 PROLOGUE
CryoBank of San
Diego
Luke Calhoun
SSN#523XXXXXX
August 29, 2007
Dear Service
Member;
When our military
readied you to deploy, CBSD stepped forward to
ensure the future of your family by providing
semen collection and storage services free of
charge for the first year. We would like to
continue to serve you as you continue to serve
our country.
Thank you for
choosing CryoBank of San Diego. We understand
the importance of your decision. Please take a
moment to consider your future family dreams.
__Continue to
store my specimen for the discounted military
rate of $350.00 for 1 year.
__Donate my
specimen.
__Destroy my
specimen.
Sincerely,
Carol Livingston, Director
CBSD
Visa and MasterCard accepted
Caitlin stood
at the mailbox outside the home she was in the
process of vacating and reread the letter
addressed to her late husband, Lieutenant Luke
Calhoun, United States Navy. She'd barely been
a bride before she'd become a widow.
Luke had been
a Navy SEAL killed in action.
Eighty-nine
days, nine hours and nine minutes ago two men in
uniform had come knocking on her door. One of
these days she'd stop counting down to the
minute, but right now she had less than sixty of
them before the military housing inspector
arrived to sign off on her departure from
officer's row.
She wasn't
being evicted exactly, but the military had
given her written notice and ninety days to
vacate the premises. That deadline was today
and Caitlin was up to her Playtex gloves in
cleaning that needed to be done in short order.
Movers were
coming and going around her. She didn't have
time to stop and think about how much she missed
eyes so green and so full of life her heart
ached whenever she looked at the emerald and
diamond engagement ring nestled against her
wedding band.
Still she
needed a moment to collect her thoughts and
reread the letter again. The ache in her heart
started to pound with the implication.
Sperm bank.
CryoBank was a sperm bank.
And her
husband had made a deposit without telling her?
Her husband had done a lot of things he didn't
talk to her about, that was the nature of his
business, but this?
He should have
told her about his semen in storage. They'd
never discussed children, except to acknowledge
that they both wanted them--someday. Well,
someday had arrived for Caitlin.
She didn't
know whether to skip up the street and kiss the
mail carrier on his bald head, or sink down to
the curb for a good cry. Or maybe both.
"Pete!" she
called out, realizing she'd forgotten to give
him her change of address form. By this time
tomorrow she'd be boarding a plane for
Maryland. Home to her father. She didn't
belong in California any more as evidenced by
the number of Navy wives who didn't show
up to help her pack. Women she'd once called
friends had separated themselves from the grim
reminder of her reality. The Casualty
Assistance duo could come knocking on any one of
their doors next.
She belonged
to a new sorority now. They dressed in black,
listened to sad songs, and watched far more war
coverage than they should. Or couldn't watch it
at all without crying. They were a sisterhood
of sorrow.
They were war
widows.
But maybe,
just maybe, the stork club was in her future. She met
Pete--dispatcher of correspondence and sound
advice--in the middle of the street, surprising
him with a peck on the cheek. "Thank you, thank
you so much for everything."
"And just what
am I supposed to tell the misses about the
lipstick on my collar?" he teased as Caitlin
went skipping back across the street.
"Tell her you
just delivered the best news of my life!"
Twenty-four was way too young to be spending
that life alone. Caitlin hurried back to the
house, weaving her way between movers. Two
coming. Two going.
"Not that
box." Pam, Caitlin's one true friend,
redirected the barrel-chested driver. He turned
around and set it down inside the door before
going further into the house for another.
Pam followed
him around the corner while Caitlin, still
holding on to hope in that bundle of mail,
stopped to lift a cardboard flap. She knew she
shouldn't. This was the box filled with Luke's
uniforms and destined for the thrift store on
base.
She had the
flag that draped his casket. His medals. His
letters of commendation. Her memories.
Those were the
things she'd allowed herself to keep.
But after all
the hours spent sorting through the things she
couldn't, it was his uniforms that were the
hardest to part with. She knew she shouldn't.
But she dug out one of his desert-drab T-shirts
that had been sent home from Iraq and buried her
nose in his scent. How dare he still linger to
torture her this way. She needed him now more
than ever and all she had to hold onto was this
damn ugly khaki T-shirt.
"Caitlin?"
Pam hovered in the doorway.
"Just this
one." Caitlin held tight to Luke's T-shirt.
They'd met the
first day of spring at the Annapolis Yacht
Club's traditional burning of the socks--after
which no member could be caught wearing socks
with their deck shoes.
He'd been
a guest lecturer at the Naval Academy.
