Jason sipped his beer as he considered that. Truth. That was what Angela’s whole focus had been in that first class. How writing and poets can take their own truth and make it universal. Jason traced his thumb over the label on the bottle. He should have asked her how that worked when the truth was better covered up instead of exposed.
The truth about nightmares was that nothing stopped, nothing cut through and nothing changed. Every night, he relived explosions and pain and heat and fear. Why would anyone want to put that on paper for other people?
Love and romance and hope. Those things had value.
But it was harder to understand the value of the story he had to tell.
“Roses are red, violets are blue, candy is sweet, and so is honey.” Sean propped his feet up on the table. “I could do this all night. Want to grab a pen and paper to write some of these down?”
The laughter that followed eased some of the worry that this was going to be the way he felt for the rest of his life.
In every squad or platoon or group, people had their roles. There was the leader, the one who could inspire others to follow the hardest orders. Jason had always assumed that role, whether he meant to or not. There was the mother hen, the one who watched over the weakest or the ones weak in the moment. Sometimes you might find one who was the troublemaker or the fighter.
But the guy every group needed? Mr. Comic Relief. They kept spirits up when everything was lost.
Even if they had to spout bad poetry.
“You have a knack for this, Wakefield. Ever thought about enrolling in a class to hone the talent?” Mira asked, shaking with laughter again.
“Nah. Too many irons in the fire. This place would fall down without me. Bo’s got all of his little quirks still to be ironed out and I’ve already promised him to an old soldier up in Tampa. My clock is ticking, you know?” Even in the dark, Jason could see that his boot didn’t twitch. For a man with all these responsibilities, he sure relaxed as if he had nothing but time. If the clock was ticking, it wasn’t loud. “Tomorrow, when the sun’s up, we work. Tonight, we recover. Even Reyna’s gotta give us time for that.” He raised his bottle for a toast.
After they’d clinked bottles, Jason asked, “What’s her story? I’m guessing officer of some kind.”
“You asked her out, didn’t you?” Sean said before he whistled. The others at the table immediately shushed him. “I wish I’d seen that. I get to watch sometimes. New guys come in, give it a shot. The answer is always no, but sometimes it ends badly. You’d be shocked at how often a man can’t take no for an answer.”
“I didn’t ask her out. Never even crossed my mind.” It hadn’t. Why was that? He’d never had a problem talking to women. Getting a yes to an invitation was a matter of odds. If one lady said no, odds were the next one would say yes. For some reason, the flash of a pretty brunette’s face sparkling as she made broad gestures regarding the Beat poets flashed through his mind.
That was disturbing.
Beat poets should not be taking up valuable real estate in his head.
The Poet shouldn’t either, for that matter. It would be a long time before he’d have anything to offer her.
“Reyna doesn’t do fun. She suspects you men might want to take her out where she’ll be forced to enjoy her life. She doesn’t do that.” Sean cleared his throat. “And she doesn’t approve of people who do. She’s about service and duty and sucking the joy out of sunny days.”
“And about helping people who need it and being the best and a thousand other fine qualities. Plus, she’s beautiful, you ingrate,” Mira snapped. “This place runs as well as it does because of her.”
That tension lit up the air again. Eventually, Sean mumbled, “You’re right. She’s amazing. She doesn’t have time for the likes of us.” He tipped back his bottle.
“Ignore him,” Mira said. “Reyna’s great. She’s focused on goals, and men are not goals. Plenty of other fish at Sawgrass.”
The Poet’s face was there again, her gleaming eyes hard to forget. When Jason imagined turning in something he’d written, a hard knot formed in his stomach. If he turned in a “roses are red” poem, he’d never recover his footing with her.
Tomorrow. Sean was right. Tomorrow was for work. When the sun came up, he’d write something better than a floppy tail.
And if he couldn’t, at the very least, he could rhyme something with blue.
Tomorrow he’d work.
Tonight was about recovery. For the first time since he’d arrived at Concord Court, he was beginning to understand how lucky he was to have found it.
