by Jamie Beck
He visualized what other flowering plants must bloom in spring and summer, but were now pruned and protected. Then he imagined Gabby kneeling at the edge of the bed, digging her hands into the soil, her cute little rear end hovering a foot or so above her heels.
That image got his juices flowing, too, albeit in a completely improper way.
On his way to the garage, activity in the side yard caught his attention. Luc’s little squeal of delight penetrated the air as he dashed around on wobbly legs. Gabby had set a mug of coffee up on a fence post while she bent over to inspect something in her vegetable garden. Nearly a perfect replica of his little fantasy.
Luc stopped and noticed Jackson watching them.
“Mama!” He clutched a little toy close to his chest with one hand and pointed at Jackson with the other.
She glanced over her shoulder. Smiling at him as if he were a friend rather than a new acquaintance, she called out, “Good morning.”
Busted, with no clean getaway.
Not that he minded talking to her, exactly. She seemed agreeable and outgoing . . . and too damned cute. Therein lay the problem.
Women were a complication he didn’t need, especially this woman, with her smile that tipped him off his axis, and her toddler in tow.
“Morning.” He waved and found himself crossing the yard to get to her, like his body had flipped the finger at his brain and gone after what it wanted.
She looked so young, but here she stood, raising her child and running her own business. A lot for anyone to accomplish, let alone someone at her tender age. She deserved respect, not lust.
Gabby rose and brushed off her hands before reaching for her coffee mug. Meanwhile, Luc stared at him, wide-eyed and cautious.
To distract himself from ogling Gabby, Jackson crouched down by Luc. “Who’s this?” he asked, pointing toward the brown-and-white stuffed animal currently held hostage in a white-knuckled death grip.
“Bingo.” Luc twisted his torso to keep his dog out of Jackson’s reach.
“Bingo’s a great name. Did you pick it?” Jackson smiled at Luc, whose round, baby-blue eyes resembled his mother’s.
He nodded. Apparently Luc had already learned some economy with words—a male trait Jackson could appreciate. Had Luc’s father taught him? Jackson hadn’t seen a guy other than Jon around the property since he arrived yesterday, but perhaps the man traveled for work.
Then again, Gabby didn’t wear a wedding ring, so maybe she was divorced, or widowed. The thought of her suffering either of those losses slid uncomfortably through his gut, but he shook off the feeling. Maybe she didn’t wear a ring because her hands were always working with dirt and stone. The fact that she lived with her dad, however, suggested Luc’s father wasn’t part of her life.
Enough about Gabby. Jackson returned his attention to Luc.
“Looks like you take good care of Bingo. He’s a lucky dog.” The awkwardness of carrying on a conversation about a pretend dog with a kid he barely knew took hold. Jackson stood and risked a quick glance at Gabby.
She grinned, head tilted, both hands holding her mug, clearly caring not one whit that her hair blew about in a tangled mess of soft brown curls, or that her sweatshirt had some kind of jelly stain on it, or that he’d caught her in her fuzzy pajama pants.
“You’re up and at ’em early.” Faint dimples dented her cheeks. “Getting a healthy start on your day?”
“Trying something new.” His tone sounded teasing, but he knew the words to be a sad truth. He remembered, then, how he must look. Sweaty, grimy, tired.
She fingered her son’s hair once he walked over to clutch her leg.
“Mama has punkins.” Luc’s chin remained tucked despite his direct address to Jackson.
“For Halloween?” Jackson saw at least a dozen orange gourds behind her. “Looks like you have extra for pumpkin pie.”
Luc’s eyes opened wide, clearly having not realized the better use of pumpkins. He pinned Gabby with a pleading gaze. “Pie, too, Mama!”
She chuckled. “Pie with plenty of spice.”
Jackson took advantage of the opportunity to study her little vegetable garden. The vines, heavy with nearly ripe pumpkins, laid on top of a bed of straw. “What’s with the straw?”
“Helps keep weed growth to a minimum, and cuts down on mold and other rot that can happen when pumpkins are on the ground.”
