A Summer to Remember (5 page)

At least, that was one of the reasons. Mostly he'd been unattached because he hadn't met the right woman. For her, he would have given up a lot. Just as Fia had given up a lot for Scott.

“You like onion?” Elliot tossed a sweet yellow onion into the air, catching it easily. “I noticed last night you didn't want it.”

“Close quarters and onion breath?” She shuddered. “Besides, I knew I'd be sharing with Mouse if you didn't mind, and my friend Jessy says dogs shouldn't eat onions. But tonight, Mouse will have to look elsewhere.”

He laid the onion on the cutting board, and then reached for the knife roll he'd carried in with the groceries. Fia's gaze sharpened, then widened. “Oh my gosh, you travel with your own knives? I buy mine at Walmart, and then throw them away after I've sharpened them down to a nub. You
are
a serious cook, aren't you?”

He removed a six-inch utility knife, and sliced the ends from the onion. “I considered going to culinary school when I got out of the Army. Seriously. I thought it would be nice to be in a field where the only danger is an occasional cut or burn or a fallen soufflé.”

“Okay, I am officially impressed. I can't remember the last time a man cooked for me”—the flash of emotion in her dark eyes suggested that, to the contrary, she knew to the day the last time Scott had cooked for her—“and I've never known a man who had his own knives. I mean, cooking knives. Every guy I've known has pocket knives or switch blades or hunting knives.”

“It's hard to chop an onion with any of those.” He let his gaze shift for a moment around the living room. The furnishings were a little sparse for his tastes, but the clean lines and lack of clutter worked. The colors and patterns were subdued, with only the textures varying, except when it came to the wall that held the television. The bright-colored, energetic photos there were the only personal touch in the room: portraits and snapshots of Scott, in and out of uniform, smiling, somber, weary. Almost all of the pictures of him in the desert were taken with the sun setting in the background. It was the same in the one photo that included Fia—their wedding portrait, gazing at each other with the sun sinking behind them.

She was beautiful. Scott was sharp in his dress uniform. They were both incredibly happy.

Life isn't fair.
But Elliot knew it never had been and never would be. Horrible people lived and prospered; good people failed and died. Man's cruelty to others had reached historic highs, with the weaker, the younger, and the innocent bearing the brunt of it. People believed they were special and everyone else was expendable. Soldiers died, and brides became widows.

But that was the big picture. There were good, kind people who did the best they could, who protected what they could, who loved and laughed and honored those in their lives. His own parents were a fine example. His sister and brother-in-law, aunts and uncles, grandparents. Most of the people he'd known growing up and in the Army.

He'd met bad people. He'd met truly evil people. They had their power, but in numbers, they were a vastly smaller group than the good guys. And he was proud to be a good guy.

Movement across the counter brought his gaze around. Fia had slid off the stool to pick up Mouse, and now they were sliding back on, Mouse sitting like a lady in Fia's lap. Rubbing the pup's shoulders, keeping her gaze down, Fia said, “We were married four years ago. I never expected anyone to really want me because my mom and my dad sure didn't. I was kind of wild back then, but then I met Scott, and it was so strange. He adored me right from the start.” Her gaze darted up, barely making contact, then away again. “Crazy, huh.”

While listening, Elliot had diced a pile of onion into little more than mush without noticing it. “I don't think so,” he said as he scraped them to one side, then carefully cut the rest of the onion into the proper-size dice for the burgers. “I thought you were pretty damn adorable, too, right from the start. And while I may be many things, take my word: Crazy ain't one of them.”

While the fat hamburger patties stuffed with balls of mozzarella cheese and onions came to room temperature on the counter, Fia took her guests on a guided tour, pointing out the bathroom, the door that led from the laundry room to the back patio, and down the steps to the small square of concrete. Elliot reattached Mouse's leash, then looped it over the doorknob to keep her from wandering too far.

The propane grill at the far edge of the patio had been her gift to Scott for the last birthday they'd spent together. No matter how cold, they'd huddled together on the tiny balcony of their apartment through that whole winter, grilling burgers and brats, chicken and steaks, ribs and zucchini and bread. Come spring, he'd deployed, and she had never seen him alive again.

