Ordinary Miracles

By Joan Bird

FAMILY FIRST

Everyone walks around with some version of war wounds, but Jack O’Brien has all of them. A shattered heart brought about by gut-wrenching tragedy, a scarred body from his tours of duty in Afghanistan, and a broken soul courtesy of his betrayals.

Home, but not, he’s estranged from the people he loves most, and he’s clueless about how to make things right when he’s still consumed by anger, agony, and self-hatred.

Caroline Bonet has her own scars, all internal, and none of them are as horrible as the sad, devastatingly handsome man who comes into her art studio to purchase lessons for his teenage daughter.

As their lives intertwine, Caroline and Jack are drawn to each other’s strengths and weaknesses, and find it’s possible to forgive and love again.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Boroughs Publishing Group
• Release date: Dec 15, 2021
• ISBN: 9781957295039

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

New England, 2018

Christmas Eve

Jack

Slumped in a chair at the back of St. Anthony’s Parish Hall, Jack surveyed the packed crowd with the wariness of a man who had stopped believing in God.

Or anything else for that matter.

He had his reasons. Jack would feel better nursing a double bourbon in a dark bar while bantering about world peace with the Grinch, but that wasn’t about to happen. Besides, he quit drinking whiskey.

This morning.

At 11:52 a.m.

The challenge to change his behavior had been thrown like a white glove. It hadn’t come from enemies of war, but instead from his camp.

His thirteen- year-old-personalized O.K. Corral. Kelly.

It was her fault Jack was sweltering in this noisy auditorium. His fault the daughter he’d deserted three years ago was plunged into adulthood overnight. Plagued by visions of their confrontation, Jack remained haunted by the anger that’d vibrated off her slender form like some kind of poltergeist.

Don’t you dare forget the pageant, Jack.

Jack. Not Dad. Jack.

He deserved her disdain—it would’ve been easier for them all if he had come home in a box—but not Jack. He’d landed back in his children’s lives with the same resounding thud as the worn and dusty military-issue duffle bag dropped unceremoniously on the front porch. That was three weeks ago, one week for each of the years he’d left his children alone.

During all twenty-one days of the Prodigal Son’s return, Kelly simmered, fury in check until this morning when she let him have it, calling him a big fat jerk.

If not for the broom held like a baseball bat—ready to smash a line drive at Jack’s head—

he might’ve tried teasing. Too bad the broom held no power to combat the tension between parent and child. From his inglorious homecoming, Kelly’s anger had escalated in increments like hurricane categories. This morning it hit Category Five.

His fingers on the latch of the front door, Jack had been ready to run. Braced by the rush of cold air from outside, every muscle vibrated with the tension for a dash from reality. But he’d been running for three years. He hadn’t needed her warning to stop his flight.

Don’t do it, Jack.

Still Jack.

So he remained a pariah on the threshold.

He pushed away the noises of an auditorium packed with happy people drenched in Christmas cheer and forced his focus back to the memory of Kelly’s unflinching stare. It shook him she was no longer a child.

His child.

The recollection of her anger so tactile, he could still hear the keys jingling as he’d worried them in his pocket. He could’ve run, but her dark misery had struck like a bullet to the chest. She didn’t favor her mother, but rather was drawn with his frame, his hair, his jaw. Poised and leaning against the balustrade, she’d studied him like prey. A hawk on a wire.

Annie prayed for you. Three years, Dad. Every. Single. Morning. Every. Single. Night. Three whole years.

Dad. The wake of that single word tumbled a tide of emotions he’d buried. Somewhere between the wounds Kelly had inflicted and the strangely miraculous sense of relief he felt by purchasing her Christmas present later in the day, Jack’s heart had made a subtle shift. It ached, but not in the horrible way he’d become accustomed to since losing Kate. Now if felt more like he’d finished a marathon: agony in every muscle, ecstasy at his accomplishment.

"If you miss the Christmas pageant, Handsome Jack—" Kelly had pinned him with a glare, and whatever fleeting hope he’d felt at being called Dad vanished with her return to the use of his name, spoken as if cussing. —you’ll break Annie’s heart.

