A Love to Call Her Own (17 page)

Despite her best plans, a lump of disappointment started in her throat and slid slowly to her stomach. It was okay, she told herself. He had his life, she had hers, and until—unless—they were ever officially together, she was all right with that. She wasn't a clingy woman. She didn't need to spend every single moment with a guy, or her marriage to Aaron, with all his deployments, never would have survived the first year.

But it didn't survive the last one,
Realist Jessy pointed out.

There was a reason they weren't best friends, like her and the margarita girls. Realist Jessy was a bitch.

She kept driving east, past the neat fence, the long driveway that ran between pastures, on down the dirt-and-gravel road. Eventually, she knew from previous rambling, it wound back into town, running along the west edge of the fort. She would come out on Main about half a mile from the gym where Fia worked until seven most nights, and in that instant, she decided she would check on her friend.

With a flick of her fingers, she turned on the stereo, tuned to a rock station, and turned the music up loud. She sang along with the songs she knew and kept her mind blank for the songs she didn't. She didn't think about life or Dalton or guilt or regret or anticipation. She didn't think at all until she was back in town, skirting the post's prairie and windbreaks on the left, blocks of cookie-cutter houses on the right.

Fia's gym was on the south side of the highway, in a strip center with a Starbucks and a storage facility. Jessy parked in a spot underneath an old oak and hiked the distance to the gym. One rule that had transferred well from Georgia to Oklahoma: The best parking space in summer wasn't the closest; it was the one with the most shade.

The place was filled with exactly the kind of people she expected: mostly young, well toned, tanned, long and lean or bulging with hard-packed muscle. They were sweaty with exertion, most of them listening to their own music via earbuds. These weren't people who
strolled
.

Jessy didn't like them.

The woman behind the counter scanned her head to toe, then asked, “Can I help you?” in a tone that suggested she was doubtful. Like Jessy wasn't their kind.

Realist bitch Jessy might be.

“I'm looking for Fia Thomas.”

“Back there.”

Following the jerk of her head, Jessy located Fia at the back of the gym, head bent, fingers flying on a computer. “Hey, Fee.”

“Jess!” Fia's eyes widened. “Wow. This is the first time you've set foot in this place.”

“Probably the last one, too. Listen, doll, I have barbecue—the works—from Bad Hank's, and I was hoping we could kick back and share it at your place or mine. Do you have the time?”

A puzzled look flitted across Fia's face. This wasn't the first time they'd gotten together without the other girls. It wasn't even the first time Jessy had brought food to her. But the puzzlement was replaced by a smile that reminded Jessy how young—and how old—twenty-three could be. “I've got the time and the appetite. I can be out of here in five minutes. Do you mind if we go to your apartment? Mine's a mess.”

“My place is fine.” Jessy had done a lot of cleaning in the past month—much of it late at night when sleep eluded her, but cleaning was cleaning. “Do you want to ride with me?”

“Nah, I can drive. I just need a quick shower.”

A little bit of pink crept into Fia's cheeks as she answered. Twice in the past month and a half, Jessy had picked her up after work, when the kid had a headache too intense to drive. Fia had hated asking, but Jessy had been honored, even if she figured she
was
Fia's last choice. She'd worried more about Fia since then, but she was ashamed to admit she hadn't followed up on it. She had let herself get overwhelmed with her own problems instead.

She would do better, she promised.
Be
better.

“Okay. I'll head home and stick the Q in the oven to stay warm. I'll leave the downstairs door unlocked for you.” She started to walk away, then stepped back, bent, and hugged Fia. The woman was five inches taller than Jessy and had no body fat, every muscle sleekly defined, and yet she felt frail in Jessy's arms. The injuries and illnesses that had been plaguing her the past few months had really taken their toll.

One of their girls, Bennie, was an LPN, going to school to finish her bachelor's degree in nursing, and there was Lucy's doctor crush. Maybe between them, they could get some advice to cure whatever ailed Fia. They would do
something
, because the margarita girls
never
let each other down.

