by Beth Ciotta
He sent a late-night text to Nash about the charter, then he powered on Harper’s laptop, making sure he had everything in order regarding the marriage license. No blood tests required. No waiting period. As long as they provided proper identification, they were good to go. He looked into hotels and chapels. He’d narrowed the chapels down to two. Should he surprise her? Consult her? So far she hadn’t voiced interest in details regarding the ceremony.
Sam pushed off the sofa and stretched, worked a kink from his neck while moving into the kitchen. It was his favorite room in the house. A room they’d renovated together. He’d designed and built cupboards reminiscent of those popular in the 1940s. She’d decorated the walls and counters with vintage cookware and art. The color theme was red and white. The stove, amazingly, was the same stove used by Mary Rothwell. Every owner had considered it unique and worth keeping. There’d been restorations and upgrades, but Mary had boiled tea kettles on those gas burners and baked cupcakes in the twin ovens. Sam didn’t believe this place was haunted but, by damn, he did get the chills every time he looked at that stove.
Just now his gaze jerked left. He spied a cupcake holder, lifted the lid. No mistaking that pleasing scent. Gingerbread. The same scent he’d detected earlier today on Harper.
Sam smiled down at the freshly baked cupcakes. God, they smelled good. He knew Harper baked and baked well, according to the Cupcake Lovers and his kids. Everyone had sampled an array of her baked goods. Everyone but Sam. He’d always refrained. Which puzzled Harper. She’d said as much. Although she’d never intimated hurt feelings, she had to feel slighted. He would.
He hadn’t dissected his unwillingness to taste her cupcakes until now. He knew if he sampled them and liked them he’d want to talk about them. Prior to her deportation threat, Harper hadn’t been open to slow and easy, amiable conversation. Recipes were personal. She would have changed the subject or glossed over details. It would have pissed him off. So he’d begged off.
Things were different now, and he was curious.
Sam peeled away the foil-lined baking cup, licked the icing—cream cheese based with a hint of orange and sprinkled with crystalized ginger. The citrus zing pleased. He bit into the moist confection and smiled. “Damn,” he said with his mouth full.
“That bad?”
“Jesus.” Sam knocked crumbs from his chin as he turned. “You scared the hell out of me, Harper.”
“It’s not like I snuck up on you.”
“Since I didn’t hear you, yeah, it sort of is.”
“You’re eating one of my cupcakes.”
“Busted.”
“Why?”
“It looked good and smelled even better.”
“But you object to the taste. Too much cinnamon? Not enough molasses? Too dense? Too light?”
She sounded pissed but Sam smiled. “You want to talk cupcakes?”
“I’m just saying, if there’s something I could do to make these better … If you have a suggestion I’d … Why are you smiling?”
“Because you want to talk cupcakes.” He traded one delight for another, setting aside the cupcake to pull Harper into his arms. “What are you doing up?”
“Things on my mind.”
“Same here.”
“Like?”
“Details. The charter plane, plans for the ceremony.” He felt her tense, eased back and noted her frown. “Second thoughts?”
She held his gaze though, damn, hers was troubled. “I need to talk to you, Sam.”
“Do I need a drink for this?”
“Probably not, but I might.” She moved out of his arms, toward one of the custom-made cabinets he’d designed and installed. She nabbed a bottle of brandy and two snifters then set up shop at the kitchen table.
Sam finished off the cupcake, tossed the liner. He savored the wholesome sweetness while she poured two fingers of possible trouble. Settling into the chair across from her, Sam held silent, allowed her to pursue the conversation at her own pace. Whatever it was, she needed false courage before heading down that road.
After two sips of brandy, she rolled back her shoulders and began. “Something happened in Canada. Something bad. That’s why I don’t want to go back.”
Now Sam sipped, bracing for her story, battling for calm. If someone had hurt her … Dial it down, McCloud.
Her gaze flicked to his. “I’m not sure where to start.”
“Wherever’s easiest.” He kept his tone and manner light, even though his senses were on high alert. He wished she’d spit it out. The sooner he knew what they were dealing with, the better. But he wouldn’t push. Not at the risk of her shutting down.
