by Sarita Leone
****
Creedence Clearwater Revival blasted from the speakers hanging from the corners above his work benches. The garage was tricked out to turn ordinary vehicles into super machines. He had every tool necessary to tear down and rebuild engines. The workbenches were clean enough to eat from. He hated a messy garage more than almost anything.
He leaned over a ’68 Mustang. The car had been a shambles when he’d bought it from a guy heading to boot camp. It was one of those high school runaround cars, driven hard and never serviced. The wear was mostly surface deep, an ugly mix of worn parts and grime.
Steve had been working on the car on and off for six months. His plan was to hand the keys back to the guy when he came home—if he came home. The financial investment was minor; labor was his own and would be free. Maybe the guy would throw him the cash he’d paid for the car back. Maybe he wouldn’t. It didn’t matter. Either way, if the guy made it out of the frigging war alive, he was getting his ’Stang back.
Bad Moon Rising came on the 8-track player. The steady thump-thump-thump of the bass matched the thudding in his head. Last night’s six-pack of Pabst had numbed his senses enough that he fell asleep but since this morning he’d paid for his stupidity. Too stubborn and annoyed with himself to seek relief in the aspirin bottle, he ignored the pain and concentrated on the engine.
Engines he could fix. The shit in his head and heart was another story.
Better to stick with engines. They didn’t love or hate, didn’t live or die. No pain involved—better that way.
Steve grabbed a wrench from the toolbox near his feet. His work boots were splattered with oil, his Levis stained from working on cars and the rag hanging from his back pocket was nearly black. It was too hot to wear a shirt, so he was bare-chested. He tapped the wrench against his thigh, considering the size and mentally comparing it to the bolts on the firewall. Not big enough. Bending at the waist, he reached for another wrench, chose a larger size.
Standing upright made his head pound less than when he bent over, so he didn’t waste time in the toolbox. He leaned over the side of the car, stretching beneath the hood. The wrench fit.
If he could get the master brake cylinder off and change the thing, stopping would be less chancey than it was now. He’d taken the car for a spin late last night, which was pretty risky considering he’d already had three cans of beer. He’d stuck to the back roads, thinking he could gauge the feasibility of using the master cylinder as it was instead of changing it out.
Rolling dice in Las Vegas was less of a risk than trying to stop the Mustang had been. He’d skidded, and finally stopped, but it had taken some doing. The cylinder had to go.
A messy job, but no job under the hood of a car was really without its share of grease. He reached in, working the nuts holding the part in place. They were stuck, but some internal swearing and brute force convinced them to give.
He grabbed the brake cylinder and twisted it free. It was filled with brake fluid, and judging by the other fluids in the vehicle, it was probably pretty damn filthy.
“Hey! Steve—hey!”
He jerked up when he heard her voice, pulling the cylinder from the car with more force than intended. Brake fluid shot from the piece, up his arm and across his chest.
“Shit!” He looked down at himself. The mess was bad—blackened arm and streaks of dripping fluid winding through his chest hairs.
Annie stood near the front of the car, frozen in place. Her mouth hung open and the beautiful eyes that haunted his dreams stared out from beneath full fringes of lashes.
God, but she looked incredible. A tiny t-shirt, short enough that her lower abdomen peeked out between the bottom of the shirt and her hip-hugger jeans, was covered with colorful tie-dyed hearts. The store logo stretched across her left breast, pulling his eyes to the spot as fast as a tack to a magnet.
“I’m sorry. I-I…well, I called your name but you didn’t answer.” She shrugged, pulling the cotton fabric higher on her body and drawing his gaze to her tanned tummy. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I…”
Annie turned, waving a hand in the air. Bangle bracelets tinkled against each other, the sound so soft and feminine it made the Creedence still blaring from the speakers seem barbaric.
“I shouldn’t have come. I’m sorry, Steve.”
She was fast, moving around the car and heading for the open garage door before he could think of anything to say. He dropped the master cylinder into the toolbox—splashing brake fluid across the floor—and followed her outside.
“Hey—Annie, don’t go.”
