Back in Service

by Isabel Sharpe

  A tear made its way down her cheek. She flung it forward into the sea, sniffed angrily and turned to go home.

  Enough. She’d done what she’d come here to do. Brooded. Remembered. Cried one beautiful tear. The actress side of her had been fed.

  Now she’d do her father proud, march home, get up at 0700 hours and take on the next day of her life.

  4

  KENDRA PULLED INTO the parking lot at Villas of the Pacific, CD player blaring Adele’s “Don’t You Remember.” Villas? Really? She could have sworn they were apartment buildings. Nice ones, yes. But a villa needed a sprawling estate. Jameson didn’t quite fit that mold, but he’d also looked painfully out of place in his friend’s apartment, which was decorated with modern art, odd sculptures and plants. Jameson belonged in a more traditionally masculine interior, all leather and dark wood, books and model fighter jets, one plant, always about to die...

  She found a visitor spot and turned off the engine, sat for a moment in the sudden silence, annoyed at herself for being nervous. Hadn’t she been through all this after her visit here the day before? Yes, she had. Going forward she’d continue bypassing Jameson’s obnoxious behavior, understanding that it came from his pain and anger. She’d focus only on how she could help him. And she’d ignore the...complication.

  Finding herself a teeny, tiny bit attracted to Jameson after all these years did not mean the world was about to end. He was an attractive man. So what? He was also an entitled jerk, who happened to be in a terrible situation and needed Kendra’s help. Kendra had agreed to help him because...quite honestly, she was curious. Who was this guy now? Who had he always been? Why had he chosen her to make miserable for so long?

  One thing she had definitely decided—no more massages. Yikes. Not that his erection had been significant. He was a guy, one who probably hadn’t had any in a long time. His reaction had undoubtedly surprised him as much as it had her, especially after so many years of rather juvenile enmity between them.

  Out of the car, she took a moment to gaze over the red-tiled roofs and palm trees toward the rust-colored cliffs that dropped to the edge of the vast Pacific. Blue sky today, a good breeze—the sight calmed and filled her as it always did. She could bring beauty and positive feelings and hope back into Jameson’s life if he would let her. She’d focus on that. The erection, not so much.

  Today’s goal: clean the apartment, cook him a healthy meal. Push him gently to talk about his situation. Duck when he threw things at her. Maybe throw a few things back.

  Kendra turned to unload the groceries and cleaning supplies she’d brought for this visit, one bag of each. Above all, she’d stay cheerful and brisk in spite of his sarcasm and cranky bad-boy mood, intent on what she was there to accomplish. She was not the same cowed high school kid having to fake self-confidence. She had the real thing now.

  At the entrance to Jameson’s building, she balanced one bag on her hip and the other on a raised knee, trying to free up a hand to push the buzzer. Her finger had almost made it when a guy pushed out the door and let her in with a warm smile. Well. Looked like she’d catch Jameson by surprise again. She’d called that morning and left a message after another client canceled a late-afternoon meeting, letting him know she’d have time for him today. He hadn’t called back to say he wouldn’t be in or didn’t want to see her, so here she was.

  On the second floor she turned right and strode down the cream hallway, enlivened by dark green carpeting and prints of landscape paintings on the walls. At his door she balanced the bags again and knocked, four fast raps, I’m here, ready or not, then stepped back to wait, bright smile in place.

  Nothing.

  Was he home? Had he planned to be out just to annoy her?

  A noise inside. Her heart gave a little flip and she scoffed at herself. Still scared of the big bully, Kendra?

  The door opened.

  Whoa.

  Jameson had cleaned up. Gone was the stubble, ditto the greasy hair and wrinkled clothes. He looked really good.

  Really good.

  Unwrinkled navy-and-white Air Force T-shirt over neat khaki shorts. Great legs, scarred on one knee. Awesome chest.

  Had she referred to him as an attractive man?

  She’d lied. He was smoking hot.

  And he was standing there, stone-faced, staring at her. Was she gawking? Well, yeah, but she didn’t think it was that obvious.

  “Come in.” He stepped back to let her pass.

  “Hello, Jameson.” She pushed through the door. First thing that hit her was the absence of crap strewn all over the living room. “Wow, you cleaned.”

  “Mike has a service.” He seemed taller today? Maybe he was just standing straighter. In any case, he already looked 100 percent better, and Kendra hadn’t even started her program yet. Matty would be happy.

  “Looks like you resumed your human form.” She smiled at him, cheerful nurse, big sister, teacher, counselor, whatever kind of person would not want to have wild sex with him all over the apartment. “Did you get my message?”

  “What’s in the bags?” He took one from her, apparently possessing at least some gentlemanly tendencies.

  “That’s cleaning stuff, obviously not necessary now. This one is groceries.”

  “I’ve got food.”

  “Not this food.” She took the bag into the kitchen, aware of him limping after her.

  “So, what, you’re taking over my life now?”

  “Every bit of it, yes.” She put the bag on the counter and started unloading. He was still playing cranky, but his tone didn’t sound quite as bitter as the day before. More progress. “How’s your knee today?”

  “Better than ever.”

