by Raquel Belle
“Yeah, it’s pretty much the same as how Pops left it.” I stare at her again, and she catches me and blushes. “What have you been doing over there in New York?”
“Oh, nothing much,” she says.
“Come on. Where do you live? What do you do? Are you…seeing someone?” I was a bit hesitant on that last question. I don’t want to hear that she’s seeing someone, or that she’s just come out of a complicated relationship.
“Well,” she drawls, as she struts around the small space. “I live in an apartment in Brooklyn. I’m a personal banker for rich people, and no, I’m not seeing anyone.”
“Whew!” It escapes me before I can take it back. Something about seeing her again has set the wheels in my body and mind in motion, and time has gone backwards, and we’re standing outside of her house, saying goodbye.
“So, when did you get back?” She asks, and her voice breaks the spell.
“Um, roughly about the time Pops died. I came home, and it was like he’d been waiting on me. One week later, he died. I’ve been handling this end of the business since then.”
She smiles. “I see.”
“Remember that night…?” I ask her and lean against the rickety desk.
Her eyes smile at me. “Of course, I do. How could I forget? It’s the night you left me.”
The laugh escapes me, boisterous and overly exuberant. It’s like I’m filled to bursting with happiness and I have to expel some of it. “I didn’t leave you. I’d never leave you.”
“Yeah,” she says and gives me a mini-punch on the arm. “But…life does that sometimes. You have any war stories?”
She comes over, right next to me, so close our arms are rubbing against each other, and she sits next to me on the desk. The fire stirs more, and I have to fight hard to restrain myself. She even smells the same, and when I turn my head, her soft curls brush against my nose, and I almost lose it.
“I don’t want to share war stories right now,” I say and play with her pinky as her fingers dangle off the edge of the desk. “I want to talk about you. How long will you be in town?”
“Well, I’ll be here for the next three weeks, actually. I leave on January second.”
“Great. That means I get to see you again. How about dinner?”
She rocks her head to the side and turns to face me. “Dinner? Sounds serious.”
“For old time’s sake,” I say, quickly. I don’t want her to feel attacked, but god dammit if I don’t still want to be with her. Every cell in my body is clamoring for it, and it’s taking an immense amount of self-control not to crush her body to mine.
“Hmm…” She muses. “You sure you want to do that?”
“As sure as I’ll ever be,” I say. “We need to catch up.”
She hovers over the question for another couple of seconds while I’m in limbo waiting for her response. I rock against her to nudge an answer out of her.
“Okay, fine. But this is not going to become a thing, Michael Tucker. The reason we broke up still exists—we belong in two different worlds.”
“I know,” I say and eye her closely.
“Okay,” she says. “Just so you’re sure before you get any ideas in your head. I know how crazy things get up there.” She laughs and taps my forehead.
I just smile as she gives me her disclaimer—or whatever she thinks she’s doing. There’s no way she’s going to leave town without me winning her back. “How about tonight?”
“Not tonight. I just got here. I’m sure Dad has a bunch of things to talk about. Plus, I want to settle in, you know?”
“No problem. Tomorrow it is.”
She laughs. “Still the same Trip, aren’t you?”
I stand in front of her, forcing her to look into my eyes. I touch her chin and tilt her face upwards. “The very same.”
Our eyes lock for a couple of seconds, and like all the other times before, time stands still for us. And then she blinks, and the spell is broken.
“I think I should go and check on the car. It should be done by now, right?”
“Yeah, it should,” I say and walk over to the door. “Come on.” She follows quietly as I pull on the partially rusty knob. She’s walking past me when I touch the small of her back, and I feel her shiver. Her head turns slightly to the side, and then she begins to walk faster.
“Bubba, are we done yet?” She asks nervously when she gets to the car.
“It’s fine now,” Mrs. Taylor says instead.
“Good!” Jazz says.
She’s trying to get away from me, and I smile to myself—she still feels something for me for sure. I run my hand through my hair. “Wow. Ready to get rid of me so soon?”
