The Tuesday Morning Collection

by Karen Kingsbury

  “I tried to catch your attention, but I didn't think you saw me.”

  He felt his eyebrows lift a notch. “Oh, I saw you.”

  Her shy smile as she pulled her glass closer was pure sweetness. “Is that a good thing?”

  “Yes. Very good.” He studied her. The conversation was easy, comfortable. The same way it had been in the ferry captain's office and at St. Paul's. It wasn't the rush of the moment with the criminals or the emotion of the chapel. It was Jamie. She was as transparent as a summer breeze.

  “So you really think they would've killed me if I got off the ferry with them?”

  A chill ran down his spine, and he felt his smile fade. “I don't want to think about what would've happened if you'd done that.”

  She looked out the window. “At first I was going to scream anyway. I figured, let them shoot me. Someone would save me or I'd wind up in heaven. I'd win either way.”

  “Why didn't you?”

  “Because of Sierra.”

  “Your little girl.” Clay leaned against the window and watched her. Emotions played out on her face. “You just started telling me about her when Joe came back. She's seven?”

  “Yes.” She looked at him again. “Long golden hair and a heart as big as the ocean. She's very special.”

  She must be, if she's anything like you. “What does she like to do?”

  “She likes cats and horses and movie nights with me. Right now her favorite is The Lion King, but for at least two years it was The Little Mermaid.” Jamie laughed and poked her straw at the ice in her water. “I enjoy her so much.”

  “I can see that.” Clay hesitated. “What was your husband like?” Clay already knew the answer; he must've been a great guy. The haunting look in her eyes at the chapel earlier told him that the loss had all but killed her. Still, he wanted to hear it from her, wanted to give her a chance to talk about him if she wanted to.

  For the first time that day, a wall went up in Jamie's eyes. “We were very close.” She bit the inside of her lip. “I fell in love with him when I was twelve. We … we grew up down the street from each other. His dad was a firefighter.” She pressed the corners of her lips up, but it was hardly a smile. “That's all Jake ever wanted to be.”

  Clay didn't want to push, but he needed to know her, to find out what made her cry when she was alone at night, what memories kept her going when she didn't want to take another step. “Did he share your faith?”

  A knowing look crossed her face, as if the answer wasn't an easy one. But she only nodded and took a sip of her water. “Yes. He loved the Lord very much.”

  He must've loved Jamie very much too. After all, she still wore his ring. The feeling was clearly mutual.

  “Jake and I shared something rare. There's never been anyone else.” Jamie hugged herself and looked straight at him. “It hasn't been easy.”

  The sense that he should go to her, pull her into his arms, and soothe away the hurt, was so strong this time he almost gave in. Instead, he willed himself to stay seated. “Is that why you help out at St. Paul's?”

  “I think so. It's complicated, really. I go for a lot of reasons, but yes.” She looked out the window again. “It's what Jake would've done; I guess I do it as a way of remembering him.”

  Clay studied the woman across from him. The connection he felt to her was something he couldn't explain. The fact that she was still in love with her dead husband didn't bother him. This woman was loyal to the core, and after loving someone since she was twelve? Of course she still had feelings for him. She always would.

  The waiter came with their sandwiches and hot drinks. When he left, Clay met her eyes. “Pray?”

  She nodded and bowed her head.

  “Lord, we thank You for this food, but more than that, we thank You for bringing us together this morning. You answered both our prayers. Mine that I would make a difference, and Jamie's. It's all You, Father, and for that we thank You. Amen.”

  “Amen.” She was smiling when she looked up, and he sensed she didn't want to talk about her dead husband anymore; not now, anyway. She used her knife to cut her sandwich into smaller pieces. “Okay, Clay. What about you? Isn't three weeks a long time to be away from work?”

  “Actually it's four.” He took the top slices of bread off his sandwich and shook salt over the meat inside. His body was a priority, one he took care of, but salt was one of his few vices. He used it liberally.

  “You're here four weeks?” She looked surprised. “I thought Joe said it was three weeks of training.”