Other places would have plain townhomes and nice pools.
No other place that he knew of would have a therapy group that took place at midnight, with icy cold beer, next to the deserted pool.
CHAPTER FIVE
ON SATURDAY MORNING, Angela searched around her house for something to hold her interest. Coping with her daughter’s absence was easier during the busier spring and fall semesters. As head of the English department, Angela taught a couple of classes and had all the departmental oversight work to keep herself busy. But during this summer semester there was nothing to grade, and preparation for the fall semester wouldn’t kick into high gear for another month. Angela was adjusting to the realization that Greer wouldn’t be coming to stay for the summer, and she wasn’t taking it as well as she’d hoped.
She could tell because she was stretched out on her daughter’s bed, both legs dangling over the wooden footboard and her head propped up on a fuzzy hot pink pillow, while she talked to Greer on the phone. “And what did you do on Wednesday?”
The silence on the other end of the call made her wonder if Greer had gotten bored and moved on. Then her daughter said carefully, “Do you need an hourly play-by-play, Mom? We talked on Wednesday. I told you how it was going on Wednesday. There were phone calls. I shadowed the senator’s chief of staff in a committee meeting. We don’t have to go over it again, do we?”
Angela wrinkled her nose. She’d be happy to go over it all again, but Greer was smart. “No. I’m thrilled you’re enjoying the internship, though. It’s funny how excited you are about making photocopies. If I’d known that was all it took to satisfy you, I could have put you to work in my office.” Angela stared up at her toes and wondered if a pedicure would improve her mood. It definitely couldn’t hurt.
“I wish you had exciting stories to tell me, even if they were about office machinery. Creative writing should be a rich source of gossip, but no.” Greer had her father’s dry sense of humor. It was one of the things Angela had loved about him in the early days, and hearing it provoked a homesick pang. Not for him. Not even really for Nashville, but just this, the daily “we’re a family” time.
“We’re going to start the critiques next week. Poetry. I’m excited.” Angela had already logged in every poem and done a quick read. There had been a few surprising gems, and she expected the comments to be fun.
The one she’d been most excited to read? Yeah. Missing. No assignment from Jason Ward. That had been when her mood had taken a nosedive on Friday and she had yet to recover.
There was no good reason for the anticipation she’d tried to squash all week, and the funk she was in because he hadn’t completed the assignment was all out of proportion. She’d have a good class with or without Jason Ward’s writing. Some of the pieces she’d read were strong right out of the gate. Those students would only improve. This class was right on track compared with all the others she’d taught.
After she’d closed up her class file for the week and answered the two emails that had come in on Friday, Angela had returned to her comfortable, empty bungalow and spent entirely too much time scrolling through happy pictures and posts from her friends, family and her ex. Instead of excitement over a beautiful weekend, she was experiencing heavy fear of missing out and annoying her daughter b
ecause of it.
“Got big plans for the day?” she asked, determined not to be weird. No matter what Angela did, Greer would think she was strange in a Mom way, but she was going to get a grip before truly odd behavior kicked in. The urge to go to Nashville was growing, but she had no chance to go and the reason... Well, being caught up in the aura of the happy glow had to be worse in person than over the internet.
“Dad and Kate are going baby furniture shopping this weekend, and I said I’d go, too. They’re planning to have lunch at Frederico’s, and you know I love that place.” Greer’s rushed words might as well have been a guilty confession. “I hardly ever go there since you moved away.”
The last time they’d spread out in a shadowy booth together at Frederico’s, Angela had still been married, Greer had gotten her braces off and homemade lasagna had been on both their minds.
“Frederico’s. I miss that place.” Angela knew Greer needed to get off the phone. She had plenty of options for her Saturday, but Angela didn’t want to end the call. “The colors Kate has picked out are pretty neutral. Are they going to find out whether it’s a boy or girl?” Angela asked in the most normal, upbeat voice she could manage.
