Leaving Carolina (25 page)

“See?” Axel crosses his arms over his chest. “They have changed.”

And I am transparent. “I’m sure you’re pleased that your plan to throw us together worked, somewhat.”

He runs a thumb across his goateed jaw. “One of the best ways I’ve found to heal is to expose myself to what wounded me.” His eyes shift as he searches the clouds. “The passage of time can be a good thing, especially when you’re young. Once you mature and have been beat up by the world and learned that conflict is never just black or white, it’s easier to see the other side of things.” He drops his head farther back. “And to forgive and be forgiven.”

To make peace…

Axel defers to the crickets in the undergrowth and frogs in the distance. A minute passes. When it seems as if another might, he meets my gaze. “Deep, huh?”

I’m grateful for the candlelight that keeps the falling darkness from his face, unlike that first night, when he nearly passed for a Neanderthal. “I know you were in the military, but was it as a shrink?”

He laughs. “I was just a good, old-fashioned soldier.” I detect emphasis on the last syllable. Is it regret? bitterness? anger?

“There’s the proof.” He nods at the prosthetic leg thrust alongside the table toward me.

I take that as an invitation to look closely at it, and though there isn’t enough light to see clearly, there’s no mistaking it beside the muscular, flesh-covered leg. I start to reach forward.

“Go ahead. There’s no feeling below the knee, other than the occasional phantom sensation.”

I set my fingers on the cool metal and slide them down to where it narrows. I glance at Axel and, at his nod, continue to the ankle that thickens into the foot encased in a shoe.

“I’m sorry.” I wince. That sounded like what you say to someone who is under the weather.

“So am I, but good has come of it.”

“How’s that?”

“I was a part-time believer—believing in God but not living in Him. I’d never really needed Him, always scraping by on my own. But on my second tour in Iraq, this happened. I called out, and God was waiting to hear from me. I should have died from all the blood loss, but here I am—almost in one piece.”

I sit back. “Was it a roadside bomb?”

“Friendly fire.”

I gasp. “I’m sorry.” Oh! I said it again. And it sounded lamer than the first time.

“That was the hardest part—forgiving the young soldier who mistook me for the enemy.”

I can imagine. Bad enough struggling to stay alive with the enemy gunning for you, but to have one of your own—I can do better than imagine, since I also fell victim to friendly fire. No, the verbal bullets shot by the Pickwicks weren’t life threatening, but if Axel can let the past go, surely I can. Surely I can stop perseverating on shaking the Pickwick dust from my feet and put more effort into peacemaking.

Concern shadows Axel’s face. “What is it?”

I nearly share my findings with him, but they seem petty compared to his prosthetic. “Nothing. So I’m guessing you were hospitalized a long time.”

After a long moment, he says, “I was.”

“Did your father help out?”

“He did. And my fiancée.”

Where did
she
come from? “You’re engaged?”

“I was.”

I like
was
.

“Teddy stayed by my side through the surgeries and rehab and while I learned to walk again. She was supportive, but it was too hard on her.”

“I’m s—”
Don’t say it again!
“Thank you for sharing that.”

He draws his legs back. “Considering how much I know about you, it seemed fair.”

What isn’t fair is that he still knows far more about me. “Tell me about your first name. You said it was given in honor of my uncle.”

“Not a matter of ingratiation.” Axel reminds me of my inappropriate remark.

“Sorry about that.”

He nods. “Obadiah saved my fathers life when they were roommates in college.”

I sit straighter.

“My father was drawn to the military but his family threatened to disown him if he enlisted. So he went to college to become something they approved of—a doctor. He hated it.” Axel’s face tightens. “One night he had too much to drink and got hold of a gun. Your uncle talked him out of suicide and convinced him to pursue a military career.”

And yet, years later, Uncle Obe fell victim to his own family’s demands.

I smile. “That’s worth honoring a person for. So why Axel instead of Obadiah?”

He chuckles. “‘Obadiah’ brings out the bully in boys. My father made me tough it out until I consistently came out on top, then he gave me a choice. I had earned ‘Obadiah,’ so I decided to stay with it. But then my mother passed away.” His jaw shifts. “She always called me Axel.”

