“Big change from high school and living at home.”
“Yeah. I loved it too much. Dad had to come get me, to remind me I had a future, which I couldn’t spend living in the moment.”
“Sounds like a parent.” She turned to grab the hamburger as an excuse to see his face. “But for the sake of argument, why couldn’t you?”
“Because, Kendra.” He held her gaze, his smile growing slowly. “That’s not what Cartwrights do.”
“I got that impression.” Kendra nodded calmly, weighing whether it was smarter to keep pushing now or pull back. And whether she should stand there staring into his blue eyes much longer, because she was going to start thinking about him naked again. She turned and pulled out a large saucepan from under the sink.
“I’m not in touch with Marta.”
“As you said, none of my business.” She felt herself coloring. A tiny tense spot loosened in her chest. Kendra, you are strictly forbidden from getting crushes on clients. “Any idea where the olive oil is?”
“Try that cabinet?” He pointed.
She found the oil and added a glug to the pan, waited until it was shimmering to add the onion and carrot.
“What did you do after high school?”
Kendra suppressed a snort. Recovered from you, you expletive. “I went on to UCLA, majored in psychology.”
“Ah.” He came to stand next to her, watching her stir the vegetables. She wished he’d sit back down again. His nearness was so...near. “So you followed in the parental footsteps, too.”
Funny, she’d never thought about it like that. “I guess I did. The difference being that they didn’t expect or demand it.”
“Right.” His face shut down. She’d pushed too far there. Matty’s assessment of her brother’s uneasy relationship with the Cartwright legend seemed accurate.
Interesting.
“So now we add the hamburger and stir until it’s not pink anymore. You want to do that?”
He took the wooden spoon she offered. Kendra stepped back, grateful to put distance between them, and watched as he broke up the meat and let it brown, music wafting in, harder to hear with the sizzling on the stove, but a nice atmosphere, warm and good smelling. She hoped he was enjoying it.
Beef browned, she added the tomatoes and broth, put the lid ajar and set the sauce to simmer.
“That’ll be an hour or so. When was the last time you left this apartment?”
He put his hands on his hips, looking down at her. “You don’t want to know.”
“I didn’t think so.” She wanted to take a step back, but there was nowhere to go unless she could dissolve into a cabinet. “You up for a short walk? It’s beautiful out today.”
He looked skeptically toward the window, where twilight was threatening.
“There’s enough light for a stroll around the grounds here, on good level paths. We can go to the beach another time, when your knee is stronger.”
“How many times are there going to be? Why wasn’t I told about this?”
She tipped her head back to see his face. “Is hanging out with me that awful?”
For another of those electric moments, he looked down at her without speaking. Kendra felt her control of the situation slipping again into a déjà vu sensation that left her mildly disoriented. Honestly. This was not the way her appointments were supposed to go—or had ever gone. Her job depended on her ability to ask this kind of question without caring so much about the answer.
“It’s hell, Kendra.” He shook his head slowly. “I’ve never known such agony as having to spend time with you.”
She broke into a giggle. “Call me Satan’s soundtrack?”
“That’s you.”
“It’s about time I tortured you for a change.” She thrust a finger toward his chest.
In a case of painfully exquisite timing, the CD ended and the words she’d blurted out hung in pure silence. Nice one, Kendra. First rule of her profession: do not make anything personal or take anything personally. She’d done both.
“Hmm.” Jameson’s eyes narrowed. His hands crept onto his hips. “I guess you do owe me.”
“No, no, of course not.” She waved his words away, face turning red. “That was just kid stuff.”
“Just kid stuff?” His left brow moved up half an inch; his eyes had taken on a particular...warmth that she responded to by heating up herself. “You think?”
“Of course. What...else?” Instinct told her suddenly and firmly that she did not want to follow this line of questioning. Everything she said was turning intimate in a way she didn’t understand.
“I wonder sometimes.” He was half smiling now, mysterious and I’ve-got-a-secret. Once again in control while she struggled with bafflement and confusion.
Kendra turned back to the stove, pretending to check on the sauce, adjusting the flame though it didn’t really need to be adjusted, thinking that for the first time since she’d started her practice two years earlier, and despite the experience and confidence she’d gained in that time, she might be in over her head.
5
JAMESON TURNED OFF the treadmill in the apartment complex workout room, grabbed the towel from around his neck and mopped his face. Pathetic that a fast walk could make him break a sweat. Granted, it was too warm in the room, and he’d done the full range of exercises his physical therapist had assigned him plus a few more. Don’t overdo, yeah, he knew, but he was itching to get back to full mobility. His knee could almost straighten now, and nearly bend to ninety degrees, but it still hurt like a...thing that hurt a lot.
Research on the internet was not encouraging: pain lasting a year, continued swelling and stiffness, some lack of mobility. Worst case the knee would remain unstable or he’d injure his ACL or meniscus again. Second surgeries were deemed “not as successful,” which was doctorspeak for “you’re screwed, buddy.” He was still having pain from overextending his knee when it fell on the coffee table, in spite of the icing and the rest.