“Depends on the day. Right now, they’re on the ‘what a fun surprise it will be to find out when the baby arrives’ train. Oh, and Dad’s sports obsession is taking over. He can’t decide whether the baby will be playing football or soccer in high school.” Greer huffed a breath. “You know he’s been hoping for an athlete since I tripped over grass blades on every field I ever stepped on.”
“We never did find a team that valued falling down, did we?” Angela pictured her ex plotting the next twenty athletic years. There was a whiteboard and spreadsheets involved, which Angela loved. Unfortunately, that was the only thing that he enjoyed planning. Tournaments. Fantasy leagues. Meanwhile, when Greer was born, Angela had immediately drawn up a savings plan with the Ivy League in mind.
At least Rodney’s willingness to follow her plans was a good thing. Greer had her goals. Thanks to Angela, she and Rodney could support those without a worry. Both of them had saved, and now both of them could live comfortable lives.
“I hope you aren’t spending too much time watching all this, Mom. You know how it is. In their little bubble, things are great, but life goes on for everyone else. Traffic on the interstate is terrible because who knows why everything gets so backed up, but it takes almost forty-five minutes to get to and from the Capitol. Dad’s road rage is under control but still way too much for eight o’clock in the morning. Kate is throwing up. A lot. We have to have dinner at six o’clock on the dot or nausea takes her out. None of that makes it into the daily glowing reports, you know? If you only read their posts, it’s all registries and gifts and giggles.”
Giggles. Was that a clue about how Greer felt? It wasn’t a normal Greer word and certainly not an activity her brainy daughter would envy.
Angela tilted her head back and stared at the hot pink rose wallpaper Greer had convinced her to put up when she’d stayed last summer. Angela had expected to hate it. She’d expected her daughter to hate it before she’d gone home, but it had grown on her. Greer made smart decisions.
And she gave good advice.
“What a smart kid you are. That’s a good reminder. I am not wasting time on their posts.” Not much. Not anymore, if she could get a handle on the urge. “I get all my news from you, the way it should be.” Such a big lie to slip right off the tongue. Every day at lunchtime, Angela logged on to read updates. “I love my class. I’m planning meetings with my department to get the fall semester set. And today I’m going to the beach. My life is full.”
As soon as she said it, Angela closed her eyes. She hated beaches. There was too much sand. It was everywhere. And the heat.
But if Nashville had Greer and weddings and babies and old friends, Miami had beaches. Lots of people loved beaches. She would go to one of the famous ones. Miami Beach or South Beach. She would post her own photos of the sand and water and beautiful people, and her friends in Nashville could feel sorry for themselves that they had no beach.
Perfect.
Sometimes she stumbled onto the answer without trying, like Greer had stumbled over perfectly flat soccer fields once upon a time.
“A beach. That’s great.” Greer’s pause warned Angela that she was about ten seconds from mentioning that Angela was not a beach person.
“I won a free tour of Millionaire’s Row. I’m going to go gawk at how the other half lives. On a boat.” There. That had a touch of enthusiasm. She hadn’t won a tour, but she knew where to buy a ticket. “While I’m there, I’m going to do some touristy shopping and grab ice cream at that place we went to, the one that mixes all the ingredients you want right into the ice cream.” There. The ice cream would add a touch of truth to the whole thing. There was one thing she never passed up and it was cold and creamy.
She and Greer had discovered the place when she’d come for a quick visit at Christmas.
“I loved that ice cream. The next time we go, I’m going to skip the sprinkles and go straight for chocolate chips. All the chocolate chips,” Greer said. Her daughter had been a chocoholic from day one and hearing her say that brought back memories of their summer together in Miami and about a hundred other times she’d ended up with chocolate smeared on her lips as a girl. How much of Greer was she missing down here?
“I guess I better go so I don’t miss my tour, and you need to work up an appetite for Frederico’s. I love you, Greer. I miss you, but I am so proud of you, baby.” No tears. Do not let the tears out.
“I miss you, too, but I’ll be your shadow at the wedding, follow you everywhere.”
