Reckless

by Ruth Wind

  It was just so damned good to be alive.

  He didn’t go to a meeting and he didn’t make an appointment with a counselor. There was time enough for that, if it turned out he really needed it.

  The trouble was Ramona. At first, he was so preoccupied with his recovery, he didn’t notice that she flitted in and out, never staying long. No one did, except his mother, who patiently mended or put the finishing touches on new clothes for Curtis as she sat with him.

  He knew Ramona was busy with her practice. He tried not to mind when she seemed to only give him the same five or ten minutes she gave everyone else. Even though he wasn’t her patient, she managed to stop in to talk to him when she made rounds. Even those brief stops lit up his whole day. He looked forward to the evening and Ramona’s smile.

  But by the end of the second week, he was physically much better. Cranky from being cooped up, as a matter of fact, but Dr. Richards was still worried about some whatsis or another and wanted Jake to stay a little longer. Truthfully, he doubted he had the strength yet to manage a normal life. He felt just better enough to wish for more.

  He wanted to go home. He wanted to get on with his life, the life he’d tossed aside so carelessly. He wanted to get outside and smell the mountain air. He wanted to dance and cook and make love.

  To Ramona.

  But as the days passed, he began to realize she was avoiding him. She kept her visits short and platonic, cheerful and encouraging and completely void of intimacy. And Jake, like all the others, watched for her arrival with a hungry, puppylike eagerness.

  He hated himself for feeling like that. It was pathetic the way they all waited, as if for the blessing of some benevolent goddess who deigned to walk among them.

  It pricked his pride.

  One evening, he hobbled his way outside and stationed himself on a stone bench near the parking lot. He waited while the sun went down and lights began to come on behind the curtains of the rooms. He watched old men turn on their televisions and settle in for a long night of situation comedies, and his irritation grew. One day, he might be one of those old men, but he wasn’t now.

  Finally, long after the crickets had set up their nightly serenade in the flowers edging the sidewalk, Ramona came out, carrying her leather briefcase in one hand, her keys in another. She didn’t see him right away, and that gave him a strange, fierce twist in his gut at first. He could be anyone, any creep, and she’d be vulnerable to him.

  But it was crazy to think like that. The truth was, she knew everyone here and she did pay attention to her surroundings. It wasn’t exactly a dangerous spot—and, noticing the keys again, he bet she knew how to use them as a weapon.

  It was only then that he noticed how drawn she looked, the cheerfulness sliding from her face like a melting mask, revealing a weariness he hated to see. He’d meant to be firm with her, to take a stand and make her see him like a man instead of a weak invalid. Instead, he stood up and called her name.

  “Ramona.”

  She stopped, took a breath and came forward. He saw her attempt to compose her features, but the struggle was evidently too much. “Hi, Jake.”

  Her eyes were luminous in the night, as if they somehow magically caught the light and reflected it back. He lifted a hand, thinking to reach for her, but let it fall back to his side. He’d rehearsed a dozen things to say in this moment. Strong things. Flirtatious things. Even angry things. But he heard himself say, “I miss you.”

  Stricken, she stared at him. It seared him straight to his soul, and he stretched out his arm, hooked a hand around her neck and pulled her close. She pressed into him, burying her face in his chest, and he felt a shudder pass through her. Her forehead touched his throat.

  Jake closed his eyes, holding tight to the back of her neck, her thick hair tangling around his fingers. Heat and yearning and peace welled up in him, and he couldn’t speak. He pressed a kiss to her crown.

  Everything would be all right.

  But after a moment, she gently pushed away from him. “I can’t do this, Jake. I’m sorry.” She backed away as if she would just leave it at that.

  He limped forward and snagged her arm. “Wait a minute. Tell me what’s going on here. I don’t get it.”

  She wouldn’t look at him. “I just can’t do it.”

  “Can’t do what? Can’t love me?”

