Need You for Always (Heroes of St. Helena) (4 page)

“Plus I’d miss twilight walks with Pixie,” he said quietly, and Emerson sighed. The soul-deep kind of sigh that started in her toes and moved its way out through her heart. Her dad was so busy making sure he took the right steps in moving forward, he was stuck in the same place he’d been the day his soul mate died. And he’d kept Violet right there with him.

“Violet,” she gently corrected. “And I thought we were done with this.”

“We were,” Roger said, running a hand though his hair. “Then that Brooklyn girl started giving Violet a hard time.”

“Because she wears wings to school, only answers to Pixie, and talks to daisies and grass blades at recess,” Emerson said with a quiet intensity to ensure Roger finally got it. “The only thing worse for a first grader would be a ‘Kick me, I’m socially inept’ sign on her back.”

Roger winced. “I thought about throwing those damn wings out when she was sleeping, but then I remembered your mom made them for her that last Halloween.” He shrugged helplessly, looking as lost as he had the day the real Lillianna had died. “I figured, what could it hurt?”

Emerson felt her throat tighten. “A lot, Dad. She can’t mourn someone she is convinced lives under a toadstool. And it isn’t healthy for her to only socialize with imaginary friends.”

“She socializes with me.”

Which was the equivalent of hanging with Peter Pan. And they both knew it.

Violet had been an unexpected miracle baby, and her parents had embraced that every day of Violet’s little life. When her mom’s ALS had taken a fatal turn, Lillianna had been determined to make every day she had left with her girls magical. And she had, sharing every family recipe with Emerson, taking Violet on backyard fairy hunts at twilight, making sure that when she was gone her daughters would have a lifetime full of happy memories to combat the heart-wrenching ones.

After her death, Roger had taken on the responsibility of Violet’s happiness. Leaving every other responsibility to Emerson. Not that she would change it for the world. Emerson loved taking care of her family, knew that she was the only thing keeping them from falling completely off the grid. And she wanted Violet to experience some of what she’d had as a child, but sometimes being the only realistic one in a family of dreamers made things difficult.

Take Lillianna Starlight, for example, the fairy who slept under daisy petals and traveled by shooting stars. Emerson wanted Violet to remember their mom, remember their walks and the love she had for make-believe and magic. Unlike her father, though, Emerson worried that the make-believe was holding Violet back. Keeping her from moving on.

Her heart a little heavier than it had been moments ago, Emerson made up one of her mom’s famous lamb gyros with extra tzatziki, just the way Roger liked it, then packed up two pieces of baklava to go. “At least stop giving her things she can assault her classmates with.”

He took the bag and smiled. “Will do.”

The Sterno didn’t last as long as Emerson had anticipated. Neither did her lamb, since she was only two hours into the lunch shift and nearly sold out. At this rate she’d have her food truck by the end of next month, a thought that had her smiling as she greeted the next customer in line.

“What can I get you?”

Mrs. Larson, the refurbish part of St. Helena Hardware and Refurbish Rescue, looked at the nearly empty dessert tin and frowned. “Two wraps, and please don’t tell me you’re out of baklava. I’m having an old pipe organ from a condemned church in Colusa delivered today and I was hoping to put Walt in a sugar coma for a few hours while I had it moved to the back warehouse. One look at the size of those pipes and he’ll start sputtering up a storm.”

Emerson reached under the cart counter into her secret-stash cabinet and pulled out a bag with “Larson” written on it. “I know how much Walt loves his baklava, so I set aside a few pieces for you.”

“Aren’t you a sweetheart?” Mrs. Larson took the bag and clutched it to her chest, her silvered bob bouncing as she wiggled with excitement. “I know the second Walt sees how lovely the pipes will look in the ceiling-to-floor headboard, he’ll fall in love with it. He just doesn’t have the same vision I was blessed with.”

Emerson wasn’t as confident in Walt’s ability to call what sounded like a bizarre twist of taking it to church “lovely,” but she was certain his love for his wife would overcome his need to toss the organ out.