That she’d used one of her mother’s endearments, adding the Handsome followed Jack like a pilot fish all day. He sank lower in one of the uncomfortable metal chairs lined in rows for attendees of the school pageant, his mind unable to shut off the morning confrontation despite the growing crescendo surrounding him.

The father-daughter battle had been witnessed only by the pendulum-driven clock that managed the entire household from its place on the living room mantel. Their stand-off ended without resolution. Jack stood speechless as Kelly’s courage condescended to his cowardice. In the end, he’d left the house not to escape but to grant her the satisfaction of being right.

And now? The joyous crowd threatened his remorse.

To re-become a father, one Kelly and Annie could forgive, somehow felt fused to finding perfect gifts. The desperate process of gaining a foothold back into Kelly’s heart had landed him in Caroline Bonet’s studio.

The search for the right gift for his oldest child offered a glimpse of an unspoken quest.

Caroline.

This time he didn't fight the mental shift from misery to memory: the sight of Caroline Bonet blushing, ruffled by his presence. The image slid like some apparition between his nerve endings. He wanted to categorize the emotion, but attributing the rawness of this new feeling to any single thing proved elusive. Jack refused to consider one meeting with the woman who stammered at any effort to speak his name as the force behind the reason for an almost imperceptible shift in his attitude. Yet the visual of her—oil paint specks on one cheek, unable to disguise her nervous blush—continued popping unwanted in his head.

Caroline Bonet. An art teacher. Pretty, but quirky−too quirky. So why did he keep thinking about her in ways unrelated to—as of this afternoon, she had become Kelly’s art teacher?

So different from Kate, Jack wondered at his reaction to Caroline.

War had its benefits. Sure, it could kill you, but it also forged a talent for blocking out noise and surrounding activity.

These skills developed on foreign soil allowed Jack to block out the raucous Christmas celebrants and slip further into recollection.

CHAPTER TWO

Earlier That Day

Caroline

The stranger entered the studio in a way that might’ve frightened another person, but two things struck Caroline immediately: he was too handsome to be anything but a mirage, and he was somehow woebegone. She didn’t need her Spidey-sense to read his face because the man on the customer side of the counter seemed as sad as anyone she’d ever met.

Can I help you?

You had a note on the bulletin board at St. Anthony’s Parish…about art lessons.

"If that was a question, the answer is yes. If it was a statement, it’s still a yes. My business cards are up all over town." Usually, her matter-of-fact delivery broke the ice, but he seemed at odds with breathing. Clearly, he was working through something. Still, at 2:00 p.m. on Christmas Eve, if his visit had anything to do with gifts for someone, he better get his act together.

This broad-shouldered Apollo should be named Jack, or maybe Chance, like some romance novel cowboy. Either way, he was gorgeous, which was unsettling, and left her with two choices: babble or be brusque. "Time’s a-burning here, Jack. She heard the rudeness in her tone but continued without apology. It’s Christmas Eve, after all. You know, places to go, people to see."

His gaze darted around the studio, then returned to focus on her. "It is Jack. Jack O’Brien. I left a message on your machine."

Shit. How was she supposed to know the guy asking about art lessons was actually named Jack? And why hadn’t she taken two minutes to play her messages back? After circling the counter, she positioned herself in front of him. Stealth, one of her many skills, usually worked to reboot a sense of control.

But Jack O’Brien wasn’t surprised or amazed.

Nope. He remained a morose piece of work, standing rigid, almost at attention, and with no apparent intention to leave.

With the hope axe murderers laid low on Christmas Eve, she rubbed her hands down her apron to remove the clay dust. Mr. O’Brien. She reached out to shake his hand. How may I help you? Thick leather gloves hid hands that might reveal some of his secrets. Yet his grip was as assured as he appeared not to be.

Did you want lessons in painting? Sculpture? She smiled despite her maybe-customer’s failure to shift out of Secret Service mode.

I’m an architect. The statement explained nothing.

Okay. Why did Caroline need to know that?

He scanned her as if digitally recording what he saw. And an engineer.

