by Sarah Monzon
“I wuved you, Carolyn. Why’d you have to go and leaf me?”
Jack wrapped her arm around her father’s shoulders. “Shh. It’s okay, Dad. Let’s go home.”
He buried his head in her neck and let her lead him off the stage, all the while calling out for his Carolyn.
Eyes followed their progress through the bar, some sympathetic, some accusatory, and some glassed over. This was her second year in a row on drunk-dad duty, so they could all stare to their hearts’ content. She wouldn’t be embarrassed by her father, no matter what scene he caused in a bar.
Her grip slipped from around her dad’s waist, so she pulled his arm over her shoulder to add leverage and repositioned his weight. She lifted her chin as she continued toward the exit. Michael Carrington leaned on his crutch near the back wall where she’d left him. She met his Atlantic-hued gaze, wishing a million wishes in the span of a heartbeat. That he hadn’t had to experience whatever it was that had stolen his limbs. That he wouldn’t be haunted because of it, like so many others. That she’d met him under different circumstances. That instead of the concern warming his gaze, he’d look at her with appreciation. She mentally scoffed. That would never happen. Guys didn’t look past the wrench and blowtorch she wielded daily, the unflattering mechanic coveralls that made up her wardrobe, or the layers of grease that covered nearly every inch of her skin. At least, the good guys didn’t, which left her with dirtbags like Mitch Stavros.
Pete, the manager of the pub, came around the shellacked bar top, bottles of every color lining the wall behind him. “Need help?”
She peeled her gaze away from Michael and gave Pete her attention. “I got him. Thanks for calling.”
“No problem.” He tipped the brim of his Red Sox cap. “Until next year.”
Hopefully next year Eli and Brett would be home and could keep Dad out of the bars.
***
Michael’s thigh throbbed as he slid onto his stool and pushed away the bottle half-full of amber liquid. He ran a hand over his head, then let it fall with a thud onto the bar. Should have been his head. Maybe it would have knocked some sense into him.
What was he thinking? Drinking? He didn’t drink. Alcohol only fogged one’s brain.
Oh yeah. That’s what I was thinking. If only he could forget, even for a night, about all that he’d lost. It mocked him. His life plans that had literally been ripped away along with his limbs taunted him from their grave. He couldn’t get the sensation of being in the cockpit out of his mind, the thrill of blasting the sound barrier, the community and sense of purpose that came with being in the military. And with the memories came the sinking weight of all he’d been robbed of.
But who’d paid for his stupidity? Jacquelyn Rogers.
Michael shook his head and sniffed. There he was, griping that he no longer had a purpose in life because his big dreams had been cut away, and his one—only one!—responsibility he’d ignored. Worse than ignored. He’d let her come into harm’s way.
He closed his eyes and he could see her there, body stiff with anger, hazel eyes rounded with fear. Her features were delicate with shapely arched brows and a nose that turned up in the most adorable way at the tip. Pint sized, but so was dynamite. He had no problem picturing her exploding. The words handle with care inserted themselves in his brain. Too bad that ex of hers hadn’t gotten the memo. He’d looked ready to squash her like a bug…or devour her like a lion. The image would haunt him, convict him of his self-absorption, and punish him.
The only ironic twist being that in his anger as he’d left for the bar, he’d abandoned the hated wheelchair for an ill-advised crutch, against the medical advisement of his physical therapist. But how effective would he have been at stopping Mitch if he’d been imprisoned in that infernal chair? Then again, if he’d followed through with his promise, Geyser’s sister wouldn’t have been in the mess in the first place.
The half-a-bottle’s worth of beer burned in his gut. He’d do better by Jacquelyn. First, he owed her an apology. He should have been there sooner. Should have prevented the ex from ever laying a hand on her. Geyser needed Michael to watch over his sister? He’d do it to the best of his abilities…even if those abilities were highly diminished.
