by Traci Hall
“Lemonade, please.”
She poured the tart yellow beverage into a glass over ice. “We have about fifteen minutes before dinner’s ready. Want to sit outside on the back patio? Or on the couch in the living room?”
“I’ve never seen your house,” Matthew said. “It’s as big as a castle.”
She remembered worrying that she’d get lost in it when she’d first moved here. “Then follow me, and I’ll give you the ten-cent tour.”
“What does that mean?” he asked, squinting up at her. His nose had gotten pink today despite the sunscreen she’d slathered on him.
“It means that it’s a cheap thrill, not too exciting, but I’ll do my best. We need to put some aloe from the garden on your poor nose later. Sorry about that.” Emma handed Matthew the lemonade and accepted the wineglass from Jackson. Their fingers touched, and she smiled her thanks. “Coming?”
He’d once had free reign of the place, though they’d spent most of their time outdoors. “I wouldn’t miss it,” Jackson said, sipping as he followed her and Matthew from the kitchen.
“This is the bathroom, and down this hall are two bedrooms and my office.” The rancher gave “sprawling” a new meaning. Emma gestured to the other side. “Aunt Pepita has her own rooms down that hall. Hopefully, she’s winning big,” she said with her fingers crossed.
“I’ve always loved this place,” Jackson said, his breath warm behind her. “Doesn’t look this big from the outside.”
Matthew followed her and Jackson as they walked down the carpeted hall. She opened the office door and flipped on the light.
“This is where I study and get the paperwork done for the kennel.” She’d painted the walls pale blue and the molding and doors bright white. Her desk was a golden oak, and the beige carpeted floor was covered with all sizes of dog beds. “See those bins? Full of leashes, harnesses, treats. Anything you might want for a dog.”
“This is so cool.” Matthew checked out the books on the shelves—her library contained information on various dog breeds.
She pointed to the shelves on the other side of the desk. “You can borrow one if you want, Matthew.”
“Save me a trip to the library,” Jackson said, his interest in the space evident as he looked around. “This used to be a sewing room, didn’t it?”
“Yeah.” Emma glanced up at him. He remembered. “Sewing is one of those things I never mastered. This is a much better use for the room.”
She headed out to the hall, making sure that Matty was following before she turned off the light and shut the door.
“And the next room here is a spare bedroom.” She opened the door but didn’t bother with a switch. The room was brown on brown; comfortable, but never used.
The guys were on her heels as she reached her bedroom suite.
She had a cushy oversized chair by the window that was perfect for reading in the morning light, and a round glass-topped table in easy reach. Her closet hid a multitude of shorts, T-shirts, and sneakers, and her double-sized bed had a pale blue down comforter and lots of big pillows. The twin bed Jackson might recall had been replaced the summer he’d left. A bookcase took up one wall, floor to ceiling, crammed with memorabilia and books.
Emma spied a sock under the bed and casually kicked it out of view.
“It’s cozy,” Jackson said. He looked at the yearbooks on her bookshelves. “Good old Kingston High,” he said with a rumble. “Do you mind?” He brought his graduating year out with a forefinger and set his wineglass on the shelf.
“Not at all. Matty, your uncle was on the football team. I’m sure there are pictures.” She was glad now that she hadn’t tossed out the yearbook from their senior year along with the mattress.
“I want to see!”
“Give me a sec.” Jackson opened to the back and the senior pictures. He sat on the floor cross-legged, and Matthew hovered behind him.
“Is that you, Uncle Jackson? You had long hair.” Matty looked from the picture to Jackson in disbelief. “Where’s Mom?”
“She was two years ahead of us,” Emma said. “Maybe you can ask her, later, if she has a yearbook.”
“I liked my long hair, but I joined the Marines right after graduation. It’s a family tradition.” Jackson surveyed the pages and rubbed his short cut. “Shaved my head in boot camp and never looked back.”
“Does that mean I have to be a Marine?” Matthew’s brows furrowed as he eyed his uncle expectantly.
