Jeb appeared to have forgotten he'd wanted to tell her something, but she could remind him in a minute or two, after they had enjoyed this wonder together.
The lights brightened to a more definite green. Their dance became frenetic, as though to describe the emotions churning through Laney, and suddenly it was all too much. She let go of Jeb's hand and turned toward him, wrapping her arms around his waist and pressing her face against his solid chest.
His arms circled her shoulders. "What's wrong?"
Her heart pounding, she lifted her head and gazed at the shadowed planes of her best friend's face. Here it was at last, the moment they'd been moving toward since the night he'd come home—and maybe even longer than that.
But Jeb looked puzzled, and since there was no stepladder handy, Laney summoned her courage, hauled in a breath, and said—
"Kiss me, Jeb."
"What?"
He stared at her, appalled. Had she fallen and hit her head while he was busy rescuing Mrs. Lindstrom? If she thought he was going to risk messing up their friendship just to satisfy some silly whim—
"Haven't you ever wondered what it would be like?" she whispered.
"No," he said shortly, and it wasn't even a lie. This was a place he had never allowed his mind to go, although it had sure tried often enough.
She held his gaze, challenging him, and for what seemed like an eternity, Jeb battled the temptation to give her what she thought she wanted.
In the end he told himself it might not be so bad. A single kiss might be enough to satisfy her curiosity, and they could go back to being friends, no harm done.
Yes, he was rationalizing. But he'd like to meet the man who could look into Laney Ryland's sweet eyes and tell her no and make it stick. He just couldn't believe anyone had that much self-discipline.
"Please, Jeb." She raised her arms; her soft hands touched the back of his neck.
And weak-willed moron that he was, Jeb bent his head.
His mouth settled against Laney's as softly as a butterfly landing on a rose blossom. He congratulated himself on keeping the kiss chaste, but his lips had no business touching hers to begin with. So after just a few seconds of mind-bending bliss, he marshaled his strength and withdrew.
"I knew it would be like that," she whispered, staring up at him with a dreamy expression that broke his heart.
He had to find her a husband, fast. Before she talked herself into some ridiculous romantic obsession with him.
He let her go and took a step away from her. "That was a mistake," he said firmly, pushing his fingers through his hair and wanting to yank it out to punish himself for his colossal stupidity. "So we're just going to forget it."
"Speak for yourself," she muttered.
"Come on," he pleaded. "You have to help me with this. You have no idea how much I—" He stopped, horrified at what he had almost said.
"How much you what?" She gazed at him in apparent fascination.
"Nothing. I'm just tired." And terrified. "We should get going." Before he lost what was left of his mind and kissed her again.
He nudged her away from the passenger door so he could open it, but she made no move to get in.
"It's very late," he reminded her.
"Jeb?"
"Laney, please." He tipped his head back and stared helplessly at the starry sky. "Please just get in and let me take you home."
She got in, and she didn't say a word all the way home. Jeb could feel the hurt rolling off her in waves, but coward that he was, he never once turned his head to look at her. When he finally pulled into her driveway, she uttered a choked, "I'm sorry," and tumbled out of the SUV almost before its tires had stopped rolling.
Jeb opened his mouth to call her back, then closed it when he realized there was nothing he could say to make this easier for her. I'm not good enough for a woman like you was the stark truth, but he wasn't stupid enough to say that. Laney would just look at him the way Charlie Brown had looked at that pathetic excuse for a Christmas tree and think: He needs me.
Sighing, he climbed out of the Explorer and looked across the street. There was only one fire truck left in front of Mrs. Lindstrom's burned-out house, and the neighbors who'd stood gawking on the sidewalk earlier had all gone home to their beds. Standing alone in the darkness, Jeb tunneled his fingers through his hair and then grimaced at the stink that released.
He had almost died tonight. The thought of that happening and Laney not knowing he was safe with God had upset him so much that he'd taken her up to the lake to tell her everything. But then he'd lost his mind and kissed her.
