Face the Music: Beyond Jackson Falls Book 1

by Laurie Breton

  “Flowers?”

  “In my vast experience, Mike, when it comes to women, flowers can fix any number of ills. Chocolate’s good, too, but flowers are better. Women turn to puddles of goo around the damn things.”

  He tried to imagine Amy turning to a puddle of goo over anything, but it was impossible. “Flowers,” he repeated, just to make sure he’d heard correctly.

  “And none of those fancy things you have to mortgage the farm to pay for, and then they’ll be dead by tomorrow. Go with wildflowers. Something that shows you put a little effort into it. Something you had to go out and pick yourself. It gets ‘em every time.”

  * * *

  WHEN SHE SAW him standing at the door, Amy pursed her lips. She caught sight of the cluster of wildflowers that he held to his breast and those pursed lips softened. Then she opened her mouth and spoiled it. “If this is your idea of groveling, don’t bother.”

  A muscle at the back of his neck, just behind his left ear, twitched. “I’ve never groveled in my life, and I’m not about to start now. I have some things to say, and after I’ve said them, if you want, I’ll leave. It’s up to you. But you might want to put these flowers in water first, or they won’t last long.”

  One hand on the door frame, the other on the knob, she debated, then wordlessly turned from the door, leaving him to close it and follow her to the kitchen like some overgrown pup. She opened a cabinet and pulled out a vase, filled it with water, and took the bouquet of bold purple and soft pink from his arms. With a disconcerting lack of finesse, she plopped them into the vase, turned and leaned against the counter. Arms crossed, she said, “Start talking.”

  Straight to the point. That was Amy. He used to like that about her. “I’m tired of the accusations,” he said. “I’m tired of the lack of trust. I’ve done nothing to earn it.”

  “Aside from taking Paige MacKenzie for a wild ride on your bike. In front of half the town.”

  “I was ticked off at you, Amy. Besides, the lack of trust came long before the bike ride. You studied science. Newton’s third law of physics: Every action has an equal and opposite reaction. I was reacting to your prodding.”

  “This isn’t physics, Mike. This is Relationship 101, and so far, you’re earning a failing grade.”

  “Why? What the hell have I done to justify that?”

  She picked at a fingernail, peeled off a loose chip of nail polish. “You look right through me,” she said. “When we’re together, it always feels like you’re somewhere else. That doesn’t exactly inspire trust.”

  “It’s not deliberate. I’m still dealing with a lot of bad stuff.” Even to his own ears, it sounded like a lame excuse. But it wasn’t. It was true. She had no idea what he was dealing with, and he couldn’t tell her.

  “Don’t you think I know that? I know terrible things happened to you in the Middle East. I know it scarred you. I know you struggle with it every day. I’m not blind, Mike. I see you struggling. But you refuse to talk about it with me. You hold it all inside. You say I don’t trust you, but I think it’s the other way around. Because if you trusted me, you’d tell me.”

  Inside his pocket, his fist clenched. He reminded himself to relax it. “I can’t talk about it with anyone.”

  “You talk to Gunther.”

  “Gunther’s been to war. He understands.”

  “I could understand.”

  “No. You couldn’t.” If there was one factor in this equation that he knew with certainty, it was this.

  “And that’s what bothers me the most. That you won’t even give me a chance.”

  “Is that what this is all about? You’re feeling insecure because I won’t talk about what happened in Iraq?”

  She raised her chin. “That’s some of it.”

  “It’s not likely to change. If you want me to stick around, you’ll have to accept it.”

  “Is that a threat?”

  Jesus Christ. “No! It’s the bare, unvarnished truth. This is who I am. Take it or leave it. The bottom line is this: If I didn’t want to be here, I wouldn’t be. If there was anywhere else I wanted to be, I’d say so. I’m with you because that’s where I want to be.”

  Unbidden, Rachel’s ghost came dancing across his consciousness, filmy and insubstantial, making a mockery of his words.

  Keep moving forward. Keep moving forward.

  “I want to believe you. I really do.”

