Griffin stared at the old man.
“You think PTSD is new? We called it something different, but…”
“I don’t have that.” Griffin paced to look out the window. It was nearing dark. “I wasn’t at war. I was reporting on war.”
“In my time, I talked to a lot of soldiers and I talked to a lot of other combat journalists. Believe me, Griffin, we’re all affected by the things we’ve seen. I’ve told you before, you need to describe how that changed you.”
“I put it away. It’s better to keep it distant.” And he’d managed that fairly well until Jane insisted he look at the photos and write the words.
He’s on the deck at Captain Crow’s, and then he isn’t. Instead he’s in the Humvee, his ears ringing and Jackal’s leg…he can feel it right now in his hands, the weight of it, the bloody warmth….
“Sit down, son,” Rex said, his voice sharp. “Griffin, sit down.”
The vinyl cushion wasn’t soft, but at least the chair supported his weight. He rested his elbows on his knees and put his head in his hands. “I’ll leave in a minute,” he mumbled. “I have packing to do.”
“There’s no place far enough away,” the old man said. “No place you can go that those memories won’t find you.”
“I feel like I’m going crazy,” he heard himself mutter.
“Finish the memoir,” Rex urged. “Stay stateside and finish before thinking of traveling again.”
“I don’t care about the book.”
The coot sighed. “Do I have to remind you that a life unexamined is a life not worth living?”
“What?” Griffin said. “Did you read that on the bottom of a bubble-gum wrapper?”
“Socrates, which I’m sure you know.” The old man was silent a moment, then his voice turned softer, kinder. “Son, you need to deal with your experience. When you put down the ugly memories on the page, you defuse them of their power.”
“Rex—”
“Put them down like you would put Private down if he was sick and he was hurting. Out of kindness, Griffin. Out of love.”
Before he could spit out some pithy and clever retort like “Fuck you,” which was the first that came to mind, a nurse arrived and shooed Griffin away. A doctor was coming in for late rounds. Griffin was damn glad to walk away from the crabby codger and his amateur psychoanalysis.
The fact that the guy was ninety-four years old didn’t mean he knew squat about anything.
Truth was, it wasn’t the memories that were sick and hurting. It was Griffin himself.
On the way down in the elevator, he had company. A couple were talking in low tones to each other. The man of the pair had a little girl’s hand in his. Maybe…three, four years old? She had dirty-blond hair in pigtails tied with red ribbons. Her white dress was dotted with red cherries, and the poofy skirt belled around her knees as she swung her body back and forth. On her feet were white socks and little red patent leather shoes that were tied on with more ribbon.
Jane would have loved the outfit.
Jane would have looked just like this when she was a kid.
This kid noticed Griffin staring at her, compelling him to make a stab at conversation. “Uh, you have very pretty shoes,” he said, feeling awkward.
She responded to the compliment by lifting the hand not clutching her dad’s. Four tiny fingers waved in his direction. “I’m this many.”
He nodded, acknowledging the unsolicited intel. Then the elevator stopped, the door opening with a ping. With a gesture, he indicated the family should precede him. As the little kid crossed into the lobby, she glanced over her shoulder at Griffin. “It’s my birfday.”
The three words shot through him like an arrow. It froze him for a moment, thinking of Jane’s recent birthday, of all the birthdays he’d miss of hers. Another sharp-edged ache. The elevator doors started to close, and it galvanized him to move, but there was still the hurt.
And an idea. He wasn’t any good for Jane, true, but he couldn’t leave without first letting her know she’d meant something to him. That he wouldn’t forget her, even though he couldn’t love her as she deserved.
* * *
MOONLIGHT POURED OVER the cove, and at her place on the cliff just south of Beach House No. 9, Jane watched a series of incoming waves ripple forward, as if someone on the horizon had snapped an immense gray sheet. The night was warm, the breeze mild, and she let the calming sound of the water wash over her. With the seabirds asleep, there were no raucous high notes to nature tonight, just the constant wet wash that, while not unchanging, was unceasing. A reminder to take the next breath. To put your next foot forward.
