Since then, though, she was usually Fia’s first call. She had a capacity for caregiving that no one had ever guessed at, and she did it all in her usual blunt manner. She never overwhelmed Fia with too much sympathy, which tonight might have left her a hot mess.
“All right,” Ilena said after a moment. “Give us the secret, inside, intimate scoop on Elliot. Where did you find him, are you going to keep him, and would you be willing to loan him out from time to time? I promise I would just look, not touch.”
Fia laughed. “He’s not a stray dog that wandered in looking for a place to live.” But only half of that statement was true. He was looking for a place to stay, and she would very much like for that place, metaphorically, to be her.
She would also like world peace and the ability to eat all the chocolate she wanted without her butt expanding exponentially.
“Besides, what would Jared think if he knew I was loaning Elliot out to you?”
Ilena’s shrug was dismissive. “When you and Elliot have kids, I’ll loan Jared to you every time they get a snotty nose. Fair trade, don’t you think?”
Jessy disagreed while Fia got lost somewhere in the mention of kids. It was a question she and Scott had never really decided. He just kind of assumed that one day it would happen, and truthfully, she’d just assumed if he wanted them, she’d have them. She’d never been sure she would be a good mother, though, not having had any maternal examples in her life. Now, four years older and forty years wiser, she would only have a baby if she was one hundred percent sure she wanted it. If she was married to the father, and he was one hundred percent sure he wanted it. If they could take care of it—him—she’d never been girly enough, she didn’t think, to relate to a little girl—better than any other two people in the world. If they could love him even more than they loved each other.
Elliot would be a great father. He would do what fathers are supposed to do and do it better than it’s ever been done before, her inside voice whispered.
But how could she be a mother when she’d fallen out of the blue? When the medication that eased her symptoms made her goofy and unable to care for herself, much less a child? When she didn’t know what was wrong, whether it would get better, if it might even kill her someday?
“See that look on her face?” Ilena said in a stage whisper to Jessy. “That’s the look you get when you’re thinking of Dalton.”
Fia shook off her thoughts to focus on her friends. “That’s the look you get—well, all the time.” Ilena was just so damn happy to be in the place she was in with the people she was with.
“Elliot’s a friend,” Fia went on.
“A very good friend,” Jessy corrected her. “He kissed you good night and made you stumble over your own feet.”
“How do you know he kissed me good night?”
Jessy’s sigh was patient. “Because if I were Elliot and I’d brought you home and walked you to the door, I would damn well kiss you. And because I am a woman, and if he brought me home and walked me to the door, I’d damn well kiss him.”
“We are young, but we are not naïve,” Ilena said in her best South Texas drawl. She waited a moment for her comment to sink in, then the three of them burst into laughter. Ilena was naïve in the best possible way, and they all knew it. She trusted life and people, she always believed in the best, and she thought optimism wasn’t a choice but the only way to live.
Must be something in that Texas soil.
Fia could use a dose of that optimism for herself, and in a sense she had it in Elliot. The thing she wanted. The thing she needed. But also the thing she couldn’t have.
* * *
Once the breakfast rush finished Wednesday morning, Lucy left Patricia in charge of the bakery and herded Elliot out to her car. “You need some heavy lifting done?” he asked as he slid into the passenger seat.
“Nope. I’m taking you to meet our source for sourdough starter. You met Bennie last night, right? Well, her grandmother has a starter that she got from her mother when she got married, so it’s at least sixty years old. I asked on Monday if we could get some from her, and she said she was feeding it this morning so come by and we could have the discard.” Lucy pulled onto the street, then abashedly grinned. “I have to admit, I know nothing about sourdough except that it tastes good, so I have no idea what she’s feeding it or why or what discard is.”
“Flour and water. It keeps the spores alive. And discard is exactly what it sounds like. Every time you feed it, you throw out part of it so you don’t wind up with a giant mass.” In his mind, he was rubbing his hands in gleeful anticipation. “My grandma’s sourdough pancakes are the best pancakes that ever existed, and the bread…Damn.”
