Desert Gift (22 page)

Since Ty bought the business from her dad seven years before, Jill had not set foot near it. Somehow she was never in a car when it needed gas, never walking that direction on the busy four-lane, never craving the bubble gum available only at Wags.

Never feeling the need to revisit that memory lane.

Two men emerged from the building. Ty, still tall and lanky, was easy to recognize. He helped the other guy load cases of water into the van, chatting the whole time.

His eyes strayed her direction and he stopped talking. He lifted the ball cap from his head, raked his fingers through his hair, replaced the cap, placed his hands on his hips.

Maybe she should greet him. He wasn’t the first person she had alienated, but he was in the top tier of significant ones.

Chapter 28

Chicago

Jack sank his teeth into a sandwich and savored the blend of peanut, pumpernickel, and banana.

“Dr. G.” Sophie slid onto a chair across from him at the lunchroom table and shook her head. “Peanut butter again?”

He swallowed the first bite. “But with a twist. Banana slices instead of jam, and the pièce de résistance: pumpernickel bread.
Homemade
pumpernickel bread.”

Her brows rose above the close-set eyes. “When did you have time to make bread? You were here until eight last night.”

“Bread machine,” he said. “It counts as homemade.”

“It doesn’t count as a vegetable serving.” She pulled a plastic container from a cloth bag and set it before him. “Have some salad.”

“Salad again?”

She smiled, removing more things from her bag. “Arugula this time, with raspberry vinaigrette.”

He accepted a fork, popped the lid, and did not fuss as he had the first time she shared her lunch with him. That was last week, the day after he’d told her about the separation and the apartment. “I’ve always packed my own lunch, Sophie,” he had said a little too aggressively.

Like today, they had been alone in the break room, the result of staggered lunch times for the staff. She had replied calmly, “But your lunch used to be balanced.” End of discussion.

“The banana is not enough,” she said now. “I’ll share my apple.”

He grinned in anticipation.

Sophie rolled an apple around in her hands, searching for the right grip. In one swift motion, she split the fruit in half. “Voilà.”

“Bravo.”

“Thank you. Thank you.” She handed him his share. “How is your week going?” It was a casual question, her way of hovering from a distance.

“It’s going well.” As a matter of fact, it was going great. Sunday night’s crying jag released and rejuvenated. Besides his own well-being, he had learned the secret to women’s handle on emotions: not being afraid to bawl when necessary.

Jack figured that wasn’t something to announce to his office manager.

Instead he talked about Connor. “He keeps calling. The wedding plans change by the hour. He and Emma are definitely dancing to the beat of a different drummer and her name is not Emily Post or whoever the etiquette expert is these days.” He took a bite of salad to stop the flow of chitchat.
Jill is going to have a fit. Con doesn’t want Pastor Mowers doing the ceremony. Maybe she won’t show up. What is wrong with her?
“Mmm, great salad.”

“Thanks. Is he having a good time with Emma’s parents?”

“A blast. They sound like interesting people.”

“Anything I can do to help with the wedding?”

A piece of apple didn’t want to go down his throat. “Uh, he seems to be doing pretty well by himself. He booked his favorite restaurant for the reception.”

“That has to be Giorgio’s down the street.”

He nodded.

Sophie smiled. “I remember whenever he worked here at the office, he’d eat lunch and dinner there. He wished they served breakfast.”

“I think it was more the food than the art that beckoned him to Italy.” Jack chuckled. “He reserved Giorgio’s banquet room. Can you believe it? For a Saturday, only weeks in advance?”

“I’m not surprised they would make it work. They know him.”

“And he does have a gift of persuasive speech.”
Like his mother. Maybe he doesn’t need Jill here to talk anyone into anything.
But he needed his mother here at home, available.

“Well, I am happy to help, Dr. G. Make phone calls. Address invitations. Whatever.”

A week ago Jack would have thought nothing of Sophie’s offer. It was totally in character for her to step up to the plate and take care of things in an efficient and unselfish manner, whether it was related to business, family, or community.

But Baxter had alerted him to womanly wiles that even the likes of prim and proper Sophie Somerville engaged in. His friend said, “She’s nuts about you, Jack. You know that much.” He seemed surprised at Jack’s hesitancy. “Don’t you?”

