True to You

by Becky Wade

Britt gave a disbelieving chuckle.

  Nora raised her palms. “Is he or is he not one of the most striking men you’ve ever seen?”

  “He’s striking.”

  “He’s mine, since I’m the one he carried and since you have a boyfriend.”

  “I broke up with Carson.”

  “What! When did this happen?”

  “A couple of days ago,” Britt said dismissively. “He was getting on my nerves.”

  “You were so happy.”

  “I fell out of happiness with him. He was more trouble than he was worth.”

  Britt’s frequent romances always took off like rockets propelled by promise and power and star-crossed destiny. Then, a few months in, they all fizzled like a Tesla fifty miles from the nearest charging station.

  The sisters retrieved their purses. No Facebook messages, tweets, emails, or text messages had come in except an automated text from Merryweather’s smoothie shop letting Nora know about a weekend sale.

  They took their places at the end of the food table line. As they inched forward, Nora kept trying to catch glimpses of John through the crowd. No luck. “So. About John . . .” She set a plastic-wrapped triangle of ham sandwich on the recyclable tray she’d been given.

  “Still thinking about John?”

  “You’re kidding, right? I’ll be thinking of nothing but John for months.”

  “If you’re that into him, you should ask him out before we leave.”

  Nora selected a bag of kettle chips. “You don’t actually think that I have the moxie to ask out a man I just met. Do you?”

  “Asking John out might actually result in a date. Daydreaming about him won’t.”

  Nora made a scoffing sound. “Does the name John Lawson ring a bell?”

  “Well, this is Lawson Training Incorporated’s event.”

  “Yes, but beyond that?”

  Britt cocked her head to consider the question. She added two cookies and a bottle of water to her tray. “You know . . . it does ring a bell. A little.”

  “For me, too.”

  They decided to eat their lunch inside Nora’s parked car, because there they could get heat flowing over their damp, clingy clothing. Once they’d closed themselves inside, Britt went to work on her food. Nora typed John Lawson into Wikipedia on her phone. A picture of John dressed in a naval uniform emerged. He looked younger in the photo than he did now, but exactly as compelling and serious and unflinching.

  John Truman Lawson

  Born: Seattle, Washington

  Allegiance: United States of America

  Service/Branch: United States Navy

  Years of Service: Six

  Unit: United States Navy SEALs

  Awards: Medal of Honor

  Nora sat back against the driver’s seat. She’d just been rescued from a pretend emergency by a real Medal of Honor recipient. That explained why his name had seemed familiar—she’d caught some of the media coverage about his Medal of Honor a few years back. Everyone in the state of Washington had been filled with pride when the president had awarded the prestigious distinction to their own native son.

  “Find out anything?” Britt asked.

  “He’s a former Navy SEAL and a Medal of Honor recipient. Good grief. Isn’t the Medal of Honor the highest honor?”

  “I think so.”

  Nora read through the rest of the information listed. “He was involved in a mission that resulted in the rescue of American and Canadian hostages. He saved a team member at risk to his own life, then held off the opposition until reinforcements arrived. The book Uncommon Courage and the movie of the same name are about him.”

  “Wow.”

  “It says that he lives here in Shore Pine and that he’s the owner and CEO of Lawson Training Incorporated.” The Wikipedia profile didn’t provide nearly enough details to satisfy her. With a few quick taps, she ordered both the print and movie versions of Uncommon Courage.

  Nora stared out the front windshield at a stand of aspen trees. The bright lime-green of their spring leaves contrasted boldly with their slender white trunks. Her sister crunched potato chips. Her car’s heater whirred. Her own lunch waited untouched.

  It had been years since she’d been attracted to anyone who wasn’t fictional . . . or who wasn’t an actor who played a fictional character. She was capable and scholarly and disinclined to gamble ever again on romance. Yet, something in John called out to something in her. It was unexplainable. Foolhardy, even.

  And yet. Just thinking about him, just remembering the interaction she’d shared with him, caused warmth to curl deep within her.

