by Loree Lough
Oh, she’d kept up with physical therapy—what else was there to do, all alone in her house every day!—but she hadn’t been outside, not even to pick up the mail or newspaper at the community box on the corner. She eased the guilt by telling herself that her parents were actors, accustomed to disappointment. But that frustration had come in the form of producer-and director-delivered rejections. Finding out that she’d deliberately misled them, no matter the reason, was a completely different kind of distress, and she knew it.
“I can’t believe I’m saying this,” her mom had said as she packed for the trip to Botswana, “but your dad and I miss the plucky risk-taker you were before the accident.”
Accident, indeed. If they couldn’t deal with the facts, how did they expect her to face them?
Again, Alex’s words echoed in her head: you don’t have to live this way.
The oven beeped, telling her it had finished preheating. She slid the pizza onto the top rack, set the timer and changed the channel. Not even watching a young man trying to coax his aging mother to give up years’ worth of hoarded possessions could distract her from Alex’s wise advice. The boy was right. She couldn’t stay in this house forever.
Summer combed her fingers through her bangs. It had become a nervous habit, like feeling sorry for herself and hiding from the world. Things needed to change, and the sooner, the better.
She grabbed the flyer. What could it hurt, she thought, picking up the phone, to talk to the Amazing Zach?
CHAPTER THREE
ALEX PRESSED THE receiver to his chest and waved his boss closer to the reception counter. Zach draped a towel around his neck, using the corner to blot perspiration from his upper lip. “What’s up, buddy?”
“Remember that lady I told you about? Well,” he said, pointing at the phone’s mouthpiece, “this is her!”
Like a one-man PR firm, Alex had brought clients of all genders, sizes and ages to Zach’s studio. “You’ve told me about lots of ladies,” he said, grinning. “Help me out here, kid.”
“Summer Lane. You know, the one who lives next door to Mom and me? Who’s afraid to come out of her house ’cause she was attacked couple years ago?”
Oh. That one. What kind of people named their daughter Summer? “Hippies!” his dad would say. Zach pictured a long-haired, cringing spinster, darting from window to window, checking locks and peeking at the world through dusty Venetian blinds.
“She wants to ask you a couple questions. About signing up for classes, I hope.” He put the phone back up to his ear. “Hey, Summer, Zach is—”
Based on the sudden disappointment on the boy’s face, Zach could only assume the poor old thing had changed her mind.
“No, wait! Please don’t hang up, Summer, he’s standing right here!”
Alex thrust the phone into Zach’s hand. “Go easy on her, will ya? Mom says she’s kinda fragile.”
Fragile. The very word Zach’s mom had used to describe Libby right after her ordeal. But unlike the woman on the phone, Libby bounced back quickly, due in part to the unwavering support of friends and family…and her own stubborn determination to put the nightmare behind her. He knew next to nothing about this Summer person, but from what little Alex had told him, Zach guessed she wasn’t made of the same sturdy stuff.
“Miss Lane? Zach Marshall here.” He caught a distant glimpse of himself in the floor-to-ceiling mirror at the back of the room. What are you smiling about, you big idiot. She can’t see you. “What can I do for you?” he said, putting his back to his reflection.
“You’ll probably think I’m being ridiculous,” she began, “but I don’t know enough about your studio—or self-defense, for that matter—to even voice an intelligent question. What I do know is that Alex speaks very highly of you. And that he swears that what you’ve taught him has improved every area of his life.”
That smooth, sultry voice sure didn’t go with his image of a cringing spinster. She’d roused his curiosity, for sure.
“Just so happens Wednesday is our slow day,” he said. “If you’re not busy now, c’mon down. I’ll give you the nickel tour, and do my best to answer whatever ques—”
Alex heaved a frustrated sigh and slapped a palm over his eyes. “She never leaves her house,” he whispered through clenched teeth. “Not ever. Remember?”
“Trust me,” Zach mouthed.
“On second thought,” he said into the phone, “I have a better idea. Alex needs some behind-the-wheel time before his big driver’s test. How about we drive over, pick you up and bring you back here. There’s a small class starting in about an hour. You could watch, and maybe that’ll answer some of your questions.”