  “Then let go of this ridiculous crusade. Stop second-guessing every breath I take, and try to just be with me. Don’t make everything so goddamn hard.”

  “I’ll try. I really will, if it will make things better between us. As long as you’ll try, too. It’s a two-way street, Mike. Can you promise to try harder? For me?”

  Her question confused him. What was she expecting him to try harder at? Her meaning wasn’t clear, and he wondered if she was being deliberately ambiguous, so she could trip him up at some later time. But the tightness had left her face, and her soft, red mouth had relaxed, giving her an oddly vulnerable look. He was making headway. Now was not the time to nitpick.

  “I’ll try,” he said.

  A smile touched those red lips. It wavered, then caught, like a flame that took its time before igniting. “That’s all I ask,” she said. “Just make a little effort for me.”

  And she stepped into his arms.

  Mikey closed his eyes, his arms gradually, almost reluctantly, tightening around her. Could it really be this simple? Just say the right words, and she was placated? He wasn’t sure what had just happened, but he had the sinking feeling that she’d just gained the upper hand in their relationship.

  He wasn’t sure how that could be. He’d gotten what he wanted. He’d given her what she wanted. The reality was that they probably both wanted the same thing: a smooth, stress-free relationship. They just had different ways of chasing after it. No matter how you looked at it, this should be a win-win situation.

  So why did he feel as if he’d just sold his soul to the devil?

  * * *

  AMY’S DEFINITION OF a two-way street was to create a schedule of shared activities, some of them based on his interests, some on hers. In return, he was expected to show up, express some level of interest in whatever they were doing, and remain civil and cooperative. Amy threw herself wholeheartedly into this enterprise. She went with him to the gun range and spent a couple of hours standing by wearing ear protectors, pretending not to be bored while he practiced his marksmanship skills. She invited Gunther to a backyard barbecue that was more fizzle than sizzle. Mikey sat with her through an art film she’d been wanting to see, and tried desperately to follow the storyline, but there wasn’t much of one to follow. She picked up a copy of The Joy of Sex and proceeded to initiate a couple of new sex positions that left him feeling confused and less than inspired.

  Eventually, inevitably, came the day when she decided it was time to get on the motorcycle with him. “You sure about this?” he said.

  She eyed the bike as though it might take a bite out of her. “Of course I’m sure.”

  “Because you don’t have to do this, you know. You don’t have to prove anything to me. We don’t have to take the bike.”

  She raised her chin a little. “I’m not trying to prove anything. I’m trying to broaden my horizons. And we are taking the bike.” Her smile was a little too broad, her words a little too enthusiastic. “I’m ready for adventure!”

  If she hadn’t been so serious about it, he might have laughed. She’d gone all biker chick on him: a lightweight black leather jacket, black boots, even a black helmet with a girly pink decal. None of these hid the glassy fear in her eyes. Mikey recognized false bravado when he saw it. He should. He’d seen it enough times on his own face in the mirror, in the faces of his fellow Marines before a raid. Amy was terrified, but hell would freeze rock solid before she would admit it.

  He had to give her points for courage. Determined to do this thing in spite of her fear, she had no intention of backing do
wn. If she could make this kind of valiant effort in an attempt to improve their relationship, whatever that might mean, he could at least meet her halfway.

  But he gave it one more shot when he felt her quaking as he tucked her hair up under the helmet. “You’re really, really sure,” he said.

  “Oh, for God’s sake, Mike, shut up and get on the damn bike!”

  That was more like it. That was the Amy he knew. They climbed on the bike and she wrapped her arms around him so tight he had to untangle her ashen, locked knuckles so he could draw in a breath.

  The summer morning was alive with color and fragrance and sound, but she missed most of it. Eyes averted, Amy rode with her face pressed so hard against him that her helmet gouged into his spine. Mikey tried to adjust his position to escape the nagging annoyance, but his only real option was to live with it. He wouldn’t ask her to keep her head up, not when she was so scared that the fear washed off her in waves. She clung to him, leaned with him at all the appropriate times, not from experience but because she was holding on so tight, she was forced to follow his every movement.

