The parade had rolled through the heart of Salt Springs, the streets decked in festive regalia as the island community gathered to celebrate two hundred illustrious years a week early to take advantage of the Canada Day long weekend.
Most of the mom and pop type shops had shut their doors early for the day, with the odd exception, of course, who wanted to take advantage of the rush of tourist and local activity.
And now the crowd converged along the stretch of the beach for the fireworks, the air thick with conversation and excitement. The cold trickle against his cheek said that Lucy's ice cream was melting again, so he let go of Payton's hand to swoop Lucy down off his shoulders, setting little feet to the ground.
Her hands a mess of melting chocolate also smeared around her grinning mouth.
"How's the ice cream?"
"Yummy."
"I see Aunt Jen and Mrs. Davies," he said, gesturing to where his mom always camped out, snatching up the best spot on the sand with chairs and cooler. "I hear chocolate ice creams her favourite."
"M'kay." She beamed, eyes bright, and then gave him a sloppy chocolate kiss on the cheek that absolutely melted his heart into an equally goopy mess.
"Hailey, do you mind taking your sisters while I check on your mom?"
Hailey, arms crossed, glowered up him. "Don't tell me what to do," she quipped, but stuck out a hand for each of her sisters, busy with the cones he'd bought them at the shop while Eva took to high ground to see up her gear for the show.
As the kids scampered off to join his family, Marshall rolled his shoulder; the ache from the afternoon was now a grating throb that spiked down to his fingers. Having Lucy perched up there, bouncing like a yo-yo for the last two hours had been a dumb, dumb decision but seeing her face light up, knowing that he'd been the one to make her so completely happy-what the hell was a guy supposed to do?
Gritting his teeth, Marshall cut through the tight wedge of bodies to find Eva, deep in the zone.
Positioning the Tripod, Eva peered through the lens and adjusted the frame. From this vantage, overlooking the water, the fireworks erupting in a dazzling explosion of light and colour...it would be magic, she thought. And an excellent feature for the front page of Haven's local newsletter.
She sensed Marshall at her side and looking up Eva noted that the lines of his face were strained. Weary with stress. He hadn't been himself all afternoon, though he'd made a valiant effort to hide it, especially in front of Lucy, who had chanted his name like a squealing fan at a ballpark when he'd arrived at the door.
And the way she'd stopped to kiss his cheek before leaving to join his parents on the beach had both stopped and touched her heart.
"Something wrong?"
His eyes snapped to her, a little startled, a little vacant-as if his thoughts had pulled him hundreds of miles away, but he recovered quickly with a smile. "Just some work stuff."
"Like?"
Marshall lifted a shoulder in a shrug, then immediately winced from the movement, clapping a hand over the area. War wound, Eva thought, and realized what it must have cost him to carry Lucy around all afternoon.
"Here," she said, wiggling a hand. "Sometimes I get a bit of carpal tunnel and I find this helps." Taking the weight of his arm in her hands, she rotated the joint, massaged the muscle of his bicep and though his lips tightened, he didn't protest or complain.
"Got a call from my editor this morning," he said, a little grim. "Apparently I'm flying out tomorrow afternoon." She stayed quiet at that, and his eyes searched her. Looking for...what, he couldn't say, not when he wasn't entirely sure himself. But for something. A hint. Anything. And found he couldn't see beyond the mist clouding her gaze.
"We're going to pitch a proposal to do a pilot segment with CTV. I'm up for bid as evening news anchor."
"Sounds big."
"It is." So why wasn't he excited? What did he feel like his guts were being yanked out through his navel?
"How long will you be away?"
"A couple of days. Maybe less." God, he hoped it was less. "Do you think it would be too much to ask you to keep LeBron while I'm away?"
Finished with her ministrations, she let him go. "Sure. I guess."
"What's that," he asked. Nodding down to the slender black remote in her hands.
"For the camera," she said. "I press this to close the shutter."
"Hm." Reaching for her, eyes gleaming with intent, he tugged her towards him and down a few steps, gauging the angle. "So, right about here we should be in focus."
"Should be," she agreed. "What are you up to?"
"Nothing." Smiling, he snagged the remote, danced around her as she tried to take it back. "C'mon, Eva. Kiss me. Right here."
"You're acting crazy. Give it back."
"Kiss me first." His arm swooped around her waist, hauling her up, shoulder be damned, and she wriggled against him, laughing, as he hoped she would.
"I've wanted you all day," he whispered against her throat. He watched as her laughter mellowed into a low heat, her eyes dipping to his mouth, then returning back to his.
"Fine," she sighed through a smile. And pressed her mouth to his. A firm, easy kiss that hinted at hunger and longing and something richer. Deeper.