She turns and smiles coyly. “I probably should, shouldn’t I?”
I laugh. “You have nothing to worry about with me. Oh, give me your number.”
“Sure,” she says. She reels out her number, witnessed by a grinning Mrs. Taylor and Bubba. She rolls her eyes. “Uh, okay, time to go.”
I cross my arms across my chest and stand with my legs apart as I watch her getting into the car with her mother. She smiles and waves before her head of curls disappear inside. I watch until the car is out of sight.
“Still lovestruck?” Bubba asks from beside me.
“It’s really great to see her,” I say.
“Does she have a family or anything?”
With my father gone, Bubba is the closest thing I have to a father. I respect the hell out of him, and I value his opinions. “No man and no family.”
“So, in other words, nothing in the way?”
I smile broadly. “Nothing in the way.”
“It’s about time,” Bubba says. “You’re a good kid, Trip. You did a noble thing joining the Army, God bless America.” He crosses his heart. “But now you’re home, and you have no one. No man should have no one.”
I nod. He’s right. I’d planned on going back overseas after the last tour, but after Derrick, and then coming home to my father dying, I’d had enough of death and the grim realities of mortality. Willow Creek is just the therapy I need.
“Not all of us can be so lucky,” I say and pat him on the back, but it’s hard not to get even mildly excited that Jazz is back in town.
Memories I haven’t thought about in years come flooding back, and I catch myself smiling. So does Bubba.
“Hmm,” he says.
“What?” I say, when I exit a flashback to find him grinning at me.
“Nothing,” he says. “You’ve still got it.”
I laugh. “Bubba, if you keep talking, I’ll be forced to disrespect you. I’m heading back to the office.”
“Okay, lover boy,” he says, “but honestly, though, I really hope you get the girl. I’ve always liked her—she’s got a really good family and all. Might even be good for you now too.”
I have no doubt about it. After my last tour, and after all the blood, I’d resigned myself to a single life. There’s no one in Willow Creek who has caught my eye. My best friends are married and have families.
Or dead.
I’ve taken over Derrick’s life, or responsibilities, rather, when he didn’t make it out of the last operation alive. That’s been my life for a year, and I’ve been okay with it.
Seeing Jasmine just once has made my life suddenly feel inadequate and empty. She’s been missing all along, and I hadn’t realized it until now.
“Thanks, man,” I say and walk off. “Give me the next customer that comes in.”
“You sure?” Bubba says, “because I have time.”
“No. I’m in a good mood,” I say and head inside.
Once inside, I plop down in the old chair. It squeaks and rocks back with me, and I lock my hands against the back of my head. I stare at the old ceiling fan and think about how her lips had felt against mine.
Maybe I’m getting ahead of myself, but I have reason to believe things are finally looking up for me.
“Hey, Trip!” Bubba calls from outside the
door.
“Yeah?”
“Simon Tanner’s out here—his truck’s fuel gauge is busted. You still want to handle that?”
“Sure,” I say and rock the chair forward. I walk into the garage, and Tanner is standing next to the ramp. “Hell, I’ll even throw in a free wash.”
Tanner smiles, broadly. “I’d appreciate that.” He toys with the beat-down hat between his fingers. His thin frame sways, like he can’t handle a strong wind, and his plaid, red and black flannel shirt billows around him.
“My pleasure,” I say, as I walk to his truck. “Now, let’s see what’s going on under this hood?”
Chapter Four
Jasmine
“You set me up!” I say to Mom when we’re in the car and finally heading home.
“Don’t be silly,” she says.
I stare blankly at her. “Fine you don’t have to admit it, but I know that’s why you drove Old Blue, to give us an excuse to stop by the shop, so I could see Trip.”
“And what if I did?” she says. “You know I’ve always liked Michael. Comes from good stock—fought overseas. He’s pretty decent.” She places heavy emphasis on the word pretty.
“No one ever disputed that,” I say, “but what’s the point of all of this? I’m only here for the holidays, and then it’s back to New York.”
