A Love to Call Her Own (9 page)

Her gaze caught on the camera where she'd left it this afternoon. Grabbing it, she headed to the laptop on the desk in a corner of the living room, made herself comfortable, and transferred the pictures from memory card to hard drive. Back in her teens, she'd gone through a phase with tradition—a 35-millimeter SLR camera and rolls of film—but it had lasted only about as long as it had taken to get the film back from the developer. Digital was just entirely too cool, with all the no-cost, no-waste chances she got to take the perfect picture.

Drawing her feet onto her chair, she scrolled through the shots. She had a routine for this, too: Upload the pictures, scan through them, see if anything caught her eye, then seriously cull them, deleting bad or so-so images before adding captions, dates, and keywords so she could find them later. She was just following her habit, not looking for anything in particular.

Yeah, sure. That was why she stopped scrolling the instant the thumbnail of Dalton appeared.

It wasn't a great shot. She'd taken it so quickly that it was blurred around the edges, but it was good enough to give her a shiver at the strength and the hardness etched into every line of his face. He was a handsome man, though not a happy one. His younger brother, whom she'd literally bumped into a week after she'd met Dalton, gave her a good idea how the older brother would look if he didn't have so many cares. Noah shared the same features but with a lighter, more satisfied air about him.

How much had Dalton loved Sandra? Enough that he'd wished he could climb into the grave with her, Jessy would bet. All of the margarita girls had loved their husbands like that—wildly, passionately, permanently.

Jessy had once loved Aaron like that, but something had happened. Maybe it was his being gone so much. Maybe it was where he had gone, war zones where the chance of him not returning was considerable. Maybe partying and being happy and responsible only for herself had been too appealing, or maybe it was his growing desire to be a father. With his schedule, Jessy would have been the primary caregiver to any child, and what she knew about that would fit in the cap of a liquor bottle and still leave room for a swig.

All she knew was that somewhere along the way, she'd fallen out of love with Aaron and had been merely awaiting his return so she could serve him with divorce papers.

She didn't deserve to be in the same room with Carly, Therese, and the others, much less to call them friends. They had almost drowned in sorrow, while her drowning was mostly guilt.

The rain continued to slash against the windows, with an occasional flash of lightning and the kind of low, grumbling thunder that seemed to go on forever, while she worked with the pictures. She deleted dozens of less-than-stellar shots, noted a few that she would get prints of for Dalton—
another chance to see him,
her inner voice whispered—then filed them in folders. When a yawn split her face, she checked the time—two fifteen—and somberly considered how she felt. She was tired, but was she sleepy?

Another yawn convinced her the answer was yes, so she shut off the computer, put the camera on its closet shelf, and began turning off lights. A little yen deep inside, just a twinge that drew her gaze to the liquor cabinet, persuaded her that the light over the kitchen sink could stay on all night. Better to pay a few cents more on her electric bill than to get too close to her temptation.

But the yen was still there, strong enough to make her mouth water. It made her look over her shoulder before going into the bedroom, where she shut the door for extra protection.

She should throw it out. Wasn't that what the experts said about dieters? To purge their kitchens of any unhealthy or high-calorie food they needed to avoid. She should pour the Patrón down the drain, along with the other assorted liquor in the cabinet. Wouldn't it be easier to abstain if there was nothing in the apartment to abstain from?

But she'd tried that a half-dozen times and found herself at odd hours in convenience stores or at one of the dives that stayed open late enough to practically see the sun rise. These days, a person could buy booze any time, any place.

Anyway, wasn't that the coward's way out? Liquor was everywhere—at every restaurant and bar she frequented, at every friend's house, part of every celebration, everyday life. If she could stay sober only by creating a liquor-free safety zone around herself, it didn't say much for her chances, did it?

And besides,
that ugly little voice inside her whispered,
you never know when you'll wake up all fragile and really needing a drink. You're weak that way, Jess, and you know it.

Scowling, she turned the lock on the bedroom door, stepped out of her flip-flops, and turned back the covers on the bed, a king size that had been too big for her and Aaron together and was damn sure too big for her alone. No wonder she sometimes felt lost in the night. She could share it with Oz and a few of Dalton's Oreo-striped cows and still have room left over for a gorgeous foal or two.