She'd been a
bored debutante/grad student who thought he
looked good in his uniform. It was love at
first sight.
After a brief
courtship they married in a lavish spring
wedding, followed by a honeymoon in the
Caribbean. Then came her move to San Diego.
His deployment to the Middle East.
By summer she
was a widow.
"I'm not ready
to let him go."
"Oh, honey,"
Pam sympathized, "I know. But you have to..."
Not if she had
his baby.
Luke's baby.
Was she really
considering having his baby alone?
"...oh, look
at the time," Pam said, checking her watch. "I
have to pick up the boys from school."
"Of course,"
Caitlin offered the platitude as her friend
deserted her for the responsibilities of single
parenthood--single, meaning Pam's husband
was deployed. She was not by any stretch of the
imagination really alone and would never
understand the direction of Caitlin's thoughts.
So Caitlin kept those thoughts to herself.
"This is
the hardest thing you'll ever have to do," her
father had said as he walked her down the aisle
for a second time, this time toward her
husband's coffin.
"But you'll
get through this, I promise. No major
decisions, Cait. Not for the next year at
least. Give yourself time to grieve."
Caitlin let
her father's good advice and all the past due
bills and collection notices fall to the floor.
But she held onto that T-shirt and that letter
from CryoBank. Luke had promised her the
world. Apparently he'd gone into debt trying to
give it to her. Did he think he had to buy her
love? He'd been such a gentle and generous
lover, how could she not love him?
But she had a
funny feeling she never really knew him.
Please take
a moment to consider...
Future.
Family. Dreams. She was going to
have his baby. Before she forgot what it was
like to dream about the future, to have a
future.
Caitlin winced
at the three week old postmark. Like most of
his mail the letter had been forwarded from his
command. She only hoped she wasn't too late.
"One last
gift, Luke." Her words echoed off the ceiling
and the empty walls as she punched the numbers
from the letterhead into her cell phone.
She didn't
even hear the driver coming up behind her until
he cleared his throat. "Will that be all, Mrs.
Calhoun?"
#
CryoBank of San
Diego
Luke Calhoun Jr.
SSN#523XXXXXX
August 29, 2007
Dear Service
Member;
When our military
readied you to deploy, CBSD stepped forward to
ensure the future of your family by providing
semen collection and storage services free of
charge for the first year. We would like to
continue to serve you as you continue to serve
our country.
Thank you for
choosing CryoBank of San Diego. We understand
the importance of your decision. Please take a
moment to consider your future family dreams.
__Continue to
store my specimen for the discounted military
rate of $350.00 for 1 year.
__Donate my
specimen.
__Destroy my
specimen.
Sincerely,
Carol Livingston, Director
CBSD
Visa and MasterCard accepted
#
Headed back to his tent
after mail call, Master Sergeant "Lucky" Luke
Calhoun Jr., United States Marine Corps put his
X next to destroy with the nubby pencil
he carried on patrol. He was too cheap to cough
up three-fifty, and after four tours in the
middle east, too jaded to think he could make
anyone's dreams come true.
He'd be happy if everyone
just stopped killing each other--a strange
sentiment for a guy who spent most of his time
at the beautiful Desert Palms
Resort, AKA Camp Victory, Baghdad, Iraq,
looking through the cross-hairs of a sniper's
scope. He did his job, and he did it well, that
didn't mean he had to like it.
Besides he was
ready for a change of scenery.
Pushing back
the tent flap, Lucky ducked inside.
Private "Tick"
Tanner lay stretched out on his rack, reading a
letter with the identifiable CryoBank logo. He
looked up as Lucky walked in. "You get one,
Sarg?"
"Everyone in
the unit got one." Tossing his mail aside,
Lucky sat down on his own rack and stowed his
rifle in the folds of the wool blanket beneath.
The blanket kept the sand out of his weapon. Or
at least it was supposed to.
Nothing could keep the sand out of the
desert.
They ate it. Drank it.
Slept in it. Even breathed it in. Until it
became a part of them that could never be washed
clean. War was one hell of a dirty job.
"So you gonna,
you know, pay for storage?"
Without the
imminent threat of biological warfare it seemed
like a waste of money. "No."
"Tick, Tick."
Sergeant Eddie Estes sauntered over with a care
package from home. "You don't know Lucky. He's
so cheap, when they handed out the specimen cups
he--"
Lucky cut him
off with a glare.
Estes mouthed,
"twice," and held up two fingers.
"Very funny,"
Lucky said without humor.
Grinning,
Estes tossed a can of Pringles his way. Lucky
caught it midair. From the sound of it he was
going to be munching more crumbs than chips.
