He couldn’t imagine feeling that way about his parents—Dillon, sure, but not David and Ramona—but he also couldn’t imagine David and Ramona trying to make anyone feel bad about themselves, especially their kids. God knew, he and Dillon had given them plenty of reason.
“Do you see them often?”
“Not since I left home at eighteen.” She fiddled with the napkin in her lap, one pink-tipped finger smoothing out the creases. “My parents were perfect younger versions of their parents, and they were determined to turn us into perfect versions of themselves. We lived in the same house my great-grandfather’s great-grandfather lived in. We went to the same schools, belonged to the same social groups, were friends with the same families.
“My life was mapped out before I was even born: what preschool I would go to, what prep school, which sorority I would join when I attended Mother’s alma mater. The only thing missing was the man I would marry, but they’d already narrowed down the suitable families to a handful.”
She quit toying with the napkin, breathed deeply, and skimmed her gaze across his. “I never really fit in with their plans. The schools kept me because my parents donated a lot of money, and there was ever the hope that some teacher or advisor would save me at the last minute. But at eighteen, instead of heading off to college like a good daughter, I took off, fell in love, and got married.”
She fell silent and still for a long time. Dalton didn’t mind the wait. After a sigh with a hitch in the middle, she quietly went on. “I invited them to the wedding. Never heard anything from them. When Aaron died, LoLo, the casualty notification officer, contacted them. Never heard anything then, either.”
Her cheeks pinked, and her laugh was halfhearted. “They always said I’d be a disappointment, so I proved them right.”
Her shrug made the green fabric cling just for a moment to her breasts. He’d seen her naked but knew practically nothing about her.
Except that he’d like to see her naked again. Sober this time.
Both of them.
The thought raised his blood pressure and added an extra layer of heat to his skin that couldn’t be blamed on the sun, blocked now by the deck overhang. As he looked at her again, searching for a distraction, the warmth got uncomfortably close to rising into his face.
“What about the rest of your family?” he all but blurted out. “You have aunts, uncles, grandparents?”
“No one I really knew. They chose not to fit in with the family, so we never spent much time together. My grandparents were just like my parents, so no joy there, either.”
Where the hell was the waitress with his pop? He could seriously use a wash of something cold to chase the hoarseness from his voice. “In-laws?”
She shook her head. “Aaron grew up in the foster system. When he aged out, he joined the Army. They were his family.” Before he could think of another question, she turned that one back on him. “What about Sandra’s family? You still in touch?”
“I get birthday and Christmas cards and cards on the anniversary of her death. But pick up the phone and call?” He shook his head. “They live in Seattle. We never had much chance to get to know each other.”
And he’d never figured out how to face them knowing the secret he kept. Sandra’s family took comfort in the idea that she’d died a hero, doing the job she’d chosen. If they found out that her wounds had been survivable, that she could have come home and had a full life, that she could have chosen to live…
They’d already had their heart broken once. Why let it happen again?
Instead of the bitterness that had eaten away at him for four and a half years, all he felt was resignation. I lost my wife to an IED, he’d told Dane Clark weeks ago, but at the time it hadn’t been the complete truth. The improvised explosive device had claimed him, too. Like Sandra, he’d been too cowardly to work through the pain and come out the other side. He’d grieved, withdrawn into himself, shoved away everyone who tried to come close, and damn near wallowed in his sorrow and anger.
He’d been pissed at her for not living a full life, and yet he hadn’t, either. Though that was changing. It was hard to stay withdrawn into himself when people—like Jessy, like Dane—kept drawing him out.
After a moment’s silence while the waitress finally delivered their drinks, then took their orders, Jessy gazed across the water. “I met Aaron at a club in Savannah. I’d settled there, and he was stationed at Fort Stewart. He was funny and sweet and cocky as hell. We got married a couple years later and had a lot of good times.”
Dalton was surprised by the attempt at a chuckle that escaped him. “Sandra and I met at the feed store in town. We were married ten days later.”