  They finally pulled off the Maine Turnpike and stopped for lunch at a roadside diner in Ogunquit. Amy bravely disembarked from the bike, but the greenish tint of her skin gave her away. They’d barely settled into a booth before she excused herself and raced for the restroom.

  When she returned, some of the paleness had left her face. She’d applied lipstick and made an attempt to comb the tangles from her hair. He had no idea what had happened in there, but her tousled, mildly windblown appearance was a pleasant change from the tightly-wound Amy he was accustomed to seeing. “You look nice,” he said, meaning it.

  “You have to be kidding.” She raised both eyebrows in disbelief. “I look like Godzilla on steroids. I’ll never get this rat’s nest out of my hair.” The eyebrows lowered, and she studied him from beneath them. “While you, of course, being a guy, look slightly mussed and thoroughly adorable. It’s so unfair.”

  “If you’re ready to turn around and go back, we can.”

  “Absolutely not! We agreed to go to the beach, and that’s where we’re going.” She slid a menu across the table and opened it. Studying it with a slight frown, she added, “I’m starving. I’m sure I’ll feel better as soon as I get some food into me.”

  He wanted to say that if she’d just let go and relax, she might actually have fun, but it was pointless. A relentlessly determined individual, Amy would do whatever she chose to do, and if she chose to be uptight and miserable, there was little he could do about it.

  Lunch, at least, was enjoyable: lobster stew, fried haddock, and corn bread so good he thought he’d died and gone to heaven. They chatted in the loose, comfortable way of two people who know each other well. Like an old married couple, he thought, but then he supposed all relationships reached that point after a while. Afterward, they checked out the gift shop across the street, which held a variety of items, from cheap, touristy crap to quality work from local artisans. He bought her a copper bracelet that she immediately wrapped around her slender wrist and then spent an inordinate amount of time admiring, turning her hand this way and that as if he’d given her the Hope Diamond.

  After that, she mellowed. Not because of the gift. Not because she was greedy. Amy wasn’t the kind of woman to be impressed by things. It was the thought behind the gift, more than the gift itself, that pleased her. While she liked the bracelet, he knew it was the fact that he cared enough to give her a gift that had her wearing a goofy grin as they exited the shop.

  Guilt gnawed at him. It wasn’t as if he treated her bad. But more often than not, he was too preoccupied with his own inner drama to be aware of her standing beside him, waiting for a kind word, a touch of the hand, an affectionate smile. He’d never been a demonstrative man, and most of the time, Amy didn’t appear to mind the lack of these things. She was a practical, sensible, level-headed woman who, on the outside at least, didn’t seem to fall prey to all those sentimental actions so many women craved.

  But sometimes he could see it, in the tilt of her head, the downward curve of her lip, the wary expression in her eyes. She might be a headstrong, take-charge kind of woman who marched into every battle with head held high. A warrior. But that full-speed-ahead exterior camouflaged the heart of a woman who longed for True Love.

  She wasn’t likely to find it with him. Not the kind of love she secretly craved. He wasn’t even sure he was capable of it any longer. Gunther was right. He was being unfair, staying with Amy when the simple act of staying had given her unrealistic expectations. The fair thing, the kind thing, would be to break it off, before she ended up irreparably hurt.

  But. There was always a but, wasn’t there? The road to hell wasn’t paved with good intentions, it was paved with buts. When she wasn’t being a stone-cold bitch, he liked Amy. He admired and respected her. She wasn’t perfect, but then neither was he. And she was nice to curl up to on a cold winter night. There was a special kind of comfort that came from sleeping with another human being. Compared to the nights he lay awake, alone in his trailer, while Rachel danced through his head, those nights with Amy were bliss. He wasn’t ready to give them up. If he couldn’t feel any great love for her, that was his own failing. His guts had been ripped apart, and when he was alone with his thoughts, they still bled. It was highly unlikely he’d ever feel that level of emotion toward any woman ever again. Did that mean he was supposed to spend the rest of his life alone? Because that was the alternative, and damned if that sounded appealing.

  A little of the sunlight drained from his day.

