by Melissa West
“Logan?”
He found her eyes again and saw the question on the tip of her tongue. The question he refused to answer, even to himself, though he’d long since known the response. For years now, he told himself he’d call her and explain, and now here she was, no one around, the crickets outside the only sound, but he couldn’t say it. The truth was too cowardly to admit. So instead, he stepped over her and reached out for her hand. “Let’s get some dinner.”
“Together? But I don’t like you right now.”
A grin played at his lips, but he didn’t want her to think he was laughing at her, so he pushed it away. “I know. Maybe put that aside in the name of hunger. What do you say? You’re hungry, let’s eat.”
“I don’t want to go out like this. And besides…everyone’ll talk.”
Logan knew she meant that she didn’t want to be seen alone with him, and though it stung a little that she would always be Will’s girl, he ignored it. She needed him even if her pride refused to admit it.
“We don’t have to leave. I’ll cook you something from the kitchen.”
“You cook?”
He nodded. “One of the men in my platoon liked to cook. Taught me a thing or two.” When she didn’t respond after a moment, he added, “It’s just a meal, Anna. Basic stuff.”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right.” She stood, and it took everything in him to not reach for her hand, to comfort her and let her know she wasn’t alone. Not as long as he was alive. But instead, he walked quietly behind her.
“What was it like?” she asked as they went down the long hall and through the white swinging door to the kitchen. The bed-and-breakfast had been renovated since the last time Logan was there, but he could still sense Jane Hale in the kitchen, apron around her.
Logan stalled in answering the question and went for the double fridge, opening the doors to find containers of sliced chicken, steak, fish…the works. He decided on fajitas, knowing Savannah had always been a big fan of Mexican food. Then he realized maybe that, like so many other things, had changed.
“Fajitas okay?” he asked, tossing a green pepper into the air and catching it easily.
A flicker of a smile crossed her lips, and his eyes dropped to her mouth, curious how to make it happen again. “I love Mexican food.”
His gaze held hers, his heart a noticeable presence in his chest. “I remember.”
Savannah cleared her throat then asked, “Do you not like to talk about your time in the service?”
The kitchen was too quiet, no sound but the occasional breeze or cricket or tree limb rustling against a window. Nothing to distract him from the question. The truth was, Logan felt significant pride for his time in the army, but he’d never known true fear before then, and for a man to talk about fear was like asking him to break off his arm without blinking.
“I wasn’t there when it happened,” he said to her, sure what she really wanted to know was how Will had died. They’d had this conversation before, but he knew first hand that there were complex things in life you wanted to hear again and again in hopes of finding a missing detail that would help it all make sense. But there was no sense in a nineteen-year-old dying in duty. Honor, sure. But sense? It would never come.
“Actually.” She pushed onto the counter top, her legs swinging a touch, bringing back memories that made his chest ache with longing. “I was wondering about…before. Can you tell me how it was for you?”
He walked past her, his arm grazing her knee, and they both stilled. Her legs stopped swinging and his breath caught. It had always been this way—the spark between them ready to rage at a moment’s notice—but he’d thought it might have gone away by now, age diminishing its intensity. He was wrong.
Clearing his throat, he went to work on the food. “You feel a bond unlike anything you’ve ever felt before. The men and women in your unit have your back in the worst and best situations of your day. You learn to depend on each other, laugh with each other. That part I loved.”
“But the other part?”
Logan thought of his second deployment, when he went to Iraq, and the voice in the back of his head that said he could be walking and get blown away, gone before he had a chance to run. Knowing not everyone would make it back. The fear would be so real he’d have no choice but to tuck it into the back of his mind, because if he succumbed to it he’d come back to the States in a casket instead of on his feet.
And then he’d hear someone in his unit was shot, and he’d say a silent prayer that it wasn’t Kip or Mark or Blue, someone he’d grown close to, and then he’d realize that there was no one he’d volunteer for the dead card. Then it would all start again the next day, and the next, and the next. But people didn’t want to hear the bad stuff.
“I was glad to offer what I could for my country.”
Savannah cocked her head, her eyes studying him as he chopped up onions and red and green peppers, the skillet already sizzling away on the stovetop beside him. “Serving is an amazing thing. What you did was an amazing thing.”
His eyes lifted, then he shrugged. “There was a time I thought so, when the bravery was enough to make me feel like a man. But those ideals are replaced with something more when you see a man die.”
They fell into silence, listening to the chicken and vegetables sauté, when she said, “Why weren’t you with him?”
And there it was, the question he didn’t want to answer. “They separated our unit. One platoon went one way, one the other.” And they’d just had a fight about her, so Logan had demanded to go with the other platoon. He should be in the ground right now, just like Will. For months after, the what-ifs would drive him to the bottom of more bottles than he could count, but even if he’d been with Will, he couldn’t have saved him. Still, understanding and accepting were not at all the same things.
“Do you ever miss it? The army?”
