She turned away from the disappointed look in Tami’s eyes and walked to the bottom of the stairs. “Girls!” she yelled up. “Come on down. It’s time for the party.”
Lulu came down the stairs, grinning, dragging her blanket. She was dressed for the party in a pink princess dress, complete with a tiara. Betsy appeared at the top of the stairs with her arms crossed.
“Pleeease don’t make me go,” Betsy pleaded.
“Ticktock, ticktock.”
“Dad doesn’t have to go.”
“He’s working,” Jolene said. “You’re not.”
Betsy stomped her foot and spun around. “Fine,” she said, marching back to her room.
“I remember how much I wanted a daughter,” Tami said, coming up beside Jolene. “Lately I’m not so sure.”
“Nothing I do or say is right. Honestly, she breaks a little piece of my heart every day. She swears she’ll skip school if I go to career day. Apparently a mother in the military is only slightly less humiliating than one in prison.”
Tami leaned against her. “You were raised by wolves, so you don’t know this: it’s normal. My mom swore she tried to sell me to gypsies at twelve. No takers.”
“Is Seth coming today?”
“Of course. He’s a boy. They’re like puppies; girls are like cats. He just wants to make me happy and play video games. Drama has not yet made an appearance at our house. Although, he does miss Betsy.”
Jolene glanced up the stairs. “I hope she’s nicer to him.”
Tami nodded. “My son is a fashion disaster. He’s a geek boy who gets excited to answer a question in biology. Betsy wants to hang with the popular girls. I get it. I do. He’s social suicide, and the fact that they used to be best friends does not help her any. Still, he doesn’t get it. He wonders why she quit skateboarding and doesn’t like to look for sand crabs anymore. He still has the birthday poster she made him tacked up on his wall.”
Jolene didn’t know what to say to that. Before she’d thought of anything, Lulu came to the last step and hurled herself forward. Jolene scooped up her youngest daughter and settled her on her hip, carrying her out to the SUV. After Jolene strapped Lulu into her car seat, she went back into the house. “Come on, Betsy!”
Betsy stomped down the stairs, looking mutinous, with her iPod’s earbuds firmly in place. The message was clear: I’m coming, but I won’t like it. Jolene let the little defiance pass, and followed her daughter to the SUV.
“Where’s Seth?” Betsy yelled, opening the passenger door.
Jolene climbed into the driver’s seat. “He and Carl are meeting us there. They went fishing this morning. Be nice to him.”
Betsy already wasn’t listening. She put on her seat belt and started fiddling with her iPod.
“Music?” Jolene asked Tami.
“The queen today, I think. In your honor.”
“Madonna it is.” Jolene popped a CD into the player and drove off to the familiar beat of “Material Girl.”
She and Tami alternately talked and sang; Lulu talked nonstop; Betsy didn’t say a word.
In no time, they were pulling into the Gig Harbor subdivision called Ravenwood, which was about forty minutes from the post. The Guard crew came from all over this part of the state—some of the people would have driven hours to get here.
The captain lived in a pretty Wedgwood-blue tract house with white trim and a wraparound porch. Kids ran around the yard, their voices raised into a single, echoing squeal. The house and yard were a reflection of the family—of the man—who lived here. Everything was trimmed and well cared for. Fifty-year-old Captain Benjamin Lomand was one of the best men Jolene had ever met.
Most of the flight crew and their families were already here; Jolene could tell by the multicolored snake of cars parked in the cul-de-sac. Though she couldn’t see the backyard from here, she knew that the men—and the female soldiers—would be gathered around the barbecue, holding bottles of domestic beer or cans of Coke, while the wives stood in groups, talking to one another and herding children. Everyone would be smiling.
Jolene pulled up to the side of the driveway and parked. Tami’s husband, Carl, and her son, Seth, were standing outside the garage. Waving, they strode down the driveway toward the car. Dressed in baggy jeans and a Seahawks jersey, with a baseball cap down low to conceal his thinning hair, Carl looked like one of those slightly heavy, solidly built men who’d been a high school football star and gone on to work on the line at Boeing. That image was surprisingly accurate, except that he was a mechanic who owned his own garage.