She huffs. “I don’t know what’s so great about New York anyway. So many people, and lights, and all that noise. I’m not even going to talk about the pollution.” She reaches over and pinches my cheek. “Even your skin looks paler. Maybe it’s the water there—not from a clean source.”
I laugh. “Why do you always have to be so dramatic? I love it in New York. And you’ve always known I hated it here. My dreams couldn’t fit in Willow Creek.”
“Dreams shmeems,” Mom says and waves me off. “Those can change.”
“So,” I fold my arms, “is that what the twenty questions about family were for earlier?”
“Just saying,” she bobs her head, “you’re twenty-eight. When do you think you’ll settle down, dear? Have a family, some kids…?”
“Mom! We’re not doing this again. It’ll happen when it happens. And I’m only twenty-eight. Not forty. I still have time.” She’s about to say something else. I hold up my hand. “Nope. Not one more word. I’m done talking about this.” I place my elbow on the window and watch the houses as they come into view. “Besides, it’s too late for me and Trip.”
That’s what I say out loud, anyway, but I can’t help thinking…what if I’d never left Willow Creek? What if he hadn’t? I’m sure he’s not the same boy I was in love with back in high school. He must have changed. Especially after joining the Army. I bet there’s some story there.
But the way he’d kissed me…they were the same lips, the same touch. The feeling was the same. And so’s the spark inside me that he clearly ignited. Trip Tucker. I had plans for spending Christmas back home. None of them involved him. But that was before I saw him…before we touched …
“You getting out?” I hear Mom’s voice through the din.
I glance up, dreamily, already feeling like I’m floating. It’s then that I realize we’re outside the house. “Oh, yeah!” I bat away the thoughts from my mind. I’m not supposed to be thinking about him. I’m just here for the holidays. I can’t get caught up with him. Not this time.
Clearly, my sensible mind doesn’t know how to reason with my fluttering heart. I try to distract myself as I scramble out of the car. It’s low, and I have to pull myself out. I stand next to it and smooth over my sweater top.
Nothing about the place has changed. The tall pine trees on both sides of the house end where the Wintergreen boxwood shrubs form a hedge at the front. Colorful, cracked stones lay a path to the trio of steps that lead to the split-level house that fans out on both sides.
Mom’s garden under the office window is a little wilted, but I remember the vibrant colors from the daffodils, roses, anthuriums and the assortment of plants she nurses there.
I open the back door to the car and pull out my bags, just as the brown oak door opens and Dad steps onto the porch.
“Need any help?”
I smile at him. “No, I’ve got it.” I lug the bags up the steps and set them down just outside the door. I walk into his open arms. “Hi, Dad.”
“Hi, baby,” he says and kisses my face. His stubble rubs against my cheek, as he squeezes me. His eyes are glistening, like he’s about to cry. If not for the grey hair at his temples, he wouldn’t look a day over forty. Or younger. He still works a lot in the yard and is just as spritely as I remember him—memories from my younger days.
“Hey, what’s wrong?” I ask and wrinkle my brows.
“Nothing. Just glad to see you is all.” He rubs my back and bends to pick up one of the bags.
“No, I’ve got it.”
He slaps my hand away. “No. I can manage.” He shoves me aside with his hips, as he bends to pick them up. “Now you go on in. You must be hungry.”
“I am,” I say and walk in after him.
Mom already has the decorations out—a wreath on the door, bells and whistles strung over the archways and over doorways, and the smell of cinnamon and spices envelope my senses. It’s heaven to me.
It’s like I’ve walked into a bakery of sorts. The aroma wafting through the hall makes me salivate, and my stomach begins to growl fiercely. I clutch the ache in my belly and make a beeline for the kitchen. I haven’t eaten anything since I boarded the plane, and that was around nine-thirty.
I hear Mom laughing softly behind me. I turn to find her removing the headwrap. Her soft curls fall to her shoulders, exactly like mine, except now they’re tinged with grey and look more stately.
