“Great. No issues. Granted, before last month I hadn’t driven it in a while, being gone and all, but she still sounds mean, still looks beautiful.”
Cal smiles. “Good, good. Every man needs something he can take pride in.”
“How about you? Any projects in the works?”
Cal takes another swig of beer and shakes his head. “I’m so damn busy with work, I can barely keep up. I have no time for projects right now. I got a ’67 Shelby in the shop I’ve been meaning to get running for the past three years, but it’s still sitting there, collecting dust.”
“That’s too bad. I’ve got a lot on my plate right now, trying to get the old house finished, but I’d be happy to help out if you need it. It would give me something to do until I figure things out.”
Cal looks at me, studies me, actually, and I’m not sure why. “Machaela told me about you and Samantha. With Robert gone, I feel it’s my duty to tell you that if you do anything to hurt that girl, you and me’ll have problems. I like ya, kid, but . . .” He shakes his head as if picturing the worst.
“I understand, sir. And you have my word, I won’t hurt her, not intentionally.”
“That’s all I can ask for.” Cal flips the meat, grumbling something about Bobby and closes the lid of the grill. “Machaela!” He glances toward the back door, then squints at me. “You planning on having kids someday, Joshua?”
I lift a shoulder. “Someday, maybe—”
“Well don’t, they’ll turn ya gray and run ya ragged.”
“Duly noted,” I say and hold out my beer. “You think you got one more year left in ya?” I ask him, amused by the dynamic of his family. He’s so different from the way my old man was. It’s fascinating to hear him talk about his own children, with love and feigned irritation.
Cal smiles, the full-face smile I remember from years ago. “Are you kidding? I’ve got a daughter who’s more trouble than both the boys combined. Until she’s married, old, and ugly, I’ve got my work cut out for me. Unfortunately, it looks like a long line of this crap is in my future.”
“Well, then, here’s to another year, sir. Happy birthday.”
“Thank you, son. I still can’t believe Machaela insisted we have a party.”
“Of course I did,” she says and stops beside us. She’s as dolled-up as ever and eyeing her father and me suspiciously. “Fifty-five is a big year, Dad. You don’t get to pretend you forget every year. That’s no fun for me. Plus, I like to make you feel uncomfortable.”
“Don’t I know it.” He looks down at his frilly apron.
“Doesn’t he look pretty?” she asks, playfully. “It’s mine.”
I chuckle. “I sort of got that with the lacy strings.”
“I think it looks better on you than it does on me, Dad.”
Cal shakes his head, ignoring her, and takes a swig of his beer. “I need about fifteen more minutes for the meat. How are you doing in there?” He nods toward the house. Sam’s standing in front of the kitchen window, staring out at me with a warm, shy smile on her face. I wink at her and she walks away from the window.
“Sam’s just pulling the cornbread out of the oven, and the green beans are ready. I’m tossing the salad together now. We should be ready when the meat is.”
“Alright. We’re not doing cake and shit, are we? You know how much I hate cake.”
“Of course we are.” She leans forward and kisses Cal’s cheek. “With ice cream. And I even got a unicorn piñata.”
“Christ,” he mutters.
“Don’t worry,” she says. “The piñata’s for me.” She winks at me and turns toward the house. “We’ll be out in just a minute.”
“Where’s your brother? I thought he was supposed to be doing this. This was you kids’ idea.”
“He’ll be right out. I made him go take a shower, he was filthy.”
“I just got off work. Geez,” Bobby says, passing Mac as he jogs down the steps. He runs his hands down the front of his button-up shirt and tugs at the hem. “Hey, Reilly!” he grins. “Long time no see.”
“Bobby,” I say, extending my hand. “Good to see you.”
He comes in for a hug and stiff pat on the back. At about six-one, the youngest of the Carmichael brood still stands two inches shorter than Cal, though more muscular and with fewer tattoos. The oldest brother, David, isn’t around anymore, far as I can tell, and I know he’s been in trouble off and on, so I don’t ask about him in case it’s a sore subject.