  An expression of sadness crossed her face. “Oh, I can love you.” She raised her eyes. “But I can’t heal you. I can’t be the doctor who always comes running and patches you up. You need something, but I can’t provide it.” She pulled her arm out of his loosening grip. “I can’t,” she whispered. “I’m sorry.” Quickly, she turned and moved away from him.

  Jake stared after her, his body going hollow, like a pumpkin ready for carving. He watched her go, feeling as if he’d been told he’d won the lottery only to find it was a cruel practical joke. A bright pain pressed behind his eyes, and Jake clenched his jaw.

  He whirled around and hobbled back into the home. To hell with her, then. To hell with everyone.

  That night, his nightmare came back. It was the first time it had appeared since the night at Ramona’s house, and Jake had dared to believe it was gone. That his close brush with death had magically cast his demons out.

  Sitting bolt upright, his heart racing, Jake was at first bewildered. He couldn’t remember where he was. The room and the sounds and the bed felt totally unfamiliar, and he stared into the darkness for long, confused moments before his mind cleared.

  Stricken by the realization that he had not, after all, escaped, he fell back on his bed and stared at the ceiling, depression crashing in on him. That night on the mountain, when he’d finally realized it might be possible to live with the memories and somehow move past them, he’d thought that he would be done with this. He’d convinced himself that Ramona had healed him, that her magic touch had made him whole.

  He’d felt himself saved.

  Staring into the blackness, with the sound of a machine beeping distantly, gradually he arrived at a different conclusion. His body had been so severely traumatized that the need for healing sleep overrode any mental aberrations. Now that he was healing, his mind was going to let the demons back in.

  He swore, covering his eyes with his forearm.

  He had used Ramona as a shield. In her arms, he didn’t need to dream. When he held on to her, he could pretend he was fine, because she was real and whole and solid.

  A slow glimmer of understanding finally penetrated his thick skull. This was what she had meant. This was what she couldn’t do. She couldn’t be his Saint George and slay his dragons for him. He had to do it himself.

  And for one moment, he let himself imagine her running toward him, imagine her next to him, warm and soft in his arms, her hair smelling of sunlight.

  Ramona. He missed her so much.

  It was raining when Jake made his way down to the meeting he knew was being held. A collection of soldiers gathered around the table, everyone from World War II through Vietnam. Jake hesitated, realizing he was the only vet from the Gulf War in the room. Maybe they’d go back to their rooms and tell each other what a wimp he was.

  But Dr. Richards was following behind him. “Come on in.” He limped to the table and sat down. “This is Jake,” he said. “He was a major in the army by the age of thirty. He resigned his commission four years before full retirement. Some of you here might know what that feels like.”

  “Good to meet you, Jake,” a middle-aged man said. “You feel like talking?”

  “Maybe not just yet.”

  “That’s fine.”

  But he did talk. Not the first time, and not the second. At his third meeting, he found himself saying, “The only thing I ever wanted in life was to be a soldier.”

  And they listened. Nobody pushed him to go further when he felt the tightness in his throat and stopped. Nobody probed his psyche. And when he finally broke down and confessed his “sin” to a room full of old soldiers, he k
new he was one of them. That he had not betrayed them, that he’d done the best he could.

  Alone in his condo later, Jake held a lapful of cat and let himself remember the feeling of holding that little boy’s hand. He let himself think of the look in the big dark eyes—terror of such magnitude it couldn’t be expressed except in a dying scream. All he’d ever wanted to do was protect the weak and defenseless—and he couldn’t even save the life of one little boy.

  Jake closed his eyes and finally let himself mourn that dead child, mourn all the dead children and violated women of the world. He had been so proud to wear his uniform. So proud to be a soldier. He’d wanted to protect and save them all. He’d wanted...

  He bowed his head in humility. It would be a long time before he could sort out the finer points. For now, he understood at last that he’d done the best he could.

  He was a veteran. That pretty much said it all.

  And out there, waiting, was a woman he had discovered he couldn’t live without.

