The sound of a door opening startled him, and he turned to realize that an outside entrance led directly into the kitchen.
“Sorry I’m late,” a blonde woman said as she entered holding a large tray covered with a white towel. When Jackson saw how she was trying to hold the door open with her foot while a young boy came in beside her, he hurried to take the tray, noting her surprised expression.
“Thank you,” she said, and their eyes connected for a moment. She was somewhere between his age and Chas’s, he guessed. Very pretty, he couldn’t help noticing. “Who are you?” she asked, closing the door.
“Oh, this is Jackson Leeds,” Chas answered for him while she washed the goo off her hands. “Jackson, this is Charlotte.”
“Hello,” they both said at the same time while he felt her appraising him. He couldn’t deny appraising her too, but likely not for the same reasons.
Chas explained, “Jackson’s a guest who likes to hang around the kitchen because he’s bored out of his mind.”
“Well, he makes a nice addition,” Charlotte said in a voice that was a little too coy, which immediately rubbed Jackson the wrong way. While he’d prefer for Chas to flirt with him a little more, the fact that this woman was flirting with him at all was annoying.
Chas discreetly observed the exchange between Jackson and Charlotte and felt a little mischievous, wondering if she could manage to line them up. Charlotte could be great at easing a man’s boredom, and she wasn’t interested in any long-term relationships, which made his temporary presence something that would appeal to her. Chas and Charlotte were as good of friends as it was possible to be without sharing any of the same values. Charlotte had integrity; she was charitable, trustworthy, and kind. But she lived a worldly life according to Chas’s standards. They accepted and respected each other, and had found a comfortable place somewhere between their lifestyles where they could be friends. And Chas would bet money that Jackson Leeds’s standards were likely a lot more in the category of Charlotte’s standards, as opposed to her own. The way they were looking at each other now made her smile.
Jackson turned his attention to the little boy shedding his winter clothing near the door. Wanting escape from a moment that had become far too awkward, he asked, “What’s your name, big guy?”
“Clark Kent,” the boy said, and Jackson chuckled.
Charlotte explained, “He’s having a Superman fixation. Humor him.” She whispered too loudly for the boy not to hear, “His name is actually Logan.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Kent,” Jackson said as the boy’s coat came off to reveal a little red cape underneath that was obviously homemade and well worn.
“Jackson is with the FBI,” Chas announced, and Jackson gave her a little glare that only made her chuckle.
“Ooh,” Charlotte said.
Superman asked, “What’s FBI stand for?”
“Funny Big Idiots,” Jackson said with a straight face. The women both chuckled. Superman obviously believed him. “How old are you, Clark?” Jackson asked.
“Four. I go to preschool on Tuesdays and Thursdays.”
“That’s great.”
“But today is Monday so I helped Mom bake.”
“Speaking of which,” Charlotte said, turning her attention to the tray she’d brought in and removing the towel, “here’s the quiche for tomorrow’s breakfast.” She put a dish in the fridge. “And I’ve brought the usual. I’ll put it away, and then I’ve got to scoot. Karlee will be done at dance lessons in ten minutes.”
“Okay, thank you,” Chas said.
“Put your coat back on, buddy,” Charlotte said to her son.
“Mom,” he groaned.
“I told you we couldn’t stay today. Put it back on.”
Charlotte took a plate of cookies out of the room, and Chas noticed Jackson squatting down to help Logan put on his coat, saying softly, “If you put this on, people won’t know who you really are while you’re out fighting crime.”
Chas smiled to see the boy eagerly put his coat on. “One crime fighter to another,” she said, but Jackson kept his focus on the boy. She wondered then if he had children somewhere. For that matter, she wondered if he had a wife, or at least a significant other back home. She felt stupid for not having thought of it. Just because he didn’t wear a ring didn’t necessarily mean he wasn’t attached. She’d do well to get more information before she started lining him up with her friends. His interaction with Logan seemed so natural and patient that she felt sure he’d had experience.
Charlotte came back into the room and put some baked goods out on the counter, then she hugged Chas, and offered Jackson a coy farewell with an added, “Hope to see you again before you leave.”
“I’ll be here a while,” was all he said.
“Bye,” Logan said to him. Jackson waved and was once again alone with Chas.
“Charlotte does all the baking for the inn,” Chas said. “She’s amazing! I’m not bad with using the top of a stove, but most things that have to be done in an oven don’t cooperate with me. For Charlotte it’s the other way around, so we make a great team.”
“You’re friends?” he asked.
“Yes, actually. I mean . . . practically speaking, we don’t have a lot in common, but we do stuff together. We watch out for each other. She’s a single mom and a good woman.”
“That’s good, then,” Jackson said, implying that it was good Chas had a friend.
Chas smiled to herself, certain that Charlotte and Jackson might enjoy each other’s company if she could just manage to do a little discreet finagling.
“Well, if you can’t find any work for me to do, I guess I’ll go entertain Granny.”
