“And now you’re home again and everything is all right.” Her gaze took in the nooks and crannies of his face. He was such a handsome man. Square jaw, strong features, unruly hair with a touch of silver at the temples. No longer the Brodie of her youth, he showed a little wear. But the essence of the man was the same. He just needed some care and understanding—some time to heal.
“You’re still hurting. Do you mind if I try something?” She turned on one of her favorite CDs of harp and guitar—soft and soothing, and moved to stand behind him as he leaned his head back against the cushions. Wary, he stared up at her. She felt the top of his head brush against her belly, and the heat of his body bored into her. Gently, she raked her fingers across his forehead and through his hair. His scalp was damp and tight.
“Close your eyes,” she whispered. “You’re tense. Relax, and clear your mind.”
As gently as she could, she cradled his head in her hands and began to massage, resting her thumbs lightly against his temples. His pulse throbbed with each beat of his heart. The circling motion of her fingers brought a hiss from his lips. She smiled as he groaned with relief and closed his eyes under the steady caress of her fingers.
“Shh, Brodie. Give it a few minutes. Listen to the music and try to relax. You’ll feel better soon.”
Brodie scooted lower into the cushions and submitted to her ministrations with a long, low moan. With the rhythmic stroking of her fingers against his temples and the soothing strains of Chopin’s Sonata in E-Flat, she felt the tension leave his body. His shoulders dropped with a long, deep sigh as she slid her hands along the corded muscles in his neck, down the long line of shoulder to arm, and back again, over and over, in time with the beats of the music, until her fingers memorized the rhythm and her mind drifted to the sensations born of the muscle and man beneath her touch. He was firm and warm, so male, so beautiful.
A thrill of pleasure traveled through her fingertips as she fought to keep her touch clinical. Difficult, when she wanted to slide her hands beneath the collar of his shirt, down his chest, and enjoy the masculine shape of his body.
Her fingers were strong from all those hours of practicing. Most people didn’t realize how physical an activity playing the piano could be. Her arms and upper body were as fit as any athlete’s, and when she felt him relax, she began to dig in. Brodie moaned.
He growled in a deep bass, “You’re killing me here. Lighten up, Al.”
“Shh. Don’t be a baby. Give it a minute more. Even out your breathing. Keep your eyes closed. I’ve been told I have very talented fingers. Gram called it the healing touch. She had it, so she must have passed it on to me.”
On and on she spoke, in a soft lullaby voice crooning in time to the music. She recounted stories of their childhood, of the times her grandmother helped her through the physical and emotional pains of her life. She wove her voice in a subtle counterpoint to the melodic canvas of the Chopin, and watched him fade as she stroked. Each sentence drew him deeper, until he sighed in ultimate surrender to her touch.
Easing the kinks from his neck, she moved her palms again to his shoulders. He had such wide shoulders, such powerful muscles. His shoulders flexed under her hands, circling forward and back as she changed directions. When his muscles loosened, she circled his biceps and ran long, firms strokes up and down his arms, all the way to his fingertips and back.
Her own body responded to the feel of him. Touching him so intimately was turning her on. She bit her lip. He needed to rest, to heal. Her time would come…she hoped. For now, she enjoyed the freedom of touching him, and she squelched her feelings for the man temporarily at her mercy.
Brodie sighed, and she smiled. His head rolled to the side; his mouth slackened. He slept.
Allison gently covered him with an afghan and then tiptoed to the kitchen to turn off the meal she’d prepared. He needed sleep far more than he needed food. Being as quiet as she could, she stole to her comfy chair and switched the lamp on low, planning to read while he slept. She curled her feet beneath her body, and gazed at the man now sprawled on her sofa.
She’d known him most of her life, loved him for a good portion of it. Had anything really changed? Deep down, he was the same person, except the boy had grown into a man. A very appealing, sexy man. Still a hero, still good, still beautiful inside and out. He just needed a little healing before those parts of him came back.
She could help him.
She could love him.
