So many visitors to St. Paul's faced the same thing.
Their loss was so great, they practically limped through the doors. Anger, hurt, and grief kept the calendar at a standstill. Regardless of time's incessant marching, every day was September 12—and without God's divine intervention it always would be. She led the young man to the closest pew and sat down with him.
Her mind drifted back to the night before, to something funny Clay had said about his jester hat. She tightened her hands into fists. Focus, Jamie … focus.
“I understand.” She looked at the stained-glass window across from them. “My husband was a firefighter; he died in the South Tower.”
The young man looked at his knees. “I'm sorry.”
“It's okay. He's in heaven; I'm sure about that.” She told him about Jake, about finding the faith her husband had always held to, how she wouldn't have survived without that faith.
Sometimes even while she was counseling at St. Paul's her mind wandered. But always she would rein in her thoughts and focus on the matter at hand. Usually the distractions came because of Jake. His picture across the room, or the thought of him kissing her good-bye that brilliant sunny Tuesday morning, hearing his voice telling her he loved her that last time.
But not today.
Today she had to remind herself to stop thinking about Clay Miles and the way her spine tingled when she was with him. Distractions about Jake were a normal thing, especially working at St. Paul's. They were constant reminders that she was in the right place, working alongside people most touched by the tragedy of the terrorist attacks.
But thoughts of Clay?
Every time she had a spare moment that morning she saw Clay's face, the way his eyes met hers over dinner the night before, felt her body protected against his as he handled the men on the ferry.
She dismissed the thoughts. The young man across from her deserved her complete attention. He was going on about his relationship with his father, and Jamie had to listen to him as if there'd be a test later.
She struggled through two meetings that way before she sensed someone behind her.
“Hey.” Aaron's tone held a layer of hurt. “You haven't fallen off the planet after all.”
The sound of his voice shot darts at her conscience. She turned around and smiled at him. “Hi.” She was suddenly short on words, not sure what to say. “Did you just get here?”
“A few minutes ago.” He searched her eyes. “I called you twice last night.”
“I know.” She forced a light laugh. “Sorry I didn't call back. Sierra and I were crazy busy.” It wasn't a lie, not really. But with her feelings so jumbled it was the most she was willing to say.
“Whatever.” Aaron tried to look nonchalant, but he didn't pull it off. He lifted his shoulders. “I was just worried. You always call back.”
“I'm sorry.” Jamie didn't know what else to say. Another visitor walked through the doors and turned to look at the memorial set up on the first table. “It's been busy.”
“That reminds me—” Aaron pointed at the displays along the back wall—“let's talk to the others about redoing that area. We have stacks of kids' drawings in the back, letters from children sending wishes to the New York survivors, that sort of thing. It's okay the way it is, but if we built it up some, maybe added an additional shelf along the wall, we could bulk up the display.”
Odd. The idea left Jamie flat. A week ago she would've made plans for someone else to pick up Sierra so she could go through boxes of letters, looking for a way to make the makeshift memorial more emotional, more meaningful for the people who passed through.
But today …
“Jamie?” Aaron crossed his arms, his feet spread just enough to give him the look of a New York City fire captain. “Did you hear me?”
“Yes.” Her answer was quick this time. She cleared her throat. “Yes, that'd be great.” The words sounded forced, even to her.
He took a step back and studied her. “Are you okay?”
More darts. She let her gaze fall to her shoes. His friendship meant a lot to her; she had to tell him at least something of what she was going through if she was going to stay close to him. She looked up. “Can we have lunch today?”
“Sure.” Hope replaced some of the uneasiness in his eyes. “Casey's Corner?”
“Perfect.” She wanted to tell him it wouldn't be the type of lunch he was looking forward to, that she had some difficult things to discuss with him. But a visitor was approaching them, a woman in her thirties with red, swollen eyes.
Aaron nudged her. “You get this one; I'll be in the back if you need me.”
