Could Lucy interest him enough during this short visit to bring him back?
Fingers and toes crossed, and all girlish crushes prayed, Yes!
Carly and Dane had rented two big canvas canopies and set up one on each side of the yard to provide shade. Tables, stadium chairs, and lawn chairs were gathered underneath, while on the patio, two grills were in use, smoking briskets and chicken and pork.
“These men take their barbecuing seriously,” Leah Black, one of the semi-regulars in the club, remarked as she selected a bottle of pop from the galvanized tub filled with ice at one end of the patio. “Marco couldn’t boil an egg, but give him tongs and charcoal, and he could turn out a five-star dinner from appetizer to dessert.”
“It must be in their chromosomes. Mike’s steaks and burgers were the best, but if I gave him the same ingredients and stood him in front of a stove, he’d stare awhile, poke a few things, then look at me and go”—Lucy switched to a caveman imitation—“Where fire? Smoke go away?”
Lucy reached into the tub for a bottle of water and got pop instead. Setting her jaw, she put it back and found the water, telling herself it tasted every bit as good as her favorite pop. Yep, she was great at lying to herself on these issues of taste. Steamed was better than fried. Fish was better than a burger. She loved broccoli. The untruths went on.
She and Leah headed to the shaded area where the other club girls had gathered. Marti looked cool and beautiful as always. Bennie had dropped her grandmother off for a potluck with her church prayer group—in air-conditioning, Mama Maudene had said with a satisfied nod—and Ilena was radiant even if she couldn’t get out of her chair without help. She’d accepted a boost after the parade from Carly and Lucy, but had warned the men to be prepared. After an evening of eating for two, she would need serious muscle to get her on her feet again.
Scanning the rest of the group, Lucy noticed the only one missing was Jessy, and at that moment, the side gate into the yard opened, and in she walked…followed by a tall, broad-shouldered, muscular, well-tanned, Stetson-boots-and-all cowboy. Fia gave a low whistle, and the rest of the women turned to look.
“Oh, my,” Ilena said, her simple words and delicate voice saying it all. Oh, my, indeed.
“Do you think they’re together or they just happened to arrive at the same time?” Therese asked.
The cowboy chose that time to adjust the camera hanging over Jessy’s shoulder, and his hand lingered long enough to make several of them chime in, “They’re together.”
“Who is he?”
“It’s Dane’s best man, Dalton,” Carly said. “I didn’t know he knew…”
“Hey, Dalton,” Bennie called. “Why didn’t Carly know you knew Jessy?” Under different circumstances, it would have been Jessy asking the question, but Bennie was a good stand-in, with the same attitude.
If he was uncomfortable having the group’s attention focused on him, it didn’t show. Jessy’s cheeks were red, but not his. That could be due to his tan and the brim of his hat. “Sorry, Carly. I’ll get you a list of my distant relatives, neighbors, friends, and acquaintances.”
Carly flushed and poked Bennie in the ribs, but it didn’t slow Bennie. “See that you do.”
The two continued to the tables where the food was laid out. Considering herself a nonperformer in the kitchen, Jessy always brought platters of beautiful fresh fruits and vegetables. That was probably all Lucy’d be able to eat, though Joe had reminded her of the magic word: moderation.
After a few minutes, Dalton joined the guys at the grill—Dane, Keegan, and some of Dane’s wounded warrior buddies—and Jessy had no choice but to join them. Every woman under the tent was watching her with an uh-huh, let’s get this discussion started look.
Bennie took the plunge. “Anything you want to share with us, missy?”
Lucy watched Jessy clasp the camera, her security blanket, before gazing around the group. She almost pulled off the careless air she was trying for. “You know how I always complained about how much I hated my job? I got a new one. I’m the latest flea-comber, tick-puller, fur-bathing, poo-raking employee at the Tallgrass Animal Shelter.”
And, of course, everyone let her announcement distract them from the sexy cowboy, Lucy included. They all looked at her crisp linen dress, her leather sandals, her perfect manicure and pedicure and carefully tousled hair and exquisite makeup job, then exchanged glances before Marti asked the question on everyone’s mind. “Do you even like dogs?”
