But that didn’t stop him from asking himself. Like it or not, he couldn’t do the only thing he knew how to do, and the day was coming when he had to earn a living. He wasn’t actually opposed to going to college, or wouldn’t be if it could be a means to an end, but he didn’t know what that end was. At twenty-eight, one did not go to college to date sorority girls and go to ballgames. He could see it now.
“So Sgt. Beauford,” the guidance counselor would say, “what are you interested in? What do you like to do?” Except she wouldn’t call him sergeant. Probably. Unless he asked her to. People usually did what he asked them to. Especially women.
“I like to kill bad guys who threaten the security and welfare of this country and its citizens. Do you have a major in that?”
“Uh. Well. No. How about accounting or chemical engineering?”
Good thing he didn’t have to decide now. Nobody made decisions during the holidays. It was practically the law of the land. It started around the second week of November. We’re going to put that on hold until after the holidays. We’re going to wait until after the first of the year and see how things look. Let me get through Christmas and I’ll give it some thought.
Maybe he owed it to Jackson to go to law school; maybe it was the price he should pay for what he’d done his senior year. He’d known all along he wasn’t going to Vandy, but he’d stayed quiet and let Jackson go right ahead and make plans, pay fees, and reserve a dorm room. Manning up at eighteen was hard, but Beau hadn’t even tried. He’d just quietly done his research, packed his bag, and asked Dirk to drive him to the bus station. At first, Dirk had refused, but after Beau had laid out his reasons one by one, Dirk had agreed. Beau didn’t even like to think about what Dirk must have gone through when he’d gone to that graduation party and told Jackson what Beau had done. But by then, Beau had been safe in the arms of Uncle Sam, and there was nothing that even Jackson Beauford could do about it—not that he hadn’t tried. Jackson wasn’t as big then as he was now, but he’d still had plenty of money and plenty of star power. But the United States Army had not been impressed with any of that. Beau was eighteen years old, and as far as they were concerned, the matter was closed.
He tried to swing around to sit on the side of the bed, but stopped short and lay back again with a groan. He couldn’t get out of bed like a normal person anymore. At least not yet. He rolled over on his side and gingerly got to his feet. The room was nice, though he’d like it better if not for the decorations—green stuff and ornaments around the windows, stockings on the mantel, Christmas tree needlepoint pillows on the chairs. There was no end to it. He wondered when Christian undecorated. The sooner the better. He’d help her. Now, that would be a pleasure.
Christian had moved him in here after that first night. Moon Glow, she called it. He hadn’t lived in this much luxury since two years ago when that model whose name he couldn’t remember had invited him to her house in Hawaii for some R & R. She was a looker for sure, but in the end not worth it. Talk about a high maintenance woman.
He went to the mini fridge for the glass pint bottle of Sassy Cow chocolate milk that he knew would be there. It was one of the things he’d missed about home. He loved chocolate milk, and there was none better in the world than that from the local artisan dairy. It was expensive, but his mother used to sometimes buy it for him for a special treat. He was surprised that Christian put it in the guest rooms at Firefly Hall. She must be doing really well. He ate a banana from the fruit basket, pulled on a pair of sweat pants and a T-shirt, and brushed his teeth. He’d shower later. As of this morning, Firefly Hall was closed, so there would be no guests. Of course, that meant Christian had let the staff off, so there would be no JoNelle to make him a ham and mushroom omelet and cheese grits, either. Too bad, but he could manage scrambled eggs.
He made his way down the hall barefoot, but stopped short. Was that crying? It couldn’t be. Christian was the only other person in the house, and she wasn’t given to hysteria. He moved closer to the wall and crept along until he had a view of the parlor.
He couldn’t believe it. Christian sat on the pink velvet settee with her back to him, but there was no question. She was sobbing like the world was ending. The sight was disconcerting. Had he ever seen her cry? Surely, when they were children. He searched his memory. No. Not when her pony died, not when she sprained her ankle playing a junior varsity basketball tournament, not at his Aunt Amelia’s funeral—and Christian had loved her. Beau had been engaged in a deep cover mission when Christian’s father had died, but she hadn’t cried when he’d talked to her two weeks later.
