Read A Love to Call Her Own for Free Online Page A

someone here.”
    She should have thought about that before she ran out on us. You screw people over, you can’t expect them to be there for you when you need them.
    â€œWhat about her brother and sister?” He sounded cold and didn’t care. None of what had gone wrong between him and Patricia had been his fault. None of what was going on now was his concern.
    â€œThey’ll be here for the funeral.”
    â€œWhen will that be?” He wasn’t interested. Just the sort of questions people asked.
    â€œWe don’t know. George’s body will be shipped back to the States and—and prepared, then he’ll be escorted to wherever she chooses to bury him. It can take a few days or up to a week and a half. It just depends.”
    Lucy’s voice quavered, turning thin and reedy, and damn it, he had a soft spot for quavery voices. He’d yet to see the patient or family member who didn’t need reassurance before heading in to the OR. Unlike the listening, that always came easily to him: a pat on the arm, a moment’s conversation, a promise that he would take care of them, the comfort of a familiar face.
    Days alone, waiting for her husband’s body to come home. Ben couldn’t imagine Patricia holding up that long without someone to lean on. Lucky for her, she had Lucy Hart and Jessy Lawrence, and surely the Army had some sort of support system in place. But not him. He had patients and surgeries and a life of his own.
    â€œPeople change, Ben.” Lucy’s voice was softer. “They regret things they did. They regret things they didn’t do. I’m not asking you to make up with Patricia. I just think if you show her compassion now when she really needs it, it’ll mean something to you later.”
    Forgive, his dad had often preached. Not for the person who wronged you, but for yourself. You deserve better than to waste time and energy on resentment.
    He had a lot of resentment. Would forgiving his mother ease some of it? Could he do that for her? Or at least, like Dad advised, for himself?
    Grudgingly he said, “I’ll think about it.” Before Lucy could do more than inhale sharply in surprise, he warned, “But don’t keep calling me. I’ll let you know when I’ve decided.”
    *  *  *
    Jessy awoke bleary-eyed around eleven, her head aching, her mouth dry and gross, her eyes puffy. One glance at her pillowcase confirmed that (a) she’d forgotten to take off her makeup the night before, and (b) she’d cried herself to sleep.
    After the long, sad, awful afternoon with Patricia Sanderson, she hadn’t been able to keep memories and images out of her mind. Her own notification call, knowing what LoLo was going to say before she opened her mouth, the sorrow, the shock, the guilt. Aaron’s dignified transfer by private jet from Dover Air Force Base to Tulsa, then by hearse to Tallgrass. Choosing flowers, arranging the service, clasping the flag presented graveside by the post commanding general.
    The overwhelming sadness and guilt.
    Other people claimed tears were cathartic, but not Jessy. They made her feel like she was drowning in sorrow long after the last one had fallen. She never felt better after crying. It was torture, one drop at a time, and required a recovery period, best accompanied by a bottle of Patrón.
    Steadfastly avoiding the kitchen, she showered, dressed, and put on makeup. Her wardrobe ranged from girl-next-door to serious professional to sex-on-four-inch-heels. Today, with a light hand on the cosmetics, orange cargo shorts, and a striped shirt, she was in girl-next-door neighborhood. She wasn’t sure what she was dressing for, other than going out —feeling the way she did, she wasn’t staying in the house with the Patrón—until she went to the closet for shoes.
    Her gaze caught on the camera bag on the shelf. Now, taking pictures was cathartic. She’d learned