To toughen up and get on with your life.
She’d been doing that ever since the final confrontation with Griffin on the beach that afternoon. Even with his “I don’t want to ever love anybody” still echoing in her ears, she’d marched back to Captain Crow’s and given Ian Stone the big heave-ho in no uncertain terms.
“For the record,” she told him, standing beside his table, her arms folded over her chest, “I’m not now and not ever going to work with you again.”
He’d blinked at her, looking bewildered behind the blossoming facial bruises. “But…but it sounded like you were considering my offer.”
She’d been goading Griffin was what she’d been doing. And maybe giving Ian some momentary false hope in the process, because she was a little mean that way. “I don’t work with cheaters. And I don’t work with people who try to blame their failures on someone else.”
“What am I supposed to do now?” he asked, like a kid who finally had to do his own homework. “I haven’t written a word since we’ve been apart!”
“Not my problem, Norm,” she’d said, then strolled away.
His career could stay flatlined, for all she cared. As for her…she’d find another author to work with, or a new line of work if it came to that. She had great confidence in her ability to overcome—even with her heart broken, she was still breathing, wasn’t she?
And though a certain blue-eyed reporter might be out of her life, he’d left her with something. When he’d taunted her about trying to please her father, it had been the boot she needed to get her butt to Corbett Pearson’s place again. Once there, she’d ticked off three points on her fingers. One, never give her personal information to anyone; two, never get involved in her professional life again; and three, she loved him despite what she considered to be his faults and she expected him to do the same when it came to her. No more interfering and disapproval or no more daughter Jane!
Her dad had stuttered, he’d stumbled, he’d even managed to give her an awkward pat on the back. Progress.
Yes, she thought, closing her eyes, her life would move forward too.
The sound of her name startled her, and her eyes flew open. But no, she was mistaken, she must be, because she’d come up here to be alone for her goodbye and there weren’t any others on the bluff. Below, though light shone in some of the Crescent Cove bungalow windows and farther off was the glow from Captain Crow’s, the nearest dwellings were dark. She’d packed and put her belongings in her car and closed up No. 8. Beach House No. 9 still appeared deserted.
Yet something caused the downy hairs on the back of her neck to rise. Rubbing her nape, she edged closer to the rim of her jutting promontory. This protrusion was nowhere near the bluff’s highest point, but it seemed a long twelve feet to where the water swirled and lifted in white tufts against the jagged edges of rock below. She shivered and took a wary step back, then her gaze shifted left and caught on the sight of a dark figure scaling the cliff. Swift and sure, he swung up arm-over-arm, something—a bag?—caught in the grip of his teeth, just like a pirate clenching a dagger, climbing the riggings of an unsuspecting ship.
Jane retreated two more steps, until her back pressed against the rough surface of the bluff’s face. It still left little room for the buccaneer who reached her ledge and tore the paper from his mouth to address her in a raspy, br
eathless voice. “What the hell are you doing?”
It wasn’t fair, she thought. She’d come up here to gain perspective. To begin the process, finally, of abandoning hope when it came to her and Griffin. But seeing him again, even wearing a grim expression and with his chest heaving with jerky breaths, made her skin feel tender and her heart soften with exquisite yearning, both painful and sweet.
“Well?” he prompted, clearly agitated.
Shoving her hands into the pockets of her jeans, she met his gaze in stubborn silence.
“It’s dangerous up here,” he said. “You shouldn’t risk it.”
“That’s rich coming from you,” she said, then managed a little smile. “Hey. Irony again.”
The line of his mouth flattened. “Let’s go, Jane.” He held out his hand to her. “I’ll help you down.”
She shook her head, shuffling away from his touch. “I don’t need your help. I got up here just fine on my own, though by an admittedly tamer route than yours.”
“Yeah, well.” He shrugged. “I took a shortcut when I spotted you. I was worried…”
“Worried about what?”