"Were we
supposed to fill those cups?" Tick looked from
one to the other.
"Dumbshit."
Estes threw another can and beaned the kid in
the head. Maybe Tick had been hit in the head
once too often. Or maybe he was just that
young. Lucky's money was on that young.
The kid was
barely nineteen.
"So, Eddie,"
Tick said. "You're not going to pay for storage
either?"
"They want a
piece of me," Estes plopped down on his own rack
and opened a can of sour cream and onion, "they
can pay me just like they would any other slob
off the street."
"CryoBank
isn't in the free storage business," Lucky felt
compelled to point out.
"But, what
if... You know--"
Lucky was
ready to put an end to this conversation. He
never let himself think about the what if.
Some guys believed every tour after the third
was borrowed time. Lucky wasn't the
superstitious type. But he believed in making
his own luck. "You don't have to make up your
mind right this minute," he reassured Tick.
"Why don't you sleep on it?"
Lucky didn't
have that luxury. Half his mail, two of four
pieces, was from a collection agency and didn't
even belong to him. And he did have to deal
with his little problem sooner, rather
than later.
He opened the
first collection notice. Normally, he wouldn't
open someone else's mail--but when that someone
was his dead half-brother--his dead half-brother
with his same name--well, he felt entitled. The
mail mix up was happening more often now that
Little Luke had been KIA.
In the past
they'd forwarded any misdirected mail directly
to the other with a brotherly, thank you very
much, note attached. Only thanks
wasn't the sentiment. At least not on his
part. Lucky felt the shame of his resentment
burning a hole in his gut. He was the older
brother. He should have been the bigger man.
The George
Foreman brothers had nothing on the Luke Calhoun
boys. The Foremans had a father who gave them
his name because he loved them. Lucky's own
father didn't know the meaning of love.
At least not
with his pants zipped.
Growing up
Lucky had been Junior. Luke had come along four
years later as Little Luke because Big Luke's
secretary wanted everyone to know the father of
her baby. As if there was any doubt. That
ended Lucky's parents' marriage around the time
his baby brother, Bruce was born.
Big Luke's
secretary became the second Mrs. Luke Calhoun
Senior. Little Luke became the favorite son
while Junior became the forgotten one.
After that
Lucky stopped going by Junior.
Eventually,
Big Luke's brother moved in--which is how
Lucky's uncle became his stepfather. Years
later another half-brother, or was that
first-cousin--he was never quite sure
which--anyway, by the time Keith was born the
town gossips couldn't wag their tongues fast
enough.
Calhouns were
bad blood.
The home
wrecker packed up Little Luke and moved away.
Big Luke moved on to Mrs. Luke Calhoun Senior
number three. There were no more
half-sibs--that Lucky knew of anyway--but at
fifty-five, with a wife two decades younger, it
still wasn't out of the question.
As soon as
Lucky turned seventeen, he'd left Englewood,
Colorado without looking back. That was fifteen
years ago.
He kept in
touch with Bruce. Called his mother twice a
year, on her birthday and Mother's Day. Never
spoke to his uncle. Or his father. Heard all
the family gossip through their sister, his
crazy Aunt Dottie. And until Luke had been
killed, Lucky had never felt a twinge of
anything familial for his two half-brothers.
Maybe he was
incapable of love.
At least with
his pants zipped.
Glancing at
the bills in his hand, Lucky took a deep breath
and let it out again. Three months ago the
Chaplain woke him from a sound sleep to inform
him of his family's double tragedy.
Like Lucky,
Bruce was a Marine. But like Luke, Bruce had
gone through SEAL training and the two were with
the same Navy SEAL Team when it happened.
Luke had lost
his life.
Bruce had lost
his leg.
With two
Calhouns down for the count and one too young to
enlist, Lucky had earned a free ride home--if he
wanted it--which he did. And by home he meant
his adopted home in California, not his home of
record in Colorado.
But he didn't
take it.
He didn't want
to earn his ticket that way. Instead he chose
to stay at the Desert Hilton where the
bulk of his mail came in the form of past due
bills and collection notices belonging to a dead
man. A man he'd never called brother.
Today's bills
were the third and final notices for a jewelry
store. The twelve thousand dollar diamond and
emerald engagement ring had an unpaid balance of
over six thousand dollars with interest and late
fees.
Mail in hand,
Lucky picked up his Pringles canister and headed
for the long internet access lines. He had two
Morale, Welfare, and Recreation buildings to
choose from--Area 51 and Dodge City.
He headed in the direction of building 51F.