She pulled her robe tighter then leaned in and held on to the snifter like a lifeline. “I signed on with Spin Twin Cities, the branch in Toronto, as soon as I graduated from college. I was green, but motivated. I worked hard, mostly as an assistant to a senior publicist. A lot of hours, a lot of pressure, a lot of bullshit, but an invaluable learning ground.”
“Media for Canadian celebrities?”
“That was part of it. But also corporate publicity. One company in particular championed a charity for military men and their families. My association with that company, that charity, was brief, but I met someone. A soldier.” She paused and sipped. “Captain Andrew Wilson.” Her voice sounded tight in spite of the brandy. “He was Regular Forces. Handsome and motivated—just twenty-eight.”
“How old were you?”
“Twenty-six.”
Five years ago.
“It happened so fast. We fell in love overnight and were engaged three weeks later. Andrew was charming and funny and, I admit, the whole man-in-uniform thing was sexy and exciting.” She broke off and glanced around the kitchen. “Even back then, I knew about this house, had heard the tale of Mary. Sad, but romantic. I kept thinking, This is how Mary must have felt about Joseph. Smitten and proud. Enchanted by a man who protected his people, his country. And then of course, I was influenced by cinematic love stories, military romances, the ones with happy endings.”
“Like An Officer and a Gentleman?” It had been one of Paula’s favorites, too.
Harper blushed and nodded. “Sappy, I know. Anyway, it was a whirlwind romance—Andrew and me—and, at the time, I was all about fairy-tale weddings and happily-ever-afters. I got caught up in the planning—the dress, the shoes, the flowers—and Andrew fed my enthusiasm.”
Sam held his tongue, sipped more brandy, and registered Harper’s mounting anxiety.
“We’d been seeing each other for ten months when he got deployed overseas. I was shocked. Silly, right? I mean, he was on active duty. But he was in telecommunications, a computer specialist. I thought his work was here, in programming. He never talked about specifics. Said it was classified. Which was, oh, God, that was exciting, too.”
Sam reached across the table and touched her hand. “I get it, hon. The allure of a soldier. Plus Andrew was an officer. If he was in telecommunications, he had to be damned smart. That’s attractive, too.”
“Yes, it is, and he was. Smart. Brainiac smart. So even after they shipped him overseas I thought he’d be holed up in a lab. On a base. Safe.”
She fell silent and Sam continued to hold her hand. He’d dealt with information technicians. Split-second, high-intensity work in the battlefield. Keeping lines of communications open between the frontline and the back. Computers, operating radios, fiber optics, satellite communications. He’d seen technicians crawling through hostile territory to get to a regiment whose radio had gone out. Nothing safe about that.
“Andrew wasn’t very good about corresponding with me. Odd considering he was in telecommunications, right?”
Her smile didn’t reach her eyes and Sam noticed she’d used the word was. Was in telecommunications. Past tense.
“I missed him and I was worried—about him, us—but I kept telling myself he was focused on important work. Classified, he’d said. He couldn’t talk about it. Still, I envisioned him to
iling away in a tech lab on base.” She broke off and looked away. “I was so naïve and he kept me that way. Even after he returned, he wouldn’t talk about what he’d done or where he’d been.”
“That’s not uncommon,” Sam said. He rarely talked about his own time in the field. What he’d done, what he’d seen. He’d especially shielded Paula. He didn’t want her to worry and he damn well didn’t want to expose her to the horrors of war. Sam got Captain Andrew Wilson loud and clear.
“Andrew was overseas for more than a year and when he came back,” Harper said, “he was different. I’d thought the easy and exciting intimacy we’d once shared would return as soon as we reunited. But I was wrong. He was quiet, distant. Something was bothering him, but he wouldn’t talk about it. The few times we slept together, he woke with nightmares. When I asked what they were about, he shut me down, and if I persisted, he got angry. He’d never been angry with me before. Not like that.”
