An Everyday Hero

by Laura Trentham

  “Who wrote that song?”

  “No one knows. Was it a woman who lost her lover too young? Or a man who knew he was dying? Or was it made it up by a musician with a vivid imagination one winter when there was nothing else to do?”

  “What do you think?”

  “I like to imagine a woman, alone on some mountaintop, writing that song to honor her lost love.”

  “That’s super-depressing.”

  “Life can be depressing. And unfair. And just plain sucky.”

  While Ally didn’t answer, her eye roll seemed to signal her agreement. An opening yawned. Greer wanted to know more about her father’s death and what had driven her to shoplift. But the opening felt too much like a trap. Like Emmett, Ally would protect her truths at all costs.

  What better way to earn trust than to give trust? “Do you want to know how I ended up here?” Greer asked.

  “Thought you busted up a bar after getting cheated on?”

  “Beau cheating on me was the last, pathetic straw. Want to hear the rest of the story?”

  “Whatever.” Ally shrugged her adolescent haughtiness back on like a grungy concert T-shirt.

  “I spent a decade trying to make it in Nashville.” Greer wasn’t sure what making it even looked like anymore. “Ten years of my life gone by with nothing to show for it. I came crawling home with even less than I left with.”

  “How long had you been dating the cheater?”

  “Around six months. I went to high school with him, but we had lost touch over the years.”

  “Is he hot?”

  “He’s nice-looking in a buttoned-up, preppy kind of way, I guess. But hot? Nah.” They shared a smile. “I suppose Beau reminded me of who I used to be.”

  Ally abandoned her indifference, sitting forward with wide eyes. “How’d you find out he was cheating on you?”

  “I went by his place as a surprise and caught him with his pants down. Literally.”

  Ally’s chair creaked. “That wasn’t cool of him. At all.”

  “No, it wasn’t.” But had it been cool of her to string Beau along because he was stable and comfortable? She ignored the niggle of guilt. “Long story short, I moved back in with my parents, drank too much one night, and got arrested for disorderly conduct and resisting arrest.”

  “And you chose to volunteer here because you’re a musician?”

  “I’m not a musician anymore. My uncle was the sentencing judge and Amelia is his stepdaughter. I’d have rather picked up trash on the side of the road, but I can’t complain about the air-conditioning.”

  “I’m just glad you’re not a self-righteous do-gooder like Amelia and the women from Fort Knox.”

  “What women from Fort Knox?” Greer kept the rampant curiosity off her face and out of her voice, afraid Ally would scurry behind her walls. When the girl only tapped a pencil on the table, Greer said, “I’m definitely not a do-gooder. In fact, I hit the policeman who was trying to arrest me in the nuts. Accidentally, I think. Although it might have been a Freudian slip.”

  Ally’s lips twitched. Could it possibly be the start of a smile? “I think those can only be slips of the tongue, not knees.”

  “I actually jabbed him with my foot, which happened to be in a spiked high heel. He went down like a sacked quarterback.”

  “Sounds awesome.” While Ally wasn’t smiling, her eyes twinkled and hinted at who she might have been before tragedy.

  “It was pretty hilarious until they threw me in county lockup.” Greer gave an exaggerated shudder, but she didn’t need to pretend to be disgusted. “A bunch of rough, rowdy, mostly drunk women. One toilet. I had sobered up enough at that point to recognize I was in a heap of trouble.”

  “What’d you do?”

  “Called my parents.”

  “Were they pissed?”

  “Honestly, it would have been easier if they had been. They were sad and disappointed. Not like I can blame them.”

  “Sounds like how my mom looked when she got to the mall after I was caught.”

  “The mall and not Walmart?”

  Ally crossed her arms and leaned her chair back on two legs. “I do have my standards.”

  “What’d you lift?”

  The chair banged back to the floor, and Ally chewed on her thumbnail. The black polish was chipped and the nail was bitten down to the quick. She could whip from bravado to jittery tension faster than a hiccup. “A Coach purse.”

  “Fancy, but I don’t think it would have matched your boots.”

