A Love to Call Her Own

by Marilyn Pappano

  He admired her legs as she settled in the seat. He was definitely a leg man, and Lucy’s had nice curves. After closing her door, he went around and slid into the driver’s seat. “What? They both like to jog?”

  “Relationships have been built on less.” She gave him a sly look. “You’re such a big brother.”

  “I don’t care if my sister dates. I don’t even care if she has sex.”

  Lucy snorted. “That’s awfully generous of you.”

  “It is, isn’t it?” He couldn’t help but laugh with her. “I’d just rather see her with someone more suitable. She’s already got Nigel for the jock stuff—”

  “And the sex,” Lucy helpfully added.

  Ben grimaced. He really didn’t want to think about his sisters’ sex lives. He knew they had them—after all, he did have a niece and two nephews—but he didn’t need details.

  “Nigel. I’m guessing he took up hockey so the other kids wouldn’t have the nerve to laugh at his name.” Then she reached across the console, patted his knee. It was a natural gesture, comforting, familiar. “If Brianne is destined to be with Joe—”

  “Doomed.”

  “All you can do is accept it.”

  Yeah. Here lately Ben was learning a lot about accepting things he couldn’t change. So far, he wasn’t very good at it, and he couldn’t imagine his slender tolerance extending to Joe Cadore.

  He found Luca’s with no problem, though parking close by on a Saturday night was another matter. Lucy assured him she didn’t mind walking, so he took the next space he found, and they strolled the couple blocks back to the restaurant. Halfway there, he took her hand, small and soft, in his, and something inside him loosened, relaxed.

  Luca’s occupied an old house with a wraparound porch. Tables filled the back side of the porch, along with a few in the garden. “Oh, these are new,” Lucy said delightedly, and the hostess immediately offered them one near the central fountain.

  He liked a woman who appreciated the simple pleasures in life. Who helped him appreciate them.

  After they ordered, Lucy sipped her tea. “I bet your patients will be happy to see you again.”

  He was surprised he’d lasted this long in Tallgrass, but at the same time, he felt a little ambivalent about leaving. The break had been good for him; so had seeing Patricia and meeting Lucy. But returning to Tulsa didn’t mean he wouldn’t be back.

  “I’d like to think so,” he said, “but we’re a group practice, literally. We share physician’s assistants, nurses, techs, and, more or less, patients. I may do the surgery on a patient while a PA or another doctor does the post-op follow-ups. It just depends on how busy I am or if I’m in the clinic that day. My surgery days have overtaken my clinic days.” He watched the water splash in the fountain, drops catching the rays of the setting sun, glistening silver for an instant before they fell again.

  “Is that good or bad?”

  “It’s not quite the way I imagined things back when I was in medical school,” he said after a moment. “I always wanted to be a doctor and decided to go into surgery in school, but I don’t think I grasped that I’d be doing so many procedures, I wouldn’t have much time left for actual patient care. I never see a post-op patient in the hospital unless there’s a complication, and in the clinic, time is limited. I try to take the time I think I need with each one, but that puts us way behind schedule.”

  “Time is money,” Lucy said, sympathy softening her voice.

  Ben nodded, wondering where those complaints had come from, because he wasn’t dissatisfied with his job. He did a lot of good, and if he was sometimes—usually—busier than he’d like, that was a good thing, too. Better to have too many patients than not enough.

  He shook his head to clear it. “If you’d asked me a couple weeks ago, I would have said that I love my job and wouldn’t change a thing. I think all this time off has gotten to me.” Pausing while the waiter delivered bread and salads, he unrolled his silverware from the napkin, then when they were alone again, he said the words that guaranteed a subject change. “Tell me about your friend’s wedding.”

  * * *

  Dalton rolled onto his back, drenched with sweat, short of breath, and his limbs so tired he wasn’t sure he could move them. His heart pounding in his ears, he figured this was a hell of a way to end all those years of celibacy…if Jessy didn’t kill him.

  She snuggled close to his side, and his arm automatically pulled her closer, disproving that he was too tired to move. Her skin was damp, too, her face flushed a shade of red that just looked wrong with her, but while he felt like he’d been rode hard—and damned good—and put away wet, she just looked gorgeous. Satisfied.

