by Miles, Cindy
“Why do you brush it off so easily?” he asked.
She couldn’t see him. Just a form, hazy around the edges, almost like someone in a dream. His scent reached her nose, though, and she felt his close proximity. “It is what it is, I guess. No sense in crying about it.”
The sound of metal twisting off glass, and Eric placed the spice bottle back in her hand. “Take a whiff.”
Reagan slowly lifted the bottle to her nose and inhaled. “Basil.”
“So now what?” he asked. Still close. Still in her space.
“So now...” She shook the jar over the pot of butter. “You add the spices, like this. Not rocket science.”
“You know what I mean,” he corrected. He remained close—she could feel his body heat, and that made her shift where she stood.
She set the jar down, and Eric handed her the next one. Oregano. “Avoiding people and staring at walls in the dark was my main plan. Until you barged in and decided otherwise.”
“Damn straight I did.” He chuckled. “There’ll be no moping around here, Quinn.” A slight punch in her arm knocked her slightly off balance. “Not when there’s so much life to live. Now, as I was saying. What’s next? Any ideas?”
Reagan let out a hefty sigh. She didn’t know how she’d slipped into such an easy conversation with Eric Malone, but she was pretty sure that later on, she’d regret it. She stirred her butter mixture, the scent of Italian spices and garlic rising to her nose. “Still working on that, I guess.”
“Hmm. I saw an ad on Facebook of a photographer who takes shots of wounded veterans. Some even naked.”
Her lip quirked. “I’m not doing a naked wounded-vet photo shoot, Malone.”
“Hey, it’s an idea.” He chuckled again.
“What’s an idea?”
Emily Quinn’s voice sounded from the kitchen archway, and when Reagan set her hazy gaze in that direction, another figure stood behind her sister.
“Reagan here is going to do a naked vet photo shoot,” Eric said cheerfully.
“No, I’m not,” Reagan insisted.
Emily laughed, and her shadowy form moved closer, and her deep inhalation was audible. “Wow, take all the nudie pics you want, sis, as long as you keep cooking like this.” Reagan’s shoulders were suddenly embraced in a fierce hug. “Smells delicious.”
Emily Quinn was a hugger. A big one.
“Hey, Reagan,” Matt’s deep voice rumbled close by. A man of few words to be sure, but when he did speak—in sentences, of course—it was worth listening to. At least, so said her sister.
“Matt,” Reagan answered.
“Can I do anything?” Emily asked.
“Bread?” Reagan replied. “The garlic butter is on the stove top.”
A bustling began in the Quinn kitchen then, and the figures of both Malone boys started shifting back and forth from the cabinets, to the freezer, to the table. Dishes clanked, silverware tinkled and ice dropped from the automatic maker in the fridge door into the glasses. Before long, the table was set, salads were out and a firm, warm hand settled onto the small of her back.
“Sounds like a mess hall, eh?” Eric’s voice brushed over her ear as he led her toward the table. “Your stomach’s growling. Loud.”
Reagan just shook her head, reached for the back of the chair and grasped it with her fingers, then eased herself into the seat.
Before she knew what was happening, her hands were grasped. First by Eric on one side, then Emily.
“Dear Lord, thank you for the food we are about to consume, and for the hands that prepared it. And, I pray, let there be nothing weird mixed within. Amen.”
A smile pulled at Reagan’s mouth.
“Eric, you moron,” Matt said, but there was amusement in his voice. “Reagan, it looks wonderful.”
A slight chuckle sounded beside her as Eric, apparently pleased with his prayer-time jest, lifted Reagan’s plate and served up the pasta. Then, as his shadowy figure moved, he followed suit with his own.
A lot could be said about manners, she supposed. But in the Malone house, there could be nothing less than that. Something else Emily had divulged.
“Thanks,” Reagan said quietly.
“Don’t worry,” Eric said jubilantly. “I’ll be around to collect.”
“Eric,” Matt warned.
“For?” Reagan inquired, pushing a forkful of noodles into her awaiting mouth and praying she hadn’t missed by too much.