If this had been one of the Beauford Bend women, he would have blamed it on Christmas. They had all been pretty tense at dinner the other night. Something about a Yule log—whatever that was—that hadn’t arrived and some hard-to-find doll that Abby was determined the twins have. But this was Christian, and she wasn’t one to get out of sorts. Something terrible must have happened. Though he abandoned his intent to move quietly, she still didn’t look up when he stood over her. She just sat there holding a wooden box on her lap and sobbing.
“Christian.” Beau laid a hand on her shoulder, and she slowly raised her face to his. She looked good in buff-colored riding pants and English riding boots, with her hair in a braid. But he could tell she hadn’t been riding. She was too neat. Unless he missed his guess, she’d been crying for a while.
“Oh!” She covered her face with her hand. “I’m sorry. You’re up early.”
She was hurt over something and embarrassed that he’d caught her crying. “Not really.”
“Early for you. JoNelle is off, but I’ll make you something to eat.” She started to rise.
“No.” A hot, sick feeling went through him, and for the first time since the accident, he thought of someone other than himself. He knelt in front of her. “What’s wrong? Tell me.”
She shook her head. “Nothing important. Really.” She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and laughed a watery little laugh. “See? All better.” But two more tears escaped from her almond-shaped eyes. “I don’t cry pretty.”
She didn’t. She had blotchy cheeks, swollen eyes, and there was a certain amount of snot involved—though he found none of that mattered to him. Her face was too pretty for any of that to make a difference, and the feeling of relief was too strong. Nothing was seriously wrong, or she wouldn’t be trying to laugh. The hot, sick feeling dissipated and was replaced with tender sympathy.
She swiped at her face with her hand. “If I were like Emory or Abby, I’d have a linen handkerchief.”
“Yeah?” He smiled at her. “Sounds like a lot of laundry to me.” He rose, went into the dining room, and came back with a cloth napkin. “Still laundry.” He sat beside her, tipped her face up, and wiped her eyes. He put the napkin in her hand, because her nose needed wiping and she would want to pretend he hadn’t noticed. “Now, why don’t you tell me what’s wrong?” For the first time in weeks, he felt in control, like he had a purpose in life.
She discreetly wiped her nose. “It really is stupid.”
“I doubt that. If it was stupid, someone as sensible as you wouldn’t be crying over it.” Then something unexpected happened. He wanted to kiss her. If she had been anyone but Christian, he would have kissed her and maybe more—though with his back hurt, she might have to be on top. Stop it! This is your oldest friend—your best friend. And she’s upset. Stop being an ass.
“Well …” The box had a front-hinged door, but when Christian pulled it open, it came off in her hand. “My grandmother gave me this. It’s a portable writing desk that belonged to her grandmother. My great-great-grandfather brought it back from Europe for her. And I broke it.” Her voice quivered. “I hate myself! All over the world people are sick, starving, and dying. But here I sit crying over a thing.”
“But it’s your thing and you love it. Let me see.” He took it from her. The hinges were still intact, but the door had splintered right above them. He wiggle
d the cubbyholes and opened each of the drawers. He was surprised to see that the box was filled with stationary, pens, stamps, and greeting cards. She actually used the box. But he shouldn’t have been surprised. For ten years she had written to him—real letters in the mail, in addition to the emails, texts, and phone calls. He’d never written her—or anybody else—a real letter. “Looks like it’s only the door.” He ran his finger over the jagged, splintered wood. “What happened?”
“I was getting stamps to mail a few more Christmas cards, and I knocked it off.” She burst into a fresh round of hysteria. “Three generations of Hambrick women have kept it in mint condition, and I ruined it because I’m clumsy!”
So many men claimed they didn’t know what to do when women cried, but Beau did. He was a fixer and he would fix this. He set the box aside and pulled her head to his shoulder. She smelled like coffee, oranges, and cinnamon—comforting scents. Unfortunately comforting scents could also be sexy—not hot sand, blue water, bikini sexy, but rustic ski lodge, hot buttered rum, warm blanket sexy.