Well, he didn’t, not really.

Sophie was loyal and kind and the perfect manager. She deflected attention from herself and heaped praise on him and Baxter and the other doctors alike. She even dressed appropriately.

Baxter’s eyes had bulged. “You missed the extra unbuttoned button on the soft, silk red blouse yesterday.”

Jack had also missed the yellow in her hazel eyes until last Friday when she got in his face about something because he hadn’t been paying attention.

Not paying attention was becoming the bane of his existence.

“Dr. G.” Sophie was leaning across the table toward him now. The yellow flecks shone. Her dark hair swung down, partially covering the left eye. “You let me know if there is anything I can do to help.”

When had she taken her hair out of its bun? For years and years, as long as he could remember, she had worn it in a bun.

Jack cleared his throat, found his teasing tone, and pulled up an old joke. “You could start by calling me Jack.”

Sophie’s cheeks were supposed to turn pink. Her hands were supposed to flutter. She was supposed to say, in a flustered voice, “I-I can’t do that. You’ve always been and always will be Dr. G.”

None of that happened.

“Jack.” She smiled and moved sinuously to a standing position. “Please tell me if there’s anything else I can do . . . Jack.”

“Sure.”

She gathered her things and, with a little wave, walked out the door.

Jack gazed at the tabletop and pulled on his earlobe. Paying attention was not necessarily a positive thing.

* * *

“Nip it in the bud,” Jack muttered to himself as he approached the front desk later that afternoon. “Just nip it in the bud.”

He made it through the door to the outer waiting room before Sophie noticed him.

“Dr. G! You’re leaving?” She stood.

He stopped at the counter opposite her. Behind him a few patients still waited, but not for him. Behind her, nurses and office staff were busy at work.

“Yes, I’m leaving,” he said. “Last night caught up with me.”

“Well, you caught up on paperwork too, and you do have a 7 a.m. surgery tomorrow.” She flipped her long hair over a shoulder. “I guess you can be excused a little early today.”

His smile felt feeble. “See you tomorrow.”

“Don’t forget.” She lowered her voice. “I am available, Jack.”

For what?
he wanted to snap at her.
For what?

Instead he spoke calmly. “Thanks, Sophie. I’ll pass your offer on to Connor and Jill.”

A few moments later, as he strode down the hall toward the exit, Jack wondered if Sophie’s crestfallen expression meant that Operation Nip It in the Bud had succeeded.

He hoped she would not despair. He liked her very much as a friend. He highly respected her as office manager. He did not want to lose the relationship.

What if he were attracted to Sophie? Could he have been so cavalier about ending something before it began? Or would he have flirted with her?

Those questions did not matter. The truth was he couldn’t think of any female he cared to flirt with, dead or alive, acquaintance or stranger. He couldn’t imagine ever being attracted to another woman besides Jill.

Jill. Jillie Wagner. Spunky, cute, bubbling over with joy, totally convinced God loved her exactly as her father Skip did, delighted to do whatever was before her. Happy to cart a bunch of seniors around Hollywood or talk on the radio or eat his gourmet concoctions.

Or wash his shorts or iron his shirts.

Or meet him for a late dinner after surgery or include him in a birthday party for a station staff member.

Or plan a speaking, book-signing tour, him by her side.

He doubted, though, that she had been delighted to cancel that tour and stay with her parents.

Jack sighed, got into his car, and turned his thoughts to cooking.

Chapter 29

Sweetwater Springs

Ty Wilkins reminded Jill of her father. He was not quite as tall, not quite as lanky, but he was both. Her father had strong shoulders and a wide smile. Ty’s chest was broader, his grin a stretch from ear to ear. The two men lived in blue jeans, T-shirts, cowboy boots, and ball caps, but the true similarity lay in their character, a rare blend of solidness and generosity.

As the bright yellow minivan pulled away from the gas pumps, Jill walked across the concrete to where Ty stood in the shade of the canopy. “Hi.” She held out her hand.

He grinned his wide grin and shook her hand with his rough one. “Awkward as always, huh?”

