by Susan Fox
“You go ahead,” she told him. “I’ll stay with Mrs. Watkins.” She smiled at the older woman as if they were friends. Mark assumed she’d been over earlier to assess her condition.
“Police will need you to make a report, though,” the paramedic said. She turned her back to Mrs. Watkins and lowered her voice to a murmur. “My colleague Tom says you saved her husband’s life. Good job.”
“I’m just glad I was here.”
As he headed toward the camper, still feeling a little unsteady, Jenna caught up and slipped her hand into his, seeming not to care about the blood. He squeezed her fingers and asked, “How bad is it? I don’t know what happened to anyone but Mr. and Mrs. Watkins.”
“The truck driver was stunned by the airbag. He came to and got out the passenger side, even though some of us told him he probably shouldn’t move.” Her hand tightened on his. “He said he could smell fuel, he was afraid everything was going to go up in flames.”
“I could smell it, too. Kept telling myself it wouldn’t ignite if nothing sparked it.” He paused beside the camper. “How about the asshole who caused all this?” Much as the guy deserved whatever he’d got, Mark didn’t want him to be dead.
“I don’t know.” She shivered. “No one could get to him. I think they’ll need the jaws of life to get him out.”
As they climbed into the back of the camper, a departing ambulance whooped behind them.
Jenna stowed the first aid kit under the sink.
“I’m glad you found that.”
“I figured you’d have one,” she said, collapsing onto the couch, face still pale, arms wrapped around herself.
He realized that she, too, had been running on adrenaline, doing her best to help the accident victims, and now the shock and reaction were setting in. He wanted to hug her, but first he needed to get rid of the blood and bits of broken glass that stuck to him.
Moving slowly, feeling much older than his years, he ran hot water, soaped his hands, and scrubbed them together. He took a washcloth and cleaned his forearms and his torso, wiping away dried blood and sweat and carefully picking out tiny shards of glass, which he put in the garbage.
As he toweled off, Jenna rose and washed her hands thoroughly, then dried them on the towel he’d used.
Then she wrapped her arms around him, and rested her cheek against his bare chest. “I was scared, Mark,” she said softly, a tremor in her voice. “You were inside that car and the truck driver kept saying the whole thing could go up any minute.”
He rested his chin on her soft curls, hating that she’d been upset. Yet it warmed him to know she’d worried about him. “I’m sorry. There wasn’t any other way. I couldn’t move the guy. I had to keep pressure on his arm.”
“I couldn’t do anything,” she whispered. “I felt so powerless. All I could do was try to calm Mrs. Watkins, when really I was just as worried as she was.”
“You helped her, just like I helped her husband.”
She eased away so she could gaze up at him. “You saved his life.”
It was the truth. And perhaps the reason his legs still felt shaky. If he and Jenna had been even a few minutes later, or if the car had been so badly crushed he couldn’t get inside, an old woman would have become a widow today.
A shiver rippled through him. No, it didn’t bear thinking about.
Jenna gazed at him steadily, blue-green eyes glowing, then rose up until her mouth was an inch from his. “You did good today, Dr. Chambers.” Her lips brushed his.
He grabbed onto her, holding tight to her warm, firm body, and let her lips banish everything else in the world. Gently they caressed each other’s mouths, tasting and savoring, and something seeped into him—like sunshine, warm and healing, almost glowing as it spread through his body. The essence of Jenna’s sweet soul, pouring into him and making everything else go away.
This wasn’t like their previous kisses, it wasn’t about passion and sex, but it was just as profound. Maybe more so.
He was so lost in the kiss it took him a while to realize someone was knocking on the door frame. Finally, he pulled back from Jenna, noticing that her cheeks were no longer so pale, and glanced past her to see a female cop with a smirk on her face. “Sorry, folks. Need to get your statements.”
“Come on in,” he offered. “We can sit down and you can use the table.”
As she climbed in, her gaze fixed on his chest.
