Loving Jessie

by Dallas Schulze

  “Tall, dark and handsome. The man’s a walking cliché.” Lurene sighed happily. “I suspect there are states where it’s illegal for a pair of jeans to fit that well. And I know those shoulders are—”

  “Matt.” Jessie’s soft exclamation cut across her appreciative monologue. She slid off the stool. “Matt!”

  At the sound of his name, Matt froze for an instant, his shoulders tensing in a quick defensive reaction that was as uncontrollable as it was infuriating. Once, in a small African nation whose name changed with monotonous regularity, he’d been photographing an inauguration when a bloody coup occurred. Backing into the shadows, the camera steady in his hands, he’d continued to snap photographs, so intent on what was happening in front of the lens that it wasn’t until hours later, when he found the bullet hole in the camera bag that had been slung over his shoulder, that he realized how close he’d been to becoming a piece of history himself. Now he was jumping like a frightened rabbit just because someone had called his name unexpectedly.

  “Matt.”

  He shook off his annoyance and focused on the woman hurrying toward him, and his eyes widened. Even though he’d told himself that the odds were against Jessie still owning the old Mustang out front, there had been a part of him that half expected to see her, but he’d been picturing a different Jessie—toffee-colored hair and big brown eyes, long, coltish legs and a warm smile. All the ingredients were still there, but the packaging had changed considerably. There were curves he didn’t remember—some very distracting curves. And the legs…She was wearing a flirty little pink skirt that stopped at midthigh, exposing miles of long, tanned legs. Looking at them, Matt felt a punch of something that might have been—but couldn’t possibly be—pure male appreciation.

  “It’s so good to see you.” Oblivious to his stunned reaction, Jessie slid her arms around his waist, and Matt found his arms full of warm, female curves. Jessie, he reminded himself sharply. Little Jessie Sinclair, who’d tagged along after him and Reilly. Even if she had curves, he had no business noticing them. But they were a little hard to ignore when they were snuggled against his chest.

  “When did you get home?” she asked, easing back far enough to look up into his face.

  “I just drove into town.” His hands resting on her shoulders, Matt studied the face turned up to his, struggling to adjust his thinking. He didn’t know why he’d been expecting a gangly little girl. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t seen her in the last fifteen years. He’d been back five years ago for Reilly’s wedding, though they’d barely exchanged a quick hello then. He knew she was all grown up, but somehow the image that had stayed in his mind had been the Jessie he’d first known, all legs and big brown eyes. He’d just never updated his mental image to encompass the very attractive woman he was holding now.

  Jessie’s eyes darkened suddenly. “Are you all right? Gabe told me you were hurt. Shot. He said you were going to be okay, but I was so worried. You should have come home. I have a great recipe for chicken soup with lots of garlic. I know a bullet wound isn’t the same as a cold, but I’m sure chicken soup would help. I mean, if it discourages cold germs, it would probably scare off other kinds of germs, too. And vampires, of course. No vampire would come near someone after they’d eaten my soup. Not that you have to worry about vampires, unless you were in Transylvania, which you weren’t.”

  His hands resting on her waist, Matt stood looking down at her as the rambling flow of words washed over him. Here was the sense of homecoming that had been missing until now. She might have seemed momentarily a stranger, but this was the Jessie he remembered, mouth moving a mile a minute. His own mouth started to curve.

  She was frowning and patting her hands gently over his shoulders as if seeking signs of injury. “Should you be up and walking around? Did you drive down from Seattle alone? You should have flown. I could have picked you up in San Jose, if Gabe couldn’t do it. That’s so typically male, not admitting when you need help. You should ha—”

  Warm, male laughter stopped her in midword. Jessie lifted her eyes to Matt’s face and felt the tension she hadn’t even realized she was feeling suddenly ease. He’d looked so serious when she first saw him, his eyes shadowed and wary. It had made him seem like a stranger, though she hadn’t really realized it until the shadows retreated and the wariness disappeared in laughter. This was the Matt she remembered. His smile had never been as easy as Reilly’s, but just now he’d looked… Jessie groped for the right word. Haunted. In those first moments, before he’d smiled, he’d looked haunted, almost lost.