Her heart squeezed, and her hands shook, making her wonder if one of her episodes was coming on.
Please, God, not right now,
she prayed, and in a moment she realized it was just the usual heartache. All day she'd worried whether she would be able to keep this date with Elliot. All day she'd rested and prayed and thought happy thoughts, and it was working so far. She was strong and confident she would stay that way at least until the evening was over.

Looking, acting, and feeling normal had never been as important to her as it was tonight. Hope was pretty damn important tonight, too.

Elliot carefully removed the vinyl cover from the grill, shook it out to dislodge spiders, then lifted the lid of the grill. “Aw, no rodents, no birds, not even a nest. Darn.”

“What would you have done if there had been? Make friends and persuade them to let you move their nest? Take them in the way you did Mouse? Maybe whistle and get the mama mouse and all her babies to follow you?”

“My whistle is pathetic, but I have other charms to soothe the savage beast.” He checked the gas line connections, turned on the propane, then pressed the igniter. With a whoosh, gas came on beneath both burners, glowing yellow through the slits, heat immediately drifting into the air. “We'll let it warm up, then I'll scrub it.” He brought out a wire brush that had hung next to the tank.

“You want to sit?” There weren't any chairs to use. Those were in storage in the tiny shed across the yard. But the concrete steps were sturdy and narrow, barely room for the two of them, which made them just about perfect.

At his nod, she sat on the top step, still warm from an afternoon in the sun, and Elliot took the spot beside her. His hip bumped hers, and her shoulder brushed his as she settled her feet flat on the lowest step. His boots, with their worn heels and scuffed leather, made her feet look small and delicate and—and womanly. She hadn't felt that in a long time.

“Nice night.” His voice was quiet, only a few inches from her ear. He smelled fresh and fruity and intoxicating, and his brown skin appeared even darker against the contrast of his white shirt. His lashes were long, his blue gaze directed across the yard, and a sense of contentment radiated from him that was at once distantly familiar and curiously alien to her.

When his gaze shifted minimally and the corner of his mouth tilted, she knew he knew she was studying him. Leaning forward to rest her elbows on her knees, she ducked her head so that what he saw was mostly hair and asked, “How old are you?”

“Twenty-eight.”

“Ever been married?”

“Nope. I intend to do it only once, so I'm waiting for the right woman.”

It was his turn now to study her. She could feel his gaze as surely as she felt the evening air against her skin, warm and sweet and with the promise of cooling breezes. As he'd done, she stared out across the grass. The duplexes were part of the apartment complex where she and Scott had lived in their tiny two-bedroom apartment. There were eight small houses with small yards, carports, and sheds. They looked like a lot of base housing she'd seen over the years, not fancy but clean and well maintained and sturdy. The duplex's eight hundred square feet suited her just fine.

“Finding the right woman shouldn't be hard,” she murmured, twisting to see him.

“Sometimes it's not. You found Scott before you were twenty. My mom knew she was going to marry my dad when she was fourteen. But sometimes it takes a while. Uncle Vance was coming up on fifty when he met his wife.”

“And you hope it's only once.” She and Scott had amused themselves planning their retirement: where they would live, where they would travel, what adventures they'd take with their grandchildren and great-grands. It had never occurred to either of them that they could possibly have less than three years together. Even if the thought had crossed their minds, they wouldn't have believed it. They'd been too young, too much in love, too invincible.

And even if they'd believed it, they still would have gone through with it: gotten married, started a life, planned a future, because they'd been young, in love, invincible, and incredibly hopeful.

That lovely, smoky residue of food cooked on the grill drifted on the air, adding its perfume to the white-flowered bush blooming one house over. Fia's stomach growled, making Elliot chuckle, a good sign to her. She ate because life required nourishment, but she couldn't remember the last time she'd actually been hungry. Food smelled good. It tasted good. In the last year or so, it just hadn't seemed worth the effort.

Elliot gently elbowed her. “I hope you have a good appetite. I'd hate to go through all this effort just to end up sharing it with Mouse.”