  Ramona diced plums on her kitchen counter. They were beautiful this year, firm and sweet, with dark purple skins that would turn the jam a vivid, deep red. On the back of the stove, jars rattled faintly in a boiling-water bath. Sugar waited in a snowy mound in a bowl, along with the pectin and lids neatly lined up on a clean dish towel.

  Ready. She poured the diced fruit into a heavy cast-iron pot, taking care not to bruise them. Then she added the sugar and stirred it in, grinning to herself over the resulting color—a dazzling shade of ruby that nearly vibrated.

  Manuelito, lying on the floor next to the stove, lifted his head suddenly and growled. Ramona glanced at him, then out the window. She absolutely could not stop until this step was done. Naturally there was someone at the gate. She inclined her head. “Go chase them off, baby,” she said. The big dog leaped up and streaked toward the screen, knocking it open with his nose.

  Outside, she heard his deep, throaty bark, then the curious set of happy yips and whines that meant he was greeting someone he knew and liked. Ramona frowned and glanced out the window again. She couldn’t see anyone, but it didn’t matter. She trusted Manuelito’s judgment, and the jam was too close to finished to stop now.

  Deftly, she snatched jars from the water and lined them up, admiring the curls of steam they sent into the air. Humming softly, she took the jam off the burner and began ladling it into the jars. It was as beautiful as she had imagined it would be, and happily she lined the jars up in a row as she wiped sticky residue from the edges with a sterilized cloth, then put the lids on with a twist of her wrist.

  She forgot Manuelito had gone out until she turned around to put the pot in the sink and saw the shadow on the floor. Startled, she looked up—and froze. Her heart literally fluttered.

  Jake.

  She tried not to react. Tried not to stare. But stare she did, standing like a victim of Medusa in the middle of her kitchen with the pot still her in hands.

  Jake.

  He stood there at the door a little uncomfortably, perhaps unsure of his welcome. In the bright, sunny morning, he looked more handsome than she had remembered, more precious. His hair had been recently trimmed. It hung neatly around his collar and he’d brushed it back from his high, elegant forehead. His jaw was clean shaven, and the bruises were gone, or nearly so. His eyes blazed, violently blue against the darkness of his hair.

  Standing beside him, Manuelito had that ridiculously pleased expression dogs sometimes adopted when they found something—ears perked up, tongue lolling out of a cheery dog smile. And just in case she hadn’t noticed the prize, he barked sharply.

  It broke Ramona’s stillness. “I see,” she said, and continued on her path to put the pot in the sink. Out of sight, she took a deep breath and steeled herself, then marched to the door and pushed open the screen.

  “Hi,” he said, and lifted a box of doughnuts. “Brought you a present.”

  She couldn’t help it. She smiled, at once reluctant and wry. “You have to promise not to spill anything if I let you in.”

  Awkwardly, he lifted his cast and stretched out his fingers. “My hands are steady as rocks.”

  “No hitting your head, either.”

  He grinned, and the scar along his beautiful lower lip showed a little, just a thin white line. She’d forgotten how delectable his mouth was. She looked away, then gestured for him to come in.

  Manuelito pushed by, licking Ramona’s fingers. “Please, Manuelito, you’re making a fool of yourself.”

  He sat, back straight, ears still up, that silly smile plastered all over his muzzle, his tail waving happily over the floor. He barked.

  Ramona shook her head. “You really are a dog charmer, Jake Forrest.” While he put the doughnuts on the table, Ramona bustled over to the coffeemaker and got out the filters and coffee. “How are you feeling?” she asked brightly.

  “Good. How are you feeling?”

  The question caught her by surprise, and she looked up at him. “I’m sorry. I do that so automatically.” He simply nodded, a soberness coming into his expression. Ramona saw it and reached for a filter. To her dismay, she found her hands were trembling so violently she couldn’t pick one out. “Damn,” she said.

  Smoothly, he moved forward and took the filters from. her hands. She thanked him, then put the one he held out in the basket and reached for the coffee.

