Jack (7 Brides for 7 Soldiers Book 5)

by Julia London

  Jack vaguely remembered that tag line. “Wrong Diana Franklin,” he said. “I doubt she’s booking an appointment at a VA clinic.”

  Whitney laughed. “I doubt she’s booking anything anywhere. I don’t think there is a real Diana Franklin. Here, taste this.” She’d dipped her finger into a bowl of frosting and held it out across the bar.

  Jack licked it off her finger. “Delicious,” he said.

  “Not too sweet?”

  “Not too sweet.”

  “What about this?” She dipped her finger again, then leaned across the bar and dabbed another dollop onto his nose.

  Before long, Jack had put down his pencil and had taken the bowl of frosting from Whitney and dabbed it into places that he’d never thought of putting frosting before.

  The next day, Jack dialed the Diana Franklin number on the schedule. “Diana Franklin Events and Catering, how can I help you?” answered a friendly voice.

  “Sorry, wrong number.” Jack hung up. How odd—why would a party planning company be on the secret schedule? Diana Franklin knows how to party.

  A party? For whom? He couldn’t imagine the clinic using an event planner to host a party for the vets. Or for a staff party.

  Jack called Sharon that evening.

  “I told you not to call me again,” she said.

  “I’ll be quick. Do you remember a patient by the name of Diana Franklin?” he asked.

  There was a pause. “The caterer?”

  “A vet.”

  “No,” she said. “Look, I have to go. Please don’t call me. I’ve already done enough.” She hung up.

  Apparently, Jack would have to get the answer directly from Diana Franklin.

  Friday morning, Whitney called him. “Are you okay?”

  “Me?” He quickly ran through the last twenty-four hours. No panic attacks, no close calls. “Yeah, I’m fine. Why?”

  “I don’t want you to be nervous about tonight.”

  Her dad, right. He’d been so caught up with the Diana Franklin business he hadn’t thought much about it. He smiled into the phone. “I think the one who is nervous is you.”

  “You’re not?” she asked skeptically.

  Yeah, he was nervous. Not because of his anxiety—it was definitely there, definitely undulating in him. But because this was about Whitney. She mattered, and this was her dad. There was an unspoken tension between fathers and their daughter’s lovers, and Jack had faced it before. He knew the tension, knew the nerves, and it was so…normal. A normal anxiety.

  “Well?” she pressed.

  “A little,” he admitted.

  “Are you up for it?”

  He’d walked to the restaurant several times. Not gone in, of course, and he preferred to go when few people were out. But he’d proved to himself that he could do it. And yesterday, he’d gone in the middle of the day, had walked around to the restaurant and back. His pulse had raced, but he had not broken into a sweat. He had not panicked. He truly believed he could do this. “I’m up for it, Whitney,” he assured her.

  “Remember, seven p.m. Please don’t be late. Dad hates it when people are late.”

  “Is there anything he does like?” Jack asked laughingly.

  “Golf. What are you wearing?”

  He looked down. “Jeans. And my favorite Pearl Jam T-shirt.”

  “Not now, Jack,” Whitney exclaimed. “For dinner! Listen, wear the blue shirt with the dark-blue suit.”

  “You’ve been in my closet?”

  “A dozen times. And shave. I love the scruff, but—”

  “But let me guess,” he interrupted. “Dear old Dad doesn’t like it when men don’t shave.”

  “You guessed it.”

  This was beginning to sound like an evening with a drill sergeant.

  “You would not believe some of the rules he had for us growing up. My brother wasn’t allowed to play football because of the potential to break a wrist or hand, which would have impacted his ability to become a doctor. And Taylor had to take singing lessons because Dad was convinced she was pretty enough to be in a beauty pageant. I mean, look, I love my dad, I really do, but he gets an idea in his head and it’s Katie-bar-the-door.”

  “Whitney?”

  “What?”

