Jameson's Salvation

by Riley Edwards

  Yes, Jameson felt a hell of a lot more than he let on, and maybe it was time to be honest about that, too.

  14

  Kennedy

  Two days ago, something big changed, yet everything was still the same.

  Peyton Marshall was still at large. The threat of Reggie was still looming over me, though I hadn’t heard from him again. Jameson was going to work every day, the team trying to dig up some sort of dirt on Reggie while handling their other business. I still worked every day. And Jameson came home to my house each night.

  He’d packed a bag and brought it over, instead of going back to his house every morning to get ready. That was one thing that had changed, though it seemed small, I sensed it was huge for him and a pretty big step for me, too. It said he planned on staying awhile and strangely I was more than okay with that. Yet, we didn’t talk about it. As a matter of fact, since the night in his truck, conversation had been light.

  I think after all the heavy we needed light. We were getting to know each other, the people we were now, not what had made us into who we were. It was like we’d slipped into this natural routine that was comfortable and exciting all at once.

  I was in my truck when Jameson returned my earlier call.

  “Hey,” I answered.

  “Where you at?”

  “On my way to my mom’s. She called to tell me her air conditioner’s not working. It did this last year, too. Hopefully it will be an easy fix.”

  “Did she say what was wrong?”

  I could hear a door slam shut in the background when I answered. “Honey, she doesn’t know anything about her AC. All she said was when she turned it on, it wasn’t blowing cool air. Last time it happened it was the run start capacitor. I’m praying it’s the same this time and a forty-dollar fix and not a two-thousand-dollar new unit.”

  My response was met with silence so I called out, “Jameson? Did I lose you?”

  “No. I’m here. I’ll meet you at your mom’s.”

  “You don’t have to—”

  “Is there a reason you don’t want me to meet your mom?”

  Yes!

  “No. All I’m saying is you’ve been working all day and it should only take me a few minutes to figure out what’s wrong and hopefully another thirty to fix it.”

  “Good, then it will only take you fifteen with my help.”

  Jameson ended the call without a goodbye and I spent the rest of the drive to my mom’s in a panic. I’d never brought a man around my mother. Mostly because there had been no man who lasted long enough to meet her, but also because I didn’t want to get my mom’s hopes up. No guy lasted because he eventually got fed up with my work schedule and never having time to go out. That may’ve been a slight exaggeration—I could’ve made time, but I never had because I’d never been all that interested in a man enough to rearrange my life.

  I was still having a minor freak-out when I pulled in front of my mom’s house. I checked her mailbox which was empty, indicating Miss Janice had already done it, and made my way to the front door. It was unlocked as usual and I realized I’d have to find a way to tell my mom to keep her door locked from now on without telling her my house had been broken into.

  Her doctor had said that not only did her diet have to change, but her stress level as well. My mom hadn’t held a job since I was born. She’d been a stay-at-home mom and a farmer’s wife. Both of those had been full-time work. Then after what happened to my dad she got his insurance money and it had been just enough for her to live on if she budgeted. When she bought her house in town, she’d used the money from the land to purchase it outright. But that didn’t mean she was flush with cash, it meant she had to live on a budget and she did. So instead of finding a nine-to-five so she could make more money than just meeting her necessities, she over-scheduled herself volunteering.

  She’d worked every fundraiser Kent County had, from the fire company’s to the elementary school. If someone was trying to raise money, my mom had her hand in it and worked herself to the bone. It was her way of repaying her community for the support they’d shown when her husband was murdered.

  She obsessively worried about the hospital downsizing, the elementary schools in the area closing, about a bridge that was proposed that would bring traffic from the western shore. Anything and everything she could worry about she did. Since her stroke she’d been curtailed, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t trying her best to get back to a hundred percent so she could go full-steam ahead.

  The last thing my mother needed was to be worried about me. And thankfully this bridge business had her mind occupied to capacity.

  “Hey, Mama,” I called out.