“I haven’t seen you in so long, man. How’s the Army treating you?” Bobby widens his stance and crosses his arms over his stomach.
“Good. I mean, it’s not like it’s gravy or anything, but it’s what I know.”
“You home on leave or what? When I heard you were here, I was surprised. I thought you were career.”
“My contract’s up, so I thought I’d come back and work on my dad’s place, sell it, and figure out what I want to do from there.”
“Right on.” He leans down and grabs a beer from the ice chest. “You thinking about going back after the house sells?”
I shrug. “I’m not sure. I’m still trying to figure things out.”
“Yeah, I get it. I get it.” He takes a swig of his beer. “You miss it?”
“Oh yeah,” I say easily. “Like I said, it’s what I know. It’s strange being back. It’s hard to get used to.”
“Oh, look at this glorious display of deliciousness,” Nick says, walking up behind us. I peer over my shoulder at the table and find Sam standing there, her gaze darting between Bobby and me. There’s a distant look on her face that makes me feel uneasy, but she quickly recovers and smiles. I know what she’s thinking.
“There’s my girl!” Bobby says. He takes the plate of cornbread from Sam and places it on the picnic table before he pulls her up into his arms. “Haven’t seen you in a minute.”
“Yeah,” Sam says shyly. “I’ve been busy.”
When Bobby lets go, Sam excuses herself to get the rest of dinner.
“Here, let me help,” Nick says. He shoves his pack of cigarettes in his back pocket as he follows her inside.
“Still smoking, Nicholas? You know those things can kill you,” Cal calls to him and winks at me.
Nick keeps walking. “I know it, sir.”
“You quittin’ any time soon?”
“Yes, sir. It was my New Year’s resolution last year.”
Nick flashes Cal a smile and disappears into the house.
Cal only shakes his head. “Like I said, these kids . . .
Thirty-Three
Sam
When I get to Reilly’s house, I’m not surprised to find the door unlocked or Reilly in the shower.
I walk into the master bedroom and head straight for the bathroom. The door is open a crack, so I peek inside. “I’m here,” I sing, happy to eye his blurred form through the glass.
“Hey, beautiful.” He turns to face me, and water droplets are all that distort his naked body. God, I love the improvements he’s made to this place. I clear my throat.
“Staring’s impolite,” he says and flashes me a sexy grin. I nearly melt. “Care to join me?”
“If I didn’t just get out of the shower, I would consider it,” I say, only partially joking. “Plus we only have thirty-five minutes to make it down the hill before our movie starts.”
“You’re no fun.” Reilly chuckles.
“I know.” I decide that waiting in the living room away from temptation is probably best. “I’ll be out here.”
Walking into the kitchen, I pour myself a glass of water and peruse the new oak table set in the adjoining dining room. I grab the magazine I’d left last time I was here and sit down on the daybed. It suddenly hits me that not only did Reilly put in the daybed, upholstering it with my favorite colors, but he also painted the shutters the rusty red I’d recommended, and I saw a stack of railroad ties for what might possibly be a raised flowerbed or vegetable garden in the back. The thought makes
me happy, for a moment.
I’m getting too comfortable. This isn’t my house. Soon it won’t even be his house anymore. I have to keep reminding myself of that. It’s going to be sold; he already has people interested in it and it’s not even on the market yet.
The one thing we haven’t really talked about yet is what he plans to do next. What happens when he sells this place? Where will he go? What happens between us? I haven’t wanted to push him, haven’t wanted to add tension to what we have, because it feels so right, so good to me just how it is now. But it’s dawning on me that not having this conversation is dangerous. And after his comment to Bobby yesterday, knowing how much he misses his old life and how hard it is for him to be here . . .
We have to talk—I have to know, and soon.
I jump when the house phone rings. The professional side of me wants to answer it, but I quickly decide it isn’t my home or my business to answer, so I let it go to the old machine, the same one Mr. Reilly had from before.
“You’ve reached Josh Reilly at 243 Cowell Mountain Drive.”
