A Summer to Remember (10 page)

That done, he had about four hours to blow. He could go back to the lake or check out the bakery's competition. He could look for other
Help Wanted
signs to cover his bases if he struck out with Lucy. Instead, he reached for his phone. After two rings, a sweet voice picked up.

“Hey, Fia. It's Elliot. Is there any chance I can buy you lunch today?”

Fia had plenty of those times when her brain told her mouth to stay shut and her mouth ignored it, so it was no surprise when it happened again. Brain ordered her to say no to Elliot's invitation; she was still a little shaky, her vision still a little blurred.

But Mouth went ahead and said, “I'd like that,” and Fia was siding with Mouth.

She'd stayed home all day yesterday, either in bed or curled up on the couch, and missed Elliot and Mouse and all her friends at Therese's welcome barbecue for Marti's niece. Patricia had brought her a plate of food on her way home with grilled chicken, a garden salad, roasted baby red potatoes, and a bowl filled with Lucy's special angel food cake with fresh strawberry sauce. Fia was grateful the choices hadn't included any barbecue sauce, salsa, onions, garlic, or tangy dressings, and she'd managed to eat most of it, despite the queasy state of her stomach.

She'd appreciated Patricia's thoughtfulness more than she could say. Her own mother had never done anything nice for her, so it was still a surprise every time someone else's mother did.

But she'd still missed being at the party, seeing her friends, meeting Cadence. She'd felt left out, and she hated it. That so wasn't the strong, independent person she used to be.

“Are you at work?” Elliot made no effort to hide his pleasure that she'd agreed, and that warmed her all the way through. Scott had been that way, too, unabashed about the things that made him happy. He'd never tried to play cool or hard to get. He saw something he wanted, and he went for it.

“I'm working at home today.” Since her body had begun its relentless betrayal, she'd switched jobs at the gym from trainer to general problem solver and paper handler. She didn't love the desk job but was happy her boss had done his best to keep her on staff when he so easily could have booted her to the curb.

“Do you want to go out or should I bring something?”

Staying in was probably safer in physical terms for her. Though she'd showered, shaved her legs without so much as a nick, and gotten through all the payroll forms for April—it was amazing what an eighteen-point computer font did for blurry vision—she still wasn't a hundred percent.

No doubt, though,
out
was safer in emotional terms. When it was just the two of them in a small, private space, it was impossible to avoid the intimacy that came naturally. And there was a heck of a lot of intimacy in the wings just waiting its chance. Who knew which spark would set it off?

Still, Mouth wasn't listening to Brain. “Do you mind coming here?”

He laughed. “One thing you'll learn about me, Fia: If I offer to do something, I won't mind doing it. I'm pretty easygoing, but I can dig in my heels like the most stubborn critter in the world when I need to. What would you like?”

He reeled off choices—Mexican, Italian, Chinese, Greek, barbecue, fish—and she reeled off answers: too spicy, not her favorite, too heavy, too unfamiliar, too tomatoey, not her favorite.

“Okay, you tell me what you want, and I'll bring it.”

After a moment's thought, she replied, “I think I need comfort food. Soup, chicken and noodles, macaroni and cheese.”

“I can make chicken and noodles as good as my grandma's. I'll stop at the store, then be there in ten.”

After hanging up, she closed the lid of the laptop and set it on the coffee table, then stood, stretching out the kinks from the morning's work. She was steady on her feet and felt good enough to care how she looked, so that was progress. She changed from T-shirt and shorts into a dress, finger-combed her short hair, and even dabbed on a bit of foundation, blush, and mascara before her doorbell rang.

Her stomach took a tumble, and for the first time in twenty-four hours, it wasn't due to nausea. She gave herself a quick once-over in the mirror hanging on the back of the bathroom door—hair looked good, mascara wasn't smeared, dress covered everything it was supposed to—then she walked more quickly than she normally would have to the front door.

