A Love to Call Her Own (3 page)

She'd made the worst time of Jessy's life a little easier to bear, and Jessy loved her for it.

“I talked to the son,” Jessy said as LoLo poured the coffee, then sipped it and sighed. “He said, and I quote, ‘Give her my condolences.'”

LoLo didn't appear surprised. She'd seen families at their best and their worst.
The stories I could tell,
she'd once said. Of course, she hadn't told them. Was there someone she did share with? Someone who helped ease her burden and made it possible for her to continue doing her job?

Jessy didn't know. Though all the margarita sisters knew LoLo, none of them knew anything about her personal life. She was compassionate, kind, supportive, and a mystery.

“Any other kids?”

“Two daughters, both in Tulsa. She doesn't have their phone numbers, and I doubt the doctor's going to cough them up.” Jessy fixed her own coffee, with lots of sugar and creamer, then peeled an orange from a bowl on the counter. She hadn't gotten anything to eat yet, and her stomach was grumbling. She glanced toward the doorway. Down the hall in the living room, Patricia was sitting with the chaplain, their low voices punctuated time to time by a sob. She lowered her own voice. “Her son didn't know she was living in Oklahoma.”

“Any other family?”

“No one on George's side besides some nieces and nephews she doesn't really know. Her sister lives in Vermont, her brother in Florida. They're both currently on vacation in Canada and will try to come for a few days before the funeral. They've both got kids, so they're going to contact them.”

LoLo leaned against the counter, cradling the coffee cup, and studied Jessy solemnly. Was she remembering that no one came to be with Jessy when Aaron died? “You know her from the bank?”

“No. Never met her before today.”

“So you picked a stranger up off the floor, dusted her off, and brought her home. That's a tough thing to do, Jessy.”

With someone else, Jessy could have been flippant.
Tougher than you know.
Or
Not tough at all; I am Superwoman.
But LoLo did know. She'd done way more than her share of picking people up off the floor. Instead of saying anything, Jessy focused on sectioning the orange.

“I was at the bank yesterday.”

Heat flooded Jessy's face, and her gut clenched. “I thought you banked onpost.”

“I do. I went there with one of my wives.” Always supportive, doing anything she could to help the women whose tragedies brought her into their lives. “Someone else's nameplate was on your desk. So were his things.”

“Yeah.” She mumbled around a piece of orange, sweet and juicy.

“You making a career change?”

Reaching deep inside, Jessy summoned the strength to meet her gaze, to smile brashly. “Yeah. I always hated that job.”

“You have any plans?”

Besides falling apart?
“I'm thinking about it.” She thought about a lot of things. She just never found the energy to actually do anything. Going to get groceries today had been a big deal—and look how that had bitten her on the ass. Two hours now she'd been tied up with Patricia Sanderson, and she didn't know how to extricate herself. She'd hoped the son would head this way as soon as he got the news, but she might as well have told him there were clouds in the sky for all the concern he'd shown.

As long as LoLo and the chaplain were there, she could leave. Even knowing that eventually they would both have to leave, too. Knowing that eventually Patricia would have to be alone in her house, surrounded by memories of her husband, drowning in her grief. Eventually everyone had to be alone.

But not yet. Jessy could cope awhile longer. It wasn't like anyone else in the entire world needed her.

“Maybe this time you'll find a job you like.” LoLo drained the last of her coffee and squared her shoulders. “I should get back in there.”

Jessy watched her go, figuring that in a few minutes the chaplain would come in for coffee and a break. Kind of a tag team comforting. With her stomach still too empty, she opened the refrigerator, located a couple packages of deli meat, mayo and mustard, some pickles and cheese. Sooner or later, Patricia's friends would start showing up with casseroles, fried and rotisserie chicken, sweets from CaraCakes, pop and doughnuts and disposable dishes, but in the meantime, a sandwich or two would stave off hunger for her, LoLo, and Lieutenant Graham. If Patricia was like Jessy, she wouldn't eat for days. If she was like Therese, she would be sensible and eat even though she had no appetite, and if she was like Lucy, bless her heart, she would stuff herself with food to numb the pain.

Sure enough, about the time she finished putting together the fourth ham and turkey sandwich, Lieutenant Graham came into the kitchen. He wasn't as experienced as LoLo; his lean solemn face showed the bleakness of his burden.