“You want a piece of pie, dear?” she says, and pulls open the cutlery drawer before I even answer
“Maybe you should just hand me a spoon,” I say, giggling, as I head for the pies that are on the cooling tray on the kitchen island.
“Nonsense,” Mom says and swipes the pie before I stick my finger in it. “I’ll cut you a piece.”
“Ugh!” I groan and watch as she carefully slices the pie like she’s about to place it in a glass case at the Louvre. “Mom, it’s going in my stomach—not on display somewhere. It doesn’t have to be all neat.”
She ignores me and sets down a cake plate and a fork with golden tips, boasting a quaint, swirling carving—the good cutlery. I fold my arms and wait for her to finish her masterpiece.
“Here,” she finally says and hands me the plate.
“You’re sure you’re done? You don’t want to get some gold sprinkles or anything to garnish it?”
She laughs. “Just eat, and don’t be rude.”
She’s mumbling something about city life changing me, but my jaws are working too fast and hard to even hear everything she’s saying. Dad is leaning against the archway to the dining area, watching me shovel spoonful after spoonful into my mouth.
“You know, we have real food here, too.”
“Mmhmm,” I mumble and add another spoonful. “This is so good. I miss this.”
“You wouldn’t if you lived here,” Mom says, as she opens the cupboard doors, searching for god knows what.
I roll my eyes at her, and so does dad. I can tell he’s heard the same lines several times over, until they’ve exhausted even him. I giggle when he grunts and walks away. I know I can find him in the sunroom afterwards, doing crossword puzzles.
I ignore her and finish my pie. I reach for the dish and start cutting off another piece. Mom stalks over and tries to swipe it from me. I pull back. “Nope. Not doing that artwork thing again. I’m too hungry.”
“Well, just…let me…ugh!” She groans, when she sees I’ve already ruined her masterpiece.
“Sorry, Mom. But it’s food. It goes down easier like this.” I grin and stick out my tongue like a small child.
She laughs. “It’s like you’re ten all over again.”
It’s true.
I’d run through the house after swiping pie containers and mixing bowls, and Mom would chase me. It made the holidays a lot more fun at the time, and I loved the fact that she allowed me to do it.
I smile. “You used to leave the pans where you knew I would find them.”
“You’ve always loved pies.” She walks over to me and smooths my hair. The light in her eyes might have faded a little, but her facial features are still just as prominent. She’s so beautiful. I hug her.
The sound of voices out in the hall disrupt our bonding moment. Her brows wrinkle, which means she isn’t expecting company. She wipes her hands on her skirt and walks off.
I follow her, and I’m barely in the hallway when I hear a scream. “Jazz!”
“Marcy?” I say and laugh, as we walk quickly towards each other and collide in to a hug. She rocks me, as she giggles in my ear.
“I just heard you were here and I had to come right away,” she says, as her face lights up. I smile at her. It’s really hard to keep a secret in a small town where everyone knows everyone and basically everything of importance is on the same street.
There are a few houses off the main road, but not so far away that they wouldn’t be privy to everything else that goes on in town. Marcy lives on one such property—a farm of sorts, with her husband, Tony, and their two daughters, Alana and Nyla. When I say this is a small town, Marcy has a name that went out of style in the seventies when the ‘Peanuts’ were still cool.
“I’ll leave you two alone,” Mom says as she heads for the entertainment room down the steps next to the front door.
“Get in here,” I tell Marcy, as I head back to the kitchen and then climb onto the barstool. “I was just eating pie. You want some?”
She nods. Marcy doesn’t look a day over eighteen, and the fact that she keeps her long, brown hair braided on each side doesn’t help. She smiles. “Yeah, thanks. But I can’t stay long. I have to get the girls. Tony has them at the store, and they’re beginning to get in his hair.” She giggles, and the freckles on her cheeks dance.
“I bet,” I say. “How are things with you?” I’d returned shortly after leaving years back to attend their wedding—it had been a small, intimate ceremony, and…I admit…I’d been partially envious.
