CR!93BHZ3MAHS4NVAVVWQG1QCZMZ0ZB

by Unknown

  “I like a tipple myself,” said Mrs. Smith. “Scotch and ginger ale … about five.”

  “Five? No, five pounds of sugar is too much … unless you’re making double quantities.”

  The two lapsed into a companionable silence. It was a sunny day, warm enough to sit outside in this sheltered spot.

  Jo became aware of bark scratching her cheek and jerked upright before she fell asleep. For seventy-two hours she or Polly had shadowed Nan through her transition to Pinehill, stepping in to troubleshoot when necessary.

  “Do you think two hippos could share?” Mrs. Smith, who had big plans for turning Pinehill into a zoo, gestured to the goldfish pond. “I know it’s only big enough for one but two would be company for each other.”

  “Yes, why not?” said Nan, plainly humoring her. “As long as they don’t damage the trees.”

  Mrs. Smith opened the pictorial natural history book in her lap. “How do you feel about meercats?”

  “I love cats. They stop rats nesting in the compost bin.” Nan leaned forward and picked up her handbag, slinging it over the green fiberglass cast on her forearm. “Well, it’s been lovely visiting but I must be getting home.”

  Jo trailed her grandmother into the L-shaped redbrick building, nodding to the supervising nurses’ aid.

  She hadn’t approved when her grandmother chose Pinehill. As an outsider it had struck her as untidy and disorganized. Now Jo knew better. Cushions were strewn higgledy-piggledy because Mrs. Moreland, who’d been a window dresser, constantly rearranged them. And magazines lay open on every chair because Mr. Fairley, who’d been a newsagent, preferred them that way. Pinehill’s philosophy was siid=hair mple and effective. Every resident was treated as a trusted advisor on “how things should run around here.”

  Seeing how well Nan had settled in only deepened Jo’s guilt.

  Nan paused in front of the reception desk where several nurses were in the middle of a shift handover. “You have too many flowers in your garden. You can’t eat flowers.”

  One of them, Fiona, came out from behind the counter. “Perhaps you could give us some tips on starting a vegetable garden?”

  Some of the hostility went out of Rosemary’s tone. “Well, you need potatoes … but they can’t be grown beside tomatoes.” She lost her train of thought. “Well,” she said after a pause, “I must be getting home.”

  “What I’d really love to grow,” commented Fiona, “is bananas.”

  Nan turned back. “Bananas are my favorite fruit. They weren’t available through the war. Only apples and pears.”

  A bell rang from the dining room. Fiona looked at her watch. “It’s twelve o’clock. How nice that you’re here for lunch.”

  “Am I?” Rosemary looked uncertain.

  “Yes, because I particularly need your advice. I’m having such trouble getting my jam to set.” Fiona held out her arm.

  Nan took it. “You know what my secret ingredient is?” she confided as they strolled toward the dining room. “Methylated spirit.”

  “We’ll see you after breakfast tomorrow, then,” called the charge nurse after Jo, who had begun to leave. It was time for her to drop back to daily visits, scheduled around Nan’s most unsettled period.

  “If she gets distressed …”

  “We’ll phone you, I promise. And you can ring us anytime, day or night.”

  “Thanks.” Jo collected her overnight bag and walked outside. She felt like a mother leaving her child on the first day of school. Dan pushed himself off the verandah post.

  “I told Polly I’d pick you up.”

  She should have been annoyed by his high-handedness in changing her arrangements, instead Jo felt pathetically grateful. Polly would have expected a postmortem. “Nan settled in really well,” she said, smiling. “I don’t know why I was so worried.”

  “That’s great.” Dan took her bag. “Since your kitchen’s full of workmen, how about we get lunch before I drop you home?”

  In the intensity of the past three days, she’d accepted his offer to organize repairs. At least workmen meant she wouldn’t be going home to an empty house.

  Jo hesitated.

  “I’m not going to bring up the wedding,” he said quietly.

  “I wasn’t worried about that,” she lied. “And I’m fine about Nan now, honestly. Lunch would be great.”

