Getting Married Again

He could still hear Heidi’s voice. “Dad, you’re scaring me.”

And then to limit himself to holding Lexie’s hands in the darkness, trying to draw her back emotionally into the past where their love had been strong, only to have her put a friendly distance between them. Reclaiming their love seemed hopeless.

He doubted his mother would be able to put a bandage on his heart, kiss his brow and make him feel better. She couldn’t fix a broken heart or give him back his courage. He didn’t care, as long as he could get some rest and perhaps a bit of her advice.

His mother looked at him over the top of her reading glasses. Bills, invoices and receipts were scattered across her desk. An old calculator was perched at her elbow. Jackson recognized the distracted look in her eyes. She was focused on something and didn’t want to be disturbed.

“She told you she’s not taking you back?” his mom asked.

“Several times.” It was easier to talk about his failed marriage than his grim future. With a sigh, Jackson walked over to the kitchen cupboard and took out two fluorescent light bulbs. “The light isn’t strong enough in here for you to be reading that fine print.”

As he replaced the burned-out bulbs in the ceiling above her, Jackson felt his mother’s scrutiny. Any time now, she’d tell him what she thought he should do. When he was finished, he stood next to her desk. Only, she’d returned her attention to her work.

“I was chugging along until you came in. I’ve got a bridge game tonight, you know.” His mother focused on the stacks of paper in front of her.

Jackson sank into a chair next to the desk. Waiting. She’d start lecturing him any time now.

His mother added up a stack of invoices. She jotted the figure down on a yellow pad, then slipped the papers into a folder. Jackson drummed his fingers on the tabletop.

“I’m about to become a father for the second time. And I’m not sure what to do about it.”

Without acknowledging him, his mother began to add up a pile of receipts.

Jackson leaned forward. “Aren’t you going to say something?”

She stared at him over the top of her glasses again. “About what?”

“About me. About my life and how I screwed it up.”

“We’ve had that discussion. More than once. We disagreed, as I recall.” She straightened the pile of receipts and began to add them up a second time.

“Let’s have it again.”

“Jackson, I don’t have time for this.”

“She’s not going to take me back.” His voice sounded weak and pitiful. He pushed himself out of the chair, telling himself that at thirty a man shouldn’t need his mother’s advice. “Never mind.”

“Jackson—”

“I know you said I couldn’t stay with you, but I really need a place to bed down until I get back on my feet. I’ll bring a sleeping bag out of the garage so you won’t have to wash any sheets.” He started down the hall.

“Of course you can stay with me. You’re always welcome home. I was joking earlier.”

“My home is on Lone Pine Road.” There was that defeated tone of voice again. He walked quickly toward the back door, away from people he knew in the Pony’s dining room, as if he could escape the fact that he’d lost his family for good. Never mind that he’d already lost the guts to fight fires.

“Jackson, you don’t need a sleeping bag. You can sleep in your old room. How you’ll fit into that single bed is beyond me. Although I know you and Lexie spent some time there in your youth.”

He hesitated, head hung at the reminder of the love he once had. His mom laid her hand on his shoulder.

“I didn’t mean to ignore you.” She chuckled once. “Well, maybe just a little. I do need to finish the monthly expenses before I go to Birdie’s. And it was the only way I could stop myself from giving you advice.”

The pressure that had built on Jackson’s chest eased a bit. There had been two constants in his life after his father died—Lexie and his mother. “You know I always listen to what you say.”

She chuckled again. “You may listen, but I know you don’t hear me.”

Jackson spun around, reached for his mom and squeezed her tight. She knew him too well—it was true, he hadn’t listened to her advice in the past. If he had, he wouldn’t have gotten Lexie pregnant, wouldn’t have married her so young, and would have crawled back to her on his hands and knees when she asked for a divorce.

After a moment, Jackson released his mom. “Is your advice in abridged form or a long-winded version?”

“Need you ask?”

“We better sit down.” Jackson led his mother back to the office.

“I need a cup of coffee first,” she said, detouring into the kitchen. His mother was a coffee fanatic. “Want one?”

“Sure.” If he could, he’d load up on caffeine and never sleep—or dream—again.

A few minutes later, when his mom was settled in her chair, Jackson raised one eyebrow. “Well?”

“I’m not sure where to begin.”

That didn’t sound encouraging. Needing something to do with his hands, Jackson sipped his coffee.

“Why on earth would Lexie take you back? I wouldn’t take you back if I were her.”

Jackson very nearly sprayed coffee all over his mother. “This is your advice?” he asked when he could manage to speak.

“I love you, dear, but sometimes I don’t understand you.”

With deliberate movements, he set the coffee cup on the desk. “So you think I should just give up?”

“Not at all.”

Closing his eyes, Jackson sank back into the chair.

“I know that you love Lexie. She’s wonderful. She did everything around the house. She cooked. She cleaned. She even mowed the lawn. You didn’t have a care in the world.”

It was the same argument Lexie always made. Jackson used his standard defense. “I bring home a steady paycheck. I don’t drink too much, and I don’t beat my wife. Why does it always comes back to how much she did around the house? My job takes me away.” A job he was giving up. But Lexie still wasn’t going to give him a second chance.

Jackson slumped farther into the chair. “Besides, you do everything around the Pony and the house.”

“Yes, but I took on all those responsibilities after your father died because they wouldn’t have got done if I hadn’t. I see now that Theresa and I pampered you far too much.” Jackson’s father had died fighting a fire when Jackson was twelve, leaving Jackson as the man of a house where he was outnumbered by two females more than happy to take care of him.

“I’m lazy. Is that it? She left me because I’m lazy?” This was the last thing he wanted to hear from his mother. His mother was supposed to be his strongest supporter. Suddenly Jackson couldn’t sit still any longer.

“Well—” she began.

“I’m a deadbeat Dad, like you see on those afternoon TV shows. That’s what you mean.”