Logan went to the pantry and pulled out some tortillas and chips, then smiled at the avocado and cilantro he found in the refrigerator. He began mixing the two with a few other seasonings to make a quick guacamole because he knew Savannah loved it. Then returning to the island where she sat, he set out the chips and guacamole, sliding them toward her. “I miss parts of it. There’s something reassuring about having a purpose. No matter what I did, each day I knew my job, and therefore my life had meaning. The civilian world never provides that same assurance.”
“No, it doesn’t.” Her face dropped and Logan went for the fridge again to grab a chilled bottle of wine. Uncorking it and grabbing two glasses, he nodded for her to join him at the small two-person table just outside the French doors of the kitchen. She followed and he brought out the food on bright red and brown serving plates that looked very Spanish, sure she’d get a kick out of it.
“I feel like I’m at a restaurant now. Who knew you were the real thing, Logan Park,” she said, nodding to the plates.
“Baby, it doesn’t get more real than me.”
“No…it doesn’t.” Their eyes held and Savannah cleared her throat, took a long sip of her wine, then set it down and returned her gaze to his.
“So what’s Boston Savannah like?” Logan asked, truly curious.
She laughed. “Boring. I work in consulting and it’s good, but I work long hours and my friends are less friends and more colleagues, so all we talk about is work.”
He nodded, watching as she took a bite of the food. Then that bite led to another bite and another.
“Wow, I had no idea you could cook. This is amazing.”
“I try.”
“Well color me impressed.”
Logan smiled, pleased with her compliments. “Thanks. But the job—you love it?”
She hesitated. “Define love.”
“Not this man. But you seem to like the B and B.”
At that she laughed loudly, the sound so rich all he could do was stare. “I’m lost here. I feel like I can’t make my brain work, and I make more mistakes than successes. It’s exhausti
ng. All I want to do is fix everything and everybody.”
“Things, sure,” Logan said around a bite. “But you can’t fix people, Anna. They have to fix themselves.”
“Maybe. But if I can just get through this funeral and get this place running again, then my family will be okay.”
He took a sip of his wine, wishing he’d grabbed a beer for himself instead. Wine was never his drink, too fruity and feminine. He liked the taste of it on a woman’s lips, but otherwise he liked to crack open a can and drink the way men were meant to drink. “And if you can’t?”
“Then my family falls apart.”
“They’re stronger than you think.”
Her bottom lip trembled as tears burned her eyes. “You think so?”
“They’re a part of you. I know so.” Savannah looked away, fighting a yawn, and he stood up. “Go on to bed. Get some rest. I’ll clean up.”
“No, I can help.”
He shook his head. “Nah, you’ve got enough to deal with.”
She held his gaze, and he thought she wanted to say something more, but instead she pushed her chair out and placed her napkin on her plate. “Thank you for this. It helped. A lot.”
“I’m glad.”
Logan cleaned up and then went to bed that night wondering when people tossed burdens onto their backs. Did it land there when they were kids along with their backpacks full of books and pencils and notepads? Or did they inherit it from their parents as they aged, a transfer from generation to generation. He wasn’t sure, but one thing he did know—Jane Hale’s funeral was in less than two days and whether Savannah thought she needed him or not, he would help her carry her burden.
Chapter Six
Savannah watched as her brother and sister walked ahead of her down the center aisle of the funeral home’s chapel, her head as straight as a pin, her chin high. She feared if she dropped it even an inch she’d never be able to lift it again.
People packed into all of the pews, with most of Maple Cove in attendance and many travelling in from out of town to pay their respects to a woman whose smile alone made everything just a little bit easier. Savannah wished her mama could see it now.
The receiving had been painful, but formulaic, and she’d been thankful Will’s parents were out of town and couldn’t make it. They’d called her at the bed-and-breakfast to give their respects and that had been rough enough.
Savannah went through each section of the receiving as though it were another part of her job, pushing aside her feelings and ignoring the tug in her chest at the kind words from those who cared for her mother. She didn’t cry or laugh or show any emotion at all, beyond the small smile that tugged at her lips when she saw her mama in the casket for the first time. Jane Hale wore a lovely blouse and an even lovelier necklace, but from the waist down, out of view, she was dressed in the jeans she’d dropped on Savannah.
No one would know—including Leigh. But Savannah couldn’t get the sound of those jeans falling down from her mama’s closet out of her head. Signs might be a silly woman’s way of seeing the world, but in times of death, people clung to whatever helped them cope. So Jane Hale would forever rest in jeans.
One piece of the funeral arrangements over, Savannah went into today knowing this would be the hardest to get through. A part of her wanted to stay home, claim she’d taken ill with a stomach flu, and wallow in her tears and misery. But Leigh and Jack needed her, so there she was, chin high as she walked down the aisle after them, several heads turning as though it were her wedding day.
Her wedding day.
The thought hit her square in the chest, choking her before she could stop it. Neither of her parents would see her get married. Her daddy would not walk her down the aisle. Her mama would not press a tissue to the corners of her eyes and tell Savannah she looked beautiful. Her mama would never hold her first-born grandchild, never smile with fresh tears at the addition to their family legacy. Nothing would have made her mama happier, but she would never see it. She would never see any of it.
Oh God.