“So Gabby’s Gardens are fruits and veggies?” Good God, was this really the best conversation he could invent when he was trying hard not to flirt? Had he really disengaged so much from anything real that he couldn’t remember how to converse like a normal person?
“No, this here is for personal pleasure.” She flushed then, as those last two words hung suspended between them.
He realized then their mutual attraction. Not good—yet so good. It’d been too long since he’d been genuinely attracted to a woman for more than her looks. Figures it’d happen at the least opportune point of his life. Seemed like the only luck he could ever count on lately was bad luck.
“My business is landscaping. I’d like to be a landscape architect, but that takes a lot of school. I got a bit sidetracked.” She grinned while nodding toward her son. “I piggybacked off my dad’s business and now design and install small residential landscape projects for locals and some of his out-of-town clients.”
Enterprising, determined, outdoorsy. Damn if she didn’t push all his trigger points. He should get away from her and go shower, but his stubborn feet remained rooted to the spot where he stood. “He’s a caretaker, right? Vacation homes?”
“Yes. Between the two of us, we somehow pull off running the two small businesses and raising Luc.”
Jackson stopped himself from asking about Luc’s dad. That question crossed all kinds of personal lines. Instead he pointed to the far end of the garden, where a path cut through the yard and disappeared into the woods. “Where does that lead?”
“To the prettiest pond, complete with lily pads and loons.” She drew another sip of coffee. “It’s probably less than a quarter mile down that path. Too cold to swim now, but you could fish or kayak.”
Luc must’ve mistaken Gabby’s pointing as an invitation, because he tore off toward the path yelling, “I go fish!”
“Luc, get your butt back here now!” She schooled her features in an attempt to look stern.
Jackson stifled a chuckle at how unthreatening her lilting voice sounded when trying to yell, and how ineffectively her baby-doll eyes conveyed irritation. Her whole approach reminded him of Snow White managing Grumpy.
Unsurprisingly, Luc scowled and defiantly took another few steps toward the path. As Jackson predicted, the boy didn’t fear his mom’s temper.
“I mean it, Luc. No fishing today.”
Jackson couldn’t help but contrast her quiet yet firm reprimand to the way he’d recently started chewing out his crew when they screwed up. That thought reminded him of Doug’s lawsuit, which in turn cast a long shadow over his otherwise pleasant morning.
Luc dropped his bottom to the ground and whined his displeasure. Gabby closed her eyes and began counting to herself, her lips silently mouthing one, two, three.
Jackson suspected she had to do that pretty often. Must be exhausting to chase after a toddler, especially doing it more or less on her own. He doubted he had the patience to be a good father these days.
“Maybe you ought to get around to building that fence so he can’t wander off,” Jackson said, nodding toward the pile of lumber lying beside the garage.
“That’s actually a swing set we bought for Luc back in May. My dad planned to build it, but none of the wood came labeled, so he set it aside to puzzle over later.” Gabby shrugged with a pleasant sigh, clearly unperturbed by her father’s failure. “One of these days.”
Luc finally scampered back around the garden and tugged on her sweatshirt, leaving a dirty smudge to go with the jelly stain. “I hungwee, Mama.”
“Okay.” She be
nt down to kiss his head. “Let’s go make some oatmeal with raisins.” Then she turned to Jackson. “Would you like some, too?”
Very much.
“No, thanks. Actually, I need to run to an appointment.” He saluted Luc, who’d begun to stack a pile of small stones. “Have a good day, buddy.”
Then he turned and beelined to the garage before he changed his mind. He jogged up the metal stairs, sneaking a final glance at the twosome as they ducked around the back of the tired little farmhouse.
Jackson sighed. It’d been weeks since he’d had a drink, and longer since he’d had sex. Now he knew six weeks here would test a lot more than his ability to control his impulses with alcohol.
By eight-thirty in the morning, Jackson had shifted his position on the doctor’s sofa for the fourth time. Avocado-green carpeting spanned the floor of the tiny office. A wall of bookshelves cluttered with books and knickknacks added to Jackson’s sense of claustrophobia. The old-fashioned clock ticking off each second didn’t help matters. If not for the abundant light streaming through the large plate glass window to Jackson’s left, he might have lost his mind.