Or forget the animals and invite their owner in instead.

Damn, that put the image of Dalton in her head—big, strong, muscular, naked—and the thought of sex with Dalton, or any man, stone-cold sober, made her need that tiny sip even more.

No, not need. Want. There was a huge distinction.

And she was determined to figure it out.

L
ucy took the rare gift of turning off her alarm and sleeping Wednesday morning until she woke up on her own. The sun was shining, Norton was sprawled across his bed against the wall with his rubber ducky tucked under his chin, and her stomach was grumbling. The clock on the bedside table flipped to 9 a.m. as she rolled over and swung her feet to the floor. The dog opened one eye and looked at her, as if trying to determine whether this was an official rising/feeding/letting him out or merely a bathroom break.

“Yes, I'm actually getting up,” she said with a yawn, standing and stretching, then headed for the kitchen. Nails scrabbled on hardwood as he jumped to his feet, then an instant later he passed her in the hall at a hell-bent-for-leather pace. She was used to the flybys—rather, had gotten used to them after he knocked her to the floor one day and happily sat on her back, glad to have her at his level for once—and routinely walked next to the wall to give him room.

By the time she reached the kitchen, Norton was waiting at the door, panting, reaching out a time or two to paw at it. “You really have to go, huh? You're not the only one, buddy, but at least I can hold it long enough to let you go first.”

Actually, he could hold it, too. He just refused.

Giving him a gentle shove back, she undid the lock, then opened the door. Norton lunged outside and made a beeline for the iron-and-tile table on the patio, where Joe sat with a cup of coffee and a Krispy Kreme box. He shared a doughnut with the dog before glancing her way. “Jeez, Luce, I thought you were never gonna get up. I've been awake for three hours.”

Doughnuts. Aw, damn it, today was going to be the first day on my diet. How can I start a diet with doughnuts?

It would be rude to say no when he'd gone to the trouble of bringing the treats. The shop was on the other side of town, and he always ran there—as in, on his own two feet—instead of driving. The trade-off, he said, for the indulgence. That was why he looked the way he did, and she looked the way she did. She indulged; she just skipped the trade-off.

And she could indulge one more day. Hell, she could even start her diet with lunch.

She raised one finger in signal for him to wait a minute, went to the bathroom, poured herself a cup of coffee from the auto-start pot on the counter, grabbed creamer and sugar—since she was postponing the diet a few hours—then joined him at the table. “I know. And you've run five miles and done a thousand push-ups and updated the playbook and designed new uniforms for the team.”

“It was only nine hundred and ninety push-ups,” he said with a smirk, then tilted his head to one side. “Are you trying something new with your hair? 'Cause I'm pretty sure it's not working.”

She returned his smirk before combing her fingers through her hair. It probably was a sight. Mike once joked that sleeping with her was like snuggling up to a hyperactive sidewinder. Images of wildly coiling snakes had haunted her nights for a week after that.

“I got your favorites.” Joe pushed the box toward her.

It was nice that at least one man knew her favorites in something. Not that it was a sign of anything more than friendship with Joe. They were buddies, pals, excellent neighbors. Besides, she knew his favorites, too, and with women he was pretty reliable: tall, reed-thin, and buff, more likely to run a marathon than make marshmallow fudge.

“Thanks.” She chose a maple-glazed bar, loving the scent released when the slight pressure of her fingertips cracked the frosting. The first bite was pure goodness—deep-fried, airy, overly sweet. She could eat a half dozen.

Hence, the extra pounds she carried.

“Any word on when George's funeral will be?”

She shook her head while swallowing the bite. “LoLo will let Patricia know when he—when his transfer will be made.” Dignified transfer—that was what the Army called the shipping of the fallen soldier to his home. “A chartered jet will bring him to Tulsa, where the family will meet him, then he'll be brought here with an escort of law enforcement and the Patriot Guards motorcycle group.” It was very impressive, very sad, and—

Oh, Lord, would Patricia want her to go along? Would she have to stand on the tarmac a second time and watch as the body of someone she knew and cared for was unloaded in a casket?

She could keep Patricia company. She could help her hold together. She could help with the funeral plans, if needed, and she could stand on Main Street with a flag in her hand, tears in her eyes, and a prayer in her heart.