As I seek to express the tugging of my heart, a streak of blue lights the heavens.

“It’s going to rain,” Axel says.

Though I sense this is his way of ending the discussion, I don’t
want it to end. “You said it was just your father and you after your mother passed away. What about relatives?”

He frowns, as if questioning my interest. “My mother was an only child, but her parents were active in our lives—at least, as active as they could be considering how often we moved. They’ve since passed away. As for my father’s family, they disowned him as they said they would.” Regret fills his voice but not bitterness.

“Where does your father live?”

“Phoenix.”

“Do you get to see him much?”

“Not as often as I’d like since he’s partial to the desert.” He smiles wryly. “I think North Carolina with all its greenery reminds him too much of Vietnam.”

“Then does Phoenix remind you too much of Iraq?” Oh! I can’t believe I said that.
Way
too personal.

“There is that, but I’ve always been drawn to the mountains, and there’s a lot to be said for four seasons.”

I have missed them myself. “So you see yourself growing old here.”

“I do—and growing my landscaping business and eventually having a family.”

Nothing lofty like my goals, and yet somehow his sound more appealing.

A drop of rain snuffs out the citron candle, causing it to sizzle and smoke and Axel to stand. “I’ll bag the pickled corn and walk you home.”

As I watch him cross the yard, I hear the rumble and am unsettled at the thought of walking alongside him in the dark. Not
because I didn’t bring my gun, but because of Grant. If he can’t reconcile that the woman he may one day ask to marry him is a Pickwick, this thing between Axel and me could lead to rebound.

When the screen door bangs behind Axel, I put my elbows on the table and cup my face in my hands. That’s when the pickled corn returns to notice. Fortunately it’s good cold, and I slide in the last mouthful just as several drops of rain hit my cheek.

“Ready?” Axel steps from the cottage with a large brown bag in one arm.

I jump up. When I near him, the light filtering through the cottage windows tempts my gaze to his prosthetic leg. And I nearly offer to carry the bag, which wouldn’t have crossed my mind to do when the hitch in his stride was only that.

“Errol!” Axel commands.

Since this is the last night I have to put up with that piddling beast, I don’t protest when he bounds past us. We descend the hill toward the tentatively moonlit garden, and the rain picks up, happily dotting me.

“Is there anything you need for your uncle’s return home tomorrow?”

I shake my head. “Bridget said she would drop off groceries in the morning, so we should be covered.” The paper bag crackles with his forward movement, and I chuckle. “Especially now that our supply of pickled corn is up.”

“I’m glad I could help out.”

I glance at him and catch his smile.
Ooh, frisson, frisson
. Which I have no business feeling. Why am I? Is it the night, all warm and moist among the wafting scents of the garden below? Or Axel’s
smile, that broad stretch of white that is just the other side of secretive? Maybe it’s his deeply masculine voice. Could be his Blue eyes that, despite the dark, summon the increasingly familiar color from my memory—

My left foot slides on the moist grass, and I try to catch myself with my right, but it also goes out from under me. With a yelp I fall back, wincing in anticipation of hitting hard. And forgetting that Axel is at my side.

His hand clamps around my arm, pulling me up against him, like that first night when I fell from the gate. But this time I’m facing him, and there is nothing remotely Neanderthal about his face above mine. Or his mouth only a tiptoe away.

“Are you all right?”

That’s what he asked the first time. Warmed by his breath, I nod.

He doesn’t set me away, and I feel his gaze more than I see it. “Déjà vu, hmm?”

“Yeah.”

“All that’s missing is your gun.”

And fear. What’s trembling through me now is something very different. Hoping he doesn’t feel it, I take a step back. “It’s a good thing I don’t need it.”

He releases me. “And a good feeling, I imagine.”

Too good. Pickwick may be uncomfortable, but it isn’t frightening. Axel may be big and a far cry from sophisticated, but I’m safe with him. And it’s time to change the subject. “Oh, look! You didn’t drop the pickled corn.”

The paper bag protests as he tightens his arm around it. “It’s safe.”