“Of course I do. Why wouldn’t I?”
“Because they shed and lick and get stinky and pee wherever they want,” Lucy replied. “They jump on you and your furniture and leave scratch marks on your wood floors and want to sleep in the middle of your bed, preferably breathing their brimstone breath in your face.”
“I didn’t take one to raise,” Jessy said. “I’m just taking care of them. They’re very sweet, and if any of you are looking for a pet, we have plenty to choose from. Adoption fees are seventy-five bucks, and the pet is neutered or spayed and up to date on his or her shots.”
“How about the cowboy?” Fia asked. “Is he up to date on his shots? Because…hot damn.”
Settling back in a chair, Lucy agreed. Dalton was worthy of a hot damn or two. Ben, on the other hand, was worthy of a whole chorus of them. She wished she could have invited him, wished she could have walked in with him, had all the girls stare wide-eyed at them and wonder where the hell she’d found him.
Someday.
After all, a woman had to dream, didn’t she?
* * *
Clouds hung low in the sky Tuesday morning, dark and heavy, waiting to spill their rain. Ben stared at them all the way to Tulsa from the backseat of the family car the funeral home had provided for George’s dignified transfer. Patricia sat a mile away from him, at the other passenger window, lost in thought, and Major Baxter, along with Lieutenant Graham, the chaplain, occupied one of the side seats.
It had rained the day of his father’s funeral, making everything that much drearier, though Brianne hadn’t minded. It should rain on all funerals, she’d commented. The heavens weeping to share our sorrow.
It would be a damned gray world they lived in if it did.
Their first stop as they reached the Inner Dispersal Loop, which arced around downtown Tulsa, would be Ben’s loft. He’d already showered and shaved, but he needed something more appropriate than jeans and a button-down. If she was able, Brianne was going to meet them there; if not, she’d assured him she would be at the funeral the next morning. He hadn’t said anything yet to Patricia, in case Bree’s plans didn’t work out.
The driver stopped across the street from Ben’s building in the Brady District. For the first time, Patricia seemed to notice she wasn’t alone, looking at the building, then him. “You live here?”
“Yeah.”
“How unexpected.”
He didn’t ask why. Hell, it still surprised him sometimes. But he liked the high ceilings, the recycled wood floors, and the ten-by-twelve-foot windows that made up most of the outside walls. He liked living on the third floor, a little above the city but not too much, and the restaurants within walking distance. Even the drive to his clinic or the hospital was minimal.
He crossed the street, entered the lobby, and took the stairs to his floor. It took him only a few minutes to change into a pale gray suit, knot a tie, and pack a few clothes to take back to Tallgrass. Depending on how things went, he figured he could return home on Thursday, maybe Friday, and then…
Would he go back? He would have to see Patricia again, at least from time to time to see how she was doing. He didn’t know that he would ever forgive her, but he would see her.
And as a bonus, there was Lucy. If they’d met under different circumstances, they would have already had their first date, maybe the second. She was exactly what he liked in a woman: sweet, intelligent, generous, and kindhearted. He wanted to see what might develop between them.
When he reac
hed the lobby again, suit bag thrown over his shoulder, he stopped short. Brianne had shown up, after all. She’d come from the office, wearing a navy skirt a few inches longer than she preferred, crisp white shirt, and loose, flowy navy print jacket with sleeves that barely reached her elbows. Her black hair was pulled back from her face in one of those braids he could never figure out, and the look in her eyes was a mix of excitement and nerves.
Then she stepped aside, and he saw Sara behind her. Her dress had flowers all over it, the colors subdued, short and tight but not inappropriately so. Her dark hair, highlighted golden, was short and could survive anything, she bragged, including Hurricanes Matthew, Lainie, and Eli.
“Don’t you look somberly handsome?” Sara said, her mouth quirking, one brow lifting. “Is that the car?”
All three of them turned to look at the same time. “That’s it.”
“Who’s in there with her?”
“The casualty notification officer and the chaplain.”
