Magnolia Sky

by Susan Crandall

  He started to step around her and she put a hand on his arm. “Please. I’d feel just terrible with you sitting out there in the cold.”

  He hesitated. Her touch warmed him through the layers of clothing, right to the bone.

  “I can tell by your accent you’re not from around here,” she said. “Maybe you don’t know how it works down South.” She drew out the words he-yah and down Saauth, emphasizing her own accent. “We invite. You accept. Otherwise our feelings are hurt.” She smiled again. “You’re lucky I didn’t offer you sweet tea. You Yankees don’t seem to have a taste for sweet tea.”

  He smiled back. It shocked him to realize just how foreign smiling felt. It was almost like the first time he bent his wounded knee after having the brace removed, as if the muscles had to work just to remember how. “I’d be honored to share a cup of coffee with such a lovely flower of the South.” He gave her a gallant sweeping bow befitting a Confederate officer. He could hardly believe he was flirting. It felt even more alien than smiling.

  “That’s more like it.” She spun around with a satisfied look on her face and headed toward the door with quick, sure steps.

  She was halfway there when she must have sensed that he wasn’t right behind her. She slowed her pace, without turning around, without making him self-conscious. God, he couldn’t wait for the day when he was himself again.

  A little voice in the back of his brain whispered, You will never again be the man, the soldier, you were.

  He shook off the thought and plunged outside right behind her into the rain. She held back, kept herself from running through the downpour. Her sensitivity to his pride pricked in a way that was almost more painful than other folks’ outright sympathy.

  Pushing himself to move faster, he nudged her from behind. “Go!”

  She broke into a trot. His knee hurt, but he made himself keep up. Even so, by the time they reached the carriage house, they were both soaked to the skin.

  Once inside, she spun around, wiping the water from her face, laughing. It was a beautiful sound, bringing to mind warm, soft breezes and church bells.

  “Good heavens!” She looked at him. “Oh, my. You’re drenched. Let me get something to dry us off.”

  She went behind the counter that held the cash register and rummaged around while Luke stood dripping on the floor.

  “This will have to do.” She held up a roll of paper towel and pulled off a long strip. Coming back to Luke, she held it out for him.

  “This’ll do fine. Thank you.” He took the towels, but could hardly mop himself for watching the way she patted her face and throat dry—and the way her wet shirt clung to her curves.

  Luke heard a snort from the corner of the room and flinched guiltily. He’d been staring at her as if they were alone. Apparently they weren’t.

  When he looked around, he saw only a huge red-brown bloodhound curled up in a dark corner.

  “That’s Rufus, our guard dog.”

  Luke looked at her in disbelief. “Guard dog? I walked in here earlier and didn’t even notice him. I could have carried the place off.” He didn’t tell her that he was equally remiss. At the top of his form, he’d never have missed the presence of a living, breathing being inside a room. No matter how still it made itself.

  The dog let one sleepy eye fall shut.

  She laughed. “I doubt that. That’s all part of his plan, making you think he’s not paying attention. Just try to get near that cash register.”

  Luke couldn’t imagine a dog having a “plan.”

  “Go on. Try it.” She gestured toward the register.

  Tipping his head, Luke grinned. “Okay. But just to prove you need to rely on locked doors and not a lazy hound.” He walked toward the front door.

  Rufus remained snoozing in his corner.

  Luke stepped closer to the register.

  Rufus didn’t move.

  Walking right up to the counter, Luke looked at the dog and waited.

  One eye opened.

  “Not much of a deterrent,” Luke said, shaking his head in amusement.

  “Rufus just doesn’t like to waste a lot of energy carrying on. He knows when to get to business. Try to pick it up.” She stood with her arms crossed and a grin on her face.

  Luke reached for the register.

  In a red-brown blur, the dog leapt across the room in one bound. A deep growl was followed by an equally deep round of barking that rattled the windows, as well as Luke’s self-confidence.