Marshall's finger pressed the button.
"There," he said, setting her back down on her feet and turning over the remote. "That wasn't so bad, was it?"
Eva's teasing response was swallowed up in the first, scattered burst of light. A loud cracking explosion that shattered the moment.
His smile waned and within his chest pressure built, an inflating balloon taking up too much space. And with the pressure came pain. A wave of sick turning the world to grey. Another bang, another burst of colour and he jolted, a man shocked with terror.
The ground titled...or maybe it was him-a jarring slant to the right like a ship's deck swaying in a violent storm. Leaving him unsteady and unsure. The smiling faces around him suddenly looked fierce. And dark. And bloody.
And dense. Pressing in on him from all sides.
Every shattering burst of fire over his head brought the hailing punch of bullets to ring in his ears. Around him. All around him. Screaming. Chaos.
Colour bled from him. The golden hue of his skin went ashen, his eyes bright with fear.
"There's blood," he mumbled, staring blankly down at his trembling hands. "So much blood." Bent at the waist, his entire body shook and went weak as a baby. With every pop and burst and crack of exploding lights above him, he flinched and tightened. Every muscle wound so tight, so brittle, he was fragile as glass. "I can't...I need-Jesus fucking Christ."
Eva didn't need to ask what was happening. She'd endured enough panic attacks to know that Marshall was thick in one. He'd have to ride it out, one breath at a time. The fireworks. The cheering crowd. The tightly packed bodies. Sensory overload. She needed to get him out of here, and fast. Scooping a hand around his waist, she shouldered as much of his weight as she could handle.
"Come with me," she said.
"Can't." He slumped against her. Knees weak and unsteady. "Crowd. Too much. Can't."
"Look down. At your feet, that's it. Focus on that empty little patch of grass. Forget the crowd. Let them bleed away. Follow me. There, one step at a time. Okay, easy."
Eva led him as quickly as she could away from the dense throng of bodies to the car. He poured inside like his bones were sticks of softened butter, eyes blank and hands shaking. A slumped, ball of panic in the passenger seat.
Dialing a quick call to Jenelle, Eva explained the situation as best she was able, and made plans for the girls to stay the night with Lottie and Harold.
"Breathe," she reminded him, drawing in exaggerated breaths of her own in demonstration. "In through the nose, out through the mouth. Good. And keep your eyes open. Don't slip away on me. Tell me what you're wearing? What am I wearing?" She listened as he stuttered through the descriptions, gripping her hard enough that her own fingers were near numb by the time they reached his cabin.
When she helped ease him out of the car he was still so tense that Eva worried taking him into that tight and congested space would only exacerbate his anxiety. He needed air. Open air. And as her eyes settled on the length of dock, decided it would be the best place for him. Beyond them the distant pop of fireworks softened. He was stumbling and unsteady but otherwise didn't fight or question her direction.
"Sit here," she said, bringing him to the docks edge where a motorboat was tethered. Helping him off his loafers, she lowered his feet into the water and a visible shudder rolled through him.
"Put one hand on your chest, the other on your belly," she instructed and waited for his trembling hands to comply. Sitting behind him, Eva pulled his back against her, raked her fingers through his hair so that she could knead and massage his scalp.
"There," she said, her voice light and easy, though the heavy and irregular hammering of his heart shocking through his ribs alarmed her. "I am going to count, and I want you to breathe, pushing that hand out with your stomach as you inhale on one and exhale on four. Okay." And she counted. Keeping her pace even and unhurried as she continued her massage.
"Eyes open," she reminded when his clamped shut. "Nice and easy. Breathe. Deep, like that. Push all the way out through your belly, and back in. Slow. Take it slow." And when he'd calmed enough to speak she guided him through the exercises she'd learned to employ during her own lapses of sanity.
The first year in the program had been hell on her nerves. And there had been a time where Eva thought the stress alone might have killed her. Had it not been for her girls, and the guidance of Mama B-the programs resident therapist-it very well might have.
Helping him concentrate and focus on the present moment and their surroundings by describing the coolness of water on his feet, the warmth of the summer breeze, and the weathered wood of the dock. From there she worked him over to saying the alphabet backwards. When he was calm, settled, Eva brought him back inside. LeBron's barking ceased the moment Marshall crossed the threshold.
"He's alright," Eva assured as he bolted towards them with a whine, tail wagging and wet tongue licking across Marshall's hand. Steering him to the bedroom, she let LeBron take over while she hunted up a bit of whiskey, painkillers-for his shoulder-and, after rummaging in his side table, some Paxil to soothe the rest of his frayed nerves.
