Jack (7 Brides for 7 Soldiers Book 5)

by Julia London

  He did make it to the restaurant. But it was a quarter to nine, and Whitney and her father were gone.

  He’d called a dozen times, had texted a dozen times more, but Whitney had not responded. He was desperate for her to know that this hadn’t happened for the reasons she believed. He was desperate for her to know he’d had a chance to break open his story, and he’d taken it, and that the only reason he’d been able to take it at all was because of her. She had made it possible—Whitney Baldwin, with the many walks and encouragement, had infused him with the strength he needed to go out in the world. She had kicked open the door to his life for him.

  The event, which Steve Simmons was running, was a charity fundraiser. Steve was not there when Jack arrived at a quarter to six with his pulse pounding so hard in his veins that his head hurt. Instead, the ballroom had been full of people, who assumed he had been hired to help and they’d asked him to check the mics. That request had sent Jack’s panic into overdrive but somehow he’d managed to do it, in spite of all the warning signs of a full-on assault of panic building in his head and chest. But by some miracle, it hadn’t come. He’d kept chanting nothing is happening, nothing is happening over and over in his head.

  He knew the moment Steve Simmons arrived, because he was dressed in a formal tuxedo and swept in like a man who thought he had star power. He carried an iPad, the glow of which illuminated his smooth, botoxed face. He began to direct his small entourage.

  He clearly believed Jack was part of the working crew, as had everyone else, and the two times Jack managed to get up the nerve to approach him, Steve Simmons responded with a crisp, “Not just now,” and whirled off into a vortex of impressive activity.

  At half past six, Jack still thought he could get to the restaurant just a few minutes late. He figured once the evening began, he could pull Steve aside, and then run—literally—back to the restaurant. Whitney would be upset with him, but he’d smooth things over with her. She’d be proud of him. It would prove to her that he was truly on the mend, and that was equally important to her.

  At least that’s what he told himself between his internal chants of nothing is happening.

  The guests had begun to arrive, dozens upon dozens, coming in twos and threes, quickly forming a crowd. Jack’s heart raced painfully in his chest as more people filled the room. The edges of his vision blurred. He needed to be somewhere quiet and breathe, but that wasn’t possible. This was too important—he was not leaving until he spoke to Steve Simmons.

  He kept thinking about Peter. Kept reminding himself that if he let unnatural fear win, Peter’s death meant nothing.

  Breathe in, breathe out. This crowd won’t hurt me.

  It was a quarter to eight before Jack managed to get Steve Simmons to the side. By then, Whitney was not responding to his calls or texts.

  “Do I know you?” Steve had asked curiously as Jack drew him to the back, where they could speak in hushed tones while a speaker addressed the room.

  “I’m a journalist.”

  “Why are you talking to me? There are dozens of CEOs in this crowd.”

  “It’s about Victory Health Services.”

  A strange look came over Steve’s face. “What? Why? Look, I don’t know what that’s about, but I think you better leave,” he’d said. “I have a job to do here.” He moved as if to walk away, but Jack had put his hand on Steve’s arm.

  “Get your hand off me,” Steve snapped.

  Jack said quickly, “What would you say if I told you that Victory Health Services took government funds intended to help soldiers returning home with physical and psychological issues to pay for a fancy party instead? That’s not going to look good for Diana Franklin.”

  “What are you talking about?” Steve had demanded, yanking his arm away.

  Jack glanced at the crowd, then with his head, motioned to a door and a hallway that led to the restrooms.

  Steve had reluctantly followed him outside, and with his arms folded tightly over his chest, he’d listened as Jack laid out his story. Appointments that never happened. Follow-ups that never went through. A dead vet, maybe more. Steve was appropriately appalled. But he hadn’t believed Jack’s theory. He’d pulled out his iPad and swiped across a few screens. “That can’t be possible,” he’d said, his gaze narrowing as he studied the screen. “They paid for the golf club with a check drawn from FSB Associates.”

  “Signed by whom?” Jack asked.

  “Paul Calderini,” Steve had said.