Chapter Seven
Present Day, Bethesda, Maryland
From: Jack Rogers [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: Re: 1940s WW II Plane in need of restoration
Ms. Abbott,
Thank you for contacting me. I’m so glad Mr. Kirkpatrick is happy with the work I did for him on his biplane. That was a challenging but fun project. Currently I am working on restoring a Piper Cub that was used in mission work, and that will keep me rather busy for the next few months. What time frame were you thinking to start work on your plane? What model is it? Do you have pictures? I’d love more information.
Sincerely,
Jack Rogers
Eggs congealed in the skillet as Jack pushed them around with a wooden spoon. The aroma of dark-roast coffee permeated the air, and she breathed it in. Hopefully she’d made it strong enough. Dad was going to have one doozy of a headache when he woke up, and her personal experience with nursing a hangover was zilch. Okay, maybe not zilch. This episode was a déjà vu of last year.
Apparently having another drink in the morning reduced the effects of the binge drinking the night before, but number one, she didn’t want her dad to drink anymore, so she definitely wasn’t going to offer him any, and number two, why would anyone consume something referred to as the hair of the dog? Beyond that, sitcoms had made popular the idea that greasy food might help. She didn’t have time to fry up potatoes, and they were out of bacon. Besides, she always bought the turkey variety anyway. Almost sludge coffee and a couple of ibuprofen would have to cut it.
Steam rose from the plate as she spooned the scrambled eggs onto it. She placed the plate and a full mug of black coffee onto a tray and carried it to Dad’s room.
How many more years was he going to continue this destructive habit? Mom had been gone for almost a decade and a half. Shouldn’t his grief have lessened by now? His heart moved on? Maybe it sounded calloused, replacing the woman you loved, but it hurt to see him like this every year. And surely Mom would have wanted him to find complete happiness again.
Jack drew in a shaky breath, looking down at her dad where she’d managed to leave him the night before—sprawled out flat on his stomach, his body at an odd angle. His mouth hung open, and he snored louder than a lion’s roar.
He was a good man. A terrific father.
If only he’d let God put together the broken pieces of his heart.
She set the tray down on the nightstand and kneeled beside her father’s bed. “Dad.” She shook his shoulder. “Wake up. I made you some breakfast.”
He snorted then blinked a few times. The heel of his palm dug into an eye socket. A moan escaped his mouth as he held his head.
“That bad?”
“Did you run me over with my semi last night?” His voice sounded rough, like gears grinding.
She cupped his elbow and helped him into a sitting position. His thick head of hair stood in every direction, the whites of his eyes a maze of red blood vessels. He took a drink of the coffee she’d guided into his hands.
“On a scale of one to ten, how much did I embarrass you?” Shame clung to him and overpowered the stench of alcohol oozing from his pores.
“Zero.” She passed him the plate of eggs.
His rounded belly made a great makeshift table as he tucked the plate close to his body. “Zero? Come on now. I might be hungover, but I faintly recall some form of karaoke.”
Jack pressed a kiss to her father’s temple. “You could never embarrass me.”
He set the plate down beside him on the bed and pulled her close in a bear hug. Her lungs constricted at the squeeze, but she’d never say anything. Dad’s hugs were the greatest.
“I’m so sorry, baby girl
,” he whispered into her hair. “Every year I swear it’ll be the last time, and then the anniversary of your mother’s death rolls around and the memories are too much. The loss.” He looked at her, unshed tears making his eyes glisten, and his chin trembled. “I just miss her so much.”
Emotion clogged her throat. Her dad was a big man. A trucker. They didn’t get much tougher. So when he cried? Yeah, there wasn’t a chance that she wouldn’t lose it.
“I miss her too.”
The rough pad of Dad’s thumb brushed a tear from her cheek. “She would have been so proud of you, honey. I wish I—” His Adam’s apple bobbed. “A little girl needs her mama.”
“I have you.” She squeezed his hand.
He snorted. “A sorry substitute.”
Her hands flew to her hips. “Don’t ever say that, or I’ll…I’ll…”
He laughed and then winced and held up a hand. “I surrender. I’m afraid of whatever it is you’ll figure out to do.”