“I, well, but…”
Alex leaned closer and said into the mouthpiece, “Say yes, Summer. Please? I could use the driving practice. You’ll be doing me a really, really big favor.”
Her sigh filtered into Zach’s ear. Frustration? Angst? Uncertainty? Not that it mattered. Patience had been the main ingredient in Libby’s recovery. That, and an ample supply of tenacity. Maybe Miss Lane had both, and just didn’t know it. Yet.
Alex, palm extended and fingers wiggling, asked for the phone, and Zach gladly handed it over. He had no patience and very little pity for people who didn’t at least try.
“If we leave right now,” the boy told her, “we can be there in ten minutes.” He hung up and grabbed his parka from the hook beside the door. “Let’s make tracks, before she changes her mind.”
“She said yes?”
Alex shrugged. “She didn’t say no…”
Zach told his assistant, Emma, that he’d be back within the hour then tossed Alex his keys to his pickup. As the teen unlocked the doors, Zach shrugged into his jacket. “Don’t make me regret this, okay?”
“Don’t worry, I’ll be careful. My entire driving future is riding on it.” Alex laughed and climbed in behind the wheel. “Hey. That’s a pun.” He stuck the key into the ignition. “My entire driving future is riding on it. Get it?”
“Yeah, I get it. And my good-driver insurance policy is riding on it, too, so keep that in mind.”
Zach buckled his seat belt. “To be honest, I’m not half as worried about what you’ll do behind the wheel as I am about what she’ll do when we get there.”
“Do? What could she do?”
“Oh, I dunno. She could meet us at the door, brandishing a shotgun, for starters.”
“Summer?” Alex laughed. “No way. She won’t even squish a spider.”
Probably afraid to, Zach thought as Alex backed out of the parking space.
A car horn blared, and the boy slammed on the brakes.
“Crazy kid!” an elderly man bellowed, shaking his fist. “Where’d you get your license, in a bubble gum machine?”
Alex’s shoulders slumped, and Zach raised his eyebrows. “You know what you did wrong, right?”
“Didn’t check the mirrors.” Smiling sheepishly, he added, “Sorry. Won’t happen again. Promise.”
“Let’s hope not. Your entire driving future is riding on it, remember.”
For the duration of the short trip, Alex kept his word, even while chattering about the attack that turned Summer Lane into a recluse. The kid didn’t have many details, though, so Zach decided that tonight he’d fire up the laptop, see what he could find out about her online. Wouldn’t it be faster and easier to ask her?
Alex took the corner a little sharply, distracting Zach from the question.
“Sorry. I’ll be more careful at the next corner,” Alex said. “You think we’ll get that snow they’re calling for?”
Zach held tight to the grab handle. “Probably, but I hope not.”
As Alex pulled into her driveway, Zach saw the blinds beside her front door snap shut. Had she been standing there, watching, since the kid hung up the phone?
Alex got out of the truck first, and waved as he approached the town house. “Hey, Summer,” he called. “It’s us. Zach and me.”
He whis
pered to Zach, “She’ll never leave here, but this is a start.”
The door opened slowly, and there it was again, that lovely, amazing voice.
“Please,” she said from somewhere in the shadows. “Come in.”
“You’ve been baking again, haven’t you,” Alex said, heading straight for the kitchen.
Baking again? Libby made things from fabric and yarn. Sweaters. Mittens. Curtains and throw pillows, and called her craft projects “coping mechanisms.” Did the oven serve the same purpose for Summer?
“Man, oh man,” Alex said around a mouthful of cookie. “I think these are your best ever!”
“Thanks,” she said. “Have as many as you like. I can’t eat them all by myself.”
For half a second, silence. Then all three laughed, because Alex had stuffed one cookie into his mouth, and held one in each hand.
“Name’s Marshall. Zach Marshall,” he said, offering his hand. “But I’m guessing you already knew that.”