"Easy," she said, holding the glass. "Two sips, don't want to mix too much booze and meds." She handed over a bottle of water and let him wash the pills down as she settled behind him in a similar hold as on the dock.
Those broad, strong shoulders gave way to tremors. Aftershocks. She stroked him, rocked him. Held him fast and close until the worst bled away. Until those tremors eased, but his heart, his heart slammed against his ribs like a fist against a door.
Jolting her. Shocking her.
"I'm sorry," he whispered. "Christ, I'm so sorry."
"It's okay," Eva shushed against his temple, pressed a kiss there. Whatever he was hiding, whatever deep, dark and terrible thing he was holding onto, it was going to kill him if he didn't let it go.
"Talk to me. Please, just talk to me."
"You'll think less of me." His hand groped for hers, squeezed. "I can't...I can't have you think less of me."
"Never. Not going to happen," she promised. Taking his hand in both of hers, she stroked the stiffness of his fingers.
"You told me that there were things in your past. Things too painful to speak about." Marshall swept a hand behind his neck, dragging away his length of hair to reveal a long silver scar slicing across the back, stark against his deeply tanned skin. "This is mine. My shame."
Eva ran a finger across the ridge. Whatever it was-whatever had caused it-the injury would have been deep.
"Machete," he said, drawing his hair back into place. "From the leader before they let me go. A reminder, he'd said." A laugh seeped out of him like air out of a punctured lung. "As if the bullet in my arm wasn't enough."
Because she sensed he needed to purge, Eva refrained from asking questions. What he needed most was a sounding board, an empty ear to pour all of his pain and fear and secrets into. LeBron lay stretched on the bed at his side, head propped on his thigh and Marshall lazily stroked behind his ear as he spoke.
"Eighteen months ago I was sent to Nigeria on assignment. We were already on the ground in the Borno state following the Islamist insurgency after they'd bombed a school and kidnapped hundreds of young women. We were covering the mess in Chibok long before anyone else gave a damn, and pushed onward to follow in the bloody wake of the rebel group when we were cornered outside of Chad. That's when I'd got this," he said, tapping his bad shoulder.
"Abubakar Sekahu was the rebel leader. He'd got a taste of worldwide infamy with the Chibok assault and wanted more. His men snatched up anyone with a press pass. Even a couple of tourists. There were fifteen of us in that camp. After the first week, there was...a lot less. I thought I was going to die. I believed I was going to die."
He spoke of torture and brutality. The violence of it, the wrenching misery turned her stomach, but Eva remained strong and took it all in. Every word. Every brutal, terrifying word.
They'd moved from camp to camp. Starved and treated like animals. Forced to watch as his fellow captives were beheaded, one by one, their executions videotaped for the world to see.
"Heng was this scrawny little nobody from Cambodia. He'd latched on to my hip back in Cairo and followed me around ever since. I let him tag along because I saw something in him. Potential. A bit of myself. Fuck." Hands to his face, Marshall pressed the heels over his eyes, blockading tears. "He was just a damn kid, Eva. Just a fucking kid who shouldn't have been there in the first place."
Eva's had rubbed over the broad planes of his back, slow and soothing. "You can't blame yourself."
"I do," he said, voice grating with hate. "I watched as they dragged him out in the mud. It was raining. I screamed for them to take me. I screamed so long and loud I couldn't speak for almost a week after. They made me watch as they hacked at him with a machete. I don't know if you've ever seen a beheading, god willing you never will, but they're messy, Eva. And slow. Six, seven, eight blows to cleave his head from his shoulders. And he felt it. God, Eva I could see that he felt it. Sekahu just laughed in my face as Heng's blood bubbled up from the stump of his throat. Laughed. And then he gave me my scar. And sent me on my way. I was weak, you see, and the bullet wound badly infected. No fun to kill a dying man. So they let me go. They fucking let me go."
His words gave way to tears and Eva held him. And from somewhere inside of her a song poured out, a song she hadn't sung in many years. A soft, mournful ballad that had been passed down from mother to daughter. And as she sang his sobbing eased.
"That song," he asked, words slurred with fatigue and pills, "What was it?"
Just an old song. Something I learned when I was a little girl. My grandmother was a gypsy who fell in love with a highlander. She made it all sound so terribly romantic. He died before they could marry, but she carried his child. The song is hers, and it's about a deep, unyielding love that meets a tragic end."
Sighing, his muscles relaxing-probably a result of the meds taking effect, his weight settled against her.
"Beautiful," he murmured, turning into her arms like a child seeking comfort. "Stay. Please stay."
She sang while he slept, until her own voice was hoarse.
And stayed with him all night.