  “Now this is the kind of exercise I like,” she murmured, tilting her head back to grin at him.

  He glanced at the bedside clock. “Three hours of this every day might be the death of me.”

  “But what a way to go.”

  Amen to that. Stroking the soft skin on her side, right where the swell of her breast started, he gazed at the ceiling and the fan that lazily swirled there. He’d never brought any woman but Sandra into this room, this bed. For years, he’d thought he would never quit hurting enough to trust another woman.

  He was trusting Jessy with more than his life. With his heart.

  Outside the room, Oz stirred, then ran downstairs to give a low bark. About the same time, the creak he’d been meaning to fix announced the opening of the front door. “Shit,” he muttered. “Noah said he wasn’t coming home this weekend.”

  “Is that the brother you warned me to stay away from?”

  Though his body had finally started to cool, heat collected in his face again, a healthy dose of guilt and shame. “I was out of line…but I told you I don’t share.” Wasn’t it damn well enough that he shared his birthday—hell, even his face—with Dillon?

  “You didn’t have to worry. I don’t do brothers. That’s just icky. Besides, he’s a boy.”

  “Yeah, you tell him—”

  “Dalton?” The voice came from downstairs, making all his muscles go tight again.

  “Holy shit.” Letting go of Jessy, he rolled to his feet.

  She pulled the sheet over her, crossed arms holding it in close over her breasts. “That doesn’t sound like Noah.”

  “It’s my parents. Damn it, that’s it. I’m taking away everyone’s keys. This is my house now.” He yanked on his boxers, then grabbed a pair of jeans from the clean laundry pile and struggled into them before jerking up a shirt, too. “I’ll be down in a minute,” he called.

  “Should I hide in the closet?”

  The quick look he’d intended to give her caught and held. She was sitting now, knees drawn up, and she looked vulnerable, taking cover behind the sheet. He fastened his jeans, pulled on the T-shirt, then sat beside her, combing his fingers through her hair. “I knew the chances of ever meeting your parents were somewhere between slim and none, but I figured you’d meet Mom and Dad on their next visit. With advance notice. And clothes on. And not looking all wanton and sexual and shameless.”

  The words made her smile, the way he’d wanted, then she immediately turned serious again. “What do you want me to do?”

  It was a simple decision. “Get dressed. Come down.”

  Her expression took on a sickly tinge. “They’ll know what we were doing.”

  He looked at her—she was damn near glowing—and grinned. “They have three sons. They’ll figure it out.” Pushing to his feet, he kissed the top of her head. “Come on down. Make my folks delirious with relief.”

  As he left the room and headed down the stairs, he heard noises—pans rattling, cabinet doors opening. His parents were in the kitchen, of course, his dad probably settling at the table, his mother starting to cook. She always thought Dalton was going to starve if she didn’t feed him well when she was here.

  Instead of hanging around the kitchen the way he usually did when there was food around, Oz hunkered in the recliner, with o
ne eye on the guests. “Mom try to throw you out again?” Dalton asked when he reached the broad hallway.

  He turned left and saw his parents standing in the middle of the kitchen. David had his glasses in hand, along with a towel to clean them, and Ramona was holding a skillet and a bottle of olive oil, but they were both motionless, staring his way. Stopping short, he looked at them, glanced at Oz, and wondered what the hell…

  “Is there something you want to tell us, sweetie?” Ramona asked. Her eyes seemed brighter than usual, like she was about to cry, and suddenly his dad was grinning like a Halloween pumpkin.

  “I, uh…” He couldn’t think of a damn thing.

  His father gestured with the towel, and Dalton looked down. Jessy’s sexy-as-hell shoes were where she’d left them at the foot of the stairs, a few inches from his bare feet, as obvious as a trail of cast-off clothes through the house.

  Ramona came a few steps closer and whispered, “Is she going to come downstairs so we can meet her, or is she feeling a little awkward? It is a little awkward. We should have called to let you know we were coming.”

  “We didn’t know ourselves until we hit Tulsa, and I doubt he would have answered the phone an hour ago,” David said dryly.