Jenna gave a soft, amused chuckle, and he quickly found a fresh shirt and pulled it on.
Giving statements only took a few minutes as he and Jenna hadn’t seen the accident. Jenna asked about the driver of the sports car and the officer said that emergency workers had managed to free him, but he was in critical condition.
“We’ll have the vehicles towed pretty quickly,” she went on, “and open the road to alternating one-way traffic while we clear the rest of the mess. You can be on your way soon.”
“Thanks,” Mark said as she left, raising his voice to be heard over the whoop of another ambulance siren.
When she’d gone, Jenna, sitting beside him, nudged him with her shoulder. “So much for that schedule of yours.” Then she rose and took bottles of fruit juice from the fridge. “Grapefruit or orange?”
“Orange. Thanks.” Was it knowledge or instinct that made her realize they both probably had low blood sugar right now? He opened the bottle and took a long swallow. “How are you doing?”
“Fine. Once I realized there wasn’t much I could do for anyone, I just hung out with Mrs. Watkins.”
“Thanks for calming her down. Her screaming was driving me crazy.”
“She was terrified.”
“I know. I was kind of terrified myself. Kept thinking that old man could die right in front of me.”
“He didn’t.” She stared into his eyes. “He’s going to be all right.”
He took a deep breath. “I hope so.”
“Believe it,” she said firmly. “I do.” A smile touched her lips. “D’you know, they’ve been married forty-five years? And have two kids and five grandchildren?”
Yeah, Jenna had “hung out” with the older woman. Meaning, she’d got her to sit down, bandaged her cuts, and kept her from panicking by talking about her family. “And you say you don’t have much to invest in people or projects.”
“Huh?”
He shook his head, lacking the energy to explain right now. Or to point out Mr. and Mrs. Watkins were one of those couples who’d found a lifelong love.
For the moment, all he wanted was to sit here, her bare thigh warm against his.
Chapter 8
When the police gave us the go-ahead to get back on the road, I said to Mark, “Want me to drive?” After what he’d been through, he could probably use a rest.
In truth, I felt shaky myself from the shock of the accident, then the terror at seeing Mark inside that car while gas spilled onto the pavement and that idiot truck driver kept saying everything could go up in flames.
So I was relieved when Mark said, “No, thanks. Driving’s relaxing for me. At least when no one’s causing an accident.”
“Fingers crossed.” I climbed into the passenger side and let the soft seat cradle my nerve-jangly body as the cops directed vehicles around the accident site. The truck had been towed away, but the sight of the mangled sports car and old Toyota made me shudder.
Mark was alive, I reminded myself. And so was Mr. Watkins, thanks to my brave lover.
He glanced over, then touched my leg, a brief, affectionate graze. “It’s good to be alive.”
“It is.”
“Want to find some music?”
“Sure.” I turned on the radio and cruised through channels, rejecting rock and a couple of talk shows, pausing for a moment on country, then moving on to an oldies station that was playing “California Dreaming.” Another song my mom used to play when I was a kid. “This okay?”
“Good music for a drive by the ocean.”
Good music to cal
m jangled nerves, too. “When I heard this as a kid, I asked Mom where California was. She told me, and I announced that I was going there one day.” I laughed softly. “It’s another I must be adopted thing. I’m the only person in my family who has the travel bug.”
“Doesn’t one of your sisters live in Montreal?”
“Yes, Kat, and Tree’s in Sydney, Australia. We all needed to get away from home, spread our wings as adults. But they’re settled, happy where they are now.”
“You never see yourself doing that?”
“I’m not the nest-building sort. There are so many great places to see.”
“Yeah, and worthwhile things to do.”
The next song was “Good Vibrations,” another old classic I heard every now and then.
When the Beach Boys sang the chorus, Mark said, “This song makes me think of you.”
So I gave him good vibrations, did I? Hard to argue with that. “Exci-ta-tion,” I sang along, exaggerating the word.
