“Do you want me to read to her, too?”
“Wouldn’t hurt. They say charity is the best way to stop feeling sorry for yourself.”
“Is that what they say?” he asked and finished his breakfast.
Chas finished first and left him there while she hurried up to his room to make the bed and change the towels. On the nights when he was the only guest, she usually took care of it, and generally managed to do it while she knew he was busy elsewhere so he wouldn’t catch her at it. Not that it would matter, but part of the etiquette of cleaning rooms at an inn was to avoid the guests. She usually got it done when he was out for his run, but this morning she’d barely gotten started when the phone had rung and she’d had to leave. The only thing she’d actually learned about him from being in his room was that the computer bag he’d brought hadn’t held a computer, but books instead. Of course, she’d noticed the liquor, but they’d already addressed that issue. And that was the very reason she gasped when she saw two empty liquor bottles in the garbage. It took her a moment to assess the absolute indisputable evidence that he had emptied the bottles before he’d come down to breakfast. She’d been in the room earlier this morning, and there had been more than one and a half bottles left. He obviously hadn’t consumed it. He’d dumped it out! He’d dumped it out before their conversation over the breakfast table. She put a hand over her heart and felt a little teary. He really was a good man. The positive feelings she’d felt about him yesterday came back to her, and she was looking forward to spending as much time with Agent Jackson Tobias Leeds as she could possibly get away with.
The next few days were slow at the inn, and Polly was happy to get in some extra hours. Chas took Jackson on a special personalized tour of her hometown and the outlying areas. They talked and laughed and held hands. She was amazed at how thoroughly comfortable she had come to feel with him, and how utterly she had fallen in love with him. At times their conversations were silly and trivial, at others deep and poignant. When he asked some specific questions about her religion, she answered them matter-of-factly without getting pushy. She knew him well enough to know that if a man like this was to ever embrace religion, it had to be on his own terms and in his own time. She could live with manipulating him into going without liquor, but she would never do the same with religion. If he couldn’t come to it on his own, she could never make it an issue in their relationship.
Interspersed with their time out and about, she also got him to help her decorate the inn for Christmas. She had hired someone to put little lights all over the outside of the house and in the trees, and now that Thanksgiving was over they were always on after dark. In the house, she enjoyed doing the decorating on her own. But never had she enjoyed it so much as she did with Jackson helping her wind garlands on the stair rails, decorate every mantelpiece in the house, and put up a Christmas tree in the parlor. She started burning scented candles that filled the house with the smells of Christmas, and made sure that music of the season was often playing. She loved this time of year for the spirit that permeated her home. And having Jackson at the center of it just added to a sweetness surrounding her that she could never describe. She refused to even think about the possibility that Jackson might not actually be here for Christmas.
On Friday morning while Chas was cooking breakfast, she smiled to hear Jackson’s familiar footsteps coming down the stairs. “Hello, Jackson,” she said brightly when he entered the kitchen. “You’re a little early for breakfast. What can I do for you?” When he just stood there, she asked, “You want some coffee?” She kept her focus on the goblets that she was drying by hand.
“Nope. But thanks.”
“You hungry? I’ve got some—”
“Nope, I’m not hungry. Thanks.”
“Then what do you want? Anything for the FBI.”
“Anything?”
“Well,” she chuckled, “within reason.”
“Perhaps we should define your definition of reasonable.”
“Perhaps you should give me a category,” she said as if they were going to play charades.
“I’m not very good at this stuff, Chas. I’m just not a romantic guy, but . . .” Chas stopped at the word romantic and turned to look at him. Once they had established eye contact he added, “I want to kiss you, Chas. I’ve been thinking about it for so many days that I just had to say it.”
Chas set down the towel and the goblet and turned her back, if only to conceal how his declaration was affecting her. She closed her eyes and put a hand over her heart. Trying to keep this a matter of practicality—however hypocritical that felt—she spoke with a level voice. “Now you’ve said it. What did you think would happen now?”
“I have no idea. If I could have predicted your response, maybe I wouldn’t be so blasted . . . fascinated with you. I guess . . . the outcome . . . would depend entirely on . . . how you feel about . . .” His sentence drifted into silence.
“How I feel about . . . what?”
Jackson wanted to say me. Instead he said, “Being kissed . . . by me.” She said nothing, and the awkwardness was killing him. “Um . . . I know you have these strict boundaries about such things . . . no hanky panky without marriage, and all that stuff. I respect that, Chas. I do. I wish I had been more that way. I wish I had even bothered to think about something like that before now.” Hearing his own rambling he groaned and muttered, “I’m doing it again.”
“Doing what?”
“Babbling like an idiot, analyzing the whole thing before there’s anything to analyze. I just want to kiss you, Chas. I’m asking your permission because I don’t want to do anything stupid. I don’t want anything to . . . change between us. I mean . . . I guess I do; I want it to be better, to be more. I want it to be meaningful. I care about you . . . a lot. And I believe you care about me. I think what we share . . . warrants a kiss, but . . . I don’t want to offend you, or upset you, or . . . oh, for heaven’s sake. I’m doing it again! Will you at least turn around and look at me? I have a hard enough time reading you when I can see your face, but this is impossible. Please.”