  “In the kitchen.”

  I walked through her living room, glancing around as I went. It was as tidy as it always was. She hadn’t changed a thing since she’d bought the old Victorian. The three-bedroom house had been built around the same time our old farmhouse was, but the previous owners of this one had gone to great pains to keep everything original except for the kitchen. That had been upgraded and was fabulous. Though I thought the dark mahogany floors and ornate woodwork throughout the house was fabulous, too, I could’ve gone without the flower wallpaper. But my mom loved it. She said it added charm.

  “It’s hotter than Hades in here, Mama.”

  “Humid, too. Janice is going to have to take me to get my hair washed and set a second time this week.”

  I glanced at my mother’s hair and it was perfect just like it always was. She’d taken to the beauty salon to get her hair washed and straightened after she declared I didn’t know how to do it correctly. I hadn’t known there was a specific way to straighten hair seeing as mine was bone-straight, something I’d thankfully inherited from my father.

  “I’m sure Miss Janice won’t mind, she loves to go in and gossip with all the old biddies.”

  “You know that’s rude,” she chastised. “I’m no spring chicken so you’re talking about me.”

  “Mama, those women in the salon have twenty years on you yet. How long’s your air conditioner been broken?”

  “Three days.”

  “Three days? Mom, it’s damn near a hundred degrees outside and it was hotter yesterday. Why didn’t you call me sooner?”

  “Because I knew you’d be getting everything ready for the market. It’s the busiest time of the year for you and I was going to tough it out. But it got too darn hot today.”

  I sighed and hated that my mom had been sitting here in the heat because she didn’t want to bother me. Then I remembered—had I not been so caught up with Jameson I would’ve come by to check on her and she wouldn’t have had to call me. I was in the middle of mentally berating myself when I remembered Jameson was on his way over.

  Shit.

  “Mom, listen, a friend of mine is going to come by and help me take a look at your AC. Before he—”

  “He?” Mom cut me off.

  “Yes, Mother, he. I don’t want you to get the wrong idea. He’s just a good friend.”

  “How good of a friend?”

  Damn, my mom didn’t miss much.

  “A good one. Can we please leave it at that? And don’t say anything that will embarrass me.”

  “Embarrass you?”

  My mom’s face fell and I wanted to kick myself in the ass. Since her stroke she’d been self-conscious of everything.

  “You know what I mean, Ma. Don’t tell him any embarrassing stories about me when I was a kid.”

  “You never did anything embarrassing. You were a perfectly well-mannered child.”

  Except I wasn’t.

  “Right. Then I have nothing to worry about then.”

  I smiled sweetly at my mom and she gave me an over-exaggerated eyeroll.

  There was a knock on the door and elephants started to stampede in my stomach.

  “He’s here,” I unnecessarily announced.

  When I opened the heavy front door, Jameson was standing on my mom’s front porch looking o
ut of place among the hanging flower baskets and white wicker furniture that decorated the entrance.

  “Hi,” I greeted. “Come in.”

  “You did a great job.” He tilted his head to the side, motioning toward the new ramp I’d built.

  “Thanks.”

  I couldn’t stop myself from smiling, his praise felt good. No, better than good, it felt great. It always did when he admired my work. And he did it a lot, always telling me my garden looked great, or my cooking was awesome. He complimented my house and the renovations I’d done. Lots of little things throughout the day that made me feel like a million bucks.

  I stepped aside and let him walk into the living room. He scanned the interior before looking at me and asking, “Did you remodel this, too?”

  “No. Mom hasn’t changed anything since she moved in. Come on, she’s in the kitchen. Let me introduce you.”

  He nodded and followed me the short distance. My mom was sitting at the table and I knew the milli-second her eyes landed on Jameson. They widened in shock before her face broke out into a splitting smile and I wanted to tell her not to get her hopes up, but it was too late.