“I can’t wait to give it a try.” Lucy slowed as she approached the middle of the block. “That house right there is mine, and Joe lives next door. Back there on the next street is Patricia’s house. Remember, dinner tonight. On the way back, I’ll drive by the front so you can find it easier.”
“Yes, ma’am.” The neighborhood was like Tallgrass itself: neat, older but lovingly cared for. The people who lived here were happy. Settled. Their contentment showed.
As they continued driving west, Lucy gave him a sly glance. “So you have some good luck, Elliot, meeting the prettiest girl in town five minutes after you crossed the city limits.”
“I was born lucky.” He was grateful for it every day.
“She’s a sweetheart. She’s had a tough time—” Abruptly, Lucy broke off and a flush tinged her cheeks. “Aw, no gloomy talk today. Spring in Oklahoma is gorgeous but fleeting, so we keep things light and bright and sunny then. And here’s where we’re going.”
She pulled into the driveway of a small house, where an elderly black woman sat on the porch swing. As they approached, she stood and set down her well-read Bible, and a welcoming smile spread across her face. “How are you doing, Miss Lucy?”
Lucy walked into her hug. “I’m better than ever, Mama.” To Elliot, she added, “I had a heart attack last fall, and Mama prayed me through rehab. She’s on very good terms with God, so if you ever need any assistance…”
While Elliot processed that information—A heart attack? She was only a few years older than him!—the old lady smiled sweetly. “I’m always happy to put a good word in with the Lord.”
“Mama, this is Elliot Ross, our new baker. Elliot, Mama Maudene Pickering.”
Elliot took the worn hand the old lady offered in both of his. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, ma’am.”
“He’s a Texas boy,” Lucy confided. “We’re trying to break him of that ma’am habit, but it’s awfully hard.”
“Oh, shoot, a boy as handsome as this one is can call me anything, just as long as he calls me.” With a great laugh, Mama picked up a pottery dish from the nearby table and held it out. “Now, do you know how to keep this going?”
He reached out, but she continued to hold on to it. “Yes, ma’am—Mama. Feed it twice a day if it’s kept out and once a week if it’s refrigerated. Let it rest after each feeding and come to room temperature before using it.”
“All right.” She let go then, entrusting the starter to him. “The stuff in that bowl is older than you by twice. You take care of it, and it’ll take care of you.”
“I promise I will.”
She picked up a bottle and handed it to Lucy. “Bennie said you were talking about adding pulled pork sandwiches to the menu. Sweet Spirit—best barbecue sauce you’ll ever have. Made right here in Oklahoma. And you see the name, you can’t help but think of the song.” In a clear voice, she sang, “There’s a sweet, sweet Spirit in this place…”
Elliot harmonized with her on the next line of the old gospel tune. “And I know that it’s the Spirit of the Lord.”
“You’ve got a voice, son.” Mama gave him a long, approving look. “You and I are going to be great friends.”
“I think we are,” he agreed. That was exactly what he wanted, what he missed most about home: person
al connections. Friends, neighbors, buddies, co-workers. A bunch of little strings to tie him to the place; the more, the better.
After a few more minutes of chatting, he and Lucy returned to the car. She drove to the end of the street, showing him where Bennie and Calvin lived, and Calvin’s parents and grandmother, then she took Patricia’s street back to the bakery so he could find his way that evening.
A lot of little strings. And right in the middle of them, a big one that led to Fia. It was a little thin now, but with each shared contact, it would twine and braid and become too strong to break.
On his lunch break, he called her and left a voice mail. After work, he called again. On his way to Patricia’s, he tried again. It was a good thing he wasn’t insecure, or he’d be wondering if he’d done something wrong last night. Like maybe she hadn’t liked the way he kissed, except he’d felt her response, and it hadn’t been disappointment.