What a screwup. He sighed again.
Laney's kitchen light went off, and Jeb imagined her weary tread as she climbed the stairs to her bedroom. It seemed to take forever for the upstairs lights to come on, and when they finally did, Jeb realized he'd been holding his breath.
She wouldn't sleep tonight, and that was his fault.
"I'm sorry," he whispered as self-loathing sucked at him like quicksand trying to drag him under.
Kissing her was a mistake he would never repeat, no matter how sorely he was tempted. Tomorrow he'd find a way to make this up to her, and then they'd go on just as if that kiss had never happened.
She would be okay.
And so would he, Jeb resolved as he turned toward his own house. He could stand being around Laney without kissing her.
Hadn't he been standing it for years?
Why had she pushed him? How could she have upset him that way? Freshly showered, bone-weary, but too disgusted with herself to sleep, Laney flopped over in her bed and punched her pillow. How was she ever going to face Jeb tomorrow?
Maybe she should just get it over with now. Then at least she might be able to sleep. She reached for her lamp switch.
A moment later, she stood by her window, phone in hand, looking down into Jeb's brightly-lit music room.
He was seated within the large semicircle of his bay windows, his profile in full view as he played the baby grand piano he'd bought the morning after his father's death.
The timing of that purchase had scandalized Mrs. Lindstrom and two other neighbors who had witnessed the instrument's prompt delivery. But eighteen-year-old Jeb hadn't been celebrating his father's demise and his own subsequent inheritance, as everyone had been so quick to assume. He'd just been trying to keep himself too occupied to reflect and remember and feel.
He had never admitted it, but Laney had looked into his haunted eyes often enough to know that until his father's death, the love-starved child inside Jeb had still hoped for some small sign of approval from the man.
He was so alone, she thought as she watched the fluid movements of his long hands over the piano keys. So very alone.
He stopped playing and gazed at the ceiling for several heartbeats. Then he reached for the pad of paper lying beside him on the bench and made a note.
He was writing a song, and ordinarily Laney wouldn't have disturbed him. But he must be feeling as awful as she was about what had happened at the lake, so she hit a preset key and raised the phone to her ear.
She saw him startle and then immediately turn to look up at her window. She couldn't quite make out his eyes, but knew they were locked on her face as his phone rang a second time and then a third. Finally, he reached into his pocket. The fourth ring was cut short as he raised the phone to his ear.
"Don't say a word." His voice was low and urgent. "It was completely my fault."
"I don't know how you figure that," Laney shot back. Why did he always jump in to take the blame for the stupid things she did? "I told you to kiss me."
"You wouldn't have said it unless you thought I wanted to." He walked over to the windows and stood before the center one. "So I apologize for whatever I did that gave you that message."
Laney sighed. "You didn't do anything, Jeb."
"Well, what put the idea into your head, then?"
She pressed the palm of her free hand against the window glass. "I a
lmost lost you tonight," she reminded him in a small voice.
"Well, you didn't lose me, so stop thinking about it. You have to be up in less than four hours, so you'd better—"
"Jeb, are we okay?" she interrupted.
"Of course. Just like always. Now go to bed, princess."
"I can't sleep. My mind's too busy. The fire and— Well, everything."
"Warm milk," he suggested.
"Yuck. I'd rather have a lullaby, if you don't mind."
That provoked his deep chuckle. "We haven't done that in years."
"No," Laney agreed softly, remembering the balmy summer nights when he'd been home from college and she'd lie next to her open window and drift sweetly to sleep while he played soothing classical pieces on his piano. Remembering, also, how often she'd found that window tightly shut the next morning and known her mother had crept in during the small hours to make sure she was warm and safe.
Jeb tilted his head, holding the phone with his shoulder as he used both hands to raise his window sash. "The temperature's dropping," he warned. "Don't open your window very far."
"I have an extra quilt," Laney assured him. "Thank you and good night."