  Typed by John Lawson into the Reminders app on his phone:

  Have building’s sprinklers turned off. Can that be done and still be up to fire code?

  Contact Nora Bradford at Library on the Green.

  Facebook message from Duncan Bartholomew to Nora Bradford:

  Duncan: How was your day, Librarian Extraordinaire?

  Nora: Far better than average. I was a hostage in an emergency situation staged for training purposes. (I didn’t particularly enjoy that part.) I ended up being rescued by a Navy SEAL. (I did particularly enjoy that part.)

  Duncan: Just so long as you don’t develop a crush on the Navy SEAL. Adolphus is prone to jealousy where Miss Lucy Lawrence is concerned.

  Nora: Adolphus hasn’t yet noticed the existence of Miss Lucy Lawrence. Much to my everlasting chagrin.

  Duncan: But when he does notice Lucy’s existence I do believe he’ll be prone to jealousy.

  Nora: When (and if) Adolphus finally notices Lucy’s existence, she will be his. Heart and soul. Always and forever.

  CHAPTER

  Two

  Nora answered the library’s ringing phone the way she always did, with a cheerful, “Library on the Green Museum.”

  “May I speak with Nora Bradford?”

  She instantly recognized the calm and confident timbre of the male voice on the other end of the line. For five unbearable days, she’d been waiting for John to call, praying the whole time that his noncommittal “I may give you a call about something” would turn into a reality.

  She’d been sitting in her office at her desk, legs crossed. Now she plunked both feet on the floor and scooted to the edge of her seat, back snapping into a straight line. “This is Nora.”

  “Nora, this is John Lawson.” He went on to explain when and where they’d met.

  She didn’t interrupt him. She didn’t tell him that she was a professional researcher and that she’d scoured every detail about him available for public consumption.

  She knew, for example, that he was thirty-three years old and that, like her, he was a Christian. Repeatedly in his book, he’d given God the glory for everything that had gone right on his most famous mission. Be still my heart, she’d thought each time she’d encountered one of his humble, plainspoken statements about his faith.

  She’d learned that John was the eldest child of Ray, captain of a boat that took tourists on fishing expeditions on Puget Sound, and Linda, an elementary school administrator. She knew that he and his younger sister, Heather, had grown up in the Upper Rainier Beach neighborhood of Seattle. He’d graduated from Northern Arizona University before joining the Navy and getting himself on a track that led to the notoriously brutal BUD/S training, the first step to becoming a SEAL. She’d read his book and watched his movie and combed through every word of every page on his company’s website.

  “That’s right,” she said lightly when he finished, as if he’d just jogged her memory. “I’m glad to hear from you. Have you saved anyone from a fire sprinkler shower so far today?”

  A beat of quiet. “Five so far. It’s been a slow morning.”

  Nora laughed. “Your other hostages probably have legs that work faster than mine.”

  “Yes,” he agreed.

  “What can I do for you, John?” Oh, the deliciousness of saying his name. It was a plain name. The plainest name there was. Yet it was also
timeless. Manly. Strong. A trendy name wouldn’t have suited him. The uncompromising John was just right.

  “Do you help people research their ancestry?” he asked. “As part of your job?”

  “Yes, I do. I’m fairly well versed at accessing records online, plus I have a large collection of books and documents here at the museum that are often useful to people who are investigating their ancestry. The museum’s primary focus is Mason County, but I have a fair number of resources from other parts of the state, as well.”

  Silence. She had the sense that John was weighing whether or not to enlist her help. How could she convince him to give her a try?

  Nora bit her lip against the yearning washing over her and turned her gaze to the outdoors. Her second-story office windows provided views of spreading pecan branches and, beyond the branches, glimpses of her kingdom—Merryweather Historical Village. Working in this office was like working in a tree house. “Are you in the process of gathering information about your heritage?” she asked.

  “You could say that.”