After dinner with its discussions of menu items and an enthusiastic tasting of the Sweet Spirit sauce—Lucy had gone home with the intent of ordering it by the gallon—he was halfway to Fia’s house before he even realized it. Her car was in the driveway, and a dim light showed through the living room windows. He sat there a moment, thinking about going to the door, knocking, interrupting her just long enough to say good night and have a chance to kiss her again, but reasons not to presented themselves in order: It was only eight thirty, but he had to get up at three thirty; Mouse had been in the apartment by herself all day and needed attention; it had been only twenty-four hours since he’d seen Fia. He didn’t want to seem clingy. And she hadn’t returned any of his three phone calls.
After a moment, he eased his foot off the brake and drove away.
He and Mouse were racing down the stairs to the door for a walk when his cell phone rang. For just an instant, his heart rate increased, then returned instantly to normal. “Hey, older sister.”
“Hey, little brother. I just saw your text that you got a job, and at a bakery. I always figured you’d wind up in the food service industry someday.”
“Yeah, but you thought I’d be bussing tables, didn’t you?”
Emily’s laugh made him feel good and miss her at the same time. “I thought you’d do whatever you needed to do. Isn’t that the Ross family motto?”
“Just for the record, I have bussed tables a few times when we’re busy. I’ve run the register, too, and mopped up at the end of the day.” With his shoulder, he pushed open the heavy door, then followed Mouse out into the cool night. She’d discovered a park one block down the street and one over, and it was the only place she headed when she was out.
“I talked to Mom after I got your text. She said tell you congratulations, and the kids said to tell you that they’re trying to finagle a road trip to Six Flags Over Texas when school is out, with a stop by to see you.”
“That’d be great. I’m off Sundays and maybe another day depending on how the shop’s doing. You’ll see why I like Tallgrass.”
“Hey, I might even want to move there myself. School will be out. The kids will be running wild.”
“They always run wild. But when they get older and begin acting like human beings, you’re gonna miss the hellions.”
Though if he stayed here, it wouldn’t make him anything but happy to have his sister move her family here. Then their parents would feel left out, so they could probably be persuaded to pack up and move, too. And then they could all have the same home again.
“If you decide to do that, let me know. I’ll even clean my apartment and put out the air mattress for you.”
“Don’t you know your nieces and nephew would adore the opportunity to have a sleepover at Uncle Elliot’s while their mom and dad sneak off to nice hotel?” Emily asked with a wistful sigh.
“It’s a deal. I’ll put them in the Murphy bed, and I’ll even let them out the next morning.”
Dusk had settled enough that the park was empty, the swings were still, and the seesaws sat empty, tilted every which way. There was no laughter, no excited squeals, no worn-out cries or impatient voices. Elliot followed Mouse across the damp grass, her nose only a half inch above the ground and her rump wiggling at the thrill of new scents.
Emily had been quiet long enough that he’d figured one of the kids had claimed her attention when her voice spoke, strong and teasing, in his ear. “If we do come, we’ll also get to meet Fia. I think the last girlfriend I met of yours was the one after the crazy chick trying to crack your skull open. She was…Australian?”
He winced. “English. Chelsea.” They’d met in the airport; he was coming home on leave, and she was on her first solo trip to the United States. They’d hit it off, and she’d tagged along to West Texas with him, where she’d gotten out of the car on a miserable dry 100-plus-degree day, giving everything in view—buildings, people, and animals—a disgusted look, then spouted the foulest complaint he’d ever heard from a woman.
“When she heard me say Texas and ranch, she expected something like that old TV show, Dallas. I warned her it was nothing like that, but…” He shrugged as Mouse circled to find the blades of grass best suited for her business, then squatted.
“I’m guessing you’d never have to apologize for Fia like that.”
“No.” He couldn’t imagine Fia ever deliberately insulting anyone in language that would make a battle-hardened soldier blush.
Mouse kicked her feet, sending clods of grass flying, and he turned her toward home. “Hey,” he said, working at sounding casual, “how many phone calls make a guy needy or, worse, creepy?”