She turned. When she did, he saw her lip trembled.
God, but he was an ass. She’d only been in his garage for a minute, and he had already made her cry.
“I shouldn’t have come,” Annie repeated. She stuffed her hands in her pockets. “It’s apparent you don’t want to see me. I don’t know what I was thinking, invading your space this way. I’m sorry.”
The Barracuda was parked at the end of the driveway near the road. Annie headed for the car without saying anything else. He still wasn’t sure what he was going to say, but he sure as hell knew he wasn’t going to let her leave.
Steve followed. “Hey, you don’t have to go—it’s not that I don’t want to see you—”
He caught up to her. When she ignored him, he grabbed her arm and tugged. Annie stopped walking and turned to face him.
“It’s okay. I get it. You really don’t want to see me. I’ve waited but…”
He didn’t let her go. Holding her, even just by the forearm, was solid. Real. He felt more grounded than he had all week, just seeing Annie and holding her again.
“I…” He struggled to find the right words. “I don’t know what to say. I told you about me—I know it makes a difference. You don’t have to be kind. You can be straight with me.”
“How can I be anything with you when you keep running from me?”
Her voice was filled with pain—pain he had caused. If self-loathing were an Olympic event, he’d have a drawer filled with gold medals.
“I’m a loser. A bona fide loser, Annie. I thought I made that clear. What could a good, decent, beautiful woman like you see in a guy like me?”
She didn’t pull any punches. “You’re right, Steve. You are a coward. You’re afraid to let anyone close. You’re scared that someone might see the real you—the guy with a big heart. The guy who helps everyone out without being asked. The guy who holds down the fort for the whole damn town while everyone else is away. Yeah, you’re a coward—but you’ve made your own cowardly coat. No one has to label you—you’ve already labeled yourself.”
He felt like he’d been kicked in the stomach.
Still, he didn’t loosen his hold on her.
They stood that way for several minutes. Neither moved. Neither looked away.
“I’m sorry about Ronnie.” Her voice was soft. Sincere. Heartbreaking. “I know he was your best friend. I’m sorry. So very, very sorry…”
The dull ache in his chest ratcheted up. He had no idea how life in Lobster Cove could go on without Ronnie in it. No idea—and he’d put off dealing with the reality of it since the news had come.
“Yeah, thanks. I…wow. I just don’t know what to say. It…”
“Hurts,” she supplied, her voice a near-whisper.
“Yeah.”
Then the thing he’d been trying to avoid happened. Damn it to hell, it happened—right in front of the one woman he’d wanted to hide it from.
Steve’s throat closed, the lump forming so fast he couldn’t swallow it down. All the tears he’d held back, the ones he’d tried to lose in the countless beer cans he’d emptied since hearing the horrible news, started to flow. They fell fast and hot, burning trails against his skin.
Annie pulled him into her arms, reaching up and tugging his head to hers. As the tears came faster, he let go of her arm and wrapped his arms around her. She pressed against him, so soft and warm he wanted to melt
into her. He didn’t try to stop the tears. Now that they’d begun it was better to just let them out.
They stood that way until he stopped crying. He wiped his eyes on the back of one hand, drew a deep breath, and straightened.
When he could, he met her gaze. It was no shock that her eyes were wet.
Impulsively, Steve bent and put his lips against hers. If she minded, she hid it, kissing him back without hesitation. The kiss was tender, a soft touch that took him by surprise. He’d dreamed of kissing her, but after the night on the boat, he figured those days were past him.
Annie tasted of spearmint. Sweet and intoxicating, filling his senses with light and lifting some of the heaviness from his heart. He deepened the kiss, pushing his tongue between her open lips and touching the hidden spots in her mouth. Again, she responded, sending him nearly over the edge with desire.
His jeans tightened, his body reacting to the sexy woman in his arms. A fantasy flashed through his mind, one where they lowered themselves to the grass and lost their clothes in a heartbeat. He pictured Annie under him…waiting…wanting…
With a ragged growl, Steve forced himself to stop. His mouth freed hers as his arms loosened their hold on her. For a second, he’d held heaven in his arms. Now, things were as they should be. He had no business pretending he was man enough for a woman like Annie. No business at all.
