Lovers' Reunion

Sweet Sophie. Would she miss him if he died? Did she even think of him anymore? She surely was married by now, with a family of her own.

And that might be his biggest regret. He’d never thought he was a family man. But the thought of dying, of leaving nothing of himself behind to carry on his name, his blood, his life....

He hadn’t let himself think of a family in years. It was funny, though, that he’d never been able to envision children of his own unless they were being held in Sophie’s soft arms. She was the only woman who’d ever even tempted him to think “family.”

“Ho-o-o!”

The voice was close. It had to be, to carry so clearly through the sodden, sound-swallowing vegetation.

“Hello! I’m here!” He made the mistake of turning his head, and the movement jarred his body just enough to arouse the beast gnawing on his leg. He gritted his teeth; a guttural sound rose from his throat, and every muscle in his big body went rigid.

“Marco! Keep talking! We’re coming.”

He recognized the voice an instant before a head topped with flaming copper hair appeared from around one of the immense tree trunks. Rescue! Relief, excitement, panic that had been held at bay, all surged forth.

As soon as Jared Adamson saw him, he broke into a jog. “Here,” he called over his shoulder. “Esposito’s over here. The plane’s over here, too.” Jared leaned over him, shining a horribly bright light in his eyes, and Marco knew he was checking his pupils. “Hey, buddy. You have no idea how glad I am to see you.”

“Wanna bet?” He was shocked to hear how hoarse and weak he sounded, but he tried to smile.

Jared dropped to his knees beside him, his face grim as he ripped an enormous backpack off his shoulders and began pawing through it. “What the hell happened? This wasn’t in the plan.”

Marco wanted to say something flippant, but suddenly he was on the verge of tears and he swallowed several times before he could trust his voice. Over his friend’s broad shoulder, he saw several other rescuers moving toward the plane, unrolling body bags and transport stretchers.

“Engine failure. The pilot couldn’t do a thing.” He was able to speak again. “The others are dead. My leg...is bad.”

Jared nodded, his hazel eyes sober. “I can see that. How did Stu manage to get out of the plane?”

“I pulled him out. He died after that.”

Jared gave a low whistle. “You pulled him out? With this leg?” He shook his head. “Only you could manage a feat like that,” he muttered as he bent to examine the injury. “You bandage this yourself?” he asked as he put one hand behind Marco’s head and held a metal cup of water to his lips.

Pain threatened again, and he gritted his teeth. When it passed, he drained the cup before he answered. “Had to. Losing a lot of blood.”

Jared grimaced, and his face contorted for an instant as he fiddled with gauze and antiseptic. “You did a good job.” He took a deep breath, blew it out. “I’m going to have to stabilize your leg before I move you. Brace yourself, bud. This is going to hurt like a son of a bitch.”

His friend’s eyes met Marco’s, and Jared went silent for a moment, looking away, struggling for composure. Finally he said, “It looks ugly. I wouldn’t be surprised if the doctors want to amputate.”

Marco froze. Deep inside, he’d known it was bad. He just hadn’t let himself think about the mangled flesh and bits of bone he’d dragged together and bandaged the day before. “Save it,” he whispered. His whole life was centered around the reputation he’d built exploring, researching and documenting geological environs. He’d suffocate in a sedentary job, a single location. “Please tell them to save it if there’s any chance....”

“Will do.” His friend’s big hand came down over his and squeezed once. “I’m going to have to touch your leg now.”

“S’okay—” His voice rose to a scream as pain’s teeth bit deep, and then the world spun in a red cyclone of agony that sucked consciousness from him.

One

Marco pulled the dark blue rental car to the curb a few yards from his parents’ house in Elmwood Park, Illinois. He’d grown up in the Chicago suburb in this same house, and the familiar sight of his mother’s red geraniums cascading from the window box above the single-car garage brought back a cascade of warm memories. The memories lightened the dark despair with which he had grappled since a doctor had told him his right leg would never regain more than a bare minimum of flexibility.

He reached for the manual shift, and then remembered he couldn’t drive a clutch yet. Shoving the automatic gear into park with more force than necessary, he opened the door and swung his legs out of the car, being careful not to bang his stiff knee. It was pretty good most of the time now, as long as he wasn’t reckless.

He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the mild air. Early May in Chicago wasn’t usually this pleasant. Better enjoy it while it lasted. As a geologist who frequently traveled the globe on scientific expeditions, he’d spent far more time in tropical climates than any other, and he much preferred the warmth.

His mood darkened again as he took his cane and walked slowly around the car. He hated using the crutch and rarely needed it for short distances anymore, but the flight from Buenos Aires had been long and tiring, and when he was tired, the leg was apt to give way without any warning. Slinging his bag over one shoulder, he started up the walk toward his house.