Yeah, okay, maybe not enough rest.
Still, today he felt a little better. A little lighter, a little less as if the weight of the world was trying to crush his chest. Looked like Kendra’s “treatments” might be working, though not the way she intended.
He couldn’t stop thinking about her. She’d certainly knocked him for a loop when she’d walked into his borrowed apartment two days ago, so cheerful and sweet smelling when he was neither. But last night he’d found himself tempted to back off that anger, to really talk to her, open up, lean a little, confide in her.
Because during the evening as they’d cooked together, he’d found a new piece of the puzzle that was Kendra Lonergan, one he’d tried to figure out all through grade school, when she’d first started fascinating him.
She could be vulnerable.
Her less-than-ideal embodiment of femininity and who-cares attitude had made her an immediate target for him in elementary school, egged on in middle school by his somewhat apish brothers, who’d caught on to his interest, which they’d interpreted as disdain and cheered him for wholeheartedly. But Kendra had confused them, too. She hadn’t played the geek role, hadn’t been submissive to them or to their arsenal of standard bully weapons against her—chief among them being Jameson.
At that age, like every other boy on the planet, he’d looked up to his brothers and father as male role models. He’d been cruel to Kendra as a matter of course, because they dared him to, because he wanted their approval, because he was insensitive and stupid and bristling with hormones.
But she had never reacted the way he or his brothers had expected, with pain or humiliation, tears or pleas to leave her alone. Neither had she pretended the Cartwright brothers didn’t exist. Instead, she’d looked at them with what seemed like genuine pity. In those moments Jameson had been the one embarrassed,
ashamed of what he’d tried to do. Instead of stopping, giving up, admitting he couldn’t get to her, he’d just tried harder, turned his own suffering into bigger and meaner anger.
Kind of like he was doing now.
Through elementary school, middle school and just over the border into high school, their ongoing battle of wills had become one of the strangest relationships he’d ever had. Sometimes he’d wondered, if she’d once, just once, given any sign acknowledging that he existed as other than a pathetic pain in her ass, he might have stopped, might have approached her differently, as something besides a Cartwright menace.
But she never had given in. By high school, he’d been at least slightly more mature, and getting sick of the game. His brothers, trying one more time, had had him ask her to the freshman spring dance as a joke. He’d agreed, feeling sick inside, and at the moment of asking, promised himself that if she said yes, he’d atone for his cruelty by going through with the date, no matter what it cost him.
She hadn’t. She’d laughed in his face. Why would she want to go anywhere with him? Then she’d walked off, still laughing, calling to her friend to come listen to the latest.
That had been it. He was done. Mortified and relieved. When Mark and Hayden had called on him to plot their next move, he’d said no and hadn’t budged, enduring taunting and a few punches for his insolence. That had been the first time he’d stood up to his brothers, the beginning of his emergence from boyhood.
Unfortunately, he’d been destined—or doomed, was more like it—to get to Kendra once more. Senior year, he’d beaten her for class president. She’d clearly run the better campaign on issues of assigning homework based on GPA—the higher your grades, the less homework you’d have to complete—and other substantive ideas. Jameson had swept to victory on a promise of new vending machines, later curfews for dances and the Cartwright name.
A hollow victory. He’d served that whole year with the sickening certainty that he hadn’t earned and didn’t deserve the votes or the presidency.
After all that—Kendra still wanted to help him. She was still a fascinating woman. One he was increasingly attracted to.
Back upstairs, he showered and settled onto the couch with ice on his knee. His workouts took an hour or so out of his day. Meals took another two. The rest—boredom and inactivity, doubly intolerable after the busy, active days of basic officer training.
Maybe he should rent a car. He hadn’t bothered because of the pain and the expense, but he might go out of his mind if he stayed between these walls for too many more days.
His cell rang. He peered at the display. Matty. He should answer her call. His dad and brothers were easier to avoid, though he’d mistakenly picked up earlier and spoken to Hayden in Germany, so he’d had to hear about all the friends Hayden knew with ACL injuries who’d been back to 100 percent in about thirty seconds and what was wrong with Jameson’s wimp ass?
Thanks, Hayden.
“Hey, Matty.”
“Jameson! You’ve been avoiding me, you pig.”
“Sorry.”
“I know, you’re having a tough time.” Her tone reminded him exactly of his mom’s when one of her boys got sick. She probably had that same pout-frown on, too.
Drove him nuts.
“I’m fine.”
“Right! Right, of course. You’re fine.”
Jameson grinned at her loud raspberry. It was about as easy to B.S. Matty as it was Kendra. Namely, not at all. “So what’s going on?”
“Nothing. Getting close to selling a house. Still doing the show. What’s going on with you? Are you feeling better? Any improvement?”
He wanted to tell her about Kendra. She probably didn’t even remember Kendra. He just wanted to talk about her. “Nothing.”
“Are you checking in with your doctor? Or your PT?”