“It’s not right.” He stepped back. Put some distance between them. “You had a hero—and you deserve another. I’m never going to be a hero. You’re right—I’m a damn coward—”
“Don’t say that! You’re—”
He devoured her with his eyes. Her lips were full, pink and swollen from being kissed. Beneath the cotton t-shirt, her nipples pressed hard against the fabric. And her hair, that wild, honey-colored cascade of waves, hung loosely around her shoulders, daring him to reach for her and pull her close.
But he couldn’t. Damn it, he just couldn’t. Loving someone meant you wanted the best for them—and he wasn’t the best man for Annie. She deserved so much more—even if she couldn’t see that for herself.
“I’m a loser. Always was. Always will be. I’m not worthy of being Ronnie’s pallbearer, or of giving the sermon at his funeral, but I’m going to do that—when and if they return him to Lobster Cove. After that, I’m blowing out of here. So don’t get involved with this loser, Annie. I won’t be here long.”
He turned and walked away. It was the hardest thing he’d ever done, but he forced himself to keep walking—even after he heard her sobbing behind him.
Chapter 26
The Shack was packed. A sign on the front door alerted tourists that the place was closed for business and hosting a private event. Some out-of-towners, friends who’d grown up in the Cove and moved away, came and with the locals, filled the place to capacity.
Annie considered staying home. After all, she wasn’t friends with the deceased. And listening to stories about the dead soldier would open old wounds. She’d nearly talked herself out of going, but in the end the desire to see Steve won out. She knew he’d be there. Even if he ignored her, she would be able to see him. It was crazy, but after the memorial she might never see him again. And, never again seeing a man who’d captured her heart hurt—she knew that all too well.
So, she went. If Clarisse noticed her red, puffy eyes or how subdued she was, she kept it to herself.
Sienna was spending the night at Heather’s house. The baby was teething, so rather than leave the crying infant with a babysitter from Bar Harbor, the young mother had graciously offered to watch a number of children, including Sienna. At last count she’d had fifteen kids at her place and planned to hold a sleepover to be remembered.
Relieved of the responsibilities of motherhood for a night, Annie stepped up to the bar and ordered a draft. The beer slid down her throat like a cool breeze over parched desert, so she ordered a second. There were trays of cold cuts and salads at the end of the bar, but she passed those by.
A donation basket had made the rounds, and she’d dropped cash onto the pile. She didn’t know if it was going to pay for the memorial or to help Ronnie’s family, and she didn’t care. The evening had barely started and already her heart was shattered. The details weren’t something she could cope with.
Folks from Lobster Cove knew how to honor someone. The crowd was reverent and on the quiet side early on, but as people gathered, laughter began to fill the room. Snippets of shared remembrances, funny stories, and how-about-the-time anecdotes began to circulate.
Annie watched from the sidelines. She sipped her beer—it was her third—and kept her own counsel. It was hard to talk about someone she didn’t know. Harder still to talk about all that she did know about being a war widow. So, she stayed silent.
Clarisse walked over and hopped up on the empty barstool beside her. She wore the week’s events in her expression, deep circles beneath her eyes and sadness etched into every wrinkle on her face. The lips that were usually pulled up into a smile without effort now looked almost too heavy to turn up into the tiny smile that was offered.
“How are you doing? Are you okay?”
Clarisse probed her with her gaze so deeply Annie turned away. It passed through her mind that Brian’s grandmother could probably see into her soul if she chose to do so. There wasn’t much she hadn’t seen or heard in her lifetime; how could Annie expect to hide her true feelings from someone with so much experience?
She lied. And, she drank, finishing the beer she’d been nursing.
“I’m fine. No worries, Clarisse.”
She put the empty glass on a wooden ledge on the wall behind them. She folded her hands on her lap, attempting to look completely at ease. Smoothing her hand over the casual blue gauze skirt she’d worn, with its matching paisley top, she searched the crowd for Steve before turning back to Clarisse.