Jamie struggled through the next two hours.
Not only with thoughts of Clay, but with the work at hand. Instead of the usual meaning and emotion that came with her job, she felt trapped. At one point she breathed in through her nose and looked around, alarmed. Was there a gas leak or a ventilation problem? There had to be, because the oxygen was gone. As hard as she tried she couldn't draw a relaxing breath. Finally, she had to go outside to grab a few mouthfuls of fresh air. Back inside it was more of the same. Just the old, musty smell of the building, and too little air.
She glanced about. Unless she was imagining things, the walls looked closer together, as if the whole place was shrinking, trying to swallow her up whole.
Of course all of it was a delusion. It was her confusion with Aaron and Clay and her memories of Jake, that's what was sucking the air from her. The building wasn't running out of oxygen any more than the walls were closing in, but that didn't change the tightness in her lungs or the way she longed for her shift to be over. It was the first time she'd ever felt this way. Trapped, anxious to leave.
She pondered the idea until finally it made sense. Of course. September 11 was everywhere around her—in the voices and conversations and pictures and artwork. In the streaming video that ran on the TV against the back wall and the displays set up along the exit wall, the ones honoring the massage therapists and cooks and counselors who volunteered their time during the cleanup.
It was all so suddenly overwhelming. Jamie couldn't quite catch her breath until she and Aaron were in a cab headed for Casey's Corner—a bright and cheerful café where they'd shared dozens of lunches. She was glad they were going there. The day was gray and cold, threatening snow. Combined with the strange mix of thoughts in her head and the things she wanted to tell Aaron, she would need an upbeat atmosphere to get through the lunch.
They were almost at the café when he leaned against the cab door and watched her. “You're quiet.”
“Yes.” She looked over her left shoulder at the city, the buildings and people, all of it passing before her eyes like a familiar river. Thoughts from earlier came rushing back. “Today was hard.”
He didn't push her until they were seated at a booth in a quiet part of Casey's Corner, sipping coffee and waiting for their sandwiches. Aaron leaned back against the padded seat. “Why was today hard?”
“I don't know.” Her hands were cold. She cupped them around her coffee mug and watched the traffic outside. “I didn't want to talk about September 11 with anyone.”
Aaron leaned forward. “Maybe you need a break.”
“Maybe.” The idea sounded good, but she wasn't sure. “I know I'm supposed to be there; it's the least I can do for Jake.”
He didn't add anything. Casey Cummins, the owner of the café, brought their sandwiches over. It was part of the charm of the place—that the owner took a personal interest in his customers. “Coldest day of the season.” He smiled at them as he set the food down. “Let me know if you want a cup of minestrone.” He brought his thumb and forefinger together in the shape of an o. “It's perfect today.”
They both thanked him but turned down the soup. When he was gone, Aaron took the toothpick from his sandwich and poked it at his water glass. “You want to talk about something?” The look of hope was gone from his eyes. Clearly he could sense some of what she felt.
<
br /> “I do.” She gripped the bench she was sitting on and sucked in a quick breath through her teeth. Whatever happened, she didn't want to lose his friendship, didn't want to hurt him after all he'd done for her. She wasn't entirely sure she wanted to shut the door on the future. Still, something needed to be said.
“Well?” He uttered a small laugh. “You gonna tell me or make me sit here guessing?”
“Aaron.” Jamie closed her eyes. When she opened them, she was looking straight at him. “I need space.”
His brow lowered into a subtle v. “Am I crowding you?”
They hadn't even seen each other in the past few days. Jamie folded her hands and rested them on the table. Please, God … give me a way to make him understand. She ran her tongue over her lower lip and tried again. “I told you I could see things getting more serious, that maybe all I needed was time.”
“Right.”
“Well—” she held her breath—“things have changed.” She couldn't tell him about Clay. The entire story sounded ridiculous. She raked her fingers through her hair and cupped her coffee mug again. “I need time away from you, Aaron. So I can sort through my feelings.”