  Or maybe she’d imagined it, Jessie thought, leaning back against his hold so she could look up into his face. There was nothing haunted about the man smiling down at her now.

  “Was I babbling?” she asked, grinning.

  “Olympic quality,” he told her solemnly.

  “It was just such a surprise to see you.” She could feel the solid thud of his heartbeat beneath her palm, the warmth of his skin through the fabric of his T-shirt. Her expression sobered. “How are you? Really?”

  “I’m good. Really.” He saw the doubt in her eyes and grinned ruefully. “One small bullet hole. Hardly worth mentioning.”

  “Gabe said they had to airlift you out of Kosovo,” she said, her eyes still worried. “He said you lost a lot of blood.”

  Uncomfortable with the concern in her eyes, Matt shrugged and stepped back, surprised to find that he missed the feel of her under his hands. “It sounds worse than it was,” he lied. “And I’m practically good as new now.”

  Jessie didn’t look convinced, but she didn’t push for more information, for which Matt was grateful. He couldn’t have told her much, anyway. He had few memories of the first few days after he’d been shot. He would have given a lot to be able to say the same for the time before the bullet had slammed into him.

  Seeking a distraction, he glanced around the café. It had seen some renovations since the days when he and Reilly made a career of sitting at the counter and ogling girls. The yellowing linoleum that had been older than he was had been replaced by crisp black-and-white checkerboard flooring, and the booths, which had been half faded red plastic, half duct tape in his day, were now a clear turquoise, trimmed with shiny chrome. But the wall behind the counter was still covered with a huge mirror, and the space over the jukebox was still hung with an eclectic collection of autographed celebrity photos. From here, he could see Ricky Nelson jostling for position with Gene Simmons and Wayne Newton.

  “Ernie sold the place five years ago,” Jessie said, following his gaze as he took in the changes. “Said he was going to move to Mojave and become a hermit.”

  “I can’t imagine anyone better suited to the job,” Matt commented, thinking of the scrawny old man who’d made no secret of the fact that he considered every order an intolerable intrusion on his life. “Ernie wasn’t exactly a people person.”

  Jessie laughed at the dry understatement. “Grandad said Ernie took bad manners to new heights.”

  At the mention of her grandfather, Matt’s smile faded. “I’m sorry I didn’t make it back for the funeral, Jessie.” He reached out to catch her hand, his fingers firm and warm around hers. “By the time I heard you’d lost him, it was over and done.”

  “That’s okay.” She managed a half smile, grief a sharp-edged lump in her chest. “I got the card you sent, and you know Grandad wasn’t real big on ceremony.”

  “No, but I wish I’d been there for you.”

  The quiet words made her eyes sting. She’d always been able to count on Matt, even more than Reilly. Reilly had always started out with the best of intentions, but he was prone to get distracted and forget that he was going to pick her up after school or that he’d promised to teach her how to drive. But Matt never forgot and, on more than one occasion, had picked up the slack for Reilly, including the promise to teach her to drive.

  “Did you see Ermingarde?” she asked, shifting the topic away from her grandfather’s death. “I just had
her waxed last week.”

  “I saw her. That’s why I stopped.” He shook his head. “I can’t believe you’re still driving that thing.”

  “‘That thing’?” Jessie sniffed and tilted her nose in the air. “‘That thing’ is a classic 1967 Mustang. It features a custom restoration by Latimer Restorations, a one-of-a-kind job handled by Latimer himself.”

  “Damn right it was a one-of-a-kind job,” Matt said ruefully. “By the time I finished rebuilding that engine, I’d taken the skin off my knuckles in so many places I was a candidate for skin grafts.”

  “Well, you did a good job, because she still runs great.” Looking at him, she was suddenly aware of how good it was to see him again. Matt had been an important part of her life. One of the best parts, she thought, and felt the sudden sting of tears. Because she didn’t want him to see the emotions she knew must be swirling in her eyes, she grinned and slid her hand under his elbow, tucking his arm against her side. “Come meet Lurene. She bought the place from Ernie, and she even managed to pry his secret recipe for chili out of him.”

  Matt let her pull him forward and tried not to notice that the side of her breast was pressed against his arm. It seemed vaguely sinful to think of Jessie and breasts in the same sentence. It had to be the stress, he thought. Too many nights with too little sleep and his brain was starting to fry. That was the only possible excuse for even noticing that Jessie had breasts.