  Ramona elbowed him. “Of course, we won’t stay. We don’t want to overwhelm her. We would like to meet her, but if she’s not comfortable…”

  Jessy was nervous, but she had to meet them sooner or later. Besides, his parents were nothing like hers. The fact that he loved her was enough to make them welcome her like the daughter they’d never had.

  Nudging the shoes closer to the hall table, he called, “Jessy?”

  After a long silence, she appeared at the top of the stairs, dressed again, hair combed with her fingers. Where she’d looked sophisticated at the wedding, now, bare-footed and mostly bare-faced, she looked…perfect. Except her green eyes were big enough to pop, and considering the last few hours’ exertion, she was awfully pale. As she began a slow, hesitant descent, he realized her question about hiding in the closet hadn’t been a joke. She really would have preferred to hide, to meet his parents under better circumstances.

  “Jessy Lawrence,” he said when she finally stopped beside him, “my parents, Ramona and David Smith.”

  Her gaze darting his way, she stepped forward to accept the hand David offered. “Mr. Smith.”

  “Oh, call me David. Everyone does. Ramona—”

  Ramona hadn’t met Jessy halfway, like David. He caught her wrist and pulled her to his side, then eased the cast-iron skillet and oil bottle from her hands.

  “Mrs. Smith.” Jessy held out her hand, and for a long moment, Mom just looked at it. Looked at her. Her gaze swept over Jessy all the way from the top of her head to her dark red painted toenails, then back up again. She gave a little start—a poke from Dad on his way back from putting the skillet and oil on the counter—and abruptly took Jessy’s hand.

  “Jessy. It’s nice to meet you.” It wasn’t the warmest welcome Dalton had ever heard her give, and it didn’t include the automatic, Call me Ramona. Those were the first words she’d said to Sandra, in a sincere, yay-I’ve-got-me-a-daughter! tone.

  Dalton was puzzled. A few minutes ago, his mom had been cheerful as hell, wanting to meet the woman in his bed, shaking with excitement, and now she was…Disappointed? Sad?

  Jessy saw it, too, of course, and that vulnerability was back in her eyes, though she tried to subdue it. When he sidled close enough to reach for her hand, she pulled away, folding both hands behind her back. Nails clacking, Oz trotted in from the living room, looked from side to side, then sat down in front of Jessy. Appointing himself her guard for the moment?

  “Well, uh, Jessy.” David shoved his glasses back into place. “You live in Tallgrass?”

  “Yes.”

  End of that conversation.

  Dalton didn’t know what to say or do. He’d never experienced this kind of discomfort with his parents. His mom had always liked everyone…except maybe Alice, even before she’d run off with Dillon. He’d honestly thought she would love Jessy for saving him, if nothing else.

  In a sudden flurry of activity, Ramona put away all the stuff she’d gotten out to cook with, then grabbed her purse from the back of a dining chair. “Well, if we’re going to get to Stillwater in time to catch Noah before he goes out clubbing, we’d better get going. Nice to meet you, Jessy. Dalton, I’ll talk to you later.” With that, she walked stiffly through the house and out onto the porch.

  David hesitated. “Jessy, it is nice meeting you, though I’m sorry to surprise you this way. Dalton…” At a loss for words, he shrugged, shook his head, and followed Ramona.

  After the screen door closed behind him, the house vibrated with silence. Dalton’s breathing seemed excessively loud, while Jessy didn’t seem to be breathing at all. She had this pale, stark, insecure thing going on that made his gut knot.

  Long after the RV motor had faded into the distance, she finally breathed. “So that was delirious with relief. I’m glad you told me. I never would have recognized it if you hadn’t.”

  He combed his fingers through his hair. “I don’t know what that was. I don’t understand. She wanted to meet you—even said she didn’t want to overwhelm you.”

  “As first meetings go, I think it was pretty underwhelming.” As if her legs would finally move again, Jessy crossed to the refrigerator and took out a bottle of water.

  Wedding cake notwithstanding, it had been a long time since lunch, and though his stomach was still unsettled, he was hungry. Surely she was, too. “Listen, you want to head back into town—”

  Jessy looked sharply at him. “You want me to go home?”

