by L. L. Muir
“Oh yes you can. You can do all kinds of terrible things.”
“Like what?”
“Like break my heart.” He smiled, but his smile slipped away. “I am breakable, you know.”
“I know. I’m beginning to think I am too.”
That got his attention.
“You also told that woman to piss off.” He raised his Kenneth Jamison eyebrow and grinned.
“You’re right. You see? I have a lot to sort out. Let me...go home...for now. I’ll come to the funeral. Let me know if you need help.”
She walked out the door and thankfully, he let her. Leaving him for the final time wouldn’t be nearly as easy.
***
If the grocery stores in Flat Springs were struggling to keep their shelves stocked, it was because of all the food taken to the Jamison farm for the three days before the funeral.
Jamison figured, in spite of the circumstances, his mom was a little happy that “fed” was taken care of for a good while. The fridge was packed, as were the countertops and freezer. They’d even put a cake or two in the deep freeze.
The “warm” was getting there. He’d gotten used to wearing plenty of layers. Chopping wood for the wood-burning stove was something he liked for two reasons; the pure and pungent smell of freshly split logs reminded him of Granddad, and the fire and exercise both kept him toasty warm.
Fed and warm. Check.
These days, a fissure of cold ran up his spine only when he paused to appreciate the beauty of the snow-covered Rockies in the distance. Granddad had chosen his home for the resemblance to his beloved Highlands, since his sweetheart wouldn’t move so far from her family.
There was nobody left now—just him and his mom.
And Skye.
While his mom met with Granddad’s lawyer, Jamison tracked down Mr. Evans. For some reason, he wanted to talk with the man without Skye around.
He found him dumping the burned contents of a pan in the trash can beside his large log home on the opposite end of town. It looked like it had once served as a Ranger Station with the logs covered in thick red paint that would last a hundred years more.
The smell of the burned food reached Jamison and his nose must have turned up.
“She’s learning to cook.”
“I hear she’s eighteen.”
“Nineteen.”
“Yeah, no famous nineteen-year-old chefs, are there?”
Evans laughed. “No, and I don’t think twenty will be much better.” He pointed to a seat on the wide front porch, then took the pan in the house. When he came back out, he propped the door open. “Not a day for entertaining indoors.” Evans took a seat. “I’d offer you a cold drink, but I’m afraid of what it would taste like by the time I got it outside.”
“That’s all right.” Jamison pushed a rock with his shoe, tried to get it down a plank of wood without knocking it in the crack. “I wanted to thank you, for not passing on that essay.”
“No problem. We all have stuff we’re not proud of. But if it’s any consolation, I think you did the wise thing.”
“I did the Conrad thing. I’m tired of being a Conrad.”
“Yeah, well, as you can see, I got tired of it too.” Evans cocked a thumb at the open door. Somewhere in the smoky interior a girl was banging pans around, and singing to Queen.
Maybe his wife was an old soul.
Which reminded him.
“Do you think you’ll regret it later? When the two of you are—well, when you’re old and wrinkled and she’s not, do you think she’ll regret it?”
“I’m sure she will. Absolutely sure of it. But it doesn’t make a difference. I’m happy now. We’re happy now.” Evans sat up straight and frowned. “You’re not recording this, or planning to sell this to the newspapers, are you?
Jamison laughed to set the guy at ease. “No. I’m not desperate for money.”
Evans relaxed. After a minute, he spoke again, but his voice was different, distant.
“It’s not even about being happy. It’s about love.” He looked Jamison in the eye. “I love her on a level she can’t even imagine. I love her soul and she doesn’t yet understand that she has one.” He looked away as if in pain, up at the mountains. “That’s the hard part. If she were a little older, she’d understand just how much I love her. Right now, she probably thinks I’m in it for the sex.”
Jamison tried to think of something quick to keep unwanted images from the screen in his brain. He thought of Skye, about how much he loved her and yet he didn’t think he could make her understand. And she probably felt the same about him, that he was unable to truly understand where she was coming from.
He didn’t know how long Evans had been waiting for him to say something, but the guy was looking at him funny.
“I think you know what I’m talking about, Mr. Shaw. Having a hard time convincing the Somerleds to let you see Skye?”
“More like I’m having a hard time convincing her.”
“Well, you’ve a little more than age to overcome, don’t you? All that religion and style of life crap.”
“Yeah.”
“Well, if you love her, you’ll do what’s best for her, even if it means sitting behind a desk and eating your heart out during your lunch hour every day.”
“And why didn’t you keep doing that?”
“Because I want what was best for her, Mr. Shaw, and that’s me. But what is best for our Skye, huh? If she were Mallinson—if you could get her to fear and fight, would she fight to have you?”
Jamison left Evans more confused than ever. When he got home, his mother thought he’d been smoking something.
“Just eggs, I think. Burned eggs.”
But it wasn’t the smell of abused protein that made him want to vomit. Grandpa was really gone. The funeral would be tomorrow. And the time Skye had asked for was like an hourglass in his head, only every grain of sand that fell sounded like a boulder crashing down a hillside. He wondered if the cracking noise was coming from the hour glass or his heart.