  “It is.” He put the top pieces of bread back on his sandwich, then looked at her for a few seconds. If he told her the reason, would she think differently of him? He took a slow breath. It didn't matter; he couldn't be anything less than honest with her. “I had one week off before I left.”

  “Vacation?” She held her sandwich, but she held it in midair waiting for his answer.

  “I was in a gunfight. A man was coming at me, firing an AK-47.” Clay searched her eyes looking for her reaction. “I had to kill him.”

  Jamie's eyes widened. “So they fired you?”

  “No.” He smiled. She wasn't repulsed at the shooting so much as worried that he'd lost his job. “No, it's standard procedure when a suspect is shot and killed by an officer during a crime. It's a paid leave; they hold an investigation and make a report. As long as everything was on the level, the officer reports back in three or four weeks.”

  “Oh. I didn't know that.” She took a bite of her sandwich.

  “My captain told me not to worry about it. There was nothing else I could do.” He thought about telling her how close he'd come to getting killed himself, but it didn't seem like the right time. “When I get back they're promoting me to detective.” He grinned. “That's the long answer to your question. I'm here because I need the training, and Joe picked New York City.”

  “Oh.” Understanding filled her eyes. She put her hands around her cup of tea and held it to her lips. “Because of Wanda.”

  “Right.”

  The conversation moved to what the training would include and how long he'd been an officer, then went back to the men on the ferry.

  “Did you really see a gun?” She tilted her head, her eyes doubtful. “You were all the way across the deck.”

  He grinned. She was very perceptive. “I saw the guy move in on you, and I could tell by your face that you didn't know him. I told Joe, and we both kept an eye on you. When the second guy came over and pressed in against you, the look on your face was clear even from where we were sitting.”

  “I was scared to death.”

  “Yes.” His hand itched to hold hers, but the idea was ludicrous. He clenched his fingers. “That's what I saw. Then the second guy jerked something near your ribs, and you jumped. I asked Joe if he saw a gun, and he said, ‘Why, yes, I did.’ So I said, ‘Well then, I better go get it from him.’ And Joe said, ‘Me too.’”

  Jamie giggled and took a long sip of her tea. “But you never actually saw one?”

  “Well, see, the thing was, it felt like we did.”

  “And as it turned out—” Jamie was smiling, playing along with him—“your feeling was right.”

  He waited a beat, breathing her in. “It's been right a lot lately.”

  Her eyes told him she understood what he was saying. Her cheeks grew a shade darker. “Clay?”

  “Yes, Jamie.” God … let me see her again. Don't let this be the last time we're together.

  “Can I see you again? While you're here?” Her fingers were shaking, though she tried to still them on her teacup.

  Clay wasn't sure whether to laugh or look for angels again. The answers were pouring down as fast as the rain. He wouldn't tell her about his prayer. That could come later. Besides, he didn't want her to think he took her question lightly. In light of what she'd just told him about her husband, it couldn't have been easy to ask it. He nodded. “I'd like that.”

  “You're staying on Staten I
sland, right?”

  “Yes. Cheap hotels, or so I'm told.”

  “Much cheaper.” The nervousness—or whatever it was—lifted. She smiled the comfortable way she'd smiled at him on the ferry and at St. Paul's. “Could I make dinner for you and Joe?”

  Clay felt his heart soar. He never took his eyes from hers as he nodded. “That would be perfect.”

  Jamie had to catch the ferry back to Staten Island to pick up her daughter, so they finished their lunches and took cabs in different directions—him to the NYPD station staging the training orientation, her to Battery Park. He resisted the urge to hug her. She was no longer a victim needing to be held. She was a woman who, in an instant's time, had captured his thoughts and imagination.

  Maybe even his heart.

  Was it her vulnerability or the way she looked straight to his soul? Cool it, Michaels. Slow down. He turned his thoughts to Joe. How had his friend done with Wanda? Had Joe been able to apologize the way he planned, or was Wanda still upset with him?

