“Two days. I got in on Saturday.”
“You were living in Seattle, weren’t you?” Dana sat in the chair opposite him, her knees bent slightly to one side, ankles crossed. It was a pose of careful grace, and Matt found himself wondering if she ever relaxed enough to slouch a little. “The heat must be quite a shock after Seattle.”
“Just seeing sunlight is a shock after Seattle,” Matt said dryly.
“You look pretty good for a guy with a bullet hole in him,” Reilly said, cutting through the polite small talk. Carrying a half-full bottle of Evian, he sank down on the arm of Dana’s chair, bracing one bare foot against the floor and resting his arm along the back of the chair.
“It was just a little bullet hole,” Matt lied, wishing the rest of the world would develop global amnesia about his injury. God knew he would like nothing better than to forget about it himself.
“I thought journalists were supposed to get a Do Not Shoot Me pass,” Reilly said. “What happened?”
Matt lifted his shoulder in a half shrug. “Bad luck. I was in the wrong place at the wrong time and didn’t duck fast enough.”
It was the same answer he’d given everyone, from his bureau chief to the endless stream of doctors who’d poked and prodded at him. It was the truth, or at least as much of it as he was willing to give, but this time Matt was aware of a surprising urge to say more, to tell Reilly everything. If they’d been alone… But they weren’t, and it was just as well, he decided. He’d come home to put that time behind him, not to pull it out and examine it.
“So tell me what’s been happening in your life.” As attempts to change the subject went, it wasn’t exactly subtle, and he knew that Reilly, at least, was perfectly capable of ignoring the hint and pursuing the topic. But after slanting a quick glance down at his wife, Reilly accepted Matt’s lead and the subject of his injury was dropped.
There were plenty of other things to talk about. Reilly caught Matt up on news of old friends—old marriages, new divorces, who’d moved away, who’d moved back, babies born, kids in high school. After five years in Millers Crossing, Dana knew most of the people Reilly mentioned, and she filled in gaps when his memory fell short. Listening to them, Matt found himself suddenly, painfully aware of his age.
In a couple of years he would be forty, and what did he have to show for it? A string of awards that had never meant a whole lot to him, thousands of dollars’ worth of cameras he couldn’t bring himself to touch, a bullet hole in his shoulder and enough frequent flyer miles to get him a seat on the space shuttle. While he’d been slogging through jungles or freezing his ass off in various godforsaken parts of the world, photographing starving children and megalomaniacal dictators and trying to avoid a vicious assortment of tropical diseases, the people he’d gone to school with had been getting married, having children. Building lives.
Not that marriage was a one-way ticket to fulfillment. Matt sipped his beer as he watched the couple sitting across from him. They looked almost too good to be true. Reilly with his dark blond hair and clear green eyes and features that a smitten cheerleader had once called Costneresque, and Dana, all cool blond perfection. In his mind’s eye, he snapped the photo and labeled it Perfect Couple. But the more he watched them, the less the title seemed to fit.
It was nothing obvious. It was little things. Though Reilly sat on the arm of her chair, his arm lying along the back of it, Matt noticed that Dana sat in such a way that she didn’t brush against him. And Reilly didn’t touch her. He didn’t brush his hand over her shoulder or smooth it over her hair. He looked at her frequently, but he didn’t once touch her. And despite his closeness, Dana managed to avoid ever looking at him.
Maybe it was nothing, Matt told himself. Probably it was nothing. Or if it was something, it could be something small. Maybe they’d argued. Even happily married couples argued from time to time. But would an argument account for the shadows in Reilly’s eyes? Whatever Dana was thinking or feeling, she hid it behind that coolly perfect smile, but he knew Reilly well enough to see the shadows.
Then again, what did he know about marriage? He’d never even come within spitting distance of committing it himself.
“You remember Bull Mueller?” Reilly asked, and Matt let himself be pulled away from his thoughts.
“Sure. Left tackle when we were at UCLA. Biggest living thing I’ve ever seen outside a zoo,” he said reminiscently. “And the meanest.”