Walt had made it clear to the entire town that even though his wife had turned half of his hardware shop into a scene from a Dr. Seuss story with her eclectic rehabbed furniture, he was still her biggest fan.

To Emerson, that kind of unwavering support ranked a solid fifteen on her swoon-worthy scale.

“Anything else?” Emerson asked.

“Well, yes.” Mrs. Larson looked around first before lowering her voice. “Walt’s sixty-fifth birthday is next month and I’m throwing him a small family party. I was hoping to surprise him with that cake your mom used to sell at the farmers’ market. The orange one with the liqueur frosting?”

“Orange sponge cake with Metaxa frosting?” she asked, her throat suddenly going tight.

Mrs. Larson snapped her fingers. “Yes, that one. It’s Walt’s favorite.”

It was Emerson’s favorite too. Her mom had made it for her on every birthday.

Emerson held her smile firm, but her insides sank at the idea of replicating her mom’s special-occasion cake. “I can try, but I can’t promise it will taste exactly like my mom’s,” she admitted. It was one of the few recipes Emerson didn’t know by heart, and it had sadly gone missing, along with the journal her mother had made for her.

Its disappearance was one of life’s mysteries Emerson couldn’t
seem to get past. She’d racked her brain, torn up the house, interro
gated Violet. Then sadly realized that just like her mom, the journal—
her
journal—had been reduced to a collection of memories.

Last year, when it seemed that the memories were starting to fade, Emerson had tried to re-create it—without luck. The result was a delicious cake. Just not Lillianna’s-orange-Metaxa-cake delicious.

“I’m sure you’ll make it magic, just like your mom.” Mrs. Larson reached over the cart to pat Emerson’s hand. She had complete faith in Emerson’s ability, but Emerson wasn’t so sure. She continued smiling anyway.

Mrs. Larson smiled back, turned, then did a double take as she realized something. “My, don’t you look pretty today, wearing lipstick
and
serving your mom’s man-bait lamb wraps.” Hand to her chest, her eyes twinkled with intrigue. “Why, Emerson Blake, who are you trying to trap?”

“It’s called Chapstick. People wear it in the cold months to avoid chapped lips,” she deadpanned, wondering just how bad she normally looked, while ignoring the fact that she had made her mom’s notorious man-bait lamb wraps. The same recipe that had snagged Roger’s heart.

“Uh-huh,” Mrs. Larson said, clearly not buying a word of it. And wasn’t that the epitome of food cart culture? A good cart with voicey food brought the customers back day in and day out, making it feel like serving family. And family, as Emerson knew, never missed a thing—especially if it led to gossip. “What do you think?” Mrs. Larson asked, looking over Emerson’s shoulder.

“Tempting enough to bring me over,” a sexy voice said from behind.

Emerson didn’t have to turn to see who it was, because her chest fluttered—and when she did turn, those flutters became annoying pings whose reach was a little too south for her liking. Dax towered behind her, his wide shoulders blocking out the sun and his superpowered testosterone blocking her ability to think clearly.

He wore a pair of longer running shorts and one of those tight, clingy shirts that runners wore during marathons. And it was clinging to him, all right. He was sweaty and sun kissed and looked ready for anything.

“Well, look who it is,” Mrs. Larson said, tilting her frosted head way back to look up into Dax’s face. “You
are
home. Figured the rumor mill had it wrong since you haven’t returned a single one of my calls.”

“Something must be wrong with my phone, since I haven’t received other calls as well,” he said, his eyes firmly on Emerson, who busied herself with making up and bagging Mrs. Larson’s order. “But it’s good to see you, Aunt Connie.” Dax pulled his aunt in for a hug. “I have been busy, but I’ll try to stop by next week.”

“I’ll have to bring over one of my spaghetti casseroles in the meantime.” Mrs. Larson released Dax, but not before patting his rock-hard stomach. Emerson could have sworn she heard Dax groan. “Look at you, wasting away. I bet you haven’t had a real meal since you’ve been home.”