For a minute there, it didn’t look like she’d reciprocate. He felt awkward, his hand dangling in midair. When at last she accepted his greeting, he noticed a slight tremor in her cool-to-the-touch fingertips. Cold hands, warm heart? If the warmth glowing in her eyes and smile was any indicator, the answer was yes.
“Summer Lane,” she said, and quickly folded both arms over her chest. “But I expect you already knew that, too.”
At the moment, Zach didn’t know much, except that he liked her. Or was pity the more accurate word? “Aw, Zach,” Alex mumbled. “You really gotta try one of these. They’re excellent, man. Excellent.”
Every thread of common sense in him said, look at Alex. Look at the cookies. You’ve seen gorgeous women before, so stop gawking at her!
She must have thought he was staring at the slightly raised pink scar that ran the length of her left cheek, because she cupped her chin in her palm and hid it behind her fingers. What other reminders—physical and emotional—had her attacker left her with?
“There are soft drinks in the fridge,” she said. “Or I could fix you a cup of coffee. Or tea. Or hot chocolate?” Summer pointed at the coffeemaker on the counter and the carousel that held a colorful variety of pods.
He didn’t need a degree in psychology to know Alex was right. She wouldn’t leave the town house today. Maybe not tomorrow, either. Asking her to consider checking out the studio would only add to her unease. Maybe she’d let her guard down enough that he could show her a few basic moves right here in her living room. Zach made note of her stiff-backed stance and nervous smile. Or maybe not.
“I told my assistant we wouldn’t be gone long,” he said, “but coffee sounds great.”
As she made her way to the other side of the bar counter, Zach noticed her limp. Alex had mentioned multiple surgeries to repair a shattered femur. Not an easy injury to recover from; he’d learned that while visiting guys he’d served with who’d been shot or who’d stepped on IEDs.
While she added water to the machine, he remembered that Libby’s attacker had been high on PCP, and the slick defense attorney blamed the drug, not his client, for the crime. The judge gave her attacker a choice: rehab facility or prison. Naturally, he chose treatment. The punishment didn’t fit the crime, in Zach’s opinion. If asked to explain his harsh judgment, he would have said “The guy hurt my kid sister! Hang him by his heels!” As it turned out, the guy punished himself. Months after being released, he died of a heroin overdose.
When Summer turned to face him, her smile faded, like the smoke from a spent match. Evidently, the memory of what had happened to Libby was still very fresh, and his anguish was written all over his face. He half expected her to shrink back in fear, but to her credit, Summer held her ground and, mug in hand, asked how he liked his coffee.
“Black. High-test if you’ve got it.”
“Cool,” Alex said, looking from Zach to Summer and back again. “Something else you two have in common.”
Summer’s left brow quirked upward.
“Something else?” Zach said.
“Black coffee and…and…” The teen blinked then helped himself to another cookie as a red flush crept up his neck. “Well, you guys are about the same age.”
Nice recovery. He could almost read the kid’s mind: black coffee and a close connection to violent crime. Had Summer picked up on it, too?
“Much as I hate to quote my mom,” Alex said, “I have to eat and run. Midterms. Argh.” Alex stood beside Summer and whispered, “Will you, uh, are you okay being alone with you-know-who?” He aimed a thumb at Zach, trying to hide it behind a cupped hand.
Goofy kid, he thought. If God ever blessed him with a son, Zach wouldn’t mind a bit if he was just like Alex.
“I sent a short grocery list to your email,” she said. “Specialty items for my parents’ visit. Bean sprouts, oatmeal, tofu…”
“Gross!” He wrinkled his nose. “I almost forgot they’re vegetarians.”
“Vegans.”
Alex groaned, whimpered and opened the door. “Guess we won’t be grilling any steaks while they’re in town, then, huh?”
Smiling, Summer said, “If we do, we won’t have to worry about sharing them with Mom and Dad.”
He stepped outside, but turned back. “Do me a favor, will ya, and tell them boiling cabbage is against community association rules. My grandmother had an apartment in a seniors’ high-rise. Every time we visited, the whole building reeked of the stuff.” He pointed left. “There’s just a wall between your house and mine, and you remember the time I burned popcorn in the microwave.”
