Justifying Jack (The Wounded Warriors Book 2)

by Beaudelaire, Simone

  “What did you mean then?” That nothing I do has or ever will be good enough for you and now that I'm less than a man, you've simply given up on me, expecting me to do the same? He tried to keep the resentment from bubbling up inside of him, but he failed.

  “All I meant was I've seen a lot of people succumb to their challenges in life. You're stronger than yours and I… well, I just wanted to be sure you knew that.”

  “I knew you didn't mean to be so harsh,” Shonda's loving expression almost made him gag.

  He doesn't deserve you, Mom, Jack thought, but all he said audibly was, “I know. I appreciate your concern, but I'm capable of taking care of myself.”

  “Well,” Malcolm took on a slight air of smugness. “In case you're not, I thought I'd mention there's a position opening up at the church. It's only part-time, but it's a start.”

  “Oh, right, the groundskeeper is moving back to Mexico to care for his ailing, elderly mother,” Shonda gushed, holding her hands to her heart to indicate how touched she was by Alejandro's gesture of love.

  “Groundskeeper,” Jack repeated cautiously. “What does the position entail? You know I can't perform a lot of the physical jobs I used to be able to do.”

  “Well, most of the time you'll be able to spend in the office, coordinating with different vendors and scheduling events, soliciting volunteers for various projects,” his mother chimed happily.

  “You might have to do a few small maintenance jobs here and there,” his father announced. “But even you can sit on a chair and paint or screw something in, right?”

  “I'm sure I can,” Jack replied tersely. “I'm not dead, just limited.”

  “This job will be perfect for you with your leadership training,” Shonda reassured him, ignoring the slight hostility in the air.

  “Of course, we'll have to let the board vote,” Malcolm reminded him. “We can't just extend the job to you simply because you're our son. Everyone has to agree to offer you the position.

  “I never expected you or anyone else to hand me anything,” he answered. “Just tell me what I need to do to apply.”

  * * *

  Climbing into the passenger seat of his mother's car, Jack wondered how wise it was to apply for the groundkeeper position. Do I really want to work with my father? It's bad enough I'm living with him, no matter how temporary the situation is. Jack sighed, relieved to be at the church with his mother. At least I don't have to spend his day off with Dad.

  “Are you okay?” Shonda eyed her son suspiciously. “You seem rather pensive.”

  “Oh, yeah, I'm good. I was just thinking,” he replied. Though, I don't want to tell you about what. I mean, I don't want to offend you.

  And the dreaded question came anyway. “About what, dear?”

  He sighed and flubbed his answer a bit to spare his mother's feelings. “Well, I was thinking I might need to get another car now that I'm home again.” I was so glad to have sold my little S-10 pickup when I got my orders to go overseas, but now it kind of sucks not having my own wheels.

  “Oh.” His mother contemplated his answer. “Do you have the money for a new car?”

  “Mom, I'm not broke,” he reminded her. “I just can't sign a lease until I have a stable income again.” The question you should be asking is can I still drive? With my injury being on my right leg, I just can't be sure anymore. I wonder if I'll have to get hand controls put into the car or if I ought to just take a cab to get around…

  “Well, if you need it, you can always borrow one of our cars until you find something nice,” his mother offered, thoughtful and generous as always.

  “Thanks, Mom,” he said with sincere gratitude.

  “Say, I need to head out or I'll be late. Do you mind locking up?” she asked.

  “Yeah, go, go!” Jack waved her off nonchalantly. “I'm slower than I used to be, but I'll make sure the car is secure. I'll come find you at the office when I get in.”

  “Thanks, honey,” his mother beamed brightly, leaning in to kiss his forehead before she climbed out of the car and trudged into the building, lugging her heavy purse with her.

  The morning was dismal. Dark clouds converged over San Antonio, shrouding the city in a damp and chilly rain. This kind of weather always makes me feel like shit, Jack thought as he slowly exited his mother's car. He clutched his jacket tighter around the bulky muscles of his chest and arms. It's worse now that I have this gimpy leg.

