Free A Hero to Come Home To by Marilyn Pappano Page A

go.”
    “And I need to make some plans. You know, I made crib quilts for each of Sheryl’s other kids. I’ll have to start one for the new baby. It’s so exciting.”
    Dane mumbled his way through the good-byes, then lay back and stared at the ceiling. Anna Mae had thought her life would be some sort of fairy tale, but instead of the three beautiful daughters she’d intended to have, the only pregnancy she’d successfully carried had delivered him. They’d butted heads routinely, but especially once he’d decided to join the Army. Then she’d been widowed just before her forty-fifth birthday. In divorcing Sheryl, Dane had screwed up the only thing he’d ever done to please her, and he’d had the nerve to come back from the war a cripple. He didn’t think that was such a horrible life, but she did, and she was his mother. He could cut her a little slack.
    Carly had been widowed a whole lot younger, and under worse circumstances, but she didn’t seem to have any of his mother’s self-pity. But Carly was a whole different person. He couldn’t imagine anyone describing her as pessimistic, dissatisfied, self-centered, or irritating. In fact, a boatload of other words came to mind. Pretty. Warm. Friendly. Generous. Sexy. Sweet. Intriguing. Patient. Really pretty. Really sexy.
    And not married. Still grieving, still attached, but maybe ready to take a step or two forward. Maybe open to spending a little time with another man. Maybe even thinking about more.
    But even if she was, could he be that man? Did he even want to?
    His snort was loud in the dimly lit room. Oh, yeah, some part of him definitely wanted . The other parts of him—the doubt, the lowered self-esteem, the lack of confidence, the shame—sang a line from an old song in four-part harmony.
    You can’t always get what you want.
      
     
    After school on Thursday, Carly went home as usual, stopping only to buy a half gallon of soy milk. Cradling the cold container in the crook of one arm, she let herself in and made it halfway to the kitchen before stopping abruptly.
    As she stood there in the hallway, she could literally feel her good mood seeping away. It was cold in the house, despite the bright sun and seventy-three degrees outside. Her refuge, her safe haven, felt different. Stifling. Almost like a vacuum.
    Letting her bag slide to the floor, she put the milk in the refrigerator, then slowly walked back to the living room. Everything was in its place. Where it had been the day Jeff had left. Truly, the only things different were the wooden box on the mantel holding his awards and the flag that had covered his casket, plus a single plant out of the hundreds that had been sent for his funeral.
    She went to the front windows and opened the blinds for the first time in a year and a half. In a rush, she did the same in the dining room, kitchen, and her bedroom. It was too late in the day for sunlight to flood the rooms, but it did ease the gloom.
    In the living room once more, she turned in a circle. She should rearrange the furniture. Replace the pastel froufrou rug with something in a bold geometric pattern. Better yet, she should paint the walls. Painting the stunningly boring white walls throughout the house had always been on their list of things to do, but Jeff had put it off every chance he got, claiming he would get to it eventually.
    The truth, she’d known, was that he didn’t have the patience for painting. He hadn’t wanted to bother with taping or drop cloths or prep work. His style had been to slap on the paint quick as he could, and ignore the unfortunate drips, splatters, and thin coverage.
    She should paint. Redecorate. Rearrange. Start over.
    The momentary rush drained as quickly as it had come. How could she redecorate without Jeff’s input? Besides, the bland white on the walls was soothing in a way. It didn’t demand her attention or catch her eye. It just faded into the background. And she knew so well where every single thing