  “Take a breath. And listen to me. Remember that this is your dream, not his. Your dream doesn’t have to be proceeding like he thinks it should. Because it’s your dream. Don’t let him take it from you, okay? He can only tear the dream down if you let him.”

  “Right.” She sighed. “Jack? I really like you.”

  “I know.”

  “A lot,” she added.

  He couldn’t guess where she was going with this. “The feeling is entirely mutual.”

  “I know, but…but I think it might be big. Like a really big like you, like you.”

  Jack glanced at the window, his thoughts swirling. He really liked her, too. More than liked her.

  “Why aren’t you saying anything?”

  Because he felt the same way. Because he was crazy about her, and in the chaos of working through this anxiety, and his article, and her dad coming, he hadn’t thought of how or when he would tell her. But he didn’t want to do it on the phone. His feelings required a much bigger stage. He dragged his fingers through his hair, thinking.

  “Oh God,” she said. “I said something really stupid, didn’t I? I walked right out on the relationship plank.”

  “The what?”

  “I mean, do you…don’t you think we have something kind of cool?” she asked.

  “Yes, of course I do.” He was trying to form the words to say it, to make his declaration. “I’m getting there. I’m—”

  “You’re right,” she said. “I shouldn’t have said anything—”

  “I didn’t say—”

  “And anyway, I have enough to think about with seeing Dad tonight. Okay, I’ll let you go, but remember, don’t be late.”

  “I remember,” he said. “But Whitney, I was trying—”

  She’d hung up before he could fix it.

  It was just as well. He wanted to tell her in the right way how he felt about her. How much she’d done for him. How he loved her. How he truly, deeply, madly loved her.

  He got a cup of coffee, glanced at the suit she’d scoped out in his closet—when was the last time he’d needed a suit?—and then picked up his phone and dialed the number on the secret schedule.

  “Diana Franklin Events and Catering, how may I help you?” a young woman said on the other end.

  “May I speak to Diana Franklin please?” he asked.

  “Diana Franklin is the name of our company—there is no one actually here by that name. Are you calling about an event?”

  “Yes,” he said. Sure, why not.

  “I can put you through to our manager, Lindsey Richmond.”

  “That would be great,” Jack said, and quickly sorted out what to say. A moment later, a woman answered.

  “Hi,” Jack said. “This is kind of a strange question, but are you familiar with Victory Health Services?”

  “Yes!” she chirped. “We’ve planned some of their events.”

  Jack’s mind leapt. Events. “I was at one of those events and was interested in doing something like that.”

  “Which event did you attend?” she asked. “The one at the Edgewater Hotel? Or the one at the Seattle Golf Club?”

  Jack was stunned. Victory Health Services was hosting events at one of the priciest hotels in Seattle? And at the exclusive Seattle Golf Club?

  “The Edgewater,” he said.

  “What would you like to know?”

  “I’d like to have a look at the menu. And get a ballpark on costs,” he said.

  “Sure! I’ll need some basic information, and then I’ll have Steve Simmons give you a call—”

  “Oh see, here’s the thing,” he said, thinking quickly. “We’re having a board meeting tonight, and I’m worried there will be a majority vote for another event pl
anning agency. I really need to bring something to the table tonight.”

  She hesitated. “I’m sorry, but Mr. Simmons is the one who would have that information. Unfortunately, he is heading up an event at the Fairmont Olympic Hotel tonight and won’t be able to speak to you. If I could just get some information from you first?”

  “Maybe you could call him for me,” Jack suggested. “Shouldn’t take more than a minute or two.”

  But on the other end of the line, Lindsey Richmond was not having it. “Who did you say you were again?”

  “I didn’t, but my name is Jack Carter.”

  “With who, may I ask?”

  Jack sighed. “Military Times. Here’s the thing, Lindsey. I’m writing an article for—”

  “We do not give out information about our clients,” she said crisply.

  “Even if your client is misusing government funds?”

  “Mr. Carter, if you have a legitimate question, I suggest you call our headquarters and ask our legal team to help you.” She hung up.

