A Soldier Saved--A Clean Romance

by Cheryl Harper

  Her shrug was small to match how little she cared about his big-boy emotions. “You need to regain your strength, JJ. You can’t do that on terrible food. That hospital? I could not believe how many times they brought you asparagus.” She snorted. “Asparagus! For a wounded man. A national hero!”

  Her outrage was amusing, but there was a whole lot of anger underneath it.

  Too much of it belonged squarely on his shoulders. “National hero” was enough to make his stomach cramp, too. It wasn’t true. He wished it was, but he’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  His mother had been ready to go to war over the food in the hospital. Neither one of them was going to bring up the showdown she’d had with the unlucky woman who’d delivered lunch the second week he’d been there. He’d managed to talk his mother out of objecting on the first asparagus day. On the second, she’d settled for muttering under her breath and a trip to the vending machine to get him chips. That third day? Vegetables had gone into the trash can, and his mother’s voice had climbed to the roof.

  No more asparagus was delivered, and he’d noticed an uptick in everyone’s efforts to get him released from the hospital.

  He owed her a lot.

  “Thank you, Mama. For everything.” He watched her eyebrows rise. He should express gratitude more often. “You never left me when I needed you, but this? I’ve got this under control. I hate that you rented the house out. You aren’t ready for an assisted-living facility, are you?” He hadn’t recovered from the shock of listening to her give a new mailing address and phone number at the hospital. It was local. After two decades of distance, he and his mother were going to be living in the same town.

  Luckily, Miami was big enough for the both of them. Probably.

  “I did that for you—of course I did.” Mae Ward shook her finger. “And what if I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life in a wide spot in the road, either? I’ve done quite enough of cleaning those same wood floors and weeding that blasted flower garden your daddy loved. Somebody else can do it.” She shrugged. “Or they won’t, but they won’t experience an ounce of guilt over it, either. Not like I have. Rosette will go on. You and me, we’re setting down new roots.”

  “Well...” Caught off guard at the suggestion that his mother, a woman born, raised, married and widowed in the same small town, might not have been perfectly content with the situation, Jason studied the red-tiled roof and warm tan stucco of the complex’s office building.

  “That is a deep subject, young man.” His mother patted his shoulder and waited for him to acknowledge her small, worn-out joke. “We both need new horizons. I’ve always dreamed of living on the water, so I could not be happier with my little apartment with a view of Snapper Creek. In two weeks or so, you’ll be up to driving yourself, I’ll be learning to play golf and drive a golf cart, and this whole thing is going to turn out to be a grand adventure. Stop worrying so much.”

  Jason blinked slowly as he let that soak through him. His mother was telling him not to worry.

  Even if the shoe being on the other foot pinched, she was absolutely right.

  So what if he didn’t know what he wanted to do for the rest of his life or even after he managed to get his mother out of his hair that afternoon? Well, it was frustrating.

  After decades of service to the United States government, he was absolutely free of constraints. He’d expected to be happy with all the freedom someday, when he was ready to retire. Now? He was glad he had a college class to look forward to, even if it was creative writing and he’d only signed up to keep the peace.

  At least Concord Court was no run-down old folks’ home where the government might stash worn-out soldiers. He’d been afraid of that. This place was well looked after and comfortable. He could get on his feet here.

  “Let’s get out of this truck. I was so tense driving this thing I got a permanent crick in my neck.” His mother yanked the keys out of the ignition and handed them over. “Next thing on my list is to lease me a cute little convertible. Let the wind blow through my hair.” She tapped the straw hat she’d been wearing ever since she crossed the Florida state line as far as he knew. “It’s time we both shook things up. I got things I want to do, and the clock is ticking.”

  Before he could ask for more information, his mother shoved open the door and dropped to stand on the pavement. The heat invaded the cab of the truck immediately, and he lost any interest in continuing the conversation until there was air-conditioning involved.

  “Need help?” she asked before she slammed her door shut. The worry in her eyes was almost completely hidden away. He wondered how much it was costing her to keep it all contained.

  He didn’t want help, and he was going to pretend he didn’t need it.

  “Nope. Got it.” He opened his own door and did the easy part first. His right leg, the one that would now forever be known as the good one, moved almost as it had his whole life. But the left leg was useless.

  “Don’t you lift that with your hand. That pretty little girl in physical therapy told you more than once it should be doing work all on its own at this point.” His mother had crossed behind the truck to watch him, her arms held out as if she had any hope of catching him if he started to fall. They’d already tried that two or three times, and he’d landed in a heap on the ground.

  “I wasn’t.” He’d been about to do that very thing, but taking shortcuts was never worth the trouble.

  Focus. The weakness in his left leg made him so angry. That rage should release enough adrenaline to get him out of the truck. It rolled under his skin, raising his temperature, making it hard to breathe normally. With fits and starts, he managed to swing his left leg around. The pain was lessening every day, but the weakness...

  Embarrassed and frustrated and mad at himself and the world, Jason had to force himself to take deep breaths when he was standing outside the truck. One split-second accident and his whole life was over.