  Rufus showed an impressive display of sharp white teeth set in a jaw the size of a horse’s and maneuvered himself between Luke and the door.

  Luke yanked his hands away from the register, his heart hammering in his chest.

  The dog inched closer, head low, teeth bared, hackles raised.

  “Okay, okay, I let it go,” Luke said with his hands in the air, backing slowly away.

  The dog still looked ready to pounce.

  “Hey, lady, call off Cujo!”

  “Rufus, down.” She didn’t raise her voice at all.

  The dog’s lips relaxed and he flopped in a wrinkly brown mass to the floor. He blew out a long breath that flapped his lips and watched the woman with adoring eyes.

  Luke licked his lips. “Well, okay, then. I’m convinced.”

  “Actually, poor Rufus never gets to do that; everyone around here already has wind of his reputation.” She walked over to the dog, knelt down and ruffled his long ears.

  Luke said, “Normally, I get along fine with dogs. Still, if I were you, I wouldn’t put my face quite so close to those . . . those fangs.”

  She laughed. “He won’t hurt me—only someone who wants to hurt me.”

  A large pink tongue swiped across her face. “Yes, I love you, too, big fella.”

  She stood back up and looked at Luke, extending her hand. “I’m Analise. Cream in your coffee?”

  Giving his head a slight shake, Luke caught up with the change in conversation. He kept his eye on the dog for another heartbeat. He really did like dogs. However, he’d never faced a hundred pounds of snarling teeth and muscle before. “Yes, please.” He shifted his gaze to her and shook her hand. It felt strong and gentle at the same time. “And I’m Luke Boudreau.”

  Her hand spasmed slightly in his. A little breath hitched in her chest. Her lips opened slightly and her eyes widened. Her face seemed to blanch. “Oh.” She finally blinked and swallowed. “I’ll get the coffee.”

  She hurried into another room, leaving Luke feeling like he should have recognized her name. Calvin didn’t talk much about home—only rarely of his mother and little brother. Luke suddenly realized he’d served beside the man for three years and could count on one hand the personal details he knew about his life.

  When Analise returned, color was back in her cheeks. She carried two mugs of steaming coffee. She handed one to Luke and motioned for him to sit at the metal café set near the stove. She sat across the small table from him, concentrating on the steam rising from her cup.

  After a few seconds she raised her gaze and looked at him. Her mouth remained relaxed, not reflecting the emotion that Luke thought he caught in her eyes. There was something in her stare that reached right down inside him and grabbed the pit of his stomach. She finally released him from the power of that jade gaze, lowered her lashes and took a sip from her cup.

  Luke drank his own coffee, content to let the silence play out.

  Analise’s long fingers fiddled with the cup that sat in front of her. Luke noticed her fingernails were short and stained from working with plants. She had what looked like a long, narrow burn across the back of her left hand.

  After a few minutes she raised her gaze and sighed. “You served with Calvin.” It wasn’t a question.

  He nodded. “I’d really like to wait for Olivia. . . .”

  For a second, offense flashed in her eyes, sharp and accusing. Then she said softly, “Of course.”

  He felt badly, so he tried to initiate polite convers
ation. “So what about you? Have you always lived in Grover?”

  She withdrew her hands from the table and put them in her lap. “No, I grew up around Jackson. Calvin brought me here.”

  “Calvin?”

  Just then, a woman who had to be Calvin’s mother came hustling through the front door. She collapsed her umbrella and stomped her feet, which, despite the weather, sported Birkenstocks and white socks. Her gray hair was in an unexpected short-spiky ’do that made Luke think of Annie Lennox. The woman was short, rather box-shaped, with full cheeks, Calvin’s slightly-tilted-upward brown eyes and generous mouth, and a virtually nonexistent neck. The big, loose, cable-knit sweater she wore hit her at midthigh, nearly swallowing her up. She moved in a no-nonsense, take-charge way that belied her elfish appearance.