A
fter dinner, Ben rinsed the dishes, then put away the leftovers while Patricia loaded the dishwasher. He'd done that, too, a couple of times before he'd noticed her coming along behind and quietly rearranging things. It made him roll his eyes. At home, their dad had just been happy to get the dishes done. He hadn't cared if the bowls faced this way or the silverware was upside down.

Then Ben's mouth tightened. It was her dishes, her dishwasher. Who cared? He was known in the clinic for liking things a certain way, and an irritated nurse at the hospital had once called him fussy.
Like a cranky old woman,
she'd added.

Not the comparison a hotshot surgeon was looking for, but the patients were his and the choices were his. The nurse had gotten over it after a while. So had he.

He fixed a cup of coffee for Patricia, then green tea for himself. As he picked up the two mugs, she started the dishwasher, dried her hands, and smiled wearily. “Let's take it in the study. Do you mind?”

It was one of only two rooms he hadn't gone inside yet. The other was the master bedroom. While there were places a lot more inviting—outside with a view of Lucy's house came to mind—he nodded and followed Patricia.

The study was directly across from the living room, and it had obviously been George's space. The furniture was darker, heavier, and the only art on the wall was military-themed prints. There were plenty of framed citations and letters of commendation, along with his degree from West Point, and a lot of photographs taken in exotic places.

Patricia settled on a leather couch, feet tucked beneath her, and held her coffee close enough to inhale its aroma. “I wish you kids had had the chance to know George.”

Ben chose a chair with its back to the wall that gave him a good view of everything and nothing in particular. “Do you think it would have mattered? That we ever would have seen him as anything other than the man who destroyed our family?”

“I think so. Maybe. Though, Lord, you and Sara always were hardheaded.” She set her coffee on the end table, then clasped her hands in her lap. “He didn't destroy our family, Ben. If I'd loved your father enough, nothing but death could have taken me away. Even if George hadn't come along, your father and I would have divorced, maybe in five months, maybe five years, but it would have happened.”

His jaw clenched, and following her lead, he set his cup down before he squeezed it tightly enough to break it. “So you weren't in love with Dad.”

“Not the way I needed to be.” Her expression was filled with pain. A distant memory popped into his mind: the widow of the only patient he'd ever lost in the OR. A horrific accident, massive trauma to his legs, pelvis, rib cage. His wife had looked totally lost.

Then an older, more painful memory: His father in the weeks after Patricia left. Also lost. Stunned. Unable to process the information that his wife was gone. He'd stayed lost for the next nine years, when he'd given up trying.

How could she have fallen out of love with him? How could he not have known? Were there signs? Had her behavior changed those last weeks? Had Dad's?

Ben couldn't remember. He'd been fifteen. His parents hadn't come high on his list of priorities.

“I met George at the Gilcrease Museum,” Patricia said, a distant look in her eyes, a bittersweet smile on her mouth. “I loved going to museums, but the only time you kids or your dad was willing to go was for the Christmas tree display at the Philbrook. So I went alone. George was visiting old friends and entertaining himself while they worked. We toured Gilcrease together and had lunch afterward—just two strangers with common interests.

“Then we did Philbrook and the Fenster and the Will Rogers Museum in Claremore, and we took a day trip to Woolaroc and another to Tahlequah to the Cherokee Heritage Center…He told me about all his travels to exotic places I'd always wanted to see, but your father…”

His father hadn't liked to wander far. Rick's idea of a vacation was puttering around the house or going camping at Keystone Lake, only thirty minutes from home. He'd said Oklahoma was God's best work, so why waste time looking at the rest of the world?

It had become a game for Ben and his sisters to try every summer to persuade their dad to take them to Dallas to visit Six Flags Over Texas. He'd held out every time.
There's rides and games and food at Bell's,
he'd said, referring to Tulsa's now-defunct amusement park.

Bell's had been fun, but it wasn't Six Flags.

And Tulsa was great, but it wasn't Paris, Rome, or London.