“Grandpa was Air Force, and your grandma was in the Army. Your mom was in the ROTC in high school before deciding to be a dental hygienist…but you, Matty, can be whatever you want.”
Matthew’s shoulders lowered in relief. “I want to play basketball.”
“You keep growing and you’ll be tall enough, that’s for sure,” Jackson said.
“Is that Emma?” Matthew looked from her senior photo to her. “You look the same. Let’s see yours, Uncle Jackson.” Matty tapped the picture of Jackson in his senior cap with a gold tassel and snickered. “Is that you? In the funny hat?”
“Graduation cap—you’ll have to wear one, too, someday,” Jackson said. He turned the page, and his face paled before he snapped the book closed, rising in a fluid motion.
“Not if I have to wear a dress.” Matthew perused her shelves, stopping at her shell collection. “Can I look at these, Emma?”
“Sure.” Emma watched Matthew carefully pull out the jar filled with sea glass and sand dollars. What had Jackson seen that had bothered him so much?
Jackson slid the yearbook back into its spot but placed a photo of the two of them kissing under a disco ball on the shelf next to his wineglass. God, they’d been so young. Awkward silence filled the air between them.
“That was taken at the Harvest Dance, remember?” She’d been so shy, a bookworm, and wild Jackson had asked her to the dance—they’d become inseparable. Livvie was mostly gone at college, so Jackson had spent his time with her and Aunt Pep.
“First dance of the school year. I got lucky finding you.” He picked up his glass but left the photo.
At the time she thought she’d been the lucky one.
He must have seen something cross her face, because Jackson inched closer to her, his upper arm almost touching hers. “I thought I was doing the right thing.” Jackson tipped her chin up to look into her eyes. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” She stared at the diplomas on her walls, the certificates of achievement. Would she have accomplished so much if Jackson had stayed in Kingston, or would they have gotten married, had kids, and grown to hate each other? He’d never asked her to go with him. Would she have?
“You have a lot to be proud of, Emma.”
She shrugged, seeing Professor Collard’s disappointed blue eyes in her mind instead. “I guess so. I have my paper to finish, and then two years of working under a psychologist to look forward to.” Emma took a drink.
Jackson shivered in mock horror. “I’d rather march twenty miles a day in the desert than go back to school.”
Emma arched her brow. “You are saving the world in your own way, Jackson. I am very proud of you.”
He touched his glass to hers. “Not everybody feels that way.”
“I won’t go into politics, but you are a soldier representing our country and putting your life on the line so that I can have my opinion. That is worth a thank-you.” She lifted her glass and sipped.
His eyes warmed, and her toes tingled.
His hand on her back surprised her with the gentleness of the touch. “You are so smart, Emma. You could do anything. Why psychology?”
“In going to therapy myself, searching for answers, I decided I wanted to help others with mental health issues. It’s pretty common, I think.”
He shifted his wine to his left hand, pocketing his right. “You’re not common, Emma. I think you’re pretty special.”
His compliment made her blush, and she quipped, “Crazy, maybe.”
“You don’t lo
ok crazy. I’ve seen crazy.”
She grinned. “Then I guess it worked. See? Worth every penny of that twenty-five cents.” Emma elbowed him, not wanting things to get too heavy.
“Ouch.” He swirled the wine in his glass. “I’m sorry about that remark.”
“Apologies accepted. Now, let’s stop poking at the past.”
He put his hand on her waist, and the heat of his fingers traveled down her skin. “Deal. Tell me about the EST dogs. I get your degree, but I don’t understand the kennel.”
She sipped the deep red burgundy, letting the oaky flavor linger on her tongue. “Dogs offer unconditional love, no matter what. Bad breath, bad hair day, mismatched tennis shoes. The dogs I pick tend to be empathic. They can tap into their owner’s feelings. In some cases, fending off an anxiety attack before it happens.”
“Anxiety?”
“Sometimes people can be overwhelmed by situations or emotions and feel like things are outside of their control.” She tipped her head toward Matty, playing with Cinnamon and the sock her dog had dragged back out from under the bed. “Like, Livvie’s accident.”