  “Oh! Company!” She smiled, and the warmth of it shot right to Luke’s scarred heart. This was clearly the face of a woman who never turned a soul away from her doorstep. Still, he doubted her exuberance would last once she knew who the “company” was.

  He stood and tipped his head. “Luke Boudreau, ma’am.”

  Her smile slipped just a little, but she quickly recovered. “You’re here about Calvin.” Although her smile remained on her face, Luke could see a spark of pain in her eyes.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Beside him, Analise made a little hiccup sound. He kept his gaze on Olivia.

  She pulled in a deep breath that appeared to add an edge of stiffness to her posture, as if drawing herself up, bracing herself to face something unpleasant yet inevitable. Then she walked toward him, a congenial expression maintained on her face. “I see you’ve already met Calvin’s wife.”

  Luke’s tingling fingers felt like they’d taken a shot of electricity. His heart beat in a chest that suddenly felt cold and hollow. Wife? How could I not have known Calvin had a wife?

  Chapter 2

  The fact that Abbott had a wife ricocheted wildly in Luke’s brain. It bounced and slammed against a dozen walls of memory. Never in his entire association with the man, from the time he was assigned to Luke’s team until the day he died, had Abbott given the slightest indication he was married. Never even breathed the word “wife.” And his behavior certainly never reflected it.

  Swallowing his surprise, Luke denied himself the long hard look at Analise that he burned to take. He wanted to see her in a different light, to tell himself that all of that lustful chemistry he’d been experiencing was imaginary. But he kept his eyes fixed on Olivia. “Yes, we’ve met.”

  He stepped away from his chair and offered it to Olivia, keeping his attention focused solely on her, not permitting Analise even into the periphery of his vision. Years of training allowed him to keep his outward appearance independent from the cascade of emotions running through him. Looking into those lovely green eyes might just prove to be too dangerous at the moment. His earlier thoughts of her were suddenly appallingly inappropriate . . . incestuous.

  Olivia took the seat he offered.

  Beside him, he heard Analise stand. As she stepped away, she said, “I’ll give you some time.”

  Luke knew he should stop her; she had as much right as Olivia to hear what he had to say. But the woman threw a monkey wrench into the machine of his thoughts. He let her go.

  “Please, sit down, Luke.” Olivia patted the table in front of the chair Analise had just vacated.

  Folding her hands on the table, she waited. Her pause didn’t seem heavy and expectant as Luke searched for the place to begin. All of the possible combinations of words he’d been pondering for weeks failed him. He was hobbled by the fact that he could never reveal the truth about Abbott’s death. After looking into Olivia’s kind eyes, the lies he’d prepared stuck on his tongue.

  After a moment, she saved him by saying, “Why don’t you tell me a little about yourself? Calvin was never very forthcoming with the details.”

  You’re telling me. Luke bit back a bark of nervous laughter.

  She let her gaze dissolve into empty space somewhere between the tabletop and the floor, chuckling with remembrance. “When he was a boy, I used to ask him how his day was when he got off the school bus. Every day it was the same, a shrug and, ‘Okay.’ Didn’t matter what had happened. The school could have burned to the ground or aliens could have landed in the playground, and I would have had to hear it on the six o’clock news.”

  Luke smiled back at her, nodding. He’d never really thought about it before, but that was exactly how Abbott dealt with everything. He had a straightforward way of skimming over the complexities of the meatier issues, preferring to make the joke, dive into the task.

  Still, a wife? How could a guy keep something like that to himself over the course of three years?

  Nonetheless, Luke was thankful to Olivia for easing him into conversation. He began with the basics about himself. “I’m from a little town in southern Indiana. Been in the army since I was twenty.”

  When he paused, unsure how much detail she wanted, she prompted, “Wife? Family?”

