“So that hell you went through. Alone. That’s why you’re doing this now for other people. Like me.”
“It’s definitely part of it, yes.” Kendra took a deep breath, trying to regroup. One of the differences between the way she worked with clients and standard talk therapy was that a therapist never—or rarely—brought him or herself into the equation. Whereas Kendra had found that in certain situations, sharing part of her life and experiences could help form stronger bonds of emotional trust. So it should be fine to talk with Jameson about her parents’ deaths and her reaction.
It just didn’t feel that way.
Immediately her brain started searching for reasons. Because she didn’t trust him? Because it felt too vulnerable exposing herself to him? Why?
An answer came surprisingly quickly.
Because Jameson had known her parents, or at least had seen them multiple times, at baseball games and dances and spaghetti dinners and fun fairs. Because in whatever twisted way, he’d been part of her life and her mom and dad’s for a long time, and he’d known the three of them as a unit. He was closer to their loss than her clients who were strangers.
Hmm. Not a complete answer, but it was a start.
The path took an abrupt turn to the right after skirting a ravine, and led back close to the sea again. The breeze strengthened as they approached the edge of the cliff, protected by a railing and stern signs warning people not to climb over it. A small flock of brown pelicans rose into view from below the cliff, necks tucked back in flight.
“I guess it must seem strange to you that I’m avoiding my family while you’re missing yours.”
Kendra shrugged. “Our situations are different, our families are different. I don’t judge you.”
“You’ve always judged me.”
“Ha! Since when?”
“Since I put worms in your sandwich.”
“Um...” She gave him a look, suppressing a giggle. “You thought that wouldn’t lead to an opinion?”
“Gosh, no. At least not a negative one.”
“Boy logic!” Kendra gave in to laughter. “Hey, I know, I’ll ruin her lunch, have people call her ‘worm eater’ for months and she’ll think I’m great!”
“Well?” He sent her a crooked grin. “What’s not to love?”
They stopped by the railing to watch the sea heaving in and out, over one hundred feet straight down, wind stiffening now to a good chilly blow. Watching the sea cleared Kendra’s mind, the breeze blowing away any lingering sadness.
“Why me?”
“Why you what?”
“Why did you pick on me?”
“Aw, Kendra, why does any kid do stuff like that?”
“Honestly? I can’t imagine.”
He frowned, shoving his hands into his jeans pockets. “Yeah, good point. For one, you never reacted. It was like nothing bothered you. You were unique.”
“So you could get your anger out and not suffer consequences?”
“I wasn’t angry with you.”
“With your dad. With your brothers.” A pair of joggers ran behind them.
“Geez, don’t you talk about the weather like a normal person?”
“Nope.” Kendra smiled at him, thinking he was like a piggy bank—except for the pink and fat part. If you wanted to get at what was inside him, you’d have to either shake him violently or smash him open. “I talk about you.”
“Huh.”
“Let’s keep walking. Your knee okay?”
“Knee’s fine.”
Not that he’d admit to pain. She watched him surreptitiously for signs—increased limping, a larger twist to his step, tension in his face. Nothing. Good. She hoped one day he’d tell her if he was overdoing it.
“One time...I don’t even remember what I did to you, but I remember your reaction. You looked me straight in the eyes and said, ‘People like you feel bad about yourselves, and that’s why you need to make other people feel worse.’”
Kendra snorted. “Straight from my parents’ mouths.”
“It stunned me. I’m serious.” He nudged her with his shoulder. “I was supposed to be on the attack, you were supposed to cry. And here you’d flattened me.”
“Wait, really?” She turned to see his face, half surprised, half fascinated. “I hurt you?”
His eyes were grave, catching the setting sun, glowing blue. “I have never been with a woman since.”
Kendra started to gasp, then, duh, realized he was kidding and burst out laughing. “Stop that.”
He grinned. “Maybe one or two.”
They approached the Interpretive Center, unstaffed by volunteers at the moment since the whale-watching season hadn’t yet started. The light was dimming, sun preparing to sink below the sea. They shouldn’t stay long. The park closed at dusk, and she didn’t want Jameson walking in darkness in case he stumbled.
Kendra had brought many clients here. With Jameson the view was the same, the lighthouse, the sea, Catalina Island in the distance—all the same, but the place felt different. More as if she was here with a friend, not a client. Odd, since she and Jameson hadn’t exactly been buddies. Again, maybe it was their shared history and experiences growing up here.
“Did your parents ever bring you to the Center?”
“Nope.” He stared out at the sea, wind making his eyes squint, sexy lines radiating in the corners, the spiky front of his hair ruffling slightly. His jaw was strong, mouth full and serious. Her heart gave a thump.
Yes, Kendra, he is übermasculine and handsome. Get over it.
“Where did they take you?”
“Disney Land. The observatory at Griffith Park. Natural history museum. Baseball games. Basketball games. Los Angeles Air Force Base. March Air Reserve Base. Edwards Air Force Base...”
“No ballet? No symphony? No art or opera?”
“Ha! Uh, no.”
“So it was a manly man’s upbringing. Where was your sister in all this?”
