Her legs were damp, too, and her socks were soaked. They were white, with black skulls centered in red hearts. They didn’t even reach her ankle bone, and from there up it was all smooth tanned skin, right up to where the shorts hugged her thighs.
This was some kind of payback for trying to be sociable—everything about her, sweat and all, looking damn good.
“I wear leather boots all day,” he said, his voice huskier than he wanted. “You won’t get any sympathy from me on a pair of lightweight nylon walking shoes.”
She made that dismissive sound again before saying, “I didn’t realize ranchers spent so much time in town.”
He wasn’t that far out—six, seven miles—but he’d always preferred to keep his town visits to a minimum except for the times he’d been dating someone. Those seemed a lifetime ago. “I usually don’t. I’m having dinner with a guy I know.” He didn’t mention it was Dane Clark or that he was going to meet her good friend Carly for the first time. He wasn’t sure why.
He turned at the next street, and within moments, he was parking in front of Jessy’s building. Her feet hit the floorboard with a dull thud, then she bent to scoop up her shoes. “Thanks for the ride.”
“You’re not putting those on?”
She gazed at the shoes, then the expanse of sidewalk separating them from her door. “I may never put them on again. When I torture my feet, I prefer to do it with something not so functional.” She slid out onto the running board, giving him a nice view of legs, butt, and lower back, before ducking down to see him. “If you find yourself back this way after dinner and can spare the time…”
Before he could answer either way, she hopped down and hotfooted it in her socks to the apartment door. The last thing he saw was a flash of honey-colored legs before the door blocked her from sight.
Come over and see her again. The idea held a lot of appeal, given how rocky their start had been. But things changed, and not always for the worse, as he’d come to believe. Once a man reached flat bottom, there was nowhere to go but up. If he needed a helping hand on that climb back up, well, Jessy’s delicate little hand was stronger than it looked.
The house Dane shared with his fiancée was easy to find. The house was small, painted white, the grass lush and green and flowers softening all the straight lines. Dalton’s house could use a few flowers, and probably a new coat of paint to boot. But the only thing he was interested in growing was livestock, and the next paint job on his list was the barn. It wasn’t like there was a woman living there who cared about flowers or paint. His mother had, but Sandra hadn’t, and Jessy…He squinted into the evening sun, remembering her pleasure with the wildflowers but failing to picture her as a gardener.
Though there was still a hell of a lot about her that he didn’t know.
The front door opened as he climbed the steps, and a woman greeted him with a smile. Dalton had seen her a few times at Three Amigos. He’d been there the night Dane had proposed to her, though no one knew. He’d gone with the intent of approaching the margarita club, but then he’d seen Jessy, so he’d drunk alone at the bar instead.
“You must be Dalton.”
“I haven’t been offered any other options today, so I must be.” He took the hand she extended for a quick shake.
She rolled her eyes. “It’s kind of a pointless question, isn’t it? I’m Carly Lowry. Dane’s out back watching the grill. Come on in.”
She ushered him inside, where he got a quick glimpse of rooms on the way to the back door: burnt orange living room, gray dining room, light yellow hallway, white-and-blue kitchen. He corrected his earlier thought. His house couldn’t just use a coat of paint. Compared to this place, it needed it.
“Dalton’s here, babe,” Carly said from the doorway. “You need anything?”
“No, I’ve got it. Thanks. Hey, Dalton, have a seat.”
Dane was watching the grill, from the comfort of a lawn chair, the wood stained dark, the cushion fat and the color of rust. Wearing shorts, he rested his prosthetic leg on a matching footstool, propped his good leg next to it, and cradled a bottle of beer in both hands.
“Dane.” Dalton chose another chair, red and white flowers on the same rusty background, and stretched out his legs. A light breeze tinkled the chimes hanging from a catalpa tree and carried the thin aroma of charring food from the grill. Nearby a table was set for three, across the patio from a fountain that sounded like his favorite stretch of creek at home.