“What about their family?” That came from Sara with another quirk.
“We’re family, too,” Brianne was quick to point out.
“The others will be getting in later today—Aunt Joan, Uncle Ralph, some of their kids.”
They stood there a moment, looking at each other and outside, then Brianne, with a quiver in her voice, said, “We shouldn’t keep her waiting.”
“Yeah. It’s not like we’ve been waiting for twenty years,” Sara muttered.
Ben scowled at her behind Brianne’s back, a silent threat that Sara accepted with a roll of her eyes.
Through the heavily tinted windows, they couldn’t see Patricia’s reaction when the three of them walked out together. They circled to the passenger side of the vehicle, and Ben opened the door, forcing his sisters to get in before him.
“Oh! Oh, my Lord!” Hands pressed to her mouth, Patricia was blinking rapidly as Brianne and Sara claimed the side seat opposite the two officers. She made a few squeaky sounds before finally lowering her hands. “Oh, you are more beautiful than I ever imagined.”
A flush colored Brianne’s face, but Ben thought most of the heat probably came from the huge smile she was beaming. It troubled him that he hadn’t given her a chance to have her own opinion about their mother. No kid should ever have had to hide the fact that she missed her mother, especially for twenty years.
“This is a wonderful surprise,” Patricia said, using one fingertip to wipe tears from her eyes. “Bree. Sara.”
Sara’s voice matched the stiffness of her posture. “We’re sorry about your loss.”
If the lack of warmth stung Patricia, Bree more than made up for it. She launched into the seat beside Patricia, enveloping her in a hug and murmuring, “I’m so sorry about George, Mama. I know how much you loved him.”
Sara gave Ben a what-the-hell look, and he just shrugged. At least he hadn’t been the only one Brianne fooled.
The major leaned forward, offering her hand. “I’m Major Baxter, and this is Lieutenant Graham. We’ll be assisting Patricia.”
Sara provided her name and Brianne’s, who took barely a moment from Patricia to shake hands.
There was little conversation from there to Tulsa International Airport, though Sara’s frequent glares left no doubt she had plenty to say. Ben stared out the window at people going about their everyday lives, preoccupied with work and family, not thinking that other people’s lives had abruptly ended. Of course, they couldn’t focus on death all the time; then what would be the point of living?
At the main gate into the Tulsa Air National Guard Base, the Patriot Guard were staged, most wearing denim and leather, motorcycles gleaming, flags on full display. Ahead were military personnel, presumably from Fort Murphy and the national guard, and a lot of law enforcement vehicles: Tulsa and Tallgrass Police, Tulsa County Sheriff, Oklahoma Highway Patrol.
Sara leaned closer to the major and grimly asked, “Are those protestors going to be here today?”
The possibility of a bunch of ultraconservative bigots disrupting the transfer hadn’t occurred to Ben. Even before he’d gotten this personal connection, he’d wondered how the hell anyone could look in the mirror after intruding so hatefully on a family’s grief and not be disgusted with himself. He bent forward, too, to hear the answer.
“They said they would, but there’s been no sign of them,” Major Baxter said quietly. “If they are around, you probably won’t see them. The Patriot Guard are very good at keeping them at a distance from the family.”
“Good, because I’d hate to kick someone’s ass today—I didn’t dress for it—but I could.” Sara’s jaw jutted forward, reminding Ben of all the times she’d played the protector as a kid. She’d rarely gotten into an actual fight, but she’d held her own those few times. Ben would put his money on her today, especially with those deadly heels she wore.
Patricia smiled faintly. “Still the defender,” she murmured, making Sara’s jaw clench.
Then the car stopped. They were there. After getting out of the car, Ben took note of all the people: the funeral director; Patricia’s pastor, Reverend Vernon, and his wife; several couples from their church. A short distance away, the officers belonging to the police vehicles stood with the military personnel. Most of them had never heard of Colonel George Sanderson. Some of them had known and loved him. All of them were somber and respectful.
After a few moments, the major touched Patricia’s arm and gestured. Flags snapped in the breeze, traffic sounded on the nearby highway, and a bird chittered nearby, but everyone’s attention was locked on the plane on the ground in the distance.