  “Matt, this is Lurene Washington. Lurene, this is Matt Latimer, one of my oldest friends. He even taught me to drive and didn’t scream at me more than eight or nine times.”

  “Once. I only screamed once,” Matt corrected her. “And that was only when you tried to murder me.”

  “One little accident.” Jessie thrust her lower lip out and slanted him a reproachful look. “It wasn’t even a very big tree.”

  “Seemed pretty big when I thought I was about to have it permanently embedded in my forehead,” he said dryly. Ignoring Jessie’s irritated hiss, he held out his hand to Lurene. “Jessie tells me you know the secret to Ernie’s chili. Did you use red-hot pincers or drugs?”

  Lurene laughed as they shook hands. “I had to promise never to contact him for any advice or suggestions once the contracts were signed.”

  Matt grinned. “Doesn’t sound like age mellowed him any.”

  “Not unless he started out shooting customers as they walked in the door.” Lurene leaned one hip against the back of the counter. It was midafternoon, and the place was empty. There were things she could have been doing, but one thing she’d learned in the last five years was to take small breaks where she could find them. “Ernie told me the chili recipe was worth more than the restaurant, said he’d had some corporate hotshot try to buy it from him, wanting to bottle it for commercial sale.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised,” Matt said. “I worked with a reporter in Beirut once who’d done some sort of exposé on the runoff from farms in the Valley contaminating the water supply. The main thing he seemed to remember about the area was Ernie’s chili burgers. He didn’t quite say as much, but I got the feeling that, as far as he was concerned, if the water had anything to do with the way the chili turned out, he wasn’t going to complain about a little DDT.”

  Lurene laughed, a rich, bawdy sound, her not exactly beautiful yet uniquely attractive face alight with amusement. “I don’t think that’s likely to become my advertising slogan, but I’ll take it as a compliment. Why don’t you have a seat and I’ll see if I can’t rustle you up a world-famous Ernie’s chili burger with all the trimmings?”

  Though he’d used hunger as an excuse to stop, Matt hadn’t really planned to eat, but at Lurene’s suggestion his stomach reminded him that lunch had been both miles and hours ago.

  “I’ll take you up on that,” he said, and settled onto the stool next to Jessie. Maybe Thomas Wolfe was wrong. Maybe you really could go home again.

  “I thought we were friends.” Lurene leaned against the back of the counter and fixed Jessie with a stern look.

  Matt had just left, and Jessie was looking at the door, smiling a little as she thought of how good it had been to see him again. It took a moment for Lurene’s comment to sink in. When it did, she spun the stool around and gave the other woman a surprised look.

  “What?”

  “Friends do not keep secrets from each other.” Lurene tapped long scarlet nails on the counter.

  “Secrets?” Jessie frowned in confusion. “What secrets?” Lurene shot a significant glance toward the door, and Jessie’s brows shot up. “Matt? Matt’s not a secret.”

  “Not that I blame you,” Lurene said, ignoring her protest. “If I knew a man who looked like that, I certainly wouldn’t want to share him.”

  “Share him?” Jessie laughed. “He’s not… I mean, he’s just Matt.”

  “Just Matt?” Lurene’s carefully plucked brows rose. “That man gives new meaning to the word hunk. Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed.”

  “Of course I… Well, I mean, obviously he’s attractive.”

  “Attractive?” Lurene’s brows climbed another notch. “He’s gorgeous.”

  “Yeah, I guess.” It was ridiculous to feel uncomfortable, Jessie thought. It wasn’t as if Lurene was criticizing Matt.

  “So tell me everything. Don’t leave out a single, juicy detail. Inquiring minds want to know everything.” Lurene gave her a look of such bright curiosity that Jessie laughed.

  “There’s not all that much to tell.” There was a scattering of salt on the counter, and she concentrated on nudging the grains into a neat little pile with the tip of her finger. “I’ve known Matt since I was eight. Grandad had just retired from teaching full-time, but he was doing some tutoring, and he’d also started doing some garden-design work. Reilly’s mother—” She looked up at Lurene. “You’ve met Reilly McKinnon.”