“Better believe it.” She nodded her head once, as a punctuation mark.
The mug rotated in circles in his hand. “Listen. Sweetheart. I have several long hauls on my calendar.” He massaged the front of his forehead with his eyes closed. “Did you happen to bring any pain reliever?”
How could she have forgotten the ibuprofen? She unscrewed the lid and shook out two pills into his open palm.
They disappeared like candy. “Anyway, as I was saying, I have several long hauls across the country, so I’m not going to be home much in the next few months. You going to be all right by yourself?”
Temptation to roll her eyes was strong. “I’ll be fine. I’m twenty-six, not six.”
“You’re all grown up, and that’s what scares me. Just stay safe, okay?”
Now would not be a good time to bring up her run-in with Mitch at the bar the night before. “Sure thing, Dad.”
***
From: Alice Abbott
To: [email protected]
Subject: Re: 1940s WW II plane in need of restoration
Dear Ms. Rogers,
I am attaching a few photos of the plane, per your request. As you can see, the exterior needs a lot of work. The dings and dents I’m sure won’t be as big of an issue as reapplying the wings. It will come as no surprise to you that the plane was in a crash. While we were able to rescue most of the original parts, they were recovered in pieces. I hope the work doesn’t seem too daunting, as we would so dearly love for you to restore this treasure to its original glory.
As far as schedule, we are willing to wait a reasonable amount of time for your expertise. You mentioned you’d need a few months to finish the Piper Cub you are currently working on. May I ask if you have another project lined up after that, or would you be available to us then?
Best Regards,
Alice Abbott
Jack sank into the chair at the back of the hangar and placed her sack lunch on the workbench. She wiped sweat off her brow with the back of her arm and pulled it away, leaving dark splotches on her blue mechanic coveralls. The weather had turned warm in a day, but that was spring in Maryland for you. Monday required a sweater, and by Wednesday she was ready to throw herself in the Chesapeake just to cool off.
She reached for her lunch cooler and cringed. Chipped nails with grease permanently imbedded beneath taunted her. Didn’t matter how many times she washed them with heavy-duty hand cleanser. The soap may leave her hands smelling nice and citrusy, but it didn’t remove all the stains or leave her palms smooth. Not that she cared too much about the smoothness of her skin, but it would be nice to appear clean once in a while, especially before touching food.
She tucked a booted foot under her and bowed her head. There were too many things to be thankful for than to worry over her appearance.
She picked up her turkey and cheese sandwich and bit into the soft bread, allowing her gaze to drift to the Piper she’d been working on all morning. The gas generator turbine was giving her problems, but if she could straighten that out, the old bird should be able to take to the skies fairly soon. Only a bit of cosmetic work left.
A human-sized shadow fell along the hangar’s concrete floor. Jack stiffened. She didn’t usually have many visitors, except Mr. McClaren when he decided to stop by to check out her progress and chat. He’d dropped in yesterday though, and he’d never shown up two days in a row.
Mitch. He’d tracked her down and intended to finish whatever it was he’d started the other night at the bar. Her hands shook so much that she dropped her sandwich.
“Hello? Anyone here?”
Jack’s breath left in a rush. Not Mitch’s voice. No hint of a Jersey accent.
She dusted off the crumbs from her fingers. “Can I help you?” she asked as she walked around the plane’s tall propeller. Her feet slammed into the ground the moment she recognized who’d spoken. Her eyes widened. “You.”
The corner of Michael Carrington’s lip hitched. “Me.”
“But how did…why are…” She pinched the bridge of her nose in an attempt to keep her thoughts from bouncing around like a pinball. “Sorry. Let me start over.” She walked the rest of the way to him and extended her hand. “Thank you again for coming to my rescue the other night.”
He shook her hand but looked uncomfortable, avoiding her gaze and immediately rubbing his palm over the back of his neck after they shook.
