Page 44 of Players Like Us (Reunion Gap #7)
“Be careful, there won’t be a net underneath.”—Audra Valentine Wheyton
“Mommy!” Kara bounced into the room in a whirl of pink cotton and leapt onto Audra’s lap. “Can I wake up Daddy?”
At eight years old, Kara Rachel Wheyton had Christian’s hair, a golden curly thickness with a life of its own that required extra-wide hair bands to keep it tied up.
She had his smile, too—open, welcoming, not shy and timid like Audra’s had been at that age.
Her eyes were a pale blue that shifted to light and dark depending on mood.
There wasn’t much about her that resembled Audra, perhaps her ears or maybe her toes, a sad contribution from someone who had weathered three months of morning sickness, a swollen belly, and an emergency caesarean section .
“Mommy? Please let me wake up Daddy.”
Audra clasped her daughter’s small hands and kissed the center of each palm . She had her father’s fingers. And his chin. “Go get dressed first, pumpkin. Then we’ll wake Daddy.”
“Can I call Grandma before we leave, too?”
“If we have time.”
“I wish you were coming so you could see the swing set Grandpa built for me.” Her lips pulled into a wide smile, revealing a missing front tooth. “The rope is really fun. And he added a fort and a ladder.”
“Be careful, there won’t be a net underneath.”
She made a face. “I don’t need a net. I’m eight years old.”
“Such an old lady.”
“Yeah.” Kara’s smile flipped, then faded. “Why can’t you come with us?”
“You know why.” It was easier to slip a lie into the reason Audra couldn’t return to her hometown than to try and explain the truth.
“I wish you didn’t have that stupid job.”
“Kara—”
“Why can’t you have a job like Daddy? He can take off in the summers.”
“Well, that’s because Daddy’s in love with history and he spends his summers learning about it.”
Kara giggled. “He’s in love with you, too.”
“Yes, sweetheart, he’s in love with me, too.” She pointed at her daughter and whispered, “And you.”
“Yup.” Kara bounded off Audra’s lap as though her mother were a balance beam and said, “Uncle Peter said he’d take me to Universal Studios when I got back from Holly Springs.”
“Good. He can ride with you on Jurassic Park.”
“’Cause your tummy jumps too high right before you hit the water.”
“Right.” Talk of Peter Andellieu always got Kara’s attention.
She’d been infatuated with the plastic surgeon and star of “Dr. Perfection” since the first time Audra invited him home to dinner five years ago.
Despite his impeccable wardrobe and the fact that he’d never engaged in conversation with a child, much less an over-inquisitive one like Kara, he’d crouched next to her and accepted the soggy puzzle piece she thrust at him with good grace and a dazzling smile.
By the third visit, Kara dubbed him “Uncle” Peter, a title that gained him official entry into the Wheyton family.
“Daddy said he and Uncle Peter will take me to a Padres game when we get back. You can go, too, if you want.”
Relieved to have the conversation shift to more pleasant topics, Audra wrinkled her nose. “I’ll wait for football. Now scoot and get ready, then we’ll wake Daddy.”
“Be right back.” Kara flipped down the hall toward the stairs with three cartwheels and a round-off.
Audra straightened the pillows on the couch and tucked a copy of Soap Secrets into the magazine rack.
She’d better wake Christian and warn him his daughter would be pouncing on him in a few minutes.
She moved down the long hallway and tapped softly on the bedroom door, waiting for the low mumblings of sleep to surface.
“Christian?” She eased the door open and peered inside.
Slits of light poked through the blinds, casting strips of brightness on the room.
The oxford shirt and khaki slacks for the trip hung from a hook outside the closet, loafers and socks resting beneath it.
His suitcase stretched open on the floor, socks with socks, shirts with shirts, pants with pants, folded and compartmentalized.
Her lips twitched as she thought of the special shoe covers he used to protect his clothing from coming into contact with “the contaminants on his soles.” He’d brought order and love into her life, along with a sense of belonging and simple acceptance, and for that, she would always love him.
“Come on, sleepyhead. Time to get up.”
He lay on his stomach, his head half-buried under a pillow, arms extended, shoulders and back exposed.
The rest of his torso was covered with a single sheet.
Even in the dimness of the room, she could make out the sleek definition of muscle.
She reached over and lifted the pillow from his head.
His right hand thudded against the bed, his eyes remained closed, mouth partially open.
“Christian?” She shook his shoulder gently, then harder as the iciness of his skin seeped into her hand.
She grabbed for his fingers, felt their stiffness.
“Christian!” Her scream bounced off the walls in desperate, agonizing pleas, but she knew he couldn’t hear them, knew he would never hear them. Her husband was dead.