  He tried to imagine their encounter, but instead saw Jamie's face, the way she'd looked on the ferry when she walked past, her terrified eyes when the thugs accosted her, the way she'd let him hold her in the captain's office …

  All of it played again and again in his mind. As the cab let him off at the police department, two very strong thoughts stayed with him. First, this new friendship would have to develop slowly.

  And second, how many hours he had until he saw her again.

  FOURTEEN

  By the time Jamie put the casserole into the oven, she was so nervous her throat was dry.

  She stared at the dial above the glass door. Was she supposed to set it at three-hundred-fifty degrees? Or was it four-fifty? She gritted her teeth. Focus, Jamie … come on. She turned back to the counter and the recipe still lying there. Her enchilada casserole was something she could make in her sleep. So why couldn't she remember how high to heat the oven? She scanned through the list of ingredients and finally found it on the back side. Three-fifty. Of course.

  Four times that day she'd picked up the phone to cancel the dinner.

  There were a hundred reasons why she shouldn't have Clay and Joe over. It was too soon. Her entire house was a shrine to Jake. The buffet table in the dining room still had the same six photos—pictures of him and Sierra, him and Jamie, the three of them at the beach, him in his uniform the day he was hired by the FDNY.

  And then there was the bigger framed photo taken on their wedding day.

  She would keep those pictures forever, but she didn't want Clay and Joe looking at them. Didn't want their pity. Poor firefighter's widow, still stuck in the past. The fact was, until the past two weeks the thought of other men hadn't crossed her mind. Sure, several FDNY widows had remarried, and she knew others who had started dating.

  But her? Jamie Bryan?

  The idea was laughable. No one could fill the place in her heart but Jake. No one. She felt scared and sick and guilty just thinking about starting over with someone new. But then, Aaron brought up the question, opened the door to possibilities she hadn't wanted to consider before.

  And now …

  There was no denying the way she felt with Clay. She'd relived the moment on the ferryboat at least once an hour in the past twenty-four. How he'd taken charge of the scene and kept her safe, his body shielding hers. Things she hadn't been conscious of at the time were now vivid in her memory. The pungent fragrance of his leather jacket, his fresh-showered soap smell mixed with a subtle cologne. How she had inched closer to him, wanting his protection, his closeness.

  It was crazy.

  She hadn't asked for these feelings or looked for them or ever even imagined them. She'd only felt them for one other man in all her life. And now, in just a day's time, she was willing to serve Clay dinner in the house where she and Jake had built their life together?

  It was all wrong.

  Still … every time she picked up the phone to make the call, she stopped herself. She couldn't go back on her offer. It wasn't polite, for one thing, and the men did save her life, after all. Clay picked up the lunch tab. The least she could do was make dinner for them—a home-cooked meal, something they wouldn't be getting much of in the next three weeks. She would make good on her invitation because it was a nice thing to do, a Christian thing.

  Unfortunately, as soon as she told herself that, the truth screamed at her so loud she couldn't think: her dinner offer had nothing to do with Christian goodwill.

  She wanted to see Clay again.

  It was that simple. He was all she'd thought of since their first meeting, no matter how wrong that might've been. That truth ran wild through her heart for a few hours until she walked across the house and picked up the phone, determined to cancel.

  Then the whole goodwill thing came back around again.

  The cycle was driving her crazy. Finally she stopped fighting herself. Yes, she was attracted to him. So what? Jake was dead; it wasn't a crime to have a nice-looking man over for dinner. He would be gone in three weeks, back to California. What harm could come from a single dinner together?

  She looked at the clock on the kitchen wall.

  They'd be there in half an hour.

  “Sierra?” She wiped her hands on her jeans and ran lightly to the base of the stairs. “Did you finish your homework?”

  “Yes, Mommy. I was just playing with Wrinkles.” Jamie heard her daughter's small feet padding toward the top of the stairs. “Can you play too? We're playing house and we need a mommy.”

  Jamie smiled. Sierra always put everything into perspective. “Okay, baby. I'll be up there in a few minutes.”