“Wow. I never would have pegged you as impulsive.”
“I never was.” He’d been the patient one, thinking things through, considering consequences, and Dillon was the reckless one who didn’t give a damn about consequences, even though he’d left a trail of them behind him.
Was his brother out there somewhere, still screwing up people’s lives? Or had he changed, grown up, settled down, and made things right?
Was he even still alive?
They were identical twins. Everyone thought they had some kind of mystical connection, that they felt each other’s happiness and pain, that they shared a deep mysterious bond. If that were true, if Dillon sensed that Dalton was suffering, wouldn’t he have stopped being an ass years ago? Would he have inflicted so damn much pain if he felt it himself?
Surely, if Dillon were even half the man their parents had taught him to be, he would have at least let them know where he was, what he was doing, how he was doing.
A fish plopped in the water near the deck, drawing Jessy’s gaze. A faint smile tugged at her lips. “My friend’s dad took us fishing when we were about ten. I’d never been before, and I thought it was a most excellent way to spend a few hours. I had a pretty good catch, and I took them home and asked Mom if the cook could fix them for dinner that evening. She threw the fish in the trash, lectured me about proper behavior for a young lady and especially for a Wilkes, sent me to scrub away those awful smells—being fish and sweat and sun—and forbade me to ever go again. So naturally every time I could get away for a few hours when my friend’s dad was going out, I went, too. I just made sure to throw my catch back. It was my secret rebellion, but not letting her know took some of the power out of it.”
“Not letting her know was your way of keeping the peace.” Not that it sounded like there had been much of it in their family. “The important thing is you knew. And I’m pretty sure it wasn’t your first or your last.”
Fine lines appeared at the corners of her eyes as discomfort shadowed them. “First secret? Or rebellion?”
She sounded relatively normal, but he was pretty sure it took some effort. What secrets was she hiding, and from whom? Was he a secret? Was that why she’d suggested a restaurant outside town? So no one would know she had a date, or a date with him?
“Either. Both.”
After a moment, the shadows faded, and her shrug looked as careless as she’d intended it to. “People who don’t have secrets or rebellions haven’t taken enough chances in their lives. Nobody will ever say Jessamine Wilkes Lawrence didn’t take chances.”
He wondered what those secrets, rebellions, and chances were—wondered what she’d done in the past to cause that uncomfortable look. He could bluntly ask. He’d been so unsociable the past four years that people overlooked his behavior. He didn’t, though. Instead, he took a long drink of pop, savored the faint burn on its way down, then in the closest-to-teasing tone he’d managed in a long time, repeated, “Jessamine? Your name is Jessamine? Hell, I’d be rebelling, too.”
* * *
By the time dinner was over, darkness had settled like a shadow of protection around Jessy. Whippoorwills and bobwhites sang in the trees nearby, accompanied occasionally by the mournful note of the hoot owl. Distant lights on the water marked where boaters tried their hand at
night fishing or lures and catches of an entirely different sort. She felt a very distinct sense of pleasure, all warm and cozy and nice. She didn’t have a lot of nice moments in her life, but this evening had mostly been one after another.
Though now that the end loomed, some of her coziness was taking on a sharp edge of dread.
This was the point where most people would have their after-dinner drink, but not her. Other than margaritas with the girls, she did most of her drinking solo—or at least, away from her friends. The bartenders at every bar and club in town knew her tastes, and it had long been her motto that there was no finer way to end the day than curling up on the couch with Patrón or, before that made it into her budget, Cuervo. It was her routine.
So far she’d been able to avoid it for two nights in a row. But she’d done this too many times: gone out to dinner, gone home, had a drink or two or who-the-hell-was-counting before bed. She’d narrowly avoided it the last two nights. She’d missed it the last two nights.
How would it play out tonight? Would she stay strong, or would weak Jessy win?