  “Well, I’d be glad to lend a hand. Assisting people as they assemble their family tree is one of the aspects of my job that I like best.” Especially when those people were named John Lawson.

  “Can we meet?” he asked.

  “Certainly!” Had that sounded too eager?

  “What time is good for you?”

  Her mind raced. It was five o’clock, almost closing time. “Tomorrow afternoon?”

  “I can be there around four.”

  “Have you finished your homework?” Nora asked Randall the next day. Eleven-year-old Randall Cooper had become as much a fixture at the Library on the Green as the display cases.

  “Not yet.” He paused the violent shooting game he’d been playing on his phone and lifted his face. As usual, he’d made himself at home in the rocking chair situated next to the museum’s corner window. Nora had initially set the chairs near the Children’s Area for parents to sit in. However, Randall occupied “his” chair far more often than anyone else.

  “Ten more minutes of that not-very-redeeming-looking game and then homework?” Nora prodded.

  “Okay.”

  “Would you like some tea? To go with all that gore?”

  “No, thank you.”

  Nora had been doing her best to introduce Randall to the joys of tea. So far her efforts were faring about as well as Ahab’s search for the white whale. “Hot chocolate?” she asked.

  “Yes, please.” He grinned. His big, straight, gleaming teeth flashed startlingly white next to his ebony-colored skin.

  Nora had always been a goner when confronted with that grin. She disappeared into the museum’s small kitchen to prepare his hot chocolate.

  Randall had wandered into the Library on the Green two years ago after moving to Merryweather to live full time with his grandmother. Because the museum stood at the halfway point on Randall’s walk home from school, it had become his convenient stopping place.

  At first Nora had treated him in the polite, customer-service-oriented way that she treated all her patrons. But then she’d learned two things. That Randall’s visits were going to become an almost daily occurrence. And that Randall’s dad had died in a car accident. Nora herself had survived a heartbreaking loss early in life. Their growing familiarity with each other and their bond of childhood trauma had connected Nora to Randall. Nowadays, she treated him like a nephew.

  To be fair, Randall didn’t technically require an unofficial aunt. He was a responsible, smart, independent kid. But since Nora had no one at home to fuss over, Randall humored her. With equanimity, he allowed her to furnish him with snacks, odd jobs around the museum, occasional rides to basketball practices and games, homework accountability, and cautionary tales about middle school.

  In return, Randall furnished Nora with a listening ear, thoughtful suggestions about the museum, and that heart-tasering smile.

  Nora was never sure just who was ministering to whom in her friendship with Randall. It might be a tie.

  Nora dutifully garnished the hot chocolate with mini marshmallows, then delivered the mug and two Walkers Shortbread cookies to Randall. She kept the cookies stocked for him—

  Well. She also kept them stocked for herself. Anything that came in a container decked out in Scottish plaid couldn’t be all bad for you.

  “Thank you, Ms. Bradford.”

  “You’re welcome, Randall. Just five minutes left before homework, okay?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He moved his head in the way kids have of both saying yes and, at the same time, returning their attention to more pressing things. In this case, his phone’s screen.

  She checked her watch. John was due to arrive in fifteen minutes. Nervous excitement had been burrowing more and more deeply within her as the time of his arrival had drawn near.

  “Nora?” One of the two ancient ladies standing near a map of Indigenous Peoples of the Pacific Northwest motioned her over.

  “Yes, Mrs. Williams?”

  She gestured to her companion. “This is my dear friend, Iris . . . oh, but of course you know Iris.”

  “I do.”

  “I was just telling Iris about my ancestor, Arthur Thacker, and of course, she’s just as fascinated as can be and wants to see his journal for herself.”

  Mrs. Williams was a museum regular with a case of hypochondria and an endless thirst for information about her Mason County ancestor, Arthur Thacker. Nora had tirelessly unearthed every possible shred of information about Thacker, but Mrs. Williams hadn’t given up hope of uncovering fresh details.