  As if in complaint for the slanderous comment, his leg ached fiercely, radiating a throbbing burn through his unhealed limb. The weakened and traumatized muscles were tight on a good day, but they screamed with tension in the cold moisture which dominated the atmosphere. Gritting his teeth, he forced his recalcitrant leg into action and limped painfully through the drizzle into the foyer of the church.

  Typical, he thought as the door swung shut behind him. Heat belched from the radiators, assaulting him with such force he waited to see if steam would rise from his garments, like a sauna. It's freaking Texas. There really don't need to be heaters. Shaking his head in hopes of ridding himself from his pain and weather induced grump, he hobbled toward the stairs. Though he despised his cane, wishing he didn't need the wretched implement, he knew there was no avoiding it.

  Though he could maneuver well enough in small quarters without it, he could barely walk without it on a day like this. Good thing it's Thursday. Wednesday nights are busy enough, but with last night's festivities, there shouldn't be anyone around but Mom. He wrestled his bum leg down the hallway, swearing under his breath, convinced God would forgive him, even if the parishioners wouldn't. Thank you God for not zapping my sinful ass right out of the church, he thought, ending up in the office, not really paying attention to his surroundings.

  “Mom, I…” He stopped dead. Instead of his mother, a beautiful Hispanic woman looked up from the desk, meeting his eyes with a captivating hazel stare. For one moment, awareness sparked between them, and then, as though a blind had been pulled, Marithé cut off the intimacy. Her eyes returned to the impersonal pleasantness she'd shown when he had entered.

  “Mr. Nelson,” she began, and the sound of his name spoken in her warm and sweetly accented voice had such an impact on him, he had to tug his jacket a little lower around his hips. Glad I didn't take it off.

  “Mar… Mrs. Dominguez.” She wants formality? I guess it's her call. Ignoring his pang of disappointment, he returned to the business at hand. “I'm here to turn in my application for the groundskeeper position.”

  She nodded with a bland smile and held out her hand. “I'll be sure it gets turned in to… the associate pastor. He's, ah… he's in charge of the interviewing.” Dad? Of course, he's in charge of the interviewing.

  He placed the sheaf of papers in her palm, admiring the long, slender fingers and the thick gold wedding ring she still wore. He lifted his eyes to hers and quirked one eyebrow.

  “I'll always wear it,” she said, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial murmur. “I'm a widow, not a divorcee. It's only right that I continue to wear the symbol of my vows to Jorge.”

  “Someday, you might want to date again,” he said, taking a chance, “and that might be a bit off putting.”

  Marithé shook her head. “I don't see myself doing that ever again. No, my life belongs to my children now.”

  Jack felt a pain of sadness. “I… I don't mean to pry, but I honestly don't think Jorge would want you to -”

  “Jorge was my soulmate,” Marithé stated firmly. “He was and always will be my one true love. Besides, he's the father of my children. Dating after being married to him seems… ridiculous.”

  “You're pretty young to give up on men forever, don't you think?” Jack commented, trying to ignore the discouragement and sorrow her words caused to rise within him. I wish a beautiful woman like Marithé could love me with that sort of passion.

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “It's not a question of time. Who could compare to my Jorge, Mr. Nelson? Should I be so
willing as to accept just anyone? I know what real love is and I won't accept anything less.”

  Jack closed his mouth with a snap. What are you doing, man? You barely know this woman. A handful of letters about her dead husband doesn't equal a relationship. And she's only been widowed a few months. Of course, she's not going to be interested now. And with your… problems, you wouldn't even be a consideration. “Of course not, I'm sorry. And you're right, you shouldn't settle for anything less. Please forgive me if I came across wrong, Mrs. Dominguez. It's the weather. It brings out the ass in me.”

  She turned up the corners of her mouth, amused by his flagrant use of profanity in the church, but the smile didn't reach her eyes. She turned to regard the gray, drizzly day outside the window. “I can understand that,” her soft voice was like music to his ears, sweet and inviting. “It's certainly 'warm blanket and old movie' weather.”

  He raised one eyebrow. “You do that too?” She turned, regarding him with surprise as he asked, “What's your favorite classic?”

  She met his eyes and this time the sparkle had returned to their hazel depths. “The Wizard of Oz. You?”