“I wasn't looking to fall in love. It was just so refreshing to talk to a man who paid attention to me, who truly wanted to know my opinions. Your dad, bless his heart, knew the girl he'd married, but he didn't know the woman I'd become. He thought nothing would ever change, that we would always stay the same, that we would always want the same thing, and that it would always be
his
thing.
His
interests.
His
choices.”

She'd hated camping. Ben had known it. Brianne and Sara had known it. Had their dad somehow missed that, or had he just not cared?

A throb began in Ben's left temple, spreading tension through his body with every beat of his heart. He didn't want to hear this conversation, didn't want to sit in another man's house and hear these criticisms about the father who had given up so much for his family, who had invested every bit of himself into his wife and kids.

He surged to his feet, anxiety to get out practically vibrating through him. “I'm—I'm gonna take a walk, clear my head. I'll be back…”

Patricia started to speak, then pressed her lips together and nodded with a weak smile. When he closed the front door behind him, he caught a glimpse of her, sipping her coffee, with what looked like a tear rolling down her cheek.

Jessy considered herself the master of quick changes—oversleeping so many mornings when she was working had forced her to develop the talent—but Fia gave her a run for the title. Less than fifteen minutes after Jessy got home, Fia had finished work, showered, changed, and driven halfway across town to Jessy's door. Her hair was loosely secured with a wide clip that kept the damp strands off her neck, and instead of the second-skin workout clothes, she wore denim shorts and a T-shirt that looked a size too big.

But she was moving well. No limps, no cautious steps, no hand painfully twisted. Tonight she looked like a thinner, more fragile but recovering version of her old self.

Jessy set out the barbecue and plates, and they helped themselves to their favorites before moving to the couch. She'd made a pitcher of Southern sweet mint tea, the glucose-shock kind that could turn even Mrs. Dauterive, the old hag at the bank, into something resembling human, and she carried two tall glasses of it to the coffee table before sitting at the opposite end of the sofa.

They ate like teenagers, washing down sweet-spicy sauce with heavily sweetened tea, and talked about Carly's upcoming wedding, Ilena's soon-to-pop kid, and other bits of gossip, until all they had to show for the meal were empty plates and full bellies.

They were both sitting sideways, sofa arms at their backs—though
sprawled after glorious gorging
might be a better description—when Jessy asked the question in the back of her mind. Too lazy and sated to try for subtlety, she blurted it out, the way she usually did. “What's up with you, doll?”

Normally Fia brushed off questions about her health.
I've seen a doctor, it's just a sprain, just fatigue, just a headache.
This evening, though, she tilted her head back to stare at the plaster medallion in the center of the ceiling and, after a moment, gave a long sigh. “I don't know. I've seen three doctors, and none of them have anything to say besides, ‘Take it easy. Ice your muscles. Take an aspirin.'”

“You've seen three idiots. How much weight have you lost?”

“Only eight or ten pounds.”

“Only?”
That would be like Jessy losing thirty pounds. Fia didn't have even five to spare. “The symptoms come and go, right?”

Fia nodded. “They're worse when I'm tired. I have muscle spasms, headaches, tremors, trouble walking. My vision gets blurry. I can't remember things. I talked to the manager at the apartment complex today about getting a first-floor apartment because sometimes I barely make it up or down the stairs.” She was silent for a long time, then she met Jessy's gaze. “Sometimes I'm scared.”

The vulnerability in her eyes and the plaintiveness in her voice made Jessy's stomach hurt. Giving comfort and reassurance wasn't among her talents, but there was no one else to do it. Besides,
she'd
started the conversation.

She slid to the middle cushion and took Fia's hands in hers. “You're gonna be okay. We're gonna find out what's going on and get it fixed.” She spoke with absolute certainty, as much to convince herself as Fia. “We've all been worried about you, but no one's wanted to pry. Well, doll, now we're going to pry. We're gonna help you find answers and get well again.”

Her eyes damp with tears, Fia held tightly to her hands. “Promise?”