Oh, like, Amtrak? She tossed it out despite knowing the answer.

Building— He ducked his head. —things.

Sheepish.

Big things.

Well, Shanghai her to China. I’m sorry—Mr. O’Brien, right? She glanced over his shoulder at the door, pretending to expect someone. I don’t have any room in my adult class right now. And engineers usually give me trouble. I don’t think it’s a good fit. She braved a look in his direction.

You actually believe that?

What?

Grinning. That engineers can’t paint, throw pots, or sculpt.

His smile seemed out of practice. Okay, not an axe murderer, but he’d guessed at one of her prejudices: left brain types often lacked the means to connect with the brush. How had he read her mind? Stealing a glance at his handsome face, she nearly ogled at the deep-hued blue of his eyes. Stellar. She nearly tumbled down Alice’s rabbit hole. No. Again, I have to apologize. I try to avoid preconceived notions.

Except at closing time on Christmas Eve? Something akin to humor flickered within his wry expression.

I should offer to take his coat. Asking for the plush wool would be better than blurting out the question she wanted answered. Why so gloomy? It’s Christmas Eve. She realigned her thinking and switched gears. So, are the lessons a Christmas present for your wife? Gift certificates for a bored spouse were a hot ticket item this time of year.

My wife’s dead.

Oh. Hell. I’m so sorry, sir. She inhaled against the feel of her blush borne of social ineptness.

Please. Don’t call me sir.

The emphasis he put on Please made her think he wasn’t only used to being called sir, but at the same time he seemed averse to it. Tugging off his gloves, he shrugged out of his elegant winter coat. The electric buzz that zipped unexpectedly through Caroline’s every limb at seeing his lean physique was replaced by a pang of regret because without the navy-colored coat, the blue-blue of his eyes was dialed back.

Okay. Mr. O’Brien. Caroline sucked in more air, hoping to reverse her clumsy remarks, I’m sorry if it seems I prejudged you, and I’m sorry about your wife.

He turned away.

Crud.

But he didn’t leave.

Can we start over?

He didn’t answer and instead seemed to study the art on her studio walls. That she painted the landscapes wasn’t hard to figure. A wood shingle, Caroline’s Work, hung smack dead-center over the first group of framed paintings. She hoped he didn’t dismiss the paintings as amateurish because then she’d cry.

As he moved silently from one to another, pausing at some longer than others, she willed her heart to stop flipping around inside her chest like some crazy acrobat at a circus.

I like these. Especially this one. Old red barns speak to me.

He didn’t invite her response, so she studied him as if he might be her next model. Her appreciation for his form was dictated by artistic habit. At least that’s what she told herself. He was trim, but his shoulders were muscled, and the shirt seemed timid about keeping him caged. His left wrist rested in the circle formed by his right thumb and index finger behind his back. The captured palm bounced lightly against the base of his spine. She caught the glimmer of his gold wedding band sparkling under the studio’s canned lighting.

But his wife died.

The contradiction of it clicked the streetlights in Caroline’s head to on.

His wife was dead, and perhaps he felt he should be as well.

He spun on his heels and faced her. The intensity had returned. A red plaid flannel shirt with bright pearl snap buttons might have morphed an average man into something more, but Jack O’Brien would be exceptional in an old T-shirt and wrinkled khakis.

Without his coat and scarf, she was treated to a thin pie slice of bare chest. She had no time to analyze that his direct gaze unleashed sensations she’d exiled seven years ago.

His sun-darkened complexion seemed at odds with a local in winter, and she wondered if he spent weekends in Florida. Guessing his age wasn’t easy either. Small crow’s feet left weak impressions around his eyes, softening the wariness she sensed initially.

He turned away again. Some of these are lovely.

Lovely? What six-foot-two built-like-a-Greek-God man says lovely?

Thanks.

He almost smiled, seeming to bite it back by sheer force of will. A trace of stubble shadowed his chin, and she felt an urge to touch his face, so she punched her fists deep into apron pockets, swallowing at the rush of heat felt under his scrutiny. From an artist’s view, Mr. Jack-Morose-O’Brien was perfect.