  That was the name of the clinic director.

  “I remember that event. It included the management of their San Francisco and Portland offices as well.” He looked at Jack. “If what you say is true, a proper auditor would have noticed it.”

  Jack had given him a look. “We’re talking about the VA,” he said. “Do you have any idea how understaffed and overworked the Veteran’s Administration is?”

  Steve had frowned down at the screen.

  “You have to give me those records,” Jack said.

  “I will not,” Steve said pertly, and cradled the iPad against his chest. “This thing is my life. I am lost without it.”

  Jack ran a hand over his head. “My friend shot himself because he couldn’t get help from Victory Health Services,” he said quietly. “While they were dancing the night away at a golf club, he stuck a gun under his chin and pulled the trigger.”

  Steve groaned. “You can’t have it,” he said, but he shoved the iPad at Jack. “However, you can take as many notes as you need for now. I will need that returned to me in an hour. And I never met you.” He walked out of the hallway and back into the charity ball.

  Jack had pulled out his phone, and had begun taking pictures of the iPad’s screen, countless pictures of receipts and plans for wellness chats, high dollar meals, open bars, and a themed party.

  In between, he kept trying to reach Whitney.

  He should have called her before he left, told her what was going on. But he’d been convinced he would make it on time. He’d been walking a fine line between courage and cowardice, and he’d had to attack that small window of opportunity when he felt he could actually go to a hotel and confront a stranger.

  When he had what he needed, he’d returned the iPad to Steve, then had run to the restaurant in dress shoes, his tie streaming behind him. He’d reached the restaurant in a sweat and was certain he looked like a deranged idiot. The maître’d’ did not want him inside, but assured him the Baldwin party had completed their meal and left for the evening.

  Whitney wouldn’t answer his calls or texts all weekend.

  This was certainly not the first time a woman had been mad at him, but it was certainly the worst. He had to wait it out. He confirmed his Dinner Magic meal kit was coming Monday, and he waited. He purchased an expensive bottle of wine at the bodega—going Sunday afternoon along with all the other shoppers. He was ready to do whatever he had to do. She would come in, and she would let him have it with both barrels. He would beg her forgiveness and take her out. If he could chase down Steve Simmons, he could treat Whitney to a fancy dinner. And then he’d beg and grovel if he had to. He understood how much he’d let her down. He’d broken his promise. He’d told her she could count on him. She could count on him—in a weird way, the fact that he went to the Fairmont and confronted Steve Simmons proved that she could count on him. This treatment was working.

  The challenge would be to get her to see that.

  Monday afternoon, Tristan, the new doorman, called up. “Dinner Magic,” he said.

  “Yep.” Jack opened the front door. Buster sat in the open door, his tail moving eagerly in anticipation. Jack went back inside to straighten the candles, to arrange the flowers—which he had picked out when he went to the flower shop, see how hard he was trying—but then Buster barked. Buster did not bark at Whitney.

  Jack turned around just as a dude walked in. “Oh, hey, man, I’m Keith, your chef.”

  You’re not a chef.

  �
��I’m cooking your dinner tonight.” He held up the bag.

  “Where’s Whitney?” Jack asked.

  “Who?”

  “Whitney. She always comes,” Jack said, feeling defensive.

  “Man, I don’t know any Whitney. Wait. Is she the one who had downtown? All I know is that she quit.”

  Jack’s heart clawed its way to his throat. “She quit?”

  “That’s what I heard. Dude, could you call your dog? He’s in the way.”

  Buster wasn’t in the way; Buster lived here, and he liked to lie on the kitchen floor while Whitney cooked. Jack whistled for him. Buster came with his head hanging low.

  “Just put it in the fridge,” he said to Keith, and slunk down the hall, back to his desk.

  She quit? Jack dragged both hands through his hair. His heart was beginning to hurt, but not with panic. With sheer misery. Whitney was being unreasonable. She was being totally, completely, maddeningly unreasonable.

  Or was she? She’d tried so hard to accept him like he was, and he’d let her down in the worst way. Of course she was done.