  “Good! I'll go tell Wrinkles.”

  “Okay.” Jamie turned and gave the house a critical glance. What needed last minute touch-ups? She took quick steps into the dining room. The table was set, Sierra had put the vase of silk roses in the middle, and—

  Jamie looked at the buffet table. She hadn't done anything with the pictures of Jake. They would stay, of course. But tonight? Both men would pity her for sure, pity her and think her delusional, trapped in a life lived more back in yesterday than today. She moved to the buffet.

  The pictures were dusty, and that shot another arrow of guilt through her. How long had it been since she dusted them, since she'd come this close and actually looked at them? She picked up the one of Jake in his uniform and went to dust it with her shirt, but stopped herself.

  She had on a new sweater—a ribbed pale blue pullover. Dust would show on it for sure.

  The buffet had extra linens, didn't it? She opened the top drawer and pulled out an old cloth napkin, wrinkled from lack of use. Jake's pictures shouldn't get dusty. She ran the napkin over the glass until she could see his smile, the pride in his eyes, as easily as if she was taking the picture all over again.

  The dust fell to the floor. She started to shove the napkin back in the drawer when an idea hit her. It wasn't that she wanted to hide his pictures. Rather she wanted to protect them from the curious looks and silent questions that were bound to come if she left them up. The drawer was deep enough for all of them. She swallowed back a tidal wave of guilt and one at a time she dusted the pictures and layered them in the drawer with more cloth napkins.

  There. She shut the drawer and dusted off her hands. As she did a picture came to mind. Pontius Pilot, rubbing his hands together, convincing himself he wasn't guilty when he clearly was.

  Just like her.

  Here she was, hiding Jake's pictures, burying her past in a buffet drawer and then dusting off her hands, as if that could make her innocent.

  She stared hard at the closed buffet drawer, willing herself to see through the wood at the pictures laying there, put away like so many outdated knickknacks.

  “Jamie,” she whispered out loud, “you're losin' it.”

  If only Jake had stayed home that day, gone with her and Sierra to the zoo. If he hadn't gone in that Tuesday morning they would have other, newer pictures o
n the buffet, and dinner would be for Jake and Sierra. Not two strangers she'd met just the day before.

  Jake … it's so hard. I don't want to live without you, but … I keep waking up. Life keeps coming whether I like it or not. She gripped the edge of the buffet and closed her eyes. God … am I bad? Should I keep the photos up? Help me …

  No holy words came to her, no Scripture verse. But after a few seconds, a calm settled over her. She could put the photos away for a night if she wanted to. If it helped her take one step toward tomorrow then it was the most right thing she could do. She opened her eyes.

  She wouldn't be able to think straight if she had to get through the night with Jake's eyes on her the whole time. With hers on him.

  “Mommy?” Her daughter's voice came from the upstairs bedroom. She sounded frustrated.

  Jamie gave one last look and then turned her back on the buffet. “Coming.”

  What was the big deal, anyway? It was one dinner, one simple dinner for two police officers far from home. She could do this one thing, show them some East Coast hospitality and be done with it. She darted up the stairs and stopped at the top.

  She'd forgotten perfume.

  “One sec, Sierra.” More quick steps, through her bedroom, to the bureau near the end of her bed. She grabbed the amber bottle and gave first her neck, then both wrists a quick spray.

  When she walked into Sierra's bedroom, her daughter sat up straight and studied her. “How come you're dressed up?”

  “I'm not.” Jamie dropped cross-legged on the floor across from Sierra and Wrinkles. The cat had a pink scarf tied around his head and white lace socks on his front paws. His look was one of attempted dignity and mild disgust. “Wrinkles is the one who's dressed up.”

  Sierra grinned at the cat. “She's my big sister.”

  “I see.” Jamie loved her daughter's imagination. That she could dress up a tomcat and convince herself he was her sister was testimony to the delightful reaches of her creativity. For the occasion, Sierra wore a blue velvet hat and long white gloves.