  Poor Iris had been in with Mrs. Williams and seen the journal a minimum of three times previously. Iris was either the most forbearing friend alive or she had dementia and had forgotten the other times. “Certainly. I’ll just go and get a few pairs of gloves.” Opinions were mixed as to whether gloves were needed when handling antique papers, but Nora preferred to err on the side of safety.

  Ten minutes before John’s arrival.

  The building’s upper story contained Nora’s office, as well as a roomy central space large enough for both a sitting area and Nikki’s desk. Three days a week, Nikki worked inside the museum handling property management, billing, the website, event planning, and marketing. On Saturdays and Sundays she worked in the village as one of Nora’s historical interpreters.

  Nikki frowned at her computer. “I need a man.”

  “Good men are hard to find,” Nora answered, pulling two sets of white gloves from their drawer.

  “I didn’t say I need a good man.” Nikki looked up and released one of her throaty guffaws. She was fifty-eight, with fashion sense like a Best of the ’80s highlight reel, heavy makeup, and a body that really did resemble an hourglass. Her bust, especially, was monumental. Almost as epic was the bouffant puff she teased up behind her bangs and in front of the barrette she used to pull back the sides of her long, dyed brown hair.

  Nikki had loved and buried two husbands. Before, in between, and after those two, she’d fallen in love with several others.

  “Would you mind coming down in five minutes?” Nora asked. “Mrs. Williams is here and it would be great if you could take over with her. I have someone coming in for a scheduled appointment.”

  “Is your scheduled appointment with a male someone?”

  “I plead the Fifth.” Nora made her way back downstairs.

  The old ladies set about donning the cotton gloves.

  Carefully, Nora removed Thacker’s journal from its case.

  “Nora, I think I may have consumption,” Mrs. Williams said sadly. “I have a terrible cough, night sweats, and a high fever. I expect to start coughing up blood any moment, of course.”

  “I think they call it tuberculosis these days, and I was just thinking how well you looked. . . .”

  John. John would be here in the flesh in just seven minutes.

  The historical marker outside of Nora Bradford’s Library on the Green Museum informed John
that the structure had been built in 1892 as the town’s first apothecary. In 1938, the city purchased it and turned it into a library. It functioned as a library until the seventies, when the city moved the books into a new location across town.

  John let himself inside. Darkly stained pine floorboards supported numerous cases and bookshelves. Art filled the walls. In the corner, paper and containers full of markers and crayons covered a kid-sized table.

  He spotted Nora across the room, speaking with two white-haired ladies. She raised a hand in greeting.

  He gestured for her to take her time. He always ran five minutes early.

  He paused to examine a collection of weapons that had belonged to early pioneer settlers. The longer he stood there, the more the room’s heavy quiet pressed in on him. A middle-aged couple, with their hands clasped behind their backs, stood a short distance away, reading information mounted next to a painting. A boy sat in one of the rocking chairs, head bent to his phone.

  He could hear every word of Nora’s conversation—one of the ladies was describing her night sweats in detail—even though they were several yards away.

  It was going to be hard enough to talk to Nora, a stranger, about the things he’d come to talk to her about. There was no way he was going to talk to her here, with this audience listening in.

  When a brunette joined Nora and the white-haired ladies, Nora approached him, smiling.

  Her hair drew his attention first. It was red. Not a brownish red, but a bright, coppery red. An unusual color. Just like on the day they’d met, she’d put it up in a style that made him think of pinup girls from the forties. Why would she wear her hair like that? Fashion statement? If so, he didn’t get it. The whole retro thing had always struck him as strange.

  “You made it,” she said.

  “I did.”

  “Would you like to sit down?” She motioned to the rocking chairs. “I’ll send that cute boy over there upstairs. Between you and me, he’s supposed to be working on his homework anyway.”

  The brunette was staring at him with intense curiosity.

  “Actually, I noticed there’s a coffee shop nearby.” The outdoor seating at the coffee shop would give them more privacy. Fifty-yard-line seats at a Seahawks game would give them more privacy. “Can I buy you a coffee?”