A Love to Call Her Own

Home > Other > A Love to Call Her Own > Page 17
A Love to Call Her Own Page 17

by Marilyn Pappano


  Bell’s had been fun, but it wasn’t Six Flags.

  And Tulsa was great, but it wasn’t Paris, Rome, or London.

  “I wasn’t looking to fall in love. It was just so refreshing to talk to a man who paid attention to me, who truly wanted to know my opinions. Your dad, bless his heart, knew the girl he’d married, but he didn’t know the woman I’d become. He thought nothing would ever change, that we would always stay the same, that we would always want the same thing, and that it would always be his thing. His interests. His choices.”

  She’d hated camping. Ben had known it. Brianne and Sara had known it. Had their dad somehow missed that, or had he just not cared?

  A throb began in Ben’s left temple, spreading tension through his body with every beat of his heart. He didn’t want to hear this conversation, didn’t want to sit in another man’s house and hear these criticisms about the father who had given up so much for his family, who had invested every bit of himself into his wife and kids.

  He surged to his feet, anxiety to get out practically vibrating through him. “I’m—I’m gonna take a walk, clear my head. I’ll be back…”

  Patricia started to speak, then pressed her lips together and nodded with a weak smile. When he closed the front door behind him, he caught a glimpse of her, sipping her coffee, with what looked like a tear rolling down her cheek.

  * * *

  Jessy considered herself the master of quick changes—oversleeping so many mornings when she was working had forced her to develop the talent—but Fia gave her a run for the title. Less than fifteen minutes after Jessy got home, Fia had finished work, showered, changed, and driven halfway across town to Jessy’s door. Her hair was loosely secured with a wide clip that kept the damp strands off her neck, and instead of the second-skin workout clothes, she wore denim shorts and a T-shirt that looked a size too big.

  But she was moving well. No limps, no cautious steps, no hand painfully twisted. Tonight she looked like a thinner, more fragile but recovering version of her old self.

  Jessy set out the barbecue and plates, and they helped themselves to their favorites before moving to the couch. She’d made a pitcher of Southern sweet mint tea, the glucose-shock kind that could turn even Mrs. Dauterive, the old hag at the bank, into something resembling human, and she carried two tall glasses of it to the coffee table before sitting at the opposite end of the sofa.

  They ate like teenagers, washing down sweet-spicy sauce with heavily sweetened tea, and talked about Carly’s upcoming wedding, Ilena’s soon-to-pop kid, and other bits of gossip, until all they had to show for the meal were empty plates and full bellies.

  They were both sitting sideways, sofa arms at their backs—though sprawled after glorious gorging might be a better description—when Jessy asked the question in the back of her mind. Too lazy and sated to try for subtlety, she blurted it out, the way she usually did. “What’s up with you, doll?”

  Normally Fia brushed off questions about her health. I’ve seen a doctor, it’s just a sprain, just fatigue, just a headache. This evening, though, she tilted her head back to stare at the plaster medallion in the center of the ceiling and, after a moment, gave a long sigh. “I don’t know. I’ve seen three doctors, and none of them have anything to say besides, ‘Take it easy. Ice your muscles. Take an aspirin.’”

  “You’ve seen three idiots. How much weight have you lost?”

  “Only eight or ten pounds.”

  “Only?” That would be like Jessy losing thirty pounds. Fia didn’t have even five to spare. “The symptoms come and go, right?”

  Fia nodded. “They’re worse when I’m tired. I have muscle spasms, headaches, tremors, trouble walking. My vision gets blurry. I can’t remember things. I talked to the manager at the apartment complex today about getting a first-floor apartment because sometimes I barely make it up or down the stairs.” She was silent for a long time, then she met Jessy’s gaze. “Sometimes I’m scared.”

  The vulnerability in her eyes and the plaintiveness in her voice made Jessy’s stomach hurt. Giving comfort and reassurance wasn’t among her talents, but there was no one else to do it. Besides, she’d started the conversation.