For an instant, she stood there, mentally repeating warnings to herself: This couldn't go anywhere; she wasn't the woman she used to be; Elliot wanted a woman for a lovely fling or a lifetime; either way, she wasn't looking to become anyone else's burden.

But none of that stopped her from grinning ear to ear when she opened the door. He held Mouse's leash in one hand, a grocery bag in the other, and wore jeans, a buttoned-up shirt, and boots, and took her breath away with nothing more than his presence on her stoop. Lord, was there anything better than the giddiness when a woman first began falling for a man?

The satisfaction of living happily ever after with him, a solemn voice whispered in her head. Of not having to dress up or be on her best behavior and knowing he still loved her. Of facing him with morning breath and bed head and knowing he still thought she was beautiful. Of losing her temper and wishing mightily that she'd never met him but still loving every awful thing about him.

Falling in love with Scott had been incredible, but being in love with him, living day to day, through good and bad and nothing special, had been the real reward.

Why are you thinking about me when Elliot's standing right in front of you?

Bittersweetly, she pushed back the memories and crouched to scratch Mouse's chin. “Hey, sweetie, I'm glad you came over and brought your person with you. Come on in.”

Elliot switched the groceries to his other hand, then gave her a hand up. Oh, she loved the warm touch and easy strength of a helping hand. The old Fia had never needed one, but she'd sure been happy to take it. In her growing-up world, men had rarely raised a hand unless it was to smack whoever had annoyed them. Her father had never opened a door for her mother, carried a load for her, or helped her around the house. He'd been the king, commanding others to do everything for him, unable to even pronounce the word
chivalry
, much less practice it.

When she was on her feet again, a smile spread slowly across Elliot's face. “Hey, you,” he said in a low, intimate voice.

Shivers danced down her spine, and her stomach looped crazily. Trembling, she stepped back, the move sadly pulling her arm free of his hand, and she offered another smile that wasn't quite as steady as the first. “Hey.”

“I'm glad you agreed to see me.”

She could protect herself, play it cool, brush it off, but she didn't. So she was tempting herself with something she couldn't have, not long-term. That was okay. Feeling this way was definitely worth any pain that might come later. “So am I.”

He followed her inside, disconnected Mouse's leash, and carried the groceries into the kitchen, where he unpacked a large carton of chicken stock, a package of chicken, and a bag of frozen noodles.

Sitting on a bar stool, Fia leaned across to pick up the noodles. “Your grandma's chicken and noodles, huh? So your grandma is Mrs. Reames?”

He stuck his tongue out at her. If they were a little bit closer, she could bite it. Or kiss the mouth it came from. “Actually—well, no, she wasn't, but she used Reames noodles. Remember, she had a ranch to run and a family to keep in line. Now, me, normally I'd buy a whole chicken and simmer it slowly all afternoon with carrots and celery and onions, and I'd make the noodles by hand, and after I stripped the tender chicken from the bones, I'd cook it all in the steaming fragrant broth until the noodles were just perfectly tender, and then…”

He was looking at her, but his hands were making quick work of tearing open the chicken package, setting two breasts, two wings, and two thighs on a paper towel. He knew she couldn't bring herself to look away from him—she could see it in the amusement in his eyes—and he knew, too, that talking about his attention to detail in cooking was inexplicably making her warm from the inside out.

“And then,” he repeated before mimicking setting a big bowl in front of her, waving away imaginary steam with one hand, and adding, “you would be transported away by the best chicken and noodles in the whole universe. But since I have a job interview at two thirty, Grandma's chicken and noodles will have to do.”

He turned to rinse the chicken pieces then, and she waved away some imaginary heat of her own, wondering if she could turn the air conditioner low enough to get her internal temperature back to normal. “Cool about the interview,” she said, really meaning it. No matter what happened, or didn't, between them, Tallgrass with Elliot was a better place than Tallgrass without him. Besides, he needed that home. That place to belong. “Where is it?”