  She’d eat, catch a nap and then go into the Chronicle. Bring herself up to speed for work tomorrow. With Nan getting settled at Pinehill, she could concentrate on CommLink again. Maybe it was being in an environment fulle?&‘€† of lateral thinkers but Jo now knew exactly how to find out whether Chris was bluffing. As she’d told Kev, it was simply a matter of looking at the problem from another angle.

  Jo glanced at Dan. After CommLink she’d knock this crazy wedding scheme on the head once and for all.

  “Shaker’s okay?”

  “Perfect. I’m in the mood for steak.” Something not on the menu at Pinehill, which took into account its residents’ increased difficulty with chewing and swallowing.

  I hope someone’s keeping an eye on Nan when she’s eating.

  “So,” she said brightly. “What’s been happening in the outside world?”

  Dan shot her a sidelong glance then launched into a discourse on the latest skirmish between Labor and National over education policy. Slowly, Jo’s anxiety dropped to a manageable level.

  Over the entrée their debate about global warming grew heated; over dessert she wagered forty bucks on the All Blacks winning the Rugby World Cup and called Dan a traitor for favoring Australia’s Wallabies.

  He seemed tired, too, she noticed. Since he’d kissed her, she’d been scared to really look at him. Scared of seeing him differently. “How are Ross and Nate doing since Afghanistan?” she said over coffee. “We haven’t had much opportunity to talk about them.”

  “Ross is driving himself too hard in rehab … but that’s par for the course. Nate’s resettled in the States. He’s finding it hard to cope.”

  “I’m sure you all are.”

  “There’s no comparison,” he said curtly. “Ross and Nate were there—I wasn’t.”

  She said slowly. “Do you think you could have changed the outcome? More likely you’d have been killed, too.”

  “Probably.” He gestured for the waitress. “Listen, I should get back to the farm … Herman’s in Auckland for a few days. And you need sleep.”

  “You’re right,” she admitted. “Even a double espresso isn’t keeping me awake.” She knew when she was being stonewalled. Would they ever get their easy friendship back? God, she hoped so.

  Tradesmen’s vans blocked her driveway. When Jo opened the passenger door, she was assaulted by a cacophony of buzz saws, hammering and an FM station blasting classic rock. “So much for a quiet nap.”

  “Why don’t you come back to the farm? Herman’s staying in Auckland for a stock auction and I’ll be planting saplings along the creek. You’ll have the place to yourself.”

  “I have to do this sooner or later,” she said. “You’ll be better equipped after a couple hours of sleep.”

  That was true. “Okay,” she said. “I’ll check in with these guys, then follow in my car.” No harm in having an escape vehicle.

  The house smelled very faintly of smoke beneath the fresh paint and plaster. Inside the kitchen, plasterers were finishing the ceiling and walls around where the stove used to be. The tiles had been scoured clean, as had the rest of the kitchen. The singed countertops ege3‘€†ither side of the oven space had already been removed and the framing laid for the replacement counters.

  “I can’t believe the progress,” she told the builder.

  “Dan and Kev organized a working bee before we got here to clean the place up,” he said. “Half of Beacon Bay showed up. The Chronicle‘s helped a lot of community groups through the years.”

  She didn’t know what to say. “It’s all right, love,” the builder said gruffly. “You go on now, get some
rest.”

  Jo didn’t need telling twice. At the farmhouse she found a note taped to the front door. “Make yourself at home. Bed’s made. Back around five.”

  Three hours. She’d make sure she was gone by then. Still, Jo hesitated before turning the handle. Bypassing his bedroom door she walked down the passage to the spare room. Clothes lay folded neatly on the bed and a bookmarked Tom Clancy novel lay on the floor beside it. Herman’s space. Reluctantly Jo returned to Dan’s bedroom.

  She always teased him about his soldier’s neatness but there was a heap of discarded clothes on the bedside table. Jo suspected they’d recently been on the floor because she found a sweater puddled behind the door when she closed it.

  “Too busy planning this damn wedding,” she muttered. Picking up the sweater, she hung it in the wardrobe.

  He’d remade the bed with clean sheets; the old ones overflowed a laundry basket. The top corner of the duvet was turned back. His thoughtfulness brought dangerous emotions too close to the surface. Kicking off her trainers, Jo pulled off her sweater and, in her jeans and T-shirt, crawled into the crisp sheets. The new mattress was just right.