“There’s drinks in the cooler there.” Dane pointed to the small chest between their chairs. “Carly and I made a deal that I’d take care of the grill if she’d do the rest. I’m not sure she realized my part’s a lot easier. Drink beer, flip things once in a while, then take ’em off.”
“Or she gave you the easy job on purpose.” Dalton scanned the contents of the cooler—bottled water, pop, and beer—and pulled a long-necked bottle from the ice.
“That may be. I’m not much good in the kitchen, but I can grill. How’s the ranch business?”
“Hard as hell and don’t pay worth a damn.” His dad used to say that, picking it up from his own father. Dalton hadn’t thought of it for a long time.
“Sounds like the Army, son.”
“Yeah, well, at least the cattle and horses don’t try to kill me. They’re satisfied with just kicking me into next week from time to time.”
Dane laughed. He’d changed in the past couple months. When Dalton had met him back in March, the soldier had been going through a tough time, back from the desert alive but not yet in a place where he truly appreciated it. It had taken time—and Carly—for him to get to that place.
If Sandra had given herself time, could she have learned to be thankful for what she had?
Could Dalton learn to be thankful for what he had? For what he could have?
“I’m done with being a target,” Dane said. “Carly and I finally decided. I’m transitioning out, going back to school, and finishing my degree. I’m probably going to end up teaching school.”
“Good for you.” Being indoors all day with a bunch of kids…Dalton would rather be a target. But if that was what Dane wanted—and it was pretty damn sure what Carly wanted; she’d already lost her first husband to war—good for both of them.
“It’s not jumping out of airplanes,” Dane said with a shrug, “but I can be happy.”
And that was all that mattered, wasn’t it? Being healthy, being happy, and having hope. Dalton had the first one, and it was looking like he could have the second two, as well.
And if the thought of being happy brought a picture of Jessy Lawrence to mind…Good. Good for him.
* * *
The clock on the kitchen wall said four minutes to eight when Lucy walked in. She’d been home three times throughout the day to let Norton out, but this time she was back for the night. After Patricia had finished at the funeral home, they’d gone to Pansy’s Flowers to choose floral displays, then to the Sandersons’ church to meet with the pastor about the service and the music. The last few hours had been spent going through Patricia’s clothes to pick suitable outfits for the dignified transfer, the viewing, and the service.
I won’t wear black, she’d said, her smile unsteady, her eyes overly bright. George loved color. He never wanted me to have even one little black dress, and he didn’t give a good damn how classic it was. Don’t you wear it, either, Lucy. Let’s make him smile up there in Heaven with our pretty outfits.
Lucy was happy to comply, she reflected as she filled Norton’s food dish, then his water bowl. No matter how many times she heard it, she didn’t look any slimmer when she wore black. She just looked like a fat chick wearing black.
“Norton!” she called. She rarely managed to set the food dish on the floor before the mutt came tearing into the room, colliding with the furniture and walls on his way.
She listened. No scrabbling of claws on wood, no snoring. She was about to head down the hall to the bedroom—the center of her bed was his
likeliest location—when a knock at the back door stopped her. Switching directions, she did a cursory look through the glass and saw Joe on the patio.
“Is my dog out there with you?” she asked as she opened the door.
“Yeah. We decided it was a fine night for dining al fresco.”
“Norton doesn’t even know what al fresco means. Want something to drink?”
“Nah, I’ve got water.”
Barefooted, Joe turned to go back to the patio table while she stopped by the fridge. She nudged her shoes off before stepping out the door, padded across the still-warm concrete, and sat in the chair nearest his, also still warm from the day’s sun. Her body seemed to sink and sink into the cushion as the tightness drained from her, head to toe.
They sat silently for a while, whippoorwills and bobwhites singing unseen in the trees. Norton lay beside Joe’s chair, his spare food dish empty, the water dish half so. Remains of a pizza from The Hideaway sat in the box on the table, beside three empty water bottles. The fourth was in Joe’s hand.
Lucy was raising her can of pop when she felt his chastising look. A little bit of guilt tickled the back of her neck. Despite her intentions, she hadn’t yet started her diet—it was hard when she was eating virtually every meal at someone else’s house, where she had no say in the menu—but still, she should have chosen water if for no other reason than to avoid a repeat of this conversation.