  “Sure. Tall, blond, good-looking. Gorgeous wife. Used to be Miss America or something.”

  “Third runner-up,” Jessie corrected and then wished the words unsaid. It sounded so bitchy. She continued before Lurene could comment. “Anyway, Mrs. McKinnon hired Grandad to rework the gardens at her home. He’d already taken the job when I came to live with him, so he took me with him. School was out, so Reilly was home a lot. He and Matt were best friends, and I guess maybe they felt sorry for me, because they let me hang out with them quite a bit.” Her mouth curved. “I probably drove them nuts, but they never made me feel like I was in the way. I know it sounds weird when you consider the age difference, but I felt like we were friends.” “Sometimes age doesn’t matter,” Lurene commented.

  “I guess not.” Her movements suddenly brisk, Jessie brushed the spilled salt off the edge of the counter and into the palm of her hand before dumping it on Matt’s empty plate. “Anyway, we stayed friends. Of course, I didn’t always see a lot of them. But there was always a sort of connection there. The summer after I turned sixteen, Grandad bought Ermingarde for me. Matt and Reilly rebuilt her from the ground up. Well, Matt, mostly,” she corrected, smiling. The smile widened suddenly, her eyes bright with laughter. “I’m surprised I lived through the summer. I was so excited about getting my first car, and a cool car at that. I must have driven Matt crazy, hovering around, asking what he was doing, asking if I could help, asking when I could drive her.”

  “Sounds like a nice guy,” Lurene said. “I’m surprised you didn’t fall madly in love with him.”

  “No, it was always—” Jessie caught herself, swallowed the words that had so nearly escaped and shook her head. “I always thought of Matt as a friend. I guess he is very attractive, but I never really thought of him as a man.”

  The bell over the door jangled as a family of five pushed into the café. Lurene straightened away from the counter to go get menus for them. “Honey, you’d better get your eyes checked, because what just walked out the door is definitely one hundred percent man. And a prime cut, at that.” She grinned and fluffed her artfully bleached hair before picking up
a stack of menus. “If I hadn’t sworn off the species, I’d be tempted to see if he’d like to park his shoes under my bed. Of course, I’m not sure how much I’d like waking up next to a man prettier than I am.”

  Frowning a little, Jessie slid off the stool, and reached for her glass and Matt’s plate. It was ridiculous to let Lurene’s comments bother her. She knew Matt was attractive. Of course she did. You only had to look at him to see that he was attractive. Except she’d never really looked at him that way, and it made her a little uncomfortable to think about it now.

  She shook her head as she carried the dishes through the swinging door into the kitchen. It was stupid to even think about it. What difference did it make whether Matt was an Adonis or a troll? He was her friend, and he was home.

  When he was growing up, his family had lived in a tidy ranch-style home on a block lined with other tidy ranch-style homes in a tidy middle-class neighborhood. His father had been a loan officer at the Millers Crossing Savings and Loan. His mother had taken the traditional role of housewife. She’d kept the house clean and cooked regular meals. His father had worn a suit and tie to work every day, paid the bills each week, mowed the lawn on Saturday and made sure the car was taken in for service at regular intervals. They had the requisite two children, both boys, born a sedate five years apart. On the surface, everything had been almost abnormally normal.

  Matt wasn’t sure how old he’d been when he’d realized that normal mothers didn’t nip their way through half a bottle of vodka a day, and that normal fathers didn’t come home at the end of the day and take a belt to their children.

  He rarely thought about it anymore, but, when he did, he knew he owed his survival—mental, emotional and maybe even physical—to his older brother. Gabe had been the one person he could count on. Gabe had always been there for him, so maybe it made sense that, when he needed a place to hole up, this was where he’d come.

  Not that he’d ever seen this place before. Gabe had bought it less than a year ago. Five miles north of town, on a back road that wound up into the hills, he had two acres of mostly vertical land and a house that had been built in the sixties by a group of hippies who’d wanted to commune with the land. As it happened, the land didn’t appear to have shared their desire to find total oneness. A mud slide took out the chicken house. A fire roared through two years later. It spared the house but incinerated half a dozen old pickups, a VW van and several outbuildings. The hippies retreated to San Francisco’s welcoming arms.