He chuckled. “Yeah, that for sure. But also the colorful clothes, the sunlight in your hair. That’s like when I first saw you. And then there’s what happens when I look into your eyes.”
“Happens?” I knew my eyes were a pretty color, but didn’t get what he meant.
He glanced over. “It’s like going into the ocean. The reflection and refraction of light; every shade of green and blue, sparkles of sunlight, secret shadows. I’m drawn in, like there’s so much to explore, and I may just want to swim around in there forever.”
“Wow,” I breathed. What a great compliment. And coming from Mark, I knew it was sincere.
He was watching the road now, but the corners of his lips twitched. Maybe he wasn’t used to me being unable to find words. It would have sounded cheesy to compliment him on his eyes, but the truth was, they were pretty amazing too. Like the purest, bluest, most vivid sky.
As for gazing into them … That was a little scary. Like with his kisses, there was something a little too powerful, too irresistible.
The radio drew my attention, one of those old girl group songs. The lead singer was asking how she’d know if her guy loved her. And the answer was, It’s in his kiss.
Bizarre that this song would come on right when I was thinking about kissing Mark. I should flip the freaking dial until I found “What’s Love Got To Do With It?”
Disgruntled, I folded my arms across my chest and tried to tune out the stupid song.
Mark reached over and turned off the radio.
I sent him a silent thank you.
“Before the accident …” he said.
It seemed so long ago. “Yeah?”
“We were talking about love.”
Oh, right. And debating the merits of variety versus monogamy. Oddly, this seemed to be one of Science Guy’s favorite topics.
“This guy Travis …” he said.
I tossed my head. “Look, I was stupid. I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”
“You were seventeen. Everyone’s allowed a mistake.”
Not that mistake.
“You loved him.”
I shrugged. “I thought so.”
“You didn’t want to be with anyone else. You were into fidelity.”
“I was a foolish romantic.”
“Tell me the story.”
“I told you. A silly girl runs away from home with a bad boy on a motorbike; he cheats on her and dumps her for another girl; she goes back home sadder but wiser.”
“No, tell me the long version.”
I hugged my arms tighter. I’d never told anyone. Not a soul. “Let it go, Mark. I did, long ago.”
“We’re on the road with nothing else to do but talk. I want to get to know you.”
Why did he keep turning my own words back on me? Still, it was kind of sweet that he was interested. Was that why I felt an odd compulsion to finally share the story?
“Hey,” he said, “I told you about my mistake with the woman who thought I was Mr. Right. You tell me about yours.”
“Oh, mine was a whole chain of mistakes.”
“Give yourself a break.”
How could I? Not when I lived with an ache deep inside that no exciting place, man, or job had ever managed to erase?
“Jenna?” Mark said softly.
Was it his persistence or my own need that finally got through? Deliberately, I unfolded my arms, then flicked my hair back, reached for my water bottle, and took a long swallow. “We went to Kelowna on his motorbike. His friends were renting half of a rundown duplex. The place was pretty bad, but I thought everything was so cool. The others were a few years older than me and it was fun having no rules. Doing whatever we wanted, whenever we wanted to.”
I paused. “Though it wasn’t so fun when no one ever cleaned the bathroom, and when they spent half their time stoned out of their minds.”
“You did drugs, too?” His tone was neutral.
“I wanted to fit in so I tried a couple of things. But I like experiencing life, and the drugs warped things. The others accepted me anyhow. They were pretty live and let live.” In fact, Travis’s friends had been nicer than he was. “Travis had said he loved me, but then I got sick and he dumped me.”
“Sick?”
I drank more water and stared out the window, not at Mark, torn between telling and not telling.
He touched my leg. “Jenna?”
I looked at him just as he glanced at me, and I saw the concern in his eyes before he turned back to the road. I took a deep breath. “Believing him, falling for him, that was my first mistake. Number two: he didn’t want to use condoms. Said he loved me, we were exclusive. I was on the pill, I trusted him.” I swallowed against old pain and said flatly, “He gave me gonorrhea.”