  Shit. He threw his phone on the bed, linked his hands on top of his head and walked a tight circle. He couldn’t lose this lead.

  A thought occurred to him—Fairmont Olympic was not very far from here. Granted, it was farther than he’d been in a very long while, but not that far. He could get to the hotel, corner this Steve guy and get what he was after before anyone warned him off when he waltzed into work tomorrow.

  There was the issue of the hotel, and a crowd of people, but Jack told himself it would be good practice for tonight, and he was taking his pills. His muscles and heart tensed, arguing with his brain. Too far, too much, they said. But Jack had to try. He had to appeal to Steve Simmons’s sense of right and wrong. He had to do it for Peter.

  He glanced at his watch. It was four o’clock. He had three hours. He could get up there, talk to Simmons, then be back in time for dinner. He tried to ignore the uptick in his pulse, the niggling signs of panic.

  Jack turned and looked at the three amber pill bottles on his dresser. “I have to do this and I can do this,” he muttered. “You proved it to me, Whitney. I can do this.”

  He picked up one of the pill bottles and opened it.

  Nineteen

  At five to seven, Jack was nowhere to be seen. Whitney paced outside the restaurant, her thumbs flying over her phone. Where are you?!?

  “Whitney?”

  She’d hardly glanced at the black sedan pulling up to the curb until her father stepped out and said her name. He looked as distinguished as ever, with his silver hair neatly combed, his impeccably tailored suit, his clean-shaven face. He smiled and held out his arms. “You’re a sight for sore eyes, honey.”

  “Hi, Dad.” She walked into his arms, grateful for his familiar hug.

  “Where’s your guy?” her father asked.

  “Umm…” She glanced at her phone. “Not here yet.”

  “Then let’s get a drink and catch up while we wait.”

  That was exactly what she wanted to avoid.

  At a quarter past seven, Whitney texted Jack again. Are you coming?

  A moment later, her phone pinged. I am running late. Please don’t be mad—I can explain when I see you.

  But Whitney didn’t need him to explain. She already knew, and her heart deflated. She had really needed him to be here for her. He had promised her; he had said she could count on him. His anxiety was unbearable—she wanted to be compassionate about it, but this? This was a deal-breaker. She couldn’t abide broken promise after broken promise.

  She looked up from her phone and tried to smile in a way that would hide her abject disappointment. “I’m not sure he’s going to make it.”

  Her father’s gaze flicked to her phone, but then he gave her a sympathetic smile. “Let’s get our table.”

  Whitney turned off her phone. Jack knew where she was, and if he wanted to be here, he would be here. She was not going to spend the evening checking her messages to see whether he was coming. She had enough to handle with her father.

  She and her father ordered dinner and caught up on the family. Taylor was handling a case that could go all the way to the Supreme Court, her father proudly boasted. Cameron was considering a new residency in a trauma hospital in Los Angeles. Mom and her tennis partner had won a trophy at the club in a doubles tournament. It was pleasant, comfortable conversation.

  Until her father put down his fork and smiled at her. “Enough about the other Baldwins,” he said. “I want to hear about you and your project.”

  Here it was, the point in the evening she would be forced to report on her failed, miserable little “project.” But it wasn’t a project, it was her life. And damn it, she was not going to be ashamed or cowed by him. She had given this chance everything she had. She drew a breath and confessed, “It’s not going great.”

  Her father arched a dark brow. “No?”

  “I have found several boutique cafes and coffee shops that would be happy to take my baking, but not without a health department certificate. I can’t get a health department certificate until I have a suitable kitchen. I can’t get a suitable kitchen because everything is either in the wrong location, too small or too big or too expensive.”

  “Ah,” he said. “I was afraid of that.”

  Yes, she was well aware.

  “But I find it hard to believe that in all of Seattle, you can’t find a place to work for you.”

  “Actually, I found a great café that would be perfect,” she said. “But it’s too expensive. I mean, I could swing it, but it would take most of what I have to lease it and set up shop. So if it didn’t work out, I would lose all my inheritance with nothing to show for it.”