“Any news on their plans?” Angela asked, aiming for disinterested. That was the goal. She still had her fingers crossed that her invitation would get lost in the mail.
“Yesterday, while Dad and I were cleaning up the kitchen after dinner, he said they were hunting for places in Key West. Kate wants something sunny. Dad wants upscale. Wouldn’t that be awesome? We never made it down there, and I still want to pet the six-toed cats and touch the southernmost point. When I mentioned the cats, Dad started and will not shut up about Hemingway and Frost and blah-blah-blah. They have to find a venue at the last minute, so it isn’t easy. Everywhere they call is booked, but if they make this work, I’ll either come early to stay for a week with you or stay after until school starts. What do you think?”
“Awesome. I can’t wait.” Angela shook her head. Engaged in Paris. Married in Key West. Baby on the way. Rodney was truly living his best life.
But she was going to hug Greer soon. That was something to look forward to.
“You know, it would help if you’d post some pictures of your own, Mom. This tour? Could be fun. Live a little. I want to envy your ice cream, and don’t forget the chocolate chips.” Greer’s bossy voice was back. That was a good sign. “I worry about you down there by yourself.”
At that, Angela wrinkled her nose. Who was the mother here?
“Got it. Love you. Call me tomorrow sometime and tell me about Frederico’s.” Angela draped an arm over her face as she dropped the phone beside her head.
By herself. That was Greer’s concern.
All Angela could do was prove there were advantages to independence.
And now she had no choice. She’d told Greer she was going out. If she didn’t have photographic evidence to back up her claims, her daughter would never let her live it down.
After an awkward attempt to roll smoothly off the bed, Angela picked up the pillows she’d knocked to the floor and straightened the lampshade. The best part of living alone was the lack of an audience for her occasional awkwardness. She would say Greer had inherited her lack of grace, after all, Angela hadn’t had a lot to start with. Still, dancing in the kitchen to Smokey Robinson while she washed the dishes was allowed here. There w
as no teenage daughter to die of embarrassment.
The increased rotation of Motown hits in her house could be traced back to Jason Ward. Even if he never turned in anything, she’d have that to thank him for.
“Get out of the house before you let that reminder depress you again,” Angela muttered to herself. After a quick brush of her hair into a ponytail and a swipe of mascara and lip gloss, Angela slipped on her sandals, grabbed her keys and purse, and slid behind the wheel of her sedan. “Too bad you are not a convertible.” The not-a-convertible but perfectly reliable car started smoothly and in a minute she was zipping down the freeway toward Miami Beach.
“A parking spot at a tourist trap—Miami’s true pot of gold,” Angela murmured as she rolled slowly through the parking deck. Spying a truck backing out of a spot in fits and starts, Angela accelerated and managed to nab the spot before a minivan with Tennessee plates got there. “Too bad, Tennessee. Sometimes the locals win.”
Was she a local? Not really. But all of her bills were delivered to a Florida address, so she could make the claim here and now. Once she’d conquered the parking challenge, it was as easy as the fresh breeze whipping through the outdoor kiosks lining the waterfront to find the tour she wanted. One quick swipe of her credit card, and she was ready to board.
“How many in your party, miss?” the kid taking tickets asked.
Before she could decide about how she felt about his “miss,” she said, “One. Just me.”
His hesitation suggested that wasn’t the usual, but he motioned her forward, and she quickly forgot the tiny pinch of the reminder that she was single in a world meant for couples because she was on a boat. Sand was terrible. Deep, dark water like the ocean wasn’t her favorite. Spending time on a boat? Refreshing and exciting and fun. Angela claimed a seat near the rear of the boat and settled in to be wowed.
After more than an hour of craning her neck to gape at the places where actors, musicians, gangsters and everyday multimillionaires lived, she had plenty of pictures to post and a sunburn on her nose, and she’d dumped a whole lot of stress right into the bay.
A Soldier Saved--A Clean Romance Page 6