“No, you wouldn't,” she disagreed. “You like the prepping part. And you like Mouse.” She shifted so she could see him better. Unfortunately, that meant putting a few inches of space between them. Her left hip, rib cage, and arm cooled after losing contact with his body. “Where have you lived since you got out of the Army?”

“Nowhere. Everywhere.” He shrugged. “I spent a few weeks with my folks at their new place in Arizona. They ranched in West Texas, which is never a very easy proposition. After a few years of drought and unstable market prices and skyrocketing expenses, they decided to head someplace friendlier. Dad works for another rancher now—gets to do the things he likes with the livestock and the cowboys and doesn't have to worry about the stuff he doesn't like, like paying bills and making a profit.”

Tired of checking out her new location, Mouse climbed the steps, looked at Fia for a moment, then slid between Elliot's knees so he could scratch her head. Like the well-trained creature he was, he immediately accommodated her.

“It was kind of hard when they told me their plans. That ranch had been in my dad's family since the 1880s. It had always been tough, but the Rosses always made a go of it, and I was afraid it would take a toll on them, losing it after all those years.” He smiled. “Turned out, he and Mom couldn't wait to shake the dust of West Texas off their boots. They live outside Phoenix, a short drive to everything they could possibly need, and they have a lot of friends who've never set foot on a ranch or branded a cow or castrated a steer. They love it.”

For a brief moment, Fia wondered what her parents were doing with their lives. In the time she'd known them, neither one had ever held a job for any length of time. They had never accepted responsibility for that, either, or for anything else. They'd brought her into the world with no intention of taking care of her. When she was little, she'd wondered why. What was so wrong with her that even her mother and father couldn't love her? What had she done to deserve their neglect?

It wasn't her, Scott had insisted. The failings were her parents'; they'd been selfish, lazy, too focused on themselves. It was the first time anyone had told her she wasn't to blame, and he'd been so sincere that she'd believed him. She had given up trying to love her mom and dad, had quit trying to maintain some semblance of a relationship with them.

But Lord, there was still a place way deep down inside her that wanted to know how a mother's and father's love felt. There was still a part of her that regretted she would never know.

Beside her, Elliot exhaled. “So I decided Arizona wasn't for me, and I didn't want to cramp Mom and Dad's life by trying to fit in where I didn't. Next I went to New Mexico and stayed a few weeks with Emily and her family.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, then began swiping one finger across the screen, scrolling through pictures fast enough to create a blur of color and activity. “You'd like Emily. She's a tyrant but in a good way. Her kids are well behaved and respectful, and they say stuff like ‘please' and ‘thank you' and volunteer to do chores. They live in a little town about an hour out of Albuquerque where everyone knows not to cross Emily. Everyone gathers at her and Bill's house—all the school kids, the neighbors, the folks from church—and everyone is happy.”

She leaned close to see the photo when he held out the phone. The woman was a few years older than him, tall, lean, and really pretty in a wholesome-girl way. In the shot, she hugged her husband and kids close.
Everyone is happy.
They really looked it.

“But you didn't stay there because…you'd already spent enough years under her thumb but in a good way?”

“Nah.” He gazed at the photo a moment with pure affection before looking back at Fia. “She and Bill have lived there six years. She loves it, and it works for her. It's
her
place. But not mine.”

“How will you know your place when you find it?”

Even though his attention turned serious, there was still a hint of amusement in his eyes. Fia wondered if it ever totally went away. “I made a list once. Maybe sometime I'll show it to you. In the meantime, let's get this dinner on the grill.”

He stood, then offered his hand. She laid hers in it, liking the feel of his warm callused skin and the way his fingers folded around hers. With little effort, he pulled her to her feet. With just a little more, he could have pulled her into his arms. She would have been startled—or just plain happy—and he would have smiled and his blue eyes would have lit up. Her breathing would have gotten fast and shallow, and his slow and raspy, and then slowly he would have pulled her even closer, until nothing more substantial than a breath could come between them, and by then she would have been shivery and hot, and he would have—