Doctor Joseph Millard, or Doc, as he’d asked to be called, sat opposite him in an Eames-style lounge chair, with pen and paper in hand. The man’s salt-and-pepper hair matched his closely cropped beard. His eyes and mouth were bracketed with the deep lines one would expect to see on a person who spent a fair amount of time outdoors in harsh climates. His eyes, green and alert, twinkled with what appeared to be good humor. He wore a long-sleeve Polo pullover, khakis cuffed at the ankle, and Birkenstocks that looked twice as old as the furnishings.
Despite Doc’s friendly and relaxed demeanor, Jackson had been perspiring as if he’d been handcuffed to a chair beneath a single, bright spotlight. Torture. Cruel and unusual punishment. Either term would apply to the experience of being forced to talk about personal things with anyone these days, let alone a stranger.
“I’m not going to shoot you, you know.” Doc chuckled, set aside his notepad, and leaned forward. “I don’t have every answer, but I can tell you this. We could meet every day for the next six weeks, but if you don’t talk, we won’t make much progress.”
Jackson scrubbed his hands over his face. “Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. I’m just trying to tell you that this is a safe space. Nothing you say goes beyond these walls. No judgment, either.”
“That’s a neat trick.” Jackson slid his hands along his thighs without looking directly at Doc. “Teach me to be nonjudgmental and I’ll be your slave for life.”
“That’s hard for you, then?”
“Me and most of the world.” When Doc watched Jackson without comment, he continued. “We’re raised to know right from wrong, live by the ‘Golden Rule,’ and all that shit. So when people do wrong or screw you over, it’s pretty hard not to judge, isn’t it?”
“What’s the payoff from casting judgment?”
Jackson scowled, crossing his arms. “I feel better.”
“Do you?” As he uttered the words, sunlight split through the prism of the crystal pendant hanging in the office window, scattering tidbits of rainbows across the walls. Like opposing perspectives, the rays of light looked entirely different depending on which side of the prism you stood, or sat.
“Yeah, I do.”
Doc’s skeptical gaze caused Jackson to make yet another judgment. One having to do with his general sense that New Age juju wouldn’t help him find answers. If Doc started chanting, he was outta here.
“Listen, Doc, I’m on a short timeline here, which means it’s probably best if we don’t waste a lot of time with hypotheticals and what ifs. Just tell me, straight up, what I need to do and let’s get it done.”
Doc grinned and slouched back into his seat, crossing one sandal-clad foot over his knee. “Sorry to tell you, it doesn’t work that way. You have to be willing to examine your thoughts and behaviors, to identify your triggers, and then, ultimately, begin to modify the stuff that gets you into trouble.”
Jackson practically flung his head back against the sofa cushions. “Shit.”
“Don’t lose hope. Today wasn’t fruitless. I know your mom’s death was the first major setback in your life. You’ve alluded to some things with your siblings and ex-girlfriend, and I can see you’re a man who prefers action to discussion. We can build on this, as long as you’re willing to challenge yourself. To get real honest and stop pretending that you have no role in your own problems.”
Jackson cracked his knuckles while keeping his gaze on the floor. Doc was no dummy, as evidenced by the way he framed this as a challenge. Apparently he managed to pick up on Jackson’s pride and competitive spirit during this first forty-five-minute appointment. Maybe the guy had something to offer after all.
After another moment, Jackson raised his head and met Doc’s inquiring gaze. “Friday morning, same time?”
“Friday morning.”
Jackson rose and shook the man’s hand before bolting to his car. On the drive back to his apartment, he realized he had an entire day to kill. He’d already exercised and eaten, and he didn’t want to waste time watching TV, especially considering the ancient model in the apartment.
No work. No distractions. No booze.
Scratching his head, he wondered what had convinced him downtime would be a good thing.
He pulled his Jeep up to the garage. None of the Bouchards were in the yard, and Gabby’s truck was gone. He started for the apartment stairwell when he noticed the play set lumber stacked there waiting for someone’s attention.
A project would be a productive use of his time and talent, and it had been a long time since he’d been anyone’s hero. What better than to be one for a little tyke whose dad seemed to be MIA? Besides, few things provided a more satisfying way to release tension than the contents of his tool kit.