Eric leaned close. “Now, if I straight-up told you exactly what, that wouldn’t leave much of a surprise, would it?”
Emily quietly giggled beside her, and Reagan knew her older sister was enjoying Eric’s playfulness to the fullest. She, on the other hand, wasn’t so sure that she was.
After all, while Eric Malone was indeed a charmer, he was also a player. Reagan could sniff them out a hundred yards away. He couldn’t help himself, probably. Young, ridiculously handsome, from what Emily had said, and no doubt had women of all ages all but banging down his door. Which was fine. She was in no way, shape or form looking for anything other than a little peace.
She needed time to learn several things completely over, some for the first time.
Trust being one of them.
And for now, the very last thing she wanted to even think about or consider was her heart and trust in the same sentence. Wasn’t happening.
Supper, she had to admit, was indeed good, and Reagan was filled to the gills. The mess hall struck up again, and before she knew it the table was cleared and the dishwasher loaded, and a horn blew from outside. Heavy footfalls moved away from the kitchen, and Eric’s voice sounded from the living room. “FedEx. Want me to get it?”
“Sure, go ahead,” Emily answered. “Probably the new aprons I ordered for the café.”
The screen door creaked open and slammed shut, and a few moments later it opened again. “Reagan Rose, these are for you.”
“I didn’t order anything,” she answered. She wondered what they could be. Making her way to the living room, she stood beside Em as Eric, now accompanied by Matt, carried in several large boxes and set them on the floor behind the sofa. Big boxes, that much she could tell. Four in all.
“What do you think they are?” Emily said, squeezing her hand. “Secret admirer?”
Reagan lightly elbowed her. “I hope not.”
“Eh, addressed to Airman Reagan Quinn, from Mr. and Mrs. John Ansley Lockley in Idaho,” Eric announced.
Reagan’s heart skipped a beat. Her friend Jake’s parents. They’d gone through basics together. Although they’d gone separate ways, they’d kept in touch after, and any time Jake had been close to her base, he’d stop in to see her. Jake was part of an USAF combat air unit. And now she was receiving boxes from his parents.
“Rea, what’s wrong?” Emily asked quietly, and her cold hands moved to Reagan’s cheeks. “You’ve turned white as a ghost.”
Reagan knew without even cracking into one box what the contents were.
And she knew exactly why they’d been sent to her.
“Don’t open them—” Reagan said quietly, but was interrupted by the sound of a knife splitting tape.
“Uh, sorry,” Eric said. “There’re paintings, Reagan,” he said. “Don’t you want to—”
“Close it back up,” she answered quickly, fighting to keep her voice from catching in her throat. “Just leave them alone, Eric.”
Grabbing her walking stick, Reagan pushed past the Malones and headed outside.
“Reagan, wait,” Emily called after her.
But Reagan didn’t wait. She had barely heard her sister’s request.
And although the sun had dropped, and the light outside grew dim, she made her way down by the marsh, and soon onto the dock.
The boxes contained her paintings. The ones she’d given to Jake because he’d always loved her work. And now his parents were sending them to her.
Jake Lockley was dead. That much she knew. The Lockleys’ only child.
As she walked over the marsh, the tide lapped at the saw grass, and the wind brushed her cheeks, drying the tears streaking down her face. The light tone of the supper faded. Disappeared. As if it’d never even happened at all.
A twinge of guilt crept over her. She was alive. She’d survived an accident with only the majority of her sight gone. She’d lived. Jake had not.
And she felt relief.
Should she feel guilty for that? How many of her brothers and sisters had lost their lives? Countless. Yet here she was, breathing, allowing the sun to dry selfish tears. Grateful. She should be damned grateful.
Drawing a lungful of salty air, she allowed the pain to wash through her. She’d miss her friend. He’d been a brave soldier who had died protecting his country.
Pride rushed in then, and eased the pain a little.
Maybe she should stop feeling so damned sorry for herself. She had her life. And it was truly a gift.