  Jake stopped her, his big hand capturing both of hers. “Ramona.”

  She didn’t look at him, afraid everything she was feeling, everything she didn’t want him to see would be written all over her face. “What?” The word came out on a harsh sigh.

  He twined his fingers in her right hand. “When I saw you at Lance’s wedding, I thought you would have a kitchen just like this. I thought it would be filled with herbs and plants, and that you would make your own jelly.”

  His voice rolled like honey over her shoulders, down her spine, seductive and rich and beautiful. His thumb moved over her knuckles, and Ramona focused on his hand, dark and strong, engulfing her own. She couldn’t speak.

  “Ramona, look at me. Please.”

  “I can’t.” Her voice sounded strangled, and that wasn’t at all what she meant.

  “Please.”

  “Oh, Jake, can’t you just go away?” she whispered helplessly. “I was just starting not to mind every single minute.”

  He stepped closer, close enough that she was enveloped in that subtle, exotic after-shave he wore. “I miss you,” he said, and his mouth fell on her neck, just beside her braid. “I miss you so much.”

  She shut her eyes, fighting the urge to fling herself into his arms and damn the consequences. She missed him dreadfully. And she’d lied, too. She hadn’t got used to being without him. But her heart pounded out a warning that the lion was back, bringing danger and destruction into her calm and peaceful existence.

  “I love you, Ramona,” he said. “Please look at me.”

  And at that, she could not resist. She raised her eyes and met that hypnotic blue gaze. “I know,” she said. “I love you, too, but it doesn’t change anything.”

  He put his fingers against her mouth. “Wait. Hear me out.”

  Mesmerized by the power of those compelling eyes, she nodded.

  “I started having nightmares that night after you told me to get lost.”

  “I didn’t—”

  “Yes, you did. But it’s okay. I started having those nightmares again, and there in the middle of the night, I finally understood what you’ve been telling me all along. I needed to drain that boil.”

  For one moment, her heart stopped, then thudded to life again.

  He focused on her hand, on the pattern he was making over the knuckles. “So I went to the meetings. I’ve been talking to a therapist, too.” He took a breath. “It isn’t easy. I have a long way to go.”

  Oh, it hurt to look at him! To feel the piercing shards of hope needling through her numbed veins.

  “I realized that I was clinging to you, lo
oking to you to make the demons go away. Maybe to protect me from the darkness.” He raised his eyes. “And when I found out you had your own darkness, it almost killed me.” He grimaced wryly. “Literally.”

  “Jake, my past isn’t a problem for me anymore. It really isn’t. I mean, I can’t make it go away. But I can live with it. I don’t even usually think about it anymore. It was a long, long time ago.”

  He smiled. “You know, that was exactly the thing I was thinking when I fell. I’m serious.” He gestured, still holding her hand. “It just hit me that maybe that’s what you have to do. What everyone has to do. Just live with it and go on. I thought seeing that would instantly make me feel better.”

  Very gently, she lifted his big hand to her lips and kissed it.

  “It’s not that easy,” he admitted. He bent closer and kissed her hand. “But, I swear, Ramona, I’ll do whatever it takes. I’ll see a shrink every day for the rest of my life if I need to—but please, let me love you while I do it.”

  Her hope swelled, but she looked at him very seriously. “Jake, I can’t be there to pick up the pieces.”

  “You won’t have to.” He pressed a kiss to her forehead. “I need you, but not for the wrong reasons now. I need you like any man needs that one woman when he finds her.”

  Not like any man. He would always do things more intensely, with more passion, than other men. She held his hand close to her cheek, aching at the thought of his loving her like that.

  “I just need to be near you, Ramona,” he whispered. “I want to hear you laugh and curse and cry. I want to make love to you and give you children, and cook for you and—” He swallowed. “Everything.”

  She simply let go, and everything in her flowed toward him, into his embrace. “I’ve missed you so much,” she returned quietly. “I wake up alone in the middle of the night and it hurts so much.”