“A little bakery where I had breakfast this morning. The best cinnamon roll I've eaten since the last time I made my own. Name's Prairie Harts and—”

“Ohhh!”
Almost immediately, Fia clapped her hands over her mouth as he whirled around. “Sorry about that. I don't usually interrupt. I don't usually squeal, either, at least not since I was twelve. But I
know
them—Lucy and Patricia. They're two of my margarita girls.” When no comprehension appeared in his eyes, she added, “My Army widow friends. My family. They're the reason I'm here.” And she meant that in every way possible.

Remembrance sparked in his expression. “They seem like nice people, and they can damn well bake.”

“Yes to both. Man, leave it to you on your first weekday in town to meet two of the margarita girls. I bet Patricia's first question was,
Are you available?
because she's determined to marry off her single friends and Brianne, her younger daughter. And Lucy was there in body but probably about a hundred miles away in her mind.”

“Standing in front of a pastor with her fiancé, grinning big, and saying, ‘You bet I do,'” Elliot said with a laugh. He dropped the chicken into her biggest stockpot, poured in the whole container of broth, and set it on high heat on the stove. After that, he washed his hands, fixed two glasses of tea, and came to sit on the stool beside her. “I'm guessing her feet haven't touched the ground since they got engaged.”

“They have not.” Sliding off the stool, Fia went into her bedroom, then returned with a large framed picture. Again, Elliot gave her a hand to help her up, and again, she went all soft and hot inside.
I love chivalry.
“This is about sixteen months ago. That's Carly and Therese—they started the margarita club—and the little blonde is Ilena. She was pregnant there and gave birth to a beautiful little boy last June. Jessy's the redhead, there's Bennie, and that's Marti, Lucy—”

“And you.” He leaned close enough that his shoulder bumped hers, and he laid his hand over hers on the frame to steady its sudden shaking. One breath capturing all the man-cowboy-Elliot scents of him, and she could totally forget what she was saying, what they were doing. She could just sort of slide against him, rest her head on his shoulder, raise her mouth to his, and forget all about lunch. No food was as comforting as a make-out session with a really sexy, really gorgeous, really nice guy.

“Lucy looks different.”

Fia smiled at his polite way of saying,
She's lost a whole lot of weight.
Losing Mike had turned Lucy to food for comfort. Finding Joe had turned her back.

“I don't see Patricia.”

“She didn't join us until the colonel died the end of last May.”

His long finger traced Fia's image. “When did you join?”

A kinder way of asking when Scott died. “It started with Carly and Therese. The next week, Marti and Lucy were there, and I heard about it from a teacher at the post school, so I showed up the week after. Scott had been dead seven months at the time.”

He got up to check the chicken, turn down the heat, and top off their tea. When he came back, he continued to study the photo. “A buddy of mine died in Iraq. I'd known him and his wife for a couple years, so I called her, visited her when I got back to the States, still keep in touch with her from time to time, but not once has she ever mentioned his name or let me mention it. We talk about everything in the world except him. That's the way she wants it. It just makes me sad.”

“Before I met the girls, I wondered if I was doing things wrong because I wanted to talk about Scott, but it made people uncomfortable. I'd never lost anyone I'd loved before”—sad truth was, she'd never loved anyone before—“but the first time I had dinner with the margarita club, our husbands were all we talked about. They understood. They saved me.”

“And you saved them.” He looked at her picture again. “You look different.”

Also a polite way of saying,
You've gone to hell since then.
She'd lost ten or fifteen pounds she hadn't needed to lose when she was already operating on a low body mass indicator. Her hair had turned dull, and her complexion looked healthier in the picture.

“It's been a tough time,” she murmured.

Elliot didn't say a word, but he set the frame down, wrapped his arms around her, and hugged her tight for a long, soothing moment. She knew too well that she couldn't always rely on others; she had to be strong enough to do everything for herself. But in those forty or sixty seconds, she recalled the confidence Patricia and Jessy and the others always displayed for her.
You're gonna be all right. We're gonna kick some ass and get some answers, and the doctors are going to give your life back to you.

For that moment, she didn't know if she shared their positivity or if she just wanted it badly enough that it felt like she did.