  Beneath the smell of laundry soap and fabric softener she caught the faintest hint of Dan’s aftershave in the pillow. Jo closed her gritty eyes and slept.

  SHE WOKE IN THE DARK, disoriented. Then, remembering where she was, she rolled over to look at the clock glowing on the bedside table—1:00 a.m.

  Stunned, Jo fell back on the pillows. Dan must be in Herman’s bed. She listened hard but heard nothing but the deep quiet of a country night. Pointless going home now; she might as well go back to sleep.

  She clasped her hands behind her head and stared out the curtainless window. Nan was usually up at this time. Did she sense Jo’s absence tonight?

  Quietly, Jo got up, slipped on her trainers and sweater and tiptoed out to the back porch. Sitting on the top step, she used her cell to phone the duty nurse. Yes, Nan had been up and restless but she’d settled back to sleep now. “This transition’s often harder for the carer,” the woman said kindly. “You’ll find it easier as time goes on.”

  Jo assured her she was coping and rang off. At this time of the morning, the air temperature had dropped to a crystalline cold. Clouds covered the moon and she could smell rain coming but Jo didn’t go inside.

  Instead she bowed over her clasped knees and started to cry. Silent painful sobs grew in intensity until her rib cage heaved with them, until they escaped in soft wet gasps that she tried to smother in the prickly wool of her sweater.

  The porch light came on and the screen door banged. Sitting on the step bn u‘€†eside her, Dan hauled her into his arms. She buried her face into his chest. “It’s just so hard to let her go.”

  He’d thrown on jeans and a shirt before coming out but the shirt wasn’t buttoned and her tears wet his naked torso. The muscles in his back shifted and bunched under her cold, clutching fingers.

  Jo struggled to pull herself together and let him go, but she couldn’t. Right now he was the only anchor she had. She cried and cried. “That’s right,” he encouraged. “Let it all out.”

  She was conscious of the texture of his skin, baby-smooth over taut pecs, male nipples tightened in the cold. He smelled of pine soap. The buckle of his belt dug into her hip … yet still Jo clung on. He stroked her hair with callused hands, rubbed her back and lulled her into believing that everything would be all right.

  Oh, God, she had missed him so much, missed this unspoken understanding they had. And yet it was different, because he was half-naked, because he wanted to marry her—because even if she wanted to, she couldn’t have him.

  Her sobs abated to shuddering breaths. Sitting up, Jo dug in her jeans for a hanky and blew her nose. “I’m okay now.” She wiped her face dry on her woolen sleeve. “I’m sorry, you must be freezing.”

  With his thumb, he caught a missed tear on the curve of her jaw. “I’ll live.”

  “Here.” Brusquely, Jo caught the edges of his shirt, intending to button them. Her palms brushed skin and she swallowed hard. Under the porch light, they stared at each other, the air charged with awareness. A second passed, two—then his mouth touched hers.

  Wrapping her arms around his neck, she pulled him closer. One kiss, she pacified the dissenting voice inside her.

  Dan broke the contact and trailed his warm lips across her face. Then his mouth returned to hers and his languor gave way to an urgency that infected her. One kiss followed another, each one a drug that whispered one more … just one more.

  He hauled her onto his lap, his splayed hands falling to her hips as if he couldn’t get enough of her. His erection pressed against her thigh. She was hot now, aching for him. Jo nipped his bare shoulder. His shirt was half off; had she done that? No, they were only kissing.

  Jo captured his mouth. As long as they were only kissing she didn’t have to stop. So she ignored Dan’s caress, ignored that she was stroking him back. Time seemed to slow down. Her heartbeat quickened. Gradually Jo became aware she was straddling Dan’s hard thighs. If they were naked he’d be inside her.

  His hand slid under the sweater, up over her rib cage, around to the clasp of her bra. Jo wrenched her mouth away. “No!” In her panic she threw herself back, half sliding, half falling down the steps. At the bottom, she pushed to her feet. “Dammit, is that all you think about!”

  After a short shocked silence, Dan said, “Don’t you dare pretend this was only my idea.”

  “I just wanted a friend’s shoulder to cry on.” Jo shoved her shirttails into her jeans. “But never miss an opportunity to follow your own agenda, right, Dan?”