Emerson smothered a laugh. Wasting away her butt. The man was built like a fine-tuned machine—with enough muscles and charm to have a woman drooling.

“Hey, Emi.” His eyes dropped to her tank top and he smiled. “No coconut shells? Too bad. Although today’s special looks . . . appetizing. I’ll take two, since I’d hate to waste away.”

And because his eyes were glued to her
KISS MY BAKLAVA
offer, she said, “Sorry. I’m all out.”

“You have to compliment her, dear,” Mrs. Larson whispered, patting his arm. “Then she pulls out the good stuff.” With a kiss to her nephew’s cheek, she waddled away with her order in hand.

Dax turned back to Emerson and offered up an amused grin. “The good stuff, huh?” His eyes roamed over her, from her high-tops to her Chapstick and everything in between. “What kind of compliment lets me taste your baklava?”

“My baklava is in pretty high demand, as you can see. Nearly sold out. And the line starts back there.”

Dax took in the long line of customers, which wound and disappeared around the corner. “But you’ll be
all
out before I get here,” he said.

Emerson smiled. “I know.”

H
ow much do I owe you?” Dax called out, setting his napkin down on the worn steel counter made from the tailgate of a ’48 Ford pickup.

Stan O’Malley, owner of Stan’s Soup and Service Station, came in from the garage floor wearing a blue mechanic’s jumper, holding a carburetor in one hand and a rag in the other. Both mechanic and jumper were covered with a day’s worth of grease. “It’s on the house.”

Dax looked down at the two empty bowls of blue-ribbon chili, three sides of corn bread, and empty bottle of soda and reached for his wallet.

Stan waved his rag at the offering. “How I see it, I still owe you and Kyle for all those years you’d come help me work on my bikes. Probably clocked over a few hundred hours here.”

Dax laughed. “That was senior year alone.”

Kyle was Dax’s best friend, and Kyle’s grandpa’s shop had been Dax’s escape in high school, the only thing that kept Dax out of finding real trouble after his dad’s heart attack. In fact, witnessing the kind of man Stan was, hearing his war stories and the talk of his brotherhood, had piqued Dax’s interest in joining the army.

“Just think of lunch as a welcome-home gift,” the older man said, rubbing the rag over his bald head, spreading more grease than he eliminated.

Arguing with a man who was stubborn enough to make it through the jungles of Vietnam with a shattered vertebra was a waste of energy, so he slipped his wallet back in his pocket. “Thanks, Stan.”

“Just glad you made it home safe and in one piece.”

Dax tapped his knee. “That could be argued.” There were a lot of other places he could tap too, but since they weren’t external scars, he kept that to himself.

“Broke but still ticking and my grandson says it should heal up just right. I’d say you did good, son.”

That was up for debate, which was one of the reasons Dax had come to Stan’s for lunch. “You got any bikes back there that need a second opinion?”

“I got a pumpkin-basil soup that needs some help, and that’s it. I stopped doing bikes a few years back. All those dot-commers moved up with their fancy weekend warrior hogs, hovering over my shoulder while I changed their oil like I was birthing Jesus.” He flapped a hand. “Not worth the trouble.”

Stan lifted the lid on a large pot, and a warm blast of nutmeg and basil scented the air. He wasn’t just one of the best mechanics Dax knew, the old-timer was a master with the spoon. His soups had been written up in just about every foodie magazine on the planet. “You still good with a knife?”

Dax lifted a challenging brow, and the old man handed him a butcher knife and pointed to a stack of pumpkin needing dicing.

“I can’t cook worth shit,” Dax admitted, rolling up his sleeves and washing his hands.

“I remember. Assumed that’s why you’re here. Hungry for some hearty food.”

He couldn’t dice worth shit either, but slicing vegetables was better than the alternative—sitting at home and crawling up the walls.