He forced the thought away and patted her back in a friendly way. “You aren’t clumsy. You’re tired because you work so hard. And it isn’t ruined.”
She raised her face and met his eyes. “It isn’t?”
He had no idea if it was or not. “Of course not. I can fix it.”
She frowned. “You can fix it?”
He nodded. “Nothing to it.” He had never fixed anything in his life, at least not a physical object. Arms dealers, drug lords, kidnappers—he’d fixed plenty of them. So what was one little box? “There are woodworking tools at Beauford Bend.” He hoped that was true. “And I know how to use them.” Biggest lie so far. “You won’t even be able to tell.” Her eyes widened and she smiled. She believed him. “I promise.” And he kissed her temple. “I’ll take it over there right now.”
• • •
The last thing Christian wanted to do today was go to the local knitting shop and eat soup and try to make a snowflake or star Christmas ornament that probably wasn’t going to come out right. Savory Soup and Christmas Stitches, the lunchtime knitting classes at String, had been scheduled to end last week, but everyone had liked them so much that Miss Sticky and Miss Julia had offered to do one more. Christian had agreed to go, though maybe not as enthusiastically as everyone else. Though her knitting might not be up to par, it had been fun to gather with her friends in the happy little shop—but that was before. Before Beau had come home. Before she’d had to watch him cast around for something to fill his time. Before she’d had to try not to notice when he was in pain. Before she’d had to live with the longing 24/7.
And before she’d broken that stupid box. Okay, so the writing desk wasn’t stupid. She loved it, but did she love it because of its history and sentimental value or because she’d spent so many hours with it on her lap writing to Beau? She’d always felt content and connected to him when writing him a letter. So she’d written and rewritten until she was sure every word was the best it could be.
And now there wouldn’t be any more letters. She had thought that when that day came she’d be happy because he wouldn’t be in danger anymore. Now, she wasn’t so sure. Was being in danger worse than being miserable because of lack of purpose? Beau had always been purpose driven—on the football field, on the baseball diamond, and in the classroom. He thrived on it. But those purposes had always been served up to him, and it hadn’t been any different in the military. She wasn’t sure he even knew how to find purpose for himself.
She’d been thinking about all that when she’d knocked the box off the table. It wasn’t like her to overreact, but when she’d seen that writing desk lying on the floor broken, everything had caught up with her.
And why had she not gone to her room to cry? Why had she let him catch her? It was as if her brain had shut down and she couldn’t think of another thing.
But it was over now, and he’d gone over to Beauford Bend to fix her writing desk. Maybe he’d make peace with the place and move back. In a way, she wished he would, and in another way, the thought of his leaving gutted her like a red snapper on a deep sea fishing boat.
There was no help for her—never had been. She’d been away from him ten years, and it hadn’t helped. Maybe he’d just live in Moon Glow at Firefly Hall for the rest of his life. Maybe they’d grow old together, yet apart. That was better than without him, because sometimes love meant taking what you could get. Not that she was going to get that either.
She parked across the street from String. Ah. Emory, Gwen, and Abby approached the shop from one direction as Noel and Neyland came from the direction of Piece by Piece.
Except for Gwen, none of them had been in relationships when they’d become friends. Now look them—all settled and happy, all except Christian. And there was Neyland’s cousin, Hope, opening the door to welcome them. She had recently come back to town for a temporary visit and was staying to marry Heath Beckett, the renowned stained glass artist.
All of a sudden, Christian was a little mad. What was Beauford anyway? A hotbed for matrimony? It wasn’t so much that she wanted to get married. She could get married; anybody who was willing to settle could get married. But it would be nice to have one unattached friend, to not be the only one at the dinner table without a hand to hold.
That was selfish and unreasonable, but she wasn’t in the mood for reasonable.
No matter. Time to knit. She picked up her bag of ever-growing tools and materials for something she was no good at and entered the shop.