She put the phone down and raised her window just a few inches. She grimaced at the charred smell that wafted in from across the street, but figured it wouldn't be so noticeable after a few minutes. She could hear the rumbling engine of the remaining fire truck, but as that vehicle was parked on the opposite side of her house, the sound was muffled to a soothing white noise.
As Jeb played the first sweet notes of Beethoven's "Moonlight" sonata, she retrieved an extra quilt from her cedar chest and added it to her pile of covers. Then she switched off her lamp and crawled into bed.
Lying on her back, she laced her fingers behind her head and closed her eyes, enjoying the nippy night breeze on her face as Jeb's skillful playing began to soothe her agitated spirit.
There could be no doubt about it after tonight. The stark terror Laney had felt when she'd realized Jeb was inside that burning house had stripped away all uncertainty.
She was in love with him.
She told herself it was for the best that he didn't feel the same way. They could never marry, not when he didn't share her faith.
The breeze from the open window chilled the sudden dampness on her cheeks, making her shiver.
As Jeb finished the Beethoven and began Debussy's "Clair de Lune", Laney dried her tears with the ruffled edge of her sheet. And then for the first time in months, she took her troubles to the Lord.
Chapter Fifteen
At noon the next day, Jeb sat at his kitchen table downing his second cup of morning coffee and doing his best to beat back a ferocious craving for a cigarette. He'd thought giving up alcohol would be the hardest thing, since he was the child of an alcoholic and had been drinking for years. But it was the cigarettes that tempted him most, and mornings were awful because nothing went better with a cup of coffee than a cigarette.
Sighing, he put his coffee down and reached for the telephone directory he'd slapped on the table a minute earlier. He located the number he needed and called the hospital to inquire about Mrs. Lindstrom's condition.
His call was answered by a cheerful young female who offered to put him through to Mrs. Lindstrom's room.
"No," he said quickly, shuddering at the thought of causing the cranky old lady to have a stroke the day after he'd saved her life. "Just tell me how she's doing."
"I can't. Sorry. I'm only filling in for Mrs. B. while she goes to the bathroom." The girl was crunching on something and smacking her lips. Potato chips, Jeb guessed. "Her usual replacement is out sick, and Mrs. B. was desperate, so I offered to sit here for five minutes. I know how to transfer a call, and I could have done that for you 'cause I heard Mrs. B. tell somebody just a minute ago what room Mrs. Lindstrom is in. But I don't know how to access the patient information on this computer." More crunching and lip-smacking. "Mrs. B. will be back in five minutes if you want to—"
"This is Jackson Bell," Jeb said impatiently. He rarely threw his name around, but this girl, who had clearly never attended one of Laney's etiquette talks, was getting on his nerves. "Maybe you could find somebody to—"
"Oh!" the girl squealed. "You don't mean the Jackson Bell?"
"I'm afraid I do." Jackson Bell, the hometown horror. Jackson Bell, the outrage of Owatonna. Jackson Bell, the monster who needs a cigarette so badly he's about to snap a leg off his kitchen table and start gnawing on it.
He shook his head at the ceiling. "Maybe you could—"
"You saved that lady's life, didn't you?" the girl demanded. "I heard it on the news. Hold on a sec, and I'll get somebody who knows how to use this computer. Don't go anywhere, okay?"
"Take your time," Jeb said dryly.
Five minutes later, he called the tearoom and told Laney that Mrs. Lindstrom was in good condition.
"I know." Laney chuckled. "I called the hospital first thing this morning and talked to her sister. It seems the nurses would like to stuff our cantankerous neighbor into a closet and lose the key." Her voice softened. "How are you doing?"
Jeb closed his eyes. Much better, now that her gentle voice was pouring into his ear and soothing his agitated nerves. "I'm fine," he said. "How are you?"
"I barely got three hours of sleep, so I'm insanely tired," she said. "But you're all right, and you saved Mrs. Lindstrom, and it's a beautiful day, isn't it?"
"Looks like rain to me." Jeb happened to be gazing out a window, and the sky was definitely darkening.
