by Donna Alward
“I’m sorry,” she finally said softly. “You asked me to go along today for moral support and all I ended up doing was picking a fight. I shouldn’t have done that.”
His breath came out on a whoosh. “Arguing with you takes my mind off other things, so don’t worry about it.”
“Things like what?”
He shrugged.
They started down the hill to Main Street. The ride was almost over and nothing felt settled or on solid ground. “Things like what?” she repeated.
“Like my mom’s empty house,” he answered. “Like having to go through her things knowing she’ll never touch them again. Like knowing she is my only family in the world and she’s gone.”
Jess recognized his tone for what it was—pain.
“Look, I know I’m not perfect. I have issues. I’m a huge disappointment. I’m angry. I’m angry all the time and I don’t know where to put it. But I’m trying. Maybe it doesn’t look like it, but I am. And I do that one day at a time.”
She was about to respond when he finished with, “So it would be great if you could just back off.”
He turned off of Main onto Lilac Lane, pulling up to the curb outside the shop.
Jess gathered her handbag and opened the door.
“Thanks for coming with me,” he said, but there was a distinct lack of warmth in the words.
“You’re welcome.”
She was about to shut the door when he stopped her. “Jess?”
She looked up. It was so hard to read his face. He’d made stonewall expressions an art form. But there was something in his eyes, something a bit softer than the hard line of his jaw, as he nodded. “I promise I won’t make any problems at the wedding. You can count on me to be the soul of propriety.”
It was hard enough to imagine Rick saying the word propriety let alone being the epitome of it. But he was trying. He’d been honest. More honest than he’d been since his arrival home, at least. Even if they’d argued, there had been moments of truth. She should be glad for that.
“I’ll hold you to that,” she replied, looking up at him.
“And I’d appreciate if you kept the adoption thing to yourself.”
“I promise,” she replied solemnly, meaning it. It struck her now that she was the first person he’d ever shared that information with and she’d rewarded his confidence by picking a fight. “I won’t say anything.”
Then she slammed the door and scooted across the street to the shop, feeling his gaze on her back, wondering what he was going to do now.
Rick Sullivan would only cause her trouble. She should really stop spending so much time thinking about him and worry more about her own life.
* * *
Rick’s layoff notice finally came, one day before the end of the month. Rent was due in forty-eight hours and his truck was nearly out of gas. It made no sense to pay rent for a tiny dump when a perfectly good house with no mortgage and up-to-date taxes was sitting vacant, so he put in his notice and moved home.
Tom had repeated his job offer of installing Jess’s shelving, but Rick hadn’t given him an answer yet. It felt weird, accepting a paycheck from his best friend. Besides, Jess would never agree. He knew exactly what she thought. They were old friends and she felt sorry for him. To a point. But she hadn’t exactly jumped at the idea at the café the other day. He still remembered the look of relief that had passed over her face when he’d refused.
So … first things first. He began with unpacking his painting supplies. Panes of glass, vinegar, rags, paints, brushes, and his sketchbook where he worked out his designs. He put them out in the porch, where all the natural light would flood through when the blinds were opened.
Painting had gotten him through some rough times over the last few months, providing not only something to occupy his hands but his mind, too, when the memories and images wouldn’t leave him alone. He took out the wrapped piece of glass, only five by seven, that he’d been working on. Paul Finnigan’s white boat, bobbing at the Jewell Cove dock in the sunset. It was his favorite so far, a simple scene depicting something he truly enjoyed. Sure, he’d been happy for the job in the boat shack, but he’d longed to be out on the water, too. Anywhere that he didn’t feel boxed in … but Jack hadn’t needed him on the boat, and Rick had taken whatever job was offered.
He sighed. He’d sail the bay another time, maybe with Josh on his new twenty-footer. First he was going to go upstairs and put his clothes away. And then go somewhere for dinner until he could put some groceries in the house.
He worked for an hour or so, settling back in, trying to ignore the memories that crowded around him. No sense in dwelling on the past, because nothing could be changed and you could never go back in time. It was just too bad then that even when he tried to keep occupied during the day, he couldn’t control what he saw when he went to sleep. His dreams usually fell into the categories of mistakes and regrets.
