by Jen Printy
Thankfully, Grady drops the subject.
I remove my shirt and toss it onto an empty blanket. Closing my eyes, I enjoy the warmth. As I turn to Leah to comment on the gorgeous day, I freeze. All the girls’ hungry eyes are trained on me. Dammit. Leah isn’t looking, but her blush betrays her. Uncomfortable with the unwanted attention, I shuffle my feet in the sand. Tom mutters something about him needing to go to the gym, then smacks into my shoulder as he passes. He plops at Rachel’s side, takes her hand, and glares at me.
Without a word, Leah gets up and walks past, heading down the crescent-shaped beach. I’m about to join her when I hear Grady behind me.
“Jack, can I have a minute?”
With a sigh, I take a seat on his beach towel. This time, Grady’s eyes don’t meet mine. Instead, he watches his sister walking down the beach alone.
“She’d kill me for doing this. There’s been a lot of guys interested in my sister.” He tilts his head toward the group of unfamiliar men standing by the ocean’s edge, and he grimaces.
At least three of them have their eyes trained on Leah. My face flashes hot, and my hackles rise. They’re looking at her like she’s an edible treat created for their enjoyment.
Grady continues. “She’s never given any of them the time of day. Always too busy with school or some other excuse. Until you.” He pauses. “Treat her right, okay? Or I’ll kick your ass.” He tosses the last bite of a bagel sandwich in his mouth, stands, and tackles Tom. The other guys hoot and holler. Grady can fight, that’s for sure.
I jump up and jog after Leah. “Hey, Leah, wait up,” I call.
She stops and turns, with a relieved expression.
“Do you mind if I walk with you?”
“No, of course not.” She stoops and picks up another shard of color from its sandy bed.
I study the collection of lusterless glass in her open hand. There are shades of brown, green, white, and aqua. My fingertips trace the odd-shaped glass then skim her palm. Her skin is just how I’d imagined—soft like velvet.
“Beautiful,” I whisper.
“You’ve never seen sea glass before?” she asks, a bit out of breath.
“No.” I pause. “But I’m not talking about the glass.”
“Oh.” Her warm eyes study me. She bites her lower lip.
“Too cheesy?”
She shakes her head then she proceeds down the beach.
A piece of aqua catches my eye. I lift it from its dry sandy home and show it to Leah.
“See, this one isn’t ready yet.” She points at the shiny, sharp edges.
With a snap of my wrist, the glass sails and skips three times along the rippling surface before sinking into the ocean.
Her eyes dance as an impish smile appears on her lips. She tosses the shards and grabs my hand, hauling me toward the tumbling waves. I follow. The chilly water crashes onto our bodies, making my eyes widen, and I draw in a deep breath. Still, it’s refreshing against the hot summery air.
“Life’s too short. You have to enjoy the little things. Doesn’t that feel incredible?” she asks, amused by my reaction.
“It does.”
She turns and squints into the bright sunshine. Her escaping blond strands play in the sea’s gusts, twisting and whirling. Sea spray droplets glisten as they chase one another along her slender shoulders and down her delicate arms. Her coral two-piece swimsuit sets off her creamy, pale skin. The small of her back is a perfect ivory arch. I shut my eyes tight, grinding my upper teeth into my lower lip to fight the rush of emotion slamming into me.
Sexy as hell. She truly is going to drive me stark raving mad. I puff out a breath. When my eyes open again, I find Leah standing in front of me, studying me. I swallow hard.
“What does your tattoo say? It’s French, right?” With her index finger, she followed the arched calligraphy along my chest to the left of my sternum. If I were mortal, I’d have a scar there—or be dead. Another missed opportunity.
Her touch sends thousands of shivers through me. I reach up and take her hand, entwining my fingers with hers.
“Foi apporte la force. It means, ‘Faith brings strength.’”
“Beautiful words to live by,” she mutters, still staring at the faded black cursive lettering.