Free internet access, commercial phones and
televisions were just a few of the perks of
modern day warfare. He preferred the hardships
of an FOB, Forward Operating Base, as a reminder
of why he was here.
But today he
didn't mind the conveniences.
While in line,
explosions rumbling in the background, he read
his only other piece of mail.
Dear Lucky,
I hear Keith
made his high school basketball team. I
remember how much you boys loved that game. Do
you get the chance to "shoot hoops" in Iraq? Of
course Bruce was a much better player than you
were. You were always so damn big and clumsy,
bumping into the other boys, and fouling out so
often you spent entire games warming the bench.
"It's called
defense, Dottie." He'd been a defensive guard
in high school while Bruce had been an offensive
forward, leading scorer, and four years too
young for them to ever have competed on the same
court.
That is until
they wound up in Iraq. He'd have to remember to
tell his aunt about their night games under the
flood lights. Of course Bruce was back in
California now.
Anyway,
good for Keith. Lucky continued reading...
I suppose
Bruce won't be playing much basketball after
losing his leg and his fiancee. I heard she
took one look at the stump and went running from
the hospital room. Well, good riddance is all I
can say. Speaking of which, the Navy kicked the
widow-bride out of housing. Gave her ninety
days to vacate. I would have gone out there to
help pack, but my bursitis has been acting up
again.
Flew out with
Nora Jean for the funeral. Your father showed
up and naturally they had words. Can't be civil
to each other for more than two minutes, not
even for the dearly departed. Good thing your
Uncle John was there to keep the peace. Keith
too. I can understand why your mother wasn't,
with Bruce being in the hospital and all, but I
can't understand why the Marine Corps wouldn't
give you leave to bury your own brother.
Nora Jean is beside herself
with grief. Hasn't gotten out of bed since
the funeral, and it was such a touching ceremony
with all the military formalities. Though
I think the widow-bride should hand over the
flag to her mother-in-law. It would be a
lovely gesture. After all Little Luke and
his bride knew each other only three short
months and Nora Jean's been mother to that boy
all his life.
There's only
one reason for a young couple to rush to the
altar like that, but if she's pregnant she isn't
showing. A shame if she isn't--and I don't
think she is--because what a comfort that would
be. Now that I think about it ninety days is
just about right for the Navy to send the
widow-bride packing.
Maybe I'll
drop her a note and suggest she do just that,
about the flag I mean. Then I'll send her over
to the Naval hospital to visit Bruce. You know
how much those two boys looked alike. And here
they went from being on rival high school
basketball teams to being on the same Navy SEAL
Team. Now wouldn't it be something if Bruce and
the widow-bride found some comfort in each
other?
Love,
Aunt Dottie
It'd be
something all right. And not something good.
By the time
Lucky finished his aunt's letter he'd moved to
the head of the line and sat down at the bank of
computers with the widow-bride on his mind.
Her real name
was Catherine or Caitlin, something like that.
But in Calhoun family lore she'd forever be
known as Little Luke's widow-bride. He didn't
know much about her, other than she came from
old money back east. Maryland, maybe? That's
where Luke met her anyway.
His advice to
the widow would be to surrender the flag. It'd
be worth it to get Nora Jean out of her life.
Getting rid of
Aunt Dottie on the other hand would be an
impossibility. For a man who'd grown up without
any real sense of family that thought was as
comforting as it was discomforting.
Once online,
instead of the form letter the JAG office had
prepared and a copy of the death certificate
provided by the chaplain, he accessed his bank
account and paid the damn jewelry store bill.
No woman should be stuck with the bill for her
own engagement ring. Between Nora Jean and
Dottie, the widow-bride had enough on her mind
already.
That didn't
stop the pucker as he hit the transaction button
that would deplete his savings account by some
six thousand dollars. Money was one thing a
tight-ass didn't part with easily. Especially
when he was saving up for something special.
Tick really
didn't know him if he didn't know that much
about him at least. Three hundred and fifty
dollars for sperm storage? No thanks.
He had ninety
days left before he was out of here, and out of
the service for good. He'd made it this far, he
could keep his balls tucked tight for another
three months.
He was lucky
that way.
After that
he'd chuck his fifteen year military career, buy
that Harley he'd always wanted, and spend a year
doing nothing except taking his freedom for
granted.
Excerpt from THE MARINE'S
BABY, copyright 2008 by Rogenna Brewer,
Harlequin Superromance® #1478, March 2008.
Top of Page
|
"...Rogenna
Brewer brings two wonderful characters to life in an original
and entertaining plot." -