Chas turned slowly, and he let out a strained sigh. Her countenance was soft, her eyes warm. That was a good sign. But she said nothing.
“Talk to me,” he said.
“I haven’t been kissed in a very, very long time,” she said. “I’ve wondered sometimes if I even remember how. I loved Martin and he loved me. We were high-school sweethearts. There was never anyone else, not before . . . or since. I was never impressed enough with any man to actually believe that a kiss would be worth the possibility of tainting what I’d shared with Martin.”
When she put it that way, Jackson felt so utterly unworthy of her that he wanted to just say “never mind” and leave the room. He felt sure she was going to diplomatically tell him that for all their mutual attraction, he still fell into the category she’d just described. And he couldn’t blame her. His life had been less than exemplary in most respects. He’d never imagined putting so much value on a kiss, and marveled that this woman had changed his perspective on so many things. What was valuable and what wasn’t had been altered so many ways for him since he’d come here. He took a deep breath as their eyes connected. Eye contact was good. Whatever she had to say, at least she would be straight with him and do it with respect and kindness. That’s the way she was. That’s what he loved about her.
“So, what now?” she asked, and he wished that he could read her half as well as he’d been able to read most of the criminals he’d put behind bars.
“I’m just wondering if I should have never brought it up, or if I should have just skipped talking about it and gone with my gut instinct.”
“And what’s that?”
“That I should have just kissed you because I know you’re putting off vibes that you want me to, and I want to, and I—”
“Shut up,” she said, at the same time closing the distance between them. She put her face so close to his that he could see every fleck i
n her eyes, hear her breathing. “Just shut up and kiss me,” she whispered and closed her eyes, tilting her face more toward his. Jackson took another deep breath and closed his own eyes as he touched his lips to hers. Never had a kiss been so easy, or so hard. Their kiss was lengthy but meek, unassuming but full of meaning. He felt startled by the depth of its meaning. He’d expected it to be good, simply because he’d thought about it so much, and he knew how he felt about her. But he never could have predicted that a simple kiss could bathe his spirit with such perfect peace, or warm the ice crystals in his heart—that could be the only explanation for the heat in his eyes and the tightness in his throat.
“Chas,” he muttered close to her lips, as if she might have some explanation for all he was feeling. They both opened their eyes at the same time, but neither of them moved, as if they were equally hypnotized. Her lips parted slightly to draw breath, and she lifted them just enough to make her invitation unmistakable. As he kissed her again, every sensation became more enhanced, more intense. He felt wrapped in a warm blanket and refreshed by a cool breeze at the same time. She took his face into her hands, and he did the same in return. Their kiss gained fervor and warmth without relinquishing its innocence and fineness. Again they looked into each other’s eyes, and he wanted to just savor this moment and relive the experience in his mind, while it was still close and fresh. She sighed and smiled. He did the same. Then she wrapped her arms tightly around him and put her head on his shoulder. He returned her embrace, and she pressed her hands tightly against his back.
“Oh, Jackson,” she murmured and adjusted her head slightly as if it were searching for the perfect resting place.
“What?” he asked in a whisper and pressed a kiss into her hair.
“This is what I’ve missed.” She tightened her arms around him, and he did the same.
“What, tell me,” he urged when she seemed hesitant to explain. “You can tell me anything.”
“It feels so good to just . . . have strong arms around me, the closeness of a man who actually cares about me, and who I really am.” She chuckled. “And you smell really good; like a man.”
He chuckled and pressed his face into her hair. “You smell like . . . fruit . . . and flowers . . . and spices.”
“That’s shampoo, soap, and what I was cooking.”
“I know. That’s why I love it.”
They were both startled when his cell phone rang. He always carried it on his belt, but she’d only heard it ring three times before, and two of those were calls he’d ignored, saying they could leave a message and he’d return the call later. He kept his arm around her while he took hold of the phone to look at the caller ID, then he took a step back and turned around, as if he were steeling himself for something. But he didn’t leave the room. She leaned against the counter and folded her arms as he flipped open the phone and said, “Leeds here.” Following a short pause, he said, “Yes, sir. Thank you. It’s good to hear your voice, also.” Another pause. “I’m doing as well as could be expected. Thank you for asking.” Through a very long stretch of silence, Jackson turned to look at Chas, then he looked away as if he couldn’t concentrate on the call if he didn’t. But she sensed that whatever he was hearing had to do with the investigation that was going on. She reached a hand toward him and he took it, squeezing tightly.
“Yes, sir. I understand,” he said, and listened some more. She saw his eyes widen and felt his hand tighten in hers. “Should I be sitting down?” he asked, then he let go of her hand and moved to a chair as if he’d been ordered to do so and he knew how to take orders. Chas wondered what was coming, and how it might affect him, but she was entirely unprepared to see the horror that filled his countenance, even though he didn’t make a sound. “Yes, I’m still here,” he finally said, his voice barely steady. The only other thing he said before he closed the phone was one more faint, “Yes, sir.” With glazed eyes he absently set the phone on the table beside him, and his breathing became noticeably audible.