“He came out of the closet last year, and he’s living with a garden contractor named Chuck down in Long Beach.”
“Must’ve been a walk-in closet,” Matt said, grinning.
“Extra large.” Reilly laughed. “Hey, you know what we ought to do? We should throw a party, give everybody a chance to say hi.”
“I’ll catch up with everybody sooner or later,” Matt said, knowing it was probably a lie. The truth was, he didn’t care whether or not he caught up with most of the people Reilly had mentioned. Not that he would mind seeing them again, but it didn’t matter enough for him to seek them out.
“A party’s a great idea,” Reilly said, ignoring Matt’s vague protest. “What do you think, honey? We could pull something together, couldn’t we? Maybe next Saturday night?”
“Of course,” Dana said without looking at him.
“There’s no point in going to a lot of trouble,” Matt said, knowing he was going to be ignored.
“It won’t be any trouble,” Reilly said with the blithe assurance of someone who had never put together anything more elaborate than a keg party in college. “We could get that friend of Jessie’s to cater. You know, the woman who bought Ernie’s.”
“Lurene. I stopped by Ernie’s when I got into town,” he said when Reilly looked surprised.
“Looking for a chili fix?” Reilly asked.
“Actually, I saw Jessie’s car out front and stopped in. I figured she had to have sold it years ago, but there she was.” Smiling a little, Matt shook his head. “I can’t believe she’s still driving that thing.”
“I think she’s planning on being buried in it.” Reilly’s grin was warm with affection. “So you’ve already seen Jessie.”
“Yeah. She looks good.” Too good, Matt thought irritably, remembering miles of legs and the softness of her breast against his arm. He’d thought about both those things more than he should have over the last couple of days. Dammit, this was Jessie. He cleared his throat. “It was great seeing her again.”
“Hard to believe she’s the same skinny little kid who used to follow us around, isn’t it?”
“Yeah.” But he was working real hard on keeping it in mind.
“When she took off for Paris, I figured she’d come back wearing one of those tall white hats and spend the rest of her life making éclairs and onion soup.”
Matt tried to see it, but a chef’s toque had always seemed somewhat pompous to him, and he just couldn’t picture Jessie being able to keep a straight face with one of those perched on top of her head.
Reilly leaned forward suddenly. “Hey, do you remember the time Jessie talked us into taking her camping and she fell into the stream the first day out?”
“Twice,” Matt said, grinning at the memory. “And the next day she slid off the trail into a patch of poison oak.”
“It was like some sort of curse.” Reilly chuckled. “By then, we just wanted to get her home in one piece.”
Matt shook his head. “But she managed to sprain her ankle on the way back to the car, and we had to carry her the rest of the way down the mountain.”
“She was…what? Eleven? Twelve? Just a kid, but she didn’t cry.” There was admiration in Reilly’s tone. “By then I was just about ready to sit down and bawl, but she managed to crack jokes.”
Dana rose suddenly, her mouth curved in a faint smile, her eyes cool. “I really should see about getting dinner started. You’re welcome to stay, if you’d like, Matt. There’s plenty.”
“Thanks but I should head out pretty soon. I t
old Gabe I’d pick up some groceries on the way home.”
“I’ll let you know about the party, then,” she said, and left the room without a word or a look in her husband’s direction.
Matt glanced at Reilly and then looked away, uncomfortable with the glimpse of raw vulnerability in his friend’s eyes. Something told him that, whatever was behind the subtle tension between Reilly and his wife, it went deeper than a minor marital spat.
“I’d forgotten how beautiful she was,” Matt commented, breaking the silence Dana left behind.
“Yeah.” Reilly shook his head. “I still can’t believe she married me. She could have had anyone.”
“You’re not exactly dog meat, pal,” Matt said dryly. “I’ve never understood it, but women seem to think you’re moderately attractive.”