She kept her insights about his PTSD to herself for now. He needed time to open up to her. They had the summer, from the sound of it. Before he went back to his reality, putting his life on the line in the military.
Their conversation was interrupted by the fire alarm going off in the kitchen.
Jackson was out the door and down the hall before she could process what was happening.
Matty, wide-eyed, looked at her, and she held out her hand with a laugh. “I guess the lasagna’s done.”
…
Jackson rescued the lasagna, which hadn’t burned, and turned off the smoke alarm.
Emma, cheeks rosy as she laughed, said, “What happened?”
He pointed to a burned cube of cheese on the heating element inside the oven. “Cheese spill. Dinner is saved.” He bowed and put the hot dish in the center of the table.
“My hero.” Emma refilled both their wineglasses and topped off Matthew’s lemonade, her pretty pale-yellow sundress swirling around her knees. She opened the silver package of garlic bread, steaming hot from the oven.
His stomach rumbled.
“I heard that, Uncle Jackson,” Matthew giggled, his hand over his mouth.
“Sorry.” But damn, it smelled good, better than anything he’d had in a very long time.
“Don’t be.” Emma took off the mitts and hung them on clips next to the oven. “We worked hard today. We all deserve a feast.”
Jackson heard the slightest hitch to her tone that let him know she was still trying to find her balance after their conversation in her bedroom. She’d kept that picture of them tucked away in the yearbook. He’d read the back inscription. Love always, Emma and Jackson. Being here did bring back memories, and not all of them were sad. Jackson had even found himself singing in the shower.
Emma cut the lasagna into squares. “May I serve you?”
Matty nodded, his eyes on the cheese dripping over the spatula as she lifted a piece and put it on his plate.
Jackson’s mouth watered as he held his plate in place. Two squares. He grinned at Matthew. Ha.
Matty rolled his eyes.
Emma passed the bread and salad.
Jackson drizzled buttermilk ranch dressing over the greens. “We don’t eat this well at home,” he said.
“I doubt that you eat only takeout,” she said.
“True,” Jackson said. “But my culinary talents stop at Cheesy Hamburger Helper.”
“It’s good, too,” Matthew said.
“I bet it is.” Emma nodded at them with satisfaction, her pink lips lifted in a warm smile. “I’m so glad you’re here for dinner.”
The funny note in her voice was gone, and Jackson could tell that she meant it.
They ate in silence—well, between oohs and ahs—before finishing the first round. Matthew ate a second piece, and Jackson barely completed a third. His mind was willing, his mouth salivating, but his belly was stuffed like a turkey at Thanksgiving.
“Don’t forget you brought cannoli for dessert.” She noticed his expression and laughed. “Later. I figured we could sit on the porch and watch the cats chase butterflies. Let the food settle.”
Jackson wasn’t ready to call it a night, so he gladly agreed.
“More wine?” he asked, pointing to her empty glass.
“No, thanks. I’m too full to put anything else in my stomach.” She patted her tummy.
Matthew had one more piece of garlic bread. “This is soooo good.”
“We had a busy day.” Emma leaned back, pushing her hair away from her face. “I bet the big dogs are still napping.”
“Can we go play with them?” Matthew asked, hopping up with boyhood energy.
She laughed softly. “How can you move? Tell you what. Give me fifteen minutes to digest on the back porch, in the shade, and then I’ll think about it. I’m on pasta overload.”
Matthew got up from his chair and went around the table to give Emma a hug. “Thanks for dinner, Emma.”
Jackson wished he had the freedom to hug Emma like that. But they were just becoming friends, of a sort. Nothing in the past, but all in the now.
She waved away his offer to do the dishes, got up, and opened the back door. The trees provided shade, making the evening pleasant. “It’ll stay light out until nine,” Emma said. “I love summer.”
Twin orange cats sat on the edge of the fountain, lazily swishing their fluffy tails. Matty raced down the steps to pet them, and they didn’t seem to mind the extra attention he lavished on ear scratches.