Sam could see where this was going so he didn’t say a word when she finished off her brandy and poured a little more. He knew she wasn’t going for drunk as much as numb. And he was here. He had her back. The hardest thing was not rounding the table and pulling her into his arms.
“Long story short, Andrew ended our engagement. He said he wasn’t ready for marriage, that he loved me, but he needed space. I was hurt and confused. Not just by the broken engagement but by his erratic behavior. I didn’t know what to say, how to be around him for fear I would set him off. I was young and fanciful then, sensitive,” she said on a snort, “if you can believe it. I was intimidated by whatever Andrew was going through, and rather than tough it out, I gave him that space. I threw myself into my job and naïvely believed he’d work it out. He was so freaking smart. Of course he’d figure it out.
“Two weeks later,” she went on in a barely there voice, “I got a phone call saying Andrew was in a standoff with military police. I thought it was a joke. A mistake. But I was assured by the newsman it was true.
“Andrew pulled a gun in a recruitment center. Railed against the military. Issued threats. I don’t think he would have carried them out. He wouldn’t harm innocent people. It wasn’t in his makeup. I think he wanted to make a point and maybe, yeah, in hindsight, I think he wanted to die. He fired a shot, but not at a person, so I was told by that reporter. Unfortunately the bullet ricocheted and hit a civilian. The police opened fire as soon as Andrew pulled the trigger. Sometimes I think, if only I’d been there, maybe I could have talked him down.”
“Is that why you tried to rush into the chaos of the spa shooting? To talk the shooter down?”
“Someone should have tried,” was all she said.
“What happened to the civilian?” Sam asked. “The one Andrew unintentionally wounded?”
“Died on the way to the hospital. Andrew never even made it that far.” Instead of throwing back her freshly poured brandy, Harper stood and carried the glass to the sink. Her hand trembled as she poured the liquor down the drain.
Sam moved in behind her, rested his hands on her shoulders. He wanted to catch her if her knees buckled. She looked that wrung out. “You blame yourself,” Sam said. He’d seen it in her eyes, read it in her expression. “It wasn’t your fault, Harper.”
“There are those who disagree.” She braced her hands on the counter, lowered her head. “Over the next few weeks I researched post-traumatic stress syndrome, I even spoke with a shrink. I know it wasn’t directly my fault, but if I’d been a different person, a stronger person, I might have been able to convince Andrew to commit to professional help.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. But, honey, if he hadn’t snapped then, it could have happened another time. Maybe with you or maybe at even greater consequences. I’m not saying the loss of Andrew and that innocent bystander wasn’t significant. I’m saying it wasn’t your fault.” He finessed her around, took her beautiful face in his hands. “I get you now, Harper. Really get you. I know this tragedy with Andrew is ugly and painful and I understand why you’d rather not talk about it, but I’m glad you told me.”
She brushed away tears. “I just, I didn’t want to marry you without explaining why I am how I am. I turned my back on Canada, on the past, on me. I left naïve, whimsical, pacifist Harper Day in the dust and became the obsessive, aggressive control freak that I am today. I couldn’t work with troubled soldiers. I was too raw. But I could get in the trenches and save troubled celebrities from crashing and burning. I know it seems shallow.”
“Noble. Celebrities need saviors, too.” He hadn’t thought so before but his perspective had shifted over the last few days. Certainly now. Even though she’d stopped talking, his mind raced, filling in blanks, piecing the puzzle. He better understood why she’d reacted so intensely to the L.A. spa shooting. How it tied into the recruitment shooting with Andrew. And why today’s airport shooting had kicked those fears into hyper gear. He got her severe dislike of guns and lax laws. He even understood her manic mission to keep her clients’ heads above water. She couldn’t fix Andrew’s problems so she was intent on saving every other tortured soul in her path.
He even got her obsession with this house and Mary Rothwell.
Sam got Harper Day to the core and he was equally in love with the person she pushed down and the person she fought to be. At this point, he imagined she was a combination of the two. Helping her find comfortable ground would be an honor. Soldier helping soldier, and by God, she was a warrior.