Hanging with Stan was also smarter than his new favorite hobby, an afternoon game of Where’s Emi?, which consisted of tracking down Emi’s food cart at one of her fifteen locations around town and checking out how short her skirt of the day was.

Yesterday she had been parked across from the community park wearing a tight black number that, when paired with her knee-high boots, blew his mind. But today the sun had been out, the autumn air surprisingly warm, and she had opted for a spot by the fire station and a summery little orange number that flirted with the breeze—sans those usual leggings.

He’d considered dropping by for lunch, which smelled amazing, but the line for food was worse than the other day. Today it went down Main Street, wrapping around Pope Street and into the senior center parking lot. Not to mention that every time he ran by, she pretended to ignore him, and he pretended not to stare at her ass. Or check out her baklava.

“Just chop them in big chunks.” Stan handed him an apron and Dax went to work cutting. “The seeds go in that bowl. And when you’re done, I’ll send you home with some for later.”

“That’s okay,” Dax said, thinking of the dozen or so casseroles shoved in his freezer. “Between the friendly pop-ins and endless casseroles, I’ve had enough small-town hospitality to last me through the winter.”

Stan laughed, going into a gravelly cough at the end, and Dax realized how old his friend appeared. The man had always looked older than time, but to a lost teen kid, Stan had seemed like an immortal warrior—battle scarred and range tough.

Today, though, he seemed shorter, a little fragile even. And Dax didn’t know what to do with that information. So he filed it in his to-process pile, which was already backlogged until 2057.

“When I was overseas, all I could think about was comfort food,” Stan said. “Then I got back stateside and the smell of those tuna salad casseroles the church ladies would bring by made my insides itch.” Stan patted Dax on the shoulder and held his hand there for a moment. The air went thick with understanding and a genuine empathy that, for once, Dax didn’t mind accepting. “People just showing they care, not understanding that sometimes the care is suffocating. It’s why I started making soup. Stopped the covered-dish parade.” Stan paused. “And a whole lot more.”

With a final pat to the back, Stan said, “Now get chopping. I’ve got a food critic coming by for dinner and I got to get that squash marinated and roasted.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Oh,” Stan called over his shoulder before disappearing into the garage. “Make sure you return those casserole dishes.”

“Return them?” That would mean having to go to each and every house, being invited in for more neighborly visits and gut-churning chats. “I don’t even know who brought me what.”

Stan chuckled. “Might want to figure that out soon, son, or else you’ll have a whole other kind of parade marching on your doorstep. And they’ll be carrying condemnation and sharpened knitting needles.”

Later, as Dax was finishing up with the last of the pumpkins, a tall figure appeared in the doorway wearing a big hat, a sidearm, and a smug look that was all big brother and respected sheriff rolled into one.

“You should have Mickey add kitchen helper to your résumé,” Jonah said, taking off his sheriff’s hat and setting it on the counter. “I bet it would be great for undercover work.”

“Stan needed help, so I’m pitching in,” Dax defended, tightening the bow on his apron, grimacing when he tried to move his stiff knee. Everything below his knee ached and everything above it was sore. He needed a solid night’s sleep but knew going home to his empty rental would only make him antsier.

“You sure he’s the one who needed the help?”

Dax set down the knife to argue, then picked it back up, because according to the gas-pump clock over the door, he’d been in that coffin-sized work space for over two hours, chopping pumpkins, onions, celery—not a single slice was the same size, and Stan would probably have to toss it all out—but Dax hadn’t itched once.

“Can I get a bowl of the chili?” Jonah asked. “Heavy on the cheese but light on the onions. Shay and I are driving out to Sonoma to get a schnoodle when I get home.”

Dax wasn’t sure if schnoodle was married code for sex or another furry friend Shay was taking in. But since either option gave him a rash, he silently filled the order and slid the bowl across the counter.

Jonah took a spoonful. “The other night seemed to go well with Mickey. You hear anything back yet?”

“There are a few other guys in the running, applying from other teams, but he said as long as my doctor gives me the all clear, I shouldn’t have anything to worry about.” Dax opened up two sodas and slid one to Jonah. “Thanks for the other night. The intro really helped.”

