20. Chapter 20
20
Chapter 20
Don
“We’ve tried coloring, breathing techniques, meditation, and Metaphors,” Harry said, affecting his best therapist voice as he went through the list of suggestions Wayne had given Don the other day on how to deal with his grief.
Don paced the length of the cell, which wasn’t that big, hands folded behind his back as Walt and Harry stared at him from the metal bench.
Harry pushed his glasses up his nose with his middle fingers, then twirled the end of his mustache on the way back down. “Tell us how you feel?”
Don let out a long breath. “Annoyed.” He’d been annoyed since last night. Working through feelings wasn’t all it was cracked up to be—it was work, darn it. Work that exhausted him and didn’t seem to get him any closer to feeling.
“Do you wanna try breathing exercises again?” Walt asked, lifting his NASA cap to run a hand through his hair. Looked like Don wasn’t the only one at the end of this tether.
“No,” Don said. “I breathe all the time, it doesn’t help.”
“Well, you’re supposed to do it to a count or beat or something,” Walt said.
Harry snapped his fingers. “Right, like one,” he added a flowy beat to his counting. “—two, three. One, two, three. One, two, three. One, two—”
Don turned and glared at him. “That’s the waltz.”
Harry grinned. “It is? Huh?”
“I enjoyed the meditation,” said the guy sharing their cell—his name was Steve. Steve Adamson. His drunken stupor had worn off sometime in the night, and he’d invited himself to fully participate in their exercises for the last hour, much to Don’s consternation.
“I wouldn’t mind some more of the colorful drawings,” Chief Erickson, sitting at the front desk, lifted a picture of a mountain with a rainbow behind it that Don had drawn a while ago. The thing looked like it’d been done by a toddler.
“No, none of it’s working,” Don said. He was right, Wayne didn’t know what he was talking about. Like he was supposed to meditate his grief away; good grief.
“Well, then we’re out of options,” Walt said. “And don’t snap at us, you’re the one that asked us to help you with this.”
He had. After he’d texted the ladies of the Secret Seven to let them know they were in jail, Don had realized that maybe, just maybe, his friends were . . . right. Not about Sean and Bluebell, of course, they were supposed to be together, but, the rest of it. Don did need to grieve not only because it was normal after losing someone you love but because not grieving was slowly driving him crazy. If he’d at all been in his right mind, he never would have gone to Jonah’s house and spied through his window. He’d had absolutely no plan. Had gone there not even knowing what he was going to look for. That wasn’t like him.
As much as he’d like to say that he had his emotions under control, he couldn’t. In his years in the military, he’d learned to suppress his emotions. He’d had to in order to survive. And then, when those hard things were over, he’d come home to Amelia, who soothed all the hurts away just by being herself, by being his sunshine. Well, now the hurts were because she was gone, and as much as Don wanted to suppress it, he just couldn’t. He had no one to soothe his soul now.
“I know,” Don said. “I was hoping one of Wayne’s techniques would help.”
“Might have worked better if we’d had Wayne here to help,” Walt muttered under his breath.
“I hope we’re not here much longer,” Harry said, lifting his arm and sniffing.
Don hoped they wouldn’t be here much longer either—truth be told, they were all starting to stink. The ladies had been immediately turned away when they’d shown up to rescue the men. No amount of legalese from Rosa, threats from Nancy, or bargaining from Polly had helped. Not even Winnie’s sweet talking or Virginia’s pleas for her husband had done any good. They were stuck. But at least they hadn’t been stuck in a vehicle driving home with them smelling like they did. Like Steve. Don wrinkled his nose.
The ladies had left dejected, and the men were left hoping the judge would get back before the New Year. The three of them looked a mess from having to stay the night in here and Steve was a mess but that might be what he looked like all the time. For the first time since Don had married Amelia, he had stubble growing on his chin. It itched. And not one of them had gotten a wink of sleep, except Steve who was a pretty level-headed person when he was sober. It was getting harder to ignore the guy the more he inserted himself.
“How come you haven’t opened the box?” Steve asked from his spot on the floor. “Wasn’t one of Wayne’s suggestions spending time with symbols representing the people we’ve loved and lost?”
So that’s what Wayne had meant by that. Huh . . .
Walt let out a low whistle.
Harry pointed toward Steve. “He makes a good point.”
Don stared at the shoe box that sat between Harry and Walt. When the ladies had come last night to try and bail them out, Nancy had brought Don’s shoebox from Amelia for him. At the time, he wasn’t sure why he’d asked her to bring it, it’d just come out of his mouth, right now he was glad that he had.
He’d opened all the other boxes she’d left, but not this one. He’d been putting it off and putting it off. In a sense, this was all he had left of her. Once he opened it, any surprises from his sweet girl would be over. He swallowed the lump in his throat. He wasn’t going to cry in front of his friends. Heck, he couldn’t even remember the last time he cried.
“Or you could try somatic exercises,” Steve said as he bent himself into a pretzel. “If we can get your hips relaxed, you’ll cry like a baby and get it all out.”
Don’s entire body stiffened at the idea.
Walt patted the seat next to him.
Don marched over as his friends scooted out, and lifted the box before taking a seat with it in his lap. His fingers began to tingle from where he held it, like energy flowed out of it.
Walt turned a little away from him to give him privacy as Harry leaned closer.
“One, two, three. One, two, three,” Harry said. “You sure that’s the waltz?”
Don nodded. He was positive. Johnny had made him and Amelia take ballroom dancing classes with him when he was in his mid-twenties. “Yep.”
Harry stood, still counting, and began practicing the steps.