  “It wasn’t for me.”

  “For your mom?”

  “She deserved something nice.” Defiance hardened Ally’s features. “My only regret is that I got caught.”

  At fifteen, behind Greer’s façade of coolness, she had been naive and dreamy and protected from life’s travails. She wouldn’t have understood someone like Ally. At thirty, however, Greer could relate a little too well.

  “I regret embarrassing myself, but mostly I regret embarrassing my parents.” Strangely, it didn’t feel weird at all to be unloading her truths to a fifteen-year-old. “They had to sit behind me in court while I was sentenced. How did your mom react?”

  Another shrug that seemed exclusive to teenagers. “She’s worried I’m turning into a delinquent.”

  “Are you?” Greer kept the question light on judgment.

  “Nashville sucks. I hate it,” Ally said through clenched teeth.

  “As Nashville recently kicked me to the curb like it was trash day, I can’t disagree. Is it school or your neighborhood or what?”

  “It’s everything. Mom says we’re settling down here and not moving again. She hated the moving.”

  “You didn’t mind base hopping?” Greer asked.

  “No. It was cool. Dad made it fun. Took us out to explore. We would try all the restaurants and do the touristy stuff no one ever does when they live in a town.” Ally picked at her nails, leaving flecks of black on the white tabletop. “I miss him.”

  Greer couldn’t imagine losing a parent so young. What would she have done without her mom and dad and a soft place to land? “I’m sorry about your dad.”

  Ally’s gaze flicked up, then back down to concentrate on denuding her nails. “I’m sorry about your life.”

  An unexpected dark humor arrowed out of Ally and hit Greer right in the funny bone. Her laugh echoed against the concrete walls. “Yeah, my life is a freaking mess. I’m not sure what wisdom I’m supposed to impart to your impressionable little mind except to serve as a cautionary tale.”

  “I don’t know. As grown-ups go, you’re not a complete moron. At least you don’t treat me like I’m mentally impaired.”

  “Surely your mom—”

  “Not Mom. The principal, the kids, those bitches from Fort Knox.”

  “What did those women want?”

  “I guess to make themselves feel good that their husbands and their kids’ dads are still alive.”

  Their visits were probably more altruistic than Ally was giving them credit for. Yet, feelings were feelings and something the women had said or did triggered Ally’s bitterness. Or perhaps it was simple jealousy. They still had husbands and their kids still had fathers.

  “Do you have family in Nashville?”

  “No family anywhere. Dad was in foster care before he joined up, and Mom left home at sixteen. They didn’t want her. My dad used to say they had each other and that’s all they needed.” Ally rubbed her nose but didn’t look up.

  “What’s your mom doing now?”

  “She needs to find a job to save up some money to change things. Doesn’t matter what.”

  “Change things how?”

  “She wants to go back to school. Nursing. Problem is she never graduated high school and needs her GED first.”

  “Community centers or libraries sometimes offer classes to help adults get their GED. Has she looked into it?”

  Ally shrugged and Greer veered the conversation in a different direction
.

  “What was your dad like?”

  “Normal, I guess. Kind of embarrassing sometimes. He used to sing as loud as he could in the car. Or dance in public.” A natural but deeply buried sweetness and humor seemed to bubble up with her words, and her lips twitched into an almost-smile. “He worked a lot. And when he deployed, he was gone for months and months.”

  “That had to be rough.”

  “Yeah, but we lived on base and all the kids had a parent gone at some time or another. It made it easier knowing you weren’t alone.”

  Alone. Ally got an A-plus in pushing people away, but was she waiting for someone to stick around? Greer wasn’t known for her sticking ability. She wasn’t even sure what her future held after satisfying her service hours. Maybe she’d take off and start over in a new city.

  A knock made them both turn toward the door. Amelia stuck her head in. “Time’s up, ladies. Richard needs the room.”

  Instead of each second of their session ticking off like kicks to the head, the time had sped by. More questions lined up in Greer’s mind, but Ally was up, her backpack swinging over a shoulder, and out the door in record time.

  “See you next week!” Greer called down the hall.