The waitress brought the check, and Dalton slid two twenties beneath the tab. Jessy stared at the bills, grateful to them for pushing the night ahead to the back of her mind. “I don’t think I’ve seen anyone pay for dinner with cash in ages.”
“I have a debit card. I just prefer cash.”
“I bet I haven’t had money in my purse for at least a year.”
“So if our debit cards got lost or stolen, I’d still be able to buy myself a Coke, and you wouldn’t.” His half smile was smug and dry, one eyebrow quirked in a silent So there.
Slowly she rose to her full height, giving a little shimmy to send her dress fluttering into place. “I would still get my Coke, which would actually be Sprite Zero,” she said with an innocent smile. “I just wouldn’t have to pay for it.” Demonstrating the behavior that had gotten her way more than pop over the years, she sashayed to the railing at the far end of the deck.
Dalton told the waitress to keep the change, then followed, stopping a short distance to her right. “So you smile and flirt, and men do what you want?”
“Pretty much. It’s a birthright of Southern women. We learn it by the time we leave the nursery.”
He leaned against the railing, hands next to his hips on the well-worn wood. “Your accent gets heavier when you talk about home.”
“Does it?” People had pointed out before that thoughts of home made her sound like a cross between Scarlett O’Hara and Suzanne Sugarbaker. Good Georgia girls. “I bet you don’t fall for smiles and flirting.”
“I haven’t fallen for anything in a long time.”
Not since he’d picked up a girl at the feed store and she’d broken his heart. It must have been as close to love at first sight as possible, for them to have married ten days later and him still mourning four years after her death. If he knew the state of her relationship with Aaron at the time he died, he wouldn’t want anything to do with her.
She didn’t want anything to do with herself.
After a long, pensive quiet, he looked at her. “You ready?”
She nodded, stopped at the table to get her purse and the sweater she hadn’t needed, then they went inside the restaurant. They’d reached the vestibule when a man waiting with two small boys did a double-take, then spoke. “Hey, Dalton. I haven’t seen you since—”
He broke off, his gaze darting away, leaving no doubt how he would have finished: since Sandra’s funeral. Color bleeding into his face, he cleared his throat. “In a long time. How’re you doing?”
Jessy waited for Dalton’s answer. The man she’d met two months ago would have mumbled something and pushed on past. No, that man wouldn’t have been here in the first place.
“I’m okay,” he said and sounded as if it were at least half true.
“And your parents?”
“They’re good. They came through a few days ago.”
“Yeah, I ran into them getting gas on their way out of town.”
The guy’s gaze shifted to Jessy, accompanied by a polite smile and a nod, but Dalton didn’t take the hint and introduce her. She was glad he didn’t, she told herself, but somewhere deep inside, a part of her smarted at the slight.
The realist chastised her. Fair’s fair. You hoped he wouldn’t pick you up until Ilena and Bennie were gone because you didn’t want to introduce him to them.
Of course, Ilena and Bennie wouldn’t have waited for an introduction. They would have overwhelmed him with greetings and sly questions until he began looking for the nearest gopher hole to dive into. The margarita girls had that effect on a lot of people.
“Well.” The man gestured toward the bathrooms. “We’re just waiting on my wife and little girl. It’s good to see you.”
Dalton looked at the hand he offered before hesitantly taking it, letting go in the fastest handshake in history. “Yeah, you, too,” he said even as he ushered Jessy out the door.
Forcing him to slow his pace with her own deliberate steps, Jessy gazed into the starry sky. “Old friend?”
“Yeah. Lives down the road a couple miles.”
A neighbor, too, and he hadn’t seen Dalton in four and a half years. He’d taken the hermit thing much more seriously than she’d realized. How had he stood grieving alone, with no one but the animals for comfort? She’d done the first eighteen months alone, with only casual friends, co-workers, and pickups for company, and it had almost killed her. If she hadn’t met Carly, Therese, and the others when she did, she might not have survived.
But she had survived. Now it was up to her to make something worthwhile of her life.
