by Cox, Suzanne
He wasn’t sure why that one particular noise from the television caught his attention. Possibly his subconscious had been trying to protect him, protect both of them from taking this relationship far beyond what they would be happy with later. For whatever reason, he turned toward the screen when the booming sound reverberated in the speakers and he froze. He couldn’t control his ragged breathing even though a white-hot pain washed over him like a bucket of ice water. He jerked to a sitting position, and Emalea followed. He pulled away from her, only to stare at the burning wreckage of a car on the screen.
What in the hell had he been thinking? That he could have a relationship, feel what he had been feeling, it was out of the question. How could he ever have forgotten how much it could cost to get that close, to care that much? He shot to his feet and started across the room.
“I’ve got to go.” He escaped through the door and was at his truck in a moment, trying not to look like he was running. But he was, running scared.
Emalea sat stunned. The last thing she’d expected was for Jackson to break and run. Of course, she hadn’t really been expecting him to kiss her, either. She’d been incapable of a coherent thought the last few minutes. Losing control was never an option for her, but she just had. He could have hauled her off the couch to her bed and she wouldn’t have protested, or even noticed the move as long as he kept touching her.
The image on TV caught her attention. She watched the smoking car, then sat back with a sigh. Outside she could hear his truck start, then there was a clatter on her front porch. She hurried to peer through the blinds, only to see Jackson striding back to his truck. On her porch was a bag of cat food and every other item she might need for her new pet.
Maybe they could just be friends and forget about all this physical stuff. Obviously neither one of them seemed ready to handle it. And who knew, maybe later they could explore the possibilities. As long as he didn’t kiss her anytime soon, everything would be fine and follow a more predictable course. Predictable was good.
CHAPTER TEN
“WHAT IF I USED RED HERE?” Megan pointed to the canvas in front of her.
Kent stepped back to see the overall picture. “Red would be good, but I might add a little brown for a different tone.”
Megan moved beside him. “You’re right. You’ve got a good eye for color, Kent.”
“Thanks.” He quickly went back to his own canvas, reminding himself that Megan was just being polite.
She dabbed her brush in the paint and continued swishing it on the canvas while she talked. “I’m glad Mrs. Wright let us come back here and paint when we finished our work.”
“Yeah, I wasn’t ready to go home yet.” He could have said that he’d just as soon never go home, but he didn’t. His mom was there, and he still wanted to see her. Why she stayed with a husband who hurt her, he’d never know. Ms. LeBlanc had tried to explain it to him, using big words like cogno…something or other. She’d said this happened when someone was living in something bad, but couldn’t admit it to themselves so they just changed their way of thinking. Or at least that’s how he remembered it. The whole thing seemed like a lot of mumbo jumbo to him. Once, his mother had told him this was just their way of life. But, if other people’s lives could be different, why couldn’t his? A hope wriggled inside of him that one day things would be different. He held on to that. It kept him going.
“Is it bad at your house?”
Kent jerked, his paintbrush making a blue streak where there shouldn’t have been one. Megan had never mentioned his family or his home life before.
“What I mean is, I’ve kind of heard your dad is…well, he’s hard to get along with.”
The corner of his mouth lifted in a sad smile. “He’s a lot worse than that.”
“Your mom must be really nice.”
He glanced at her. “What makes you say that?”
“Because you’re really nice, so you must take after her.”
Kent dabbed at his painting, not wanting Megan to see his face getting red. He didn’t know what to make of a compliment from her. She was one of those girls whose parents probably told her to stay away from trash like him.
“Yeah, my mom’s nice,” he mumbled.
She came to stand behind him. She smelled like lemons—fresh and clean. He nearly dropped his paintbrush when she put an arm around his shoulder and gave him a squeeze.
“I’m glad we’re friends, Kent. When you finish school you’ll be a famous artist or graphic designer. You’ll go to all the big cities and wear expensive clothes.”
Kent snorted. “I don’t need fancy clothes. Just give me a pair of jeans and I’ll be fine.” He turned toward her and her arm dropped from his shoulder. “My dad says one day I’ll have to run his store.”
She stared at him then shrugged. “Maybe one day you’ll get to do what you want.”
Megan went back to her painting and he twisted the brush in his fingers before continuing his own work. From the corner of his eye, he kept watching her. The blond ponytail swung when she moved and her smile was crooked. She was by far the prettiest girl he’d ever seen, maybe even the prettiest in the world, but more than that she was his friend. Not many girls wanted to be his friend, or guys either for that matter.
“Thanks, Megan,” he said, continuing to stare at the marred canvas in front of him.
“What for?”
“For hanging out and painting with me.”
She didn’t answer but suddenly he felt something wet smack against his cheek. His hand flew to his face as he spun around staring at Megan. She grinned and waved her paintbrush while he scrubbed at the blob of paint on his face. Megan squealed as his own brush, full of paint, landed on her nose. He stood still for a second then turned to race across the storeroom with Megan, holding her paintbrush like a sword, in hot pursuit.
