A Love to Call Her Own (20 page)

Patricia smiled faintly. “Still the defender,” she murmured, making Sara's jaw clench.

Then the car stopped. They were there. After getting out of the car, Ben took note of all the people: the funeral director; Patricia's pastor, Reverend Vernon, and his wife; several couples from their church. A short distance away, the officers belonging to the police vehicles stood with the military personnel. Most of them had never heard of Colonel George Sanderson. Some of them had known and loved him. All of them were somber and respectful.

After a few moments, the major touched Patricia's arm and gestured. Flags snapped in the breeze, traffic sounded on the nearby highway, and a bird chittered nearby, but everyone's attention was locked on the plane on the ground in the distance.

It glinted in the sun as it steadily approached, taxiing beneath a water cannon, the spray glistening in the air. Everyone saluted until, after a final turn, the Kalitta Charters plane eased to a stop some yards away.

The silence after the engines shut down was palpable. The pilot was first off the plane, followed by the copilot. They put ramps in place to unload the casket lift, then one climbed inside again. It was a moment before the flag-draped wood casket appeared in the plane's doorway, drawing a gasp from Patricia, and another moment before she managed to breathe again. Sorrow etched deep lines in her face.

“They used to send the casualties home on commercial airlines,” she murmured. “In the baggage section. Then one father said, ‘My son is not baggage,' and that started the charters.” Her voice broke on the last words, and a shudder rippled through her. She clung to Brianne with one hand, to Mrs. Vernon with the other, and for a moment Ben thought even their support couldn't hold her.

Seven solemn soldiers marched to the plane, taking up position on either side of the lift.
The casket team,
Lieutenant Graham whispered. Once the casket was loaded onto the lift, the team stood at attention while those in uniform around them saluted. Swallowing over the lump in his throat, Ben followed the pilot's lead and laid his hand over his heart. Its next few beats were painful, and his vision was growing blurry.

He didn't know this man, his rational mind argued, but it didn't matter. George Sanderson had devoted his life to military service. While other men were working nine to five, going home to their wife and kids every night, he'd been training to protect his country. He'd gone to war multiple times. His life was the last of the sacrifices he'd made.

His passing deserved respect, regret, and sorrow.

Once the lift stopped, the casket team marched away again. “Now that they've received the casket,” the chaplain murmured to Ben and his sisters, “your mother will have some time alone, then the team will return and transfer the casket to the hearse.”

The funeral director took position on Patricia's left side, Reverend and Mrs. Vernon on the right, and Major Baxter led them across the tarmac to the casket. Ten feet from the plane, Patricia straightened her shoulders, held her head up, and walked alone to the casket. She stood straight as any soldier, one steady hand resting on a slash of red and white stripes. Then like an inflatable toy with a leak, she slowly folded in on herself, ducking her chin, tears flowing, sobs shuddering through her.

Ben squeezed his eyes shut. He still held a lot of anger for Patricia, but everything else aside, she had loved this man. She'd given up everything, even her family, for him. She'd stayed in love with him, loyal, supportive, happy, for every one of the twenty years they'd had together, and now she'd lost him. It was no mistake, no terrible case of misidentification, no nightmare. That wooden casket contained her husband's body, all that was left of him in this world besides the memories. He was gone, and she was still here, and even though Ben had believed his heart was rock-solid safe where Patricia was concerned, this sight—his mother weeping, the flag-draped casket, the dreary skies, the solemn onlookers here to honor George's memory…

This broke his heart.

Though it had been raining most of the day, the margarita club occupied its usual summertime seats on the patio of The Three Amigos. The temperature was warm enough that getting an occasional splatter wasn't a problem, the rain cool enough to offset the heat. Jessy sat facing away from the building, where a shift of her gaze replaced besties with sheets of water, fat drops that plopped into puddles, tiny rivers seeking the low spots in the parking lot. The sight and the sound and the smell made her want to kick off her shoes, curl up in a comfy chair, and contemplate the benefits of washing away in a good torrent.