The house was too quiet and his stomach rumbled in the silence, so he headed downtown to Breezes Café for something to eat, avoiding The Rusty Fern because today was one of those days he wasn’t overly confident in his willpower to stay off the rum.
It was growing dark as he made his way to the waterfront, and beams from the streetlights bobbed with the waves on the water. On a Thursday at the end of September, most of the shops closed at six and the traffic was mainly local, making for a quiet, soft evening. There was a back-to-school display still up at Eulalie Harris’s bookstore, Cover to Cover, and Halloween candy was already stocked in the pharmacy storefront for the trick-or-treaters who’d make their way through town in costume in a month’s time. His gaze drifted up the hill toward Jess’s shop on Lilac Lane. Had she closed for the night? Was she holding any of her classes in the back room? He could imagine her shining in that element, surrounded by friends and doing what she loved, her eyes sparkling. Her heavy curls would be pulled back in a ponytail and there would probably be paint splatters on her work shirt as she laughed at something someone said. She had a great laugh, soft and husky. The kind that made a man sit up and take notice.
She never laughed when she was with him. Except for the other day, when he’d been teasing her. When she gave that low, sexy laugh, something inside of him eased.
Frowning, he pulled open the door to the café and stepped inside. As he expected, most of the clientele was local, with some strange faces, probably from the few bed-and-breakfasts scattered around town. Rick went to the counter rather than take a table. It would feel too conspicuous to sit all alone. Pathetic.
“Rick Sullivan. Twice in a week. To what do we owe the pleasure? The Fern must be missing your business.”
Rick tried not to wince. He really had damaged his reputation, hadn’t he? The words were said lightly in simple teasing, but the truth of them cut a little. He forced a smile. “Well, Linda, it’s either Gus’s roast chicken or your apple pie. Maybe a little of each.”
Linda’s face softened. “Aw, hon, you know I’m just teasin’. How’re you making out, anyway? Heard you were moving back into your mom’s house.”
He raised an eyebrow. “I just moved out of my apartment this morning.”
“Nothing is secret in this town.” She flashed him a grin. “You really want the chicken dinner, or do you want a menu?”
“The chicken’s fine. And don’t be stingy on the gravy. Ice cream on the pie, too, please.”
“You got it.”
She bustled away, leaving Rick nothing to do but sit and wait.
He’d folded a paper napkin into a tulip when someone sat on the stool next to him. “Well, look what the cat dragged in,” Bryce Arseneault said jovially.
Rick looked over at the police chief. Once the two of them had nearly gotten caught drinking Pete Arseneault’s Wild Turkey and smoking behind the school. It had been Bryce who had shown Rick how to jimmy the lock to the auditorium. They’d waited there until the coast was clear. Rick always found it ironic and more than a bit amusing that Bryce was now t
he head of law enforcement for the town.
Rick picked up his ice water and took a sip. “Maybe you should sit somewhere else. You might tarnish my good reputation.”
Bryce chuckled. “Right back atcha. How’re you making out? Heard you moved back home.”
Rick shook his head. “Grapevine’s alive and well, I see. Yes, I’m back at my mom’s house.” His house now. He wondered if he’d ever see it that way.
Linda came back with Rick’s dinner and nodded at Bryce. “What can I get you, Chief?”
“Piece of whatever pie you’ve got back there and a coffee. Thanks, Linda.”
She disappeared and Bryce rested his elbows on the counter. “Seriously, Rick … how’re you doing?”
“Trying to keep it so you don’t have to haul my ass to the drunk tank.”
Bryce nodded, his face sober. “That’s good. That’s real good. You’ve had a lot to deal with. Shit happens. You do the best you can.”
That was one thing he liked about Bryce. He might be the chief but he never judged. He was probably the fairest person Rick had ever met. Unlike some people, who seemed to judge first and get details later.
Dammit. He’d almost managed to go without thinking about Jess for … what, twenty minutes?