Humble guy. And she’d made him uncomfortable with her attention. “How’d you find me though? And why? I mean, I’m the one who should’ve tracked you down. Done something to show my appreciation.”
Color crept up his neck.
Shut it, Jack. You’re making it worse.
He shifted his weight and leaned more heavily on his crutch.
Jack jumped. “Oh! I’m so sorry. Let me get you a chair.” She spun on her heel but was stopped by his hand on her arm.
“I…” He closed his eyes as if in pain and then slightly nodded his head. “Yeah, okay. A chair would be good. Thanks.” He lowered his hand, then hobbled past her. “I can make it there myself though.”
It really wasn’t that far. Ten feet maybe. Any farther and she’d have insisted on bringing it to him.
He leaned his crutch against the worktable and lowered himself into the chair. Placing her palms flat against the tabletop beside him, she hoisted her body and plunked her rear onto the rough wood. Silence hung in the air, but Jack bit her tongue. She’d already made a fool of herself by rambling on and on.
Michael Carrington carried himself every bit a military man. Buzz cut, strong square jaw, chiseled physique. His wide shoulders were pushed back, though they seemed weighed down by something invisible. She’d seen that posture before. On her dad. Whenever he blamed himself for her mother’s death.
What did Michael Carrington have to feel guilty about? Could he be plagued with memories of war? She knew a lot of men and women bore scars not visible to the eye.
His fingers massaged the side of his thigh in short, deep strokes. He glanced up at her, caught her staring, and his hand stilled.
Jack’s skin flushed hot.
That’s right. Forget every lesson on manners drilled into you as a child, and stare. Great one. She opened her mouth to apologize but was cut off by his rich voice, spoken softly.
“I’m sorry, Jacquelyn.” His eyes looked pained as he trapped her gaze in their depths. A pain that was deeper than physical injuries.
Wait. She blinked. Did he just call me Jacquelyn? “How did you know—”
“I never got to introduce myself entirely on Monday. I’m Lieutenant Michael Carrington, call sign Finch, of the Red Aces squadron stationed at NAS Oceana.”
Her forehead crumpled. “But that’s—”
“Your brother was my weapons system operator.”
She rested her elbows on her legs, her posture slouching. All the pieces fell into place. The friend her brother had to visit before shipping out. His needing to go back into the hospital again
after she’d told him about Mitch. Humiliation crept along her shoulders. And anger. She’d sock Brett next time his foot hit American soil. How dare he go behind her back and set up a babysitter. Like she couldn’t take care of herself. Hadn’t she been doing it long enough?
She hopped off the table and crossed her arms. “I’m sorry for your trouble, Lieutenant, but I outgrew the need for a babysitter more than ten years ago.” She tried to harden her heart against the pain hiding in the corners of his eyes as his brows lowered. How could this weathered veteran remind her so much of a lost little puppy? One that she’d like to scoop up and cuddle and take care of. Which would be completely inappropriate because Michael “Finch” Carrington was no puppy, and she doubted he’d appreciate being referred to as such.
“It’s not like that, Jacquelyn. Your brother is concerned your ex—”
“It’s Jack.”
The groove between his eyes deepened. “Excuse me?”
“My name. It’s Jack. No one calls me Jacquelyn.” Not if they want to keep their fingers.
“I can’t call you Jack.”
Was he worried the boy name wasn’t feminine enough for her? It fit her. Even if her steel-toed boots were leopard print, they were still covered in engine grease. The shoes were the only nod she made toward femininity. “No, what you can’t do is call me Jacquelyn.”
A shadow of a smile curved his lips. “Geyser warned me you were a might sensitive to your name.”
Geyser? Must be her brother’s call sign, and boy would she love to hear the story behind that one. “I’m not sensitive about my name. It’s Jack. The end.”
The smile hitched a little higher. “How about a compromise? I could call you Jackie.”
“I’m not a Kennedy.” That Jacqueline had been full of grace and beauty. No one would believe Jack, or if they did, they’d burst out in laughter if she told them her mother had named her after the thirty-fifth president’s wife.