But she didn't think she could make it through another heartrending transfer at the airport.

“Are you spending the day with her again?”

“Yeah, after I shower and get ready.”

Joe tore another glazed doughnut in half and tossed one piece to Norton, who gulped it in one bite. “Is her son going to be there?”

“Ben? I don't know. He spent the night.” When she'd gone over after dinner last night, the atmosphere had been a little less tense. She'd wondered how much of that had been from Ben and Patricia talking and how much from Joe and Lucy showing up. Patricia adored Joe and had doted on him, as always, fixing a plate of food for him, brewing his tea fresh, setting aside pieces of his favorite sweets. How had Ben felt, practically a stranger to his own mother by her choice, watching her fuss over another man as if he were her own?

“Ben?” Joe mocked. “You have to ask, or did you just want to say his name? He
is
the only son she's got.”

Lucy blinked in surprise. Next to Mike, Joe was the easiest-going person she knew. He liked people, and his openness, modesty, and sincere, what-you-see-is-what-you-get attitude made them like him back. She'd never known him to make a snap judgment about anyone, but after only thirty minutes in Ben's company, he had done just that.

Maybe he was being overprotective on Patricia's behalf. With his own mother living in Alaska, Patricia was like a surrogate mother to him. Maybe—

The middle part of what he'd said registered belatedly.
Did you just want to say his name?
Oh, crap, had he seen that she had a crush on Ben? Her face flushed. It was one thing for Jessy to recognize it. Jessy knew her in a best-friends woman-to-woman sort of way. But Joe…he was clueless half the time, especially if there was food anywhere in the vicinity. He shouldn't have noticed
any
thing.

“Don't be ridiculous,” she said, giving him only the quickest of glances. “I wasn't sure you remembered his name.” She shoved the rest of the maple bar into her mouth, chewed, then took a big drink of coffee. The taste made her gag.

Joe smirked again. “You might want to put some sugar and cream in that coffee.”

Lucy scowled as she added a spoonful of sugar, then relied on a lot of the thick French vanilla–flavored creamer to add a few more layers of sweetness. When the coffee was diluted to a nice
café au lait
hue, she took a sip and sighed gratefully. “Much better.”

Deliberately keeping her tone light, she went on. “I love summer. I should have become a teacher so I could have summers off.”

After a moment's silence, Joe apparently agreed to follow her lead. “The downside is you have to put up with kids all day the rest of the year.”

“I love kids.” She and Mike had planned to have three, three years apart. He'd wanted boys he could do manly stuff with, while she'd hoped for at least one girl. She had so loved seeing his little nieces wrap him around their pinkies.

“I guarantee you, there are kids in high school even you would find hard to love. Besides, the worst part is their parents. Whatever goes wrong is never the kids' fault. You don't know how often parents have tried to coerce me into changing their kids' grades or letting them play even though they hadn't shown up a single day since the last game.” He grinned the way she liked, abruptly, unexpectedly, the brighten-your-day sort of grin. “If I had ten bucks for every time a parent has threatened to have my job, I'd be sitting on a beach in the Caribbean instead of your patio.”

“Which you'll be doing in a few weeks anyway.”

“Seven days, six nights, in the U.S. Virgin Islands.” His tone turned coaxing. “It's not too late to go with me. You've got the vacation time. You've got the money. Come on, Luce, think how much fun you'd have.”

Closing her eyes, she tilted her face up to the sun, imagining tropical heat, ocean breezes, island music, incredible food fresh from the sea…and appearing in shorts or a swimsuit in front of the world. While she was perfectly comfortable sitting on the patio in her pajamas, without makeup, her hair combed, or her teeth brushed, with Joe, there was no way she would subject anyone to the view of her in a swimsuit. She wouldn't subject
herself
to it, and she saw herself naked every day. And what would that leave her to do while everyone else enjoyed Paradise?

Eat. A lot.

Giving her head a shake, she opened her eyes again. “You're going to have a great time anyway. Diving, snorkeling, seducing all the beautiful girls. Besides, it's a family trip.”

“Nah, it's just my brother and me.”

“That's family, Joe. And isn't he bringing his girlfriend?”

“Yeah, so if you came, that would balance everything out.”