He rested his forearms on the table and looked out the window. He shifted his jaw from side to side, the way he did when he had a lot on his mind. Finally he looked at her again and let out a quiet breath. “We barely see each other.”
“I know. But I need time from that too.”
“Everywhere? Even St. Paul's?”
“Yes. Even there.” She wanted to disappear under the table. He was her friend, after all, the person she'd leaned on and turned to more times than she could count. But as much as she appreciated his friendship, she couldn't let him believe there'd be more between them. Not now. Not when she was almost certain there wouldn't be.
Aaron sat a little straighter. “Is it something I did?”
“No.” She reached out and touched his hand, but only for the briefest moment. “None of this is your fault. I think it's something I'm going through. I need to close the last chapter in my life before I can start a new one. Does that make sense?”
His expression told him it didn't, but after a few seconds he swallowed hard and looked at her. “Whatever you need, Jamie. I care that much.” He was clearly shocked at the change in her, especially after the nice time they had at Chelsea Piers. “I'll talk to the coordinator and tell them I'm only available in the afternoon.” Since he worked nights, afternoons were bound to be more difficult. More hours awake without a break.
“I'm sorry, Aaron. When I have things figured out I'll tell you. It just …” A lump filled her throat; she waited until it was gone. “It isn't fair to keep you guessing. And unless I take some time, maybe I'll never know what I want. What God wants for me.”
At that last part, his eyes hardened. “I understand.” He pointed to their sandwiches and the regret in his small laugh tore at her. “We better eat.”
Jamie tried, but she barely forced down three bites. She wasn't hungry, not as long as her heart was in a tailspin. The rest of the lunch was awkward, and Jamie wondered if she was losing her mind. Why cut Aaron out now just because she'd met Clay? Just because she had a bad day at St. Paul's?
Not until she was on the ferry, two minutes from Staten Island, did she have an answer for herself. She didn't need time away from Aaron because of her feelings for Clay, but because of her feelings for Aaron—feelings that seemed more and more like friendship with every passing hour. She needed her distance to be sure this thing with Clay wasn't some sort of desperate ploy to avoid getting serious with Aaron. With the captain out of the picture for a while, she could think clearly.
And maybe, when a few weeks had passed, she would know without a doubt that she belonged with Aaron Hisel.
The thought simmered in her mind until she reached her car where she found an envelope in a plastic bag tucked beneath her windshield wipers. She wrinkled her nose. Funny. The ferryboat people didn't usually allow canvassers through their parking lots. She pulled the envelope from the bag and saw her name written across the front.
It was from him; it had to be. She knew it before she opened it, and her fingers trembled as she slipped them beneath the envelope flap and pulled out the note.
Jamie, Thanks again for the great dinner and dress-up party, even though I was disappointed I didn't get to keep the jester hat. I thought it would be a nice touch for the ferry ride.
He'd jotted down his room number at the hotel. She laughed out loud and turned so she could lean against her car. Her eyes moved further down the page.
Anyway, Joe's going to see Wanda again tonight. I'll be at the Holiday Inn if you want to talk. Thinking about you, Clay.
She read that last part three times in a row. Thinking about you, Clay …
He was going to be at a lonely hotel room. She folded the note, put it back in the envelope, and slid into her car. The least she could do was invite him over. They could order pizzas and maybe watch a movie after Sierra went to bed.
Her heart rate picked up at the thought. Yes, that would be a great idea.
She glanced around the lot. What type of car was Clay driving? Some sort of rental, but she wasn't sure what. Then she remembered the note. He was staying at the Holiday Inn. She checked the clock on her dashboard. Forty minutes until Sierra was home. With a heart half a ton lighter than it had been at lunchtime, she headed for the Holiday Inn, parked, and grabbed a piece of paper from a notebook she kept in her van.
Clay, I can't let you stay here alone all night. Especially without your jester hat. After you catch your breath, come over. We'll get pizza and watch a movie if you want. Hats are optional.