And if he couldn’t or wouldn’t return that love?
It didn’t matter. She couldn’t have stopped loving him back then, when they were young and he didn’t know she existed, and she couldn’t stop loving him now. If she got hurt again in the process… Like Gram said, the heart wants what the heart wants. You don’t choose love—it chooses you.
But, what about Jess? Brodie was the one she’d always wanted, but he was only half of the equation. As much as she wanted him, he might never be hers. She knew that. And she wanted someone to love; she was ready for someone to love her. She wasn’t naïve enough to think there wouldn’t be life after Brodie. Jess Harper was a very nice man…a very appealing man…a nice possibility.
But for now, Brodie slept on her sofa, and the sounds of his gentle snores brought joy to her heart.
****
Brodie woke the next morning to the delicious smell of coffee brewing. He swung his legs over the side of the sofa and looked around with a fuzzy head but no headache. Not his house. Whose then?
Shit! Allison’s house. Groaning aloud, he buried his face in his hands. He’d spent the entire night at her house, asleep. Mr. Romance.
He’d come for dinner and, before he knew it, she had him submitting to—what would you call it? It was probably closer to witchcraft than anything else. His muscles were sore, but other than that, he felt like a million bucks. Where was she anyway?
Noises from the back of the house penetrated the silence as he heard sounds of water running. She was taking a shower. Visions of her lush body dripping wet and soapy had his morning wood hard to ignore.
Control yourself, man. This is Ally. She’s practically your sister, for God’s sake.
No, that was a lie. He didn’t think of her that way any longer. She was all woman. Beautiful, elegant, desirable, and probably out of reach. But he wanted her…dear Lord, how he wanted her.
Last night her hands had been like magic, and the softness of her belly cushioning the back of his head, the cool strength of her fingers taking away the agony of his nightmares and the pain pounding through his head. And her scent…floral, light, hers alone.
He walked down the hall to the bathroom and leaned against the doorjamb. He heard water running. Should he shout through the closed door? Wait until she finished her shower and came out? Or—and this was his personal favorite—join her?
He kept seeing images of her curvaceous body covered in suds and streams of hot water running down full breasts and mouthwatering limbs. Damn. He should just run, get the hell out and let her think he was an ass and a coward. Well, he was being an ass, and he was acting like a coward.
“Allison?” he called. “I’m going to my house and get cleaned up. Thanks for what you did last night. I’m feeling a lot better. I’ll see you later, okay?”
The water stopped, the door opened, and his mouth went dry. Shit. Her skin was all pink and damp from the shower. Her hair was wet and streaming down her back. The thin white towel she wore clung to her wet spots and made him want to haul her over his shoulder and take her the three tiny steps from the bath to her bedroom.
He swallowed as his eyes feasted on the full, creamy globes of her breasts above the towel’s edge, and he burned at the sight of her thrusting nipples pertly teasing him through the damp fabric.
All pretty from her shower, her face lit up like the first ray of sun over the crest of the mountain, fresh and pure and guileless. He went rock hard, and if he didn’t leave right this minute, every part of him was going to give in
to his baser desires and take her. Damn the consequences.
She stepped into his space, and he caught a whiff of her minty breath. She looked at him with those killer blue eyes all wide and appealing.
“Don’t you want some breakfast?”
“Uh, no. I…ah…better not. Thanks again for last night.” He sounded lame, but he really had to get out of there. Before she could comment, he backed down the hall, one step at a time. “Oh, before I forget. Can you give me Brett’s number? I’ve been meaning to ask you. Thought it would be fun to get together with him now that we’re both civilians again.”
The sunlight fell from her smile, a total eclipse. The abrupt change sent a cold river of fear rushing through his veins.
“Ally? What is it?” What the hell had he said that caused this reaction? Something was terribly wrong.
She took a deep breath and shook her head. “No. No, I’m all right.” She rested against the wall, white-knuckled fingers gripping the towel like a lifeline. She stared back at him with tears beginning to well in her wide eyes.