Because the swimsuit image wouldn't leave her head—and the girlfriend was probably a perfect size zero—she shook her head again. “Follow Nicky's lead, Joe. Find a woman to go with you.”

His gaze narrowed to slits as he leaned closer. “Guess what, Luce?
You're
a woman.” Then he moved closer still. “And guess what else?
Ben
just came out of Patricia's house and is headed this way.”

She darted a look across the lawn, caught a glimpse of Ben indeed walking toward them, let out a tiny yelp, and rushed inside. “I'm taking a shower!” she hissed through the crack in the door. “I'll be ready soon as possible.”

He mumbled something in response before she slammed the door shut. Given his earlier mood, she was pretty glad she didn't understand it.

Ben's jaw tightened as Lucy disappeared into her house. Great, he'd come looking for sweet-woman-he'd-like-to-get-to-know-better and instead he was stuck with perfect-surrogate-son Joe while he waited for Lucy's return. The guy was kicked back on the patio as if he belonged there, and the way her dog hovered beside him, drawn no doubt by the doughnuts but also by the scratching, looked proprietary.

Cadore wore another orange-and-white Cowboys ball cap, and his T-shirt was emblazoned with the name of the local high school football team. Ben had learned last night that Cadore was the head coach of the team, as well as a teacher. Probably physical education, if schools actually offered that anymore.

It wasn't like Ben not to get along with strangers. He was a nice guy, a little too driven to describe himself as overly friendly but still likable. He got along great everywhere—at the coffee shop he frequented, the restaurants and shops, the hospitals and the clinic. He didn't get along with rude, obnoxious people, but Cadore wasn't any of that, and he still set Ben's teeth on edge.

Was it jealousy? Ben dismissed it out of hand. He wasn't a jealous person—hadn't dated any woman regularly enough since graduating medical school to justify it. And what did Cadore have to make him jealous?

A better relationship with Ben's mother than Ben himself.

Nope. Couldn't be. Ben had given up on Patricia so long ago that he couldn't possibly be jealous of any guy she allowed into her life. He didn't have the emotional attachment. It was just that everything was screwed up at the moment. That had to be the reason.

As soon as he set foot on the patio, the dog shifted deep brown eyes his way and let out a rumble, the kind that vibrated so low it was barely distinguishable from the birds in the trees and the car passing out front. Cadore scratched his head again. “Norton says hello.”

“Sounded more like, ‘You've come far enough.'” Ben didn't dislike dogs. He didn't have much experience with them, other than Sara's squeaky piece of fur that always tried to chew on his shoes. Frankly, he preferred his shoes unchewed, his quiet undisturbed, and his downtown loft dog hair- and saliva-free.

“Give him a doughnut, and he'll love you for life.”

The mention of the word
doughnut
was enough to make the dog's gaze jerk quickly to the box, and drool formed at the corners of his mouth.

“Yeah. No, thanks. I use these fingers to do my job. I don't want to lose any.”

With a shrug, Cadore tossed half a doughnut to Norton. The dog's jaws snapped shut with surprising force. “Lucy's getting dressed. It won't take her long. Have a seat.”

Ben hesitated. Technically, all he had to do was issue Patricia's invitation for breakfast. He didn't have to sit, didn't have to be friendly, didn't have to keep wondering in the back of his mind if Cadore annoyed him for a legitimate reason or if he did somehow resent his place in his mother's life.

But avoiding Cadore meant returning to the house and Patricia, whose best cosmetic efforts couldn't hide the puffy redness of her eyes. She must have cried half the night. It had been awkward to start, him sleeping in George's house, without listening to her sob as if her heart was breaking.

He sat. “Patricia sent me over with an invitation for you and Lucy for a late breakfast, early lunch, whatever.”

Cadore continued to scratch the dog. “You call your mom Patricia?”

“Yeah, well, after twenty years,
Mom
seems a little personal.” The snideness that crept into his own voice annoyed Ben. He didn't want to discuss his private life with a stranger.

Though Lucy had been a stranger when they'd met. For maybe ten minutes. But talking with her was totally different. She was warm, understanding, and going to a lot of effort to comfort a friend. She was what Brianne called a Nice Woman. Brianne insisted that Nice Women were hard to come by and should be recognized, cherished, and held on to.