Jessy's promises were few and far between. She didn't want to be held to any particular action or behavior, didn't want to disappoint people if she couldn't live up to her offer. But this evening she didn't hesitate. “Absolutely. I may not know anything about medicine, but I know a lot about kicking ass and raising hell. We'll figure this out.”

Freeing one hand, Fia swiped at her eyes. “That makes me feel better. I'm used to taking care of myself. I've been doing it forever. But it can make you feel so damn alone, you know? You've got to do everything yourself, you've got to be strong for yourself, you don't want to show weakness or become that needy person that makes everyone groan when they see you coming.”

Yes, they were alike, the sweetest, youngest, and most innocent of the margarita girls and the brashest, the boldest, the phoniest. “There's nothing wrong with needing strength from your friends. You don't have to be alone, Fee, not through this or anything else. We're here.”

Relief lightened Fia's expression. She twisted her hand so she was now the one holding Jessy's, and she quietly said, “You know that, too, don't you? You don't have to go through anything alone. We're strong, and we're here for you when you need us.”

A chill rushed through Jessy, settling in her gut. She'd thought she was such a damn good actress—a damn good liar—that no one could see through the image she chose to portray. She'd had such unshakable faith in her ability to hide who and what she was, in keeping everyone from even guessing at her secrets. And the baby margarita sister knew at least one of them. It was clear in the empathy in Fia's eyes, in the tender yet firm way she held Jessy's hand.

What to do? Lie? Play ignorant? Or try honesty for once?

Jessy opted for honesty.

Just not too much honesty yet.

“You're talking about…” If the girls had reached a wrong opinion of her, no need to correct it by spilling the real secret.

After squeezing her hand, Fia let go, then drew her knees to her chest. “Before I met Scott, my girlfriends and I did a lot of partying. Just about every night we hit the clubs, danced, drank, had a good time. Scott and I had been dating about two weeks when he set me down and said there's more to life than that. He wanted to do other things—enjoy a nice dinner and talk, go for a walk and have an ice cream cone, take a hike or a bike ride, have a picnic. He thought the clubbing and the drinking were just a waste of time and money and potential. He wasn't interested in getting involved with someone who didn't agree with him about that, and he told me I had to choose.”

Her shrug was eloquent. “I chose him. I quit drinking, quit partying, and began doing something with my life. I lost my friends because of it, but I got Scott, and that was more than worth it. I found out I had ambitions and dreams. I became a more real person. I lived life better.”

Jessy focused on the words that carried the sting of truth. “You think I'm not a real person? Because, honey, I can tell you—”

Fia stopped her. “I'm saying that someone who's wasted part of her life drinking can recognize someone else who's doing the same.”

Leaning back against the cushions, Jessy stared at the silent TV. Hadn't she thought before that if Fia's ailments were caused by self-medicating, she would know? She would be able to tell, one drunk to another.

It had never occurred to her that went both ways.

Heat flooded through her body, and shame crawled across her skin, like tiny bugs ripping off flesh with each step. It had been bad enough when it was her own ugly little secret, but to find out that at least one other knew…

Her voice small, her Georgia accent thicker, she asked, “Does everyone know?”

“I think Carly's concerned. Maybe Therese. I don't know about the others. Like I said, I've been there. I drank because my friends did, it was expected, I was trying to fill the emptiness inside me. You drink because you've got a huge emptiness inside, too, and booze takes the edge off. Lucy feeds her sorrow. You drown yours.”

Unable to sit still a moment longer, Jessy jumped to her feet, gathered the dishes, and carried them into the kitchen. She brought the tea pitcher back, refilling both glasses, then walked over to stare down on the street. “Little sister has insight,” she said, shooting for humor, not caring if she fell short. “I didn't expect that.”

The couch creaked as Fia stood. A moment later her reflection appeared in the window glass. “People think I'm just a fabulous body. They forget I've got a functioning brain.” Her humor fell a little short, too.

They stood there a long time, gazing out, quiet, until Fia murmured, “Look at that sunset.”