Emma sat on the back steps, her dress barely covering her knees. Freckled, he noticed before quickly glancing away. She tucked her bare feet out of sight as he took a seat next to her on the step.
Matty, as if he hadn’t just eaten half an Italian restaurant, ran after the squirrels at the feeder.
“This is paradise,” Jackson said. He lifted his face to breathe in the pine-scented air, which held a hint of ocean. So different from the barren Middle East, the constant stench of burning oil, the weight of a rifle strapped over his shoulder. It was nice to relax his guard. Sit with a pretty woman. An intelligent woman who made a very tasty lasagna.
“I count my blessings every single day.” She folded her hands in her lap, glancing at him before looking out at the fountain.
“You’re a very good cook.”
“I follow the recipe,” she said. “I’m not creative enough to come up with something original.”
“Why do I doubt that?” Creativity showed in the Heart to Heart Dog Kennel design, in creating a business outside the norm, in training the dogs to use a slide, for Pete’s sake.
“It’s true.” She tapped his knee, the gesture nervous. “I’m not complaining. I mean, why screw up a perfectly good lasagna by tweaking it?”
“No complaints here. In fact, I insist on dish duty.”
Emma smoothed the hem of her dress and watched the cat pounce after a water droplet that landed outside the fountain. “Dishes will take me two minutes.”
He leaned his elbow back on the top stair. “You have a magic wand?”
“I have a dishwasher.” She looked over her freckled nose at him, daring him to argue.
“Me too.” He pointed to where his nephew tossed pebbles into the fountain. “Matty.”
“I heard that!”
Jackson laughed and lowered his voice. “It’s been an adjustment learning how to run a household with a boy. He’s forgiven a lot of frozen pizzas.”
Emma smiled gently at him, this time resting her whole palm on his knee. He’d worn shorts, so she touched skin. She pulled her hand back quickly, as if burned. Jackson liked the warmth of her fingers, her feminine touch, and wished she’d keep it there.
“He loves you very much,” she said in a hushed tone. “How are things going with Livvie?”
Jackson’s shoulders tightened at the reminder that
this was not his life—not really. “No change, Bonnie says. They’re doing some neurological tests this week.” He cleared his throat. “I got an email from my commander this morning asking me to reconsider my leave.”
Emma’s head whipped around, her hair flying to smack him in the face, her hazel eyes wide. He jerked backward with a laugh.
“Sorry,” she said, pretty cheeks pink with embarrassment. “What did you say? I mean, what will you do?”
“What could I say?” He looked at Matty, doing somersaults in the grass. “Livvie isn’t better yet, and Matty has nowhere to go.”
“They can’t fire you?”
“Technically, according to the family emergency leave policy, I can take up to twelve weeks before I would be expected to return to active duty. But I hate to let my commander down.” Their unit worked as a team. Remi, Shockley, Scotts, McMahn.
“That’s understandable.” Her voice was rich in compassion—she was a natural listener. “And a lot of pressure for you.”
He scratched at the stubble along his jaw as Matty ran across the expanse of green lawn and launched into a triple somersault.
“Probably.” He smiled at her, counting the freckles across her nose. Fifteen, maybe. “I’m good at what I do.”
“Which is what?” She smoothed an auburn lock from her cheek.
He lifted his finger and thumb as if his hand were a gun. “Sniper.”
Would she pull away? Some women didn’t like guns. Soldiers kept this country free, and he was proud to be one, just like the generations of Hardy men before him.
She’d said she was proud of him—did she mean it? Her forearm brushed his leg, and her throat turned a deep shade of rose as she held his gaze. Sweet. She wouldn’t say what she didn’t mean.
He tilted to the right, wanting to touch her mouth with his. Sample a quick taste of Emma to add to his memories. Her lips slightly parted, the pulse at the hollow of her throat sped, her eyes dilated. They were so close to a kiss that all he had to do was move his head forward…
She stood abruptly, smoothing the yellow fabric down over her hip with an eye toward Matty, racing around the fountain. “I’ll get dessert.”