  “I’m glad you recognized that. How much?” her father asked.

  She winced.

  “How much?” he asked again.

  “Well…my realtor got it down to twenty,” she said.

  Her father stared at her, clearly surprised.

  “A month,” she added quietly.

  He sank back in his chair and drew a long breath. “Whitney…you simply can’t afford that.”

  “Dad, with all due respect, you don’t know that,” she said defensively.

  “With all due respect, I think I do. I have administered your trust for a few years.”

  Damn it—family business was the worst for keeping anything close to the vest.

  “I’m going to appeal to you, as an adult, not to sign anything that ties you into that amount of money per month,” he said. “It would be disastrous.”

  His tone snapped something in her. He sounded as if he were talking to an idiot. “I didn’t say I was going to do it!” she said angrily. “Why do you think I haven’t done it already? Jesus, Dad, why can’t you trust me? Why won’t you support me in what I want to do with my life? I have a business plan. I have my inheritance. I know what I’m doing.”

  His eyes widened slightly. He put his hand on hers and said calmly, “I know, honey. But you lack experience. You’ve never started a business before, and you are not prepared for the sort of costs that can crop up. Unforeseen, unplanned costs. If you spend all that you have on rent, what will you do for contingencies? I need you to promise you won’t sign anything until I’ve had a chance to look at it.”

  Myriad emotions bubbled in her. Old wounds, old assumptions. New, fresh wounds, a fear of failure, disappointment in everything about her life. Just once in her life, she wished her father would allow her to be her. She needed to figure this out and not have him figure it out for her. “I am a grown woman,” she said low. “You don’t have the right to talk to me like I’m an imbecile, okay?”

  Her father sighed. He picked up his Old Fashioned and sipped. “You’re right, I don’t. But by the same token, you don’t have to make a bad decision just to prove something to me.”

  There was some truth in that, she realized. Damn it, but he knew her too well. “I know why you’re here,” she said. “I know you want me to come home and joi
n the firm and—”

  “You couldn’t be more wrong.”

  Whitney rolled her eyes. “Come on, Dad. You’ve been trying to get me to give this idea up for a long time.”

  “I concede that I was annoyed that I paid for an excellent education only so that you could discover you didn’t want to be a lawyer. But Whitney, I have never wanted more for you than to be happy. If baking makes you happy, then so be it. I will support you. You didn’t have to come all the way to Seattle.”

  She stared at her father in disbelief. “You’ve always said—”

  “I know what I’ve said. Forgive me for not being convinced you really knew what you wanted. After all, you sprang the bakery out of the blue.”

  “It wasn’t out of the blue. I’d been thinking about it a long time.”

  “I get it,” he said. “You know what you want, and all I want is to help you. And the first way I’m going to help you is to tell you not to sign a lease for that amount. You will regret it.”

  He was confirming her private misgivings about that café. She suddenly put her head in her hands. “I don’t know what to do.”

  Her father put his hand on her shoulder. “You’re new at this. You will learn and you’ll know what to do with some experience. But in the meantime, please, honey, allow me to help you.”

  Whitney thought of the life she’d been building here. Of the contacts she’d made. Of Jack. Jack, the man she’d fallen in love with, who was supposed to be here, who had promised not to let her down, but he had, and probably always would. The man who seemed startled when she tried to tell him how she felt about him, which had made Whitney realize that she was his crutch. He didn’t feel about her the same as she felt about him because he needed her for different reasons than she needed him.

  What sort of future did she have in Seattle, really? She had put so much stock into things that weren’t really there. She lifted her head and looked at her dad. “Yes, Dad, please. Please help me.”

  Twenty

  Jack knew a doghouse when he saw it. It might as well have had a bright, neon sign welcoming him inside. He knew he’d screwed up, but he didn’t know the magnitude of it. On a scale of one to ten, was this a ten or a twenty?