“No, I figure I can handle this recovery all by myself because I have so much experience.” His sister made a sound of exasperation. He could practically see her rolling her eyes, too—blue ones like his. In fact, she had all the standard-issue Cartwright features, but on her the square face and strong jaw became uniquely feminine. “Yes, Matty Mom, I have spoken to both of them. I’ll be back at Keesler at the end of the month to start my thrilling life behind a desk until I’m cleared to resume training.”
“So you’re not working with anyone now?”
Jameson frowned. She’d given him the perfect opening. He took the ice off his knee and stood, needing to pace. “Actually, my doctor did send...someone.”
“Yeah? Who is this...someone?”
“Did you know Kendra Lonergan in my class?”
“The name is familiar.”
“Apparently she works with people who need... Who could use...”
“The word is help.”
“Something like that.” Jameson’s imagination supplied a picture of Kendra, kneeling at his feet, massaging his thigh, hands warm and skillful, thick auburn ponytail spilling over one shoulder, green eyes bright with concern. He stifled a groan. Not that kind of help.
“Did you know her parents were killed in a car wreck two years ago, days after she graduated college?”
Jameson stopped pacing. It was a few seconds before he could speak. “My God, Matty.”
“Mom and Dad told me when it happened. It was all over the papers in Palos Verdes Estates. Poor kid, it was awful. She has one brother, much older, who lives abroad, I think? Her parents were both only children. Grandparents all gone. She’s been alone in the world for two years.”
Jameson pushed his hand through his buzzed hair, trying to take in the news. Kendra had been close to her parents. How did he know that? He couldn’t remember. His mind was whirling, pressure growing in his chest. He could picture two people. The woman with Kendra’s hair, tall and slender, the man not much taller, stocky, both young—his mom’s age—with gentle smiling faces.
Kendra. The expert on grief.
No wonder.
“Three months later she went on to graduate school at California State as planned. Got her master’s in counseling and started her own business.”
Jameson felt a sharp jab of protectiveness. All that on her own, all those months carrying a tremendous load of pain and of responsibility. More than anyone should have to bear, let alone a twenty-two-year-old.
Look at him, whining about how his family drove him crazy. They were alive and they loved him and would be ready to support him again—in their own warped and controlling fashion—whenever he was ready.
No wonder Kendra had looked so ripped open, so vulnerable, when she’d told him about her mom the previous night. Where had she been able to go with her grief? Who had supported her? Instead of collapsing into victimhood, she’d gone out and tried to help others who were suffering.
And he’d been selfishly imprisoned by this place and his poor-me attitude, hiding from the world and the people in it because he had a boo-boo on his knee.
Once again Kendra Lonergan had shamed him. But this time he wasn’t going to turn that shame into anger. He was going to use it to help her, too.
* * *
“SEE YA.” MATTY waved to Joe, one of her favorite cast mates, and stepped out into the twilight of a Sunday evening. The matinee had gone well. She’d felt great about her performance. Without so much worry about Jameson, she had more energy and enthusiasm for everything. She’d even finally had an offer over the weekend on a house that had been a particularly hard sell. Tonight she was going home to leftovers of a really good beef-vegetable soup she and her roommate, Jesse, had made the day before, with rolls from her favorite bakery and an excellent four-year-old cheddar. Plus, the rest of a bottle of the Argentinean Malbec she’d discovered, reasonably priced and delicious.
Life was good! After Jameson had finally answered her call the previou
s week, she now spoke with him nearly every day; he sounded much more like his old self. Kendra was doing something right.
Which reminded Matty, she’d have to ask what night Kendra wanted to go to the show, so she could—
She sensed Chris an instant before he came into her field of vision, dressed down this evening in a casual shirt and jeans, which he still filled out in all the right places, darn him.
“Good show tonight.” Casual, calm, as if there was nothing at all weird—practically outrageous—about him approaching her a second time after she’d told him quite clearly to get lost.
“Are you stalking me?”
He shrugged, watching her intently, like a predator waiting for its prey to strike. “I like the show. You’re good in it.”
“If it’s just about the show, why not go straight home?”
“I think you know the answer to that.”
She was afraid she did. Bad enough she’d already had to see him once. But she’d handled that perfectly, cried her few tears, processed their meeting through her system and said a firm goodbye. He’d botched this entrance—his part in her play was over.
“Chris, I don’t want to see you anymore.”
“You could close your eyes.”
She rolled them instead at his absurd joke, an unwelcome smile trying to curve her lips. “Okay. You saw the show, you liked it. I’m really glad. Now I’m going home.”
“Would you like to have a drink with me first?”
“No, I would not like to have a drink with you first.” She lifted her arm and let it slap back down. “What on earth do you think I’ve been saying?”
“That you’ve missed me. That there is still something between us and probably always will be.”
She scoffed at him. “Those are bad drugs you’re taking, Professor. I think you need to lower the dose way down.”
“Yeah?”
“Do I even need to answer that?”
He shook his head. “Just have a drink with me. There are things we need to talk about.”
“Maybe you do.” A couple of chorus members passed close by on their way out. Matty lowered her voice. “I’m happy with how we left things.”
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