She smiled at his reference to class reunions. They tiptoed around each other at those occasions, as if not quite sure how to relate now that they weren’t going steady.

He let go of her hand. “You were missed at the last reunion. All sixty-seven of us agreed it would have been more fun with you there.”

“I’m sure.”

“It’s true.” He took off his red ball cap and wiped his forearm across his brow, brushing aside black curls. “You always were the life of the party.” He replaced the cap. “How are you, Jillian?”

She wondered—not for the first time in the past twenty-eight years—how it was that a heartstring that should have long been tied up elsewhere could still be tugged when Ty Wilkins asked her the most mundane of questions.

“I’ve been better,” she said.

“I’m sorry to hear that. From what Daisy tells me, you’re sitting on top of the world.”

“I thought I was.” Why on earth would her mother talk about her to him? “How about yourself?”

His eyes narrowed, not enough to hide the willow green color.

She flashed back to one particular sleepover in eighth grade. She and her girlfriends spent half the night discussing the eye color of every boy in the middle and senior high schools. They concluded that the only one with eyes the color of springtime willows down in the canyon was Ty Wilkins, which probably explained why—although he was not especially cute or an athletic standout—he took first place as a major heartthrob.

That was before girls recognized abstract qualities like solidness and generosity in boys.

Ty said, “I’m all right. Business is great.”

“It looks like it. Two mechanics?”

“And two high school kids help out in the afternoons. Once in a while your dad even lends a hand.”

“How’s Mandy? and your boys? Last I heard, they were at UCLA.”

“Yep.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Nobody told you?”

“Told me what?”

“Mandy and I are divorced. About eight months ago.”

“Oh, Ty!” Of all the nonsense news her mother passed along, she hadn’t bothered to inform her of this heartbreak? “I’m so sorry.”

“Thanks.” He shrugged. “Probably for the best. She hated this place and my grease and grime.” He splayed his calloused fingers, the nails and tips stained as her father’s always were. “Anyway, the house is more peaceful now.”

“I’m sorry.”

“We grew apart. It happens, right? You should know. You’re the marriage expert.”

It was her turn to shrug. “I’m thinking of giving that up.” She twisted her lips, trying to keep them together, but his pain yanked her own to the surface. It came out. “Jack left me. He wants a divorce. I guess we grew apart too. I just didn’t know it.”

“Whoa. I’m sorry.”

“Thanks.” She took a deep breath. The Sweetwater memory lane unearthed yet another ugly wart from her past. “Ty, I’m sorry for being so mean to you.”

He studied her face. “That was a few lifetimes ago, and you apologized on your way out of town.”

“I don’t think it was all that heartfelt. I had one foot on the brake and the other on the clutch.”

He laughed. “We were eighteen. Two crazy, stubborn kids with different agendas. I was going to be a mechanic here and nowhere else. You were going to be anywhere else, changing the world.”

It was the main thing they had argued about throughout their two years of going steady.

He said, “I never expected you to move back. A card would’ve been nice.” His tone teased, but his expression was tender. “For the record, I stopped being mad at you after the tenth reunion.”

“That quickly?”

He smiled. “Mandy got tired of the attitude.”

“I deserved your anger.”

“Well, you were one snotty, determined girl, but you had every reason to be mad at me too. I refused to move to San Diego. I could have been a mechanic as easily there as here.”

“But it wouldn’t have been what you wanted.”

“Nope. There’s no place like Sweetwater. I wanted your dad’s life probably more than I wanted you.”

“You thought I could be a bookkeeper like my mom.”

“Took me a while, but I finally caught on you were better at working on cars than number crunching.”

“Or baking pies. I still don’t even cook.” Jack baked pies and cakes, and he cooked. He spent more time in the kitchen than she did. Was that an issue with him? Although he knew when they married that she was clueless in the kitchen. Not to mention totally disinterested—

“Jillian, I’m sorry about Jack.”

His words startled her.

“All of a sudden you had this faraway look on your face.” He smiled briefly, sadly. “I used to do that, in the beginning. It feels less like an ambush as time goes by.”

She should be taking notes. “Thanks. I’m sorry about Mandy.”

“I appreciate that.” He paused. “Good to see you.”