Tears my brother wiped and then wrote about.
But if I thought I knew physical pain back then, it was nothing in comparison to the night I got the call from Kara about Jed’s death. That was the night my heart began to shatter into a million pieces. Nothing, not any pain from having loved Nick, the agony of my medical scars, will ever leave me with the same kind of despair I felt the night I got that call.
Even if Kara walked out of my life tomorrow.
Throwing off a quick laugh, I reassure Kara, “Stuff that requires a lot of wine. Therefore, you and your inquiring mind will have to wait. It’s a long time until my newest niece or nephew is going to make an appearance. Speaking of which, when is Jennings going to tell the guys?”
“He told them earlier tonight. So Rainey can finally stop looking so guilty for not telling Brad,” Kara chortles.
“What I think is funnier is that Meadow is better at keeping secrets from Kody,” I muse.
“I notice you haven’t shared your big news with any of them,” she reminds me.
“That’s because I’d like to get past the initial hurdles since I finally passed the classes.” I run a hand over my head, bringing us back around to my original reason for calling. “I’ve already filled out the licensing application which should trigger the background check and the need for a home visit.”
“I’d like to visit,” Kara says wistfully. “I miss you so damn much. And with all of this going on, I suspect there’s going to be no way you for you to take a trip to come to us this summer.”
“Not likely,” I concede, my mood plummeting slightly. Every year since Jed moved permanently to Ponte Vedra, Florida, I flew cross-country and spent time with him, Dean, Kara, and her son, Kevin, for a whole month every summer. The thought depresses me, before I realize what I could have at the end—a family of my own. In my mind’s eye, David’s soulful brown eyes blink up at me before a shy smile crosses his face.
“Do you think you’ll be able to make it for the delivery? I’m not sure if I can do it without you or Dean here.” The panic from Kara’s voice snaps me back to our conversation.
“What? Are you afraid Jennings will wash out as a labor coach?”
There’s a sniff before, “No. I think he’ll do great. I just want our baby to be surrounded by as much of his or her family as soon as she comes into the world.”
“Unless by some quirk of fate that happens to be the week of the adoption, I’ll be there for your delivery. I swear that to you.”
“You promise?” Kara’s tearful exuberance is clear across the line.
I don’t hesitate. “I promise. And you know I don’t take those lightly. After all.” I flip to a picture of David and me. “I promised Jed I’d find love, and I finally have.”
Those words set Kara off on a crying binge that eventually has Kevin coming over and lecturing, “Jeez, Maris. Now I need to get her some Powerade.”
Knowing he inherited that smart-ass mouth as much from my brother as he did from his biological uncle, I retort, “Get used to it, buddy. Soon it will be your little brother or sister demanding much worse.”
“Oh, God.” The phone clatters to the table as Kevin takes off. I can hear Kara’s laughter, though she doesn’t pick up the phone again.
That’s okay. I couldn’t speak if she did. I’m crying myself.
Curled up in front of a roaring fire, the beauty of the Alaskan summer nights allowing me this comfort, the warm embrace of our generations-old family home plus Jed’s own words reassure me I’m doing the right thing when it comes to taking this step forward in my life.
Placing the glass of wine aside, I lift the leather journal off my chest and begin to read aloud, “I want to dare Maris to open up her heart to love someone. She gives of herself from what appears to be a limitless fountain—over and over again. But something has to feed that spring to keep it flowing clean and pure. I have ideas on what that could be, but it’s not an easy road. And in the end, it may not be enough.”
Setting the book on the coffee table, I pick up my glass and offer my brother a toast to the cool air that wraps around me. “Jed, I relied upon you so much in our lives, I’m afraid you made it your life’s mission to ensure I reached for what you eventually found—a love so strong that it can still be seen. It’s practically tangible. But darling, not all of us are willing to open ourselves to that kind of vulnerability. There’s a suffering that accompanies the daring of love.” I become entranced in the flickering flames. “But maybe I can go in search of my dreams. Maybe I won’t ache as badly at night, and I’ll still love with everything I can, everything I am. It will be enough. I’ll find that fulfillment you want me to have.”
A log rolls in the fireplace, startling me. I’d almost believe it was Jed answering me, except an incoming email pops up on my phone. After noting the sender, I immediately open it. Then I let out a war whoop that must be able to be heard in Fairbanks. “They want to do a home study!” I yell to the empty house.
The dare from Jed to find love may have originally suffocated my earlier relationships, but it forced me to evaluate them with a critical eye.
Now I know why.
David, this adoption, this is the course my life is supposed to be on. I immediately whirl around to tell someone the good news only to deflate a bit when I find myself alone. Then I square my shoulders.
No, this is how it’s supposed to be; I just know it.
Maris
“I pity the fool who believes my sister is merely a pleasant woman. She could take on a Kodiak and come out the winner. When pissed, her eyes can skewer you, and her tongue is pure acid if she’s riled. I joke about it, but she should come with a warning sign.” - From the journals of Jedidiah Smith.
“What do you mean? Smith’s Brewhouse is a respectable business,” I argue with Sirona Gustofson, the home study case worker who’s come to perform an initial home visit.
“It’s a bar, Ms. Smith,” she repeats her earlier misconception—something Jed and I worked for years to overcome. “What kind of place is that to raise a child?”
Keep calm. I can practically hear my brother’s voice warning me. Picking up a glass of water, I take a drink before responding. “First, I own the Brewhouse, Mrs. Gustofson. I don’t live there.”
“Though, by your own admission, it is possible you may have to cover shifts,” she volleys.
“Of course,” I say, exasperated. “But doesn’t that demonstrate my willingness to support my employees?”
“Well, yes, but…”
“But what?”
She doesn’t say anything but continues to scribble in her interminable notebook that I want to snatch out of her hands and toss into the fire I made up before she arrived. Despite the pleasant weather outside, I felt a chill deep inside. Now, I know why.
“I’d also like to address your point about the Brewhouse being ‘just a bar.’” My pride in my job crashes up against her insult, leaving my voice somewhere just short of arctic.
That stops her pen moving. Placing the notebook aside, she reaches for a folder. Without a word, she hands it to me.