  “You did it.” His mother’s expressionless face was all that saved him from cursing or kicking. “And the next time, it’ll be easier. You’ll see.” Then she stepped up on the sidewalk and motioned him to hurry. “It’s too hot to be standing around outside.”

  “Well, go inside, then. I need a minute,” Jason snapped before he could stop.

  “Throwing yourself a pity party, I expect.” Her grumbling as she marched away surprised a smile from him.

  Jason stepped carefully to be sure the prosthesis would hold him—the searing numbness in his knee was familiar and enough to remind him that life went on.

  His life hadn’t ended, and a bigger, better person wouldn’t let self-pity stop him in his tracks. Fingers crossed that someday he might be that person.

  “Get on with it, Ward.” He said the words, but the tone was his father all the way. None of this pity nonsense. Life was meant for living.

  He carefully stepped up on the sidewalk, and some of the tension in his shoulders subsided. His mother was focused on the lush foliage making up a privacy screen around a sparkling pool, which was nestled in the large courtyard formed by the five buildings of the complex. A wrought iron fence with intricate gates surrounded it.

  Nice.

  Concord Court had been built to be more than a sterile rehabilitation facility. This was meant to be a home, one a man could be proud to claim.

  “For a woman who was complaining about the size of a garden, you sure are interested in that—” Jason had no idea what it was called “—bushy, flowery thing.”

  His mother shook his head. “Bougainvillea.”

  “Hmm.” Jason stopped beside her. “‘Bushy, flowery thing’ is easier to say.” He pointed at a large bright orange bud. “And that one?”

  “Hibiscus.” His mother gestured broadly. “I appreciate a smart garden that someone else weeds. It’s called civilization. Welcome to civilization.”


  She was right about that.

  Jason studied the shaded walkways that led off from the pool to the different clusters of townhomes. The whole place was quiet. He suspected there weren’t too many kids or families here.

  Still, it was nice. Peaceful. For two years, he’d stay here and have plenty of time to figure out what he wanted for the rest of his life, such as it was. Maybe his mother was right and college would help.

  “You’re Jason Ward, right?” a woman said from the doorway to the office. “Your appointment was for ten minutes ago.”

  The firm, no-nonsense delivery had him snapping to attention. That quick response had served him well in the military. He hadn’t expected to need it this afternoon at Concord Court.

  The frown on the woman’s face suggested she was used to compliance.

  “Yes. Sorry we’re late. I had...” Second thoughts? An attack of the poor-me in the parking lot?

  It didn’t matter how he intended to complete the sentence, because she was too busy to wait. “I’m Reyna Montero, the manager of Concord Court, and I have another appointment in half an hour, so let’s get the paperwork completed.” She didn’t wait for his answer or for him to enter the office. The door swung slowly closed and they watched through a large window as she moved behind a desk.

  “Good thing you’re used to military manners,” his mother said as her lips twitched.

  Jason met her eyes as he held the door open, worried how his mother might react to someone being abrupt with her wounded chick, but she settled on a stool at the small counter and picked up a magazine.

  That way she could eavesdrop, never miss a thing and still say he was overreacting when he complained about whatever trouble she might stir up.

  “Start with these. Name, phone number, emergency contact.” Reyna slid a sheaf of forms across to him. “Standard stuff. Rules of the complex here, hours of operation.” She didn’t wait for him to comply with orders but moved on to the smaller stack of paper in her hands. “We have some of your records on file. Please review them. You were referred by the surgeon at the veterans’ hospital. You’ve got physical therapy to finish, and then what?”

  Jason was working on printing neatly because he knew a mess would not be tolerated, so it took a second to realize she was waiting for him to answer.

  “What?” he asked, certain he was about to get a dressing-down.

  “After you finish physical therapy, what are your plans?” Reyna leaned back in her chair. “As you know, part of the agreement is that you are making plans. You’re passing through here. Veterans from all branches of service are welcome after they leave active duty, but only temporarily. Find a job. Improve your work skills. Get a degree. Recover and move on. That’s your mission now. Two years and you’re out. That’s plenty of time to get your feet under you.”

  Would making a joke that it was only one foot now make things better or worse?

  Fatigue settled in again. He didn’t have any energy for joking.

  “I’ve already registered at Sawgrass University. I’m taking a class this summer, and I’ll decide whether to enroll in more classes for the fall semester.” He waited for his mother to chime in that he’d be enrolling if she had anything to say about it, but she was blessedly silent.

  Reyna nodded. “Perfect. That’s all we ask. Go to school. Go to work. Whatever makes you happy. We’re here to help you find that thing, what you are meant to do after the military. In your welcome packet, you’ll find information about our services. Lots of help available, tutors, support groups, all of it listed there. I have an email list. I’ll update you as we add services. Next up is a job counselor who can help with applications and résumés. Any other assistance you need, let me know.” She returned to her paperwork, her manner completely at odds with the promise of her words.