“Rebelling.” He grinned affectionately. “She and Dad were polar opposites.”
“Or very similar.”
“Maybe that was it. Hey, look.” He stepped closer, and pointed out to sea.
“Oh, wow!” Two dolphins, breaking the surface of the water, bounding northward together. The animals gave Kendra a huge charge, no matter how often she saw them. “They always look like they’re having so much fun.”
“They’re free, why wouldn’t they be having fun?”
“Free how?” She was so curious about his comment she turned from watching the dolphins to watching him.
“Oh, the questions, Kendra. As Freud is my witness, you do love your questions.”
“Don’t I?” She blinked sweetly at him. “Free how?”
“Free to be dolphins and do dolphin-y things all day.”
“What are Jameson-y things?” She laughed when he started groaning. “How would you fill a day if you could do anything you wanted?”
“Keg of beer and six or seven hot blondes.”
“Okay, okay, no more questions. We’re done. Let’s go home.” She turned them back toward the car.
“You hungry?”
His question startled her into hedging. “Not too bad.”
“I can make a mean omelet.”
“Yeah?” She smiled at him, not that omelets were all that thrilling, but she was still in a smiling mood. “You’ll have to show me sometime.”
“You busy tonight?”
The wind diminished as the path headed back inland. A beam of sunlight caught him, painting his hair in yellow and rose, throwing shadows and light along his cheekbones, jaw and that sensual mouth. Her heart gave another flip.
Come on, Kendra. Clients had asked to spend extra time with her befo
re if they were lonely. A few had asked her to dinner, and she’d always accepted if she was free. This was completely in the normal range of her treatment.
“I’m not busy.” No. She was just confused.
“Good. We can stop at Trader Joe’s on the way back and pick up supplies.”
“Okay.” She walked next to him, feeling rather ludicrously as if she was putting into motion an evening she’d regret. Or as if there was something very wrong with the way she’d accepted his invitation.
It only took her ten more steps and another heart-jumping glance at Jameson’s handsome profile to figure it out.
She didn’t want to eat dinner with him the way a counselor eats with a client. She wanted to eat dinner with him the way a woman eats with a man.
7
JAMESON STOOD BY the rear of Kendra’s Lexus, anxious to get behind the wheel again. His knee was feeling more stable, and he wanted to be in charge of this evening. The idea of inviting Kendra to dinner had been impetuous—the thought of going back alone to the same four walls of Mike’s living room had driven him to it—but now that she’d agreed, he was determined to have a fun evening. Show off his cooking skills a little, play some good music, pour some good wine—feel like a normal guy again. Maybe even a normal guy on a date.
If this was her therapy working, she was a genius. But he wasn’t sure how much was the therapy and how much was simply being around Kendra. She’d always challenged him, that hadn’t changed. But now the challenge was less about proving himself and more about finding out what went on in that beautiful head while she was trying so hard to find out what went on in his. Her reasons might be purely professional—his, not so much.
“Can I drive?”
“Um. Sure.” She looked doubtful. “Have you driven yet after the surgery?”
“Oh, yeah, yeah, fifty or sixty times.”
“Uh-huh.” She tossed him the keys. “Crash my car and I’ll hurt you, soldier boy.”
“Airman.” He caught the keys, feeling better than he had in...longer than he wanted to think about. “Soldiers, army. Sailors, navy. Marines, marines. In the Air Force we are airmen and airwomen. Get it straight.”
“Yes, sir, Lieutenant, sir.” She saluted briskly and went around to the passenger side.
He entered the car butt first and swung his right leg over as a static unit, successfully avoiding any twisting of the knee, and therefore any pain. From there the movements required of driving were forward and back, similar to the exercise he did every day. No problem. It felt absurdly good to be doing something as normal as getting from one place to another all on his own.
“Nice car.”
“Thanks. It belonged to Mom and Dad. A bit much for me, but I haven’t—” She laughed nervously and pulled the elastic out of her ponytail, letting that gorgeous hair fall heavy and free.
“Haven’t what?” He started the car, adjusted the seat for his longer legs and the rearview mirror for his height. When she didn’t answer, he looked at her questioningly. “Haven’t...”
“Been able to sell it.” She laughed again, folding her arms and clasping each forearm.
“No one wants this car?” That was hard to believe.
“No, I can’t make myself sell it.”
“That’s understandable.” He put the car in Reverse and backed out slowly and carefully, not his usual method. Awareness of his injury made him feel as if he was on the verge of having an accident at any time, even though there was nothing wrong with the car or his driving. Probably the same vulnerability older people felt, and why they drove slowly. “Why didn’t you want to tell me that?”
“Because...” She gestured impatiently toward the dashboard. “It’s just a car. It’s silly to hang on to it when I want something different.”
“Oh, I see.” Jameson nodded as if he’d just deduced something brilliant. “So I’m allowed to have emotions that might not make sense around grief but you’re not?”
He came to a stop, waiting to turn onto Palos Verdes Drive, and glanced over to find her with her mouth open, for once unable to come up with a retort. Gotcha. She was much too hard on herself.
Kendra closed her mouth, still staring straight ahead. “This is your counseling.”