Reilly’s grin was perfunctory. He slid off the arm of the chair onto the cushion where Dana had been sitting. “She could have had anybody,” he repeated.
“Maybe she loves you,” Matt suggested casually. “Stranger things have been known to happen.”
“I guess.” Reilly looked as if he might say something else, then caught himself.
Matt thought about prodding him. Instinct and more than a quarter century of friendship told him that it wouldn’t take much to get Reilly to spill his guts. Something was obviously bothering him, and Reilly had never been any good at keeping secrets. Six months ago Matt would have pried the truth out of him, but six months ago he hadn’t had quite so many secrets of his own.
Tilting his head back, Matt drained the last of his beer. He was going to be around a while. Sooner or later, Reilly would tell him what was going on.
Chapter Three
Stretched out in the glider on his brother’s sagging front porch, Matt let his eyes drift shut. The still heat of the afternoon seemed to sink all the way to the bone, soothing aches and draining energy. He’d spent a fair amount of time in various Latin countries over the last fifteen years, but he’d never truly appreciated the value of an afternoon siesta until now. Of course, dozing through the afternoon heat wasn’t nearly as relaxing during a revolution, he thought ruefully.
His head propped on a faded blue pillow, one long leg stretched out along the wooden slats of the glider, he braced his bare foot against the scuffed floorboards and nudged the glider into lazy motion. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d taken a nap in the middle of the day. Of course, he’d slept through several days while he was in the hospital, but that hardly counted. There was nothing restful about a hospital, no matter how many hours you spent sleeping. And since the nightmares started, sleep hadn’t been something he’d courted, even at night. But lying here, lazy in the afternoon heat, the air still and quiet around him, he felt himself drifting comfortably toward sleep.
In the week since he’d arrived, he hadn’t had the nightmare once. Maybe the key was plenty of good old-fashioned physical labor. Though he’d always made it a point to keep himself physically fit, there was a difference between pumping iron at the gym and crawling around on a roof nailing down shingles or planing cabinet doors to eccentric angles to fit on the existing cabinets. He spent each day working on whatever project happened to appeal to him. God knew, there were plenty of them. And he fell into bed each night aware of a pleasant ache in his muscles. The ache in his wounded shoulder wasn’t as pleasant, but it was tolerable. His doctor had warned him that it was unreasonable to expect to drill a bullet hole through muscle and soft tissue and not feel the results for a long time to come. But even with that reminder, he’d still slept through the night every night for the past week. For the first time in months, he felt rested and—almost—at peace.
Somewhere inside the house, he heard the phone ring, but he didn’t stir. The answering machine would pick it up. He was willing to bet that Gabe didn’t even hear it. Once his brother flipped open his sleek laptop computer and set his fingers on the keyboard, the rest of the world ceased to exist. A marching band could tromp past and Gabe would only notice if someone jostled the table.
Eyes still closed, Matt felt his mouth curve in a half smile. It had been almost ten years since Gabe had sold his first book, and he still had a hard time picturing his older brother as a successful author. His series of children’s books about a little girl named Sassafras Grundel, who might or might not have magical powers, had been a hit from the beginning. His work had been twice nominated for the prestigious Newberry Award, and he’d reluctantly admitted that he’d been approached about the possibility of bringing the character to the big screen.
Considering the fact that their childhood had resembled an ongoing train wreck, it was ironic that Gabe had had such success writing stories in which good triumphed over evil and children had some say in their destiny.
For four hours every afternoon, Gabe set the laptop up on the kitchen table and disappeared into a make-believe world. The first couple of days, Matt had tried to avoid doing anything that might disturb his brother’s muse, but it had soon become obvious that, if Gabe had a muse, she was made of cast iron, because nothing short of a nuclear blast seemed to disturb his concentration, so Matt had stopped worrying about it and just kept working.