“Jesus. I’m sorry.”
I could leave it there. Except now, after so many years of silence, something inside wouldn’t let me. “I didn’t realize it, just knew I didn’t feel so great. Kind of like I had the flu. My stomach hurt, I … well, I won’t go into all the gross symptoms. But as it got worse, I didn’t feel like sex, or going to the beach, or going out drinking. I just lay on the bed feeling crappy.”
“You didn’t see a doctor?”
“Chain of mistakes, remember? No, I was afraid a doctor would call my parents. I thought it was the flu, and I’d get over it. But Travis … he said I was no fun to be with. He’d been sleeping with another girl, and they were going to take his bike and ride to Alberta.”
“The shit.”
“Yeah. I said, ‘But you told me you loved me,’ and he said, ‘Fuck, that’s just something guys say so they can nail a girl.’ Anyhow, after he left I felt worse and worse but even then I didn’t see a doctor. I was such a freaking idiot. Finally, the kids I was staying with took me to emergency.”
“And the hospital called your parents.”
I shook my head. “I refused to give their contact info. I gave the hospital my Kelowna address and said one of the girls there was my next of kin.”
“A rough thing to go through alone,” he said sympathetically. “I guess they gave you antibiotics?”
I could say yes, and it wouldn’t be a lie.
He touched my folded arms, and I realized that, without being aware of it, I’d wrapped them tightly around my belly again.
“There’s more, isn’t there, Jenna?”
This was why I’d never told the story. Because it wasn’t just about Travis, the loss of my first love, my stupid mistakes. It was about what those mistakes had cost me in the end.
I closed my eyes against the soul-deep pain. Slowly, I said, “Yeah. By then I had a really bad PID—pelvic inflammatory disease—and an abscess that had ruptured. They had to operate to drain it. And …”
He squeezed lightly. “And?”
I’d never said these words to anyone. They sat like heavy, nasty weights inside me, more painful than that damned abscess. Maybe if I spoke them, I’d dilute their power. “Such bad scarring that I can never have childre
n.”
His hand jerked. “Damn.”
“Didn’t see that one coming?” I said bitterly. “Nor did I.”
“I’m so, so sorry.”
I glanced at him, saw the sincerity in his eyes, felt tears rise. “I was too,” I admitted. Then I forced down the tears and shrugged, “But hey, look at my lifestyle. Kids would have tied me down anyhow.” It was the truth—I’d created a wonderful life that didn’t include children—yet that didn’t banish the pain.
He signaled a left turn, then steered across the road and into a scenic pullout above a rather wild stretch of beach. A sign said Cape Sebastian.
“Mark?”
“Get out.”
When I didn’t move, he unbuckled his seat belt, got out the driver’s side, and came around to open my door. He even reached across me to unbuckle my belt, a feat made difficult by my still-crossed arms. Taking me firmly by my right upper arm, he tugged until I climbed out of the camper.
“What?” A stiff breeze blew my hair across my face. I didn’t pull the strands away, let them sting my eyes so this time the welling tears did fall.
He pulled me close, tucking my head against his chest and wrapping his arms around me. “Don’t brush it off, Jenna. It mattered. It hurt. You’re allowed to hurt.”
“Crying over spilled milk,” I murmured against the soft warmth of his tee, letting the fabric absorb my tears and feeling comforted by his strong arms around me.
“Is that what your parents told you?” he asked, voice harsh.
I shook my head against his chest, raised my arms to encircle his waist and sniffed back the tears. “No, but it was one of my mother’s sayings, so I figured it would fit this situation. Mom’s very practical.”
“But what did she actually say when you told her?”
“I didn’t. I didn’t tell my family.”
His arms tightened. “My God, why not?”
“Because …” I sighed, remembering back. I’d been so damaged, so messed up, and I hadn’t wanted to be that way. I’d wanted to reinvent myself, to forget the old dreams and start fresh, to not even acknowledge the old Jenna. “Because I’d screwed up again.”