CHAPTER THIRTY
It never failed. Each morning Jamison got a punch in the stomach when he remembered that Granddad was gone. He vaguely remembered the same thing happening after they lost Grandma, and he couldn’t remember how long it had taken for it to stop feeling like a cruel trick.
Half the town turned out for the viewing. Many batches of white robes came through the receiving line and each time, Jamison looked for Skye among them. He was getting worried when Lucas and Jonathan’s group came through without her.
His mom’s attention was drawn away as the broad shoulders blocked Jamison’s view of the rest of the room.
Lucas held out his hand, his eyes daring Jamison to take it.
He looked the man in the eye, grabbed on and gave the big hand a firm shake.
“Shaw, as I’ve told you before, I’m not to interfere. Your memories are safe from me, sir.”
At least one heavy stone was suddenly gone from his chest.
Safe. Check.
No longer Young Jamison? He’d kind of miss that, but since Old Jamison was gone, there was no need.
He reached out and stopped Lucas from moving on. “Please, call me Jamison.”
“All right, Jamison it is. And Jamison?”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t worry. She’s coming, and she’s bringing you a surprise.”
It was nearly eight o’clock and the line was still out the door of the mortuary. People had plenty they wanted to get off their chests about the rude old Scotsman they’d all run from at one time or another. On the other hand, he had personally been offered seven jobs and heard the phrase “any grandson of Ken Jamison’s...yada yada yada,” too many times to count.
He just smiled and nodded and shook hands for hours, but his eyes kept scanning the crowd for white.
Then a lone blur. Gone again. Back.
She looked at the flowers, read the cards, laughed. He could feel that laughter reach out across th
e elegant room, to cover his chest like a remedy for what ailed him.
Happy. Check.
All four states of being present and accounted for. It wasn’t complete, though. Underneath that current of happiness ran the fact that he couldn’t just turn around and talk to his granddad lying behind him in a dapper dress kilt.
His mom squeezed his hand when she realized what had caught his attention.
“Any friend of Kenneth Jamison’s is a friend of yours, right?” she whispered in his ear.
He laughed. His mom was great. She only asked about Skye when it was obvious he was thinking about her, but she never pried.
Finally the figure in white edged closer. Trying not to stare, so everyone in the room wouldn’t guess how badly he needed to look at her, Jamison tried to concentrate on the people talking to his mother. From the corner of his eye, however, he saw a dark figure coming right at him.
Black-clad arms flew around him and held him immobilized.
“Jamison, dude!”
Suddenly released, he fell back a step. Ray? In a suit?
“Ray?”
“Yeah, man. Ray Peters. Remembered me, huh?”
Jamison grabbed his friend again, hiding his face, absolutely unable to speak, for so many reasons. How much would Ray remember? Did he even remember that first day, the day Jamison had arrived? It was impossible now to tell which was real memory and what he’d memorized from the recording he’d made.
“Yeah, I remember you.”
He glanced over at Skye to find the “I-told-you-so” look he expected.
“I see that clubhouse every time I come past your grandpa’s place, bro. Makes me want to make paper airplanes.”
“Me too. You’ll have to come over and we’ll paper the cornfield.”
“Yeah, well, don’t look now, but one of those neighbors is listening.” Ray spoke from the side of his mouth, then laughed and put his arm around Skye.
Suddenly Jamison wasn’t so fond of the guy.
“Skye says you two are good friends now.”
“Yeah?” Jamison could feel heat radiating away from his face. “That’s all, huh? Well, I guess I’d better refresh her memory.” He took a quick step and wrapped an arm around her waist, his splayed hand pulled her to him. She’d had no time to prepare, to resist. His mouth came down on hers and he could all but hear his granddad cheering from the casket behind him.
He let her catch a breath, but didn’t release her. He looked deep into her eyes, to give her a message, not to read one.
The room had gone silent except for his mom’s “Awww.” Lucas and Jonathan were standing near the exit sign smiling, thank goodness. He really didn’t care. He was no longer the type to sit by and let misunderstandings complicate his life.
Skye wasn’t pushing him away with any real conviction so he took advantage.
“And this one’s for my granddad.” He kissed her again. Hard, short and sweet.
She held onto the back of her head like it was a hat that might fall off. Once she pushed out of his arms and got her balance she put her hands on her hips, sputtered for a minute, then ended up dropping her hands to her sides.
“You’re right. He would have liked that. And maybe even this.” She stepped up to Jamison and grabbed his tie, pulling his head down to her level. “You’re going to pay for that, Jamison Shaw,” she whispered, then kissed him back, but the kiss was damned short. He guessed that was the punishment.
“I hate to break this up, Skye, but you’re holding up the line.” Ray nudged them apart. “Burke, shake his hand and let’s get out of here.”
Burke, whom Jamison barely remembered from a couple of elementary school classes, held out his hand awkwardly. “Sorry about your grandpa, man. He was cool.”
Jamison couldn’t help it. He grabbed Burke and hugged him, so glad the guy had never been blown to smithereens as feared. He set him down quickly and knocked him on the shoulder.
“Thanks man. Glad to see you’re...you—glad to see you.”