  “Still in pain, huh.”

  “I love pain.”

  “That’s lucky.” Always the tough guy. Funny how grief affected people so differently. Some closed up, like Jameson. She called those Turtles. Others, like herself, plunged into activity to alleviate in others what they were suffering themselves. She called those Avengers. Then there were Pancakes, utterly flattened by the experience, and Curators, who turned their memories and memorabilia into museums of those they’d lost, and on and on. “Your home exercises going well?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Good.” She didn’t really need to ask. His type would want to get better as quickly as he could. Athletes, military, anyone who depended on his or her body would be driven to stay in the best shape possible and didn’t mind the work it took to get there.

  She’d just try not to think about how his body was already in the best shape possible—broad shoulders, flat stomach, long legs, no doubt impressive muscles all over...

  Ahem. Kendra had a job to do, and it didn’t entail standing around imagining Jameson Cartwright naked.

  “I’ll make you a basic spaghetti sauce. You can eat some, freeze the rest when you’re sick of it. You like to cook?”

  “Haven’t done much lately.” He seemed huge in the small kitchen. She’d have to get him sitting on the other side of the counter so she didn’t bump into him every time she moved.

  “It’s easy. I’ll show you. You can make this. Anyone can make this.”

  She pointed to the ingredients neatly laid out on the counter. “Ground beef, carrots, onions, tomato puree, beef broth and cream. Want to chop onions?”

  “Chopping onions will help me come to terms with losing a year of my life, Kendra?”

  She gave him another unreturned smile, not surprised by his sarcasm—she’d heard it all—but shocked by the jolt of sympathy. That was a switch. She’d spent her grade school years, coached by her parents, vainly trying to feel sorry for Jameson Cartwright when she didn’t want to, and now she was feeling sorry for him automatically—though she still didn’t want to. “I think you’d be surprised what
can help.”

  He shrugged. “You’re the expert.”

  “That is so true.” Kendra found a cutting board already out on the counter and selected a knife from the magnetic strip next to the sink. She’d spent last night researching ACL surgery and the recovery process. Long and slow, the worst kind of sentence for a man like Jameson. Nine months, on average, to recover normal use of the knee—though many people were never back to 100 percent—and often pain lingered after that. “You know how to chop onions? If you don’t, I’ll show you.”

  “I know how.”

  “Yeah?” She pointed to the chair by the stretch of counter that doubled as a table. “Have a seat there. I’ll pass you stuff to do.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He sat.

  “Did you help your mom in the kitchen?” She passed him the board and knife.

  “Sometimes.”

  “She a good cook?”

  “Average.”

  Kendra turned back to the sauce ingredients. Yes, she was getting one-word answers, but at least he was answering, and no sarcasm this time. One of her clients had been so depressed, Kendra would show up at their early appointments and pretty much talk to herself.

  “My mom was an amazing cook.” She ripped open the red plastic net holding the onions. “Always experimenting with other cuisines. We had Thai food, Indian, Chinese, you name it.”

  “Was an amazing cook?” For the first time, his voice lifted to a normal conversational tone.

  “Yes.” Kendra put a large onion down on the cutting board in front of him. The news of her parents’ deaths had been pretty big locally. Ken and Sandra Lonergan had been active in the Palos Verdes Estates community and in the schools. She would have expected Jameson to hear somehow, even having been away at college in Chicago. But maybe he didn’t have long catch-up chats with his parents the way Kendra had had with hers. Or maybe he’d heard and forgotten, since it wouldn’t have meant much to his life. Hard to imagine sometimes, since it had pretty much imploded hers. She understood so well when clients said they’d wake up day after day, surprised the sun was still shining. “My mom passed away a couple of years ago.”

  “I’m sorry.” His words were clearly heartfelt.

  “Thank you.” She couldn’t look at him, still found it hard to speak when she talked about the accident. “Chop the onion whatever size you want. Doesn’t really matter.”

  “Okay.”

  She set about peeling carrots, feeling his eyes on her, her throat still tight. Music would help. Kendra generally liked an uplifting soundtrack around clients to mitigate silences when they occurred and lessen the pressure to produce constant conversation. “Does Mike have any CDs?”

  “Yeah, I think in the cabinet under the TV.” He was already on his feet, hobbling into the living room.

  Well. Doing something nice for her. Another hint that he was capable of pleasant behavior. Unless he was terrified Kendra was about to do something girlie and horrible, like cry. “Thanks, Jameson.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  She turned back to her carrots. Baby steps...though it bothered her he was still limping two months after surgery. Maybe it was the nasty jolt he’d given his knee the day before when she was here, but by now he should be able to—

  A horrific blast of death metal came over the speakers. Kendra yelled and jumped, then flung herself toward the kitchen door to peer into the living room. He could not be serious.

  The music went off. Blessed silence.

  “Uh.” Jameson was grinning, crouching in a rather painful-looking position in front of the CD player. “That was not on purpose.”

  “I am glad to hear that.” She put her hand to her chest, this time smiling genuinely instead of in polite encouragement. He was ten times more handsome when he wasn’t scowling, though he managed to turn even the grouchy look into an appealing bad-boy aura.