  Ally flipped a bird over her head but didn’t turn around for a reaction. The door banged closed. Greer couldn’t help but smile and raised her eyebrows at Amelia. “Classy girl.”

  Amelia laughed and backed into her office. “I have to say, I’m impressed.”

  “Impressed that she basically told me to eff off?” Greer followed and propped her shoulder against the doorframe.

  “Impressed you’ve stuck it out. And did I actually hear talking? Was that you or her?”

  “Both of us. It’s referred to as a conversation.”

  “That’s really great progress.” Amelia met Greer’s sarcasm with sincerity.

  “Besides the epic failure of our first session, I haven’t gotten her to write music, though. Isn’t that kind of the point?”

  “The point of the music is to help process the anxiety or depression or PTSD they’re experiencing. The music is merely a tool to get them to a healthier place. A powerful tool, in my opinion, but there are other ways.”

  “I’m not sure what’s going on with Ally.” A burgeoning worry for the girl had grown through the session. “She’s definitely not happy. It’s her dad’s death, but also the change in her circumstances. I don’t think she fits in at her new school.”

  “I don’t think she tries to fit in.”

  “Maybe so, but what wisdom can I offer? I’ve never gone out of my way to fit in either.”

  “Fitting in is overrated. You made a name for yourself in Madison through your music. You were unique but not in a destructive way. Maybe you can help her find a constructive path.” Amelia sat behind her desk and shuffled folders until she landed on one in particular. “Where do you stand with Emmett Lawson?”

  “I think it’s best to stand out of range of his shotgun. Thanks for the heads-up.” Greer narrowed her eyes at Amelia, who had the grace to grimace.

  “I swear if I truly thought he was a danger, I wouldn’t have suggested you go, but he’s all bluster.” Amelia sat, heaved a sigh, and slumped back in the chair. “I hate to give up on anyone, but he needs something we can’t provide.”

  Amelia spoke from a place of logic. A song wouldn’t fix Emmett’s issues. It wouldn’t even plug the holes. But there was the matter of his guitar. Greer was toting it around and building up the courage to face him again, but had chickened out every time she’d driven by the locked gate and No Trespassing sign. After all, if she couldn’t even handle an angsty teenager, how did she expect to handle a man with very grown-up problems—and a gun?

  Yet, her session with Ally had given her a new confidence. “Double hours still apply, right?”

  “I’ll consider it hazard pay.”

  “Let me give it one more shot.” She huffed a laugh to cover her spate of nerves. “Not literally, I hope.”

  As she was leaving, Greer stopped halfway down the hall before returning to pop her head around Amelia’s door. “Just in case … if something happens to me, you know where to look.”

  Chapter 5

  Emmett Lawson rocked in a chair on his front porch and tapped the barrel of his shotgun against his leg. Not his flesh and blood one, but the other one. The length of carbon fiber that was a poor substitute for what he’d lost.

  Yet, he felt petty and ungrateful for voicing a complaint. He’d seen men at Walter Reed worse off by a country mile. Men who’d lost both legs or hands or all of the above. As his buddy Terrance had pointed out, at least he still had the ability to jerk off, thank the Lord. A small smile surfaced before disappearing once more into the darkness of his thoughts.

  He eeny-meeny-miney-mo’ed the five shots of Jack he had lined up on the porch rail even though they were identical. An empty shot glass rolled at his feet. He landed on the middle shot and knocked it back. The burn took his mind off the phantom tingling in his lost foot and got him one shot closer to passing out, which was his ultimate goal.

  Even though his mom and dad were only a mile away as the crow flew, he missed his other family—the army. Instead of pity, they gave him shit. Instead of tiptoeing around his feelings, they stomped all over them. It had been comforting to still be treated like an army captain and not an invalid. Even at Walter Reed, the mood veered more toward kick-ass rather than downtrodden.

  Now his only company was the occasional horse that wandered to the fence that separated the cabin from the Lawson horse farm. A pretty tan-colored mare had drawn him over one afternoon, her belly round with a foal. He’d only had a sad, shrunken apple to offer, but she’d taken it from his hand with a gentle nip and good-natured chuffs.