Chaplains made Jessy uncomfortable. She hadn't been raised in church and had never found a reason to start attending as an adult. Aaron's service had been held at the chapel on Fort Murphy, and the memory didn't make her eager to return. Besides, chaplains were good people. Earnest. They didn't make the mistakes Jessy couldn't seem to escape.

“We didn't get lunch. This looks good,” the lieutenant said as he accepted a plate. “We called one of her neighbors who's coming over as soon as she can get away from the office. I think she's asked about as many questions as she's capable of processing at the moment.”

“She'll think of more.” Jessy's first questions had been simple: How had Aaron died, and why? The how had been understandable: He'd been shot by a sniper. She still struggled with the why.

There had been more questions, of course. When would he get home? What did she have to do? How did one arrange a funeral? Where could she bury him?

And more: Had he died instantly? Had they tried to save him? Did he suffer? How did they know he didn't suffer?

Would she be able to see him, touch him, kiss him once more when he got home?

Could she tell him how very, very sorry she was?

The chaplain took a seat at the breakfast table, ate a bite or two, then gazed at Jessy. “LoLo says you've been through this.”

Her hands tightened around the coffee mug. She forced herself to loosen her fingers, pick up a plate, join him at the table, and to take a bite to settle her stomach. “Two and a half years ago,” she said at last.

“I'm sorry.”

Why did the words sound so much more sincere coming from him than they did from her? Because he'd probably never let anyone down. Never failed to live up to others' expectations. He was a man of God.

She was just a woman.

With way too many flaws and way too many regrets.

T
he blast of a horn startled Lucy Hart from her thoughts. With a glance at the green light overhead and a glimpse of the driver behind her gesturing impatiently, she got the car moving again, just barely reaching the speed limit. Part of her was in a rush to get home; her friend needed her, and Lucy was always quick to respond to people who needed her.

The rest of her, though, was dragging her feet. She was good for all kinds of emergencies. Car trouble, pipes breaking in the middle of the night, rides to doctors' appointments, heartbreak, unexpected babysitting—she'd handled all that and more. Being there and helping out were her biggest talents, after her mouthwatering cooking and baking. Her family had called her
little mama
, an endearment she'd been happy with while waiting to become a mother for real.

But comforting a friend who'd just lost her husband hit a little too close to home. Though six years had passed since Mike's death in Iraq, though all her closest friends had lost their husbands to combat, the memories this new death raised…

Grimly, she pushed back the thought. Patricia needed her. End of discussion.

Traffic was light through town and virtually nonexistent once she turned onto her street. She pulled into the driveway, then hurried into the house. Her dog, Norton, was waiting in the kitchen, wagging his tail hard enough to sound like a bass drum. Though she wanted to get to Patricia's quickly, one thing couldn't wait; otherwise, Norton would flood the kitchen.

She gave him a scratch, then let him out the back door into the unfenced yard. He wasn't the brightest dog in the world, but he did understand that home was where the special stuff was: food, treats, doggy bed, and the yellow rubber ducky he loved dearly. He would never run away and leave the duck behind.

After changing clothes, Lucy let Norton in again, gave him a couple of home-baked treats, then grabbed the bread she'd baked the night before—banana nut and cranberry—and a tub of cream cheese. “You be good,” she told him. “I don't know how long I'll be gone, but I'll come back to check on you. Don't disappoint me.”

The animal gave her a look that suggested she might as well be speaking Vulcan, then slid into a boneless heap, head on his paws to watch her go. She locked the door and set off across the yard, halfway to its perimeter, when her next-door neighbor called her name.

“Hey, Luce! You're taking food to someone who isn't me?”

Joe Cadore sat on his deck, feet propped on the railing, a fitness magazine in his lap and a bottle of water in his hand. His blond hair needed a trim—always—and his jaw looked as if he'd forgotten to shave that morning, turning his usual boy-next-door good looks into breath-catching
isn't he hot?
sex appeal. Luckily, she was immune to it. With an appetite befitting a physically active guy, no kitchen skills, and no wife or significant other, he had a great appreciation for the goodies that came from her kitchen, thus the basis of their friendship.

Reversing direction, she moved a few feet closer to him. “I'm taking it to Patricia's. Did you hear? Her husband—” Her voice wobbled, and she took a breath.

Bless his heart, Joe didn't need to hear more to understand. Concern furrowed his forehead, and he dropped his feet with a thud, rising from his chair. “Oh, man. I'm so sorry. George was a good guy.” After a moment, his voice softer, he asked, “You okay?”

His concern was sweet and eased the tightness around her heart just a little. “Yeah. Just…a lot of memories.”