She didn’t know how to ask, or if she should say anything at all. Had they found the traitor? Was this his reaction to knowing who it was? Or had he been personally implicated? She’d almost gotten up the nerve to ask when he groaned and dropped his head to his knees, as if he feared passing out. He groaned again, then rushed to the sink where he threw up. She knew he hadn’t eaten anything yet this morning, but he still heaved painfully. She knew that feeling well from her pregnancy. But she couldn’t fathom what news he’d been given that would make him so physically ill. He kept his face lowered into the sink until he’d gained control of himself, then he turned on the faucet to rinse out the sink and his mouth. He splashed water on his face, then reached for a towel that he pressed there for a full minute. Chas put a hand on his arm, and he tossed the towel to the counter before he took hold of her as if he were sinking into quicksand and she was the only hope for helping him avoid suffocation. She returned his embrace with all the fervor of concern she felt, finding it ironic that not so many minutes ago they’d shared an equivalent embrace that had been nothing but tender and romantic.
“Tell me,” she finally whispered.
“I don’t know if I can even bring myself to say it.”
“You have to say it,” she said, taking hold of his shoulders to look at him closely. “You can’t hold it inside. It will eat you alive.”
He hesitated, then nodded, then moisture pooled in his eyes before he turned away, ashamed of his tears. He cleared his throat and muttered, “Sorry about the sink. If you show me where you keep the cleaning stuff, I’ll—”
“Don’t worry about the sink. I’ll take care of it. I’ve puked in the kitchen sink more times than I can count.” He looked confused. “When I was pregnant,” she clarified. “You can’t avoid this, Jackson.”
“Okay,” he said, looking at her again, his tears gone. “But . . . I think I need to sit down.”
Chas nodded and guided him across the hall to the parlor, insisting that it would be more comfortable there, and no one would be around for hours yet. Granny had been given her breakfast and was taken care of for the moment. With her hand on his arm she guided him to the couch. He sat there for just a moment before he kicked off his shoes and laid down, putting a hand over his eyes. She didn’t want to leave, but felt she should ask, “Do you want me to leave for a while and let you—”
“No,” he said. “Please stay. Unless you have something you need to be—”
“Nothing more important than being here with you,” she said and moved a chair closer so that she could hold his hand while he kept the other one over his eyes, as if the light hurt them. She prayed silently that she would be guided in helping him get through whatever had happened, and that he would be given comfort and strength. When she couldn’t think of anything to say, she figured silence was probably best for now. Then she saw a tear trickle from beneath his hand, sliding down the side of his face, into the hair above his ear. She wiped away the trail it had left, and he moved his hand to look at her, almost alarmed, as if he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t.
“It’s okay,” she said, and tears rose in her own eyes.
He noticed them and showed surprise. “Why are you crying? You don’t even know what happened.”
“I know that you’re in pain,” she said, and he touched her face.
Jackson wondered for a moment what it might have been like to be dealing with this moment at home—alone. He couldn’t even imagine! He’d never once in his life thought to thank God for anything, but he had to thank Him now for this. If Chas was never more a part of his life than she was right now, he would forever be grateful for having her there for him now, and to be comfortable enough with her that he truly felt that he could share this burden. He just didn’t know how to say it, how to even consider accepting that it was true.
“You need to tell me,” she said, as if she could read his mind.
“I know,” he said. “I’ve given a lot of bad news to a lot of peop
le in my life, but I don’t know how to say this.”
“How do you give bad news to people?”
“I just have to detach myself. It can’t be personal.”
“So detach yourself enough to say it, and then you can let it be personal.”
Jackson nodded, amazed at her wisdom. Her theory made so much sense, but he still had trouble forming the words. He was relieved when she said, “Do you want me to ask you questions?”
“Yes,” he said.
“You look terrified.”
“I am. I feel like . . . I’ve been hit in the chest with a bullet, and the thought of repeating it is like knowing another bullet is coming.”
Chas had to ask, “Are you speaking metaphorically . . . or from experience?”
“I’ve taken a few bullets in the chest,” he said, and she gasped. “With a bulletproof vest on, of course, or I wouldn’t be here talking about it. But it still knocks you flat, and it still hurts.”
Chas appreciated the analogy and nodded to indicate that she understood. She prayed for guidance and sought for the right questions to ask him. “Did they figure out who was leaking information?”
“Yes,” he said.
“Was this person responsible for Dave’s death?”
“Indirectly, yes.”
“Has your name been cleared?”
“Yes.”
“So, there’s no concern for your job?”
“Not technically. Whether or not I can ever go back to work remains to be seen.”
“You feel betrayed.” That wasn’t a question; she already knew.
“Yes,” he said, his voice growing deeper.
“Angry.”
“Yes. And horrified. I’ve seen a lot of horrible things in my life, Chas. Things I would never want to repeat aloud, mostly because I don’t want other people to be plagued with those images.” Chas nodded, glad that he’d gained some momentum. He was talking. “You can’t serve that many years in the Marines . . . or the agency . . . without seeing horrible things. But when it becomes personal. . . .” His voice trembled and his chin quivered.
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