Good thing you can’t get into my head, Sad Jack.

It definitely wouldn’t do for him to figure out she wanted to paint him.

Naked.

Why thanks? His soft voice melted her resolve to be aloof.

Because the paintings you sauntered by— Gulping. —are mine. Caroline wiggled her toes against the inside of her leather shoes.

Hmm. He raised a single eyebrow in her direction before returning to his study. He stepped to the last of the montage.

Ah— Clearing her throat. —Mr. O’Brien?

Jack.

I was getting ready to close up shop, sir.

Jack. He glowered, clearly accustomed to people following his orders. Without the sir.

Okay, Jack-without-the-sir. How can I help you?

He laughed, a sound that seemed at odds with the aura of sadness shadowing him. Still, her knees went weak. How could a man who one moment appeared as if he wanted to single-handedly strangle all of humanity turn his darkness into that laugh?

I wanted to sign up my daughter for art lessons.

Your daughter? Okay. A child. A dead wife. Maybe he was forty.

She just turned thirteen.

Caroline counted in her head. Thirty-six? It shouldn’t’ve mattered one little bit, and since she’d always been crummy at math, she quit figuring. It’s a good age for an artist to get serious about the craft. Does she have any natural talent? Does she paint? Draw? Doodle cartoons?

The Jack O’Brien enigma ran a hand through his hair, and in that gesture, she read a mix of worry and love for his child.

I know she can paint. But I don’t, well, I haven’t seen any of her efforts, in… The sentence ended simultaneously with his steps as if he’d reached the edge of some life-precipice, and he closed his eyes, perhaps to chase regrets from his head.

She might not have recognized it, but all her life-mistakes circled like a cyclone in her head when she let her guard down. Caroline parked her frame against the counter and waited, unsure of what to expect. She could only guess at the reason for an apparent estrangement from his child. A longing to hold him slipped beneath her skin.

Until a few weeks ago, I hadn’t seen my daughter in almost three years.

Some of his gloom was shed by the admission. She didn’t want his reasons to matter, but something about him echoed against her own transgressions.

It’s a long story.

Okay. I’m listening.

So. The cost?

Though disappointed he didn’t share, she let it go. If you want private lessons, it’s fifty-five dollars an hour. If you pay for ten lessons in advance, I give one lesson free. My private lessons are in the morning because a lot of school kids come in the afternoons—group lessons. She inclined her head. There’s the pottery corner. I’m guessing your daughter’s in school, but we can work something out. Maybe one night a week after five, or early Saturdays. I’m somewhat flexible.

Fifty-five an hour sounds fine to me, even without a discount.

His response made her think she should adjust her pricing. And damn him for looking bereft, gorgeous, and caring. A fantasy rushed her, fostering a craving to do something insane. Like rip his shirt snaps open. Mr. O’Brien?

Caroline, right?

Yes, sir… Sorry, Jack.

We have a deal. Can we work out the timing after Christmas? Does she need supplies?

Yes. And yes.

This at least felt normal. Do you have some kind of a gift certificate?

We can create one really quick, or I have ordinary ones, you know, like from my computer program.

Unflinching. What does a ‘create-one-really-quick’ look like?

She skipped to the supply cabinet and, after yanking out a sketch pad, plopped down at one of the kiddy tables. To slow the pounding of her heart, she focused on crafting the certificate. With her smock pockets full of colored pencils and felt pens, she didn’t have to move until it was done.

Signing the finished product with a flourish, she capped the pen, then tore the paper from the pad.

Involved in making the certificate, she hadn’t registered he had moved closer. She had to crane her neck to look up from the kiddie-chair. He loomed. The stupidly handsome man in her studio was a damn loomer. Handing up the certificate and sketch pad, she fought to breathe.

To the bearer… Jack held the certificate at arms-length, reading. And, of course, we put Kelly’s name in the blank?

Yes. That part is kind of nice being in your hand.