She stared at the rest of the page, the blank part. If she told him she was thinking about him, it would be the truth. But was that more than she should say? After all, she hadn't known him for a week. Still …
Her pen was poised over the page, ready to tell him he wasn't the only one, that she hadn't been able to stop thinking about him all day. But at the last second she just signed her name, folded the paper, and ran in to the front desk. She wrote his room number on the front, handed the note to the clerk, and asked her to see that Clay Miles got it.
When she picked Sierra up at school, her daughter looked at her longer than usual. “Something's different about you, Mommy.”
Jamie waited until Sierra was buckled into the backseat. She gave a small, nervous laugh. “You're silly, Sierra. I'm same as always.”
“Nuh-uh.” Sierra set her backpack on the seat beside her. “Didn't you have your volunteer work today?”
“Yes.” Jamie focused on the road, but in her mind all she could see was Clay, coming off the ferryboat, tired, not sure if she'd gotten his note or what her response would be, then getting back to the hotel and reading her letter.
Sierra was saying something. “Most times when you do your volunteer work you look sad, Mommy. But not today, a'cause you know why?”
“Why?” Jamie turned right, onto their street.
“Because today you look happy, so it's a nice change. Don't you think so?”
Suddenly her distracted thoughts settled down long enough to understand the thing her daughter was saying. Most of the time when she worked at St. Paul's she came home looking sad? Was that really how Sierra saw her? If so, what sort of life was that for her daughter? No father, and a mother who was sad more days than not?
Sierra chattered on, something about school and music class and the girl next to her singing too loud. Jamie tightened her grip on the steering wheel and turned into the driveway. She looked different today.
What a profound observation. One more bit of proof that God was bringing about some sort of change in her life—if only she understood exactly what it was. As they walked into the house, Jamie wondered which was more telling: how working at St. Paul's left her downcast, or how today—for a change—she looked happy. Because after working the hardest shift since becoming a volunteer, and then telling th
e captain she didn't want to see him for a while, there could be only one reason why she'd look happy.
His name was Clay Miles.
SIXTEEN
Clay was in his room changing when he noticed the light blinking on his motel phone. Probably the front desk asking if he wanted fresh towels. He ignored it and searched through his closet.
The day had been a long one, full of drills and workshops on technique. The group of officers in training would spend the first part of the three weeks learning the most up-to-date detective skills—crime scene forensics, blood-spatter evidence, ballistics testing. The last eight days would send them into the streets of New York, working alongside some of the city's top detectives.
One of the captains briefed them that morning about the realities of the job.
“Some of our crime scenes are, well—” sarcasm filled his tone and his smile—“let's just say they're not in the penthouse district. And some of our investigations take place at night.” The grin faded. ;“You'll wear flak jackets and carry weapons. The streets of New York City ;aren't for the faint of heart.”
Clay received approval to carry a weapon during training from his captain in Los Angeles. Some of the paperwork had to be fast-tracked, but during his first week off the department was able to clear him of any guilt in the shooting of the carjacking suspect.
Good thing. Clay couldn't have made the trip without clearance to carry a weapon. It was why he'd been armed on the ferryboat, and why he'd met Jamie Bryan. Jamie, who'd made it difficult to concentrate these past few days. He was drawn to her in a way that consumed him, left him breathless. Even now he wondered if she'd gotten his note, if she'd considered leaving one on his car, as well. He slipped on a pullover and glanced at the phone again.
What if the message was from Jamie?
He took light running steps to the phone, dialed 0, and sat down on the bed.
“Front desk.”
“Yes, hi.” Clay kicked his feet up and leaned back against the headboard. “My message light was flashing.”
“Okay, sir, let me check that for you. Just a moment.” She was gone for a few seconds. “Yes, a woman came in and gave us a note. It has your first name and room number on it.”
The Tuesday Morning Collection Page 55