Her chin dipped a half-inch, no more, but the effect on the rest of her body was immediate. Savannah felt herself crumbling, her shoulders drooping, her stomach clenching, her legs buckling.
No, stand. Stand!
By some grace, her eyes connected with the person standing in the pew closest to her, and she almost cried with relief. Logan. It seemed fitting that out of everyone, he was the lighthouse guiding her home. She drew a breath, and he nodded to her, assuring her that she could do this. And if she couldn’t, then he’d be there to catch her. It was no wonder she’d fallen in love with him all those years ago.
The sureness in his gaze guided her the last few steps to the front pew, beside her brother and sister. She felt his stare on her back like a caress, and she wished he were beside her, all the complications of their relationship erased if only for that day. She imagined his hand in hers, a reminder that she would survive this. No one died from the death of someone else. But in that moment, Savannah questioned if the ache in her heart could stop it from beating, unable to take the pain.
The music she’d selected continued to play as others came in and filled up the available seats, some standing in the back after there were no free spaces to sit. She smiled at the crowd, touched that they cared enough about her mother to attend.
Then the song switched and the one song Savannah had intentionally left off the list began to play.
Amazing Grace how sweet the sound…
No, not this song. Anything but this song. Savannah gripped the back of the pew in front of her, and suddenly she was six-years old again, tears on her cheek as a summer thunderstorm beat against the house, rattling the windows. Her mother had drifted into her room like an angel and wrapped her warm arms around her, drying her tears while she sang “Amazing Grace”, her words drowning out the storm as she stroked her hair until Savannah fell fast asleep again.
Leigh broke down beside her, likely recounting a similar memory of her own, and Jack held her to him, their heads close as they consoled one another, Savannah alone beside them. Standing strong for them. But she didn’t feel strong. Her hands trembled on the pew in front of her and her legs shook so violently she wondered how she stood at all. And then she heard Leigh whisper, “I miss her,” and Savannah’s grasp slipped, her body no longer willing to hold on as the first tear fell, allowing the dam to break.
...
Logan watched Jack’s arms wrap around Leigh, holding her up as Pastor Parkins walked to the podium at the front of the chapel. Which left Savannah there beside them, standing tall, her head too high, her posture too tight. She was about to lose it, her worst fear coming true. But the problem was she didn’t realize that was okay. It was okay to melt right now, to fall apart. No one would judge her. No one would view her as weak.
Her hands tightened on the pew in front of her and her head dipped, like the weight of the whole world rested on her shoulders, and Logan couldn’t handle it anymore.
Without a word, he slipped out of his pew and into hers to stand beside her, letting his strength be hers. Savannah whispered a small thanks to him, her lips quivering as her sister’s cries became louder, and she shook her head, anger in her eyes. But he knew this anger wasn’t for him. She was angry at the tears on her cheeks. Angry at her brother and sister. Angry at a world that would take her mother. She gritted her teeth and drew a sharp breath, trying harder to rein in her tears. He wanted to tell her to stop fighting it, to allow the grief to overcome her. There was no fighting it here. Not now, when her heart didn’t know how to cope.
Reaching into his pocket, Logan pulled out a handkerchief and gently dried her cheeks so she didn’t have to lose her grip on the pew, on her world, and then placed his hand over hers, refusing to let go.
“Logan…”
“You carry everyone’s weight,” he whispered. “For today, let me carry yours.”
She flipped her hand, threading her fingers with his, and he s
witched hands so his right held her left and then slipped his arm over her shoulders, pulling her to him.
Without thinking, he dropped a kiss on the top of her head, taking in the floral scent of her shampoo, and closed his eyes for a moment, remembering them in a similar embrace after Will’s funeral.
But they hadn’t been in front of half the town then. They’d been out on the swing at Cross Creek Plantation, the same place he’d found her when he delivered the news about Will’s death. Somehow that swing had become their safe place, and before long they’d silently agreed to meet there everyday. Sometimes they would do nothing but stare at the small lake in front of them. Other times they’d lie out in the grass and talk about what they’d do if they could do anything, where they’d go, who they’d be.
It was a quiet night when their friendship shifted quickly into something more. He’d turned to laugh at something she’d said, but the expression on her face wasn’t full of humor. The change was so small that if he’d not been paying attention he might have missed it. But he was—he’d been watching for weeks, every single day of his time back home, knowing any day he’d leave for his second deployment, yanked back to his other life, the other version of himself, nothing but a photo of her to keep him safe and warm at night. Without pause, he reached for her hand, tracing the lines of her palm, his eyes never leaving hers.
Hours passed before they finally let go, and he knew exactly what he’d see on her face, but that didn’t stop the pain from slicing through his gut as he took it in—regret.
He’d been a fool to ever hope for something more with Savannah, but hope was a stupid thing that refused to listen to good sense. So he tucked away his pride and took her home, refusing to look at her. He didn’t want to see the regret in her eyes again.
And then the storm rolled in—in more ways than one.
Two days later, he gave her an out—he left for Iraq. No good-bye, no explanation. He allowed her to hate him instead of love him. It was the second hardest thing he’d ever done in his life, but at the same time, it was the right thing to do. That part he knew.