  He missed the freedom of galloping a horse, the wind and pound of hoofs blocking out the world, but the thought of scrambling into the saddle and the awkwardness that would ensue was unbearable. The horse represented yet another loss, and he ignored the mare when she’d returned a few days later. Eventually, she’d given up on him too.

  If it were only the horses. When he’d first returned home to Madison, the looks and whispers full of pity from the townspeople made him sick to his stomach. He felt like he’d let people down by getting his fucking leg blown off. On the opposite end of the spectrum, his dad wanted to hold him up like some goddamn hero. He wasn’t, no matter what the army tried to say. Good men had died under his command. Men who had deserved a hero’s welcome home instead of a flag-draped casket.

  Clink. Clink. Clink. The dull sound didn’t harmonize with the birds singing or the bugs humming around the blooming blue hydrangeas lining his porch. It was unnatural. The bushes were growing out of control, but Emmett preferred leaving the landscaping and grass untamed. Maybe he’d let them devour the cabin along with him.

  Besides a daily text from his mom, his parents had left him alone for the past week. He got the feeling the text was so that he could assure them he hadn’t eaten the end of his shotgun. While he couldn’t quantify the heavy feelings that squatted on his chest, he wasn’t ready to die. He didn’t deserve the peace that came with death.

  Movement at the edge of the woods stilled his rocking. He brought the gun up and laid it on the porch rail to steady it in case he needed to scare off another do-gooder. He squinted, the lowering sun behind the person and in his eyes.

  It was a woman for sure. No mistaking the sway of hips and long legs. Rays of light glinted off the woman’s chestnut hair. “Ah, hell,” he muttered.

  It was Greer Hadley again. Was his warning shot and general air of assholery not enough to scare her off forever? She had something in her hand. A gun? Was she going to challenge him to a duel? A smile tugged at his mouth, but he squashed it. Laughter was off-limits.

  He grabbed his binoculars and let out another curse. Even worse than a gun, she carried a guitar. His focused eyes drifted to Greer’s legs. She was in another skirt, but this one wasn’t
as tight as the last one she’d worn. The breeze whipped the hem around her thighs. He pressed the binoculars tighter against his face and took in the length of her legs. Long and lean and sexy as hell. Ironic he was a leg man when he didn’t have two of his own.

  If he’d had his service rifle from the army, he could have shot the guitar out of her hand, but he wouldn’t risk hurting her by using his shotgun. It had been his great-grandfather’s and was known more for its deafening report than its accuracy.

  The lethargy that had kept him rocking and staring off in the distance most of the day drained out of him. His foot tapped faster the closer she got until he couldn’t stand it any longer and popped up to meet her at the bottom of the steps.

  He didn’t even care if she noticed his awkward descent, always leading with his intact right foot. In fact, he hoped she commented on it so he could meet her pity with fury. Anger was the only thing that made him feel alive.

  “What’s that?” he asked, even though he recognized every curve and nick of his old guitar. It had been his solace and his secret in high school.

  “Your mama asked me to drop her by. The poor thing was in pitiful shape, though. I cleaned her up, restrung, and tuned her.” She swung the guitar up and strummed a C chord.

  The sweetness of the sound was exactly why he’d left the guitar behind, along with everything else that reminded him of his life before. “I don’t want it. Pawn it and give the money to my mom. Or keep the money yourself. I won’t tell.” Mostly because he barely talked to his parents and when he did it wasn’t about anything deeper than the weather or food. “Or, hell, give it to me, and I’ll use it as a garden planter.”

  “Are you insane?” The way she ran her hand over the curve of the guitar sent awareness zipping through his body. “This is a Martin.”

  “Yeah, I know. I saved up an entire year to buy it.” He turned to tackle the stairs again. “I don’t care what you do with it.”

  He didn’t want the damn thing sitting around the cabin mocking him. She grabbed his shoulder, and he twisted around. Shock that she would touch him at all mixed with the realization he hadn’t so much as shaken another person’s hand for months.