Her usual margarita sat in front of her, melted into a puddle with an occasional chunk of frozen stuff. It tempted her, but she hadn't touched it yet. She was marking time somewhere around 12,720 minutes without a taste. The end of the ninth day. Pretty damn good for someone who'd screwed up practically everything in her life.

Oh, but there were times she wanted it. Wanted it so bad that she would claw her way through a crowd to get to it. Times when she felt so damn alone, when she was absolutely certain that a drink would cure everything that ailed her. Just one drink. No getting hammered, no blacking out, no misbehaving. One single drink. Moderation.

She was thinking maybe that was the problem. She and Moderation weren't on a first-name basis.

The door opened behind Jessy, conversation and music spilling out, as Ilena and Therese returned from the bathroom. Ilena sank into her chair, blowing out her breath as if the trip had exhausted her. Grinning broadly, she looked around the table before her gaze settled on Jessy. “There's a cowboy on the premises,” she said with delight.

“This is Tallgrass,” Marti replied, a chip with salsa halfway to her mouth. “There's always cowboys— Oh!”

Jessy couldn't help it. She automatically twisted around to look through the windows.

“In the bar,” Therese said helpfully. “With Dane and his friend, watching a soccer game.”

“I thought about joining them,” Ilena said. “Hector Junior's going to play soccer—his daddy was a great soccer player—and I'm going to coach.”

Unable to locate Dalton from where she sat, Jessy turned her attention back to her friends, trying to minimize the whiplash she'd gotten from looking for him. “You're planning to coach everything. Have you actually ever played any of those sports?”

Ilena made a dismissive gesture. “I'm not the fragile flower I appear to be.”

“You're just a regular steel dandelion,” Carly said. “And you'd better quit calling our godson Hector before he gets here, or we'll be calling him that forever. Say it with me now.”

Everyone around the table dutifully joined in. “John.” Then Ilena's little voice: “Hector Junior.”

After a moment's laughter, Lucy said, “So…Jessy. You went off and got a new job and started dating a hot-damn cowboy without sharing with us. What other secrets have you been keeping?”

Every woman at the table turned Jessy's way, until she actually squirmed a bit in her chair. She hadn't squirmed away from attention in a hell of a long time. Still minimizing: “The job wasn't a secret. I just started Friday, and I told you all the next time I saw you.”

“And the cowboy?”

“It's…complicated.”

Fia and Bennie had the audacity to snort. “He's a good-looking man,” Bennie pointed out, “and you're a damn hot woman. The air sizzles when you two get together. Nothing complicated about that.”

“Have you two…you know?” Lucy finished with her eyebrows reaching for her hairline.

“Yeah, please tell us Carly and Therese aren't the only ones getting sex on a regular basis,” Marti added. “Give the rest of us something to hope for.”

Jessy's entire body flushed. “Oh, my God, I can't believe you guys, asking about my sex life! Would I ever poke and pry about what's going on in your beds?”

More snorts. “You're the first one to ask,” Carly reminded her.

“Oh. Yeah. Well.” Jessy huffed out a breath. “Jeez, I need a drink.”

“You've got one.”

Marti nudged the full glass a little closer, and in that instant the atmosphere changed. Carly and Therese exchanged glances. Fia's gaze remained steadily locked on Jessy. The other women silently looked from those three to Jessy.

The silence inside Jessy grew and grew until she thought it might burst, scattering bits of her everywhere to be swept up or washed away by the rain. Her nerves stretched thinner, tauter, and a thousand little voices waited expectantly for something to break—for
her
to break—so they could end their silence and whisper, whimper, shriek, wail, or maybe just breathe a profound sigh of relief.

“I—” She picked up the margarita, smelled the lime, and swallowed back the need for just a sip. After a moment, she did something she'd never before done: she poured good liquor onto the pavement, where the water dripping from the roof rinsed it away.

When she set the glass down again, she risked a glance around the table. No one's expression had changed, but something inside her had. Something felt…freer. Stronger. It gave her the courage to commit to her goal by saying the words out loud to her best friends.