Again the gentleman, he opened the door and waited while she climbed into the truck. Balancing on the running board, she faced him instead of sliding onto the seat. Finally she had the height advantage. Grasping the brim of his cowboy hat, she pulled it from his head and settled it on her own. It sank to cover her eyes and ears until she tilted it way back, then she studied him. “Do you get tired of being alone?”
Without the hat, he couldn’t hide his eyes in the shadows. The moonlight glinted on his face, on every hard line of his somber expression. He was still so long that she thought he could have turned to stone, the way she imagined herself doing, then slowly his lips parted and he exhaled. “Yeah. Sometimes.”
She gazed down at him, and he looked back, until the restaurant door banged, followed by kids’ voices. He had to know it was his neighbor’s family coming out, that they would be heading for one of the few vehicles left in the parking lot, but he didn’t tense, jerk his head around to look, or impatiently hustle her into the truck. For that reason, she stepped inside, sitting on the cloth-covered seat, fastening her seat belt.
She removed the hat when it bumped the headrest, started to set it on the console, then rubbed her fingers across it instead. When she heard straw hat, she always thought of the rough-woven hats she saw on beach vacations, not the elegant weave of this cowboy hat. It was soft to touch, nubby, and when she lifted it once more to lay it on the console, she caught a whiff of Dalton on it.
She missed manly smells.
The good ones, at least.
Once he was settled, he put the hat on again, backed out of the space, then asked, “AC or windows down?”
“Windows down, please. I spend way too much of my life in air-conditioned places.”
“I’ll trade you,” he said dryly as he lowered the windows.
Of course he spent most of his days outside. The deep bronze of his skin was testament to that, as far as it went. To the best of her fuzzy memories, that was somewhere just south of his waist. From there down, he was paler than she was. And muscular. Well formed. Long legged, narrow hipped, and—
Don’t go there, Jessy.
The breeze coming through the windows fluttered a piece of paper from under her seat, tickling her leg as it swirled upward. She caught it, glanced at the Double D Ranch logo on it, then tucked it under a pair
of sunglasses in the cup holder. “Men and breasts,” she said, faking a reproving tone. “Tell me you didn’t name the ranch after Sandra. Better yet, tell me you didn’t name it at all.”
He sat easily, all loose and comfortable, with one hand resting on the steering wheel. The look he gave her was tinged with just a little bit of humor. “Okay. I didn’t name it. The first Smiths to work the land did—Dooley and Donald. Every generation since then has had two sons whose names begin with D to continue the tradition.”
His younger brother’s name was Noah, which meant… “So it’s you and…”
“Don’t ask.”
His voice was as level and benign as it had been most of the evening, but she sensed he meant the words seriously. Mystery Brother was obviously not a subject he wanted to talk about. Okay, she had no problem with that. “You know what my parents named my sisters? I’m named after a damned vine, and my sisters are Anne and Mary. You can’t get any more normal than that. When Mary was born, it proved what I had suspected all along—that my mother had it in for me.”
He snorted. “And you were how old at the time?”
“Three. But I was a very wise three.”
“Did Anne and Mary ever rebel?”
Wishing she had long hair so she could take it down and feel the wind blow through it, she combed her fingers through it anyway. “They showed potential when we were young, but by middle school, they’d decided to follow the path of least resistance.” She paused a moment, then slyly added, “Traitors,” and earned a chuckle from him.
She didn’t blame her sisters for taking the easy way out. Their parents were formidable people. She had tried her damnedest to be malleable, but something inside had refused to back down, to conform into a perfect, fragile-smiled, superficial mini-Wilkes. Lord, she had regrets, but that wasn’t one of them.
Tilting her head, she gazed out the side window into the dark, hearing occasional snatches of barking, catching occasional whiffs of honeysuckle in bloom. No matter how sorry her life was now, it was preferable to the one her parents had wanted for her. That sense of entitlement, smug superiority, absolute lack of obligation, empathy, understanding…It would have smothered her.
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