Burke looked confused, but smiled and gave a little wave as he walked away with Ray.
Jamison grabbed Skye and pushed her behind his back. “Stay.”
She gave a small giggle and it raced up his spine and pinged him on the back of his head like a hammer game at the fair.
The rest of the line moved quickly with folks peeking at Skye, mumbling their condolences and hurrying on. Every now and then his mom would say something to Skye and the two would laugh. Besides appreciating that combination of music, Jamison was glad Skye was in a good mood. It would give him a little bit of a head start for the conversation he had planned...
...a conversation she wasn’t going to like.
***
“I’m going to bed.” Mom picked up her glass and took it to the kitchen, then waved to him and Skye as she climbed the stairs. “Don’t stay up too late.”
He started to say ‘we won’t’ but choked on the lie. They’d get everything settled and in spite of the cold hardness in his stomach, he wouldn’t put it off any longer. Skye’d promised to stay for the funeral. If he let her go before the future was set, he’d never see her again. He knew it.
They sat at opposite ends of the couch, facing each other. She’s ready for this conversation too. Good.
Jamison cleared his throat. “I’ll get this out of the way first. I love you. I don’t think you can understand how much, and I think you believe I could get over you, like some ordinary broken heart, if you left me now.”
She pursed her lips, then nodded.
He went on. “You’d be wrong. I’d say I can’t live without you, but that’s not true.”
She looked surprised, almost hurt.
“I’d go on living, just like everyone else does, but I’d be dead inside. I’d get obsessed with Somerled compounds. I’d beat their doors down, looking for you. And some of them aren’t so friendly—like Lanny’s group—and I could get hurt or my memory erased. You wouldn’t want that, would you?”
She smiled, then shook her head and opened her mouth to speak, but he held up his hand to stop her.
“I’m not done.” He pulled Granddad’s plaid over his legs, offered her the other end, but she shook her head. “I don’t want to live without you, but I will.” He leaned forward. “But only if it’s the best thing for you.”
She looked at her hands and he couldn’t tell what she might be thinking.
“You can list all the reasons in the world for us not to be together, but unless I agree, unless it’s more important to you than I am, then I’m not going to let you leave me.”
She didn’t look up. He waited a minute, then told her he was finished.
“I’ll get this out of the way first. I love you too.” She didn’t look too happy about it. “It’s been fun, playing the part of girlfriend.”
Aaagh. He was going to die. She was giving him the “it’s been fun” line and he was sitting there, bleeding. But what did she know of blood? She really couldn’t know how he felt.
“I’ve liked, um, kissing you, but you know I can’t feel it the way other girls can.”
The dim light of the lamps gave the walls a warm glow, but to Jamison, it all looked pointless and sick. Her feeble attempts to make him feel better weren’t helping.
“Please. Stop.” He cleared his throat. “All this flattery is killing me.” He pulled the blanket off and put his feet on the ground to show her to the door.
“Excuse me. I’m not finished.” She folded her arms and glared at him until he faced her again. “Let me remind you of what you just told me. I don’t think you really understand how much I love you. If you did understand, there is no way you could let me out that door. Ever.”
Well, that sounded a lot better. In fact, he needed to get closer so he could hear more.
He scooted to the center of the couch, but she held out her hands.
“Wait. I’m not done.”
“We need to talk softer, so my mom won’t hear.” He pushed h
er feet onto the floor then pulled her across his lap, facing him.
“It bothers me, how smooth you move. Makes me wonder how many girlfriends you’ve had.”
“Just you. I’m just naturally smooth.”
He could feel her, probing his memories but there were no old girlfriends to find. A few random kisses, but he couldn’t remember faces or names. She probably thought he was pathetic.
She beamed.
“Great, now I’m a pity case.”
“Pity for the rest of them.” She leaned forward and kissed him with all the emotion he would have expected from a mortal girlfriend. When she pulled back, though, she was upset. “I would have loved to have felt that.”
He was such an idiot! Here she was, deaf, dumb and blind to everything he could enjoy and he was trying to keep her here, keep her in the prison of no sensation.
His shoulders slumped. “What do we do, sweeting?”
She smiled at him through eyes that could not weep. “Kenneth called me sweeting.”
“Should I call you something else?”
“No. I like it. Makes you sound Scottish.”
“Aye, that it does, sweeting.”
She pulled at his hair, smoothed it off his brow, messed it up again. He could have sat like that all night, but that would only leave him alone in the morning.
“I’m serious, Skye. What do we do? Either I go with you, or we find a way to make you...breakable.”
She laughed.
“Why is it you can laugh, but not cry?”
“Camouflage. A person who can’t laugh draws more attention. Mortals are taught not to cry in public; it’s not necessary, not in my repertoire.” She struggled, tried to get up, but he held her tight. “You see? I’m like a robot. And you want to spend the rest of your life with me.” She rolled her eyes.
He grabbed her chin with one hand and made her look at him.
“There you are. See? There, inside the robot. Take away the robot and I’d still want you with me. Forever.”
“Take away the robot? You don’t know what you’re talking about. This isn’t just a set of clothes. It’s what ties me to the ground. This container is my gravity. No container and I go up. Up.”