It was worth a try.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“ERIC, MAN, JUST give her some time,” Matt advised.
Eyeing his older but not necessarily always wiser brother, Eric rubbed the back of his neck and glanced at Emily. Her brilliant eyes flashed, her lips quirked and she gave a slight shrug. He liked Em. They thought alike.
“You give her some time,” Eric announced, brushing past his brother standing in the doorway. “Besides, she’s had a good fifteen minutes. Time’s up.”
Matt grumbled behind him as the screen door slammed shut. “Don’t be surprised if you find yourself headfirst in the drink.”
Eric waved without looking, making his way down to the marsh. Yeah, he wouldn’t be surprised by that at all. Not only was Reagan upset, but she’d be mad as hell that he’d followed her. Pissed once she found out he’d looked through her paintings.
He started over to the marsh and didn’t even bother trying to hide his approach. High tide lapped at the marsh’s edge, the dock pilings, and the closer Eric came to the small tin-roofed sanctuary at the end, the louder the sounds rose. Reagan, down on the floating dock, perched near the edge, her sneakers off and sitting beside her, and her feet in the water. In a subtle move she no doubt hoped to hide from Eric, she wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.
“You don’t believe in the word privacy, do you?” she said without looking in his direction.
Eric dropped down beside her, noticing how the fading light blended with the strawberry colors in her hair, making the strands look as though they were on fire.
Not a very dude-like thought, he knew, which is why he’d most definitely keep it to himself.
“Your sister told me to come check on you,” Eric stated.
“Liar.”
Eric chuckled. “Well, let’s just say a look passed between us. One that was...conspirator-like. So I ran with it.” He gave her a playful punch in the arm, and to his surprise, Reagan didn’t even flinch.
Maybe she was getting somewhat used to him.
“Besides,” he continued, and cast a glance out over the glassy water, “I wanted to make sure you didn’t fall into the river.”
Reagan didn’t say anything, just shook her head. Her gaze was fixed at some point across the water, and Eric knew how it must suck not to be able to see. He kept quiet, waiting for her to unload. When she didn’t, he sighed. Braced himself. And moved his gaze to Reagan.
“I looked at your paintings,” he confessed.
Reagan’s body stiffened, and a whispered swear fell from her lips. “You shouldn’t have done that.”
Eric ran a hand over his head. “Probably. But I couldn’t help myself.” His eyes moved over Reagan’s features, now half cast in the drawing shadows of dusk. A muscle flinched in her jaw, and her chest rose harsher. She was angry, and holding it in. “They’re incredible, Reagan Rose. Mind-blowingly incredible.” They were, too. Scenes of people doing ordinary things, like an old couple dancing on the boardwalk, or a young girl in a beanie reading on a park bench. None of the people were detailed physically—they were more like shadows without lines, almost blurs. Yet completely alive. He’d never seen anything like it before.
Still, Reagan sat there, not glancing his way, just keeping her face turned toward the river. Every so often, she’d lightly kick her feet, stirring up the ripples around her knees.
Eric scratched his head. Women usually opened right up to him. Not Reagan Quinn. She was clammed up tight, back stiff, shoulders squared off and rigid, and he didn’t really know what the hell to say to her. He finally blew out a frustrated breath. “Was it a friend of yours?” he finally asked. He’d guessed from Reagan’s reaction that the parents of a friend had sent the paintings to her. When Emily confirmed Reagan had done the paintings, Eric had drawn the conclusion the person was someone she’d served with. For the parents to be mailing them back to Reagan? Not a good sign.
“I don’t need counseling, Eric,” Reagan said quietly. “Shit happens. Happens all the time.” Again, she wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “I just need to process it. Alone.”
“Well, darlin’, that’s going to be quite a large problem,” Eric said. “Because you’re kind of a Malone now. And we work things out together. So if you want me to leave you to your...processing, then tell me about your friend.”