“Yes.” I tremble, and inside, I wince, remembering the feeling of the cold sharp steel of the bayonet piercing my chest, straight into my heart. As though it were yesterday, I can hear the artillery buzzing over my head.
It was 1914, and the Germans had invaded Arras, a small town in northern France that I’d called home for the past two years. Shouts and screams told me the invading army was drawing closer, and I ran through abandoned alleys, looking for an escape. I stumbled out of the cramped darkness into the sunlight and into a heart-wrenching scene.
A woman who owned a bakery two blocks from where I lived lay sprawled on the street. Her vacant stare suggested she was dead. The sight wasn’t uncommon that day. Her son, maybe twelve, stood over her, grasping a gun in trembling hands, readying to protect the slain woman. Her little girl huddled in a doorway, crying, and called for her mother. I heard the angry shouts—louder still. Time for fleeing was quickly running out.
With a gentle tone and encouraging words, I coaxed the pair to come with me. We crept down darkened alleyways, peering around corner after corner. Without warning, a German soldier stepped out of a back doorway of one of the abandoned homes, his arms filled with candlesticks and a teapot, which he was obviously looting. Silver clanked around his boots as he dropped the valuables. When his surprise quickly turned to hatred, he plunged his bayonet into my chest.
The little girl screamed, and I fell back onto the cobblestones with the bayonet still lodged in my chest. The ripping pain was intense. I gritted my teeth, removing the sharpened steel with a swift tug. Bayonet in hand, I stood.
Surprised, the solider grabbed the boy and placed a knife to his chest. “Lassen Sie Ihre Waffe fallen!”
I released the blade, and it clattered on the stone ground.
From the shadows, a shot rang out. The soldier fell forward, freeing the boy, but not before sinking his blade into the boy’s gut.
The boy begged his sister to be brave, even as his blood pooled around us. “Doux Jésus, sauvez ma soeur,” he prayed. Touched by rage, I bit my tongue and kept my thoughts to myself. But it was clear, Sweet Jesus didn’t care for any of us, including his sister. If he did, how could he take one so young and ignore another who was so old and longing for heaven?
The next words out of the boy’s lips stuck with me. They were words to live by, or at least strive for, because despite it all, that boy’s assurance never seemed to waver. He looked straight into his sister’s tearful eyes and reminded her of what their mother taught them. “Foi apporte la force,” he said over and over.
As the boy died in my arms, a tall, wiry man stepped out of a dark corner of the alley. He bandaged my wounds and muttered about going to hell for taking the life of a child. His eyes—sapphire blue—darted from side to side as he looked for danger.
A hand covering my trembling one summons me from the memory.
“Are you all right?” Her voice has an unexpected effect. The dulcet tone draws me out of the memory without lingering effects. The tremors recoil like snakes under the trance of a charmer’s melody.
She fills my vision. A face full of concern without judgment looks into mine.
“I am.”
“That’s happened before. The trembling, I mean.” It’s not a question. She notices more than I give her credit for, yet she’s still here.
I take a moment and drag breath in and out of my lungs. The sapphire devil had shown me kindness. If not for him, the little girl would have died, too. However, Death seems to follow this man wherever he goes.
The correlation between the flashback and the revelation has left me winded. I’m afraid that if I don’t speak soon, maybe even say something clever, Leah might figure out what a complete nutcase I
am. Unable to summon words, I nod, step out of the water, and sit on the sand. Stretching out my legs, I lean back on my elbows, trying to pretend what just happen isn’t a big deal.
She sits next to me, curling her legs under her. “You were shaking the afternoon you ran into me, the first time you saw me. You looked like you’d been hit by a Mack truck. You said I reminded you of someone. Who was it?”
The question grips my lungs with an iron fist. Think. I look away, staring at the blanket of sand, the dune grasses, and the choppy waves—anywhere but Leah. She seems to be able to read me like a book, and I’m not sure what she might see in my face.
“You remind me of a girl I knew in England,” I say.
“You loved her.” This, too, is not a question.
I debate how to answer, but I’m too slow, and my silence seems to serve as a confirmation.