She drew a long, tortured breath, and fought for control. “Brodie, I thought you knew. I just assumed you’d heard…that someone had told you…Brett…Brett died, Brodie. He’s gone. Four years ago.”
Sick, cold, agony gripped his gut as he slumped against the opposing wall, his head thrown back, eyes toward the sky. He didn’t know what to say. He couldn’t believe it. How was it he hadn’t heard? He’d thought his buddy was living elsewhere, intended to look him up. Brett…dead. Jesus. “What happened? When? God, Allison. I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”
She held up her hand and disappeared into the bedroom, only to come back in a fluffy white robe. He pushed off the wall and put his hands on her quaking shoulders. “Baby, I’m so sorry…so sorry.”
She patted one hand and ducked under his arm. “Come on.”
She led him to the kitchen and poured them each a cup of coffee. When they’d settled and taken a few sips of the reviving brew, she began the story. He could see the pain it caused, but he had to know. They’d lost touch while in the service, but Brett…dead… It was inconceivable.
Her eyes glued to his, she began the painful telling of the horror of her brother’s death.
She shivered, and he reached for her hand and laced his fingers through hers.
“I was preoccupied with my music, busy with rehearsals and performances. The tour was a phenomenal success. I’d entered the Van Cliburn competition in St. Petersburg, and my career seemed to be taking off, but I wasn’t oblivious to what was going on in Brett’s life. He’d told me he was having a hard time dealing with the death of one of his friends. They’d been close, assigned to the same unit for two tours.”
She paused and smiled through watery eyes. “His name was Roger, but Brett called him Budge—because he was always lagging behind. Brett teased him about being hard to budge, thus the nickname. A sniper attacked. Brett took one in the shoulder—it shattered the joint—and Budge…he took a fatal shot to the head. One minute he was there, the next he wasn’t. Brett couldn’t get past it.
“That experience was a turning point for Brett. He went into full-stage PTSD. You know what I’m talking about—no sleeping, no eating, nightmares and flashbacks. Almost every returning vet experiences something similar; it’s part of the syndrome.”
Brodie didn’t know what to say to comfort her. His heart rate amped up as the distant sounds of battle warred with his knowledge that he was home, that the smell of burning metal and torn flesh wasn’t real. For a moment the telling of his friend’s experience brought him right back to ground zero.
“As God is my witness, Brodie, if I’d known how far gone he was, I would never have left him in New York. I’ll never get over the regret, the guilt of not being there for him that night. I wasn’t. I allowed myself to go away, played in the competition, and came home one week later. He was already dead—he’d put his service revolver in his mouth and pulled the trigger. I…I got there just too late.”
“My God!” Brodie whispered.
Allison paced the floor with her arms wrapped around her body. She paused, drawing in a trembling breath. “He left a note. All it said was, ‘I’m sorry. Forgive me. I love you.’ And that was it. He was gone. I should have come back when I heard the pain in his voice in our last phone call. But I didn’t. Now that I know what goes on in the mind of a man with PTSD, I tell myself it wasn’t Brett, it was the illness. But the result was the same…I lost him forever.”
A stunned Brodie stared back at her. Sweat beaded his forehead. His chest heaved with the struggle to breathe. She called his name; he didn’t seem to hear. She could see the demons of his past playing over his features as clearly as if she were in a movie theater with his experience emblazoned on the screen—the sights, sounds, smells, and pain of men killing and being killed. He’d been there, and right now, she bore witness to his struggle to return to the land of the living. To return to her, and the everyday normalcy that was safety and home.
Perhaps she shouldn’t have told him. She had no idea what stage of treatment he’d reached. But he deserved to know—to have kept it from him would have been a lie.
He gazed at her without seeing, momentarily lost in the horrors of war, the agony of loss, the torture of remembrance.
“Brodie?” she questioned softly. “You’re okay, safe, here with me. In my house, my kitchen. Everything’s going to be all right. Brett’s at peace now. I believe that with all my heart. He wouldn’t want us to mourn. Sometimes I think I can feel his arms around me, hear his voice telling me he’s okay, in a better place, happy.”