He reversed course and went to fetch it from the back of the Jeep. A man in his business never traveled far without a basic set of tools at the ready. He scanned the yard, wondering where Gabby would prefer to locate the swings. He only saw two viable options in terms of sizable plots of flat ground, and one seemed too close to the garden.
Although it might be better to wait and clear it with her or her father first, having a purpose for his day seemed critical. Plus, the surprise element of his plan excited him. Worst-case scenario, he’d disassemble the swing set and reassemble it elsewhere if Gabby didn’t approve of his choice. Not like he didn’t have time.
Gabby unbuckled Luc from his car seat and plopped him in the grocery cart seat before slamming the door shut. Once they entered the store, she fumbled through her purse, searching for the grocery list.
Naturally, Luc began reaching for every bright-colored, plastic gizmo within what he considered to be his reach.
“No, Luc. Mommy’s in a hurry. We have to go home and cook dinner.” And clean dishes, bathe you, read you a story, tuck you into bed, and then maybe, if I’m lucky, I’ll get ten minutes to myself before I collapse into bed.
They passed by an end-cap display unit filled with Halloween Oreos. Luc’s little legs began kicking, catching her once in the gut. “Mama, cookies. I want cookies.”
His cherub face turned bright red with the strain of his yearning, making her feel guilty for saying, “No, buddy. Not today.”
“Aw, come on, Gabs. Give my boy some cookies.” Noah’s smooth-talking voice took her by surprise, which she covered before turning around to face him. How like Noah to turn up when least expected, or wanted, and undermine her authority.
“Hello.” Beneath a polite smile, she buried the hurt, anger, and flat-out irritation seeing him inspired. I wouldn’t have Luc without him. She reminded herself of that blessing each and every time she saw Noah, which had kept her from punching him square in the face that first year after he’d left her.
It must work well, because he seemed fairly oblivious to the fact that she had any negative personal feelings about him whatsoeve
r. He still tried to charm her at every opportunity. Like now, she thought, as he leaned in and kissed her cheek.
“Dada!” Luc reached toward Noah.
“Hey, Luc.” He high-fived his son, but didn’t kiss or hug him despite having not seen him for fifteen days—not that she was counting. Then again, Noah’s affection had always been reserved for the ladies.
“Why can’t Luc have any cookies?” Noah asked.
“Because they’re loaded with artificial food coloring that isn’t good for him or his brain.” Then she frowned. “You’d see the effect it has on him if you paid better attention.”
Noah shot her a sharp look of disapproval. “Don’t start, Gabs. I know I was pretty shitty that first year, but I’m getting better. He knows I’m his daddy.”
“Barely,” she mumbled. She could go on for hours about the many ways that Noah had failed both her and Luc, as a man and a father. But she wouldn’t. Not now, and certainly not here in the middle of the grocery store.
“That’ll change.” Noah spoke with certainty, like always, but she didn’t believe him. She’d learned the hard way not to count on him in any way that mattered.
She looked at him, standing there in his police uniform with his hands on his hips. Dashing. Still as handsome as he was that summer they’d spent making love as often as and wherever they could. Two fools.
When she’d told him about the pregnancy, he suggested an abortion. She’d refused but, afraid of losing him, she’d countered with the compromise of giving the baby up for adoption.
Noah had stuck around until her belly started growing. Then things got too real. Or maybe granny panties and a baby bump didn’t turn him on. All she knew for sure was that he gave her the heave-ho and moved on to Linda Wallace for a few months, and then others after that.
By the time Luc was born, she’d gotten over Noah and fallen in love with someone worthy—her son. With her dad’s help, she’d kept Luc and never once regretted the decision.
Eventually Noah did begin to take some interest in their son, although it often seemed as unreliable as his interest in any one woman. Luckily, Noah had never once demanded any kind of shared custody, most likely because he didn’t want to be responsible for paying child support. Gabby never asked for a dime because she didn’t want to share custody. Honestly, she couldn’t think of anything she’d like less than having to deal with Noah on a more regular basis.