  “I like comedies. Father Goose is a good one.”

  She gleamed at his response. “That is a good one.”

  “Wow,” Jack felt even more drawn to the woman before him, recognizing her kindred spirit. “I thought I was the only one.”

  “Me too,” she laughed. “It's really a tragedy that poor working folks, such as us, have to be out and about, away from vintage movies and warm blankets.”

  And away from lovely ladies with sad eyes. Shaking off the potent lure of her beauty, he forced himself to return to the casual, but words escaped him. Instead, he found himself staring into her face as though the answers to all the questions that had plagued him lately could be found there. Jack, she's the widow of one of your closest friends, man. Come on, what are you thinking?

  She looked back, her expression unreadable, but her eyes seemed to be asking for something, begging for it. At last, she spoke, “I'll make sure your father gets this, Mr. Nelson.”

  “Jack, Marithé. Remember? Call me Jack, please. I can't call you Mrs. Dominguez. It just seems so… wrong.”

  She flashed a grin, seeming pleased. “Jack, then. I'm sure you know the drill. They'll call you, and so on.” She bobbed her head from side to side, emphasizing the repetition of her statement.

  “Yeah, I know the drill,” he chuckled. “It was, ah… nice… to see you again, Marithé.”

  She acknowledged his words with a silent nod, watching him as he made his way out of the office, his cane clicking rhythmically against the floor. The sound made Jack cringe. He hated how his unsteady gait made him look like what he was… weak. Broken.

  * * *

  Marithé hadn't realized she was holding it, but letting out her unsteady breath, she felt a little overwhelmed. Jack Nelson is too much for his own good. Too sexy, too handsome, and too damned nice. She could easily recall, even though he was no longer visible, the chiseled lines of his face, the light cocoa of his skin, the brilliant flash of his perfect white teeth. He looks amazing. Too good to be true.

  “And not for you,” she sourly reminded herself. “How disloyal can you get? Your husband is barely cold in his grave and you're ogling one of his best friends!”

  She swallowed hard, pressing the fingers of her hand against her forehead, closing her eyes in dismay. She knew the nagging voice of her conscience was right. She had no business drooling over Jack Nelson. No business even looking at a man, let alone secretly wishing he'd pressed his question about dating just a little harder.

  “Marithé?” A voice shattered her reverie.

  “Yes?” She glanced up to see the gentle, probing eyes of Shonda Nelson, scrutinizing her with blatant curiosity.

  “Did you get the bulletins printed yet?”

  Crap! Your job, mujer! “Not yet. I almost have the cover design ready.”

  “I need those ready before tomorrow,” she reminded her, trying to suppress her smile. Crap! How goofy-looking was my expression when she came in right after her son left?

  “I know, I know.” Oh come on, Mari. Get with it. “Sorry, I just…”

  “Have other… things on your mind?” Shonda teased with an unspoken question in her gaze

  “Uh, yeah,” Marithé could feel her face warming. Oh, dear Lord, does she suspect I'm so frazzled and slow because I was daydreaming about her son? Ugh! How do I defuse this?

  Thankfully, the kind older woman cut her some slack and let her off the hook by saying, “Don't worry, dear, I'm only teasing. I've just never seen you so… distracted before. I guess I couldn't resist teasing.”

  “Yeah, I guess I sort of was… distracted,” Marithé couldn't help feeling relieved as she repeated the generous word choice of her manager and friend. Though she was certain it showed plainly on her face, Shonda refrained from further commenting on her ill-concealed emotions. Instead, she extended a steaming mug towards her.

  “Here, I grabbed you a fresh cup of coffee. It should help to get the motor running again.”

  “Thank you,” Marithé responded, eagerly taking the mug and trying to hide the return flush igniting her face by sipping from the hot beverage. Oh, I don't think there's anything wrong with my motor!

  * * *

  Malcolm peeked over the top of his laptop at the sound of Jack opening the kitchen door. It was evident by his expression that he hadn't expected Jack to be back so soon. I hadn't expected it either.

  “Hey, Dad,” he gave an uncomfortable wave, leaned his cane against the wall, then pulled his jacket off and hung it on the hook beside the door.