“She’ll love it,” Chas said, and Jackson went to Granny’s room, where he found her sleeping in the chair with the TV on. He decided to just sit down and wait for her to wake up, and he quickly realized that she’d been watching a DVD. It was an old version of the Dickens classic, Great Expectations. Jackson knew the basic premise of the story from having read it decades ago, and he quickly became intrigued enough with the film to lose track of the time. When Granny woke up she was delighted to find him there. Their visit centered around stories of her life, which he found much more satisfying than talking about his own. Chas checked in on them a couple of times, then she brought Granny her dinner and insisted that Jackson come to the dining room to eat his.
“Jackson might be back to see you tomorrow if you haven’t talked his ears completely off,” Chas said to Granny.
“Oh, I’ll be back,” Jackson said and squeezed the old woman’s hand. “You take care now.”
“You do the same, young man,” Granny said.
Jackson went to the dining room to find one of the several little tables set for two. There was water in the goblets, rolls and butter on little plates, and salads. “Have a seat,” Chas called from the kitchen. “I’ll be right there. And don’t ask if you can help.”
“Fine,” he called back. A minute later she appeared with two dinner plates, which she set on the table before sitting across from him. The chicken, rice, and vegetables in front of him looked more appetizing than any dinner he’d had in months.
“Thank you,” he said.
“It’ll be on your bill.”
“Thank you for not making me eat alone.”
“No problem. That works both ways. I could take my food into Granny’s room, and I do sometimes. But a lot of what she watches on TV makes me crazy.”
“Great Expectations?”
“Dickens I can handle, but she’s not entirely obsessed with Dickens.”
He picked up his fork, and she said, “We need to bless it. Do you mind?”
“Not at all,” he said. He’d certainly eaten in homes where prayers were said prior to meals, but it hadn’t happened very often. He set down his fork and listened while she said a brief but sincere prayer. He added his amen, and they began to eat. “It’s wonderful,” he said.
“Thank
you. And thank you for shoveling snow. You come in handy, Agent Leeds.”
“No problem,” he said, imitating the way she’d said it a minute ago. “This really is good. I live on a lot of fast food, and it gets really old. Your cooking is a great bonus.”
“I’m glad you like it,” she said and found the perfect opportunity to ask, “So, you live alone back in . . . where was it you come from?”
“Norfolk. You should have known that from the background check.”
“I knew it; I just forgot. You live alone in Norfolk?”
“I do. And the answer to your next question is that I’ve never been married, and I have no children.”
“Why not?” she asked as if she were asking why he hadn’t become a doctor.
“I’ve only loved one woman, but she didn’t love me enough to commit to a military lifestyle. I asked her to marry me and she told me no.”
“When was that?”
“We were high-school sweethearts. We’d known each other all our lives. I joined the Marines at eighteen.” Chas set down her fork and became suddenly solemn. “Did I say something wrong?” he asked.
She sighed loudly but wouldn’t look at him. “I told you earlier about me and Martin, that we grew up together. It just . . . sounds so much the same.”
“Yeah,” he said, “I thought the same thing earlier. It’s too bad someone like me couldn’t have been killed in a training exercise, and someone like Martin couldn’t have come home to his wife.”
Chas looked at him then, but she didn’t know what to say. She’d shared more deeply personal conversation with this man in the last twenty-four hours than she’d shared with anyone else in years. And what they had in common was beginning to feel eery.
Jackson couldn’t help but ponder the coincidences stacking up between them. The conversations they’d shared felt as dreamlike and strange as his being in this house, buried in snow and at a safe distance from the realities of life. How could he not consider the similarities they shared? Feeling a little sorry for himself, he wondered how his life might have been if Julie had agreed to marry him. He found it easy to say, “It must have been very difficult for you to marry a military man and leave all of this.”
“I loved him,” she said with a forced smile. “I think it was harder on Granny than on me. I would have gone anywhere just to be with him.” She paused and tilted her head. “Is that an insensitive thing to say to a man like you?”
“No,” he said. “I like honesty, even when it’s brutal. If Julie’d married me, she probably would have eventually divorced me.”
“What makes you think so?”
“I don’t think I would be very easy to live with.”
“How could you know when you’ve always lived alone?” She felt a little alarmed to think that maybe she was being presumptuous. In today’s world, admitting he’d never been married didn’t mean he’d always lived alone. “Have you always lived alone?”
“Yes,” he said. “Since Julie left me, I’ve had only a few brief and meaningless relationships.”
“So your life is your work.”
“Pretty much. And the people I work with make it clear that they’re glad they don’t have to live with me.”
“Do you have anyone in your life beyond the people you work with?”
“Not really,” he said. “I found friends among my coworkers, but now . . . all of that’s become . . . awkward.”
“Since the shooting.”
“That’s right.”
Chas picked up her fork again and began to eat. “And what about family, Jackson? Where did you come from originally?”
Jackson let out a partly facetious groan. “Now you’re treading into taboo territory.”
Chas was surprised. “You can tell me about the woman who left you and a shooting that’s turned you inside out, but you can’t tell me about your family, your hometown?”
“That’s right,” he said again.