“True. It is.” He spoke gently, her pain causing him to react with tenderness. Funny how even though he hadn’t known Kendra in any real sense at school, being with her now felt as if they’d been friends a long time. He reached over and laid his hand behind her head, intending to give her a quick pat, just a comforting touch. But her hair was soft and thick and felt so good under his fingers that he slid them in deeper, rubbed them gently back and forth over her scalp. “But if I can help you, too, why shouldn’t I?”
“Why would you want to?” She turned to him, a combination of challenge and curiosity, vulnerability and strength. Her eyes were large and troubled, her mouth soft, lips slightly parted. His fingers stopped moving. Tightened.
He wanted to kiss her.
Kendra’s eyes widened. Had he leaned toward her? Brought her head closer? He couldn’t have. How had she guessed?
An impatient honk sounded behind him. Flustered, Jameson started forward, then realized a car was coming and had to jam on the brake, sending a shock wave through his knee.
Ow. Doggone it.
“Uh, sorry.” A break in the line of cars opened up and he pulled smoothly into it. “Got a little overeager there.”
“Uh, yeah...overeager with the car and something else.” She was back, voice vigorous and, yes, challenging.
He chuckled, pleased as hell that she took him on. Though she’d never done anything but... “I have no idea what you mean.”
“Just focus on the driving, Lieutenant.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He turned onto Hawthorne Boulevard, then into the crowded parking lot of the Golden Cove Shopping Center, pulling into a space as close to Trader Joe’s as he could, composing a shopping list in his head. He had eggs. Spinach, mushrooms, good bread, greens for salad, a good strong white or a relatively light red, maybe a rioja crianza or a pinot noir. Dessert? In Spain he’d gotten to love the combination of Spanish cheeses paired with quince paste or those incredible soft full-flavored fruit bars he missed.
Marta had been the right woman at the right time, sensual, pleasure seeking—not his forever after, but she sure had taught him about food and wine, about self-indulgence and relaxed in-the-moment living, something he’d never encountered at home. He’d immersed himself in the life until Dad came over and yanked him home. A few months in college with the start of his ROTC training had put him back on the goal-focused Cartwright straight and narrow. But it would be nice to taste those concepts again with Kendra, even for a few weeks.
“Ready?”
“Sure.” She strode along next to him. He liked that she was tall, five-seven, he’d guess. He liked that she walked with confidence. She’d always walked that way, as if she was absolutely sure where she wanted to go, leaning forward slightly, feet working to catch up to her body. “What are we buying?”
“Food.”
“You want me to eat that?”
He grinned, wanting to touch her again, but holding back this time. She seemed as keyed up as he felt. Maybe that moment in the car hadn’t belonged only to him.
Inside, he grabbed a basket and headed for the produce section, where he picked out fresh spinach and mushrooms for the omelet, mixed baby lettuces, scallions, cherry tomatoes, a ripe avocado and tiny cucumbers for the salad, then red seedless grapes for cheese, since he wasn’t in the mood to go on a long search for quince paste.
“You know what you want.” She spoke admiringly.
“In Madrid, refrigerators are tiny. People go to shop much more often than we do here. There are outdoor markets everywhere and everything is in peak condition.
Bread is fresh every day. It’s something.”
“I’d love to go there.”
“I’d love to take you.” He spoke without thinking, then had to cover himself by winking at her startled expression. “Let’s find some cheese.”
They wandered over to a case holding an impressive collection from around the world. He picked up a wedge of “drunken goat,” a semifirm goat cheese soaked in red wine, and a good piece of manchego, remembering the rich nutty flavors he’d come to love.
“You must have had incredible food experiences in Spain.” She was looking at him thoughtfully.
“Why do you say that?”
“Because I’ve never seen you this animated. Or moving this fast.”
He wanted to tell her that his energy had more to do with her than food. “I remember telling my brothers about the cheese and sausage shops in Spain. They looked at me, totally unimpressed, and I realized they were probably imagining shelves of plastic-wrapped orange and white rectangles, and a few sticks of pepperoni. It’s nothing like that. This food is practically alive.”
“Alive. Wow.” She was laughing at him, eyes shining. He didn’t care. “You lock your doors at night? In case some crawls in with evil intent?”
“You need to be careful.” He took her hand and pulled her, laughing, to the bread aisle, where he looked behind and around him. “We’re safe here.”
She rolled her eyes and picked out a baguette in a brown paper bag. “For dinner and weapon.”
“Good thinking.”
He picked out wine next, a garnacha, which would be fine with both the omelet and the cheeses—two bottles for good measure.
“You’re in your element.” She was smiling at him again in that way that made it seem as if she’d just made an amazing discovery.
“I like to eat good food. I like to drink good wine.”
“How’s the food in the Air Force?”
“Not Spain, but it’s not bad.” For the first time he could talk about his experience without feeling that desperate sinking in his stomach. His knee was healing. The pain was receding; he could almost walk normally today. He’d go back to Keesler and get on with his life in the Air Force. He felt sure of it. Maybe at some point he’d even be able to look at another cat. “Don’t ask me about the hospital food, though.”
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