It glinted in the sun as it steadily approached, taxiing beneath a water cannon, the spray glistening in the air. Everyone saluted until, after a final turn, the Kalitta Charters plane eased to a stop some yards away.
The silence after the engines shut down was palpable. The pilot was first off the plane, followed by the copilot. They put ramps in place to unload the casket lift, then one climbed inside again. It was a moment before the flag-draped wood casket appeared in the plane’s doorway, drawing a gasp from Patricia, and another moment before she managed to breathe again. Sorrow etched deep lines in her face.
“They used to send the casualties home on commercial airlines,” she murmured. “In the baggage section. Then one father said, ‘My son is not baggage,’ and that started the charters.” Her voice broke on the last words, and a shudder rippled through her. She clung to Brianne with one hand, to Mrs. Vernon with the other, and for a moment Ben thought even their support couldn’t hold her.
Seven solemn soldiers marched to the plane, taking up position on either side of the lift. The casket team, Lieutenant Graham whispered. Once the casket was loaded onto the lift, the team stood at attention while those in uniform around them saluted. Swallowing over the lump in his throat, Ben followed the pilot’s lead and laid his hand over his heart. Its next few beats were painful, and his vision was growing blurry.
He didn’t know this man, his rational mind argued, but it didn’t matter. George Sanderson had devoted his life to military service. While other men were working nine to five, going home to their wife and kids every night, he’d been training to protect his country. He’d gone to war multiple times. His life was the last of the sacrifices he’d made.
His passing deserved respect, regret, and sorrow.
Once the lift stopped, the casket team marched away again. “Now that they’ve received the casket,” the chaplain murmured to Ben and his sisters, “your mother will have some time alone, then the team will return and transfer the casket to the hearse.”
The funeral director took position on Patricia’s left side, Reverend and Mrs. Vernon on the right, and Major Baxter led them across the tarmac to the casket. Ten feet from the plane, Patricia straightened her shoulders, held her head up, and walked alone to the casket. She stood straight as any soldier, one steady hand resting on a slash of red and white stripes. Then like an inflatable toy with a lea
k, she slowly folded in on herself, ducking her chin, tears flowing, sobs shuddering through her.
Ben squeezed his eyes shut. He still held a lot of anger for Patricia, but everything else aside, she had loved this man. She’d given up everything, even her family, for him. She’d stayed in love with him, loyal, supportive, happy, for every one of the twenty years they’d had together, and now she’d lost him. It was no mistake, no terrible case of misidentification, no nightmare. That wooden casket contained her husband’s body, all that was left of him in this world besides the memories. He was gone, and she was still here, and even though Ben had believed his heart was rock-solid safe where Patricia was concerned, this sight—his mother weeping, the flag-draped casket, the dreary skies, the solemn onlookers here to honor George’s memory…
This broke his heart.
* * *
Though it had been raining most of the day, the margarita club occupied its usual summertime seats on the patio of The Three Amigos. The temperature was warm enough that getting an occasional splatter wasn’t a problem, the rain cool enough to offset the heat. Jessy sat facing away from the building, where a shift of her gaze replaced besties with sheets of water, fat drops that plopped into puddles, tiny rivers seeking the low spots in the parking lot. The sight and the sound and the smell made her want to kick off her shoes, curl up in a comfy chair, and contemplate the benefits of washing away in a good torrent.
Her usual margarita sat in front of her, melted into a puddle with an occasional chunk of frozen stuff. It tempted her, but she hadn’t touched it yet. She was marking time somewhere around 12,720 minutes without a taste. The end of the ninth day. Pretty damn good for someone who’d screwed up practically everything in her life.
Oh, but there were times she wanted it. Wanted it so bad that she would claw her way through a crowd to get to it. Times when she felt so damn alone, when she was absolutely certain that a drink would cure everything that ailed her. Just one drink. No getting hammered, no blacking out, no misbehaving. One single drink. Moderation.
A Love to Call Her Own Page 19