“You could never be creepy, El. How many have you made?”
“Three today.”
“Eh, just to be safe, give it a rest tonight. Try her again tomorrow.” After a moment, she asked, “Trouble?”
“Nope. Just I took her home last night, kissed her, and she didn’t return my calls today.”
She snorted, and in the background, one of his nieces mimicked the sound in an increasingly louder voice. “People have lives. They’ve got jobs, people to see, things to do. But I think it’s sweet you’re worried.”
“Not worried, just—” With a grunt, he broke off. “Thanks for calling, Em.”
“I hate you.”
“I hate you more.”
As he slid his phone into his pocket and urged Mouse into a trot, he hoped Emily did come for a visit. He missed her and Bill and the kids. He wanted them to see that he was contented.
And it couldn’t hurt to show Fia what a totally normal, affectionate family he came from, could it?
* * *
It was nearly ten o’clock when Fia lowered herself onto the couch Thursday morning. She needed a shower, and even as short as it was, her hair had somehow twisted into a rat’s nest. She hadn’t gotten dressed since Tuesday night, still wearing the same shirt Jessy had helped her into then. She felt like crap warmed over, her muscles hurting, her head thick and cottony the way she used to get with a hangover, and emotionally she felt hungover, too.
Her stomach was unsettled, but warm tea with lemon and honey usually helped with that, and she had a cup on the coffee table. Her cell phone sat there, too, silent all morning except for a call from Ilena to check up on her. No more calls from Elliot. She should be grateful not to get calls that she shouldn’t answer, but instead she just felt a little blue.
She curled on the couch, resting her head on the sofa arm, and drew a deep breath that smelled of Jessy. Her friend had spent the night on the sofa Tuesday, just a call or a groan away from the bed. Ilena had fussed over Fia in her sweet, loving mamacita way until the medication had kicked in, then Jessy had done it in her no-nonsense mushy-soft-but-not-gonna-admit-it way until the next afternoon.
You’re lucky to have them, Scott’s voice whispered.
“I know.”
And they’re lucky to have you.
She snorted and almost spilled her tea. “And what do I bring to the table, huh? I’m a mess.”
You’
re a mess they love. Besides, that’s not who you are. It’s what’s going on with you right now. When you get the right doctor, the right diagnosis, you’ll be the same smart, capable, independent, beautiful girl you’ve always been.
Her hand shaking, she wiped her eyes on her shirtsleeve. She didn’t want to cry. It turned her eyes and nose puffy and red and gave her a headache that wouldn’t shake loose until tomorrow. “Scott, I can’t…” Can’t talk about this. Can’t talk to a spirit who’s gone and never coming back. Can’t even think about what seems like such slim reason to hope.
Can’t, can’t, can’t, he gently mocked. You say that often enough, and people are going to believe it. You’re going to believe it. Just remember, warrior girls don’t give up. Ever.
Blindly she located a tissue and dabbed at her eyes, then blew her nose. She knew people who needed a good cry now and then to stay balanced, but not her. Damn straight she was a warrior girl—maybe someday soon even a warrior woman, she thought with a wry smile—and nothing was going to change that. Not headaches, not muscle spasms, not tears, not crappy parents, not husbands who died too damn soon.
She was a survivor.
She’d finished the tea and was wondering if her stomach could handle a bit of food when a knock came at the door. Before she could do more than think about standing, the door opened a few inches and Lucy peeked in. “Hey, sweetie, can I come in?”
“Please.” Fia straightened herself a little bit and tugged the afghan from the back of the couch to cover up. “Oh, my gosh, you smell good.”
“Eau de fresh bread.” Lucy held up a bag in one hand. “Do you think we could bottle and sell it?”
“I’d buy it for sure.” Fresh bread, mixed, kneaded, and shaped by Elliot’s talented hands. She would like to watch him bake a batch sometime. To see an incredibly sexy man working in a kitchen, putting his marvelous muscles into making marvelous foods…sigh…
A Summer to Remember Page 13