I smile at the sound of his voice on the machine, so stern and unwelcoming. I wonder what people must think when they hear him, not knowing the man.
“If you’re interested in the property, please contact my realtor, Nancy Cottington, at Saratoga Real Estate. Thanks.”
Then the machine beeps. “Corporal, it’s Mad Dog. I left you a message on your cell last week but never heard back from you. I figured I’d try the landline. I expected to get your reenlistment application last week. Anyway, call me back. We can at least grab a beer. You owe me.” He pauses. “You have my number.”
Reenlistment? I’m not sure why it comes as a shock.
I sit in silence a moment, deciding whether I have the right to be angry that I had no idea he’d decided to reenlist. Or maybe he hadn’t, and that’s why he never called the guy back. But the fact that he didn’t tell me makes whatever’s going on feel more like a secret or worse, a decision he’s struggling to make. Again.
With each rapid breath comes another question, another reevaluation of the things he’s said, of the things he hasn’t said. On more than one occasion, Reilly’s made it clear that he’s happy in the military. Being home is hard for him, being here is hard for him. He’s told me how the Army gives him purpose, that he misses his friends, that he feels like he belongs with them.
It doesn’t matter that I’ve known something like this might happen, that he’d probably leave soon, but now it’s so close to being here, I panic.
I stand up, peering around the room. I can’t let him change his plans, change his life for me. He’ll resent me for his decision to stay, just like I resented him for wanting to go.
The water shuts off in the bathroom. I try to steady myself, but my hands are shaking. My heart’s galloping in my chest and my mind is racing with arguments for him to stay, but none of them overshadow what I know I should do. He’s already suffered so much because of me.
“Almost ready,” he says from inside his bedroom.
I let out a deep breath and brace my palms against the table. The thought of letting him go burns—my eyes, my heart, my throat, my chest.
I can smell his fresh scent before he walks out and wraps his arms around my waist. He kisses my neck. “I can’t believe you agreed to see this movie with me. I thought for sure you—”
“Josh,” I say in a rush, and I turn around to face him.
His shadowed blue eyes widen, cautiously searching my face. His muscles tense. “What is it?”
Thirty-Four
Reilly
Sam stares back at me, brown eyes gleaming, and my heart drops to my stomach. “What is it, Sam?” I ask again, more anxious this time.
She tries to smile, but it falls short and she nods toward the kitchen.
I follow her gaze. “What?”
“Mad Dog called while you were in the shower.” Her voice is hoarse, filled with a sadness or hurt I don’t understand.
She must notice my confusion because she lifts a shoulder and takes a deep breath. She’s trying to be strong, trying to rally herself, though I have no idea why. “You’re reenlisting?”
I let out a breath, not realizing I’d been holding it to begin with, and shake my head. “Is that what this is about?” I smile in relief. “No, I’m not reenlisting. That’s why he’s calling me. I haven’t told him that yet.”
The expression on Sam’s face doesn’t change, and uneasiness tightens my gut.
“I’m not reenlisting, Sam. I was going to, but that was before.”
She blinks, taps her fingers on her thighs, moistens her lips, and blinks again. I take it all in, read her so that I know where this is going. “I think you should take some time, you should really think about this—”
“I did. I want to stay here with you.”
She takes a step back, shaking her head. “You always planned to leave. You didn’t want to come back and now suddenly you’re changing your mind. You’re changing everything, all your plans, to stay here with me. How can you be sure it’s not just an “in the moment” thing? What if you regret it?”
“I won’t.” Taking her wrists, I pull her gently toward me. “This is what I want to do.” I’m not sure how I can make myself any clearer.
Her lips purse and her gaze narrows on me, like I’m the one who’s not getting it. “You know what you think you want,” she says. “But what will you do if you stay? You don’t know what it’s like to regret and resent, how much it consumes you and ruins everything. I don’t want that for you. And you will resent me if you turn away from the only place you’ve ever felt like you belonged. If you’re not certain.”