A heavy sigh escaped Reagan’s lips. “His name’s Jake. We went through boot camp together. He went on to become a combat pilot. No, he wasn’t my boyfriend. No, we never had sex. Yes, he was a very good friend. He always loved my paintings, and I’d given nearly all of them to him.” She faced Eric. “And now he’s dead. Paintings are mine once again. Now go away.” She turned back toward the river, lifted her feet from the water, and set them down on the dock and hugged her knees.
“I’ll just sit here and—”
“I really wish you wouldn’t,” she interrupted.
Eric drew a deep breath and rose. “I’m sorry about your friend,” he said quietly.
“Yeah,” Reagan answered. “Yeah.”
Eric started back across the marsh, but halfway up the dock he paused, leaned against the piling and turned back to watch Reagan. There was no way he was leaving her on the river after dark. Not in her condition.
As he stared, it struck Eric as ironic that in the haze of dusk, she could easily be one of her painting subjects. Only a silhouette existed, nondescript with undefined lines, yet clearly there was the small frame of a woman, sitting, knees pulled into chest. Thinking. Crying. Remembering.
He understood all of that.
He’d lost people, too. Coast Guard brethren. More than one to death.
And his heart had been robbed. Robbed like hell. Yeah, he knew.
As the sun fell behind the horizon, and the moon’s glare settled over the river, Eric kept his eyes fixed on Reagan’s shadowy figure. Finally, she rose, and the light tap-tap-tap of her walking stick preceded her cautious steps. The closer she grew, Eric retreated, until he reached the Quinns’ front porch where Matt and Emily sat together on the porch swing. Both looked at him as he climbed the steps to the veranda, then Emily’s eyes darted over Eric’s shoulder as she caught a glimpse of Reagan.
With her head held high, Reagan climbed the porch and stopped next to Eric. “I don’t need a babysitter,” she said. “I don’t.”
Then she walked into the house, the screen door creaking across the night air.
“What did you do?” Matt asked.
Eric eyed his brother. “Not too much,” he answered. “Yet.”
“You can’t push her, bro,” Matt continued. “I know where she’s at. Been there myself.”
Eric nodded, rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah,” he answered, and pushed away from the post he leaned on and started down the porch to head home. “Me, too.” He threw a hand up. “Thanks for supper, Em. Night, lovebirds,” he said, and headed toward the pathway between the Quinns’ and Malones’.
Fast, soft footfalls rustled the leaves on the trail behind him, and he turned to see Emily’s tall, slender figure jogging toward him. In the shadows, she grasped his hands with her slight ones, and the moonlight caught the shine of her eyes as she stared up at him.
“Push,” she said. “With Reagan. She’s in a dark place, Eric, and I’m scared that if she doesn’t come out soon she never will.” Her slender fingers squeezed his, and Eric smiled and nodded.
“Push it is,” he replied. “But tastefully and tactfully.”
Emily nodded fervently. “Oh, absolutely. Yes. Much taste. Much tact.” She rose on tiptoes to plant a kiss on his cheek. “You and Reagan click. Your...auras blend beautifully.”
Eric cocked his head. “That may very well be the weirdest thing you’ve ever said to me.” When Emily giggled, he ducked his head to look at her closely. “How can you tell? That our auras...blend?”
One side of Emily Quinn’s mouth quirked up. “Because she hasn’t punched you in the face yet.” She gave him a quick hug. “Just don’t give up on her. Even if she gets mean—and she might. She has been through a lot, and I know she doesn’t mean half the things she says. She’s just frustrated beyond belief. So independent, she doesn’t like having to depend on anyone for anything. Even on me. Deep down, my little sister is the sweetest, kindest soul alive. Right now, though? She’s built a proper wall around her heart. I don’t know... I think she might listen to you. Night.”
With that, his oddly adorable soon-to-be sister-in-law turned and jogged back to her side of the path, and Eric just stood there watching through the darkness. Soon, tinny music from another time washed over the night air as Emily played one of her favorite records from the thirties, or twenties—he couldn’t tell which. He listened for a moment, wondering what it would’ve been like back then. So much simpler, as Emily claimed. Eric could easily imagine it.