We’d barely started dinner. Jax had refused wine, saying, “I’m driving, thanks,” resulting in the above discussion. Now, he said, “I’m all good up there. Oamaru’s barely half an hour’s drive from the house.”
Alistair snorted. “Oamaru. You’d barely be driving at all if you stayed here. And Karen, of course.” Gee, thanks. That had been heartfelt.
Bethany, Jax’s grandmother, a no-nonsense sort of lady with silver hair cut as short as mine, and sticking up more than mine, asked, “Is there a physio in Oamaru, then, Jax?”
“Yeh,” Jax said. “There is. Massage, too, and a pool and gym as well. Everything I need. I’ll only need to come back for the Limb Centre every few weeks, unless I run into difficulties. Even then, it’s only an hour’s drive. Anyway, swimming’s good, but my fitness is more about running and the gym now. Hill climbing. Pushing it. Getting back to full fitness. Getting serious.” As if he hadn’t been doing that already, which I guessed he hadn’t. Not if your job depended on your body doing what you told it to, no matter how hard that was, or what terrain you had to traverse to get there.
“You’ll enjoy the drive back and forth, I’m thinking,” his grandmother said. “Calming along the coast, isn’t it. Quiet. So many other things to do as well, and to show Karen. Being by the sea could be healing in itself.”
Alistair didn’t say anything, just pointed out the window. At the harbor, presumably.
Jax’s mother, Megan, who was a redhead, like Poppy, and a woman who emitted “calmness” rays like sunshine, explaining where Jax had gotten it, because it sure wasn’t from his dad, said, “We don’t have waves, though, do we? It’s that sound that makes it so special, I think. I bought you a few groceries, Jax. Remind me to give them to you before you leave.”
“Oh,” Alistair said, “now you want waves.”
She didn’t say anything, just looked at him, and he said, “Anyway. How did the appointment go today, then? You’re moving well.”
It was like I wasn’t even here. Which, in a way, was good. I also possibly remembered my extended explosion at Hemi, when Jax had sat there and listened. It had been embarrassing having him there, and it had helped, too. It had given me backup. No mixed loyalties. Nothing but support.
Jax said, “The leg’s all good. Healing well, and my balance is getting better, too, though I still need to do some work on that, and on my flexibility. Hip flexor muscles, core strength, and so forth. Yoga’d be good, the doc says, so I plan to do that. Another couple months, though, and I should be cleared to go back.”
The words dropped into the suddenly-still room like stones into a pool, and then his mother smiled with pure joy. “Darling,” she said. “I’m so glad.”
“To go back,” Alistair said. His eyes had sharpened, and his face had tightened. “You don’t mean go back to the squadron.”
“Yeh,” Jax said. “I do.”
I wanted to hold his hand, but I wasn’t sure if it would feel like weakness to him to look like he needed it. I tried to send support-waves his way instead, and waited to hear what would happen next.
Alistair said, “They can’t make you go back, surely. What, losing your leg isn’t enough? How much do they expect you to bleed for them?”
“They’re not making me do it,” Jax said. “I’m choosing to do it.” His voice was absolutely controlled, his gaze absolutely focused. This would be how he looked and sounded when he was neutralizing an explosive. Like he’d gone into some other zone. The Calm Person Zone.
It sure hadn’t taken long to get into it. We’d barely started on our grilled salmon, not to mention our forbidden rice/mango/orange salad. It had fresh lime juice and cilantro in it, which Megan had told me she grew in her greenhouse, which was awesome. The salad was absolutely delicious, and I wanted to keep eating it. There was no way right now, though, not with Alistair looking like he actually was about to explode. Megan had her hand on his arm, and everybody was holding their breath. Everybody but Jax. He said, “I’ll be stationed in New Zealand, most likely. Working with the police some, I’m guessing. Possibly doing some training.”
“For what?” his father asked. “Forty thousand a year? Still turning down the chance to be an officer? And the chance of blowing yourself up for good next time you make a mistake?”