“Christian!” Hope handed her a bag of supplies and held out her hand for the class fee. Somehow, Hope had gotten involved in the classes and ran them like a little dictator—a nice dictator, but a dictator all the same. She probably had a tattoo hidden on her body that said All Must Knit. All must pay for the privilege. All must like it or pretend to. “Since the angora snowmen turned out so charming, we decided to do snowwomen for our bonus classes.”
Was there no getting away from the coupling of America? Even in snow and the fiber arts?
“Maybe we could extend the classes over into the new year?” Christian said. “We could knit 2.5 snow babies, snow cats, snow dogs, snow hamsters, snow ferrets, and snow goldfish. Then we could start in on extended family. By next Christmas, we could have nothing but snow families on our trees.”
Hope laughed joyfully and ran Christian’s credit card. “You’re funny, Christian. The soup today is Italian wedding soup.” Well, why not? What was for dessert? Wedding cake? Twin Pops? Double Stuf Oreos?
Hope pointed to the table where Robin from The Café Down On The Corner was giving out mugs of soup, cornbread, and iced tea.
Christian stashed her new supplies into her bag, collected her food, and went to the table where her friends sat.
At the sight of them, all the meanness Christian had been feeling melted away. They all leapt up to exchange hugs as if they hadn’t seen each other in years. This was love you could count on—maybe the only kind, at least for her. They were so happy, and that happiness had been hard won.
“Guess what!” Abby said excitedly. “Rafe’s cousin found the Ada and Anna twin dolls in Birmingham, and I’m meeting her at the state line this afternoon!”
“Missy always gets her doll,” Neyland said. She was the baby bride of the group, though not by much. She had just eloped with Gabe Beauford, Rafe’s twin.
“And everything else. No one in the universe ever tells Missy Bragg no.” Gwen turned to Christian. “Christian, since you’re closed, can we borrow Firefly Hall’s twenty-five cup silver coffee urn for Christmas? Ours stopped working this morning, and the others are too big for just family.”
“Of course. I’ll get it over to you today.”
“Noel,” Abby said, “when are you and Nickolai leaving for Christmas with your family?”
“We’re leaving for Louisville Christmas Eve morning,” Noel said. “Neyland is keeping the shop open. I owe you, Neyland.”
&nbs
p; Neyland laughed. “I plan to collect. When football season is over, Gabe and I are going on a honeymoon. I’m hoping you sell some jewelry then.”
“I’ll do my best. I just appreciate that you’re willing to continue to share the shop until hockey season is over. And I’ll be back in time to open the day after Christmas.”
Neyland had moved into Piece by Piece when she couldn’t afford to keep open her own shop, Sparkle. But her business had turned around now.
“You were there when I needed you,” Neyland said. “I won’t forget it.”
Maybe no one was going to bring up Beau. Was that too much to hope for?
“All right!” At the front of the room Hope clapped her hands. “You’ll need your size three double point needles. Those are the same ones we used for Mr. Snowman. You have the directions. Go ahead and cast on nine stitches with the white angora. If you need help, Miss Sticky and Miss Julia will be coming around.”
Click, click, click. These people were serious snow people makers. Christian found her needles and began to cast on. It would be interesting to see how far she got before Miss Sticky had to rip it out and straighten it out. She hadn’t finished an ornament herself yet. Eventually someone would take it from her and finish.
“How’s Beau?” asked Emory guardedly.
So it had been too much to hope for.
“Good,” she said. “Fine.”
“Jackson came on too strong with him,” Emory said. “I tried to tell him.”
“He’s worried,” Neyland said. “We all are.”
“That’s what we do,” Christian said. “Worry about Beau. It’s practically a vocation.”
“I’m sorry about this,” Emory said. “I know he’s like a brother to you, but you finally get some time off and he’s underfoot over there.”
Like a brother? Underfoot? Did these women know nothing about her?
“It’s fine.” Christian tried to concentrate on her snowwoman.
“I think there are too many people in the house for him,” Neyland said. “I’m looking at a house in the downtown historic district today. Maybe it will work out and Gabe and I can get out. That will be two fewer.”
Healing Beau (The Brothers of Beauford Bend Book 6) Page 3