“I thought so,” she says.
“She died a long time ago.”
“Oh.” Leah pauses, and I allow myself a look. She’s staring off into the distance as though she’s a million miles from here.
I wish I could read her mind. What must she be thinking? Freak? Crazy man? I grimace and let my gaze fall away.
After a moment of thought, she continues. “And the second time? In the coffee shop? Was that reaction for the same reason?”
“No, that was the flu,” I lie. “You should be thankful I ran out when I did and didn’t puke on you.”
“Thanks for that. Rachel would’ve had me clean it up. She doesn’t do messes.” She laughs.
Leah dismisses my troubling behavior as if it’s no more than an everyday ailment like a headache or the sniffles. First, she doesn’t even recognize danger when its sapphire eyes are glaring straight into her face, and now this. The job of keeping her safe is going to be too big for one man. Maybe Leah had the right idea, even in jest. Maybe I do need the National Guard.
Deep in thought, Leah watches her toes wriggle in the sand. The quietude makes me nervous as I wonder what she’s thinking.
“So, how was work yesterday?” I ask.
“It was almost uneventful.”
“Almost?”
“There was this jerk a while back who didn’t know what the word ‘no’ meant. Nothing happened, not really. Anyway, he came into the coffee shop again. Until he saw me, that is. Then he hurried out. Maybe he’s embarrassed or something. Who knows? It’s not like I did anything to scare him when he grabbed me.”
A smile pulls ever so slightly at my lips. Not as dumb as he looks.
“You know something?”
“About what?” I ask, my eyes widening.
“You do. You know something. I can tell.”
I look away.
“Tell me.”
“He was rude to you,” I say in a husky voice. Nervousness churns my stomach. I can’t see her face through the curtain of her hair between us. I watch the frothy waves lap the sand. I said too much—more than I intended. My temper always gets the better of me. It’s my worst trait.
“How do you know that?” she whispers.
I close my eyes as her voice summons the truth again. “The day that man grabbed you, I saw it. I was coming in to remove him when Rachel threw him out. I followed him, pushed him into an alley, and roughed him up a bit. That ‘jerk,’ as you properly called him, deserved far more than he got.”
When I look at her, she’s staring straight at me. I’m still fuming—the heat of remembered anger burns deeply—but the intensity doesn’t frighten her as I expected. Instead, she reaches out to stroke the top of my hand with her fingertips, which are cool against my sunbaked skin. I suck in a deep breath.
“I can take care of myself,” she says.
“I’m sorry if I overstepped my bonds.”
“I’ve noticed something about you,” Leah says as she pops to her feet before heading back toward the others.
“What?” I ask, uncertain that I want to know. There have been enough truths for one day. I push myself up from the sand.
“Along with your chivalrous nature and your cheesy pick-up lines, you have quite the manners,” she says. “Opening doors, bowing, even standing when a woman gets up to leave. Your manners are like a character out of some nineteenth-century novel.”
“Are they?” I changed my manner of speech with practice, ridding myself of the old-style pronunciations. Manners are a whole different beast. They’re embedded. No matter how hard I try to break free, hints of them remain. Most people aren’t observant enough to notice.
“Yes.” She grins.
I shrug. “I’m a little old-fashioned, I guess.”
“Yes, you are.” She’s looking at me as if I’m a puzzle she’s trying to solve.
“It’s ingrained. I don’t think I could change if I tried. It’s the way my mother raised me,” I add, hoping she’ll believe the oddity of my manners is a cultural difference.
Her forehead puckers; she’s clearly not satisfied with my excuses. Lacking a response, she turns and runs to join Rachel and the other boys in a game of Frisbee.
My thoughts whirl. Immortality might have stolen paradise from me, but a twist of fate has given back at least a taste of it. Foolishly maybe, I yearn to open myself up to her and to have one person on this spinning ball who knows who I really am. And even if Leah’s time on earth will be a brief moment compared to my lifetime, I want to share her life, which most people would take for granted. But that means I’ll have to tell her the truth, and I’m frightened by the prospect. I’ve lied to her and hidden behind a normal mask. I groan. Lying is the least of what’s wrong with me.