“Do you want me to come along?”

The constriction eased a bit more. What kind of guy volunteered to wade into a situation that was sure to involve an overload of women, emotion, tears, and grief? Then she answered her own question: a good friend. She'd been blessed with so many of them. She hoped Patricia had a bunch, too, because she was going to need them in the months ahead.

“I appreciate the offer, but…let me see how she's doing first.” She started across the yard again, then glanced back. “By the way, there are two more loaves of bread on my kitchen counter for you if Norton doesn't get to them first.” Joe had a key to her house so he could do favors like letting the dog out if she ran late, and she had one to his house so she could…Well, just because. He didn't have any pets, not even any plants, and had never asked her to do anything for him.

“I'll share a piece with him.” His broad grin was dazzling. “I knew you loved me. Thanks, Luce.”

She crossed the grass into Patricia's backyard, then circled the house. Under normal circumstances, she would have gone to the back door and knocked, holding up her goodies to entice Patricia into letting her in. There wouldn't be any normal circumstances for her friend for a long while.

The only cars in the driveway were a government vehicle and a small red one she wasn't familiar with. Though there were other CNOs—casualty notification officers—Lucy hoped Patricia had gotten Loretta Baxter. LoLo was so very good at her job.

Lucy climbed the steps to the gracious porch with its wicker furniture and potted flowers that contrasted perfectly against the red and white stripes of the American flag rippling in the breeze. Thinking she should do something with her own porch, she turned back to the door when it opened and blinked in surprise. “Jessy! I didn't know you knew Patricia.”

“I don't. I didn't. I do now.” Jessy grabbed her arm and pulled her inside, closed the door, and swept her down the hall to the kitchen, where she put the bread and cream cheese on the counter. Of all their margarita sisters, Lucy would have thought Jessy the least likely to comfort in a tragedy. Not that Jessy wasn't sympathetic and generous. It was just that she doled those things out in her own way, which was usually brash and blunt.

In a few terse sentences, Jessy explained how she'd wound up at the Sanderson house. “Damn, can you believe it?” she muttered.

“Of course I can. It proves what I have always suspected of you. You may be snarky and flippant on the outside, but on the inside, you're warm, soft, and gooey just like the rest of us.” Knowing Jessy would resist, Lucy wrapped her arms around her and planted a messy kiss on her cheek. “You're a good woman, Jessy Lawrence.”

Sputtering, Jessy wriggled away. “And you're insane. Cover for me while I make my getaway.”

They approached the living room together, both stopping a few feet out of sight. Jessy eyed the front door as if gauging how quickly she could reach it and be gone, then turned her assessing gaze on Lucy, whispering, “Are you sure you can handle this?”

“It's got to be easier than the first time around.”

“I don't know about that. If things get quiet for one minute, all I can think about…”

Is Aaron. Practically like it was yesterday.
Lucy knew how that went. Witnessing other people's pain brought a new edge to hers.

“We all think about our husbands more at times like this. But we have years of scars over the wounds in our hearts. No matter how much we love them, no matter how much we miss them, we don't hurt the way Patricia does because her wound is so fresh.” Lucy blinked away a sheen of tears. “Has anyone contacted her children?”

Jessy snorted. “I called her son. He wasn't jumping in his car to drive over here anytime soon.”

“I knew there was some problem there.” That had been apparent more in the things Patricia didn't say than the things she did.

“Yeah, there's a problem, like he doesn't give a shi—” Jessy shrugged. “Damn, I've got to get going. I've let my gooey side show for way too long. I need some red meat, some wild dancing, and a handsome cowboy or two to buy me a drink—” Again, she cut herself off, grimacing. Bumping against Lucy's arm, she went into the living room and to Patricia, sitting on the couch near LoLo.

Lucy smiled. Every woman could use some red meat, wild dancing, and handsome cowboys from time to time, but Jessy was no more likely to go out and indulge than Lucy was. She talked big, but the margarita club knew she hadn't looked twice at an available man since Aaron's death. Every person's grief had its own schedule. When the time was right for Jessy to consider romance again, she would, and like Carly and Therese, she would be incredibly happy the second time around.

Lucy could envision all her friends getting a second chance, but it was harder to put herself into that position. They were all smart, pretty, and talented at everything they tried. Most of them held interesting jobs or had interesting hobbies, while Lucy was a secretary whose only interest outside work was making tantalizing foods that put way too many pounds on her. She'd gone from average to fat, made worse by the fact that she was only two inches over five feet. In this shape, she wasn't exactly dating material, and that was okay. Better to stay single the rest of her life than to risk a second time with what Patricia was going through.