  “No,” he said slowly. “I want you to spend the night. I was just thinking about food. Unless you’re a better cook than me, our best chance for a good dinner this late is in Tallgrass.”

  It took her a long time to break his gaze, then turn back to the refrigerator. “I can’t cook much. I can steam fish—”

  “Though why would you want to.”

  “And I can make egg and grilled cheese sandwiches.” She set a carton of eggs on the counter, found a package of sliced cheese and the butter, then closed the door with her hip and asked, “Bread?”

  He was out of his mom’s homemade bread, so he got a store-bought loaf from the pantry, then set the griddle pan on the stove. He leaned against the counter, watching her, getting things for her as she needed them, and thought this was something he could get used to. Having her in his bed. Feeling her beside him when he slept. Knowing she would be there when he woke. Sharing that big old bathtub. Living the rest of their lives together…

  Damn it, why had his mom reacted that way?

  Jessy slathered butter over the hot griddle, then began assembling three sandwiches: slices of bread, butter side down; slices of cheese; hard fried eggs; more cheese; bread, butter side up.

  As he watched her watch the cooking, he said, “Jess, I’m sorry about Mom. I don’t know—”

  A muscle twitched in her jaw, but her pretty, phony smile almost hid it. “Hey, I have a lifetime’s experience at disappointing mothers. It’s one of my talents.”

  “She wasn’t disappointed.” But that was exactly how it had seemed.

  “Sure she was. Maybe because I’m so obviously not Sandra. Maybe she expected someone more like her. Maybe she knows who I am. She must still have friends in town. She doesn’t seem the type who wouldn’t keep in touch just because she moved.”

  “And what could her friends possibly tell her about you?”

  She lifted the first sandwich to check the browning, then carefully flipped it before looking at him. “You are not the only man I’ve hooked up with since Aaron died.”

  Dalton widened his eyes and raised his voice half an octave. “Oh, my God, you mean you’ve had sex with other men? You’ve gone out, shared meals, shared drinks, maybe even danced with other men?” After a pause for effect, he kissed the top of her head. “W
elcome to the world of being single, sweetheart.”

  He couldn’t dig up even a hint of jealousy over it. What happened when they weren’t together didn’t matter. From now on…that was the important stuff.

  “You know what? You and me—we’re the ones who count here. Mom will come around, or she won’t.” Cradling her face in his palms, he brushed his mouth across hers. “Either way”—his tongue stroked between her full lips—“we’ll be fine.”

  * * *

  It was the middle of the night, and Jessy couldn’t sleep. She’d eased out of bed, pulling on Dalton’s discarded dress shirt, and wandered barefoot out of the room. Oz, curled on the floor, lifted his head as she passed, did a stretch that would make any yoga master proud, then got up and trailed along behind her.

  Moonlight through the windows lit the way, guiding her down the stairs, down the broad hall, and into the living room, where she did a slow circle around the perimeter. It was a comfortable room, square, big windows and a sandstone fireplace on one inside wall. She could easily imagine the mantel holding family pictures of Dalton, Noah, and the mysterious Dillon, David and Ramona and Sandra, the oh, so much more acceptable daughter-in-law in Ramona’s eyes.

  But it didn’t hold any pictures. Except for a stack of magazines, the mantel was bare. In fact, Jessy hadn’t seen any reminders of Sandra anywhere. No tacky but fun Vegas wedding photo, no shots of her in uniform or with the animals, no flag from her coffin, no medals, nothing.

  Not that she could blame Dalton for that. All her reminders of Aaron, except for the pictures on her computer, were put away. She couldn’t bear to live with them but couldn’t bear to get rid of them, so she’d carefully packed them in heavy-duty tubs and moved them to her basement storage room.

  Not yet ready to settle, she continued her self-guided tour. Dalton’s office was across the hall, every flat surface covered with papers, folders, catalogs, and magazines. Even in the pale light, she could see a layer of dust settled unevenly over the room, as if he came in only to work, then got out again as quickly as he could. She imagined a ranch, like any business, required a lot of paperwork, and she couldn’t imagine Dalton having nearly as much interest in that as he did in the outside part.