  “That’s unfair.”

  It was unfair but Jo was past caring. She’d put sos h‘€† much hard work into resisting him … and now they were back to square one. No, dammit, this was his fault. “You know I’m vulnerable!”

  “Yeah, okay … maybe I … it wasn’t planned but I …”

  His voice trailed off. Raking a hand through his hair, Dan stared at her. “I’ve been kidding myself,” he rasped. “I’ve been kidding myself this whole time.”

  She felt a heady rush of relief. “Hallelujah, he’s come to his senses.”

  “I’m in love with you.”

  Jo froze. The words seemed to hang in the chill air. She pushed them away. “No, you’re not.”

  He wasn’t listening. “Was I always? Maybe … I mean…. Who the hell cares?” His attention came back to her, his expression awed and intense. He held out a hand and said huskily, “I love you, Jo.” Once she’d dreamed a man would look at her like this. But not this man.

  And it didn’t matter that this was part of some transference thing Dan had going with his grieving process. It didn’t matter that he couldn’t possibly appreciate how much he was hurting her right now because she’d never told him why all the things she’d wanted were out of her reach.

  She’d come to the end of her emotional reserves and she would say anything to protect herself.

  “The only thing you’ve done since you’ve come home is make my life harder. And I’m so tired of it, Dan.” He paled, dropped his hand. “I don’t care how much you think you need this to make sense of Lee and Steve’s deaths, I don’t love you beyond friendship, and I never will. Do you hear me!”

  “I hear you.” Under the porch light his face was expressionless. And in that vacuum, Jo heard her own heart. Oh, God, no. No! She took an involuntary step back.

  She couldn’t look at Dan and see the guy she should have had kids with … couldn’t care about this stuff again.

  Spinning on her heel, Jo half ran to her car. Dan didn’t follow, didn’t even call out. Her hands trembled so much she could barely wrench open the driver’s door. The keys were in the ignition.

  She started the engine and switched on the headlights, then remembered … her handbag was still inside. Jo clenched the steering wheel. She couldn’t go back for it.

  There was a tap on her window
. Dan stood there holding her bag, the feminine accessory incongruous against his muscled torso. He still hadn’t done up his shirt.

  Averting her face, Jo opened the door, fumbled for the handbag, then shut the door. Neither of them had said a word. Her car jolted down the rough track toward the main road. By the time she’d reached home she’d shut down thought, feeling, emotion.

  Back in the Soldier’s Arms/Here Comes the Groom

  CR!93BHZ3MAHS4NVAVVWQG1QCZMZ0ZB

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  JO WOKE THE NEXT morning desperate to salvage something out of last night’s slash and burn. But first she needed to breakfast with Nan and catch up on her workload at the Chronicle. That included scheduling a final meeting with CommLink. Even that couldn’t cheer her up. She jumped every time her office phone rang but it was never the call she wanted and Dan didn’t return the messages she left him.

  By the time she finally pulled up at the farmhouse it was close to five and her nerves were shot. Dan was a distant silhouette, working on the west ridge. He would have seen her car arriving so Jo waited. Five minutes passed, ten and he made no move to come down.

  Well, what did she expect?

  Swapping her shoes for the smallest pair of gum boots on the porch, Jo started climbing in as direct a line as the electric fences allowed. A mob of glossy black bulls with massive shoulders, skinny rumps and surly expressions tracked her progress.

  “He’ll forgive me,” she told them. He has to.

  The weather had been moody all day, trying on all four seasons like a teenage girl who couldn’t decide what to wear. As she climbed the wind picked up, chilling as the sun began to dip behind the horizon. Belatedly Jo remembered she’d left her jacket in the car, but her heels were already starting to burn in the oversized boots so she pushed on.

  Dan was bent over a concrete water trough, his arms immersed to the elbow. Splashes of mud and water stained his old gray T-shirt and jeans. When she was within a hundred yards, he straighened. Putting down the dripping pliers, he dried his arms on a rag from the toolbox on the back of the ATV and waited, arms folded. Jo swallowed. He had his soldier face on. Granite. Impassive. Suddenly the bulls didn’t look as menacing.