  Jason watched her for a minute. He’d met a few like her, women who’d battled alongside him in the worst circumstances.

  “Which branch?” he asked.

  She glanced up. “Air force.” One corner of her mouth turned up. “The best one.” She opened a drawer and slid two keys across the desk to him. “If you want to drive around, you’ll be on the east side.” She pointed through the window. “I’ll meet you there to do the walk-through of your unit. I hope you’ll find whatever you need here, Ward.”

  Jason picked up the keys, stunned at how easy it had been. “You don’t need a deposit or...” There had to be something else.

  “Not for two years. Leave the place better than you found it.” She tilted her chin up. “You’re going to find men and women in all kinds of situations here, Ward. A guy like you, one who’s healthy and mostly in one piece, you can help others. That’s why I’m here.”

  Mostly one piece. It was an interesting way to say, “Get on with it,” but he appreciated the sentiment.

  “Right now, I’ve got my hands full taking care of me.” He held the door open for Reyna, who narrowed her eyes at his answer. Ignoring his mother’s shaking head, he stepped outside. He’d never turned down a request for help, not that Reyna had made it optional. His whole life, he’d been the first in line for the hard job.

  But he wasn’t the same man he’d been.

  As they walked to the car, he noticed that Reyna hadn’t waited for them and she wasn’t hesitating a second. He and his mother had better get a move on or Reyna might decide he wasn’t motivated enough and change the locks before they made it to the townhouse.

  His mother took the keys and started the truck. In his hurry, sliding back into the truck had been easy. Seamless. As if he’d been doing it his whole life.

  Concord Court had been even easier. Enrolling at Sawgrass had gone without a hitch, too.

  For that matter, his first conversation with a pretty woman that day, the one who’d suggested the creative writing class that he’d enrolled in to irritate his mother, had gone well. There was hope that not every female at Sawgrass would make him feel ancient. Her smile had almost been enough to cut through his black cloud.

  He’d had some bad luck, but it was going to turn.

  Getting it to stick around long enough for him to come to terms with his new body would be the challenge.

  CHAPTER THREE

  FIVE MINUTES BEFORE her Introduction to Creative Writing class started, Angela stood up from her desk, the tumble of excited butterflies a familiar side effect of the beginning of a new semester. She loved teaching, and this was her favorite class of all time. The condensed timeline of the summer session meant she had to hit the ground running, another challenge that she loved.

  “Be firm. Fair.” She clenched and unclenched her hands a few times to ground herself in the moment. Trotting in, prepared to do somersaults in joy, would weaken her authority. It would also confuse her students, who were likely not nearly as excited to be in the classroom.

  Angela inhaled slowly and then took twice as long to exhale before picking up the copies of the syllabus she’d made and the thumb drive with all of her class presentations. No book needed. Materials could change according to her whim and developments in modern creative writing.

  “Better get to it or you’ll be late, prof,” Angela muttered to herself as she rounded the desk. As she walked down the hall, the echo of her heels clattering on the empty hallway, she settled. Other things might be frayed, those threads around the edges of her life. She still hadn’t come to terms with her ex-husband’s good news, even after almost a week of being drawn to check all his social media posts like a thief returning to the scene of the crime. Greer was slowly coming around, but her satisfaction with her internship and her new hero’s attention had cast a rosy glow over everything for days. For some reason, listening to “Senator Gonzalez says” over and over had contributed to Angela’s dissatisfaction with her own situation, but she was adjusting to that, too. Slowly.

  Her daughter was doing fine without her. That had
always been the goal of parenting, even if it had arrived sooner than she’d anticipated.

  None of that mattered right this minute.

  She was a great teacher. This was what she was meant to do.

  When she made it to the classroom on the first floor, Angela braced a straight arm against the door and shoved it open. “Good morning, class. I’m Dr. Angela Simmons, and this is Introduction to Creative Writing. If you’re supposed to be in a biology or chemistry class, boy, have you come to the wrong place.”

  She stopped behind the podium at the front of the room and set her stack down with a plop. She was expecting twelve students, so she did a head count, her eyes moving rapidly until she landed on the angry guy from registration. Off and on, whenever his image would pop into her mind as she worked, Angela had calculated the odds that he would take her advice.

  And here he was.

  As a professor, she was happy.

  As a mother, it was discouraging to understand that Greer might never grow to the age where she stopped doing things only to show her mother she could. This guy? He had to be near forty, and he’d registered for her class because it wasn’t accounting.

  And as a woman, Angela had to admit that the spark of excitement she was experiencing was more than the normal first day of class warranted.

  Because she had spent more time than she was comfortable with wondering if he’d show up. Now that he had, she’d have to figure out why she was thinking about him and what to do about it.

  As their eyes met, he raised his eyebrows. That was his only reaction.

  Given the state of his stiff posture, the crisp edges of his starched button-down and the polish on his loafers, Angela would guess he kept things pretty tightly controlled. Even his jeans had crisp creases that suggested they’d been ironed.