Slowly, Don slid his fingers up to the lid and lifted. On the very top was a stack of ten to fifteen letters cordoned together with an aged elastic band. His name was written on the front of everyone. Below those was one letter for each of his kids and grandkids. A total of eighteen. He stopped when he saw the one for Sean, and pulled it to the top.
“You’re doing it wrong,” Walt said and stood at Harry’s side. “The steps go like this.”
Don set Sean’s letter down and picked up his stack. Slowly, he removed the plastic band and picked up the first letter. On the back, it read: Read this one first. Amelia had beautiful, looping penmanship.
He ran his fingers over the seal, slowly lifting the corner edge. An overwhelming sense of dread overcame him. This was it. The last first letter Amelia would ever write him. He couldn’t do it, and quickly set it down, closing the lid over the box.
Shaking his head, he stood and looked at Walt and Harry. “You two are doing it all wrong.” He showed them the steps. They followed but still weren’t quite getting it. “We need partners.” He waved Steve off the floor out of his Chero pose. “Dance with Walt. Harry, you’re with me.”
Steve pumped a scrawny fist. “I love the waltz.”
Walt put his hands up. “Whoa, whoa, hold on there!”
“Man up, Walt,” Don said. “You can’t learn the waltz on your own.” He knew he certainly hadn’t been able to. It was only once he’d gotten Amelia in his arms that the steps finally came.
The men paired off, and Don walked them through the steps.
Police Chief Erickson put waltz music over the speakers. “How’s that?” He leaned against the front desk; arms folded over his chest with a big smile on his face.
Don waved. “Thank you.”
They started going through the steps, following the music.
“There you go, Walt, you’re getting it,” Don encouraged. “You’re going to be lighting up the dance floor at the Christmas festival with the best of them.”
Walt hid a smile.
“This is the best time I’ve had in lockup, ever!” Steve proclaimed, wiping what little there was of Walt’s smile right off his face.
“What about me?” Harry asked.
“I’ll be the girl now,” Don said.
He rested his hand on Harry’s shoulder and Harry took the lead.
“Good, good!” Don called.
“Gramps?”
Don’s feet froze in place and Harry ran into him, bouncing off and mumbling something about his muscles. Steve tripped over Walt’s foot and landed face-first in the bench. Walt helped him back up and Steve waved off his concern.
The men all spun toward the bars.
Sean stood with Erickson by the desk, with a smirk on his face, and holding . . . Bluebell’s hand. She was a mess in a wet dress and crazy hair with a big sweater over the top, probably Sean’s, but man, was she a sight for sore eyes!
“What are you doing?” Sean asked.
He pointed to Harry and Walt. “Putting those dance lessons Johnny made me take with him to good use. Got better ways to spend your time in jail?”
Sean snickered and lifted the hand that wasn’t holding Bluebell’s in a surrender motion. “Just askin’.”
“What are you doing here?” Don asked.
“I’m here to spring you out.” He looked from Don to Harry. “Harry, Virginia’s waiting in the car for you.”
“Oh, thank heavens,” Harry said.
Bluebell waved. “Hey, Don.”
“I thought you were getting married today?” Don asked.
Bluebell shot a glance up at Sean. “Fate had other plans, I guess.”
Don’s heart filled with warmth. “I guess,” he said, trying not to sound too pleased.
Sean turned to Erickson. “So, what does a guy have to do to bail his unruly grandpa and friends from jail?”
“Hey,” Walt grumbled.
Erickson lifted his hands. “Now, wait a minute. I didn’t say they could go.”
“You remember last winter?” Sean glanced up as if trying to recall something. “I believe it was December 22?”
Erickson paled. “You said you’d never mention that again.”
Don’s eyes grew wide.
“Yeah, well, then you put my grandpa in jail. In a hurricane.”
“It’s not like they’re going to die in here,” Erickson argued. “The cells are probably the safest place he could be.”
“But he won’t be with family,” Bluebell said. “No one should have to go through a hurricane without their family.”
Don’s heart clenched.
Sean leaned close to Bluebell and whispered in her ear. She wiped at her eyes and nodded. He moved back. “So what’s it to be, Ryan? You let my gramps and his friends out, or do I start calling in favors?”
A small smile crooked the corner of Erickson’s lips. He pulled his keys from his pocket. “Fine, but if I get in trouble for this, I’m telling them you broke him out. And I want in on your Friday night poker games.”
“Deal,” Sean said.
Erickson unlocked the cell. Walt and Harry led the way, as Don went back for the box of letters.
“Good of you to get us out,” Steve said to Sean.
Erickson moved Steve to the side, one brow arched, to let Don out. “Not you.”
Steve threw his arms up. “Oh, come on! You heard what the lady said about being with family in a hurricane.”
“You’ll be fine here.” Erickson locked up the cell and followed the group out. “It’s wet out there. Keep warm.”
“Thanks, Ryan,” Sean said, shaking his hand.
“No problem,” Erickson said. “Having your grandpa and his friends here made work fun.”
“Because of the dancing?” Harry asked.
“I enjoyed the meditatin’ y’all did. With the Buddha pose.” He did a chef’s kiss. “Epic.”
Don bristled. Getting down on the floor and sitting like that had been hard, dehumanizing, and pointless. And what was with the chanting?
Sean and Bluebell looked at Don and then asked at the same time. “Meditating?”
“I’ll tell you later.” He clutched his shoebox to his side—a move Sean didn’t miss.
Sean and Bluebell headed out to the car first, but just before the guys chased after them, Don smiled at their retreating forms, noticing they hadn’t released one another’s hands once.
He leaned into Harry and Walt, and with an amused grin said, “Looks like getting them both to the station worked after all.”