  “Oh, my. You’re a big fella,” Mom murmured, and I wanted to crawl under a rock—or better yet turn and flee before she could say anything else.

  Jameson’s chuckle filled the room and I supposed he was used to it. After all, I’d pretty much said the same thing to him, only I hadn’t called him a “fella.”

  “Jameson, this is my mom, Lola. Mom, Jameson Grant.”

  “Mrs. Lane, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  “And that voice,” she gasped. “Rich and deep.” My eyes nearly bugged out of my head at my mom’s proclamation. “A man with a baritone like that is a born leader, commanding attention when he enters a room.”

  “Mother,” I hissed then turned to Jameson.

  “Don’t mother me. It’s the truth. It’s said that men with deep voices have higher levels of testosterone. Your father had a deep voice, so I should know.”

  “Ohmygod. Shoot me now. Mom, please stop talking.”

  “Since when have you become so square? We’re talking about testosterone, not sperm count. And just for the record, higher testosterone does not mean a high sperm count, like one might think.”

  “Why is this happening to me?” I looked up at Jameson, hoping he’d somehow have the answer as to why my mother was talking about sperm counts.

  “That is an interesting fact, I did not know,” Jameson good-naturedly told my mother.

  “I have this book, it was given to me by my friend, Janice. It’s called Why Do Men Have Nipples. It has all sorts of interesting tidbits.”

  “Did my mom just say, ‘nipples’?” I don’t know who I was asking, perhaps God. Maybe He’d take pity on me and lightning would strike me dead so I would no longer be a part of this conversation.

  Thankfully, Jameson was smiling and thought my mother’s antics were amusing, because I did not.

  “During my last deployment, a buddy brought along a book called, Why Do Men Fall Asleep After Sex. I believe it was written by the same author. There were some long, boring nights when we’d sit around and read the questions out loud for laughs.”

  “You were in the service?” my mom asked and sat a little straighter.

  Oh, boy. Jameson was in for it now.

  “Yes, ma’am, the Navy.”

  “Call me Lola. And I thank you for your service from the bottom of my heart. I’m a member of the VFW Ladies Auxiliary and The Red Cross, and before I had this damn stroke, once a month me and a group of ladies would head over to Walter Reed. Now the ladies go without me, but I’m hoping by Christmas I’ll be ready to go back. I miss my boys, that’s for sure.”

  Jameson’s face lost all humor and I was worried she’d hit a nerve and wished she’d go back to talking about nipples.

  “When Christmas rolls around, I’ll make sure you get there.”

  “I’d like to be able to walk—”

  “With respect, Lola, it doesn’t make a damn bit of difference to the men and women who are lying in those beds if you go in there walking, rolling, or are being carried. All they need to see is your beautiful face and sweet smile. That’s what matters to them.”

  With a solemn nod my mom announced, “You’re right. And normally I wouldn’t accept such a gesture, seeing as it would take up your whole day. But I’m going to. Thank you.”

  “Now I see where you get it from.” Jameson looked down at me and smiled.

  “On that note, we’re going out back to check your unit,” I told my mom.

  “It was nice meeting you, Lola.” Jameson smiled at my mom and I swear my mom melted.

  Her eyes shown with happiness and my heart squeezed. I hadn’t seen a genuine smile on her face in a long time.

  Jameson waited until we were in the small postage stamp-sized backyard and out of eyesight of my mother before he pulled me into his arms and kissed me.

  “Missed you today, babe,” he murmured against my lips.

  “Missed you, too. Did you get a lot of work done?”

  “Chasin got a lead on a skip and headed to Ohio and Weston’s in DC for the next few days meeting with our contact at Homeland.”

  “Homeland Security?”

  “Yep. There’s a new contract. Nixon normally goes, but it’s McKenna’s birthday so he sent Weston.”

  Jameson scanned the backyard. Finally his gaze went back to the house and his eyes landed on the second story window. “Is your mom’s bedroom upstairs?”