“Why not?” she demanded as if they’d known each other for years and she had a right to know. “You know practically everything about me.”
“To put it in less than a hundred words, Detective, my childhood was a nightmare. My grandparents were always arguing or drunk—or both. My father was a violent drunk, and my mother probably would have liked to keep him from beating us kids as much as it suited him. But he took it out on her, too. And she just passed it on. She smacked us around herself now and then. They gave me life and kept me fed—barely. I left the minute I turned eighteen, and I’ve never been back.”
“Not once?”
“Not once.”
“Do you call . . . write?”
“I send a Christmas card every year to let them know I’m still alive. I do not include a return address. I have no desire to hear from any of them, at all.”
“What about your siblings?” she asked with an astonishment that surprised him. He’d admitted to shooting a man, and it hadn’t phased her. But his avoidance of his family was apparently a felony.
“I have one sister who ran away from home before I did, with a guy who was way too much like our father. There’s no hope for her. Could we change the subject?”
“Why?”
“Because it’s none of your business.”
“Maybe not, but I would at least think you could call your own mother. At least you have a mother.”
Jackson leaned farther over the table. “You, who were raised by that amazing woman down the hall, have no right to tell me what I should or shouldn’t do. Your telling me that I should live my life differently than I live it sounds awfully judgmental to me.”
“Your telling me that I’m judgmental sounds judgmental,” she countered, then softened her voice. “I’m not judging your decision. I just think a mother—even a bad mother—deserves to hear from her son once in a while.”
“I send her Christmas cards.”
“Okay.” She put her hands up. “I surrender. Don’t shoot.”
“Not even a little bit funny.”
“Sorry,” she said, and he could see that she meant it. “I wasn’t intending that to be connected to anything you told me earlier.”
“Apology accepted. Now, can we change the subject to something a little less . . . volatile?”
“Okay,” she said, and neither of them said anything for several minutes. “Wow,” she finally interjected. “We’ve known each other for one day and we’re arguing.”
“You make it sound like that’s a good thing.”
“A little stimulating disagreement over matters of principle keeps people on their toes, don’t you think?” She didn’t add that she hadn’t shared any such stimulating disagreement with anyone but Martin. She did say, “Granny and I disagree on a lot of things, but we don’t talk about most of that stuff. We only argue over things like . . . what color to paint the walls . . . which Dickens book is the best . . . which American Idol should win. Stuff like that.”
“That sounds stimulating enough.”
“So, what are the possible outcomes of this investigation?”
Jackson sighed. “Is that your idea of a topic less volatile?”
“I just figured it was something you should be prepared for, right? And maybe you should talk about it.”
“Funny how you have everything figured out about me after twenty-four hours.”
Chas noticed that he looked very intense—even mildly angry—and she couldn’t hold back a chuckle. “We’re arguing again.”
“And you’re enjoying it.”
“Yes, actually.”
“You are a strange woman, Chas Henrie.”
“Yes, but since you’ll be gone in a week or two, you really don’t need to concern yourself with that.” Jackson wanted to contradict that comment, but just the thought of doing so was ludicrous. “So, what’s going to happen?” she asked, sounding genuinely concerned. “Tell me.”
Jackson sighed. “If they conclude that I did something wrong, I will be without a job. I think my
record will work in my favor. I suspect they’ll just ask me to resign, and they’ll give me an early retirement.”
“And then what?”
“I don’t know what. That’s the problem, Chas. I’m too old to start over. I don’t know how to do anything else.”
“You’re not old.”
“I didn’t say I was old; I said I was too old to start over.”
“Granny would disagree with you, and she’s ninety-three.”
“Really? She doesn’t seem that old.”
“She tells me she doesn’t feel that old, even though her body is failing her in many ways.”
“She’s lived a good life, which is more than I can say for me.”
“I’m sure you’ve done many good things in your life.” He looked skeptical, and she added, “But if you feel that way, then maybe this would be a good time to start over, and make a better one.”
Jackson let out a wry chuckle. “I’m pushing toward fifty.”
“Ooh. The ancient mariner. Oprah says that life begins at fifty; that’s when you finally get it all figured out and know what to do with what you’ve got.”
“Is that right? Well, I don’t have it figured out; not even close.”
“Maybe you should ask Granny’s advice on the matter. You might not get any sound advice, but it could be very entertaining.”
“Maybe I will.”
“She’ll probably tell you what Dickens would say.”
He chuckled. “And what would Dickens say?”
“Oh, he loathed getting older. His heart was too young for his aging body, it seems. I guess that gives him something in common with Granny. But he died at fifty-eight, and looked much older than that. I think he worked himself to death. You could take a lesson from that.”
“I’m sure I could.”
“How old are you really?”
“I’ll tell you if you tell me.”
“Okay, I’m thirty-two.” He looked surprised, and she added, “What? Do I look older than that?”
“No,” he said, “your eyes look older. The rest of you could pass for twenty-six, easily. I’m just surprised that a woman would admit so readily to her age.”
The Best of Times: A Dicken's Inn Novel Page 6