“Do you know how bad that stuff is for you?”
She glanced at the familiar logo on the can, then took a defiant swallow. “I do.”
“It’s full of chemicals. One can has a hundred and fifty calories. If you drink one a day for a year, that’s 54,750 calories. Each can has twenty-eight grams of simple carbs. Plain old sugar. And it doesn’t even quench your thirst.”
“But sometimes it’s the only thing that’ll do. Besides, I’m not one of your students, Joe.”
“You’re telling me. My students listen.”
She punched him, though with all his muscle, it hurt her hand more that it did his arm. “That’s rude.”
“Drinking that stuff is nasty. And we didn’t even get to what it does to your teeth.”
“My teeth are fine and none of your business,” she retorted. “I can’t believe the man who brought Krispy Kreme doughnuts over here on the first day of my diet is now criticizing my one splurge for the day.” That little bit of guilt stirred again.
Joe slid lower in his chair to prop his feet on the seat across from him, tilting his head back to gaze into the darkening sky. “You’re on a diet?”
Bless his heart—he didn’t say again? She did diets. She just never managed to do them well enough or long enough. When she’d started a diet to get into the cute summery clothes everyone else was wearing, he’d told her that her motivation was the problem. She had to want it for herself—her health, her well-being, her own personal goals that had nothing to do with fashion or clothing or anything else.
“I just want to lose ten or fifteen pounds,” she said, miffed that she sounded defensive. “They say if you lose just ten percent of your total weight, it makes drastic improvements to your health.”
Bless his heart again—he didn’t do the math to figure out what ten percent of her total weight actually was. “What about exercise?”
Lucy mimicked his position. “I’ve been a little preoccupied this week.”
“Luce, you’re preoccupied every week. It’s called life. You still have to make time to work out.” He swigged more water. “Meet me in the morning at six.”
The sedentary loved-her-sleep part of her cringed at the idea. “I’m going to work tomorrow.”
“You don’t have to be there until eight. We’ll just walk around the neighborhood.”
She hmphed. “I’ve seen you walk. I have to take three steps for every one of yours.”
“I’ll slow down.” He poked her shoulder, and again she was pretty sure it hurt her more than him. He was so solid, and she was so soft. “Luce, I’m offering to help you lose those ten pounds, and I won’t even say anything about the timing of your new diet versus your meeting Dr. Ben.”
A blush burned her cheeks, making her grateful the dusk hid it. Was she so gracelessly juvenile that she couldn’t hide a crush from anyone? Oh, crap, was Ben aware of it, as well? Was he amused? Embarrassed? Wondering how to let her down gently?
Though he did seem to like her. It wasn’t impossible. Joe was good-looking, hot, had a great body, and he liked her. Not romantically, but that had never even been a desire for either of them. They were just best buds. But Ben could like her in a boyfriend/girlfriend sort of way. Stranger things had happened.
Joe was smart about this diet/exercise stuff. He coached football, taught nutrition and fitness. Part of his job was to help people get in shape and stay there, and she liked spending time with him. If he was willing to help her, wasn’t helping herself the least she could do?
Her forehead wrinkled into a scowl. “Six o’clock, huh? Is the sun even up then?”
His grin was quick, charming, teasing. “You’ll find out tomorrow.”
She was wondering just how much she might regret it when her cell rang. She glanced at the screen. “This is Marti. I haven’t talked to her since Tuesday.”
“Go ahead.” He got to his feet and gathered his trash. “I’ll see you at the butt-crack of dawn.”
After giving him a wave, she raised the phone to her ear. “Hey, sweetie, long time.”
“Yeah, I know you’ve been busy.”
Marti Levin was another of her besties. She was blessed to have so many. Marti was everything Lucy wasn’t—tall, elegant, reed-slender, black-haired and fair-skinned, beamed confidence, and had never met a stranger. She told great stories and had a knack for making people laugh, though she insisted she wasn’t funny. All you need is a mother like mine.