  But this...if Kendra didn’t already know her heart was pounding from the scare, she might think he was affecting her. But, um, of course it wasn’t that. “I think they play that music in hell.”

  “Wait.” He actually chuckled. “You know this CD?”

  “God, no.”

  “It’s called Satan’s Soundtrack.” He held up three fingers in a Scout’s-honor pledge. “Not kidding.”

  “Nice.” She stepped farther out of the kitchen toward him. “What’s the band called?”

  “Flagrant Death Meat.”

  Kendra cracked up. “You aren’t serious!”

  “I am.” He held up the CD, chuckling.

  “That is just too weird.”

  Their laughter trailed off. Their gazes held. He stayed crouched. She stayed in the doorway. A dozen yards apart, they might as well have been chest to chest.

  Kendra swallowed. Moments of intimacy with her clients could be important. Sometimes they allowed people the safety to talk about something real. All she wanted to do was hurl herself back into the kitchen to escape Jameson and the strong pull he exerted.

  He turned abruptly to the TV cabinet. “I’ll find something else.”

  “Great, thanks.” Kendra fled to the sink, shaken by her inability to take charge of the moment. She could not back down from a connection that might prove helpful to Jameson. That was the core of her practice—inspiring trust, creating a safe environment into which clients could dump their innermost fears and feelings.

  Instead, Kendra had stared at him as if he were a bug pinned to a foam board.

  The smooth strains of an entirely different type of music filled the apartment. The Lumineers. Just the right atmosphere.

  “Better?” Jameson limped back into the room and took his seat.

  “Much, thank you.”

  Chopping and peeling sounds filled the kitchen. Kendra took a deep breath, determined to get back on track. “Have you been out of the house since I saw you?”

  “‘Go outside and play. Get some fresh air.’” He did a high-voiced mom impression.

  Kendra cracked up. “Your mother?”

  “That’s her.”

  She peered at him over her shoulder. She’d always imagined Jameson as an outdoor type, playing ball with his brothers, building forts, killing things... She couldn’t remember much about Katherine Cartwright. Just an impression that she was a good deal younger than her husband. “What did you want to be doing indoors instead?”

  “I dunno.”

  “Yes, you do.”

  He sent her an annoyed glance. He was chopping the onion with such painstaking care that she almost started giggling.

  “Need a ruler?”

  “You got one?” He almost smiled.

  “Tell me what you did inside at home when you were a kid.”

  This time he didn’t bother answering, just looked completely disgusted.

  Kendra turned back to her chopping. “Did you listen to music? Write stories? Play with action figures? Watch TV?”

  “Not TV. Not in our house.”

  “No? What, then?” Kendra waited, pushing the carrot peelings down the disposal. Jameson would talk or he wouldn’t. At least he was thinking about the answer. “How about I ask you again what you’re most afraid of? You seemed to love that question last time.”

  He made a sound of exasperation. “I’m actually most afraid you’ll keep asking me that until you like the answer.”

  “You can count on it.” She rinsed her hands in the sink, dried them leisurely on a San Francisco Giants hand towel.

  “I liked to draw.”

  “Yeah?” she answered calmly, cheering inside. Score one for Kendra. She’d schedule that in as one of their activities. Maybe they could combine a beach trip with a sketching session. “Were you any good?”

  “Probably not.”

  She’d bet he was. Guys like Jam
eson wouldn’t bring up something they were bad at.

  “I took art classes at St. Louis University when I lived in Madrid.”

  “You were enrolled there?” She started searching for a grater in Mike’s cabinets, keeping her voice casual, as if she were only politely interested, to keep him comfortable and talking.

  “No.” His response was quick and tinged with bitterness. “I did AFROTC at Chicago University. But all us kids took a year off to travel before college.”

  “What a great idea.” She opened another cabinet.

  “I took two.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m so special.”

  “I knew that about you.” Kendra pulled a gleaming box grater triumphantly from the back of the next cabinet. The thing had probably never been used. “Why two years?”

  “One wasn’t enough.”

  “I can imagine.” She spoke offhandedly, picked up the carrots. “Fun times.”

  “I wasn’t ready to start life yet.”

  “I see.” She set up the grater opposite him on the counter, dying to press him further. Not ready to start life or the Air Force? Why the delay? “What was her name?”

  “Marta.”

  “Wait, really?” Kendra sent him a surprised look. “I was actually kidding.”

  “I’m not.” His voice turned a little wistful. Kendra picked up the carrot and started shredding it viciously, appalled to find herself annoyed. What the hell? She liked to think of herself as the soul of emotional generosity. If Jameson had found the love of his life in Madrid, that was wonderful.

  “Onion’s chopped.” He pushed the board toward her. “What’s next?”

  “You still in touch with her?”

  “You think that’s your business?”

  “Not in the least.” She finished the carrot and scooped the shreds onto the cutting board next to his neatly chopped onion, brought them both over to the stove. “I’ve never been to Spain. Tell me about Madrid.”

  “Great architecture, art, food, people. I got a part-time job in an English bookstore, took classes and mostly did what I wanted.”