  When they reached the beach and parked the bike, he took her hand. She looked at him oddly, but didn’t question the uncharacteristic gesture. Hand in hand, they walked along the wet sand at the water’s edge. Kids squealed and shrieked while their mothers, slathered with sunscreen and dressed in tiny bikinis and huge sunglasses, watched indolently to make sure their children weren’t being swept out to sea.

  “They’re so nonchalant,” Amy said. “If those were my kids, I wouldn’t dare to look away for a second.”

  “They say it gets easier after the first. You’re paranoid with the first one, worried about germs and pedophiles and all those things that go bump in the night. By the time Number Three rolls around, your kid is eating off the floor and driving himself to daycare.”

  “Aren’t we funny.”

  “Just trying to add a little levity to the day.”

  She released his hand and pointed toward the dunes. “I want to check out the beach roses.”

  Amy scampered across the sand, while he followed at a more leisurely pace, ever mindful of the damage loose sand and salt water could do to his prosthesis. From thirty feet away, the scent of roses was intoxicating, mixed with the pungent odors of seaweed and fresh salt air, and alive with the buzzing of bees flitting from flower to flower. He drew all that wonderfulness into his lungs. The scent of his childhood, it stirred memories of summer beach days, hot dogs and boogie boards and gritty tuna fish sandwiches. His mom in a bright red two-piece and a huge, floppy straw hat. Mom loved the beach. Those were good times, times when he’d still been blissfully unaware of her problems with alcohol.

  For the first time today, his shoulder muscles relaxed, and he turned his face up to the sun to soak in a few ultraviolet rays. From a distance, Amy’s voice floated back to him. “These flowers smell so good. They’re—ow!”

  It took a moment for her words to register, and he reluctantly returned to the present. “Ow, what?” he said.

  Amy was staring at her arm. “The little bastard stung me.”

  He immediately marched over to her. “Where? Are you okay? Let me see.”

  She obediently held out her arm. There, in the soft flesh of her underarm, an angry-looking red welt had already begun to form. “Jesus,” he said. “Have you ever been stung before?”

  Troubled dark eyes met his. “No,” she said.

  He peered more closely at the stinge
r that was still perched like a tiny sentinel at the center of the redness. Her arm wasn’t swelling—at least not yet—but he didn’t like the looks of that welt.

  So much for their beach day. “I think,” he said, “we should play it safe and make a quick trip to the E.R.”

  * * *

  SIX HOURS LATER, he pulled the bike into Amy’s driveway. They’d spent three of those hours in the Emergency Room, where a pimply-faced intern had chosen to err on the side of caution. While Amy kept insisting there was no need for all this attention, the young doctor removed the stinger, gave her Benadryl for the swelling and an antibiotic in case of infection, then monitored her for a couple of hours just to make sure she wasn’t about to blow up like the Pillsbury Doughboy.

  The long ride back up the Maine Turnpike had been accomplished in silence. Just the steady buzz of the bike and the wind streaming past his ears. Now, as they dismounted in the sweetness of a summer dusk, he helped her remove her helmet, then touched her face with the tip of his thumb. “I’m sorry,” he said, feeling an unexpected rush of tenderness. “I know you had the day from hell.”

  “It wasn’t your fault,” she said. “And it wasn’t all bad.” She glanced at the copper bracelet. “Lunch was great. The beach was lovely, until—” She shrugged, then offered an apologetic smile. “I will admit I’m glad to get off that bike.”

  Sometimes Amy surprised him. She could be a trouper when she had to be. But the truth was painted all over her face. She looked like she’d been rode hard and put away wet.

  “I should probably go,” he said. “It’s been a long day, and we’re both tired. Will you be okay?”

  “Don’t leave.” She rested a hand on his forearm. “Stay with me tonight.”

  Somewhere in the grass behind the house, a cricket chirped. He shoved his hands into his pockets and shuffled his feet, unable to dismiss the unease that had sprung up out of nowhere.

  “Aren’t you pushing your luck a little?” he said, trying to make light of it. “Maybe we should just put this day to bed, before something else goes wrong.”