CHAPTER TEN
The next morning, I walk into Old Port Java with a plan to ask Leah on a proper date and leave no room for doubt where my intentions lie. The plan is simple, but it’s a starting point for a bigger, scarier scheme that requires me baring my soul.
Leah is too busy clearing and wiping down tables to notice my entrance. “Good morning, Green Eyes,” I say, snatching trash from a neighboring table and tossing it into the white garbage bag at her side.
She stiffens then turns. A smile graces her face, but she quickly reins it in. “Hi.” She grabs the bag and heads behind the counter. “What can I get you this morning?” Her tone is too brisk to be considered friendly.
I tilt my head. “Anything wrong?”
She washes her hands in a small sink hidden in the corner. “No. Just busy.” Her eyes flit away.
The place is practically empty, except for two middle-aged women jabbering over their coffees at a back table. “I see.”
“So, what do you want?” She locks eyes with me as if she’s attempting to dissect my soul.
“Large dark roast. Please.” I try not to squirm. “Are you sure nothing’s the matter?”
She gives me a quick nod then pours my coffee. I stand dumbfounded, not sure if I should continue on the course I set this morning. “Three twenty,” she says, placing my cup on the counter.
I nod, still dazed, and yank my wallet from my pocket. I take a deep breath as I hand her a five-dollar bill. “There’s something I wanted to ask you.” I gulp in more air. “I was hoping you might want to join me for dinner tonight.” I recite my script perfectly, just like I did in the mirror this morning while shaving.
Gnawing on her bottom lip, Leah shifts from foot to foot then takes a step backward and squares her shoulders. Her eyes pool with moisture. “I can’t. I have plans.” Her voice is uncharacteristically timid.
Plans. The word hangs in the air. “Oh” is all I can muster.
Leah glances away, visibly uncomfortable. I want to ask if her plans are with Nathan or some other clown who is too naïve to understand how lucky he is. But I don’t. I look at my coffee and keep my mouth shut. If I’m honest, any boy would be a better choice than an ageless man with a timeworn heart. They could give her the white-picket-fence dream I’ve seen on TV; I assume it’s still a future most women of this day and age want.
When I look up, our e
yes meet. Leah opens her mouth then closes it again.
“Maybe another time then,” I say. “I should get to work.”
“Yeah, of course. Your change.” She holds out her hand.
I shake my head. “Keep it.” I grab my coffee and move toward the door.
“Jack?”
I stop and look at her. “Yes?”
A pleading intensity blazes in her eyes. She sighs and looks away. “Have a good day.”
I consider flipping the closed sign and spilling my guts, but the ladies look our way, leaning in to hear every word. An audience. Grand. I clench my jaw and fight the urge to tell Leah what I really am. “Thanks. You, too,” I finally say. Forcing a weak smile, I walk out the door.
I stand outside, fighting against the rolling nausea. When push came to shove, I turned into a coward. Again. And no matter our words, I can’t help feeling that Leah and I just said good-bye.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. “Hello?”
“Jack. It’s Grady.”
“Can’t talk. Gonna be late for work.” I sound like a half-dead zombie.
“Wait. Give me just a sec.”
“What?”
“I know it’s last minute, but I wanted to invite you to tonight’s big shindig, if you don’t have plans.”
“Oh?” The smallest hope sprouts. I cling to it like a life raft in shark-infested waters.
“There’s a student art reception tonight. Leah’s one of the artists chosen to participate.”
“I just saw her. She didn’t say a thing about it.” I look back though the coffeehouse window, watching Leah.
Chin propped on her hand, she offers a customer an emotionless expression while she waits for his order. She looks sad and lost.
“Bet she seemed a bit distant, huh?”
“Yeah.”
“Typical,” Grady says, but there’s a shift in his cheery tone. “She’s nervous about the show. Didn’t know how to ask. I know she’d want you there.”