  She slid to the middle cushion and took Fia’s hands in hers. “You’re gonna be okay. We’re gonna find out what’s going on and get it fixed.” She spoke with absolute certainty, as much to convince herself as Fia. “We’ve all been worried about you, but no one’s wanted to pry. Well, doll, now we’re going to pry. We’re gonna help you find answers and get well again.”

  Her eyes damp with tears, Fia held tightly to her hands. “Promise?”

  Jessy’s promises were few and far between. She didn’t want to be held to any particular action or behavior, didn’t want to disappoint people if she couldn’t live up to her offer. But this evening she didn’t hesitate. “Absolutely. I may not know anything about medicine, but I know a lot about kicking ass and raising hell. We’ll figure this out.”

  Freeing one hand, Fia swiped at her eyes. “That makes me feel better. I’m used to taking care of myself. I’ve been doing it forever. But it can make you feel so damn alone, you know? You’ve got to do everything yourself, you’ve got to be strong for yourself, you don’t want to show weakness or become that needy person that makes everyone groan when they see you coming.”

  Yes, they were alike, the sweetest, youngest, and most innocent of the margarita girls and the brashest, the boldest, the phoniest. “There’s nothing wrong with needing strength from your friends. You don’t have to be alone, Fee, not through this or anything else. We’re here.”

  Relief lightened Fia’s expression. She twisted her hand so she was now the one holding Jessy’s, and she quietly said, “You know that, too, don’t you? You don’t have to go through anything alone. We’re strong, and we’re here for you when you need us.”

  A chill rushed through Jessy, settling in her gut. She’d thought she was such a damn good actress—a damn good liar—that no one could see through the image she chose to portray. She’d had such unshakable faith in her ability to hide who and what she was, in keeping everyone from even guessing at her secrets. And the baby margarita sister knew at least one of them. It was clear in the empathy in Fia’s eyes, in the tender yet firm way she held Jessy’s hand.

  What to do? Lie? Play ignorant? Or try honesty for once?

  Jessy opted for honesty.

  Just not too much honesty yet.

  “You’re talking about…” If the girls had reached a wrong opinion of her, no need to correct it by spilling the real secret.

  After squeezing her hand, Fia let go, then drew her knees to her chest. “Before I met Scott, my girlfriends and I did a lot of partying. Just about every night we hit the clubs, danced, drank, had a good time. Scott and I had been dating about two weeks when he set me down and said there’s more to life than that. He wanted to do other things—enjoy a nice dinner and talk, go for a walk and have an ice cream cone, take a hike or a bike ride, have a picnic. He thought the clubbing and the drinking were just a waste of time and money and potential. He wasn’t interested in getting involved with someone who didn’t agree with him about that, and he told me I had to choose.”

  Her shrug was eloquent. “I chose him. I quit drinking, quit partying, and began doing something with my life. I lost my friends because of it, but I got Scott, and that was more than worth it. I found out I had ambitions and dreams. I became a more real person. I lived life better.”

  Jessy focused on the words that carried the sting of truth. “You think I’m not a real person? Because, honey, I can tell you—”

  Fia stopped her. “I’m saying that someone who’s wasted part of her life drinking can recognize someone else who’s doing the same.”

  Leaning back against the cushions, Jessy stared at the silent TV. Hadn’t she thought before that if Fia’s ailments were caused by self-medicating, she would know? She would be able to tell, one drunk to another.

  It had never occurred to
her that went both ways.

  Heat flooded through her body, and shame crawled across her skin, like tiny bugs ripping off flesh with each step. It had been bad enough when it was her own ugly little secret, but to find out that at least one other knew…

  Her voice small, her Georgia accent thicker, she asked, “Does everyone know?”

  “I think Carly’s concerned. Maybe Therese. I don’t know about the others. Like I said, I’ve been there. I drank because my friends did, it was expected, I was trying to fill the emptiness inside me. You drink because you’ve got a huge emptiness inside, too, and booze takes the edge off. Lucy feeds her sorrow. You drown yours.”

  Unable to sit still a moment longer, Jessy jumped to her feet, gathered the dishes, and carried them into the kitchen. She brought the tea pitcher back, refilling both glasses, then walked over to stare down on the street. “Little sister has insight,” she said, shooting for humor, not caring if she fell short. “I didn’t expect that.”