He dipped into his chicken dinner. God, it was good to have home cooking. Gus had been cooking here at Breezes as long as Rick could remember. Not that Rick starved, but he never made something like this for himself. There never seemed to be much point.
Linda came back with Bryce’s pie and coffee and they relaxed, eating and catching up on what was going on in the Collins family. Tom was ecstatic to be getting married; Bryce’s wife, Mary, was feeling better now that her morning sickness had passed; Josh was enjoying the new medical practice. According to Mary, Jess had put on a new quilt at the shop and it was going to be gorgeous.
Somewhere along the line Linda had gone on break and Summer Arnold came by and cleared away Rick’s plate, delivered his pie, and topped up Bryce’s coffee. “So,” he started conversationally, “I hear you’re emceeing the wedding.”
Bryce nodded. “Yeah. And you’re best man. Looks like you get to wear the monkey suit.” Bryce’s wide grin made Rick chuckle.
“You don’t think I can pull it off? Listen, it’s way better I wear that than my dress uniform. The chicks wouldn’t be able to resist me.”
“You don’t have to tell me about uniforms.” Bryce nodded. “It drives my wife crazy. There’s a reason we’ve got another kid on the way.” He winked at Rick and they both laughed.
Rick told himself he didn’t feel the least bit envious of his pals, who seemed to be dropping like flies at the mercy of marital fever. “Better you than me,” he replied.
They were quiet for a few moments and then Bryce looked at him, all traces of teasing gone from his face. “You need any help, Rick?” He spoke in a low voice, like he didn’t want to be overheard.
“Help with what?” Rick frowned. Why did everyone look at him like he was going to fall apart at any moment?
“Listen, I’m not trying to tell you what to do, but if you’re having a hard time … with dealing with your mom’s death…”
“I’m fine,” he insisted, but that nervous churning in his stomach hit again.
“Okay. I just know that a lot of guys come home from deployment and have trouble making sense of stuff. They don’t always handle it the right way.”
“This is about my drinking,” Rick guessed, gritting his teeth.
“Hey, you said you’ve been doing better. That’s great. I just want you to get help if you need it, brother. Give me a call if that happens. I can help.” Bryce put his hand on Rick’s arm. On his prosthetic arm.
Sharp words sat on Rick’s tongue, but he remembered feeling badly about snapping at Jess and knew, deep down, that his friend was just trying to help. “I’m dealing with it, don’t worry,” he assured Bryce with a smile. It felt slightly forced. “But thanks for the concern.”
Bryce finished his coffee and took out a ten, tucked it under his plate. “You bet. I gotta go, but I’m just a phone call away. Got that?”
“I appreciate it.”
Bryce laid a hand on his shoulder. “You hang tough. It’ll get better.” He gave Rick’s shoulder a reassuring thump and then left the café.
It’ll get better. Maybe, if people would stop reminding him how bad it was. He took a bite of pie and wished he wasn’t longing for a stiff shot of rum.
* * *
Rick put his hand on the doorknob and hesitated. He’d finally given in to Tom—and his shrinking bank account—and agreed to work on Jess’s shelves. But now he was an hour and a half late showing up, feeling rough around the edges and not prepared to face Jess right now.
The choice was taken out of his hands when the door to the shop swung open. “Are you going to stand out here all day?”
Nice beginning. Not even a chance to figure out what he was going to say to her to smooth any ruffled feathers. Perfect.
“Morning,” he offered gruffly, sliding past her into the store. He halted, unprepared for the kaleidoscope of color that made up her shop. There were racks of quilts, fabric, a rainbow of yarn shoved in cubbies, racks with sparkly jewelry, candles of every color and size, and shelves of jams and jellies. She’d built quite an enterprise here, and Rick found himself incredibly proud of all she’d accomplished. Particularly since she’d done it on her own. Not that he felt compelled to point that out right at this moment. She was hardly in a receptive frame of mind. One look at the hard line of her eyebrows and the thin slash of her lips and he’d felt like the tardy kid in Ms. Robertson’s second-grade class.