I was going to say something. I wasn’t going to be able to help it. Except that I couldn’t. Shutting up was about the hardest thing I’d ever done, but I did it.
“If you’re asking about my salary,” Jax said, “It’s up to almost seventy-five thousand now. If you’re asking about promotion, I want to do the job, not command troops. If you’re asking me whether I will make that mistake and blow myself or anybody else up—I’ll be doing my very best not to. If you’re asking why I’d do it at all—because it’s what I want to do. And because I can.”
“Seventy-five thousand,” his dad said. “You’re not holidaying in Bali on that. You’re not buying a better house on that.”
“I don’t need a better house,” Jax said. “I have a perfectly good house.”
“Is a woman going to think so?”
Alistair didn’t look at me, but I answered anyway. “If you mean me, I haven’t seen it yet, but I don’t have to. I’m capable of earning my own living. I’m not hanging around with Jax hoping to strike it rich.” Which, no, didn’t meet Calm Person Standards, but he was making me seriously mad.
“Are you, now?” Alistair asked. “Are you doing it? Working for your brother-in-law, is that it? Holidaying for him?”
Oh, boy. Jax stood up with a sudden scrape of chair legs. He put his hand out in front of me, too, like he could physically shield me. Which was so sweet, I wanted to cry, although I also still wanted to hit his dad. Very confusing.
Alistair sighed and said, “Sit down. We’ll talk.”
A long, long moment, and Jax sat down. Somebody in the room would normally have said, “This isn’t the time or place,” because people always said that, no matter what time and place it was. Fortunately, nobody did say it. As far as I was concerned, it was exactly the time and place.
“Everybody,” Jax’s mother said, “please eat. I’d say I worked hard on this meal, but it was easy. Still—eat. It’s a discussion, that’s all. It’s all of us finding out what Jax wants to do, and celebrating that he’s here with us and able to make that choice.”
Her voice may have wobbled a little on the final words, and Jax got up again, went around the table, put an arm around her shoulder, and said, “Love you, Mum. You’re the best.” Which resulted in her leaning her head against his side, wiping her eyes on her napkin, and laughing, and me choking up some, too. My emotions were all over the place.
“Right,” Alistair said when Jax was sitting down again. “The Defence Force was something you needed to do. It was better than the modeling, at least. That was a waste of bloody time, if you like. That was why I didn’t say anything when you switched.”
“Well, yeh, Dad,” Jax said, but there was a little humor in his voice now. “You did.”
Alistair said, “I mentioned that it would be a good time to go into the firm instead, that’s all, if you wanted to make a change from modeling, and if you wanted to get serious about your life and your obligations. When you said no, I accepted your decision.”
“Again,” Jax said, “maybe not so much. I think it was that I’d already enlisted, and I couldn’t get out.”
“And now,” his father went on, “here you are, had a good scare, lost some bits of yourself, but you’re alive to tell the tale. Still got the business diploma, and you may not have forgotten everything you learned. Although business is more common sense than anything else, that and judgment and the brains to absorb what you’re reading and seeing, and you aren’t short of those. Despite the modeling.”
“I hope not,” Jax said, “if I don’t want to get myself blown up again. But I don’t want to do it, Dad. I know what I want to do, and it’s not with the firm.”
“After your
granddad started it, and built it,” his father said. “After I’ve carried it on all this time. I’m nearly sixty-five. It’s time to make the transition.”
“You’re sixty-two,” Jax said.
“Close enough,” his father said. “What about your sisters? What about their kids? What about if you want to have some of your own? What kind of life are you offering them?” He wasn’t looking at me when he said it, thank goodness. Still—awkward. Either he was implying that Jax was letting down our fictional future children, or he was suggesting that some other lucky woman would be the recipient of the MacGregor seed. And people said I wasn’t tactful.
“I think my future offspring will be able to struggle by on what I can provide,” Jax said. “And that Poppy’s will, too, what with Granddad’s trust and all. And Heather’s past the point of reproducing, surely. That’s everybody taken care of.”