  The couch creaked as Fia stood. A moment later her reflection appeared in the window glass. “People think I’m just a fabulous body. They forget I’ve got a functioning brain.” Her humor fell a little short, too.

  They stood there a long time, gazing out, quiet, until Fia murmured, “Look at that sunset.”

  It was beautiful, shades of blue, purple, violet, red, delicate gold. Jessy had gone up on the roof and taken a hundred pictures of sunsets, and no matter how gorgeous the photos were, they couldn’t match the real thing for taking her breath away.

  “Every time Scott went away, even if it was just a few weeks’ training, we would watch the sun set the night before, and he’d say, ‘Distance doesn’t matter. Wherever you are, wherever I am, that same sun is going down on both of us, and it’ll remind you that I’m thinking of you.’” Fia laid one hand flat against the window. “Every night when the sun sets, I think of him and how much he loved me. He was the first person who ever really did. The first person who thought I was worthy. Who made me think I was worthy.”

  “He was lucky to have you,” Jessy murmured.

  The smile that touched Fia’s mouth was shaky. “Yeah. We were both incredibly lucky.”

  Jessy was sad enough to cry, except that life was too short to waste on…Oh, hell. Surreptitiously she wiped away a tear…then noticed that Fia’s hand against the window was trembling. Not emotional-shaky, but uncontrollable-shaky. Fia realized it, too, and withdrew it, wrapping her fingers tightly around the glass in her left hand. The result was tea splashing on the wood floor.

  “I’m sorry. I’ll get…” The words came out slurred. Ah’m suhrry. Ah’ll ge…

  After taking the glass from her, Jessy slid her arm around her waist. “I’ll do it. Right now let’s get you back to the couch.”

  Fia leaned heavily against her, and Jessy glanced down, surprised to see that the girl’s left foot was turned up so that she walked on the outside edge of it. Two questions took turns pounding in her brain. What was wrong with Fia? And what the hell qualified Jessy to guarantee help?

  Once she was settled on the couch, Fia smiled crookedly. “Ah jus’ need rest. Ah’ll be okay.” With effort, she touched her involuntarily curled fingers to Jessy’s arm. “You’re gon’ be okay, too.”

  * * *

  Dalton woke to a quiet house Monday morning. Noah, home for the weekend, had stumbled in sometime around 3 a.m., and Dalton had hauled his ass upstairs to his room. Did you drive? he’d demanded, and Noah, swaying unsteadily, had grinned. ’Course not. Those were the last words he’d said before getting dumped on his bed.

  Oz gave Dalton a look when he rolled over, then stood and stretched from the tips of his whiskers to the end of his tail. After a good shake, he jumped to the floor and trotted out the door.

  It was Memorial Day, and it ranked right up there with Veterans Day as Dalton’s least favorite holiday. When he was younger, Memorial Day had always seemed more about family and fun than remembering the dead. His mom had dragged them to the cemetery to place wreaths on various long-gone relatives’ graves, but then they’d watched the parade before going to the lake for a picnic with their still-living relatives. Hell, he’d been out of high school before he’d really gotten the meaning of the day, and by then he’d long since managed to avoid those trips to the cemetery.

  Now he was back to doing them. He put yellow flowers on Sandra’s grave year-round, so she would forgive him for skipping this week, but her mother and his wouldn’t. Besides, the idea of her grave being one of the few flowerless ones on this particular day was just sad.

  All of the graves surrounding Sandra’s were from the war on terror, all fairly recent. Few would go unmarked, including that of Corporal Aaron Lawrence. Leaving flowers in honor of memories that would never be lost was how Dalton and Jessy had met.

  He hadn’t seen her since Thursday night. He had intended to drive into town—and finally ask for her phone number—Friday after work, but Noah had shown up with a couple of friends majoring in agriculture who’d been full of questions about the ranch. Saturday and Sunday, it seemed everything that could go wrong had. A couple of cows had gotten out and decided life on the other side of the fence was too interesting to easily surrender. While he and Noah were rounding them up, Noah’s horse had bolted at the sound of an oncoming vehicle and unseated him on the road, giving him a nasty knot on the back of his head. The colt who’d injured his leg had opened it up again, requiring a visit from the vet.