Of course it is. I turn and step forward, more gingerly this time.
“We’d better hurry, or we’ll get soaked.” I expect Axel to offer his arm, but thankfully, he doesn’t. Not that he needs to because he remains close enough to catch me should I fall again. Another good feeling…

When the ground levels off, we enter the garden to the sound of softly pattering rain and the crunch of the pebbled path underfoot. Almost home free.

“Why the gun, Piper?”

Almost
. Of all the trips down memory lane I don’t care to take, that night tops the list. But as I open my mouth to politely tell him I don’t care to talk about it, he says, “What happened in L.A.? Were you attacked?”

The concern in his voice is my undoing. I stare at the illuminated path. “Two years ago I was working late, and when I entered the parking garage, it was practically deserted. I was so absorbed in the day’s events that I wasn’t paying attention.” I shiver hard. “But suddenly I knew someone was behind me, as if God Himself whispered it in my ear. When I turned, a man was facing me, and all I could think was to bring my knee up when he grabbed me. I hit him hard, but he fell on me. I fought him, and finally he snatched my purse and ran off.”

“How badly were you hurt?”

I know what he’s asking. It’s the same thing the police wanted to know. I stop, and Axel halts just past me and turns.

“It wasn’t only my purse he was after.” I look up into his moist face. “But that’s all he got—and bites and bruises and scratches. And possibly a broken thumb. At least, that’s what it sounded like.”

I hear relief in the breath that goes out of him. “Was he caught?”

“No.” Meaning I may not have been his last victim. Trying to
override my dark feelings, I make a conscious effort to brighten my voice. “But God was watching over me. I walked away with only a black eye, a bloodied nose, and bruised ribs.”

His smile is slight. “And a whole new appreciation for guns.”

“The working-late woman’s best friend.”

“And yet you stayed in L.A.”

“My mother and I discussed moving to a smaller city, but shortly after the incident, I made partner at the PR firm. It was what I had been working so hard for.”

“And you couldn’t walk away,” Axel says with understanding that surprises me.

“No. Also, my mother is happy in L.A. She has friends like she never had here, a job she enjoys, a church that makes her feel loved and needed, and most recently, a gentleman friend with whom she has a kissing acquaintance.”

“That’s important,” Axel says softly.

What? All of it? Or just the kissing part? As I peer up at him, catching the slight rise and fall of his shoulders, I imagine what it would be like to—

“Let’s get you out of the rain.” He resumes his trek down the path.

I’m grateful for his sharp right turn, but as we walk past the berry and herb patches and rosebushes, the strength of his presence expands, as if we’re touching. By the time we reach the back door, I’m afraid of Axel Smith. Not because he would ever hurt me, but because he’s more dangerous to my virtue than any man I’ve ever been so near. Because
I
want to be nearer.

Errol ascends the steps and puts his nose to the screen door, and Axel passes the bag to me. “Enjoy.” His fingers brush mine.

Nerve endings jangling, I hug my windfall. “Thank you for coming to my aid again.”

“You’re welcome.” He starts to turn away… to go back to his cottage…to leave me alone…

“Axel?”

“Yes?”

Amid the falling rain, I pick out the puzzlement on his brow. “I…” I don’t mean to look at the moisture on his upper lip. It just happens as I avert my eyes—a detour so to speak, complete with a rest stop that boasts a lookout point. And a scenic view.

“Piper?” Now
he’s
looking at
my
mouth.

Dangerous
.

His brow smoothes.

Very dangerous
.

His head lowers.

Alert! Alert!

His breath is between us.

Dive! Dive!

His moist lips touch mine.

Stop, drop, and roll!

His mustache and goatee lightly chafe my skin.

Too late
.

I’ve never been kissed in the rain, but Axel Smith is kissing me.
Really
kissing me. None of that quick corner-of-the-mouth stuff that Grant—

“No!” I jump back and nearly drop the bag of pickled corn when my calves connect with the lower step.

“No?” He fixes those memory-enhanced Blue eyes on mine.

“I’m taken.” I hug the bag with all my might. “Sort of. I mean, yes. You know…”

He slides his hand down my rain-moistened upper arm, over the goose bumps, and across the palm of my left hand that he raises between us. “You’re not married.”

No wedding band. “No.”

“Engaged?”

No engagement ring. “No. I mean… well, I am engaged… just not yet.”