  “Not married. My dad owns a bar, still lives right where I grew up. I have two sisters, the younger one, Molly, is just about to finish her medical residency in Boston. And Lily used to live in Chicago, but—I guess it’s been nearly a year ago now—she moved back to Glens Crossing with her son. She just married an old friend of ours from when we were kids. Great guy, used to be military himself.” He shook his head. It still didn’t seem possible that after all of these years, Lily and Clay were finally together. She’d belonged with him from the summer they’d first met, but their lives had taken them on a long and difficult road to finding each other.

  Suddenly Luke realized the chances of him ever finding a relationship like those two shared had been cast into the range of nonexistent. It set off a hollow burning just beneath his breastbone.

  “Is your mother still living?” Olivia asked.

  “I haven’t been in touch with my mom since I was about eleven—when she left.”

  “I see.” Olivia didn’t give him that oh, you poor child look that he’d grown to hate. Instead she went on, “I can tell by your voice that you care a great deal for your family.” Those gentle brown eyes settled on him. “Especially Lily. That’s good. You understand.”

  “Understand what, ma’am?”

  “How it is to have people take a little part of you wherever they go, leave a tiny black hole in your soul that can only be plugged back up when they come home.”

  He searched her face and could see the underlying questions, the words she wasn’t coming right out and saying.

  Pulling in a deep breath, he squared his shoulders. “Your son was under my command when he was killed.”

  She looked at the lividly pink scar on the side of his neck. “And you were injured.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Calvin was a brave man, a good soldier. I could always count on him to cover my back, no matter what.” He swallowed the lump of guilt threatening to choke him. “I was proud to serve with him.” He paused. “I can’t express how sorry I am that I failed to bring him home safely.”

  Something in the set of her mouth shifted, reminding him of the way Abbott looked when he thought something wasn’t quite kosher. But she reached across the table and put her hand on his. “It was a helicopter crash. Not your doing.”

  Shame, bright as lightning, sharp as a fresh razor, cut across his heart, when he heard her repeat the official cause of death. Not my doing? Dear God, if you only knew. Then you wouldn’t be looking at me with such caring eyes. You’d be scratching mine out.

  He’d built a career on his ability to detach himself from his thoughts, his emotions. But here in this room, speaking to this good woman, it felt completely immoral.

  Pushing the bitter truth away, he said the words he’d traveled hundreds of miles to deliver. “I wasn’t able to come—to pay my respects properly at his funeral. I regret that, ma’am.” He paused and forced himself to look her in the eye. “More than I can say.” Then he
stood. “Calvin served with me for over three years. I couldn’t have asked for a better man at my side. You did a fine job raising your son.” His gaze fell to the floor for a brief second, then returned to her face. “I take full responsibility for his death.”

  He reached into his pocket. “I just couldn’t let them pack this up and send it with his personal belongings. It was special to him—too special to risk loss in shipping. He had it with him on every assignment, every mission.”

  Luke laid the Purple Heart earned by Abbott’s father on the table next to Olivia’s hand.

  For the longest time, she just sat there, staring at the medal. Then she picked it up slowly and folded it into her left hand. She raised her eyes, glistening with unshed tears, and held him as immobile as if she’d magically drawn away his will to move. Luke waited, barely breathing, unable to say more, unable to turn and walk away.

  Her chin began to quiver. She pressed her lips so tightly together they turned white. Finally, her face wrinkled and a sob escaped her throat. She jumped from the chair and flew at him.

  He braced himself for her assault.

  Instead of angry words and furious maternal fists pounding his chest, damning him and the unfairness that took her son, she threw her arms around him and pulled him close.

  It was worse than being pummeled.

  Luke held her and patted her shoulder awkwardly, waiting for the onslaught of tears to diminish. He felt like the most despicable man who had ever walked the earth. First he’d coveted the wife of a fallen fellow soldier. Now he held a broken-hearted mother in the embrace of a friend—when he knew her son would be alive if it hadn’t been for Luke’s own poor judgment.

  Suddenly, she pulled away, cutting herself off in midsob. Luke’s hands fell from her shoulders.