His gaze cut away from hers, and she suddenly knew what had gone through his mind.
“No,” she said, a laugh escaping. “You thought I was going to do myself in? All because you don’t love me?”
“No. I don’t know. Not exactly.” He still wouldn’t look at her. “Go ahead, call me Mr. Ego again.”
Except the idea of jumping in had crossed her mind. Not because she wanted to end it all—yes, Mr. Ego indeed—but because she wanted a temporary end to her current unhappiness. Griffin wasn’t in love with her. He was going toward danger, and she might never see him alive again.
According to Tess, the jolt of jumping off could offer some reprieve. It had a numbing power.
Jane moistened her lips. “Does adrenaline really get rid of the pain?”
His glance was wary.
“Is that why you’re going to Gage? To get away from what’s hurting you here?”
He made a dismissive gesture, drawing both their attention to the bag he was holding.
“Look,” he said. “I brought you presents. Come down and you can have them.”
“Presents?” Jane frowned and crossed her arms over her chest. Gifts to appease his conscience? “I don’t need anything from you.”
“I missed your birthday,” Griffin said.
“For heaven’s sake…” Couldn’t he just go away? The shelf of rock was so small that she could feel his body heat from here. It pressed against her breastbone, making it hard to breathe. Putting stress on her already battered heart.
“Come on down,” he coaxed again.
“I won’t,” Jane said. She’d depart on her own terms. Alone, just the way she’d arrived that day when she’d foolishly disregarded the skull and crossbones, scoffing at the idea of danger.
He sighed, apparently accepting her stubbornness. “Fine, then,” he said, his tone disgruntled. Then he rummaged in the bag. “I was at the mercy of that convenience store a couple of miles away, you understand.”
“If it’s one of those icky beef sticks, I’m tossing it over the cliff,” she warned.
“You just stay where you are,” Griffin said. With a little flourish, he presented her with a slender plastic-and-cardboard package.
Jane stared down at the item in her hands. The bright moon was as good as a flashlight. “A toothbrush?”
“Are you aware you hum when you brush your teeth, honey-pie?”
“The ‘Happy Birthday’ song. Twice. Dentists recommend brushing the length of time that takes for optimum cleaning.”
He quickly averted his head, but it didn’t hide the swift grin.
“Don’t laugh at me!”
“It’s either that or kiss you, Jane.”
She took a half step away from him. “None of that, either.”
Still smiling, he pointed to her gift. “This one’s special. You can record any song you like, then listen to your favorite while keeping your dentist happy morning and night.”
“Oh.” Jane regarded it with more interest. “Clever.”
His hand dipped back in the bag. “Here.”
Out came a small square of cardboard threaded with a pair of earrings. Pink with purple polka dots, they were probably intended for a child, given the color combination.
“They’re bows,” Griffin said. “You always wear bows.”
She looked up at him. His amazing eyes were focused on her, as if he was trying to read her thoughts. Her feet moved again, taking another step away from him and his piercing gaze. “Th-thank you,” she said, her voice unsteady.
No man had ever seen so much about her.
He shrugged and then rummaged in the bag. “Last one.” His hand stilled inside the paper, and he locked eyes with her. “No matter what happens, Jane, I want you to know…” And then the daredevil reporter seemed to run out of words. Instead of handing over the final gift, he pushed the bag into her hands.
Feeling both curious and oddly cautious, Jane tucked the toothbrush and the earrings into the pockets of her jeans, then reached inside the sack for the next present. Her fingers curled around something plastic and mostly round. Her breath caught in her throat as she drew it out.
A snow globe.
How had he known?
A cheap tourist trinket, it had probably been made thousands and thousands of miles from here but was stamped “Crescent Cove” on the base. Clutching the bag in one hand, Jane let the globe sit on the shelf of her other palm, ignoring how it trembled. Inside the bubble was a dab of blue ocean and a painted beach. On that sat a little grass shack beside two palm trees and strung between them was a tiny hammock, upon which reclined an even tinier woman in a yellow bikini.