  Sunday morning, Dalton had gone downstairs to the sight of water rippling through the hall. The hot water tank had burst in the utility room, flooding the first floor. They’d used the wet vac, mopped, and swept water out the back door, making a nice muddy puddle for Oz to wander through every time he came in.

  Through all the work, Dalton had anticipated seeing Jessy today. It was a strange feeling, one he hadn’t experienced in a long time, one he’d never expected to experience again. But damned if it didn’t feel good.

  After getting dressed, he followed Oz downstairs to the kitchen, where, major surprise, Noah was dressed, bright-eyed, and cooking bacon and eggs. “I figured you’d be down soon after the mutt. Coffee’s ready. Biscuits will be done in five.”

  Dalton glowered at him as he filled his mug with strong coffee. “You’re not even hungover.”

  “Would you feel better if I was puking my guts out instead of cooking your breakfast? Not that I was anywhere near that shit-faced.” Noah set a tub of margarine on the kitchen table next to a hot pad made from one of their grandmother’s old quilts.

  “You going back to Stillwater today?”

  “Yeah. In a couple hours. You have any plans besides taking flowers…”

  Dalton sat down at the table and studied the hot pad. Cut from a crazy quilt his grandmother had made, it was roughly eight inches square, wools and cottons and small strips of velvet stitched this way and that, well used, often washed, faded but holding together. He liked to think the same could be said of him fifty years from now.

  “Yeah,” he answered at last. “This guy I know and his fiancée are having a cookout this afternoon.”

  Noah turned from the stove, his eyes wide open and his mouth gaping. “Who?”

  “No one you know.”

  “I know everyone you know.”

  That had been true until recently, Dalton acknowledged. He’d cut himself off from everyone except the people he was forced to deal with—family, buyers, suppliers—and Noah did know every one of them. “Not Dane. He’s a soldier at the fort, he likes palominos, and…” Deep breath. “I’m going to be the best man at his wedding next weekend.”

  Leaving Noah speechless was a rare occurrence, and Dalton was appreciating it now. It only lasted until the kid caught a whiff of overcooked bacon, when he turned back to the stove and words came flooding out. “How could you get to know someone well enough to be his best man without me knowing it? Where did you meet him? A soldier? For real? And you’re going to a party?”

  H
e chose to answer the easiest question and ignore the rest. “Yeah, a party. With people and food and everything.”

  “And a wedding. Man, you haven’t even been to a wedding since—” Noah shot a glance over his shoulder as he began dishing eggs and bacon onto plates.

  “Since Sandra and I got married,” Dalton said evenly. “I haven’t known many people who got married since then.”

  Noah delivered the plates, then returned for the hot tin of biscuits, setting it on the crazy quilt pad. “Is the maid of honor good-looking? Any chance you’ll get laid?”

  His little brother always had getting laid on his mind. Granted, the kid was nineteen. And to be fair, it had been on Dalton’s mind a lot more than it should have been since Thursday night. Next time…

  He cleared his throat. “I haven’t met her. She’s some kind of genius scientist from Utah, and she’s married.”

  Noah slid into the chair across from him and dug into his breakfast. “There are bound to be other women there. Single women at weddings are always easy pickin’s.” He shook his head disbelievingly. “Damn. You meeting people, going to parties, being in weddings…Next thing I know, I’ll come home and find a woman here.”

  Heat spread through Dalton, and he shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He had no obligation to tell Noah anything about Jessy. He didn’t even know where they were headed yet. It could just be a thing. A few dates, sex, it’s-been-nice-good-bye. Though in his gut he didn’t want that to be the case. There was just something about Jessy…

  Lucky for him, Noah was too interested in eating to notice his response. Dalton followed his lead, so for a while, the only sounds in the kitchen were them scarfing down food and Oz’s occasional lip licking as he waited for the scraps he knew were coming.

  Dalton was spreading butter on his last biscuit when Noah finally spoke again. “Does anybody ever put flowers on Grandma and Grandpa’s graves?”

 

‹ Prev