His father finally shot a look at me. I should be insulted, but I wanted to laugh, too. I said, “If you’re worried about me hearing this and getting my gold-digging claws into Jax, I could go into the kitchen while you discuss large numbers, and hum really loudly just to make sure. I’d want to take my plate, though, because this salad is amazing.”
Jax said, “No,” and took my hand, so there you were. He told his father, “I’m going to tell you again. I’m not interested. I’ll never be interested. Poppy isn’t interested, either, and you know that if it’s less than a thousand years old, it won’t even register with Heather.” He told me, “She’s an art historian, teaching in Melbourne. Does some consulting as well. Specializing in the Tang dynasty. Chinese.”
“Oh,” I said. “That may not go much better with selling fancy cars and houses than disposing of bombs does, or writing books about hippos.” Poppy’s bestselling series, it turned out, was about an often-confused blue hippopotamus named Hazel. The bookstore at the Christchurch airport had stocked them, and I’d bought a couple. They were hilarious, which wasn’t exactly a surprise. I’d say Poppy had found her niche.
“You should’ve had another kid, Dad,” Jax said. “Fourth time lucky, eh.”
“You think it’s a joke,” his father said. The skin over his cheekbones was darkening, which I was guessing was a bad sign. “It’s not a joke. It’s forty years of work. Fourteen hours a day. Six days a week.”
“Well, seven,” his wife said.
“And that’s just me,” Alistair said. “What about your granddad? You can take his money, you can take mine, but you can’t give anything back? Do you think selling cars was my dream? It wasn’t even close. I had a family to think of, though, and so do you. Your granddad had nothing in Scotland. The family had nothing. He came here and built this. From nothing. From a panelbeater’s shop. He built it, and I carried it on. It’s given us everything, and you’re ready to throw it away.” His voice had risen. He wasn’t shouting, but he wasn’t not shouting, either.
Jax got serious again. He wasn’t looking at me, but I could see the intention in his body like it was written there. He said, still quietly, “I don’t owe you this, Dad. I know you want me to carry on with it. I’ve always known it, and I’m in the same spot now that I was then. I can’t. Selling the firm’s going to hurt you, and I know it, but I can’t help you. I owe you my loyalty, and you have it. I owe that loyalty to my country, though, too. Put it another way. You could say that New Zealand gave us all of this. Maybe I need to give something back.”
Alistair made a dismissive gesture with his hand. An angry gesture, like he could shove that ridiculous idea out of the way. “How much have we paid in taxes? If we owed a debt, it’s paid twice over.”
“So I should let somebody else do it?” Jax asked. “Somebody who doesn’t pay as many taxes?”
“How many other people’s livelihoods am I responsible for?” his father asked. “How many taxes do they pay? There’s more than one way to serve your country.”
“You’re right,” Jax said. “There is. And it turns out that this is my way.”
Karen
I woke up early the next morning, but Jax was already gone.
We’d driven north for an hour the night before in the rainy dark, not talking much, after we’d finally finished dinner and Jax had kissed everyone goodbye. Once we were on the highway, I said, “You were awesome, by the way,” he said, “Thanks,” and that was about it. Shutting down, I guessed, the way you did after a day with too much emotion, when all you wanted was to get home, go to bed, and turn it all off.
A couple minutes after he’d left the highway and headed down a side road in the dark, I got out of the car in a three-bay garage that was as neatly organized as you could possibly imagine, including the two sea kayaks hanging up high via a pulley system, and the mountain bike, road bike, three life vests, and two kinds of skis up on pegs along one wall. I couldn’t tell much about the place from that except that Jax was adventurous and neat, which I already knew. I heard rain drumming on a metal roof, and that was about it.
When we crossed under the breezeway to the main house and he opened the front door, I didn’t see much else, except that the house wasn’t huge, it contained a lot of wood and glass, and the design was modernist. He switched on a few lights, and we crossed through an open great-room space with black metal trusses framing the roofline, and into a bedroom beyond that to the tune of more rain sounds, comforting as a lullaby.