Squinting, he continued. Ten art lessons. One-hour each with Caroline Bonet, Instructor. He reached out and rubbed his fingers over the lettering almost reverently. Wait, fine print? He peered at the document more closely. Caroline hoped his scrutiny resulted in approval. One free lesson, due to payment advanced in full.

You should get your daughter some pastels, those are art chalks, and some good pens. She’ll need pencils, and you might consider a box of charcoal sticks. Those are great for anatomy and still life. Not knowing what to do with her hands, she popped a pen cap on and off. And you’ll want several sizes of decent sharpeners. That should complete your gift. She smiled.

Jack smiled back.

The two-second exchange made her glad to still be seated, even if it did make her feel Lilliputian.

Anatomy? His voice was laced with something. Concern?

He’d be no different than anyone else. The mention of human anatomy often freaked folks out, especially parents because the term inferred naked models. And while she might’ve put his mind at ease, some wicked inner child chose that moment to pipe up. "Yes. Including nudes. It is art, you know."

Can I write you a check?

She caught the smile pulling at the edge of his mouth as he turned away, apparently unconcerned about her suggestion. Twenty minutes she’d known him, and already he’d read her twice.

Yes, of course. But if you want to put more than the certificate under your tree, you need to get to the art supply store over on Drayton Avenue before they close. Caroline gulped, then added, Jack. There, she said it, without the sir. You can bring the check to her first lesson.

Great. His grin was a beautiful thing. I should give you cash. You must need to eat.

She laughed, hopping out of the miniature chair. She was thin, and having grown up on jokes about her being a beanpole, as cruel as it had been then, she was anesthetized to such comments now.

Reaching to tuck annoying strands of hair behind her ear, her hand brushed the plastic trash bag used to tie the unruly mat in a ponytail during clean-up earlier that day. Damnit. Well, forget making a personal connection with Jack. She must look like a complete goofball. I have money in the bank, believe it or not, though I certainly appreciate your business.

"Sorry, I didn’t mean to suggest you were literally a starving artist. From what I’ve heard, your business is booming. That’s terrific. Good for you, Caroline."

Something about the way he said her name sent a blush creeping like tentacles from her cheeks to her fingers. He was so many kinds of gorgeous, she couldn’t count them all using the toes she was still curling and uncurling in her shoes.

Thinking to escape the intensity of his gaze, she reached up again, this time successfully losing the make-shift hair tie, shaking and freeing her curls.

He abandoned the quest for his checkbook and closed the few steps between them. Her blush switched into honest-to-goodness heat. He was tall, but so was she. He was close, and she realized she wanted him closer. The moment a smell of squeaky-clean soap mixed with a subtle aftershave threatened to unloose some inner wanton, noises she knew too well poured over the partition separating the studio from the entrance to her living quarters in the back.

It’s okay. I may look like a starving artist, but I really do eat. She ducked behind the partition in response to the box of hungry kittens she was keeping in the studio until she could find them homes. For reasons she couldn’t comprehend, moving away left her with a sense of longing. She wanted him standing in her studio, morose or otherwise, when she returned.

She re-entered the studio disappointed to see he’d put his coat on, but somehow thrilled he hadn’t left. Instead, he seemed to have nothing better to do than carefully hold the sketchbook while studying the gift certificate. The box in her arms echoed with meows, the feline orchestra a cacophony of off-pitch sounds as she placed the box on the counter.

I’m sorry, what’s your daughter’s name again? She knew it, of course, but the disconcerting sensations welling each time he came within a foot of her compelled a certain aloofness.

Kelly.

Right, Kelly. She smiled her best ever smile. You want to give her a kitten too? I was thinking of going down to the mall to see if any desperate parent needed a last-minute four-legged gift when you came through the door. Stupid, idea. That sound’s reckless, I guess. I’ll probably take these little guys to the Humane Society instead. Seriously, a kitten for Kelly?

His expression flashed no way. In fact, he looked a little scared, and eyed her warily. Maybe brushing the glitter stick quickly over her cheek and donning her fitted red wool coat imparted a huntress look, though she’d merely intended to telegraph she really did have to leave.

What do you think? She pushed the box of squealing kittens closer