With a deep breath to fortify herself, Lucy walked into the living room. Upon seeing her, Patricia promptly burst into tears, sank into her arms, and sobbed as if her heart were broken. Sadly, Lucy knew, it was.

By the time Dalton turned off the computer and headed upstairs, the house was silent. His parents had gone out to the RV as soon as Dad saw the ten o'clock headlines, despite Dalton's offer of a bedroom, and Oz dragged up the steps soon after. Normally, Dalton would have been asleep an hour ago, but restlessness had kept him awake. He'd thought catching up on his paperwork would settle him—it usually bored him comatose—but it hadn't. His body was tired, but his mind wasn't surrendering yet.

Avoiding the creaky places on the stairs and in the second-floor hallway, he got ready for bed, shut off the light, and nudged Oz from the middle of the bed. If Mom didn't like dogs in the house, she
really
didn't like them on the beds, but she hadn't said anything. Maybe she'd finally begun to think of this house as their former home. More likely, David had warned her again not to fuss.

Moonlight came through the curtains, bright enough to cast deep shadows, to glint off the silver frame on the dresser. Every week he dusted the frame, but he never looked at the picture it held. He didn't need a photograph to remind him of that moment immediately after he and Sandra had gotten married in Las Vegas, when they'd both been happy and hopeful, with no worries other than how quickly they could get back to the hotel to celebrate. Life had had such potential that day. He'd never imagined just how damn wrong it could go.

He stared at the frame until his eyes got gritty, then he rolled onto his other side, where there were only shadows. As he resettled, he realized the tension that usually gripped him when he thought about Sandra wasn't there. It still hurt. It still made him angry, but not so much as before. Was he finally putting it behind him? Was there some potential for a normal life for him again?

He had this suspicion that of course the potential was there. He just had to be smart enough to recognize it and willing enough to accept it. He'd dug himself into such a bleak hole after Sandra died. He'd lost touch with all his friends, did his best to keep her family at arm's length and to avoid any but short, superficial visits with his own family. He'd forgotten how to live, how to be sociable or, hell, be just plain civil.

He'd felt like shit and acted like it so long that he was sick of it.

Behind him Oz began to snore, low rattling sounds. Dalton hadn't wanted a dog until the mutt showed up and showed him he did. Oz had been starved, lost, or more likely, dumped by an idiot owner who assumed all country people wanted everyone else's throwaways. He'd had an awfully tough time of life, but he hadn't dwelled on it. Once he'd made himself at home here, he'd forgotten the rough times and focused on appreciating the good life.

There wasn't one thing special or unique about the miseries in Dalton's life, and he had a lot to be thankful for. He was healthy. He was making a go of the ranch he'd loved for as long as he could remember. His parents were alive and happy, and Noah was exactly where he should be in his life, with no major mistakes hanging over him and all those possibilities ahead. Dalton was feeling the need, just kind of simmering but there all the same, to get himself to exactly where he should be in his life.

And part of it had to do with the pretty little redhead he'd met two months ago who wouldn't get out of his head.

That March Saturday hadn't been his proudest moment. Dalton, who'd never once hooked up casually, had done just that with the redhead, and in a cemetery, no less. A few words, a trip to a bar, too much to drink, crossing the parking lot to the shabbiest motel in the county, then sneaking out while she was asleep and pretending not to know her the next time he saw her.

She was the first woman—the only woman—he'd been with since Sandra. She'd given him a few hours of passion, of feeling
something
besides sorrow, and he'd thanked her by treating her exactly the way Dillon would have. For the first time in his life, he'd acted like Dillon's twin and not in a good way.

But Jessy Lawrence, like her red hair implied, was stubborn. She was always there in the back of his mind: pretty, emotionally worn like him, dealing with her own sorrows. Images of her that March day, so sharp and alive, echoes of her Southern drawl that had lured him from his bleak life for an afternoon. Every time he went into town, any flash of red hair made his gut tighten. He'd even gone to the bank where she worked just to see her, only to find some scrawny guy at her desk. Had she been promoted? Transferred? Had she moved away?

Would he ever see her again?

Maybe. There was that need, buzzing down deep in his gut, whispering to him that life could get better. That he didn't have to settle for barely surviving. That he could get to where he was supposed to be.