When Jess shut the door firmly behind him, he knew he’d better keep moving and made his way to her workroom in the back. It was huge. The perimeter was comprised of floor-to-waist cupboards and countertops. There were boxes and plastic storage containers with supplies lined up along the counters, vying for space with the stove, fridge, several bar stools, and a line of hot plates. In one corner was a quilting frame, the material stretched taut across it.
“What’s all this for?” he asked, stopping in the middle of the room. The lighting was fantastic, considering there were fewer windows here than in the showroom. She’d been smart with her choices.
“My classes. The hot plates are for candles. We work at the counters a lot, but some of the classes need different seating. Like when I do a beading class. I have folding tables and chairs in the closet over there. I find it easier to show everyone something at once and put the beads in organizers along the middle of the tables. Knitting is like that, too. If the group’s small enough, sometimes we take the knitting up to the loft. It’s cozier.”
“And the fridge and stove?”
“I use the stove for my candles. The fridge has supplies, and we often have snacks after classes. It’s social, too.”
He thought that perhaps the questions had soothed those ruffled feathers until she added, “Did you come to chat all day or are you going to get to work?”
“Sorry I’m late.”
She walked up to him, surprising him by cupping his chin in her fingers and staring him in the eyes. Disapproval showed on every feature. “I’m sure you are,” she replied, letting go and turning away.
“Jess, I overslept. That’s all. I didn’t hear the alarm.”
She laughed, but it was a hard, dry laugh. “Sure, Rick. Whatever. I’ve got work to do. Tom left you the supplies on the back landing and said to call if you needed anything else for tools.”
Frustration burned inside him. She was making assumptions again. It was as plain as the nose on his face. “Don’t dismiss me like that, like you’re all high and mighty. Don’t you dare, Jessica Collins.”
She spun back. “What am I supposed to do when you show up nearly two hours late, with bloodshot eyes and looking like you were dragged out of bed? Well, if nothing else, Rick, you’re consistent.”
Rick was tired. He’d had a ro
ugh night last night. He couldn’t sleep—scenes with Kyle kept revolving in his head, making his mind whirr and his body tense. He’d kept thinking about what he might have done differently. If it would have changed the outcome. Naturally, he’d felt the urge to drink and drink a lot, just to make the whole cycle stop. It was ironic, wasn’t it? That the thing Jess was accusing him of was the one thing he’d worked hardest to avoid?
“You automatically think I was drinking,” he ground out. His temper was short today, he realized. He needed something physical, an activity to take up some of this energy pounding through him. He clenched his fingers into a fist and released them again.
“Weren’t you?” One eyebrow went up this time. He had the unholy urge to kiss the condemning expression off her face. Plant one big one on her and wipe that smug, disdainful look clean away. That would fix her wagon …
Who was he kidding? Kissing Jess would be about like puckering up to a viper, the mood she was in.
“If I said I wasn’t drinking, would you even believe me?” She opened her mouth but he held up a hand. “Enough, Jess. I’m late, I’m sorry you’re angry, let’s both just get to work and stay out of each other’s way.”
She stood there, hands on hips, glaring at him.
“Look,” he challenged again, fed up with her passing judgment all the time. “Do you want these shelves or not? If you don’t, I’ll take off right now, and you can call Tom and explain why you need someone from his crew to fit you into their schedule.”
Ah. She looked slightly uncomfortable at that notion. And he supposed he could tell her the truth—that he’d stayed up late working on a project to keep himself from breaking a promise. But he shouldn’t have to. Especially when his painting was something he guarded carefully. It was his and his alone.
Besides, Jess might laugh at him. And he’d rather take her anger and judgment than mockery.
“Well?” he asked, none too kindly.
She flounced her hair over her shoulder. “Fine. I’ll be in the front working on consignment statements.”
Jess was gone in a cloud of scent that reminded him both of his mother’s garden and sugar cookies. He sighed and wiped his hand over his face. Thank God Tom had sent over the dimensions for the shelves a couple of days ago. Otherwise Rick might have needed to ask Jess for input and he’d rather deal with an angry badger than tangle with her at the moment.