Still no sign of him.
“Have you seen Ronnie’s sister? His wife?”
Clarisse sighed. She took a swallow from the glass in her hand, swirling the liquid around a bit after she’d drunk. Annie knew Clarisse’s preference for a neat Tom Collins so she was certain that was what the glass contained.
“This afternoon. They’re holding up surprisingly well. It’s good they have each other to lean on. When one stumbles, the other pulls her upright. I think it’s going to be that way for them for a long time.”
“A long, long time. Any idea when he’ll be coming home? Have they heard?”
“That’s the only real consolation. Someone from the war department phoned this morning. Ronnie and the other members of his division who were killed in the fighting that day are being sent home within the next two weeks. So, they’ll have the funeral and then the real healing can begin.”
Annie knew that before the healing could start, the grieving had to be dealt with, but she kept her mouth shut.
“That’s something, at least. Do they need anything?”
It was a standard question, one she knew the answer to. but it had to be asked regardless. What they needed, she couldn’t provide. No one could.
“Nothing, I’m afraid. Just the love and support of those around them. And, time.” Clarisse reached over and patted Annie’s hand. “You more than anyone knows how important time is to those who’ve lost a loved one.”
“I do.”
Her gaze hit the door as it opened, almost as if she’d known he was the next to arrive. There was no way to hear his Harley over the noise in the bar, but she spotted him as soon as he entered.
Steve cleaned up nicely. No more brake fluid that she could see. He wore a blue button-down shirt tucked into pressed jeans. Black cowboy boots matched a black belt, completing his ensemble.
Her heart flipped inside her chest when he looked her way. They stared at each other for a few moments, then he was swallowed by the crowd. As Steve made his way to the bar, he spoke to nearly everyone, shaking hands and hugging many.
“You don’t have to stay if you don’t want to.” Clar
isse leaned closer, whispered in Annie’s ear. “You don’t need to torture yourself, honey. It’s time you take care of you, and I’m not sure this is good for you.”
Annie swallowed hard. The desire to run wrangled with the need to see Steve—even if they didn’t speak, she was closer to him here than anywhere else.
“I’m fine.” She reached for her glass as she slid off the barstool. “Getting another beer. Can I get you anything?”
Clarisse held up her glass. Shook the ice cubes. “Nope, thanks. Still some Collins left in my glass.”
Two hours passed in a heartbeat. The crowd was so thick that spotting Steve was a futile effort, so Annie spoke to the few people she knew and tried to forget about him. It was hard, but she managed to have a decent time, learning a lot about the man they gathered to remember. Ronnie became real in the stories told by his friends. She heard him laugh in the laughter of those who loved him. His accomplishments shone in the eyes of those who relayed the dates in his life that could never be forgotten. The man grew in her mind and heart with every story she heard, every joke she shared, and with each tear she watched wiped away.
Love didn’t die. Ronnie would always be alive in the hearts and minds of those who loved him. It warmed her heart knowing that, and knowing, too, that her Brian held the same status. It was a comforting thought.
“Here.” Jennifer—Annie had forgotten her last name in the crush of introductions—pressed a bottle of Budweiser into her hand. “Your glass is empty. Bud was Ronnie’s favorite.”
“Thanks.” Annie had lost count of the number of beers she’d consumed. It didn’t matter. Sienna was safe, and the house was just around the corner, so she wasn’t driving. She put the bottle to her lips just as a bell on the bar began to chime.
Everyone turned. Big Al and Steve stood behind the bar, waving their arms to gain everyone’s attention. The place quieted.
Big Al spoke first. His words were slightly slurred but his intention was clear.
“We all know why we’re here tonight. Ronnie Murray was a stand-up guy. He was born in Lobster Cove. Lived his whole life in Lobster Cove. Married his high school sweetheart here—hey, most of us were at that wedding, weren’t we? Ronnie worked here, he was a member of the community, someone we all knew and loved. And, damn it, he was supposed to grow old here, too…”