Griffin gestured at the plastic capsule. “You have a suit just that color. So it’s as if you’ll always be here. Forever.”
A prickle ran across Jane’s scalp. Always and forever unable to forget this place or the man she’d fallen in love with. Always and forever wishing for him, worrying about him, wondering if he ever thought of her with regret. Always and forever his, even if he didn’t want her. That wasn’t any kind of progress.
Panic clutched her throat and wrapped her ribs with heavy bands.
God knew what expression overtook her face, because Griffin suddenly started forward. “Sweetheart…”
But she couldn’t be touched by him, she thought in hasty alarm. Not now. Not ever again. Her feet shuffled in retreat and she put out the hand holding the bag to keep him away.
A sudden gust of wind fluttered her hair and caught at the paper. It was torn from her grasp and instinct had her snatching for it. Unsteadied by the sudden move, she took another step back to keep her balance.
Her foot found air. She felt herself going over the ledge.
* * *
IN COMBAT, TIME stretched like a child’s imagination, allowing in every boogeyman, every monster-under-the-bed, even as one’s vision sharpened and dexterity heightened. Griffin’s heart knelled like slow thunder as he saw Jane wobble and her body arch over the edge. Fear tasted like ash on his tongue as he lunged for her. Image after image shuffled through his mind as he made the long reach.
Jane plummeting onto sharp rocks, Jane plunging into chilly water and never coming up, Jane falling toward her greatest fear as her body slipped through his hands. She’d go down thinking he’d failed her like every other man in her life.
Your kind always lets go.
But then—miracle!—he caught her upper arm. His fingers closed over her slender biceps, locking them together. Just as he prepared to yank her back to safety, though, he realized that her momentum was too much for him to battle.
In this, the librarian couldn’t defy the laws of physics.
They both went over, the ocean a second or two away. But it took a very long time to fall when you’d really rather not.
Enough time for Griffin to realize t
hat Jane wouldn’t know to swim away from the rocks to keep from being bashed against them.
Enough time for that thought to plow with the power of an ice-breaking ship through his frozen heart.
Enough time for him to be certain he wouldn’t survive one more loss. That he wouldn’t survive without her in his life.
Dark, cold water closed over him like a thick shroud. It tried tearing Jane from his grasp, but knowing what was at stake, he hung on to her, kicking powerfully with his legs to take them both away from the dangerous crags. To his surprise, she was kicking too, doing her share, but the unexpected dousing, fully clothed, made it a heavy slog.
For every movement forward, the water washed them back. He’d lost his flip-flops, and he felt the bite of rock on his sole as he pushed off to propel Jane away from danger. “Let…go!” she gasped out, then coughed. “Let. Me. Go!”
Let go? He couldn’t let go. He’d never let go.
But then she wrenched free of him, and without the hamper of a second body, she started stroking away. Heart pounding in his ears, he followed behind, matching his arm pulls to hers. It wasn’t easy getting away from the surf breaking against the bluff. It still fought to wash them back, just as they fought to break from it. He was breathing hard, anxiety taking its toll, and his panic didn’t lessen, even when he realized the shoreline was a straight shot ahead.
People drowned in bathtubs. In puddles. In their own blood.
Those thoughts were still in his mind as their bellies hit sand. They combat crawled and coughed their way onto the beach. Safe.
Lying on the sand beside her, he tried coping with the aftermath of horror and the sharp spike of survival euphoria. And the new sudden yet certain understanding that his life was about to take a drastic turn.
He glanced over when he finally caught his breath. “We have to talk.”
Then he jerked upright and put his hand on her shoulder. “Jane!” She was sodden and cold as a corpse, her eyes open and staring straight at the sky. Jesus, was she dead? “Jane.”
“I’m right here,” she said, sounding slow and drunk. One hand flopped on the sand like a fish. “Right. Here.”
Beach House No. 9 Page 32