  “No. Thankfully there’s a room downstairs that was used as a guest room. After her stroke I moved her bedroom down and she insisted I moved all of the guest furniture upstairs.”

  “That’s a lot of work.”

  “You’re telling me. But she said, every good Southern woman always has a guest room made up. She’s not from the South, by the way. She was born in Pennsylvania. But she loves herself some Southern Living magazine. I swear she reads it cover to cover every month and takes it as gospel. So I made up a guest room she’ll never see.” The truth of my words hit my chest and I prayed I was wrong and one day my mom would be able to climb her stairs again. “She hasn’t been upstairs since her stroke.”

  “She’ll get there. If she’s anything like you she won’t let anything stop her.”

  “I hope so.”

  We walked to the air conditioning unit and Jameson’s eyes narrowed and he knelt to get a better look at the refrigerant lines and inspected the pipes before saying, “Found the issue.”

  His voice was tight and had taken on a hard edge like it did when he was angry.

  “What is it? Did the line freeze and crack?”

  “Not unless it broke in a perfect hole.” He stood and let me look.

  Sure enough, there was a hole in the refrigerant line. “How would that happen?”

  “Considering there are copper shavings on the ground, I’d say someone drilled a hole in the line.”

  I was still balancing with my thighs to my calves, my ass a few inches from the grass, and my hands went to my face and the heel of my palms dug into my eye sockets.

  “What?” I whispered.

  Jameson reached down and hauled me up, pulling me to his chest, and wrapped his arms around me.

  “I don’t know what I’m more pissed about. That someone was in my mom’s backyard—and I have to tell you, that freaks me out. Or if I’m more angry Reggie’s now moved on to fucking with my mom.”

  “Good news is, it’s an easy fix. But we’re not doing it tonight. After I fix the line, someone needs to come and refill the refrigerant. We’ll head to the store now and get your mom a window unit so she doesn’t sweat her ass off tonight.”

  I nodded, the side of my face rubbing against his solid chest. It didn’t take a genius to know he was angry. His body was stiff—almost vibrating with it.

  “I’m glad you’re here.”

  “I am, too.” He kissed the top of my head and
pulled me back so he could look at me. “We’re gonna nail Reggie. In the meantime, we’re gonna keep you and your mom safe. But I think you should consider telling her what’s going on.” I started to protest but Jameson leaned down, silencing me with a quick, hard kiss before he continued. “Not right now, but just think about it. I know you don’t want her worried, but, babe, she needs to know so she can stay vigilant.”

  “I hate Reggie Coleman.”

  “Know that, too.”

  An hour later we were back at my mom’s with two new window units. Jameson had insisted on getting one for her bedroom and one for the living room. He’d also purchased locking devices to secure the windows so they couldn’t be opened farther once the air conditioner was in the window frame.

  My mom was not happy at the unsightly—her word—condensers hanging outside her house. She reserved her complaints for me and praised Jameson for his hard work, thanking him over and over again.

  When we were done, we wandered back into the kitchen to say goodbye to my mom. She was standing at the counter precariously balancing on her right leg and I ground my molars. She had a walker and a cane—neither of which she was using—and I knew she wouldn’t, not in front of Jameson. And if I called her out on it, I knew she’d tell me her physical therapist told her she needed to be up and moving. Which was true, but she was supposed to use the damn support cane to help her balance.

  “Won’t you stay for a glass of iced tea? I just made a fresh pitcher.” My mom smiled brightly at Jameson.

  “Love to. Thank you,” Jameson answered, and my eyes cut to him.

  Memories of the first time I’d met Jameson, when I, too, had offered him iced tea, flooded my mind. He’d swiftly declined my offer and fled like the hounds of hell were nipping at his ass.

  I huffed and started for the counter to help my mom, when I was hauled back into Jameson’s arms.

  “Babe.” He chuckled and kissed me full on the mouth in front of my mother.

  Oh, shit.