Tears clogged her throat, and she cleared it to try to speak around them. “I am not going to love you any less if I’m away from you. What you do and how you do it isn’t going to change, whether I’m with you or not. I would rather be here, supporting you, praying for you, loving you, than separated and always wondering.”

He stood and walked over to the grill. Using a large metal spatula, he flipped the fish over and shut the lid. She could smell the savory aroma, and it made her mouth water.

He stood for a moment, gripping the handle of the lid, his back to her and his head slightly bowed. Finally, he walked back over to the table and set the spatula down, then held out his hand. She paused before putting hers in it and letting him pull her to her feet.

He reached out and brushed her hair off her forehead, then cupped her cheeks. “You better mean it.” He spoke in a harsh whisper that moved through her, penetrating her heart, throwing wide the doors she’d tentatively cracked open.

Savoring the feel of his hands against her skin, she closed her eyes as tears slid down her cheeks. When she opened them, she gasped at the intensity in his eyes. “I mean it with my whole heart,” she whispered.

Before she finished the last word, his arms came around her and his lips covered hers. She could taste her own tears and smell his familiar scent. His cheeks felt smooth under her hands, his palms burning through her shirt. She stood on her tiptoes, desperate to get closer to him. Finally, he ripped his mouth away and pulled her tightly against him. She wrapped her arms around his neck and held on, crying, smiling, thanking God that he believed her.

When he loosened his hold, she stepped back and framed his face with her hands. “Please take that fish off the grill before it burns,” she said with a smile. “That would be a shame.”

Chapter
Thirty

Rick rang the doorbell to Cynthia’s house and stepped back. She’d put purple mums on either side of her front porch. The November evening air had a crisper feel to it than just a week before.

After about ten seconds, Cynthia answered the door. She still wore her scrubs and had deep circles under her eyes, so he knew she’d just gotten home. She’d clipped her hair up off her neck, which gave him a view of the curve of her neck where it met her hairline.

“Get any sleep?” he asked, stepping into the house that was a mirror of his own.

“No. So many babies. I bet if we worked backward about thirty-eight or thirty-nine weeks, we’d discover a large unit that came home.”