I take a steadying breath and rub my temple, trying to be patient. “Sam, why won’t you trust me on this? Why do you always have to assume the worst? Can you not see us together, with a life of our own? Can you not see how much I care about you, that you make me happy? Why would I leave?”
She turns for the door.
My heart starts to gallop as I realize how serious she really is and I grab onto her arm, forcing her to come back to me. “Sam, don’t walk out.”
“I’m not ending things,” she says more quietly and yanks her arm from my hold. She reaches for the handle. “I’m just telling you to take some time, make sure this is what you really want, and let me know.”
“Sam . . .” I can’t bring myself to say it, but I can’t go through this again. I can’t survive another broken heart. “Sam, please don’t leave,” I say, willing her to just listen to me, but she opens the door and disappears outside.
I’m reeling, too pissed, too blindsided and confused to go after her.
Thirty-Five
Sam
Lying by the gravestones, I let the early afternoon sun burn the outsides of my eyelids and scald every unwanted notion away. No matter how I’m feeling, the sun is always a warm blanket that soothes me, cooking me from the outside in and filling my mind with a soothing haze instead of tumultuous, unwanted thoughts.
“I should be working right now,” I tell Papa. Talking to him helps clear my head sometimes, especially on days like this. “But I can’t focus.” I let out a breath. “I called Alison’s cell, but she didn’t answer.” I think about the ranch without her, how empty it feels, even though we barely talked as it was. “I’m not sure if she’s coming home.”
Everything in my head is jumbled, and I can’t think of anything other than how much I hate the absence of noise coming from Reilly’s house. “He doesn’t understand.” I stare at Papa’s name on the gravestone, the way it’s permanently etched there, never fading, like I fear his memory might one day do. I rest my chin on the backs of my hands. “I just want him to be sure . . .”
The sound of crunching debris alerts me of someone’s approach. “Nick, I know you’re angry with me, but—”
“Nick left for town,” Alison says, her voice tired, and I feel a sudden surge of emotion.
I jolt upright. �
�I thought you were at your sister’s?” I ask, though it comes out sounding more offensive than I mean it to.
Alison’s arms hang loosely at her sides. Her eyes are red, like she’s been crying.
“I got your message,” she says carefully. “I’ve actually wanted to call you for a few days now, but I was worried you wouldn’t answer. So, when I got your call . . . well, I figured it was time to come home.”
Her eyes veer past me toward Papa’s headstone. She stands there a moment. I can’t help but wonder what she’s doing down here. We’ve never visited Papa’s grave together—never been to the lake at the same time. If it weren’t for the early mornings I’ve seen her walking from this direction back into the house from my bedroom window, I wouldn’t know she comes down here at all.
Finally, she steps onto the deck, and I stand up, walking down the incline to join her.
“I hoped I’d find you down here.” She stares at the rickety patio chairs, rusted and rotted from years of sun damage, brushes a few fallen leaves off one of them, and sits down.
I plop down on the edge of the dock, thinking about all the times Reilly sat directly beside me growing up. “A lot’s happened since you left,” I say, but I’m not sure whether I’m referring to my life or just what’s happened around the ranch. I peer out at the water. It’s steady, unlike my nerves.
“Sam, I want to apologize,” Alison says, her voice both filled with emotion and hollow all at once. She leans forward, her elbows resting on her knees. “For what happened last week . . . for everything.” She peers at me, her shoulders slumped and her eyes bloodshot. “I shouldn’t have slapped you—I shouldn’t have snooped.”
Although I knew she’d regretted slapping me the moment she did it, I never expected her to apologize for it. “It’s alright. I said some things I shouldn’t have. I deserved it—”
“No.” When I look at her again, her eyes are shimmering. “No, it’s not alright. And I’m sorry. There are a dozen different ways I could’ve approached that situation, but I was too worried about myself and how scared I was to think about it from your perspective. I was too busy being angry to be levelheaded about it.”
Whatever It Takes (A Saratoga Falls Love Story Book 1) Page 30