HANEY’S STORE ALWAYS made Emalea think of Mayberry. The newer gas stations in town were clean, neat, shiny even, with their prepackaged goods ready to tempt customers who chose to venture inside rather than just pay for their gas at the pump with a credit card. Haney’s had a credit-card machine. It was inside, behind the counter and it didn’t connect to a computer or phone line. It made a crunching sound when the clerk shoved the metal piece across to make a copy of the card on bits of carbon paper.
The ever-present Janie, who had been working there for at least thirty years, stood behind the warmer putting Emalea’s breakfast in a to go box. The glass-front warmer had been one of the few technological advances brought into the store, if you could call a food warmer technology. Emalea stopped here occasionally if she wanted to know the state of the union or at least the state of the community.
“Heard Wayne Anderson’s son got sent to prison for those robberies he did over in Lafayette. Guess you’ll be seein’ him soon, Emalea.”
“Could be, Mr. Redding.” Grady Redding was Cecile Wright’s grandfather and one of four or five retired men who met at Haney’s for breakfast, dominoes and gossip nearly every morning. Of course, they’d never admit to the gossip part. The men all knew Emalea didn’t discuss her work, even what she dealt with at the prison. Not that it bothered them. They always seemed to know more than she did about everyone, which occasionally included her own clients.
This morning, Frances Bordeau sat at a table by himself, though still conversing with the four men playing dominoes. His worn clothes and unkempt hair didn’t fool Emalea for a minute. He saw and heard everything, mostly because people tended to overlook him. Whether by accident or design, Frances Bordeau could simply blend into the background of wherever he happened to be. In recent years, he’d begun to use this ability to help out the sheriff’s office. It might have been that he enjoyed playing a role in the local crime fighting or he just didn’t have anything better to do, but Emalea figured that after his wife had died he’d found this was a way to still feel useful and important.
Taking her breakfast, Emalea said a quick goodbye and left. She had just place
d the container in the middle of the seat when, behind her, gravel crunched under the tires of a vehicle. A flash of white and green caught her eye, causing her heart to beat erratically. A door slammed, and she knew without looking it was Jackson. Stones rolled under his feet as he rounded the front of his cruiser. More than a week had gone by since he’d brought the kitten to her house. He’d made one phone call to apologize for leaving abruptly and to make sure she was surviving with her new companion.
Gathering her courage, she turned to face him. He strode toward her with a small plastic bag in his hand.
“Before you say anything, I want to apologize for the way I took off the other night.”
“You did that already.” She wondered briefly if he’d actually forgotten the call he’d made.
“Over the phone, so it doesn’t count.”
“Since when does apologizing over the phone not count?”
“Since I met you and I know I’m not going to do you that way.”
His voice, firm and determined, made Emalea wonder if she wanted to try to continue her friendship with him. She doubted if a simple friendship would even be possible. They’d been dancing around the edges of a fire that was determined to ignite between them.
Paint was peeling off the worn gas tank behind him, and she fixed her gaze there. “Either way, your apology is accepted. As soon as you left, I saw the television and remembered you saying your wife and child had died in an accident. It’s a lot to get over and I know you must have loved them very much. So, why don’t we just let it go? When you’re ready to get close to someone you’ll know.” She pushed her last words out in a rush. “You and I have lived through a lifetime of hurt. Neither one of us is ready for what we started that night. But I hope we can at least be friends.” Emalea wanted to pat herself on the back for how perfectly controlled her speech had been when her insides quaked.
“I’d like to think we’re friends already, Emalea. But we can work on it in Mexico. I’ll be going on the scuba diving trip with your group.”
She jerked her attention away from the gas tank to focus on his face. He had to be kidding. “Excuse me?”
“One of the guys backed out and Lance asked me to go. We’ll have a good time, huh?”
He wasn’t kidding. “Uh, yeah. We always have fun. It’s a great group.” What else could she say?
“Here.” He thrust the bag at her. “I wanted to give you this to help say I’m sorry.”
She had to concentrate to get her hand to reach out and take the bag. He’d run from her house the other night, and now he smacked her in the face with the news he’d be spending five days with her and her friends in Mexico. To make matters worse, he was trying to give her a gift. Jackson obviously wasn’t firing on all cylinders today. She peered in the bag to see brightly colored cloth. Her voice left her, and when she was able to speak again she had to work hard to steady the quiver in her throat. “This…this is the dress from the French Market in New Orleans.”
He stuffed his hands in his pockets. “I know. I saw that you liked it, so I got it. I figured I might need a peace offering for you one day. And see? I was right.” He glanced toward the front of the store. “I guess I better go now. I’ll see you Friday morning at the airport.”
He walked away before she could say a word, but he stopped suddenly and stood for a moment with his back to her. When he turned, his eyes had lost most of their shine. “Emalea, what you said before, that I would be able to get close to someone when I’m over the loss of my family.”
“Yes.” So far this morning Jackson had seemed to jump from one emotion to the next. She couldn’t imagine what he was going to say but, judging from his expression, it wouldn’t be good.
“I’m not… I can’t… What I mean is, that’s not going to happen. I won’t get close to anyone again, not like that, not enough to marry or have a family. I can’t.”
