Chapter 57 #2
Laine scoops her up, settles her on her hip like she weighs nothing, even though my girl has some heft to her. Seven years of practice. We're all stronger than we used to be.
"You're on airport duty," Reid says to me. "Go shower. I've got cleanup."
"You sure?"
"Go." He puts a hand on my shoulder, squeezes once. "Give David and Mary my love."
I hold his eyes for a second. There's something there—gratitude, maybe. For taking the interruption. For giving them those extra minutes. For all of it.
The airport is crowded with holiday travelers—families hauling luggage, kids hyped up on excitement, couples holding hands. I find a spot near the bottom of the escalator and wait.
Their flight landed twenty minutes ago. Baggage claim takes a while, but they should be coming through any—
"Blake!"
Mary's at the top of the escalator, waving frantically. She's got a carry-on over one shoulder and she's practically bouncing, which makes David grab her arm to keep her from tumbling down the moving stairs.
She doesn't wait for the escalator to finish. The second she's close enough, she's off and moving, crossing the distance between us at a pace that makes David shake his head.
Then she's in my arms.
"Oh, sweetheart." She's hugging me tight, her face pressed against my chest. "Look at you. You look so good."
"You saw me six months ago."
"Six months is too long." She pulls back, holds my face in both hands, studies me the way she does every time. Looking for cracks. Looking for signs that I'm not okay.
She won't find any. Not today.
"I'm good, Mary. Really good."
Her eyes get bright. "I know you are." She kisses my cheek, then swats my shoulder. "You're too thin. Are you eating?"
"I have three children. I eat whatever they throw on the floor."
She laughs, and then David's there, and I turn to face him.
In the years since he told me he'd murder me if I ever hurt Laine, we've found our way to family. Holidays and phone calls and grandchildren. Seven years of proving I meant what I said.
He pulls me into a hug.
Not a handshake. Not a back-pat. A real hug, solid and warm, the kind that used to make me uncomfortable and now just feels like family.
Seven years ago, this man looked me in the eye and promised to end me if I hurt his daughter. I mean yeah, he didn’t use those words, but his face was sending a damn clear message.
I respected the hell out of him for that. Still do.
"Good to see you, son."
Son.
First time he called me that was the day Caleb was born. I was holding this tiny, red-faced, screaming human, completely terrified, and David put his hand on my shoulder and said, "You're going to be a good father, son."
I cried. Blamed it on the exhaustion.
"Good to see you too, David."
He claps my back once, then lets go. His eyes are a little wet, but neither of us mentions it.
"Alright," I say, grabbing Mary's carry-on. "Let's get your bags. The kids are vibrating."
"Oh I can't wait!"
The drive home takes forty minutes. Mary spends most of it asking questions about the kids—what Caleb's learning in school, whether June's still obsessed with her rabbit, how many words Iris has now.
"She's got about fifty," I tell her. "Mostly 'no' and 'mine' and 'papa.'"
"Smart girl. Knows what's important."
David's quieter, looking out the window at the Oregon landscape. Green even in December, but the snow's in the air. I can feel it. So different from the places they've spent most of their lives.
"How are you two doing?" I ask. "Really."
Mary and David exchange a glance. The kind married couples develop after decades together—a whole conversation in a single look.
"We're tired," Mary admits. "It's getting harder. The travel, the heat, the logistics. We're not as young as we used to be."
"We're not old," David says.
"We're not young either."
I keep my eyes on the road. "Ever think about slowing down?"
Another glance between them.
"We've talked about it," David says slowly. "The mission could use younger blood. People with more energy. We've been training local leaders to take over more responsibility."
"What would you do? If you stepped back?" Am I leading them? Sure as fuck am. But I'll do whatever I need to do to make Laine's dream come true. And for my kids to have their grandparents around more.
"That's the question, isn't it." He sighs. "Forty-five years of this life. I don't know who I am without it."
"You're Grandpa," I say. "You're the guy who tells good stories. You're the guy Caleb wants to see every single day."
Silence.
"He said that?" Mary's voice is soft.
"This morning. Also said your pancakes are better than Reid's, so don't tell Reid I told you that."
She laughs, but it sounds thick. I glance in the rearview mirror. She's wiping her eyes.
"We miss them," she says. "So much, Blake. Two weeks a year isn't—it's not enough. They're growing up and we're missing it."
"I know."
"I want to be there for the school plays," David says quietly. "The soccer games. The ordinary Tuesdays. Not just Christmas and birthdays."
My hands tighten on the steering wheel. My chest feels full, tight, like something's trying to crack open.
Eight months of work.
Every evening. Every weekend.
For this. For them. For the chance to give them what they're already asking for.
"Well," I say, keeping my voice steady. "Maybe we can figure something out."
David looks at me. I keep my eyes on the road, but I can feel him studying my profile. That same look he had seven years ago in Guatemala, when he was trying to decide if I was worth trusting.
He knows something's up. He doesn't push.
"Maybe," he says.
We turn onto our road. The house comes into view through the trees—the main house, where the kids are probably pressing their faces against the window right now.
But I don't stop there.
I drive past the main house, around the curve of the driveway, and pull up in front of the guest house.
Six hundred square feet of cedar and glass, tucked into the trees like it grew there.
A covered porch with two rocking chairs.
Smoke already curling from the chimney—Reid must have come down earlier to start the wood stove.
Laine must have strung the christmas lights along the porch railing, giving everything a colorful glow.
I put the truck in park. Kill the engine.
Silence.
David and Mary are both staring through the windshield. Not moving. Not speaking.
I watch their faces. Watch the moment it lands.
Mary's hand comes up to cover her mouth. David's jaw tightens, eyes blinking furiously.
They know.
Maybe not the details. Maybe not the specifics. But they know this isn't just a building. They know it means something.
"Blake." Mary's voice is barely a whisper. "What is this?"
I open my door. Step out. Walk around to her side and open it for her.
"Come inside," I say. "Let me show you."