“Marco!” A screech of delight warned him a moment before the door banged open. Dora Esposito rushed through the screen door and off the small stoop with a speed that gave no hint that she was the mother of five grown children.

Her arms were around him before he could respond, and he put his free arm around his mother, hugging fiercely as he looked down at her ebony curls that had yet to see a strand of gray. “Still coloring your hair, Ma?”

His mother drew back, squeezing his shoulders and laughing. “Still as disrespectful as ever, I see.” She wiped her eyes as she smiled at him. “I’ll have to work on that while you’re home. How long can you stay?”

He hesitated. “I’m not really sure.”

Dora’s face fell. “Don’t tell me you’re rushing off tomorrow like you always do,” she scolded. “Sometimes I think you only stop by because it’s cheaper than a hotel room when you’re passing through Chicago.”

He laughed, keeping his arm around her shoulders affectionately as they turned toward the door. “I’m not stopping off this time, Ma. I’m staying.”

Dora Esposito was rarely at a loss for words, but his news struck her dumb—for a moment “You’re teasing your old mama.”

“Never.” He removed his arm from around her as they reached the stoop and juggled his cane into position. He’d learned the hard way that he needed all his concentration for stuff like steps, however small. “I have a temporary position at Purdue for the summer and fall semesters. I’ll be around so much you’ll be sick of seeing me in a few months.”

His mother pressed a hand to her breast. “I can’t believe it!” Then she realized what he was doing. “Oh, here, bambino, let me help you.” She put an arm under his elbow and he stopped, forcing a smile. “It’s okay. Ma, I can do it. It just takes a little time. Besides—” he forced himself to grin “—there’s well over two hundred pounds of me and less than a hundred of you, so I’m not sure what you’d do if I started to fall.”

His mother smiled back, although her eyes were shadowed. “I’ll just go ahead and get your room ready.”

“Thanks.” Reaching the top of the steps, he grabbed the door before she could, holding it open for her. “I’m going to start looking for apartments tomorrow, so I shouldn’t be under your feet past the end of the month.”

“Under my feet?” His mother flapped a hand at him as she started up the stairs. “Since Teresa moved out, it’s been too quiet around here. It’s wonderful to have you home.”

As Dora bustled up the steps, he set down his bag in the front entry and moved through the tiny house he’d shared with his parents and four sisters. The living room, on the left, was dominated by the large television he’d bought his father a few years ago, the better to view the Chicago Bulls during basketball season. The furniture was homey and practical, and his mother’s needlework peeped out of a basket beside the sofa. Pretty crocheted doilies still covered the pie-crust tables.

In the dining room a lacy cloth lay over the table. One wall was covered with familiar framed photos: himself and his sisters, Camilla, Elisabetta, Luisa and Teresa as babies, at First Communion, graduating from high school; his grandparents and his aunts and uncles; his parents on their wedding day. A vase of tulips from his mother’s flower beds brightened the room, and a crucifix hung above a small table that served as an altar.

It was strangely reassuring to see that nothing had changed.

The kitchen, too, was much as he remembered, except that his father had installed the dishwasher all the kids had given them for Christmas ... two years ago? Had it really been two years since he’d been home?

Yes, he realized with chagrin. It really had been. Last Christmas he’d been in a hospital in Paraguay, fighting an infection that threatened to undermine any chance of saving his damaged leg. There probably had been ten tons of bacteria, at least, running around in the damned rain forest—it was a miracle he hadn’t gotten anything worse.

He wandered to the window over the sink and pulled aside the lacy curtain, idly scanning the block of quiet, well-tended backyards. All the neighborhood kids had grown up and moved away—the once-lively street was now a sedate community of grandparents who talked incessantly about selling their little brick or locally mined lannenstone homes and moving to sunny Florida.

As far as he knew, not one house had changed hands in well over twenty years.

A movement in the next yard caught his eye.

My, oh, my. His male instincts snapped to attention. A slender girl with shoulderlength dark curls was standing on the little patio, her back to him, face raised to the early spring sun, while a black and white cocker spaniel ran mad circles around the perimeters of the yard. The woman had a gorgeous figure, petite and full, long-legged and curving in all the right places. She must be one of the Domenico boys’ wives. Though why a gorgeous package like that would tie herself to Stef, Tommie, Vincente or Geordie was beyond him. Grinning at his own wit, he treated himself to another leisurely perusal of the woman as more memories from his childhood swam through his head.

The Domenicos had lived next door his whole life. Their parents had bought the houses in the same year, and the next, each family had their first baby. He and the Domenico boys had been an unbeatable informal basketball team when they’d played pickup games with other guys on the block. He and his sisters had played and fought with the seven young Domenicos like one big family.

But they hadn’t been one big family. And there hadn’t been anything the least bit sisterly about his feelings for the youngest member of the Domenico clan.