Jonah lifted his bottle before taking a swig, and instead of lecturing Dax about not coming to him in the first place, he just said, “Glad it worked out.”

“Fallon said they’ll make their final decision by the time I finish PT.”

“What are you going to do between now and then?” Jonah took another bite of chili. “Since you’ve been home a little over two weeks and already you’re going nuts.”

“Who says I’m going nuts?” Jonah merely eyed the apron and piles of vegetables. “Okay, maybe I have a little cabin fever.”

Bullshit and they both knew it. Dax needed that job. Needed it to start sooner than later. More than anything Dax needed to feel useful again, and sitting on his ass watching the rain fall was slowly killing him—no matter how many pumpkins he chopped.

“That’s why I brought over this.” Jonah handed him an unaddressed envelope from the Napa County Sheriff’s Department. Wiping his hands on the apron, Dax opened it to find a flier for a department-hosted event. “What’s this?”

“Close-quarters battle training for the department. The deputy in charge relocated to Reno and we have a few new guys who are applying for the two open positions in my department, and I want to see how they work under pressure. As the new sheriff, it falls to me to secure some guest instructors until we can fill the position. I think with your background in weapons and CQB, you’d be great.”

Dax studied the flier, thought about what it would be like to teach a bunch of deputies about the latest and greatest in guns, then remembered that the job would mean working directly with his brother in the middle of Mayberry.

“Not interested.”

Jonah leveled him with a look that was all business. “If you want to work with civilians, then you need to get involved in the community. Prove to Fallon that you can acclimate to civilian life, make connections, and that you’re willing to be an active participant in the neighborhood.”

Dax wasn’t looking to make connections—he was looking to do a job that had the least chance of connecting. Which was why he was applying for corporate security. The only people he’d have to connect with would be his team and high-value suits. “Did Fallon say something?”

“Other than you being the exact kind of badass the team was look
ing for?” Jonah shook his head, and Dax could see the pride behind
his brother’s eyes. “Nope. I just know that the difference between the
guys who make it and the ones who blow out is their ability to adapt.
I also know that teaching these classes would be a good way to blow
off some steam while you’re waiting to get back in the game.” Jonah
stood and put his hat back on. “And maybe some options in case the game you’re looking for h
as changed. Oh, and here.”

Jonah handed Dax one more piece of paper. This one was pink and way too official looking to be anything other than his big brother’s way of sticking it to him.

“A ticket, man? What the hell?”

“Driving the bike out front on an expired license and registration is against the law.” Jonah tipped his head. “Now you have a good day.”

Exhausted from another day as the local food-cart girl, Emerson walked the narrow flight of steps leading into her apartment, engaging in her nightly ritual of wondering if today was the day the mail was finally going to deliver good news or bad news. She’d definitely prefer no news to bad news.

Her apartment wasn’t much, but it was cozy and quiet—and hers. Located above the Boulder Holder, a lingerie shop for the curvier set, Emerson had one bedroom, one bathroom, and a one-car garage big enough for her food cart. She also had exactly one neighbor—her best friend, Harper Owens.

Who was curled up on Emerson’s couch, watching the latest made-for-television killer-sharks film.

“Remind me to file a complaint with management. The security around here sucks,” Emerson said, dropping her keys into the bowl by the front door and hanging her backpack on the hook.

“You bet,” management said, holding a container of what Emerson was fairly certain were lamb empanadas to her chest.

Harper’s grandmother owned the century-old Victorian. A few months after Emerson’s mom had passed, the older woman had spontaneously decided to rent out the second studio, which she’d been using as an overflow storage space, for, wouldn’t you know it, the exact amount Emerson could afford.

It was a handout and everyone involved knew it—but numb and desperate for a quiet space to grieve, a place where she didn’t have to be the strong one, where she could process and make a life plan, she’d signed the lease and wound up with Harper as her property manager.