  The next morning, Jack called Dinner Magic and told the lady on the phone he wanted Whitney, not the dude.

  “I’m sorry, sir, but she has resigned.”

  “Well, why did she resign? Did she resign because of me?” he demanded.

  “What? I…I don’t know,” the woman said. “And even if I did, I would not be at liberty to say.”

  “You know what? Cancel my service,” Jack said. “I don’t want Dinner Magic if Whitney is not bringing it.” He didn’t need the reminder of Whitney or that he’d had to have a service like that because he was out of his mind. To be honest, he was sick to death of the sausage and zucchini and whatever else he’d been ordering all these weeks.

  He was still stewing about it the next day and cancelled Rain. “I’m going to take Buster today,” he said, leaving a message on Rain’s phone. If Mohammed wouldn’t go to the mountain and all that… Jack was going to her apartment to beg her.

  It was raining, and Jack didn’t remember very well how to get to Whitney’s. Thank God Buster seemed to know, turning left when Jack would have turned right. When they reached her apartment, Jack knocked. And knocked again. And then pounded on her door, yelling at her to please open. The rain was really coming down now, but he and Buster stood on her stoop, waiting for her to open the door.

  Several minutes passed, and Jack climbed over a railing to peer in her window. He couldn’t see anything, really. When a neighbor stepped out to tell him he was going to call the police, Jack told him to mind his own business. But he and Buster left.

  For the next two days, he called her several times over, but it rolled to voice mail, until her voice mail was full and wouldn’t take any more messages. Jack looked at Buster. “She ghosted me, man. She ghosted me.”

  He was a desperate man. He missed her so much that it hurt, a gnawing pit in his stomach. He missed her laugh, and how much she talked, and her cupcakes. He missed her ambition, and her sense of humor, and the way her eyes shone at him.

  He loved Whitney Baldwin. He loved her so much, and even that, he’d screwed up. He hadn’t told her on the phone because he wanted it to be special.

  He called Christie. “Have you talked to Whitney?”

  “No,” she said, chomping on something. “Why?”

  “I screwed up, Christie,” he said, his voice shaking, and told her what had happened.

  “Oh my God, Jack! I’ll try her.”

  Unfortunately, Christie couldn’t raise Whitney, either.

  As a last resort, Jack tracked down Louisa. She wasn’t that hard to find—her ads were everywhere. When he got her on the phone, he told her his name.

  “Who?” she asked.

  “Whitney’s boyfriend.”

  “Oh,” she said. “You’re using the term boyfriend pretty loosely, aren’t you?”

  “Probably,” he admitted. “Have you talked to her?”

  Louisa snorted. “Oh, I’ve talked to her—”

  “Look, I screwed up,” Jack said. “I want to apologize. Do you know where she is?”

  Louisa hesitated.

  “Please tell me, Louisa. Please.”

  “No,” she said pertly. “You really hurt her, Jack.”

  “I know. God help me, I know. But she doesn’t know why or how, and I need her to know that. You want her to know that, don’t you?”

  Louisa sighed. “Fine. She’s in Orange County.”

  Jack was stunned. “She went home?” he asked in disbelief. She bailed? She threw in the towel? How could she have done that? She was only getting started!

  “Yep. Went home with her dad.”

  Jack closed his eyes. All of Whitney’s worst fears had come true, and it was his fault. He had failed her utterly and completely and he hated himself for it. “Do you know the address?”

  “Why?” Louisa asked suspiciously.

  “To send flowers.”

  Louisa snorted. “Well, that’s not going to work. But if you insist.” She gave him the address.

  Jack thanked Louisa for her help, then hung up. He looked at Buster. “I hope you’re okay hanging with Rain for a couple of days, pal. There’s something I have to go do.” He thought of the airport, of getting on a plane—God help him, he was breaking a sweat just thinking about it—and wondered how he would ever pull this off. It felt impossible.

  But he had to try. Whitney was worth every panic attack.