Marti asked about Patricia, and Lucy filled her in. The margarita club members had all agreed to meet up at Jessy’s before lining up on the street for George’s dignified transfer and to sit together at the funeral. Though only Marti had met the Sandersons, and then only once, being there was the sort of thing they did for each other.
“So we’ll have the Memorial Day parade on Monday morning, the cookout at Carly’s that afternoon, the dignified transfer Tuesday, and the funeral Wednesday,” Marti listed. “A full start to the week.”
“Oh, I forgot about the cookout.” Their first Memorial Day, they’d had a picnic at Tall Grass Lake. This year, with Dane and Therese’s fiancé, Keegan, to man the grill, they’d settled on a cookout. Everyone was bringing dishes, and she’d been assigned desserts. Wonderful. More temptation.
She thought of Patricia—her first Memorial Day as a widow and she hadn’t even buried her husband yet—but it didn’t seem appropriate to invite a grieving widow to a party. Plus, her sister and a couple of nieces were due to arrive sometime that day.
It didn’t seem appropriate to invite Ben, either. Though she hated the idea of anyone being alone on a holiday, she was pretty sure he wouldn’t be in a party mood.
“You’re not canceling, are you?” Marti’s voice held a note of warning.
“Oh, no. If I can’t be with my family in El Cajon, I want to be with my family in Tallgrass.”
“Good, because I’d hate to have to drag you in a headlock all the way to Carly’s house, but I could. My brothers taught me how.”
Marti was the last of the margarita girls, along with Ilena, whom Lucy could imagine getting physical. She figured Jessy could do some serious harm, and she knew Fia could. Therese had grown up on a ranch, and Carly wrangled third-graders all day, so they had some experience. But anyone who annoyed Ilena would get loved to death, and Marti—well, she wasn’t going to risk her manicure or muss her clothing for less than a life-or-death situation.
“You and whose army?” Lucy responded to the threat.
“Don’t underestimate me, California girl. I’m an Army wife—”
�
�And I am strong,” they said together.
“Damn straight. Now, what’s been keeping you so busy that you haven’t even texted me this week? I know the number one answer is Patricia, of course, but I’m pretty sure she’s had some alone time. I heard Jessy say something about her having a son come visit who would probably be, oh, about our age. Is that what you’re doing when she’s resting? Comforting the son?”
Once more Lucy’s face warmed. “The son doesn’t need comforting. He didn’t know George.” Though he did have plenty of old wounds that weren’t hers to share.
“He didn’t know his mother’s husband of twenty years? Hell, I’ve met every one of my mother’s husbands and special friends, and some of those relationships didn’t last three months, plus I live halfway across the country from her.”
“It’s complicated.”
Marti laughed. “No one’s personal life could be more complicated than Eugenie’s.”
With an hmm of agreement, Lucy deliberately changed subjects. “I’m being responsible and proactive by telling you that I’m starting a diet.”
“Good for you.” A pause then, guiltily… “Are you still bringing angel food cake with berries and real whipped cream to the cookout?”
“Yes.”
“Whew, that’s a relief. Good for you, LucyLu,” Marti repeated with real enthusiasm. “I will be certain to eat every bite of it so you won’t be tempted.”
Lucy wasted a moment wishing she had the metabolism to eat the way Marti did, but only a moment. She’d been that way before Mike died, average weight and mindful of what she ate and pretty. Lord, she missed how pretty she’d been. But then she’d become a sorrowful eater, stuffing herself to numb her grief until it became an ugly and annoyingly stubborn habit. If she ever got blissfully happy again, would her eating return to normal, or had she created a lifelong monster to deal with?
The thought was too depressing to consider, so she pushed it away. “Tell me your new Eugenie stories, please. I need a laugh.”
Chapter 8
Dinner was long over, the sun had set, and the breeze still jingled the chimes. Dalton had helped Carly clear the table and bring out dessert, a tray of two-bite pastries from CaraCakes, and they’d polished those off an hour ago. It was time to head home.
A Love to Call Her Own Page 14