“You’re a better person than I am,” he said, his voice low and broken.
“That isn’t true. I’ve had longer to come to terms with his death. I’ve had a chance to make peace with it.”
After a time, he gained control of his emotions and gathered her into his arms, kissing her hair, murmuring words of comfort. They held each other and rocked back and forth, absorbing the warmth from each other’s touch.
“That’s when you left the concert stage for good, isn’t it? You went back to school and took your certifications, and devoted your life to helping other men and women with the same problems as Brett. An attempt at absolution.” He leaned back and put his hands on her face, turning her to meet his gaze. “If it gives you purpose, that’s one thing; if dealing with the tragedies of war every day of your life is an attempt to atone for not recognizing Brett’s state of mind, that’s something else altogether. Baby, he wouldn’t want you to live your life doing penance. You’re a concert pianist, you belong on the stage, using your gifts to bring joy and light to the world.”
She shook her head. “No. You’re wrong. Maybe it started that way. Maybe in the beginning I wanted to make up for my selfishness, but not anymore. I love what I do. I still perform. I don’t play for accolades or fame or money, but my music makes more of a difference now, when it calms the wounded hearts of suffering men and women, than it ever could being played on the glamorous stages of Europe. It brings me peace. It gives me joy. It’s what I’m meant to do with my life.”
“Brett would be so proud of you, baby,” he whispered.
She pushed from his arms. “I have to go to work—Sunday’s not a regular day; Dr. Leo has some paperwork she wants me to see about—but you’re welcome to come for dinner tonight, if you want. We’ll try again.”
“You’re giving me a do-over?” he asked with a gentle smile.
“As many as you like,” she replied, and gifted him with a light kiss goodbye.
She was so damn strong, so giving, so special. So far above him, but he wouldn’t question whoever or whatever had brought them together again after all this time. He’d just be grateful—grateful and humbled.
Fifteen minutes later, she backed out of the driveway, glanced his way, and gave a little half wave in his direction. It had been so hard on her…the telling. He still couldn’t believe it. How the hell had he not k
nown? Stupid question. He’d been on active duty. He wasn’t focused on anything but keeping his men alive and surviving long enough to get home.
He’d loved Brett like a brother, would miss him. Yet another connection between him and Ally. A common thread. Shared grief. Was this the reason they’d both wound up back in this place, at this time? Living across the street from one another, paths crossing almost every day—coincidence or destiny?
Chapter Eight
Allegretto
In the middle of a session, one of Allison’s patients became agitated. His frantic gaze tracked from person to person, legs tapped an erratic rhythm on the floor, white knuckles clenched and unclenched.
Sam suffered from Traumatic Brain Injury, and though his physical injuries had healed, he wasn’t responding well to therapy. He needed to be admitted to the hospital for inpatient therapy, but the VA didn’t have enough beds for long term care. Residential therapy wasn’t an option, something she wanted to change. The man needed intensive treatment, and a place to stay that could offer him around-the-clock care.
Allison got him a bottle of water and squeezed his shoulder. He maneuvered close to her—when she moved, he moved. Uncomfortably close, he found a way to brush against her, tried to touch her once or twice.
After eluding him for the fourth time, she faced him and spoke in a calm voice. “Sam, why don’t you join the group? It’s time to listen to some music… Do you have a favorite song you’d like me to play?”
His gaze was a little too frantic, his breathing erratic, and the disturbing expression on his face was tinged with lust edging toward loss of control. Swallowing her own discomfort, she directed him to the sitting area. Two of the other men bookended him, and shot her a nod. She sat at the keyboard and softly played a soothing melody she knew he would recognize, a good standby and a universal favorite, “Amazing Grace.”
Sam sat humped over his knees, his glance darting left and right, the two men flanking him convincing him to stay and listen. By the end of the third stanza, his tension eased, and the desperation faded from his face.
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