  Twenty-one

  Whitney had no idea she had so much stuff. There were boxes everywhere, stacked in sets of three and four.

  “What are you going to do with all of this?” Taylor asked as she maneuvered through the boxes.

  “That’s a good question,” Whitney said.

  Her mother appeared in the doorway of Whitney’s room. “My goodness! We all have too many things, don’t we? This makes me want to purge this house.”

  “Mom, this house is ten thousand square feet. You’d need a crew.” Taylor plopped down on Whitney’s bed. Below them, the doorbell rang.

  “That will be the van, I suspect.” Her mother went off to answer the door.

  “Tell me the truth, Whit—is this what you really want?” Taylor asked.

  Whitney tucked her hair behind her ears and looked around at everything. “Yes. It really is.”

  “You’re sure,” Taylor said.

  “I’m sure.” Actually, it was the only thing she felt confident about.

  It was hard to think about what she truly wanted because she missed Jack terribly. She was furious with him, and she wanted to kick his ass with the new stilettos she’d bought when she and Taylor did some retail therapy. She wanted to hate him, but she just kept missing him. She wondered how he was coping. She imagined him in the corner of his room in the throes of a panic attack now that she, his security blanket, was gone.

  But that was just it. She didn’t want to be his security blanket. She wanted to be his partner. She wanted him to be her partner, and Jack wasn’t capable of that.

  “It’s time to do this, Taylor,” Whitney said. “All my life, I’ve been swimming upstream—”

  “Whitney!” her mother called from somewhere below. “Will you come here, please?”

  Whitney looked at Taylor. “Do not go through my shoes. I have cataloged every pair.”

  Taylor rolled her eyes, but her gaze landed on the stack of boxes with Whitney’s shoes.

  Whitney ran down the curving staircase to the ground floor, nearly tripping on the last step when she saw just who stood in the door with one hand shoved in a pocket, and the other gripping a garish bouquet of flowers. The sight of Jack made her feel a little faint—her heart fluttered. She couldn’t comprehend how he was standing here, in another city, another state. “How are you here? Why are you here?”

  “Why do you think?” he asked. “Because I love you.”

  Whitney gaped at him. Did he just say what she thought he said? He looked very nervous. Bu
t not in a suspicious way, as if he feared something. It was a different sort of nervous.

  “Whitney?” her mother said.

  “Oh. Mom…this is Jack Carter.”

  “Oh,” her mother said. She had, of course, heard everything about Jack Carter over a bottle of wine one night.

  “Mrs. Baldwin, I’m sorry to barge in,” Jack said. “I apologize, but I didn’t know how else to reach Whitney. She wouldn’t return my calls.”

  He was talking to a stranger. He was talking to a stranger in a strange house as if it was perfectly normal.

  “We’re in the middle of a move,” her mother said crisply.

  “I know. That’s why I’m here,” he said.

  “Because of the move?” Whitney asked, confused now. Her traitorous heart was taking him in—all of him. He looked healthy. Sexy. There was something else, she realized—he wasn’t perspiring. He looked calm and collected, and damn, it was so good to see him. But still, how had he gotten here? There’s no way Jack would fly to California. Or drive. Too many highways.

  “Yes, the move,” he said to her. “I’m not going to let that happen. I’m just not.”

  Whitney and her mother exchanged a look. Her mother said, “He thinks—”

  “Yeah,” Whitney said.

  Her mother moved forward and reached for the flowers he was holding in a vise grip. “Let me put these in water.”

  Jack reluctantly let go of them, then shoved his hand in his pocket and locked his eyes with Whitney as her mother stepped out of the foyer.

  “How did you get here?” Whitney asked.

  “I flew.”

  “By yourself?”

  “By myself.”

  “Wow,” she whispered, in awe. “I wouldn’t have thought—”

  “Me either,” he said. “But, you know, some things are worth dying for.”

  He meant her, and Whitney’s traitorous heart inched a little closer to Jack. “You shouldn’t have come,” she said, because the rational part of her was yelling at her to wake up, to remember what he’d done and not be fooled by romantic gestures.