But this afternoon he’d succumbed to the lure of the glider without guilt. After all, this was as close as he’d come to a vacation in… Well, ever. He’d never seen much point in taking a vacation. He did plenty of traveling on the job, and the idea of taking time off so he could sit in his apartment and stare at the walls had never held much appeal, but now that a vacation of sorts had been more or less forced on him, he could see where it might have its uses. Maybe, when he went back to work, he would make it a point to take some time off now and again. If he went back to work.
He frowned a little as his pleasant lethargy retreated a half step. He didn’t want to think about work. His cameras were stuffed in his closet, and he’d thrown his empty duffel bag on top of them. At the moment he felt as if they could stay there permanently, but he knew that, sooner or later, he was going to have to make a real decision.
The sound of a car laboring up the long, steep driveway was a welcome distraction. Opening his eyes, he turned his head on the cushion, his mouth curving in a smile when he recognized the cherry-red Mustang easing its way carefully around the worst of the ruts. By the time Jessie had parked in front of the house and was getting out of the car, Matt had swung his feet to the floor and stood up.
“How far back did you leave the muffler?” he asked, coming to the top of the steps to greet her.
“I think it was the first bottomless pit I drove into.”
Her dark blond hair was drawn back from her face with a pair of gold clips, and she was wearing a dress again. This one was pink with tiny white polka dots, made out of some soft fabric that clung gently to her body before flaring out in a flippy little skirt that ended much too soon, exposing legs that went on forever.
He really hated it that he noticed those long, supple legs. And he didn’t like noticing the way her dress clung to every curve or just how nice those curves were. Dammit all, he’d known Jessie since she was a kid. But she’s all grown up now, isn’t she?
“Can I get you something to drink?” he asked. “Gabe made some lemonade yesterday.”
“Sounds good.” Jessie sank down on the top step as Matt disappeared into the house. Though it was ridiculous, she found herself grateful to have a moment alone to recover her balance, which had been unexpectedly rocked by the sight of him standing there, his blue eyes a little sleepy, his dark hair appealingly tousled, and all of him blatantly, appallingly masculine.
This was Lurene’s fault, she thought irritably. If Lurene hadn’t made a production over how attractive Matt was, she wouldn’t have noticed the width of his shoulders or the taut flatness of his stomach or the way his jeans clung to his lean hips. Yeah, right. As if any living, breathing female over the age of ten could fail to notice six feet of solidly muscled, incredibly good-looking male.
Jessie looked up as
the screen door squeaked open and Matt came out carrying two frosty glasses.
“Gabe’s a lemonade snob, so several lemons gave their lives for this,” he said, handing her a glass.
She grinned as she took the glass from him. “A man after my own heart. The powdered stuff just isn’t the same.”
“Spending time in a fancy French cooking school probably corrupted your palate. Powdered lemonade is an American tradition.” Matt sank down on the other side of the step and leaned back against the railing.
“Right next to mom and apple pie?”
“I was thinking more along the lines of those quintessential American foods, chop suey and pizza.”
Jessie grinned, sipped her lemonade and tried not to notice how hard it was to keep her eyes off Matt’s broad chest.
“Where is Gabe?” Since his battered black pickup was parked next to Matt’s Jeep, she assumed he was home.
“He’s writing.”
“The new Sassafras book?”
Matt laughed at Jessie’s look of bright interest. “I take it you’re a fan?”
“I have signed copies of every book,” she admitted. “I know they’re supposed to be for children, but when the last one came out, I sat up all night reading it. He’s really captured the magic of being a child.”
“Yeah, he has.” Matt had often wondered how his brother had come by that ability. It would have been difficult to find anything less magical than their own childhood.
The silence stretched between them, but there was nothing awkward about it. Matt settled more comfortably against the rail, remembering that this was one of the things he’d always liked about Jessie—the way she could sit quietly without feeling compelled to fill every silence with empty chatter. He hadn’t seen her since that first day at Ernie’s. Before that, it had been five years ago at Reilly’s wedding, and going back further still, it had been years since they’d spent much time together, but neither of them felt the need for the usual so-what’s-been-happening-in-your-life chitchat.
Loving Jessie Page 5