Page 3 of Broken SEAL'S Secret Baby
And it seems there is something more. He grips the roof of the car, easing himself into the seat.
He carefully situates his left leg, settling into the soft leather seat with a sigh of relief. “Rainy weather stiffens this leg right up,” he says. “Thanks for driving for me today, James. I didn’t want to lay her to rest through a camera feed.”
James glances over at him. “I owe you, Chief,” he says. “I’m here for you, any time.”
I want to reach over the back of the seat and smack my brother on the top of his head. What the heck did he owe Charles Emory? The few times the man had come home with him when they were college roommates, I’d wanted to drown both of them.
Charles had left the gate open so the bull got in among the yearling heifers. Dad was fit to be tied because the old fella had sired most of them, and that meant inbred stock — never a good thing. Besides, he hadn’t intended for the “little ladies” as he called them to be bred until they were two-year-olds.
When we’d hosted the football team, cheerleaders, and cheer club one spring break, Gregory Jones had been ecstatic about getting an all-sports scholarship.
I was a sophomore and had the biggest crush on Greg, even though he only had eyes for Debra Sue, the headcheerleader. Charles had made a remark to the effect that a sports scholarship was all an African American share-cropper could expect — and he said it where Greg could hear him.
James had taken Charles aside and explained that Greg was a good friend, and that even if he wasn’t, we didn’t say things like that about anyone. The stuck-up preppie hadn’t said anything after that. But it didn’t seem to me that he’d changed his ways, chewing out a preschooler who just wanted her mommy to come home.
I reach over and take Cece’s hand in mine. She wraps her little fingers around my thumb. She doesn’t cry out loud, but she makes little hiccup sobs.
Worn out from the storm of emotion, Cece falls asleep. The rest of the ride is made in silence. Long dark eyelashes, so like her father’s, lay against her rosy cheeks. Her face is grubby from crying, and I consider trying to clean her up. But that would have woken her. Sleep is good medicine for anyone grieving, but especially for four-year-olds.
When we pull into the parking garage at Agri-Oil’s tower, she wakes up and looks around. “Are we home?” she asks.
“We are,” Mr. Emory says, his voice gruff with emotion. “Just let me get out of the car.”
The tall man struggles to extract himself from my brother’s economy car. “Next time,” he says with an attempt at humor, “We’ll take my ride. It’s not as low to the ground.”
“Whatever you want, Chief,” James says. “I can carry Cece . . .”
“I have two good feet,” Cece announces. “Daddy said so.”
“So you do,” James agrees. “I’ll get the car seat then, so you won’t get in trouble going to the grocery store.”
“Not much chance of that,” Mr. Emory says. “I’ll ask the cook to place an order and have it delivered. I know it has to be touched by somebody somewhere, but I won’t have to take Cece out.”
“I’ll wait here,” I volunteer. “No need to crowd up in the elevator.” I love Cece, but I’d had enough of Mr. Charles Emory, retired Naval SEAL, war hero, and CEO and chief stockholder of a multi-billion dollar corporation.
“Thank you,” Mr. Emory says.
I am left alone in the car. I didn’t bother climbing into the front seat. James would want to disinfect everything.
My brother has always been a clean freak, even when we were kids. I was the one who didn’t care about getting my hands dirty making mud pies or building dams in the creek.
Since the Ebola outbreak in 2014, he’d become a fanatic about cleaning vehicles, doing laundry, and even showering after anyone had been in the City. It was extremely irritating, especially since I’d been living in the dorm at KU. He practically wanted to run me through decontamination every time I came home for the weekend.
“Humor him,” Mom had said the day I helped her and Dad move into Sunset Retirement Village. The name was kind of a pun. Not only did it cater to the over sixty crowd, but it had a gorgeous westward view of the open plains.
Neither Mom or Dad were super happy about the move. They’d planned to travel when they retired, or maybe make the classic move to a beach house in Florida.
But Dad was in the first stages of early onset Alzheimer’s disease. Right now, he was still Dad. But he’d started doing weird things, like leaving the tractor running in the field, or cutting the dining room table in half because he didn’t have a sawhorse. Mom was afraid he’d hurt himself or someone else, so James took over the farm and they moved to the retirement village.
I love James, and he does a good job helping me out. But he is a huge pain in the, um, neck, as only a big brother can be. And I purely hate Charles Emory. He was heedless as a youth, cold and uncaring as a man. After a day and a half ofbeing with the two of them, I am ready to get back to the dorm.
To pass the time while I wait for James, I text my roommate, Grace Weber.How are things?
Grace is everything I am not. Where I am built like a two-inch by four-inch board and am five feet ten inches tall, Grace is five feet two and curves in all the right places.
I have long, dark hair that is perfectly straight — not a totally bad thing, light hazel eyes, a lean face with high cheekbones, and a nose that just escapes Barbara Streisand proportions. Grace has blond, Shirley Temple curls, big blue eyes, with a rosy complexion, and a cute little tip-tilted button nose.
Grace texts back:OMG, Kate! I’ve been trying to get hold of you.