"You know what mean, Jeb. Life is good."
"You sound like your old cheerful self," he said approvingly. "It must be all that time we're spending at chur—" He was interrupted by a loud crash, the unmistakable sound of a tray of dishes hitting the floor.
"Jeb, I have to go," Laney said, and she ended the call.
Poor princess. He hoped she hadn't lost too much of her flowery china. But even if she had, he'd put a smile on her face when she got home tonight. The minute she pulled into his driveway, he was going to flag her down and tell her what he would have told her last night if he hadn't been sidetracked by that kiss.
That kiss. It had been pure and sweet and hands-down the most thrilling ten seconds of his entire life.
"Stop it," he said under his breath. He propped his elbows on the table and pressed the heels of his hands over his eyes. "Just stop thinking about it."
He poured himself another cup of coffee and went to the dining room to finish a project he'd begun yesterday: sorting his music CDs. He'd collected the discs from his bedroom and the music room, tossing them into a big cardboard box, which he had then emptied onto his dining room table.
He sat down and put the box next to his feet. Evaluating one CD at a time, he made small towers of "safe" music on the table while tossing a staggering percentage of his collection into the trash box.
Profane cover art. Lewd lyrics. Songs celebrating casual sex and illicit drug use. Jeb was seeing all of it through new eyes, and he understood why it was unacceptable to God. But what, exactly, was a Christian man supposed to listen to when his heart still beat to rock music?
He needed some air. Abandoning the mess in his dining room, he grabbed his jacket and went out the kitchen door. He strode across the porch and gave the screen door an impatient shove; it slapped shut behind him.
In front of Laney's place, his restless steps slowed and then halted as he took a good, long look at the burned-out house across the street.
God had spared him last night, no doubt about it. But for what purpose? Who was Jackson Bell meant to become?
He resumed walking, and although he'd had no destination in mind, he wasn't surprised when he ended up downtown, staring through the front window of Clark's Music, the store he'd haunted as a teenager.
He went inside. The place hadn't changed a bit.
"Be right with you," somebody called from the direction of the cash register as Jeb honed in on the
array of electric guitars mounted on the back wall.
Spotting a vintage Fender Stratocaster in candy apple red, the exact twin of his very first instrument, Jeb reached out and stroked its neck with a loving hand.
His father could easily have afforded the guitar, but Jeb had never liked asking for anything, and the old man hadn't been one to give birthday gifts. So when thirteen-year-old Jeb had fallen in love with the red Strat, he'd seriously considered stealing it.
Laney had saved him from that folly.
It had been winter, so she'd suggested that Jeb earn money by shoveling snow off the neighbors' driveways and sidewalks. Excited by that idea, he'd knocked on the doors of at least ten houses.
Nobody wanted to hire the neighborhood bad boy.
Laney had been outraged. She'd pulled on her boots and grabbed a snow shovel and dragged Jeb after her. They hadn't rung any doorbells, but simply cleared snow off of five driveways. And after finishing at each house, they'd taped a neatly printed note to the front door.
Jeb still had one of the notes. He'd carried it in his wallet for years. Below his phone number, Laney had written:
This nice clean drive way is a free gift from Jackson Bell Jr. He needs an electric gitar. You can call him the next time it snows and he will do your drive way for money next time. Thank You.
Her plan had worked. Several neighbors had given Jeb regular snow-removal work and other odd jobs, and by the end of that winter he'd earned enough to make the red Strat his own.
He'd played that thing day and night. And when the fingertips of his fretting hand had blistered and bled, Laney had wrapped strips of moleskin around them and carefully taped it so he could keep playing.
He'd bought at least fifteen guitars since then. But the red Strat, stolen years ago in a sleazy club Skeptical Heart had played in its early days, would always hold a special place in his heart.
"Go ahead," a voice urged from behind him. "Take it down and try it."
Jeb removed his hand from the instrument and shook his head.
Her Minnesota Man (A Christian Romance Novel) Page 17