I used the single bathroom, which was done in industrial chic—deep, thick farmhouse sink, poured-concrete counters, huge walk-in shower lined with enormous gray-white tiles, et cetera—all of it exactly what I’d have expected from Jax. Modern. Simple. Efficient. When I came back out to the bedroom, I thought about unpacking my duffels, and didn’t, because I wasn’t even sure what we were doing next. We hadn’t talked about it. I took out my PJs, and that was all.
When Jax came out of the bathroom, I was pulling on my sleep tee. He said, “Want to do me a favor?”
“Sure,” I said. “Need me to massage your leg?”
“Well, yeh, if you’re offering. I was more thinking—could you take that off? I just want to touch you tonight. I just need to—feel you.”
We undressed in silence, and he pulled back the gray duvet on the bed, turned out everything but one bedside light, and started to take off his leg. Once he had, I got lotion from the bathroom, knelt over his lower legs, and did my best to massage the swelling and the pain out of the stump.
He still didn’t say anything, just lay back and looked at the ceiling. But when I looked up, his eyes were squeezed shut and the tears were running down his temples. I couldn’t hear him crying over the sound of the rain, but I wasn’t sure I could have heard it anyway. I knew two things for sure, though. He hated that he was crying, and he needed to do it.
I didn’t say anything, just massaged his leg for another few minutes, keeping it slow and easy, until he said, “That’s . . . good.” After that, I kissed my way up his body, kissed his cheek, his temples, his eyelids, took his tears into my mouth, smoothed my hand over his hair the same way he’d done it so many times, and, finally, kissed his mouth.
He turned out the light.
We made love in the dark to the music of the rain and the rhythm of our breath. Gentle touches and sweet, slow kisses, hands and mouths and bodies twining together. My lips over his heart, feeling the steady, slow beat of it, my fingers tracing the ragged patterns of the scar tissue on his chest. His hands sliding down my back, holding me at the waist, his thumb touching each of my belly piercings in turn, like he needed to be reminded that they were there, that this was me. His breath in my ear, finally, when he was over me, my legs wrapped around his waist and his fingers threaded through mine.
We made love like my body was his, and his was mine. Like this was our offering, and we needed to give it. Like two people in love.
When I woke up, the light in the bedroom was gray and shadowy, and the rain had stopped. I could hear another sound now. Barely. The swish of the surf, and the deeper pulse of it, the
thing you felt in your belly and your bones. I pulled shorts, a T-shirt, and a hoodie from my bag, pushed the blinds back, opened the accordion-style doors, and stepped out onto a teak deck that extended out toward the sea like a jetty.
The outside of the house was black corrugated metal, the structure was a simple rectangle, and every wall on the seaward side opened to the dunes and the beach. The air smelled like freshness, like wet grass and salt air, and below me, the horizon was turning pink and the golden sand of the beach curved in a mighty sweep of shoreline. From someplace to my left, there was a noise like gulls crying, or not. Unearthly, but melodic, too.
I followed the sandy path in my bare feet, heading down the slope and onto the beach as the wavy lines of pink began to glow on the horizon. The tide was heading out, and as the light grew, I could see the huge, round, gray boulders, as tall as a person, half-covered by the foaming water that surged, then retreated. I could see, too, the shell-pink and palest blue of the dawn sky reflected in the shine of water on sand, left behind by the receding tide. And I could see a tall figure down the beach, walking, with a hint of stiffness, away from me, past the half-dozen other early arrivals and the photographer with his tripod set up to immortalize dawn on the boulders, like any picture could bring you the touch of the wind, the tang of salt in the air, the gentle majesty of sea and sky, the solitude and the connection, the beating heart of the world.
I caught up slowly, because I didn’t want to run. I could hear the sound better now, and I could see a little group of tourists holding up their phones, recording it.
Kiwi Rules (New Zealand Ever After Book 1) Page 35