They came haltingly, her voice shaky but strong. “I am doing my damnedest to give up drinking. Today is my ninth day.”

Silence dropped over the table, each woman registering a reaction for one frozen moment. It took all of Jessy's courage to look at them: the worry, the relief, the awkwardness, a little surprise, a lot of pleasure. In her nightmares, she'd imagined horror, shock, or repulsion, but bless their hearts, she didn't see any of that.

When the moment unfroze and their voices mingled into the lovely, treasured cacophony that was Margarita Girls, Usual Style, finally Jessy allowed herself to breathe. They congratulated her. They assured her she could do it, promised they were there for her. Underneath the table, Fia gave her hand a tight squeeze. They accepted her. They embraced her with their words and their arms and their hearts. Through all the conversation, the laughter, the funny tales, and the somber planning for the next day's funeral, their words kept echoing in her head.

You can do this.

For the first time, she honestly, no fingers-crossed-behind-her-back thought she could.

Lucy broke up the evening first so she could stop by the funeral home for the colonel's visitation. The others followed soon after, Fia pausing to hug Jessy. “I'm so proud of you,” she whispered.

Jessy went still and warm at the same time. Simple words that she couldn't recall anyone ever saying to her before. Certainly not her parents, not her sisters, not even Aaron. He'd told her how much he loved her, missed her, wanted her, but never how proud he was of her.

I'm so proud of you.
She would never forget the words, would always keep them tucked away to pull out when she needed encouragement in those alone times.

She said her good-byes, picked up her purse and umbrella—never let it be said that a little rain could keep Jessy Lawrence from her girls—then hesitated, wavering between the gate leading to the parking lot and the door going into the restaurant.

“Oh, no. You're not gonna slip off while Dalton's in there with Dane.” Carly slipped her arm through Jessy's and pulled her inside. “You know he didn't drive all the way into town just to watch the game with the guys.”

“He knows where I live.”

Carly grinned. “You suck at acting like the too-cool girl who doesn't want to let on how excited she is.”

“Hey, doll, I'm not acting. I
am
too cool. Now, if you want to talk about all the things I suck at, better pull up a chair 'cause this will take a while.”

“You know what? My cousin—she's a neuroscientist—does research on the power of words, specifically the impact of repeated words. Basically, that if you say or hear something often enough, good or bad, eventually you begin to believe it. Life is hard enough on us, Jessy. Don't give it a hand by beating yourself up. Look at you. You're healthy. You've got a new job and a new relationship with a gorgeous guy. You're surrounded by people who love you, and you're nine days sober. You're blessed, sweetie. We all are.”

Blessed.
Damn. That was a word Jessy never associated with herself. It seemed too…good. She was so used to focusing on the bad: the drinking, the regrets about Aaron, what should have been with her family. But she
was
surrounded by people who loved her. She loved her job—yep, even after only a day and a half, she knew that. She was going to be a godmother in another couple weeks. And there was Dalton.

Literally, sitting at a round table in the bar, the heels of his boots hooked over the lower rung of the stool, his hat hanging on a wall hook beside them. His jeans were faded, well worn, and his T-shirt looked new in comparison. Both hugged him like a seductive woman, smoothing over muscles and hard planes.

To quote Lucy, he was one hot-damn cowboy.

Carly lightly squeezed her shoulder. “Yes, ma'am, you are certainly blessed.” Then she let go and passed Dalton to sidle up to Dane and kiss his temple. He automatically slid his arm around her waist and pulled her near, giving her a look, just a look, that could have melted the polar ice cap. He loved her and considered himself lucky to have her. All that was in his expression, in the way he touched her, the way he…treasured her.

A big message for a nonromantic like Jessy to translate from a little simple body language.

After they'd exchanged greetings, Carly asked, “You need a ride home, Jessy?”

“Thank you, but I'm going the way I came—walking.”

“What if we get lightning?”

“Then I'll sprint.”

“I know your sentiments toward exercise,” Carly said dryly. “I happen to share them. Maybe you should accept a ride. Dalton will be going right by your place.”