“I didn’t realize how weary I was of being alone. I’ve never told anyone … I haven’t talked about this in years.”
When she melted against him, he held her close, stroked her back. “Running from the past isn’t the answer, Harper, but I don’t want you to go back to Canada. I want you here. With me. With the kids. We’re going to Vegas and we’re getting married. We’ll take it from there. One step at a time. Together.” He gave her a little squeeze, kissed the top of her bowed head. “Say it.”
She smiled against his chest. “Together.”
TWENTY-THREE
Adam was a fan of mornings. Especially Sunday mornings. So the fact that he woke with a dull headache and a bad attitude twisted his shorts even tighter.
He blamed Peppy.
He knew she was a musician. Musicians worked late hours. Her gig had been at Bluebells, a bar east of Pixley, so more than forty-five minutes away. If she owned a decent car he wouldn’t have worried. But when four A.M. rolled around and she still wasn’t home, Adam worried.
He called the bar and got an answering machine. They’d closed at two A.M. Even if Peppy had stopped for coffee at Carrie’s All-Night Café, she should have been back by now.
Adam imagined that beat-up car broken down on a lone stretch of road. He imagined Peppy, a young woman—alone—in the middle of nowhere in the black of night. Dialing her cell phone had been smart and considerate, right?
“Peppy, it’s Adam.”
“Yeah?”
“Are you all right?”
“Don’t I sound all right?”
“Just checking. It’s late.”
“What are you, my mother?”
If he could’ve reached through the phone to shake her, he would have. Turned out she was with a guy, she had to go. She rushed Adam off and he tried to go back to sleep. Great. She was out getting laid on a Saturday night and he was home alone worrying. Did she know the guy? She didn’t seem the one-nighter type, although what the hell did Adam know? Did she sleep around? Would she be inviting men over? Doing the nasty in the bedroom next to Adam’s? Like he wanted to listen to that.
He tossed and turned for another half hour. A little after four-thirty, he heard tires crunching over gravel, heard a muffler backfire. He heard his front door open and shut, heard her bedroom door open and shut. And then, because the walls of this rental were so freaking thin, he heard Peppy punching her pillow and crying.
He would have preferred creaking bedsprings.
He told himself to mind his own business, fe
ll asleep, woke up at eight … telling himself to mind his own business.
Now it was after nine. He’d completed his run, showered and dressed. He was starving, but Peppy was still sleeping. She’d probably sleep till noon. Did she sleep till noon every day? He was a freaking morning person!
Adam lingered in the hall, torn between his kitchen and the front door. Questioning his judgment or lack thereof. Their lifestyles were completely incompatible, yet he hadn’t given that huge fact even a smidgen of thought before offering her the spare room in his teeny, tiny house!
“Bonehead,” he said just as she opened her door, of course, because, hell, where Peppy was concerned Adam’s timing was shit.
“You don’t have to tiptoe around because of me,” she said. “I’m a heavy sleeper.”
“But you’re up.”
“Restless.”
“Hungry?”
“Sure.”
Adam turned his back on her, cursing the twitch in his pants. Turned on? Really? Seriously? Her short, layered hair was sticking up and out every which way. She had dark smudges under her bloodshot eyes. Mascara, he guessed. Those baggy lounging pants, featuring the heads of a cartoon monkey, and the matching tee weren’t sexy by any stretch. But Peppy was. In a cute, sort of pathetic-looking way.
“Just slipping into the bathroom,” she said. “Out in a sec.”
“Take your time.” Adam moved into the kitchen, nabbed a carton of eggs from the fridge. A green and a red pepper, mushrooms, onions. Multigrain bread. Spray butter. “Veggie omelets and toast,” he announced when she walked in. “Sound good?”
“Sure.”
He didn’t look up from the stove, but he smelled soap and toothpaste. Not exactly Chanel No. 5 yet his dick perked all the same. “Shit.”
“What’s wrong?”
“What? Nothing. Wrong knife.” It wasn’t, but he traded for another anyway. Chopped the peppers, the mushrooms.
“Nice coffee maker,” she said. “Filters?”