by Jeff Abbott
“I didn’t write enough. I should’ve written more.” “No, I think you’ve written more than enough.” I couldn’t see her scribbling from here, but I knew what it said: To Jordan-Be on your feet soon so you can chase me around. All love, Lorna. Candace had seen it but not commented. I figured the firestorm would erupt as soon as Lorna’s plane left. “Oh, I’d planned on writing lots more. Like in letters and cards. But I’m starting to think that’s not a good idea.” She took my fingers, interlacing them with hers. “Why not?” “Because they have such a distance to them. Up-close communication is far preferable, don’t you think?” She was leaning her face close into mine, her gray eyes as intoxicating as always. I shook my head. “I think cards and letters and phone calls have a lot to recommend them. It’s a good way for old friends to keep in touch.” She tugged at the bottom of my T-shirt. “But we’re more than old friends, aren’t we? Won’t we be, still?” “No, Lorna, we won’t.” I hated having to say it to her, but it was true. I’d made my choices, to stay in Mirabeau and have a relationship with Candace. I couldn’t choose otherwise. She leaned back. “I knew you were going to say that.” She let go of my shirt.
“Just don’t give me that line that a part of you will always love me.”
“It’s true, though. But I won’t say it if you don’t want me to.” “No, I don’t.” She smoothed her pants legs with her palms, not looking at me. “I’m sorry if I’ve hurt you-” “What do you know about hurt? You got enough painkillers here to numb King Kong. You ain’t feeling any hurt, country boy.” Her voice was teasing, light. I wondered if she was hiding behind mild flirting, shielding herself from disappointment. I reminded myself that was her problem, not mine.
“Whatever you say, Lorna.” She looked at me then, tears welling in her eyes. I didn’t have a handkerchief to offer her, but she leaned down and kissed my forehead, with sudden speed as though she were afraid I’d refuse. I wouldn’t have, not for the world. “I better call Junebug. He’s giving me a ride to the airport in Austin. I think he’s got a hot date with that bomb sergeant he’s warm for.” “Have a safe trip.” So much hung unsaid between us, but that was the nature of broken relationships; they weren’t concluded as neatly as business meetings. “Now, don’t talk off Junebug’s ear the whole way there. He’s not used to that annoying Boston accent of yours.” “He might find it cute, Jordan. The same way you did. I’ll weave a spell on him with my wicked New England charm, and before you know it, I’ll be a Mirabeau housewife. Mrs. Junebug Moncrief. I don’t think the Wiercinskis would be quite prepared for that.” She stood by her suitcase and picked it up. “Goodbye, Lorna.” There was a range of emotions in my voice as it said those two words. Some I didn’t care to identify. I just kept thinking: This is right for you both. You know it. “This is me riding off into the sunset.” Her voice sounded a little ragged. “I know. Ride careful, now.” She picked up her suitcase and, without a backward look, walked outside. A minute or so later I heard a car pull up, doors slam, Junebug’s drawl answering some tease of Lorna’s, and then the distant whine as the sedan pulled away. I sat with my eyes closed.
I had cared for her. I still cared for her, in that I wanted her to be happy. But I didn’t want her for myself. I knew what I wanted-all the craziness, all the aggravation, all the passion. “Clo? Would you bring the cordless in here, please? I need to make a call.” She brought it in, fussing at me that I’d skipped the nap I needed every afternoon and surely wasn’t going to get it by prattling on the phone all day.
She was still complaining as she went upstairs to check on Mama. I dialed the seven numbers slowly. She and I hadn’t talked much since I’d returned from the hospital; apparently words had been exchanged in the ambulance between her and Lorna that made each other’s company unbearable. But we hadn’t had a chance to fix what had gone wrong between us. That didn’t matter, though. What mattered was the loving pressure of her hand on mine as I’d faded in and out at the hospital, the homemade peanut-butter fudge she’d snuck into my room for me, the gentle kiss of her lips on mine when she thought I was numbed entirely by the medications. She agreed, hesitatingly, to come over. When she arrived, Clo suddenly remembered she’d promised to take Mama over to Eula Mae’s for a visit. We watched her bustle out. Candace sat down on the side of the couch, brushing her heavy brown hair over her shoulder. We made small talk about my broken leg, my messy coffee table, the merits of Gary Cooper as an actor as he mutely eliminated half the Kaiser’s army on the screen. If Gary could perform heroic deeds, maybe I could, too. Deep breath. “Candace?” “Yes?” Her hand was buried in the bowl of popcorn, but her eyes came back to me. They looked like bits of blue heaven. I took her other hand in mine, interlocking my fingers with hers. “I love you.” Kisses are better than painkillers for easing what ails you.
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