The words spewed over her like molten lava from an exploding volcano. She glanced briefly at her chest, half expecting to see burn marks. The idea of Jackson never wanting to develop a lasting relationship should not have bothered her. An hour ago she’d have said she’d be glad, but she wasn’t.
When she didn’t respond, he continued. “I’m responsible for what happened to them and I won’t put anyone else at risk again.” He paused as a car pulled in next to them. “This is not the place for us to talk. I could come by tonight.”
She wondered if she looked as astonished as she felt. They could be friends, hang out together and nothing more, but he still wanted to talk. She didn’t want to be a friend slash therapist. Deep inside she knew she harbored a desire to be a friend slash lover slash wife slash everything, but she couldn’t acknowledge it, not when he stood in front of her stating that they’d never have more.
She shook her head. “No, I’ll be busy, but it sounds to me as if you’ve made your decision. Maybe it’s for the best, for both of us.”
Before he could say a word, she slid behind the wheel of her truck and pulled away. Get to know the real me, he’d said. Then he’d come to her house, bringing gifts and practically attacking her on the sofa.
True, she’d been a willing participant. Did he think she wanted to be a one-night stand? Like that was going to happen. She wanted—no, needed—to put a label on him—dangerous, friend or prospect for something more. But she couldn’t find a label sticky enough to stay. Now she would have to tolerate him for five days in Mexico, when she should be enjoying her vacation.
IF THE PARKING AREA at Haney’s hadn’t been covered in rocks he’d be standing in a cloud of dust. Jackson couldn’t blame Emalea for being upset with him. It probably wasn’t often that a guy tried to make love to her one night, then decided a week later he wasn’t interested in a relationship. That’s not how it was, but it certainly must look that way to her. He could stop her, say he’d changed his mind. He didn’t like the idea of not being close to her again, but what choice did he have? So why did he feel like he’d just made a colossal mistake by letting her go?
Another car pulled in, and Jackson figured he cut a rather silly figure standing by himself in the middle of the parking lot. He’d come here to do business and have breakfast. The small-town pace had begun to grow on him. In fact, he had begun to believe coming to Cypress Landing might have been one of the best moves he’d ever made. He should have done it years ago. Maybe then his family would still be alive. Climbing the steps to the front door, he shoved that thought away. What happened had happened. Hinges creaked as the door opened, and Jackson let another customer by. No use hashing over all that now. He’d found comfort here, in spite of the gun-trade problems and his ongoing dilemma over Emalea. Sort of like putting on an old, soft leather jacket, a perfect fit, with a few worn spots. They’d clear up this gun-trade mess soon enough. He and Emalea could resolve their problems and still be friends, so long as he could keep his libido under control.
He winked at the woman who filled his plate with sausage, eggs and grits, a creamy delicacy he hadn’t had since he’d left Arkansas. Once or twice a week he came here for the killer breakfast. He named it that because he imagined the fat and calories would lead straight to a heart attack, although, if the old guys here were an example, he might be able to eat this stuff every day and live to be a hundred.
Carrying his plate and a cup of coffee, he squeezed between the potato-chip rack and slid past the domino table taking the only empty seat available, across from Frances Bordeau.
“Jackson.” The old man nodded a greeting. “How’s the investigating business?”
“Slow.” Jackson sipped his coffee for a moment but when the man remained quiet he dug into his breakfast.
“Jackson, you been fishin’ lately?”
He looked at the domino table to see Grady Redding eyeing him while continuing to place his pieces on the table. The other three men at the table with him groaned when he sat back.
“No, sir. I don’t do much fishing. I might start, though, now that I’m living
in the country.”
“You need to. I recommend the bait shop a few miles past the ferry dock. They have good bait there. You could go by tomorrow and check it out.”
“I don’t know. I’ve been busy so I might have to wait.” Jackson returned to his plate.
“Naw, son, I think the fish’ll be bitin’, tomorrow.”
Still chewing, he looked up from his plate to see Frances watching him. This was new. Were these two really trying to get him to go fishing? It sure didn’t seem like it. If the old men wanted to give him information, why didn’t they just spit it out, like they normally did? It hadn’t taken Frances Bordeau two seconds last week to tell him he needed to check on that Richardson boy if he wanted to find some stolen bicycles. Why the secrecy now?
Jackson glanced to the front of the store where two customers waited in line for their breakfast. Maybe this was a bit bigger than a few stolen bicycles.
“I’m not much good at fishing. If I wanted to catch a lot, when’s the best time to go?”
Frances stroked his wiry beard. “Seems like when Grady and I went fishing yesterday we caught fish late in the evening, so I guess if you were gettin’ your bait by five o’clock, that’d be right. Don’t you think, Grady?”
“Yep, from where I’m sittin’ you’d be right on the money at that time.”
“I’ll be there.”
Frances rested his elbows on the table, leaning forward to sip from his cup. He moved a little closer to Jackson. “If I were you, I might take a friend or two with me. Fishin’s way better with a few folks along.”
Jackson nodded. The older man sat back in his chair and across from them more groans came from the domino table. Grady sat smiling. “I win again.”
Swallowing his last bite, Jackson took his empty plate and cup to the trash. “Guess I better get to work. You guys take care.”