  “Hi, Jack,” Malcolm replied as he returned to the keys.

  “Working on a new sermon?” Jack surmised.

  “Hmmm,” his father murmured absently. Jack glanced at Malcolm, amused as his father lifted his head, looking down his nose and through the bottom section of his bifocal glasses to read what he'd written. How many times have I seen him in that exact position? Whether he's writing his sermon by hand or typing it doesn't matter, he still looks the same; serious, thoughtful, and… unavailable.

  Jack continued to move through the kitchen towards his little room, but he only took a few steps before his father refocused on him. “Oh, Jack. Someone named Mike called while you were out. I left the message by the phone.”

  “Mike?” Jack replied, happy to hear his friend's name. “Huh, I wonder why he called.”

  “Read the message and you'll know,” Malcolm remarked. His comment was more matter-of-fact than anything else so Jack blew it off, realizing it wasn't meant in a discourteous manner.

  Cool, Jack thought as he read the message scrawled on a small notepad next to the phone. The guys want to get together tonight at Dave and Buster's. It had been years since he'd been there. That should be fun.

  Hearing the crinkle of the paper as Jack grasped the message, Malcolm asked, “Did you submit your application?”

  The mention of the church job reminded Jack it would be his father who would offer candidates to the board members. “Ah, yeah.” He turned his gaze to Malcolm, meeting his eyes. “Why didn't you say you were in charge of the interviews?”

  “I didn't want you counting your chickens before they hatched,” Malcolm gestured dismissively. As if you ever did me any favors which would lead me to assume such a thing.

  “Dad, I don't expect anything -”

  “Jack,” Malcolm interrupted, getting up from the table and standing in front of his son. “I know you think I'm… an asshole…” the word seemed so foreign on his father's lips, adding to the man's discomfort as much as it emphasized his words.

  “Dad, I…”

  “Let me finish, please,” Malcolm requested, holding a hand up to stifle his son's objection.

  “Sorry,” Jack apologized. “Please go ahead.”

  “Thank you. Look, I'm only hard on you because I want the best for you. I… I don't mean to offend
you.” Jack was moved by the admission and a pang of guilt shot through him when he recognized the sadness reflected in his father's eyes. “I'm… I'm glad you're home, son. I just, I don't want you to forget your worth.”

  Wow. Where had that come from? “Thanks, Dad. I appreciate you saying that.”

  “I love you, son.” Malcolm awkwardly patted Jack's upper arm, never one for public displays of affection, even in the privacy of their own home. “I'm sorry if I don't show it or say it as much as I should.”

  Jack nodded. “I love you too, Dad.”

  Malcolm bobbed his head and cleared his throat. He shuffled back to his chair and plopped back down in front of his laptop. “So, are you going to go out with your friends tonight?”

  “Uh, yeah,” he answered. “I think I will.”

  “Are these men you knew in the Army?” his father asked, sipping from his coffee mug and scratching his head.

  “I'm not sure who all is going to be there, but yeah, Mike was in my squad.” Thankfully, he survived. “He's a little younger than I am, but he's a real good guy.”

  “Did you want to use the car?” Malcolm offered as he started to read through his sermon again, his voice growing distant with his distraction.

  “Oh, no, but thank you,” Jack smiled, surprised by his father's thoughtfulness. “I, ah… I'll take a cab, like I did to come home.”

  “Hmmm. Uh-huh…” And his father was gone, lost in the preparations for his part of the coming Sunday services.

  Hey, I'll take it, Jack thought to himself as he entered his little room, grabbing his cell to phone Mike back. Perhaps there's hope for us after all.

  Chapter 3

  Jack sipped from an icy mug of Heineken as he watched his friend Mike stammer into his cell phone. Moments later, the shy redhead pressed the end button and shoved the little plastic rectangle back into his jeans pocket. Poor bastard must have been talking to his mom again. Amazing a crack shot like Mike comes from such an odd assembly of characters like his family. Jack took another drink of his beer. Mike picked up his cue and returned to the table, but his hands were shaking so much his shot careened wildly all over the emerald felt and came to a slow stop without touching any of the other balls.