas the man who strides into the kitchen radiates youth, and health, and his rugged face is tan, lined from sun, and laughter. His UnderArmor workout gear highlights a flat stomach, and trim hips. This is no pudgy, alcoholic political slug, but a living, breathing man, with a wife who cooks breakfast at five a.m. and a personal security guard who goes running with him.

A simple truth, but one that slaps Luke across the face.

He realizes then that he expected to hate Maddox on the spot, but he just can’t. Not even once the man opens his mouth.

Huh.

“Morning,” Maddox tells Hal, and slaps him companionably on the shoulder, the way Luke has felt unable to since landing.

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