It was Summer’s turn to groan. “I didn’t think I’d ever get that awful smell out of here!”
Alex was still snickering as the door clicked shut.
The room fell silent, save for the trickle of coffee filling a big white mug, the ticking clock and the hum of the fridge.
“That’s one great kid,” Zach said.
“Yes, he is.” She clasped her hands at her waist. “So tell me, how many of your other clients are like me?”
Like her? If she meant beautiful, barely bigger than a minute, with a voice even more lovely than her face, he’d have to say none. But he knew what she meant. “Just one. My sister, Libby.”
She handed him his coffee. “I’m sorry to hear she had to go through that.”
“Happened a little over two years ago. The whole Marshall clan is proud of the way she pulled through it.”
And to ensure Summer wouldn’t think he was comparing her recovery to Libby’s, Zach quickly added, “But she’s a shrink, so she knows all the tricks. Too bad she can’t nail down the reason she’s the clumsiest person for miles around.”
She gave him a look that said “What does that have to do with anything?” then slid a red mug under the coffeemaker’s spout. North Pole, Alaska, was printed on one side.
Zach pointed. “Gift, or souvenir?”
“Both. I bought it for myself. Alaska had been at the top of my bucket list for years, and I crossed it off with a cruise along the Inside Passage, then went overland by train…”
Alone?
“…with a friend,” she said, answering his unasked question.
Ah. Ex-boyfriend, probably. And based on her tone of voice, the breakup hadn’t been easy.
“Have you been there? To Alaska, I mean?”
“Yeah. College pal and I backpacked and camped in Denali after graduation, before we enlisted with the marines. Alaska was our last hoorah, in case…” In case we didn’t make it home, like some of my guys.
Her slow nod told him she understood. “Where did they send you?”
“One tour in Kuwait, three in Afghanistan.” He hated talking about this stuff. Too many regrets. Too many hard memories. “Mind if I ask you a personal question?”
“It’s a free country, thanks to men like you.”
He never knew how to react when people said things like that. He’d enlisted because, after earning a business degree from Colorado State,
he couldn’t picture himself at a desk, balancing the Double M’s books, or taking orders from his younger cousin, Nate. How heroic was that?
He set both forearms on the counter, putting his face a foot closer to hers. “How did you know it was safe to let Alex leave?”
“I didn’t.” She sat back, running her fingers through her bangs. “But as you pointed out, he’s a great kid. If he says you’re okay, that’s good enough for me.” Summer branded him with those big dark eyes, then frowned slightly. “That’s a big fat lie. Letting him leave was a test.”
He was mildly surprised. “Is that so? And did I pass?”
A quiet, melodic laugh passed her lips. “Oh, I wasn’t testing you.” Her brows drew together, and he read it as a sign that the subject was closed. “Besides, I’ve never met a marine who couldn’t be trusted.”
Oh, he could name a few. Zach knew one guy who’d survived hand-to-hand combat, only to return home so mentally scarred that he’d turned to whiskey for comfort. Another, plagued by nightmares of the things he’d seen, chose drugs to help him forget…and chose crime to help fund his addiction. There were a few skeletons in Zach’s own closet, too, but what would be gained by admitting it?
Summer picked up a cookie, held it out to him. “They really are good, if I do say so myself.”
He understood this gesture as another signal to change the subject. When he reached for it, his fingertips brushed hers. She inhaled sharply, a quick little gasp, and snapped back her hand so fast, the cookie broke. A succession of emotions skittered across her pretty face, from shock to dread to embarrassment.
“Guess your sister isn’t the only clumsy one.” Summer brushed crumbs into an upturned palm and ate them, then grabbed another cookie. “Let’s try this again.”
This time, Zach was careful not to touch her. He took a small bite and decided that if she signed up for a self-defense class, he’d pass her off to Emma. Somehow, he’d summoned the patience to help his sister cope with her male-induced skittishness, but Summer was a stranger. Besides, what worked for Libby might backfire with Summer.